slow flakes

Inspired by @mindyourhelm‘s post and my angsty brain

She shifts onto her side again, resolutely avoiding looking at the other side of the bed. She can feel the cold, empty spot from behind though, a slight breeze gusting across her neck where his comforting breath should be. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying not to imagine strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close, heat spreading along her spine right through her, warming her all the way to her heart.

A lone tear slides across her nose, making a trail across her face and dropping onto the pillow. She presses her lips together, willing her chin to stop trembling and blinks until her vision has cleared enough to stare at the alarm clock. 3:47am. Her phone sits silently on the bedside table.

She’s grown soft. The girl who could sleep under bridges, in a room full of fidgeting foster kids, on the hard plastic mattress of a jail cell, she can’t sleep in her own king-sized bed under a thick, downy comforter. She’s grown soft and she didn’t regret it, doesn’t regret it, because he dismantled her walls one by one and made himself a home inside, only now he’s not there and having no walls doesn’t keep the warmth in very well when the source has disappeared.

Pressing her hands to her eyes, she sits up again, swinging her feet one at a time onto the cold wood. She should put on socks, she thinks, but there’s something comforting about the numb weight of her toes sliding across the floor.

She goes downstairs because sitting in that room - their room - any longer, when she’s clearly not going to sleep, feels pointless. Halfway towards the light switch by the front door she pauses, changing course for the kitchen and leaving the room in the dark. The ghost of her four-hours-ago self flicking that same switch off is still too close. There’s nothing (no-one) to see with the lights on anyway.

Her hands fumble in the kitchen cupboard for the tin of hot chocolate powder, spending several minutes clutched too tightly around the bottle of Captain Morgan at the back of the shelf. The shaking of her hand from clenching the glass reminds her to let go and she feels for the tin, pulling it down and setting it on the counter. Every creak of the porch in the wind sounds like it could be a footstep.

Making the hot chocolate is an automatic process, but she still burns her thumb on the pan, tears springing to her eyes at the pain and then lingering too long. She presses her lips together, refusing to blink until the cinnamon is dusted on the top of the milk and she knows they won’t spill over.

The silhouettes of heavy snowflakes dash across the kitchen blinds as she picks up her mug. Her thumb is stinging, heat spreading fiercely from the epicentre of the burn. She focuses on that one glowing spot of pain, letting it drown out her heart. It leads her towards the front door and then she’s sitting on the top step of the porch, pressing her thumb into the snow building on the step below until it’s numb with cold.

Her eyes flick upwards towards the gate in the white picket fence - the same one she rushed out of not three days ago to kiss him and bring him in and feed him her milk dud popcorn until their teeth hurt from the sugar and he kissed the chocolate smears off her mouth as he pressed her into the mattress later that night. She takes a gulp of the hot chocolate but it burns her tongue and the boiling liquid burning a path down through her to her stomach is the wrong kind of warmth.

Pulling her numbed fingers from the snow, she wraps them around her mug and sucks in a deep breath. The thick flakes are slowing and she’s shaking in her thick winter pyjamas, watching clouds of warm air leave her mouth and disappear almost instantly in the chill.

I can’t lose you too.’

The snow has almost stopped and the air is full of deadened silence. Her traitorous ears wait for the crunch of snowy footfall but she should know by now that waiting never brought anyone back for her before.

She’ll just sit on the steps until she’s finished her drink.


2.16.17 Sky High (37/100 days of productivity)

I went up to the 35th floor to do some last minute homework before one of my classes this afternoon. It snowed this morning, the kind of slow falling flakes that last for a little while when they land in your hair. It was pretty. 

Today was long but after class I went straight to the library and started working on the two papers I have due tomorrow night. Some friends and I stayed there for 6 hours! I mapped out both essays and now I’m in my room writing them. Anthony (mentioned in my earlier posts) is visiting this weekend. He came to the library to hang out for a few hours and now he’s writing his book. 

I hope I get to sleep at some point. Have a good night! 

newt x reader :: newt on ice!

Request: Yayy!! I’m so glad you’re opening up requests :D this just came into my head the last couple of days after I went ice skating with my friends. Was wondering if you could write about either Newt or Credence going ice skating with the reader for the first time ever on the frozen lake? Feel free to make it fluffy-Christmasy feels! Thank you x

Notes: I dunno how good I would be at writing Credence’s character yet, but I do hope you enjoy this fluffy little ice skating excursion with Newt!! :D

Originally posted by aslongasyouremine

Originally posted by chatnoirs-baton

Early on that morning snow had been falling in huge chunks, like fluffy, white meteorites, coating the ground in a thick layer of knee-high powder. It had since slowed to the occasional flake and the sun, warm and cheery, peeked through the clouds. A perfect winter day in New York City.

Queenie and Tina had commissioned you to get Newt out of the apartment for the day, partially for their own sake, to decorate the place in peace, and partially for Newt’s sake, as Queenie said Newt spent far too much time stuck in a stuffy old suitcase and needed to get out there and see New York at Christmastime.

The first idea that had come to mind was ice skating, your favorite winter pastime as a kid, and Central Park was absolutely lovely in the winter. After a bit of prodding, you and the sisters managed to get Newt out of his case and out the door.


The lake was full of cheerfulness and laughter. A group of schoolboys had claimed one corner for a hockey game, young girls skated arm-in-arm with their friends, and couples of all ages glided around, merry in conversation. You took a deep breath of cold air, and stepped onto the ice, feeling right at home.

“C’mon, Newt!” you say cheerfully turning to the tall Brit, who had finally managed to lace up his boots.

Newt stepped onto the ice cautiously with one foot, and then carefully brought his next foot down.

“Good, good…now,” you angled your right foot and pushed off, “Forward!”

Newt’s knees wobbled as his body swayed back and forth rigidly, still not entirely convinced this was a good plan.

You couldn’t help but giggle at him, as he always seemed so sure-footed and nimble on solid ground. He picked up one foot to kick off, but wavered, and stamped it immediately back down.

“How d’you…how d’you stay on one foot?” Newt inquired as he unsuccessfully attempted to move forward again.

“You just have to be brave. And balance! But most importantly: don’t be scared,” you reached a gloved hand out to him. He was looking down at the ice, concentrating hard.

“It helps if you look up, you get your bearings that way!” you said smiling warmly. Newt gave you a skeptical look with his round, green eyes, and gently placed his large palm in yours.

“Okay, okay, now,”  you faced him directly, “hang on to me for balance, and point your toes out, yes, like that, and use one foot to push the ice behind you, like a plow.”

Newt gripped your hand tighter as he shakily raised one knee up (a bit hilariously too high) and brought it down at an angle, launching him forward a few inches.

“Goodness…” Newt said.

“Attaboy!” you exclaimed.

You made Newt repeat the same process with alternating feet until he could keep a slow, but steady pace around the rink. He was surprisingly a fast learner, though he never let go of your hand for one moment. His cheeks and nose were red and rosy from the cold and from the exertion.

“(Y/n), I f-feel like this is getting a little easier,” he looked up at you from under his messy reddish brown hair.

“Yeah?” you said with a mischievous grin, “Okay. I think you’re ready to try on your own.”

Newt suddenly looked a bit panic-stricken, “W-what? I don’t know…”

“Of course you are. Just be confident, don’t look down. I’m going to wait for you at the other end of the lake, okay?” you say, still smiling.


Really. You can do it. I believe in you,” you gave a little wave and took off for the snowbanks on the opposite side of the lake as the hem of your coat swished back and forth gracefully.

You watched for a minute as he struggled with nothing to hang onto, but placed his arms straight out, rather comically, and gained more confidence. His movements were still jerky and awkward, but he was moving. He suddenly picked up speed, hair blowing from his forehead and a bit of a goofy smile on his face. You looked to the side briefly, hearing loud cheers from the hockey players, and when you looked back, you realized that he was coming at you fast, a little too fast.

“(Y/n)? (Y/n), how do you, er, stop?” he said heading straight toward you.

Before you say anything, the two of you collided, you trying to stop Newt’s forward momentum by digging your skates in hard, though that just threw you off balance. Tipping backwards, Newt clutched you tightly, trying to cushion your fall.

FWOMP. You landed on your rear end, Newt’s arms outstretched on either side of you, and his face inches from yours. You could see he was instantly terrified.

“Merlin’s beard, (Y/n), are you alright? Are you hurt at all?” his eyes darted up and down looking for any injuries.

“I’m perfectly fine, are you?” you knew your bum was going to be sore the next day, the most typical of ice skating injuries.

He nodded vigorously and swallowed hard, “I-I’m so sorry. I just didn’t, um, really know how to stop myself, so to speak.” A group of schoolgirls zoomed past the two of you, giggling.

You could see every freckle dotting his face in sharp detail, and his eyes slightly watery from the cold. He looked so sincerely worried for you that you couldn’t resist breaking out in laughter.

“Newt,” you said between fits of giggles, “You…you should have seen your face. You looked…like…” you imitated him, opening your mouth and eyes wide as saucers.

Newt tried to look down, but realizing he was looking unintentionally at your chest, squeezed his eyes shut tightly and tried to stifle a small laugh. Little puffs of breath came from his nose, “S-sorry, again (Y/n).”

He pushed himself upwards in the snow and managed to get back on two feet after a bit of slipping and sliding. He reached both hands out to pull you up, and you looked up at him. Blue coat caked with snow, hair even more disheveled than before, standing knock-kneed, and looking positively embarrassed, he looked sweeter than ever.

“Thank you, Newt,” you say raising yourself up. Coming face-to-face, you looked at each other for a moment, silly smiles stuck on. Even though you were just dunked in a pile of snow, you felt strangely very, very warm. Newt’s expression softened, his eyelids relaxing.

“Shall–shall we keep going? I actually find this to be, rather enjoyable, as it were,” Newt said shly.

You nodded, taking him by arm, “But I think I might need some cocoa to warm up soon.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Newt said quietly, looking down at you, seeming rather pleased after all about his day out of the case.
“Snow Day” (Suga Fluff)

Originally posted by sugaglos

Title: Snow Day

Featuring : Suga (BTS) x Reader

POV: 2nd

Summary: You and Suga share a peaceful winter morning.

Requested by anon! If you’d like a winter/Christmas scenario, go here!

When you stirred awake, the morning sun was basking through the thin white curtains and bathing the room in its rays, though it still felt freezing in comparison to the heat under your blankets. You blinked, staring at the window until you could make out snowfall through the crack in the curtains, a soft, billowy kind of snow.

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Well that’s weird.

We were at Walmart yesterday, looking at the games (mostly claw games). Someone had managed to snag a silver foil packet out of one of the machines but didn’t want the bag of rubber fish, so they left it on the floor.

I picked it up, looked in, and thought they were erasers. They looked like cheap erasers covered in some [presumably mold-release] dust.

I just rinsed one of them off and they’re not covered in dust, they’re covered in absorbent polymer particles. Like those balls you put in your potted plants or Orbeez.

Why? I scrubbed the now inflated crystals off, and more seem to be coming out.

What is the purpose of this toy, then? It’s not an expanding sponge toy. It’s slowing flaking apart now that I’ve tried to rinse it.

God forbid a kid sticks these in their mouth, or gets the dust in their eye or nose.

There are no makers marks, no indicators on the bag (it was wholly without print), no way for me to even look up who made them…

prompt 11: first snow

prompt: #11 “Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”
pairing: Lulias [elias x luca]

First Snow

Elias was all set to tear into Luca for skipping class, but the words disappeared when he saw his boyfriend playing in the snow.

Luca spun under the slow rain of white flakes, his chin jutting out as he tried to catch one on his tongue. When he finally did, he grimaced and laughed, muttering, “tastes like nothin’ every year.” Then he stomped around a little more, twisting around after every few steps to watch the progress of his footprints. Every time, Elias was sure Luca’s eyes would stray and spot him, huddled under the arches of the courtyard’s walkway, but Luca never did.

He remembered doing the same as a child, but always while in the company of his older brother, Klaus; his first winter memory was hopping into an imprint left by Klaus’ boots. He wondered if Luca had ever had anyone to compare footprints with.  

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Turning Left: a Riarkle Fanfic

This fanfic is for thypoqueen for her belated birthday present! Happy birthday you lovely, gorgeous person. This fic is written especially for you and of course is Riarkle. I love you and I hope that you have an amazing day.

“How did we manage to get here?”

“I guess it’s as simple as me turning left.”




It never failed to catch Riley by surprise when one of her boyfriends had decided to break up with her. Every time she would convince herself that nothing was wrong, that him being distant was just because he was busy but every time, she found that she was wrong.

She was broken up with so much, she knew the guys’ routine like the back of her hand. It started with a nervous rub to the back of his neck and a sigh, Riley calls this the preparation phase.  Then the guy transfers into a “Look, I don’t want to hurt you but…” or something to that degree and then goes into this useless rant that justifies his actions. Lastly, he rubs his hands together and puts on a please-forgive-me look, and breaks up with her.

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