Forget Summer Love. Give me a love that finds each other in the dead numbness of winter and survives together to thaw into spring. Give me a love that understands the glorious weight of being able to cultivate new hopes and beginnings, grow new roots both separate and intertwined. That’s the only romance story I want to read.
Joy hefted her father’s axe, swung it in a wide arc over her shoulder and buried it in the maple log. The papery fibers creaked and took the axe in almost completely. She tapped the head with a ball peen hammer, and the log fell apart.
“C’mon now,” her father said. “You shouldn’t need a crutch. Make the first swing count.”
Joy bent to pick up another log and her father cuffed her on the back of the head. She bit her lower lip, eyes watering, and put the log on the stump. Her fingers were numb from the cold.
“Make the first swing count, dammit,” he said. “Unless you want to freeze to death this winter.”
Joy wrapped her numb fingers around the axe handle, pulled it behind her shoulder and struck.
Her father yelped, and the log fell apart.
“There we go!” he said. “One fell swoop. Keep her shoulders firm but your arms loose. That’s my girl.”
Her father took a rag out of his pocket and put it to his face. The stink of starter fluid made Joy’s nose tingle. Her father took two deep breaths and put the rag away.
“All right,” he said. “Couple hundred more swings like that and you can call it a day. Want a puff off the rag?”
Joy shook her head.
“You’ll be fine out here,” said her father. “You’re too far north for them to bother you. And if any of them do make it this far up, you have the Mossberg. Use the MREs to get through the winter, and then put in a garden in the spring. The lake’s only a few hundred yards away, so water will never be an issue. You can fish, and I left you my traps.”
Joy’s knew there were tears running down her face, but she couldn’t feel them on her numb cheeks.
“Hey now – this has to be done. I got tagged when we went through Chicago. I can already feel the change coming. Let’s get this done before you get too tired. You still have a lot of chopping to do.”
Joy’s father again produced the rag. He took four or five ragged breaths, knelt in the mud, and laid his head on the stump.
“I love you,” he said. “Please. Make the first swing count.”
Joy picked up the axe and swallowed the hard ball of snot building in her throat. She pulled the axe to her shoulder.
Winter Interrupted (Part 1/?) (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Requested by @torilovelytop but the actual request was kinda long, so I won’t post it here.
an Avenger had happened almost by accident; it definitely wasn’t the plan to
make you into one of Earth’s mightiest heroes when Nick Fury had pulled you
from the ranks of Hydra to work for him.
Your former bosses had made into one of Earth’s mightiest assassins, so
your skill set was already pretty solid, to say the least. It was so solid, in fact, that there was only
one person he trusted enough to take you under their wing, and only one person
who would even be willing; Natasha Romanoff.
natasha is cursive on cold white paper, soft hands resting on thighs, clean sheets of snow, clothing hanging outside, gentle laughter between friends, fancy mirrors hanging in long hallways, rings on dainty hands, handwritten journals neatly tucked away, private libraries with tall open windows, snowy hills, that first cold breath of snow and winter
sonya is fiddling with your hands, candles lighting an empty house, long braids pinned up in various ways, the faint smell of apples and cinnamon drifting upstairs, fireplaces being lit during the depths of winter, running fingers over stone and brick, books piling up on beds, worn lounging sofas
marya is classical music being blasted at 2 am, waking up extremely early to catch the sun rising, red lipstick being left on coffee mugs, shoes lined up in the closet, comfy sweaters, wild friday nights, black faux fur with white gloves, long car trips narrated by a favorite book, spending sunday cleaning the house
anatole is wild partying on saturday nights, best friends collecting around a table, long couches with more than three seats, rings on every surface in the house from drinks, shining shoes, sleeping in until 2 pm, glueing your fingers together and peeling it off afterwards, playing an instrument with all the windows opan
hélène is sleeping on your stomach, plain white sheets and subtle green pillows, window seats on a hot summer day, small banter at the bar, waking up in the bathtub after a wild night, messy rooms and unmade beds, a small one bedroom apartment in the city, lots of pearls laying out over a dresser
dolokhov is quiet in the house on a tuesday night, the stars being hidden by a stormy night, a flash of lightning, organised closets with belts hanging out of every drawer, an outfit being laid out the night before, eating soup when you’re sick, rolling up socks on a chilly day, dipping a peanut butter sandwich into some chicken noodle soup
mary is overalls and striped t-shirts, random sayings on old shirts, macaroni and cheese all by yourself, tall socks, wearing lots of buttons, packing your lunch the night before, losing yourself in the rain, tall thoughts in the shower, wool comforters at the foot of a bed, leaving a door open so animals can come and go
prince bolkonsky is aggressive advertisement along busy highways, read plants sitting along a windowsill, long forgotten memories, long coats in winter, gray walls in a gloomy house, vintage chairs with tall backs, accidentally torn pants hanging around the house, sitting in an armchair at ungodly hours
balaga is ordering room service without shame, forgetting your cellphone everywhere you go, failing to cook and ordering pizza instead, clothes hanging on the balcony, speeding down an open road, warm boots on a cold winter night, headlights in the distance, sitting in a drive through with all your friends
andrei is not understanding a lesson in class, being dropped off at your house after spending the night elsewhere, blankets hanging on chairs, randomly hanging pictures around the house, owning tons of jewelry but never wearing any of it, naming your plants, doing research and getting stuck in a wikipedia hole, writer’s block on a rainy day
pierre is long nights spent awake, opening the window during the winter, sitting in an armchair and staring at the wall, limbs falling asleep, a numb nose during a winter storm, long faux fur coats, scrolling through twitter, closing the curtains after a long day, watching the clock at the end of the day
the great comet is myself, natasha, sonya, marya, anatole, hélène, dolokhov, mary, bolkonsky, balaga, andrei, pierre, a longing desire, a lost soul, wishful thinking, the end of the world.
Remus is great at figure skating.
When he was young, he used to go out skating a few days after his transformation, when he was still sore and bruised, to make the cold numb his pain. In the winter, he would skate in his family house’s backyard, on an ice surface his dad would make just for him, knowing what it meant. In the spring, summer and autumn, he would go to an indoor skating rink and hide all his scars and recent cuts under long clothing. He would skate in circles and move without purpose, just going around the rink and thinking. He used to skate only with hockey skates, but he lost them one day. It was a three days after the last full moon and he really wanted to go skating, but he couldn’t find his own pair of skates, and had to use his mother’s old pair of beige figure skates. They were weird to get used to, with a longer blade in the back and spikes in the front, but he was interested.
He now alternated between hockey and figure skates. At the indoor rink, a girl came up to him and told him he glided around really well in his figure skates, and she asked him if he had ever had lessons because she was hoping to get some.
They signed up for lessons together, and started competing when practicing, laughing and falling. After a few weeks and months, they were both getting the hang of it, skating gracefully, backwards and forwards, creating step sequences. Remus was surprisingly good at jumps, using his unusual, tall and lanky form to his advantage.
The girl he had met had to leave one day, but he remembered her as the girl who unintentionally introduced him to real figure skating. He remembered hugging her and watching her long red hair flutter behind her as she walked out of the arena for the last time. He saw her again a few weeks later, at Hogwarts, staring angrily at a boy with dark curly hair and glasses, grinning stupidly. A boy called James, who sat next to a long haired cute boy named Sirius, who he later discovered was an amazing hockey player.
Animal eyes with pupils wide, we watched their legs moving in vain, they’ve lost their wings, they cannot run, they cannot hide, they cannot hide. No one escapes here from the vines, it’s more like a hell here but we feel fine.
One day you’ll get used to the mud in your lungs, in your veins, in your eyes, and you’ll feel fine.
You left me the colour of rotting blood on freshly fallen snow
Or the colour of dark rancid rust chipping off walls once painted yellow.
You left me the bitter aftertaste of empty words heavily wrapped with cotton candy promises to fill our hollow chests
Or the metallic taste of crimson lingering within my cheeks from biting my tongue too hard.
You left me itching wrists and tied hands, overfrustrated from pulling at my own hair
Or wild, bloodshot eyes searching for something to replace what felt like slowly pulling teeth.
You left me the smell of smoke from burning torn polaroids in the fire of our charred throats
Or the toxic smell of gas leaking from a stove left on for too long without a flame.
You left me shivering with chapped, parched lips on an early summer morning, alone, unmoving, in bed
Or too numb with holes I dug into my skin to plant wildflowers, too numb to feel the biting cold on a winter night.
You left me a kaleidoscope after promising I’m a jigsaw puzzle so I’d spend the rest of my life trying to piece myself back together.
You left me sunlight filtering through stained glass, standing barefoot on freezing marble in an abandoned chapel, struggling to taste the warmth shut out by my own fear of a hurricane threatening to rage.
You left me scattered.
You left me gasping.
You left me blue.
Atsushi: A warm spring day, a blanket in the middle of winter, a kitten curled up in the sun, the feeling that everything is finally going okay, a hot bowl of chazuke ready to be eaten, a mug of tea to calm your anxiety, scars that are beginning to heal, a caring soul and a too-big heart.
Dazai: Broken smiles, knowing smirks, a mind reeling with energy, disinterest, a warm brown jacket, a bookshelf with shakespearean novels, philosophical thoughts at two am, protecting those you love, messy brown curls mussed from being pressed into the couch all night, and too many cups of coffee.
Akutagawa: Winter, pale skin, numbness, inner beauty, the urge to prove oneself, despair, hope, rage, broken trust, unconditional love, hiding the pain, dark circles under eyes, fear of being vulnerable, embracing the chaos, learning how to live.
Chuuya: The hangover after a hard night of drinking, smiling at strangers on the streets, flushed cheeks from too many shots and a round of dancing, a confident stride, being alive, bloody knuckles and a wicked smirk, a soft smile and gentle hands, unconditional love and trust, vulnerability, naivety, tears after the death of a comrade.
there are these girls with flowing golden hair radiating against their vibrant auras on a sunset along the shore and those girls, with icicles in their stares who spoke sentences that leave you with a frostbite
there are summer girls and winter girls;
and she’s more of a summer girl;
i can see why you fell for her- the sun- and all the forest fires she’s started in the crevices of your paperheart, torches lighting up every time you hold her hand of course who can forget the orange glow the world around gets every time her lips are against yours? she’s the epitome of a perfect sky capturing all the gleam you’ve ever and never thought of
then comes the winter girl
a hundred and one warnings about her have been told number one: she’s crystalline and soon you’ll be nothing but jagged cracks number two:she’s not as pure as snow is number three: you do not want to turn into a hypothermic misanthropy so run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run
yet somehow underneath the layers of her icy composure lie delicate snowflake structures. you get a glimpse of what’s underneath the tip of the iceberg
and she proved the warnings wrong one at a time it’s like you’re iceskating for the first time, tripping, but she’s there to catch you just in time. she’ll remind you of the giddiness of the snowball fights you had with your childhood friends all those decembers ago. being with her is as right as a warm cup of chocolate on the first snowfall and you dwell in her chilling comfort once the sun vanishes, taking away your summer girl
but in the end, you still choose to end up with your summer girl and the bronze sparkling moments leaving the wintergirl caught up in her blizzards in reckless abandon , existence crumbling
and i understand why for who would choose having no permanent residence over a fully furnished home?
but then i should have told you from the start,the secret: you shan’t choose between those girls or even turn them into something but just a plain casualty because summer girls’ flames will engulf your whole being until you’re robbed of the capacity to blow out the candles you’ll strike all the matches you can find just so the love will never turn lukewarm and you’ll thaw the winter girl’s frozen soul even if it numbs you to the core
these girls, they’re powerful gypsies, personifications of destructive illustrious love
You are the type of cold that’s so overwhelming and numbing that I’ve begun to mistake frostbite for warmth.
You are the winter that never melts, and I may feel like I’m in the eye of the storm, but you’re slowly breaking me down.
You are a contradiction, and I’ve accepted you for fact because you are the cause, and I am the effect.
You walk through the door of you and Jimin’s apartment, and hang your hat and coat on your peg. Numb from the icy winter weather, you rub your hands together, trying to re-establish the blood flow. You had visited a friend, and had unfortunately lost track of time. You had promised Jimin you would back before he returned from that day’s fan sign at 4:00, but here you are, returning three and a half hours late. ‘Jimin!’ you call out as you walk through to the kitchen. 'I’m home!’ As you busy yourself in the empty kitchen, you rifle through the kitchen cupboards, and pull out a sachet of peppermint tea. You fill the kettle, and absentmindedly scroll through your twitter as it boils. Mere seconds after the kettle finishes boiling, you here someone pad into the kitchen behind you softly. Without turning round, you smile to yourself as you lazily stir your tea. 'How was the fan sign?’ you ask, then pausing for an answer you do not receive. You spin around, and find your boyfriend curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor. It’s a pitiful sight - Jimin, cocooned in a tartan blanket, tufts of his platinum blonde hair curling across his forehead. His arms are wrapped around his legs, which are pulled up to his chest. Evidently, he is wallowing in self pity, which somehow managed to monumentally build up while you were gone. 'Jimin? What’s wrong?’ you question tentatively, flopping down onto the floor beside him. Jimin sits up, and before you really have time to cross your legs and get comfortable on the hard surface, his head is laid in your lap. 'Jagiiiiiiiiii,’ he whines, as you gently stroke his hair. He pouts and lays in silence, and you know from past experience that he is waiting for you to ask why he’s upset. This isn’t the first time Jimin’s gotten dejected - as a matter of fact, its one of many - but over time you’ve secretly grown to love it when he gets needy. Following routine, you coo and gently kiss his brow. 'What’s wrong, Jiminnie? What have the boys done this time?’ you enquire. Jimin puffs out his cheeks, and for a moment there is silence. And then he launches into his tale, which is punctuated with little huffs and frowns. 'Jagi, it isn’t fair! The whole day at the fan sign, they mocked me. They teased me about my chubby cheeks, and said I look like a baby. I don’t want to look like a baby, Jagi! I’m an adult!’ You withhold a chuckle which threatened to erupt from you, and you force Jimin to sit up and face you. 'This is what this is all about? Your cheeks?’ you ask him, you voice wavering, threatening to give way to a serious case of the giggles. Jimin nods, his blonde curls bouncing up and down, his face framed by the thick blanket. You scowl at him for a moment, faking frustration directed at the boys, before bursting into laughter and leaping into Jimin’s lap. 'Jimin, you absolute pabo!’ you giggle, while peppering his cheeks with kisses. He fakes hurt, and tries to push you away. 'I’m serious, (Y/N)! I feel victimised!’ he yells, struggling against you. You grab his cheeks and squish them together affectionately, and force him to look you in the eyes. 'Who said you couldn’t be cute and manly, huh? I love your cheeks!’ you chuckle, shaking your head. Jimin blushes and stutters out a 'Y-you do?’. You leap out of his lap and walk over to the counter, picking up your cup of tea, which has long gone cold. 'Well,’ you smile, 'if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, Jimin, I’m going to watch a movie.’ Jimin grabbed your wrist, spinning you around to face him. He pouts and scowls at you, the corners of his lips upturned. He knows the effect his cuteness has on you, and he’s not going to let it go to waste. 'What if I’m not done feeling sorry for myself, (Y/N)? What if I want to wallow in my self pity?’ he asks. You grab a tub of ice cream from the freezer and pad over to the couch. 'If you’re not done, then you come watch the movie with me. And eat ice cream. And wallow.’ You flop down on the couch and turn the TV on. From the kitchen, a shout rings out. 'Jagi, can we do all that and cuddle?’ Jimin calls. With a sigh and a huge grin, you shake your head to yourself. 'I guess so!’ you reply, feigning nonchalance. In a flash Jimin dives onto the couch, pulling you into his lap, spoon in hand. 'I’m ready to wallow,’ he tells you, kissing your cheek. You reach behind you and pat his cheek affectionately. 'That’s more like it.’
It still amazes me how some people
can promise to love another forever,
before they even begin to love themselves.
How can you make that commitment,
a lifetime of happiness and wonder,
when you can’t even give that to yourself?
How can you wake up beside someone,
a smile on your lips and kiss on their cheek,
your heart bubbling up with so much love,
that you feel like you might burst from it,
and all the while, you hate yourself with an ache,
that deep, echoing hatred that continues on and on?
Naked touches and miles of vulnerability,
where hot breath tickles your neck
like the mug of coffee against your numb hands,
when the heater broke in the middle of a dead winter night,
and now you’re pale and shivering,
where that warmth is the only thing keeping you alive.
It’s hard, I suppose, to fall in love
when you can’t even do it for yourself.
It doesn’t stop me wondering though,
how you manage to do it,
how hard is it to look at the person in the mirror
with the same wide-eyed wonder you give your partner,
huddled under the nest of sheets and quilts,
finding comfort from the morning chill
that settles over the house during the snowstorm,
the ache that reaches deep within to jar cold, damp bones,
as they cuddle closer against your chest
and remind you that you exist
and your world revolves around them.
I wonder, how can it be so easy?
How can you give so much to someone else,
when you can’t do the same for yourself?
Is it a simple answer to a simple question,
or have I been adding layers and layers of complexity to it,
so that the more I dig, the harder it hurts,
like an onion that makes you cry bitter tears,
the more and more you cut into it?
I look at you, broken inside, but curled around them,
like a missing piece to the puzzle I never bothered to solve,
just naked skin and morning coffee,
while the world erupts outside in a silver fire.
Is it really that easy to love another,
while you hate yourself,
just for the small chance,
that they might make you better.
naked smiles and warm coffee make the world turn
i wrote you a song,
that you sang yourself to sleep with.
now i sing that song to the skies hoping you’ll hear,
and sing back to me through the whistling of the wind in autumn.
it’s winter now.
i drown myself in the cold numbing myself of your existence.
but somehow through the numbness i can feel snowflakes soak into my skin like you did.
the world falls white.
i no longer can see you through the skies,
or hear you sing to me.