#holding paws as we settle in for our long winters nap

[lattehearted]

"Dearest Peg, It's a sacred day and I regret that I'm not by your side to experience it. After all we've been through—preparing to raise a little one, all the books we read, all the elders we consulted—the fact that I can't be there on this beautiful birthday for one very special person rips me to pieces. So in conclusion, please give Waggle a very happy birthday and make sure that he gets plenty of barkon and woofles for breakfast. Your loving husband, Dog-tor BJ."

She loves him.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

She misses him more than she knew you could miss a person, but she has to focus on the positives. BJ doesn't need letters of her longing when that won't bring him home faster.

So instead, when Erin's settled down for her nap and the birthday boy himself is contented with a bone outside in the summer sun, Peg sits down to pen a response.

My darling Dog-tor Bark-us Jawbone,

Our Waggles misses his father dearly but knows you're doing incredible work in Seoul. He's very proud of you, he told me himself. He's outside right now, soaking in the sun with a fresh milk bone, happy as can be. Is it warm over where you are? I hope you're staying hydrated and eating well. I hope the mess hall has plenty of bones for you!

In case they don't, I've sent some snickerdoodles along with this letter. Erin even cracked the eggs! I think I managed to get all the shells out but you can just feed the extra crunchy ones to that Burns fellow you've mentioned with such... abundant fondness.

The second box is for Hawkeye, by the by! You mentioned his birthday had passed and though it's belated, I wanted to give him something. Thank him for looking out for you for me, would you, Beej?

I miss you more every day. But I hold on to the hope that you'll be here soon enough for Waggles' birthday, or yours, or mine, or Erin's or even a regular old Tuesday in the middle of winter.

Take care of yourself and come home to us in one piece.

With all our love, Peggy, Erin, and Waggles Hunnicutt

She has to take a couple minutes to compose herself, less she warp the paper with her tears. But after she settles herself, she digs around her desk for a pad of stamp ink. She has a dog paw to paint, for Waggles' signature.

#turns your silly ask into feels #oooooh you wanna make a b.eej and h.awk dual muse so baaaaaaaad /j #( peg ; in character ) #( asks ) #remyfire #tbt

[cryptidvoidwritings]

So if you were to read this as a prologue to, say, a 40-page tornado of Tuggerstrap nonsense, would this be a satisfying opening?

*yeets into the void*

The day dawned cold and grey and it had not improved all morning, the sun little more than weak light filtering through the thick clouds. The air was heavy with the threat of more early spring snow and a hush had settled over the usually bustling London streets. A cat with any sense would have stayed curled up in their den to sleep the day away in a pile of warm fur— preferably with another cat or two for extra insulation. Munkustrap would have very much liked to be among them.

Unfortunately, duty called.

He yawned, picking his way through the piles of junk and puddles of slush with Alonzo at his side. At least their patrol was almost over; strays and rival clans weren’t much in the business of picking territory fights during the cold months.

Even news of Macavity’s doings had a tendency to grind to a halt over the winter.

“Don’t let Cafalle see you yawning on patrol,” Alonzo said around a yawn of his own.

Munkustrp snorted. “Cafalle relinquished her position specifically so she wouldn’t have to worry about patrols anymore, let alone what I do on them.”

Alonzo laughed. “How do you think she’s taking to retirement?”

“Bossing around her humans, I imagine. It probably suits her fine.”

They squeezed out of the junkyard’s front gate and started down the route. Munkustrap dipped his head every so often, testing the scent markers and making mental notes about which ones would need to be refreshed first. Alonzo brushed over the most degraded of them. Everything else would hold. They just needed to complete this lap of their street trails and then Munkustrap could nap until the afternoon.

This time Alonzo yawned. “Any chance of breakfast?”

Munkustrap considered. They were making good time to the theater and there were very few humans out.

“How about coffee takeaway?”

“How about waffles?”

“We’re not making good enough time to sit down. But we could go to that place with Belgian waffles?”

Alonzo perked up. “We could.”

It would take them off their route, but it shouldn’t delay them too much in getting back. They chatted idly as they turned off the big road and took the small side streets. Munkustrap was half-listening to a story about Cassandra when he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Munkustrap?”

That scent.

“Munkus, you okay?”

He’d forgotten it— at least, he’d told himself he had. It was easy enough to pretend; it had been months since he’d first scented honeyed cardamom. Munkustrap shook himself. He turned to see Alonzo’s worried green eyes and offered an automatic smile to reassure him.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“What is it? What’s there?”

“Nothing. I just smelled something familiar. Ish.”

“Another cat?” Alonzo asked, pointing his ears forward and looking where Munkustrap did.

“Likely.”

“You don’t know?”

Munkustrap shrugged. “Sort of? It was just a scent. Father and I were late to meet Gus. It wasn’t like I had a chance to introduce myself.”

“Well... We’re not late to meet Gus now.”

That was true. Munkustrap pawed at the ground as he looked around. They had time, but... There were a number of bars and restaurants and shops all along Tottenham Court road. The scent could be coming from any of them.

“No. No, we shouldn’t,” he said at last. “I’m not going to have you come on a wild chase with me for a cat I don’t know. Cass would have my head. Let’s get those waffles.”

Alonzo shrugged his acquiescence and they started on their way again. They’d traversed the next block and were waiting for the light to change when honey teased his nose. Munksutrap pushed his whiskers forward.

“Who’s that?” Alonzo asked in the sort of voice that was usually reserved for Cassandra doing... well, anything.

Munkustrap turned to see where he was looking. On the opposite corner, a Maine Coon stood brazenly on two legs, lounging against the base of a streetlamp. In the weak light of mid-morning, his head fur and well-combed mane shone gold.

“It’s... It’s him.”

“Oh.” Alonzo breathed in deeply. “Oh. That’s quite nice, actually.”

Munkustrap gave a startled laugh.

As if he knew he was under scrutiny, the tom across the way looked directly at them. Munkustrap’s mouth felt increasingly dry. The tom turned his body in one long, smooth movement that involved an absolutely unnecessary, but very pleasing, gyration of a hip.

“I guess we don’t have to go on a chase, then, eh?” Alonzo said.

“Uh. Right.”

Munkustrap had the distinct feeling they were being sized up; the tom wasn’t even trying to hide how he was staring. They would have to cross the street in order to be on their way to the waffle place. He cleared his throat and ran his claws absently through his unruly shoulder fur, which had not had the decency to grow into a proper mane.

“Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.”

Alonzo fell back a couple of paces as he followed Munkustrap across the street. The tom lounged against the street lamp, paws resting casually on studded belts that crossed at his hips. He smiled languidly as they drew near.

When they were within a few inches of each other, Munkustrap stood on two legs.

“Good morning to you,” the Maine Coon purred.

His eyes were dichroic: Bright blue and warm gold bisected neatly by his pupils. He had a beauty spot on one perfect, high cheekbone. Munkustrap’s insides flipped.

He’s gorgeous.

“Good morning.”

The thought occurred that Munkustrap had no idea what he would smell like to another cat. He’d never bothered to ask anyone. What if he smelled like... like old rubber and rusting metal from the junkyard? What would the tom think of him? Though he wasn’t turning away in disgust, so it couldn’t be that bad. Right?

“And what brings you out here in such appalling weather?”

“D’you know there are humans around?”

There was a beat of silence. Munkustrap’s cheeks grew hot. He could feel Alonzo rolling his eyes at his back. The tom attempted to stifle a laugh, which Munkustrap was grateful for because Alonzo didn’t even bother. Any effort from the tom was wasted seconds later.

“Aren't you a smooth talker!” the tom gasped around his laughter. “Did you practice that one?”

“Should I have?” Munkustrap grumbled. He stopped himself from scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment and straightened to his full height. “It’s a legitimate question. Any human might see you like this.”

“Might, but won’t,” the Maine Coon said airily. “They never look down to see what’s in front of them.”

“… Fair point.”

Humans were basically blind their entire lives, after all, and cats rarely got caught when they didn’t want to be seen.

“So what brings you out at this time of the morning other than worrying about cats on two legs?”

“Waffles, mostly.”

“Waffles? Did your kitten wake you at the crack of dawn begging, or something?”

Munkustrap looked askance at Alonzo. Even on four legs, he didn’t look young enough to be a true kitten. The Maine Coon didn’t even look older than Alonzo— and Alonzo had insisted on very loudly celebrated turning 16 months old only a couple of weeks ago. He decided the tom was trying to get a rise out of them.

“Waffles seemed like an easy treat for being out in this weather.”

“Anything to keep the kids happy, hmm?”

There was something in the tom’s tone that Munkustrap thought might be envy, though the inviting smile never slipped from his lips. He could feel Alonzo starting to shift restlessly behind him. Munkustrap waved him back.

“What’s your excuse for being out, if you don’t like ours?”

The tom smiled slowly. “Never was in, unless you count hotels. Spent a good portion at Wiscus’s.”

Hote— oh. Munkustrap flushed as the implication landed.

Wiscus’s had a reputation for a reason. With any luck, Alonzo was too busy getting in a huff to have paid much attention. The Maine Coon pushed off the street lamp and let his tail— a fluffy confection of black and gold— drag up Munkustrap’s leg. Munkustrap swallowed harshly.

“Maybe come find me there, if your kitten hasn’t worn you out,” the tom purred. “Anyway, that’s my ride. Enjoy your day and don’t lose the baby. It can be rough out here.”

“I am not—” Alonzo finally snarled.

Munkustrap turned to catch his best friend mid-leap. By the time he had Alonzo calmed, the tom had disappeared. Only his fading laughter and scent remained.

“Ugh, what a smug jerk,” Alonzo grumbled.

The silver tabby chuckled distractedly, shaking his head fondly. “You let him get to you.”

“You need better taste.”

Munkustrap took four legs again, rolling his eyes at Alonzo’s grumbling. “You need to stop letting yourself get riled up so easily.”

He nudged the patch tom with increasing force until Alonzo rolled onto the ground. It distracted him beautifully.

“Do you see how I’m treated?” Alonzo asked nobody.

Munkustrap rolled him onto his other side.

“I would like it known that I’m being abused by an abnormally small battle horse!”

“I’ll show you abnormally small,” Munkustrap play-growled.

He took a swipe that went very carefully wide and thus began the chase, which lasted all the way to the waffle place.

In case either of you might still be interested in these: @falasta, @namethat-i-oughttohavetoldyou

#cats the musical #cats the musical fanfiction #munkustrap #alonzo #the rum tum tugger #prologue i guess? #is there a flag for writers of fanfic nobody asked for with pairings nobody asked for? #i need that flag #please see the tuggerstrap club charter 3a.1 allows for at least one fic a quarter in which they are not related and may instead be shipped #nope i still have no idea what i'm doing send help #hal: it’s about cat(boy)s

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #27: Mothers and Daughters

Prompt: calculations (free write!) | Master Post | On AO3

Who wants some FEELINGS? :D As a timeline note, this takes place somewhere between 5.1 and 5.2.

--

While the Grand Dame’s Parlor was the Canopy’s premier location for food and drink, Eulmore’s upper levels still boasted numerous smaller cafés and restaurants to appease the rapacious appetites of the elite. With the return of night, however, and the radical shift in the Eulmorans’ attitudes about the exclusivity of their city, many of those businesses had begun welcoming former bonded servants, the residents of the Derelicts and Gatetown and Kholusia, and visitors from the Crystarium on the new airship circuit, altering their menus and décor to better suit the new clientele.

One of those locations was a cozy lounge overlooking Gatetown and the southern half of Kholusia, that served an excellent espresso con panna and almond biscotti. Both Alphinaud and Synnove had taken to ensconcing themselves in one of the booths along the large bay windows with their grimoires and carbuncles when they were in Eulmore, working in companionable silence. Despite their notoriety, the other patrons generally let them be—though the arcanist and the academician had both raised their eyebrows and exchanged looks when they discovered the lounge had renamed itself to The Carbuncle.

Today, however, Synnove was by herself and had shamelessly commandeered one of the circular booths, sitting cross-legged on the padded bench with a couple of grimoires spread out before her on the table. Amandina and Roksana were napping in a bundle of ears and tails in the space between her legs, the occasional squeaky snore escaping Roksana as she drooled on her sister’s ear. Synnove alternated gently rubbing each twin’s head with a finger as she worked on a programming issue.

She nearly jumped in surprise at someone clearing their throat, and she bolted upright, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, Synnove, I didn’t mean to frighten you!” Dulia-Chai said, a hand over her heart and ears pinned flat. She had a folio and three thick ledgers cradled in one arm, and rather than her usual rich velvet robes, she wore a lovely, airy dress of light cotton dress, tied off with a deep violet sash, that back on the Source Synnove recognized as popular among the Ishgardian noblewomen for summer wear before the Calamity.

The arcanist shook her head to clear it of cobwebs, and warmly smiled at the woman. “Oh, no harm done, I always get lost in my head when I’m deeply involved in mathematicians,” she said, Dulia-Chai sighing in relief and her ears relaxing. Synnove tilted her head and grinned a little wider. “Would you like to join me?”

Dulia-Chai smiled in return. “I would like that very much, thank you. I have my own work to be doing today while Chai-Nuzz is at the old Stoneworks offices, and I find it easier to stay focused when I am with like-minded individuals.”

Synnove laughed and leaned over to shove aside her grimoires so they only covered half the table. “Far less likely to be bothered here than at the Parlor, too, I imagine,” she drawled.

The miqo’te rolled her eyes as she slid onto the bench, sitting down her things and beginning to spread out papers before her. “Heavens forfend that a woman enjoy some tea and biscuits in the sunshine while she balances the books!”

As Synnove laughed quietly, Amandina yawned, blinking awake and looking around curiously. The black pearl carbuncle spotted Dulia-Chai and peeped excitedly, wiggling out from under her sister and crawling over her mama’s knee to toddle across the bench to plop next to the miqo’te.

Dulia-Chai gasped in delight. “Well, hello, sweetheart,” she cooed to the carbuncle. “You’re Amandina, yes?”

Yeah! Amandina cheeped. And you’re Grammy Dulia!

Synnove felt a deep, fiery blush crawl up her face and she resolutely stared down at her equations. She had an inkling of how the babies came about their terms of address for everyone, and she was tempted to have A Talk with them about poking about emotional aether resonance responses.

Dulia-Chai, however, beamed with open joy. “Yes, I am,” she said, pleased, and carefully scooped the carbunclet into her hands and bringing her up to eye level. “Would you like to help me with these ledgers?”

Ooooooooo, Amandina said, her tails wagging in excitement, numbers! I like numbers!

“So do I!”

Quiet settled over the table shortly thereafter, one of the lounge staff delivering a fresh plate of biscotti for them plus a pot of tea for Dulia-Chai. Amandina was crouched on the miqo’te’s shoulder, avidly watching as the woman settled to the herculean task of reestablishing the Daedalus Stoneworks into a functional business. Synnove, meanwhile, eventually calmed, and quickly became engrossed in her theorems once more. The only sounds for some time were the scratching of quills and pencils on parchment, the sip of tea or coffee, the crunch of consumed biscotti, and the soft chime of a question followed by the low murmur of response.

After finishing the review of one set, Synnove rose back to proper awareness to a serious crick in her back, and she forced herself to sit upright, popping her joints and spine, and reaching her hands into the air to stretch. She rubbed her eyes, glancing over at Dulia-Chai, and raised her eyebrows.

Dulia-Chai was scowling ferociously at the parchment before her, tapping the end of her quill against the table. With her other hand, she was petting Amandina, curled up in her lap and quietly purring as she napped.

“Something wrong?” Synnove said quietly.

“Hmm?” Dulia-Chai looked up. “Oh! Well…no, I don’t think so.” She dropped her gaze back to the accounting, brow furrowing. “I believe I’ve run into the problem of staring too long at the same numbers, and now my results don’t look right. Would you mind reviewing these for me?”

“Not at all,” Synnove said, holding out her hand. Dulia-Chai passed the parchment over, and Synnove held it up, scanning the page quickly. After a moment she hummed, “Mmm, no, you’re fine.”

She glanced over to Dulia-Chai, who was staring at her in open astonishment. By sheer force of will, Synnove fought back the childhood-era urge to hunch her shoulders around her ears, but that didn’t stop her from squirming, and she only stopped when Roksana grumbled in her sleep.

“What an incredible ability!” Dulia-Chai gasped as she accepted the parchment back. “I like to think I’m quite good at mathematics, but to be able to do calculations at such a speed! How wonderful!”

Synnove grinned, a bit flustered under the praise, and shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve always been good at mathematics,” she said. “It was why I originally joined the Arcanists’ Guild back home; one of their departments focused much more on the mathematics and geometry portion of arcanima. But I ended up falling in love with the aetherophysics portion, and, well.” She gestured at the grimoires and carbuncles. “Here we are.”

Dulia-Chai looked at her slyly. “And was part of that love because it didn’t come so easily to you?”

“…Actually, yes.”

The miqo’te beamed. “How fortunate to be afforded such an opportunity. I can only hope one day that the children of Norvrandt will be able to make similar choices, to learn and study for learning and studying’s sake! Oh, your mother must be so proud.”

Despite her best effort, Synnove flinched. Roksana jolted awake, blinking blearily.

Dulia-Chai’s expression shifted to concern. “Synnove? I’m so sorry, my dear, what was it I said?”

Oh, the older woman was too perceptive by far, but as uncomfortable as it was, lying would be worse. Synnove took a breath and let it out again, slowly. “My mother,” she said quietly, “was, ah, actually quite displeased I wanted to study arcanima. My auntie, who was head of the family, always supported me, and she’s certainly proud and that’s what counts in the end, but I didn’t even tell Isolde before I went off to study, and when I returned home for winter break she was not pleased.”

The miqo’te’s jaw dropped open, disbelief on her usually kind face.

The words, normally firmly dammed away in a corner of her mind Synnove preferred to ignore, were pouring out before she could stop them. “Isolde was always a shite mother, honestly,” she said, “Auntie and Rereha’s ma had to shame her into getting me proper tutors, not just the etiquette ones, because Isolde’s plan was essentially to use me as a bargaining chip with other merchant families, not that she actually paid much attention to me. She didn’t even know what my favorite color was. We had a terrible row that break, near screamed the estate down around our ears, and then I stormed out and…I haven’t spoken to her since.”

Auntie Re says Isolde is a raging bi—

“Langauge, Roksana.”

The white pearl carbunclet grumbled. Not sorry…

Dulia-Chai seemed to regain some of her ability to talk, clearing her throat before saying faintly, “And how long ago was that?”

Synnove furrowed her brow. “Um…fifteen years ago.”

The look the miqo’te leveled on her was shrewd. “Would you say you’re happier with that state of affairs?” she said.

“…Yes. Yes, very much.”

“Good.” Dulia-Chai actually growled, her tail lashing on the bench next to her. “What a horrible fool of a woman. Fate hands her a kind, determined, intelligent daughter and she doesn’t even have the sense to be encouraging, to be proud? The loss is hers, to no longer have such a wonderful person in her life!”

Synnove flushed again, chest suddenly feeling tight, and picked up Roksana to cuddle her, ducking her head while the carbunclet papped her chin with a paw. “Thank you, Dulia,” she said. “That…that means quite a lot.”

“You’ve spoken highly of your aunt before, and I am more than glad to know you had a maternal figure to look to while growing up,” Dulia-Chai continued, “but it certainly was not fair to you to still have to deal with the frankly atrocious behavior of the woman who birthed you. I would certainly be proud of a daughter like you! Hell’s fire, I am proud of you!”

Synnove had absolutely no idea what to say to that, even as warmth flooded through her and her flush deepened. She squeaked in surprise when she felt arms wrap around her, but once she realized it was merely Dulia, she leaned into the embrace, burying her face in the older woman’s shoulder. Amandina crawled up between them to cuddle into her neck, her squeaky purrs joining Roksana’s.

“Thank you,” Synnove said, her voice muffled and watery, though she did her damnedest to not burst into overwhelmed tears in public. “I just…thank you.”

Dulia-Chai hummed soothingly and began to pet her hair. “You are, my dear, more than welcome.”

#ffxivwrite2020 #final fantasy xiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #synnove's carbuncles #dulia chai #dt's writing #CATTE MOM CATTE MOM CATTE MOM #i love her lots #also the style of dress i imagine her wearing is is a chemise a la reine #but including the term felt a bit too immersion breaking to me

[melodie3672]

All Over Again Ch. 1

All Over Again (Jake Route)

[Heads Up: The name of MC will be Octavia Dillyne. There are different routes I made. I suggest you read the route of your chosen LI in Endless Summer.]

Chapter 1: "It's Just Too Hard to Say Goodbye"

"Happy Reunion, everyone. Here's to five years."

Diego raises a bottle toward the sky. The others lift their drinks.

"And to Octavia."

Everyone enjoys their drinks and company, mingling and laughing throughout their conversations. Eventually, everyone splits off into different groups around the beach. Jake's eyes scan around, knowing his Princess isn't there. He frowned. He sauntered over to a rock where he can sit and watches the group wistfully, arms rested on his knees.

"Aww, he's so cute! You and Aleister would make great parents for little Reginald!" Quinn says, cuddling the small individual.

Michelle saunters over to them.

"Who's a good little nerdy boy?--"

"Hey! My Reggie is not a nerd!"

Exclaimed Grace. Michelle continues.

"It's youu! Yes, you! You sweet child."

She says, tickling the baby's little tummy. She looks back at the baby, instead of releasing a giggle, Reginald is about to...

"Hecho!"

"What the-- Eww!"

Grace, Aleister, Zahra, and Quinn burst out laughing as Michelle heads to the waters to wash her face from Reginald's sneeze.

Jake chuckled to himself, his gaze landing on another group by the shore.

"I picked up my phone and Chris Winters said--"

"Chris Winters? THE Chris Winters? The Chris Winters famous movie star? The Chris Winters in The Last Duchess? The Chris--"

"The Chris Winters who invited me to his premiere! Yeah, that's right, dudes!"

The group cheers for Raj with thunderous applause. Jake averts his gaze from the groups and into the distance, a faraway look in his eyes. Octavia had always been his Princess. His light. The only person willing to hear his struggles. To hear him. And now, he can't hear her at all.

Memories come flooding in.

...

"Listen, Princess, don'tcha know it's rude to wake someone who's taking a nap?"

" 'Princess'? "

"What can I say? I give nicknames to people who annoy me."

...

"Every time... fireworks. How do you do that, anyways?"

"I don't think it's me. It's us."

...

"Just... keep holding on... If I can't go with you, at least I can get you where you need to go. Just remember... you're in my heart forever, Octavia."

"Thinking about her again?"

Diego says, sitting next to him with 2 glasses of whiskey in his hands, Furball trailing behind him. Diego's voice brings him back to reality.

"Mrrum..."

He offers a glass, and they clink them together.

"Yeah. I'm surprised you don't feel the same way, Short Stuff. She was your best friend."

"I'm still sad of course. We all are. But it must be tough for you, you're her husband after all."

Jake takes a long sip of his drink before looking down at his feet.

"I lost Mike twice. The best friend I had in my life. Then she came in, only for me to lose her too--"

His voice cracks at that. Diego pats his back reassuringly.

"Nobody left no one. She's still here, in our hearts. You know she wanted what's best for us, Jake. She's in your heart forever."

Jake sighs, slightly tilting his head up. Diego noticed unshed tears in his eyes.

"I thought I was ready to move on... It's just... it's just too hard to say goodbye."

Silence followed.

"Like... the song kind?"

He questioned with a joking grin. Furball swats a paw at his arm, telling him it's no time for jokes.

"Rrrgh!"

Diego pats Furball's head, reassuring him that he'll stop.

Few hours later.

Everyone walked to Jake's plane at the tarmac, laughing and revisiting memories. But once they get to the part of Octavia, they decided to stay silent, acknowledging the people who haven't moved on from her yet. It feels weird. Everyone around are moving on to their lives so quickly. Diego is a teacher and owns a best selling book, Craig is making a game, Grace and Aleister made a family, yet he's still stuck in the past. Where he lost his love. But every wound heals when given enough time.

Everyone is getting settled into their seats. Jake's voice booms through the speakers.

"Everyone in?"

Aleister does a quick headcount.

"Estela and Sean aren't here!"

"What?!"

Grace does a headcount herself.

"So is Varyyn."

"Varyyn..."

Panic begins to rise from the whole plane. Jake heads out from the cockpit.

"You better not be messing with us, Malfoy."

"Don't be preposterous. I'd never 'mess' with anything as serious as this."

He looks around, and he sees no sign of Katniss nor Captain America. Then, the restroom door opens.

"Hello, friends. Have we taken off--"

"Varyyn!"

Diego runs to Varyyn and they share a passionate kiss. Jake shoots an angry look at Grace. She notices.

"It's not like I knew he was in there!"

"Don't do that again."

Diego says to Varyyn.

"What is the matter? Why have we not taken off yet?"

"Katniss and Captain America decided to take a detour to death."

"Jake!"

The copilot noticed rustling noises somewhere within the forest.

"We have to find them!"

Without waiting, Quinn rushed towards the airplane doors and heads to the rustling noises.

"We have to go now before we lose Quinn too!"

The rest of the gang runs to the forest, leaving the copilot behind and baffled. The rustling noises get louder when the group approaches it. Jake raises a fist.

"Be careful. We're unarmed."

Jake says, warning the group. Then they start to hear voices. Hiding behind a shrub, Craig, Zahra, and Diego peek through to see a cliff with Quinn and Estela on one side, both wearing shocked and worried faces, Sean in the middle, raising both hands to what seems like separating Estela and Quinn from...

"Octavia?"

...A startled Octavia.

Sean Route Ch. 1

Estela Route Ch. 1

Quinn Route Ch. 1

Next Chapter on 16th December, 2020

#Endless Summer #fanfiction #pixelberry #choices: stories you play #Choices: Endless Summer #Jake x MC #ES #la huerta #jake mckenzie

[sistercelluloid]

This his has nothing to do with classic film, but I feel like you’re family, so I hope you’ll bear with me in remembering my sweet, beloved Linus, who we lost last week. He lived to be sixteen years and eight months old, but his life seemed to go by in the blink of an eye.

We adopted him when he was just shy of three; he had been so horribly abused that a neighbor called the woman who ran the local no-kill shelter and begged her to somehow get the people who had him—I refuse to call them his family—to surrender him. In his early days with us, his trauma surfaced in heartbreaking ways, as when my husband Tim pulled on a pair of heavy boots to go out and shovel snow—and Linus wailed and shook violently, ran to a corner, and tried to dig his way into the wall.

When we first met him at the shelter, he was clearly anxious to be let out of the kennels. Far and away the smallest dog there, he broke free of his handler, snuggled into a spot on the sofa between us, sighed, and settled in. He was home already. While we waited to sign the final adoption papers—we’d already been through an application process the FBI would gaze upon in awe—I ran through a bunch of names in my mind. “What about Linus?” I asked Tim, thinking of the Peanuts character. “He’s looks so sweet and thoughtful, like he’s got a lot on his mind.” And when we got him home, the first thing he did was burrow deep into his carrier and pull out something that had been scrunched up in the back: his blanket.

He sniffed his way around his new home, and just to make sure we knew it was his, he peed on every rug. Then he curled up on the sofa with his brand-new stuffed bear, chewed the nose off and gleefully pulled out the stuffing.

The bear would be first of a long string of victims which ran the gamut from stuffed toys to silk eye masks.

Linus 1, Mister Fluffy Bunny 0.

And oh, yes, that poor Santa hat—his revenge for the 15 seconds he had to wear this silly outfit for a Christmas card photo.

He literally loved his soccer ball to bits, and no shiny new replacement—even if it was exactly the same thing—ever made him as happy. So I’d just grab his old one, gather up the trail of stuffing strewn across the living room floor, and sew it all back together again.

Only the Grinch was spared from being torn apart, and they became such fast friends that I took to leaving him out all year.

When we first brought Linus home, we weren’t sure how long his walks should be. No one had ever bothered to take him for a real walk before—at the shelter they’d heard he’d been let out in the yard maybe once or twice a day. And being a dachshund, he took a whole bunch of steps for every one of ours. So we decided to just walk him until he got tired.

He never got tired.

After three or four miles, I’d be splayed face-down on the sofa, and he’d be like, “So, where are we goin’ now, Ma?”

Sometimes before we even got to the street, he’d meet Patty or Helen or Michelle from our apartment building, who all adored him. And oh was it mutual. He’d squeal and yip, waggle his butt, and run up and smoosh against them, just unable to contain himself. And he’d bark at their husbands.

Down the street we sometimes ran into Jeff and John, who’d swoop off their stoop the minute they saw Linus. They even bought dog biscuits to keep on hand for him. One night when we passed Jeff, we didn’t stop because he was on the phone. But he let out a whoop and waved us over. He proceeded to tell the guy on the other end Linus’s entire life story—and then ignored him completely talk to Linus, asking over and over, “Who’s a good boy?”

We’d often stop at the coffee shop on our walks, where he’d make new friends. In the summer, I’d often hear a sudden “Ooh!” only to turn and discover Linus had rubbed his cold nose against someone’s bare calf.  And then there was the firefighter with arms roughly the size of Bluto’s, who cooed baby-talk to him and treated me to a cappucino because he loved him so madly.

It took my breath away how open-hearted Linus was, after all the horrors he’d been through. People hold grudges for years, sometimes forever, over the tiniest slight. But once Linus was safe and happy and loved, he was willing—happy, even—to give the whole human race a second chance. He was such an old soul, such a sweet spirit.

For all his years in our family, Linus went with us just about everywhere. He especially loved the “come-withs” at our upstate house on weekends. And because he was crazy-smart, he picked up on clues instantly. When he saw Tim make any move toward the Linus bag—the little canvas pouch with his portable water dish and snacks—he’d go crazy. He also went nuts when I took my bra out of the drawer, because it meant I was going somewhere so probably he was too. It got to the point where if we were heading out without him on the weekend, I had to sneak my bra out when he wasn’t looking.

We took him on our vacations…

…on camping trips…

…on family visits to the lake…

…on day hikes (where once he was super-excited to meet a countryman)…

…to every park we could find (whether he was allowed there or not)…

…to street fairs and festivals…

…to drive-ins…

…and to restaurants, where, on the rare occasion we dined outside without him, we’d get grilled about it by the waiters. (“We were just out shopping and we didn’t know we’d be stopping to eat!” we’d plead, heads down, like guilty criminals.) At one place where we dined often, the manager would greet him with a full plate of bacon. One day, a woman at a nearby table complained, “You served that dog before you waited on me!” and he replied dryly, “He’s a regular.” To know Linus was to love him to the point of obliviousness to all else.

And, um, yes, he had a little portable bed, to protect him from the hard ground. (Though sometimes after we finished our meals, he’d venture off just far enough to sneak a peek at what the people at the next table were having.)

He also had a bed to cushion his naps in the backyard. Okay fine, two beds.

Mostly, though, he roughed it.

Oh and he had a bed in the car, though sometimes it was more of a pillow.

Though having fluffy beds pretty much everywhere, including three in the house, didn’t stop him from checking out other options.

Linus was so sweet and supremely silly…

Once, in a rare attempt at hunting, he somehow wound up in a stack of planters, while the chipmunk had long since scampered down the driveway.

When it was too chilly for the yard but just warm enough to get near it, he loved to watch the world from the screenporch.

Being so close to the ground, Linus was not a huge fan of the cold and wet. (When we got a couple of inches of snow, I’d croon, “It’s up to your knees out there…”) He’d take a few steps and then lift a chilly front paw as if to say, “Taxi!” And I’d pick him up and carry him out to the plowed road for a quick walk. Then he’d come in for a vigorous pat-down with his super-absorbent doggie towel, play-fight with it after he was dry and happy, and burrow under his blankets again.

Always a sun puppy, in bleakest February he’d follow the scant rays around the house. (I call this The Linus in Winter.)

On sleepy weekend mornings, Linus had a little ritual he loved. I’d give him breakfast and take him out for a walk—and then he’d all but march me back to bed. (Tim was usually still there.) He’d head toward the bedroom, stop and turn around to make sure I was following him, and harrumph at me if I wasn’t moving fast enough. Then he’d stand by the bed and wait to be lifted up, barking at me to follow him under the covers so the three of us could snuggle.

He also made a huge fuss whenever Tim came home. You’ve seen the heartwarming videos of dogs whooping and jumping and hurling themselves wildly at returning soldiers, who’ve been away for years? That was Linus when Tim came back from the deli.

He loved belly rubs…

…and deep, long snoozes, and honest to God you’d sell your soul to sleep like that for five minutes.

And if he snoozed on something I needed, I’d just wait until he woke up.

He was also great at self-snuggling, where one minute he was lying flat on his blanket and the next he was a dachshund burrito.

Linus never met a snack he didn’t like (that’s a telltale yogurt ring on his face)…

…and his devotion to whatever you had on your plate bordered on the monastic.

A couple of weeks after we brought him home, we went out to a family dinner and brought home a big, fat, juicy steak bone. When we gave it to Linus, he didn’t seem to know what to do with it at first—because apparently in his almost three years of doggie life, no one had ever given him a bone. But he quickly caught on, and wouldn’t let go. We somehow managed to pry it away from him for his nightly walk, but upon returning, he raced down the hall, frantic to reclaim his prize. After that, he got lots of bones.

When my Mom visited, she actually teased us about spoiling him. Imagine. And then there was this.

But how else would I treat my best editor? When I was stuck for a word, I could always turn to him for support. Or, more often, just chuck what I was working on and curl up with him.

He’d also sense our miseries and truly sympathize. Whenever I cried, whether from something real or even an old movie, I’d soon find him clinging close to me.

Every autumn, on the Feast of St. Francis, we took Linus to be blessed, which I think may have helped him through the health crises in his life.

In the summer of 2007, a few weeks after my company closed its doors, I was spending some time with Linus upstate. One day, rather than racing around the yard, he seemed sluggish, mostly sitting in one spot under a tree. I chalked it up to the weather, which had grown more sultry as the afternoon wore on, and thought it best to bring him inside. But when I picked him up, he howled in pain. Trying (and failing) not to panic, I softly cradled him into his bed and called the vet, but they’d already closed. So I called a cab to get to the emergency vet in the next town.

An hour passed. No cab. By now the sky was black, and it was pouring. I called again (I vaguely remember screaming). A half-hour later, the cabbie drove right past me as I stood on the screenporch frantically waving my arms. I ran outside, caught up with him and jumped right in front of the car.

By the time Linus made it to the vet, his back legs were paralyzed. He had ruptured a disc and needed emergency surgery, but whether he’d ever walk again was highly uncertain. They brought him into the back, gave him steroids, pain medication and sedatives to stabilize him overnight, and told me to get him to Cornell veterinary hospital first thing in the morning. I called Tim from the front desk, sobbing so hard he could barely understand what I was saying.

As I waited for him to drive up from the city, I sat outside crying on a bench under an awning, as the rain pounded against it. A woman who’d seen me inside came out, sat beside me, and pulled my head onto her shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” she said over and over, like a lullaby, or maybe a prayer. I’ll never forget her. (And she was right.)

During the drive up to Cornell, I sat in back with Linus. Bundled in blankets, he clung to my lap, drifting in and out of a fearful, fitful sleep, trembling the whole time. When we arrived, they whisked him into surgery within an hour, removed the ruptured disc and fused the ones on either side. They were going to keep him for another three days, but he was so scared and miserable in his cage—he hadn’t spent a night without us since we first brought him home—that they let him leave a day early, giving us strict instructions on how to get him back on his feet.

Naturally, at first, he was wobbly as a newborn foal. I’d hold him as he took a few halting steps and then lose his footing and stumble to the ground. I started to look into scooters, in case he needed one. But then suddenly, less than a week after surgery, he went from staggering to running, in a single motion. So there we were in the yard, him scampering around like he’d never left, like it was just another Tuesday, and me crying my head off. I started to call Tim, but then I put the phone down. I wanted Linus to surprise him when he came home.

The only lingering result of his trauma was that occasionally when he sat down, he would swing one leg out to the side, like Rita Hayworth in her pinup shots.

I told Tim if anything ever happened to me, he should take me to Cornell and tell them I’m a German Shepherd.

A few years later, a routine vet visit turned up some disturbing lab results. So we went back to Cornell, where a battery of tests revealed a dangerous tumor. He needed surgery right away, and the only available slot was the day before Thanksgiving. For the second time, everything went perfectly, and in their post-op report, the clearly perceptive vets actually wrote, “Linus is a very good dog.” Tim and I had our holiday dinner at the only place we could find open, a bar in downtown Ithaca. I ordered a cocktail, only to have the waiter snap, “Today we have beer and wine and that’s it.” Yipes. But since he was stuck working, I could hardly blame him for sounding like Sheldon Leonard in It’s a Wonderful Life. (“We serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast, and we don’t need any characters around to give the joint atmosphere!”)

And once again Linus, desperate to go home, was released early, enjoying some post-holiday deli turkey on the trip back.

But the following year, Linus was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease, which is something of a plague for dachshunds. Every story I dug up was more horrible than the one before, and the typical prognosis was two years. Linus was blessed with another four, and until he was near the end, fate was somewhat benevolent to him. But in the last few months, one by one, a series of cruel symptoms came crashing down on him. Cushing’s attacked his retinas, dementia darkened his wonderful mind, and sometimes he struggled to stand. Before, the vets always had an answer. Now they had none.

Often I’d pick him up, wrap my arms close around him, and try to will time and trauma away. Do your worst to me, I’d plead, but leave his little fourteen-pound body alone.

It’s one of the cruelest twists of nature that they get so much less time on this earth than we do. I would have happily shared my years with him if I could have.

The night before Linus died, Tim and I slept on either side of him, guardians at the gate with nothing left in our desperately depleted arsenal but how much we loved him. At first, he shared my pillow, his nose pressed against my neck. But then he shifted, resting his head on my hand and curling his body into the crook of my arm. Then he sighed and settled down, just as he did those first few moments we welcomed him into our family.

Despite his age and his illness, losing Linus was an awful, sudden shock. Losing someone you love so much always is; there’s no “preparing” for it. It’s not just a turn of phrase to say I don’t know what to do without him. I really don’t. I can’t put his beds and blankets and bowls away, but I can’t bear to look at them either. I can barely breathe.

I know he lived a long, happy life, and he was loved like crazy, and we’ll always have our memories of him. But none of that helps right now. I’ve collapsed in tears in the diner, in the supermarket, on the street, everywhere. And it’s worse at home. I wake up crying and go to sleep the same way. I miss everything about him, even the smallest things, like the sound of him lapping at his water bowl and his paws click-clacking on the floor. As little as he was, he filled the house. And he filled my heart. Losing him has thrown open the gates to a very dark place I can’t find my way out of without him.

Goodnight and sleep safe, my sweet, silly, beautiful, beloved pup. You were such an indescribable blessing, beyond any words I can find. I have no idea if there’s a God, but there better be a Heaven for you. May the angels hold you as close as we did for all those wonderful years.

Remembering Linus, Our Sweet, Beloved Pup This his has nothing to do with classic film, but I feel like you're family, so I hope you’ll bear with me in remembering my sweet, beloved Linus, who we lost last week.

#Cornell University Hospital for Animals #dachshunds #grief #linus #pets

[oldwarriors-fireandwater]

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fireheart blinked a few times as the sun began to rise, casting warm sunshine down on his face. Though they were late into spring, the night had been a cold one, and he fluffed out his pelt a bit to relish the warmth.

Silverthorn was sitting no more than a fox-length away. He had nodded off a few times throughout the night—though Fireheart hardly blamed him. I'm surprised they had him hold vigil at all while he’s still recovering.

Mosspelt and Shadefang were seated farther down the reeds, leaning on each other. Both sisters looked as though they might fall asleep at any moment, but they would silently nudge the other if one began to close her eyes. They both lifted their heads in unison as there was a stirring from across camp. Fireheart followed their gaze to the warriors’ den.

Leopardfur was padding outside. The molly paused to stretch before she crossed camp and headed towards them. She dipped her head before she meowed, “Your vigil is done. You may speak.”

Mosspelt was the first to talk. “Oh, thank StarClan,” she mumbled. “I'm so tired, I could sleep for a moon!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Silverthorn muttered. He twisted around to sniff at his wounds. “At least my bites haven't turned sour.”

Leopardfur twitched her tail. “Well, you're free to do as you like. Some of the other warriors made up nests for you, or you may eat. I'll keep you off patrols until the evening so you can rest.”

“Thanks,” Fireheart yawned. His stomach grumbles quietly, but exhaustion was more pressing. I'll eat after a nap. “I'm headed to the den.”

“Me too,” Shadefang agreed. “It's strange to think we won't ever be sleeping in the apprentices’ den again.”

Fireheart blinked. The thought had yet to cross his mind. “Hopefully the warriors’ den will be more comfortable,” he meowed. “Or I'll go back to the other one!”

Mosspelt laughed. “I think Beechflower would have been back in the apprentices’ den if he wasn't comfortable.”

Beechflower! Fireheart thought. I'd forgotten about that, too. We’ll be sharing a den again. The thought made him smile.

Leopardfur looked almost amused by their talk. “Well, get some rest. But,” she added, with a glance at Silverthorn. “You should check in with Mudfur first. Then you can sleep.”

Silverthorn grunted his acknowledgement. The tabby stood stiffly and began to limp across camp.

Fireheart rose and took a moment to stretch out each limb. His muscles were stiff from sitting for long. He was about to head for the den when a fresh scent his nose and he heard pawsteps. ThunderClan! he realized. “There's a ThunderClan cat coming!” he growled.

Leopardfur nodded. “I'm expecting him.”

Huh? Fireheart frowned. The reeds trembled and shifted as a cat stepped through. He was a dark tabby with a thick tail, and a limp squirrel swung in his jaws. It's Darkstripe. What's he doing here?

Darkstripe narrowed his eyes at Fireheart before he sniffed and walked towards Leopardfur. He bent down and dropped it at her paws. “Here,” he muttered.

Leopardfur twitched her whiskers. “Good,” she replied. Her voice was even as always. “Thistlestar informed you of the terms?”

“I'm hunting until the next Gathering,” Darkstripe growled. “I get it.” His tone was hardly what any cat could consider respectful.

“Be glad it isn't longer,” Leopardfur snapped, irritation creeping into her voice. “You should never have tried to evade paying for Sunwhisker’s death.”

Darkstripe just looked angry. “Whatever,” he spat, before he turned and hurried back outside the camp. With a swish of his tail, he was gone again.

Fireheart stared curiously at Leopardfur. “What was that about?”

Leopardfur sniffed at the squirrel. “Part of our deal with Thistlestar,” she explained. “We will help them fight ShadowClan and train Ravenpaw in exchange for Darkstripe hunting to atone for killing Sunwhisker.”

Fight ShadowClan? Fireheart blinked. WindClan won't help, so we turn to our enemy? He shook his head. Clan politics still confused him to no end. He turned himself away and headed across camp. Fireheart padded into the den and paused as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer den.

The den was full of the Clan’s warriors. Most were asleep, but a few were sharing tongues or murmuring in low voices. None paid him any heed as he padded around the edge of the den. Fireheart headed towards Beechflower, who was curled up near Silverstrem. He prodded his friend.

“Mrrh?” Beechflower swiveled his head in Fireheart’s direction and blinked. “Huh?”

“Where's my nest?” Fireheart asked.

Beechflower grunted and flicked his tail towards an empty space beside him, then laid his head down and covered it with a paw. Fireheart rolled his eyes before he settled down in the spot. Once he was comfortable, sleep came quickly.

Fireheart padded out of the warriors’ den with a yawn. He had slept through most of the day, as had the other new warriors, and it was now nearing dusk. Fireheart’s stomach was rumbling, and he quickly headed for the fresh-kill pile. He sat down for a moment to see what was on the pile before he selected a trout. He was about to turn away and find somewhere to sit when a voice called out.

“Hey!” Silverstream meowed. “Fireheart! Come eat with us.” She was seated off to the side of camp with Beechflower, Dawnwhisker, and Frogleap.

Fireheart blinked and padded over. He sat down between Beechflower and Dawnwhisker with a bob of his head in greeting, then set his meal between his paws.

Dawnwhisker flicked him with her tail. “How does it feel to finally be a warrior?” she asked.

“Great!” Fireheart purred. “Especially now that I’ve slept.”

Frogleap chuckled. “I remember my vigil,” the tom meowed. “I was exhausted, and I had to do mine in the middle of winter! I thought my paws would freeze off.”

Silverstream shuddered. “Mine was near the end of winter too. I’d never been so cold!”

Beechflower grinned as he swallowed a mouthful of his own fish. “You were totally covered in snow when you got to leave your post.”

Fireheart shivered at the thought. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.” He bent down and tore off a chunk of the trout.

“What were we talking about, again?” Frogleap asked. “Before Fireheart came over?”

“Skyheart,” Dawnwhisker reminded him. “She’s surely expecting, right?”

Beechflower nodded. “She’s got to be. She and Reedtail have been together long enough! I’m surprised there weren’t already kits.”

Frogleap twitched his tail. “She could just be putting on a little extra weight… the fishing has been good lately.”

Fireheart was surprised by the gossip. He had never heard the warriors speak like this to each other—but he supposed that he was privy to this sort of conversation now that he was a warrior himself. He swallowed his food, before he blurted, “Skyheart’s pregnant?”

“Not so loud!” Beechflower meowed. “But that’s what we’re wondering, yes.”

Fireheart frowned. I don’t really see much of Skyheart. I guess I wouldn’t have noticed if she was expecting.

“She’s a bit old to have kits,” Frogleap meowed. “Hopefully she takes it easy if she is.”

Dawnwhisker looked sly as she leaned towards Silverstream. “What about you?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice. “Any kits on the horizon?”

Both Silverstream and Beechflower became very interested in their own paws. “I—I have no idea what you mean!” Silverstream retorted, flattening her ears in embarrassment.

Fireheart nudged Beechflower. “How about you, Beechflower?” he meowed, grinning in amusement. “Planning on raising any kittens?”

Frogleap snickered to himself as Beechflower shot Fireheart an aghast look. “I… er…”

Dawnwhisker purred loudly. “Oh, we’re only teasing,” she chuckled.

Frogleap reached over and prodded Dawnwhisker. “How about Leopardfur?” he asked, with a knowing smirk. “You two seem to have been patrolling together quite a bit.”

“What about Leopardfur?”

Frogleap jumped at the sound of the deputy’s voice. Leopardfur had padded by and stopped as he mentioned her. It was his turn to look mortified. “Leopardfur!” he exclaimed. “I was just… saying you’ve been doing a great job of, uh… organizing patrols.”

Leopardfur rose a brow before she glanced at Dawnwhisker. “Ready?” she meowed.

“In a moment,” Dawnwhisker replied. “I’ll meet you by the river.”

Leopardfur nodded before she padded away. The spotted molly padded through the reeds, heading out of camp.

Fireheart glanced at his former mentor. “Ready for what?” he asked.

Dawnwhisker smiled. “Oh, we’re just going for a walk.” She curled her tail, looking almost bashful. “Now that I’m not a mentor anymore… well, we have more time to spend together.”

Silverstream narrowed her eyes, mischief sparking in her blue eyes. “When are you going to finally work up the guts to ask her to be your mate?” she asked boldly.

Dawnwhisker’s ears went red. “Hey!” she blurted. “I was just teasing earlier!” She was quick to stand and hurry off in the direction Leopardfur had gone.

Fireheart smiled fondly. Leopardfur and Dawnwhisker, huh? He hadn’t noticed it before, but he supposed that Leopardfur was strangely fond of Dawnwhisker, considering how aloof she was with the rest of her Clan.

Frogleap glanced over his shoulder cautiously before he turned back to the others. “So, Skyheart,” he meowed. “Any bets on when she’ll move into the nursery?”

Silverstream rolled her eyes. “You’re shameless!” she meowed. “But, I suppose I’d say in a moon.”

Fireheart shook his head. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Beechflower shouldered him. “Oh, you’re no fun! I think she’ll be there by the next Gathering.”

“Too soon!” Frogleap retorted. “I bet she’ll be in the nursery at the half-moon after it.”

Beechflower shook his head. “Oh, come on, there’s no way she’ll wait that long!”

The three cats began to argue about timing, and Fireheart listened, amused, as he continued to eat.

#warrior cats #wc #warriors rewrite #warriors au #warriors: fire and water #chapter twenty six

[a-butterfly-on-his-tummy]

Day Five: ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

“Here yeh go darling.’” Harry hands you a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating at the top of the brown sweet liquid. At 24 weeks pregnant, the cravings are strong and a cup of steaming cocoa sounds like heaven to you.

“Thank you, my love.” You bring the cup close to your face, feeling the warmth from the drink brush against your lips and nose. Blowing on the hot liquid, you take a small sip, tasting the sweet drink against your tongue.

“How’d I do?” Harry has a smirk sneaking across his lips as he waits for your praises about what a extraordinary job he did on your cup of cocoa.

“It’s perfect. Thanks babe.” You take another sip, holding the cup with both hands and resting it on your tummy. Harry sets his mug on the coffee table; reaching in the basket next to the couch he pulls out a blanket, spreading it across your body.

“Stay righ’ there. Don’t move.” Harry stands up, pointing his finger at you. His expression makes you giggle as he is trying really hard to be serious, but ends up letting out an explosive laugh when you giggle back at him.

The little girl inside your belly has been extremely active today. All that dancing must have worn her out as it seems like she has fallen asleep. You run your hand down the front of your stomach, rubbing back and forth. Harry pads back to the couch with a book tucked under his arm. He sits on the couch next to your feet.

“Gonna read our little Grace a Christmas story.” Your husband holds up a Christmas book, causing you to chuckle.

“You are a dork.” You cuddle into his side, kissing his cheek.

“Excuse me? Just because she isn’t ‘ere yet, doesn’t mean Grace has to miss out on the Styles’ Christmas traditions.” Harry acts all offended which just makes you laugh more. One of the reasons you love this boy is for his ability to always make you laugh. You hope this baby inside your belly has received the gift of his humor.

“Alright. What’re yeh going to read to our little one?” You decide to go along with it, because the Styles’ family Christmas traditions are things nobody should miss out on.

“The famous, Night Before Christmas.” Harry opens the book to the first page, using his other hand to give your baby bump a ‘love rub’ as Harry calls it. “Okay Grace, ‘ere we go.” Harry adjusts the book so it is facing the bump, because the baby needs to see the pictures. Harry starts to read.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; Harry leans in close to the bump and whispers to his daughter. “The house is really quiet, so shhh.” Putting his fingers against his lips. causing you to let out a small giggle. You find it adorable he feels the need to explain things to your baby.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; “Can yeh see your stocking? The red one right next to mummy’s.” Harry points his finger towards the fireplace that is currently lit, making the room feel warm and cozy. Three stocking hang from hooks over the fireplace. Two cream and one red, each embroidered with a name. Harry turns the page of the book and continues to read.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; “Those are the best kind of dreams.”

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

“Those are the best kinds of naps.” You add, surprising Harry who nods his head in agreement.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, “That is a loud noise.”

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. “That’s the window sill.”

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, “That’s a tiny sized sleigh, Grace.”

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. “Father Christmas! He brings us gifts!”

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Harry sits up tall and puffs out his chest as he reads the next section on a low voice, imitating Father Christmas.

"Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!

On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONDER and BLITZEN! “The story doesn’t mention Rudolph but he is my favorite.” Grace kicks your stomach causing you to jolt.

“Apparently she likes Rudolph too.” You giggle, running your hand against the spot she kicked. “Do yeh like how his nose lights up?” You ask Grace who kicks again from hearing your voice. Harry smiles, running his hand over to your stomach, tapping her foot with his fingers.

“I like his nose too, love.” He adds.

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. “Look Grace, that right there.” Harry points to the white bearded man on the page. “It’s Father Christmas.”

You take a sip of your hot chocolate, resting the cup back down on your shelf. Using your opposite hand you run your fingers through your husband’s hair.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. “Here he comes! This is my favorite part.” Harry whisper close to the baby.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, “Can you imagine carrying a pack with all those toys? Strong lad.”

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

“Just like your daddy’s dimple.” You bend down close to whisper to your daughter. “Let’s pray you get that little feature. It’s my favorite.”

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. “Sounds like they are talkin’ about yur father.” Harry pushes out his stomach, giving it a small pat. The both of you laugh at his silly joke.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. “Like flower seeds blown through the wind, love.”

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!

Harry closes the book, setting it on the spot next to him on the couch.

“Happy Christmas girls! I love you both so much.” Harry kisses your lips, slow and tender, expressing his love through the sweet peck. Leaning down close to your stomach Harry rubs his hand across the mound. “Happy Christmas little one.” Kissing your stomach, Harry sits up, pulling you into a tight snuggle. Closing your eyes, you begin to drift to sleep. While both Grace and her mum have visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads.

A/N: Thank you @whoopsharrystyles for all you do! You are amazing!!! Check out The Adventures of Harry and Grace Masterlist and my Wattpad Page. Thank you for reading, liking, reblogging and recommending!! Merry Christmas!!! Love you all!! 

#please send me feedback #hope you are all liking this installment #i love hearing from yo #THE ADVENTURES OF GRACE AND HARRY #The 12 Days of Grace and harry #twas the night before christmas #harry styles fanficiton #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fluff #Harry Styles #dad harry #dad!harry #dad harry fluff #dad!harry fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #original writing #harry styles one shot

[minimal-sunshine]

I wrote a winter story about dragons. It's rough and unfinished, but I hope you like it.

*************************************

"Why does it get cold every winter? And why do others get snow, but we don't?"

I wondered the same thing as a child.

My parents lived in separate places,

and most of my childhood was spent in warmer climates. The dragons there were smaller, more vibrant in their colouring and patterns, adapted to live among humanoids in places that had become more tropical in recent times. They would sun together on the porch with our cats, and when they took flight, it was a shimmering riot of color that danced across the skies.

Mother called it a "celebration", a play on the "murmurations" of birds.

In the wintertime, a chill would keep in the air for a couple weeks, but the warmth of the sun would still draw us all out to nap in it.

To me, the dragons looked like flowers, and i loved them all.

After a long day playing with them I would tell my mother that I was going to be a dragon when I grew up.

She would smile and stretch, her wings dazzling like fire opals and spider-silk in the light, and she'd tell me stories of other dragons she'd seen or heard of.

"Bigger than a house?!"

"Yes, and some as small as butterflies."

I'd drink up her tales, and snuggle happily into my blankets, forgetting my cocoa. I was too busy dreaming about dragons.

********************

In winter I'd go north to visit my father.

It was like a different world.

I rarely saw any dragons there.

My father would say it was because the scales weren't good insulation.

But winter brought its own wonder. The closest things to the dragons I knew had beards and manes, furry legs and claws. They were larger, wingless, and living in close herds, like old world cows.

Still, among the people in town, you'd hear things like "wings of winter" or expressions of hoping for the snow to "fly south" soon.

The more questions I asked, the more people would clam up, waving me away with their huge paws.

Dad explained that the Folk never got along with the dragons much. And words had power.

During blizzards, Dad would go out in full gear, lantern in hand, and tell me to hold down the fort.

Until one year, he had me suit up too.

Eight years old wearing goggles meant for a grown person, I could barely see anything, but Dad knew the way, and we were tied together.

As the storm roared around us, I began to worry.

And then, the wind stopped.

We were in a frozen, nearly crystalline forest.

Moonlight glittered across everything singing through icicles and filling the air with the kind of music that can only be replicated in dreams.

We continued on.

As we walked, Dad explained that he was a dragonologist, and had settled here to study a rare species.

And there they were.

If all the dragons I had known before were flowers, these were stars.

Towering almost as high as the trees, wings impossibly flexible milky translucent glass, scales like moon-bathed snow and voices like ringing crystal. Babies played amongst the adults, cavorting like horse-sized puppies, all fuzzy frost and moonlight.

"These are...."

"Ice drakes." Dad finished for me.

"Without them, we'd have no winter."

All I could do was stare.

I shivered as one of the young dragons skidded close to us, the air felt colder as they neared.

Dad handed me a thermos.

Hot peppermint cocoa scalded my tongue, so I sipped carefully as Dad continued.

"These are the largest group surviving Amera Ice Drakes. They lay their eggs here and migrate far south before summer comes."

I watched as one of the larger drakes used its breath to cover a nest of opaline eggs as large as my torso with a thick layer of ice. As it did so, I could see bluish light pulse in its chest like a heartbeat.

"The heat weakens their eggs shells, and so few young survive this far down. Most have migrated to the Arctic or the Antarctic regions. This flight, hasn't yet." He mused.

Awed and curious, I wondered why I'd never seen them before.

"They migrate south? Why haven't I seen any before?" I asked loudly.

A few of the drakes looked on our direction, their opal eyes dancing with shimmering hints of color as they fixed on us warily.

Dad picked me up and backed up a few yards and , his hooves steady on the snowy ground.

"My little goblin, they fly to the southern POLE areas. And they bring the winter with them."

As if to punctuate his statement, one of the adults lifted its huge wings, and took flight, leaving swirls of snowy wind trailing from its wings.

"As our world gets warmer, the drakes fly higher and take different routes to their southern home. And some have stopped coming back north altogether. BUT. That doesn't mean we can't cheer them on every time the cold comes through."

I will never forget those beautiful dragons. Or the way I felt warm inside despite the sub-freezing temperatures all the way back to the cabin.

It snowed heavily for the next few days, and when I looked out my window, sometimes I could see faint blue pulses of light among the thick greyish clouds. And if I listened hard enough, I could hear them singing to each other.

#dragons #short tale #winter tale #i wrote something finally

[curious-kat]

Tea and Travel

A fic I wrote for Yuri on Ice!! Inspired by my own winter travel woes.  Read it on ao3 here

An unexpected snowstorm has grounded all flights out of St. Petersburg. This is a problem because Viktor and the Yuris have a Grand Prix Final they need to get themselves to. Why didn't they fly out earlier? Well you can blame Viktor for that...

Snow was falling in St. Petersburg.  Yuuri watched it soften the edges of buildings and fill the streets.  He sighed, breath fogging the windowpane, and turned to his fiancé.  

“Will we still make it out in time, do you think? …Viktor?”

“Sorry,” Viktor said as he looked up from his phone.  “Reading the weather reports.  This is much more snow than they expected, and a lot of flights have been delayed.” He stood up and went to Yuuri at the window, wrapping an arm around his waist. The other man leaned into him and let out a pent up breath.  Viktor whistled slightly at the rapidly whitening landscape.  

“It doesn’t look like it’s planning to stop anytime soon does it?  We really might not be able to leave today.”

“How are you so calm about this? We have to be halfway across the world for the Grand Prix Final tomorrow. Tomorrow, Viktor!”

“This is winter in St. Petersburg, Yuuri.  These things happen.”  Viktor began to rub soothing circles on his fiancé’s back.  He was rewarded with a slight relaxation of Yuuri’s tensed shoulders.  In an undertone he said, “Though you were right, we should have left early with Yakov and the junior skaters.”

Yuuri huffed a laugh.  “What was your argument for staying? Something about practicing longer in familiar territory?”

“Well, I thought it would be less nerve-wracking.”  He grinned at Yuuri’s expression of mock outrage. “I know, I know, but look, this storm was not supposed to be anything major.”  Outside snow continued to fall in heavy clumps, slowly obliterating the city. A gust of wind rattled the windows and dislodged a shower of snow from the balcony above.  Yuuri shivered violently and buried himself in Viktor’s chest.

“We’re actually going to be late and miss the final Vitya. Vitya, we could really fail because of the damn weather.  That could happen. To us.  After everything we’ve been though.”  All this came out in a muffled torrent while Viktor made soothing noises and held his fiancé as tightly as he could.  He didn’t know any better way to get Yuri through his panic.  

Out of nowhere the buzzer rang.  Yuri jumped and narrowly avoided hitting his head on Viktor’s chin. Viktor for his part rushed to the door and answered the call.

“Da? Who is this?”

“It’s me, let me in.”

“Yurio! Yes come right up.”  A minute later the door opened to admit an irate teenager.  Yuri Plitsetsky stomped snow off his boots and dropped a suitcase and skating bag on the apartment floor.  

“But Yurio, what are you doing here now?  Our flight’s not supposed to leave until later today!” Viktor said as he took Yuri’s coat.  

“Yeah, well have you looked outside? I was afraid if I didn’t get over here now I would never make it and be stuck in Yakov’s house forever. As it was I nearly died!”  He shook snow out of his hair and glared at them. “It’s your damn fault we’re still here at all and not happily in Canada!  Why did I let you convince me to stay late?”  He said the last mostly to himself.  Yuuri and Viktor exchanged a glance.  

“Since you’re here, do you want a cup of tea?” Facing only a further glare, Yuuri shrugged at him.  “What else is there to do?  It – it’s not like we can fly out anytime soon.”  After Yuri’s grunted assent, the Japanese man went to put on hot water, hiding his shaky breathing in the ritual.  Viktor brushed a hand against his shoulder in passing.

Ignoring them, Yuri threw himself down on the couch.  He disturbed Makkachin, who shifted from her customary napping spot to sniff at him.  He patted the top of her head and she whuffled appreciatively before settling back down to sleep on Yuri’s feet. 

“Spasibo,” he muttered distractedly when Yuuri handed him a cup of green tea.  What felt to Yuri like hours passed in a haze of suppressed tension.  Viktor took his own mug of tea and curled up in a chair to browse the internet.  Yuuri alternated between sitting on the floor by Viktor’s chair and pacing around the living room.  During one such interlude, Viktor got up to intercept his fiancé and wound up going onto their balcony to brave the outside.  He returned after less than a minute with flushed cheeks and hair swept even more over his eyes than usual.

“Yeah, that’s a storm all right,” he said at Yuuri’s concerned look, pushing snow-covered silver hair out of his face.

“Told you.” called Yuri before Yuuri could respond.  “The bus almost slid into the shelter at the stop and there were like seven cars stuck on the road.”

When twenty minutes later Viktor looked up from his laptop to announce that their flight was cancelled it came as no surprise. The storm had been steadily worsening all morning.  

“The airport is completely closed down from what I can tell.”

“I think the whole city is closed.  Look Yurio, nothing is moving on the street at all.”

Yuri raised himself up on his elbows long enough to say, “Uh-huh, no one is stupid enough to go out in that mess. I’ll be stuck with you idiots forever.”  He laid down and stretched to take up the entire couch, Makkachin having long since abandoned him for Viktor.  Partway through extending his legs, Yuri twisted suddenly to face his compatriot. Viktor raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Hey what happens if we do miss the competition?  We’re half the competitors, they couldn’t hold it without us, could they?”  Yuri was watching Viktor with an intensity that belied the causal tone of his question.  Viktor looked and saw an identical anxious expression on his fiancé’s face.  

“Well,” he paused.  

“What?”

“They can’t reschedule the events because the television programming is set.  They might let us skate the short programs at a different time, but they could also make us compete without them.”  Yuuri took a deep breath, making Viktor worry that he might break down again.  Instead, he had helpful advice.

“We should call Yakov.  We should have done that hours ago now I think about it.”

“Of course!”  Viktor pressed a palm to his forehead.  “I can also talk to the event organizers and explain –,”

Yuuri cut him off.  “I’ll call the ISU, you need to call the airline and try to get us a new flight.  My Russian isn’t good enough for that.”

“Right. Yurio, you call Yakov then. Tell him we’re stuck here. Blame me if you need to.”

Yuri sat up. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”  He flicked on his phone and pulled up Yakov’s number.  Viktor studied his laptop screen for a moment then walked into the hallway, dialing the airline.  A stream of Russian issued from the bedroom.  Plugging one ear to block that and the sound of Yuuri identifying himself to an ICU official from the kitchen, Yuri waited for Yakov to pick up.

“Yura! Have you left St. Petersburg yet?”

“Uh. No. There’s this huge storm.”

“What storm? What do you mean?  When will you get to Toronto?”  Yakov’s voice was getting progressively louder, never a good sign.

“It’s a snowstorm.  Everything is closed down and the flights are all cancelled. I nearly died getting to Viktorandyuuri’s house, it was horrible.”

“You – what? You’re with them?  Are you going to get here on time?”  Yuri by now was holding the phone four centimeters away from his ear.  Hearing Yakov, Makkachin barked excitedly.  Yuuri reached down to take the phone, stroking Makka with his free hand.  

“Yakov, hello.”

“Someone with sense, finally! What is going on?”

“A blizzard has shut down everything, like Yuri said. Vitya’s on hold with the airline trying to get us on a new flight but I don’t think anything will leave until it stops snowing.”

“And that will be…”

“Since it has snowed all day without slowing down I have no idea.  I talked to the ICU about what to do if we’re late but ­­–,”

“I will talk to them too.  Surely they would not compete without the three of you there.”

“Oh – well. I hope so. We’ll do our best to get ourselves out of here.”

“You’d better.  And tell Vitya I said that.”

Yuuri handed the phone back, saying, “Here, Yuri.”  He went to check on Viktor, followed by Makkachin wanting to be petted.

“Yuratchka?”

“Uhnm.”

“Did you lock my house when you left?”

“Yes, Yakov.”

“And you packed all your gear?”

“Yes, Yakov.”

“Yuratchka, it will be all right.  You’ll get here.”

“Uhnh.”  After a telling silence from his coach, he added, “Yes, I will!” with a passable attempt at enthusiasm.  

“That’s my boy!  I’ll see you soon.”

“’Bye.” Yuri exhaled as he set his phone down.  He got up and went to glare out at the storm standing between him and a second Grand Prix Final gold.  Japanese Yuuri had been right. Nothing was moving except the relentless fall of snowflakes, swirling in the occasional gust of wind.   As he watched the storm picked up, heavy snow blocking everything except the balcony from view.  He crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders against an imagined chill.  Coming from nowhere, Makkachin bounded between him and the window and put her paws on his chest.  

“Agh! Gettoff!”  Yuri flailed frantically to keep the dog from licking his face.  The older Yuuri started to laugh.  Finally, he called Makka over to him and gave her a rough hug.  

“You daft dog you, don’t bother Yurio you know he’s a cat person!”

“Huh. Damn right I am.” Yuri glared at Makkachin, who woofed happily.  Still laughing, Yuuri stood up.

“Hey, um, do want more tea? Or we have hot chocolate. Coffee too but I don’t think you should drink that this late in the day...”  The Russian just frowned at the storm, so Yuuri continued, “Come on, have something.”

“Hot chocolate sounds good, I guess.”  

“Great!”  They sat at the table, mugs of steaming liquid cradled in their hands.  Both avoided looking at the storm.  

“Yuuri?”

“Hm?”  Yuuri tore his gaze away from the window yet again to focus on the teenager.

“You seem so calm about all this.  Why aren’t you more nervous?”

“We’ll either get there or we won’t, so no use worrying. Is what I’ve told myself at least fifty times today.  I don’t think it’s helping much actually.”  He tightened his grip on the mug.

“So… you’re not calm.”

“Not even a little bit.”  

“But, you aren’t like, freaking out.  You just keep making tea.”  Yuri shoved hair out of his eyes, staring at the man across from him.

“Making tea is how everyone in my family copes with stress, Yuri.” Yuuri shook his head to clear fog off his glasses. “I think I’m just too tired now to flip out.  Or something.”  A burst of angry Russian from the bedroom interrupted them.  Yuuri smiled wryly as he said, “Sounds like Vitya’s making progress with the airline.”  

They sat in silence for a few minutes.  Makkachin put her head in Yuuri’s lap and he stroked her absently.  Yuri thought about his cat and blinked hurriedly to disguise tears.  He took another sip of chocolate and felt steadier. His phone buzzed.

“Oh, it’s Mila!”  He slid his finger across the screen to accept her call.

“Hi, Mila!”  Yuri mustered a smile for the grinning redhead.

“Yura! Yakov said you all were stuck in St. Petersburg!”

“Yeah.”  

“Show her the blizzard,” said Yuuri, who had looked up.

“Oh, right.  Here.” Yuri walked over to the window and pointed his phone out into the whirling snow.

“Shit, that’s quite a storm!”

“I know! I’m going to be trapped in this apartment forever! Storm’ll probably bury the building before it’s done.”

“Now Yura, don’t be melodramatic. Is that Yuuri behind you? Hi Yuuri!”

“Hey Mila.”

“And Makkachin too?”

“Yep!”  They both laughed as Makkachin stood on Yuuri’s knees to peer at the phone. Viktor walked in, running a hand through his hair.

���Well, I did what I could and we’re on standby for the next flight that goes out, which is tomorrow morning.”  He bent down to scratch Makkachin’s ears.

“Mila’s on the phone,” said Yuuri.

“Hi Mila! How are you? Is this coffee?” he added, picking up Yuuri’s mug.

“No, it’s hot choc–,”

“Hot chocolate, right,” Viktor muttered as he took a sip. He handed the mug back to Yuuri and went to boil water for coffee.  While Mila told them about her day in Toronto, Yuri walked around the table and flopped into his chair.

“Everyone’s asking about you,” Mila said.  “Even the press grilled Yakov about it.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I don’t think there’s much we can do,” said Viktor.  

“One thing’s for sure:  we won’t get any paparazzi here,” said Yuuri.

“Hah, yeah. No one can get at us through this.”  Yuri waved the hand holding his phone at the window, causing Mila to exclaim. “Sorry.”  He brought his arm down.  

The lights flickered once, then went out.  They stared at each other in the sudden darkness, hearing the howl of the wind clearly over the lack of noise from the appliances.

“What happened?” said Mila into the oppressive quiet.

Viktor said, “Our power went out.  Yuri, you should probably save your phone battery in case it doesn’t come back.”

“Um, right.  Sorry Mila.”

“No, no it’s fine.  Talk to you later!”

“Bye. Thanks for calling.”  

Viktor’s teapot whistled, startling all of them.  He took it off the burner.  “At least we have a gas stove and can still cook.”

“Yeah… why is it so dark outside? It’s only like 3 in the afternoon!”  Yuuri had gone over to the window and was fiddling with the blinds.

“We’re far north.  There’s only a few hours on daylight in the winter even on nice days.”

“I’m still not used to it.  Whose idea was it to build a city here anyway?”

“Peter the Great,” muttered Yuri.  He went to turn on his phone, then checked himself.  “Now what do we do?” he asked of the room in general. Viktor poured himself a cup of coffee and sat next to his fiancé.

“I’m going to drink this coffee and then probably take a nap.”  Yuuri scooted his chair over and leaned his head on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Your caffeine tolerance is ridiculous Vitya,” Yuuri yawned. “You don’t even notice the inherent contradiction in that sentence.”

“What?  It’s only a cup.”  Viktor twined their hands together, Yuuri’s ring glinting in the scant light.  He planted a kiss on Yuuri’s head.  Seeing the Russian Yuri roll his eyes, Viktor said, “There are candles in the living room if you want to light them.  Matches should be in the drawer by the sink.” Grumbling, Yuri got up and brought candles into kitchen.  The flare of the first match threw deep shadows on their faces.  Soon the room was suffused with warm flickering light. Yuuri sighed, still leaning on Viktor.

“Should we figure out what we’re doing for dinner?”

Yuri straightened up. “Can we make pirozhki?”

“Sure.  Oh no wait, we can’t use the oven.”

“It’s perfectly possible to light the oven without power,” said Viktor. “All you have to do is stick you head in there while the gas is on and find the pilot light with a match.”  They looked at the shadow-shrouded oven.  

“I could do a stir-fry.” said Yuuri after a moment. “There’s rice.  Do we have any decent vegetables?”

“Some frozen maybe, I mostly cleaned out the fridge since I naively assumed we would be leaving on a trip.”  Viktor downed the last of his coffee and he and Yuuri got up to rummage in the freezer for food.  Yuri sank his chin in his hands and stared at a candle flame, mesmerized.  A few minutes later they had some chicken thawing in the sink and Yuuri was clearing the counters in preparation for cooking.  He looked up as someone knocked sharply on the door.  Viktor walked over to answer it, picking up a candlestick as he did so to bring light into the shadowed entryway.  

“Hello Vitya!”

“Irina! Come in, come in.”  He swung the door wide to admit a middle-aged women draped in a robe over her clothes.  

“Your power is out too, then?” asked Viktor, gesturing to the flashlight in her hand.

“Yes, I think the whole block must be.  At least the street light outside my window is dark.  Though that might just be the snow covering it.”

“You remember Yuri Plisetsky?  From the rink?  Yuri this is our neighbor across the hall.”  Yuri raised his head long enough to say “Hi” before pillowing it on his arms again.  Irina chuckled.

“I remember him, we’ve met before.”  Makkachin had bounded over to investigate the visitor, and Irina scratched her ears, murmuring a greeting.  At Viktor’s invitation she sat down at the table and accepted Yuuri’s offer of tea.  He put a kettle on and successfully lit the burner with a match on his second try, forestalling Viktor’s motion to help.  

Irina said, “I just dropped by to check on Makkachin, in case you had somehow managed to fly out as scheduled.”

“Well thank you for thinking of it.  We’re not going to leave until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Ah, I thought as much.  I’ll come back then to take her on her walk.  Won’t I?”  she addressed to the dog, patting her.

“I do appreciate it.  And Makka likes seeing you too.”  They chatted as Irina drank her tea.  Even Yuri was drawn in when she asked him about his grandfather’s pirozhki recipe, which she’d gotten to sample once.  Viktor was replacing one of the smaller candles which had burned down when she rose to leave.

“Won’t you stay for dinner?” asked Yuuri.  “I’m making a stir-fry.”

“Oh no thank you, I have a pot of shchii on the stove at home. Thanks much for the tea and company.”

“Of course, anytime!  And thanks again for checking in,” said Viktor as he led her to the door. Yuri slouched over to the couch and curled up under a blanket while the older Yuuri started cooking.  Viktor took Makkachin out for her walk, bundling himself up under several layers of coats and scarves.  As a final touch he added a fur hat.  

“Wish me luck!” he called he and Makkachin left.

“Don’t freeze,” said Yuri through his blanket.  Within ten minutes they were back, both lightly dusted with snow and Viktor with flushed cheeks.  

“It’s still snowing, but coming down more slowly,” Viktor reported, dodging Makkachin as she shook herself and sent snow flying everywhere.  “And not too cold, except when the wind blows.”  He hung up his last coat and sat down at the table.  Yuuri handed him a cup of coffee, leaning down for a quick kiss as he did so.

“Ooh, your lips are freezing,” he said. Viktor beamed up at him.

“Yours are so warm.”  The pan on the stove sizzled, breaking the moment.  Yuuri jumped to check on it.  He brought the pan over to the table, holding it next to one of the candles.

“What are you doing?”  Viktor asked, his voice betraying a laugh.

“I can’t tell if the onions are cooked or not, it’s so dark by the stove.”  Yuuri sniffed the pan.  “No, I think they need more time.”  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Viktor smiling at him with a warmth that erased the chill in the room.  Yuuri grinned to himself as he added giner to the pan.  Eventually Yuuri declared his stir fry cooked enough and set the table for dinner.  The three of them huddled in the circle of candlelight, passing food back and forth at constant risk of setting their sleeves on fire.  Yuri said almost nothing but had three helpings, plus some chicken he let Makkachin steal.  Viktor and his fiancé spoke softly.  

As they were finishing, Viktor held up his hand and said, “Listen.”  The wind had picked up and was whistling with an eerie tone.  As its undulating howl filled the room, Yuri buried his head in his arms.  

“Make it stop,” he said softly.  Viktor put a hand on his shoulder but Yuri shrugged him off. Yuuri hesitated, then got a blanket off the couch and draped it over the teenager.  He gave Yuri a half hug and raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise when Yuri accepted it.  He and Viktor slowly cleared the dishes.  When Viktor went to sit in the living room, Yuri followed him and curled up on the couch. Makkachin joined him there and stuck her nose in his face.  He put an arm around her.  Yuuri returned from the bedroom carrying his laptop.  

“Do we want to watch a movie or something?  This has a lot of battery left.”

“Sure. Yura?”

“Mmphh.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”  Yuuri pulled up an old favorite and set his laptop on the coffee table.  Viktor collected pillows and sat on the floor in front of the couch with his fiancé.  Yuuri leaned back and let the sound of his native language wash over him. Russian Yuri sat forward to peer at the subtitles.  

“I like this girl.” he announced.  “She has more sense than her parents.”  Yuuri chuckled. They passed a few hours like that, curled together against the darkness. When the movie ended Viktor shifted and sat up. He looked at Yuri, illuminated in the light from the laptop screen.  The teenager’s eyes were closed.  He nudged his fiancé.              “I think he’s asleep,” Viktor said under his breath.

“’M not.” Yuri curled himself more tightly.  Grinning at each other, Viktor and Yuuri gathered up their blankets and put them away.  Yuri roused enough to let Viktor make him a bed on the couch with extra pillows and blankets.  

“You know,” said Yuuri, who was peering out the window, “It might have stopped snowing.”  Viktor opened the balcony door and stuck his arm out, palm up.  

“Yeah, it has,” he said.

“Yay,” Yuri cheered weakly.  “Death to the storm from hell.”  

“Hear, hear,” said Viktor.  He hugged his fiancé, who pressed their foreheads together and breathed deep.  Yuri dragged himself over to his suitcase and pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste. He dug through the rest of it in increasing desperation.

“Damn,” he said, “I forgot to bring a nightshirt.”

“You can borrow one of my t-shirts,” said Viktor. “It’ll be long on you.”

Yuri growled. Then he sighed. “Fine.”  A minute later he added, “I am taller you know.”

“Still not as tall as me,” said Viktor as he tossed Yuri an oversized t-shirt.  Yuri got himself ready for bed, only bumping the counter a few times in the dark unfamiliar bathroom.  He stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.  Viktor washed dishes as quietly as possible in the kitchen.  He blew out all the candles, murmuring “Good night,” as he extinguished the one on the coffee table.  Viktor retreated to the bedroom.

It was not a particularly restful night for anyone.  Yuri struggled to get comfortable on the couch.   Viktor held Yuuri close to him, but the Japanese man was tense and couldn’t relax enough to sleep.  At 2 am, the power came back.  The sudden flare of light brought Yuri awake yelling.  He fell off the couch in a tangle of blankets, summoning Viktor who ran in with an arm shielding his eyes from the glare.

“Here,” he helped Yuri back into bed and went around turning off all the lights.  

“Viktor?”

“Try and get some sleep Yura, we leave in about four hours.” Viktor patted Makkachin, who had chosen to stay with Yuri and was getting herself re-oriented.  Smothering a huge yawn, Viktor staggered back to his own bed.  Storm from hell, indeed.

#yuri on ice #yoi #viktuuri #victuuri #vikturi #victuri #yuri katsuki #viktor nikiforov #yuri plisetsky #yoi family #genfic #fanfic #my writing #makkachin #yakov feltsman #mila babicheva

[katwyns-kite-blog]

Reflections on Grief

On August 14, 2018, I said goodbye to my best friend of nearly 18 years, my wonderdog, Amigo. The ensuing months brought forth an overwhelming grief that enveloped me. The time to heal came when I accepted and welcomed the pain in, feeling every dull ache and sharp spike. I rode each wave and recovered my light. Though I will always miss him, I have found that beautiful inflection point at which grief transitions to fond memory. The following are my personal meditations on that grief and the wonderful life of a truly good boy.

As my mind fractured, the deluge began. I was saturated in the vast span of memory; the story of you and me.

A broken leg

Crossing the border

The wiggly puppy behind the counter

Velveteen ears

Pin-prick claws

Too-big paws never quite grown all the way into

Wind-up toy run with lightning-fast speed

All-night howl sessions

City of New Orleans, the only song that would lull you

Ropes

Peanut butter spoons

Smiles and sneezes

Solo explorations; Family adventures

Food; Stolen food; More food

Paw; Other paw

Lie down, all the way

NO BATHS

Pierce Island

Prouts

Vermont

Forests

Car rides

Best hugs

Luc

Henry

The $700 chair

Belly rubs

Protection

Lessons received and given

A wedding

Deer in the snow

Your favorite jingle collar

Treats; More treats

Stick; Bigger stick; Log

Lucky, Bella, Sinatra, Ella, Isaiah, Domino, Oreo, Liam (your kitties)

Let’s go for a walk

Good boy

Always allowed on the bed

Head tilt

The harness

A year

PT

Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer

Hospital

Cancer

One final lick

Injection

The last hug

Love; all the love

He’s gone.

I didn’t sleep that first night. Unable to bear the thought of missing the moment when life shifted abruptly forward. Without you. For a reason I still cannot explain, I needed to feel that rushing flood of pain and emptiness; to acknowledge the birth of this new world. So unfamiliar. So uninvited. At midnight, I felt my tissues and insides crack and fissure. This ending was always inevitable: The culmination of life itself. Your life. I teetered between my most known selves; both personas attached at the seams to you. The Caregiver and the Companion. I knew the procedures: two injections (artificial sleep followed by everlasting sleep), the fated, inescapable question--Are you ready? Ready for the end to the only life I really knew. One with you. Ready to let go of the daily pats, kisses, peanut butter licks, the gentle eyes that seeped into my soul, the high-fives, the new days and adventures. This was it. No more. I knew too much and too little all at once; the answers I had were to the questions that didn’t matter. Will I see you again? That I didn’t know. And it killed me to not understand. Where will you go? Is this okay with you? Do you hurt, sweet boy? Unanswered, lingering, throbbing.

As illness wrapped around your lungs, it conjointly wrangled my heart. It was never supposed to happen to you, or to any animal for that matter; you’re all far too wholesome for such a ravenous and cruel disease. Yet there we were and it had invaded your air. That was it. Your gallant fight and beautiful life came to an end. And so, the page turned, the rift opened and pain unfurled. All who are blessed with animals know it well: the aftermath; that clutching within the chest, the agony of each strenuous and lonely breath, the silent yet searing acceptance that the world will not stop, you cannot have them back, and you need to find some way to lay new ground in this strange and pain-ridden continuance. The steps will not move backwards or hold. Onward. Move.

The smooth mahogany of the box will never compare to the velvety softness of your ears, still I pat it a gentle ‘good morning, Sweet Puppy’ and ‘good night, Sweet Puppy,’ each day. The one pain for which I couldn’t prepare swells within my hands. I continue to reach for you. My fingers extend then recoil, tingling and aching for one more pat. I will forever remember the variations of your fur; the bristled tufts around you muzzle, the silky fleece that coated your ears and paw-tops, the wispy feathers between your pads, the fibers and filaments that sheathed and warmed the rest. You frequently enter my dreams, though they often repeat the one, the favorite: Vermont; golden and green, the ethereal meadow of thyme, summer sunlight, and wildflowers. Their perfumes commingled and dizzying. We’re on a hill, the family and I, looking for you. The stage is that of your later years and we are worried you cannot walk. All of a sudden, bursting through light, miracle manifests: the fawn and white blur with a curly tail. You bound and leap around us; reveling, playing, smiling, knowing. We cheer and marvel and cry and embrace. Maybe that’s where you are now; where I’ll one day be.

How is it that a century in dog years is a mere two decades of human life? When did those tender pink paw pads wear and callous? How much sand, salt, sea, grass, dirt, pavement, snow water, brick, and grit settled permanently within your cells? These answers and more you knew well and never bothered to dwell upon. Because each day was new and the air was fresh and there would be sun, rain, snow, mess, adventure, hugs, food, and love.

It’s been nearly a month in human grief, so seven months in dog(?). If you were here, you would look at me, all-knowing as ever, with blaring impatience.

Onward. Go run on the beach, Human. Look at the sunshine today. It’s a good morning for peanut butter. Time for the next adventure.

But what adventure, wonderdog? Not without you! How can I move if my legs only want to walk beside you? How can I breathe when you can no longer inhale the bouquets and essences of the day? You’re not rolling in the grass, you’re not splashing in the waves, you’re not face-deep in kibble and treats. How do I live?

Human, I was over 100. I lived long and well. I ate whatever I pleased, walked wherever my nose took me. I played, I swam, I smelled, I dozed, I rolled, I ran, I loved. I had everything and everyone. I was tired and I was ready. I knew it all and it was okay. I felt you all there with me. I was happy. I am gone from the fur and physical, but am not vanished or done. I am now everything. Same dog, new form. When the wind whistles through blades of grass, that’s me rolling around and enjoying the scritches and smell. When the small waves lap and chase at your bare feet, that is me, delighting in the spray and bounding after the sandpipers. When the food is just too good, know that I have already snuck a bite. If the catfood dishes are empty--me, again. When the golden sun falls on your shoulders, I am next to you, basking in the light. I am nestled in the covers of your bed, trotting alongside you as you walk, listening to your book, napping by the fireplace, and kissing your salty fingertips. And when it’s hard--when you miss my dog frame--feel the bright warmth in your mind and heart and look for the rainbow. It’s our reminder to you who remain; the bridge is there when you’re ready. And I’ll be waiting at the end for you. I’ll always be your best friend. Live your life, don’t be too serious or sad, eat, play, laugh, and tell our story. All the tail wags in the universe couldn’t begin to convey how happy I was, am, and always will be to see you. I love you, Human.

There is no defined procedure for coping with loss, nor do there exist words able to lessen its impact. There is only time. It’s visceral and variable. Do and think and feel whatever it is you need. What we fail to be told, amidst the expressions of sympathy and consoling, is that it is okay to collapse. It is okay to scream and want them back. Cry. Keep crying. Let the pain in, but know that the other side of it exists. It will eventually find you. It may come tomorrow, it may take years, but it is there when you’re ready. The bottomlessness will ebb. Memories that once caused that clutch in your chest will cast warmth again and make you feel whole. It is okay to miss them. The love shared is never gone.

I felt and stumbled my way through those first moments without him. The car ride home held shock, as I slowly clawed my nails into my thighs; the night simmered lightly with quiet, singular and thick ocular rain and a deep pulsing ache at my core; the next morning it settled into my heart, the knowledge I wouldn’t be able to hold him and connect my eyes with his, and I fell to the floor and screamed louder and harder than I ever have. The following days stuck together as if affixed by a sort of grief Gorilla Glue. I felt hollow and weak, drifting into sleep whenever my mind hurt too much to think. I didn’t want to restart and I stayed very still. Until I no longer wanted to be still. Until I saw he was still here and realized I could carry him in and honor him with every next action, thought, and experience. And somehow my heart’s beat came without grief’s vice grip, and I could inhale and exhale in smooth, extended currents.

Amigo, I looked for you, heard you, and found you in new forms and places. I continue onward in my love for you and will start this next adventure with as much fervor and joy as existed in your wild sprints after tennis balls on that seemingly endless stretch of beach in Maine.

I will revel in the wonderful pirouette of the world knowing one day, you will be in my arms again.

I am okay.