Based on Blood Bound by Hina.

An unexplainable submission to impulse was the entire reason that the young, usually predictable man found himself in the position he was. Usually, he had better self control or, at the very least, a more thorough ability to justify his own actions to himself. Here, though, as he sat, cross legged and owl eyed on the floor of his apartment, he could find no reasonable explanation.

Or maybe the unreasonable explanation was the right one: He’d seen the rope and had been so struck by ideas of fate that he’d been unable to leave it.

The rope was silk, thin and red as blood, and it had the faintest shine where it caught the light. These things made it particularly impossible to keep himself from winding it loosely around his fingers and sliding it through, again and again and again as he thought of stories his mother had told him when he’d been small. Fate, she’d said, kept those who belonged together connected through a single red string, tied around their fingers. He’d thought it was silly as a child - what strong could be that strong? Wouldn’t it break if pulled too tight? And what about sharp edges? Why red?

Of course, now, he understood symbolism and metaphor and found it less silly and more…. Endearing. Warm. Something he liked for its simplicity and implied connectivity - for every force of being, so existed an equal and opposite. His own whirlwind of an existence had a counterpart, either to match his dizzying motion or to still and quiet him. And if that were true, he thought he might want it to be -

The door opened and he took a breath, fingers curling around the line of red he’d wound around his fingers while he’d thought.

“Hey.” He sat himself a little straighter and let his face pull into a grin. “Before you get started with anything else, I wanna tell you a story.”

“We’re a little old for story time.”

“Indulge me.” He held up his hand, showing off his tangled prize.

“About that?”

“Mmhm. About red strings and you and me.”

Would have had greenish hair and silver scales.

Winter was quite an interesting month.
It was cold and dreary, and yet it held its own kind of beauty.
It was long and tiring, but elegant and fun to watch.

Many people didn’t like Winter, but it was Aspen’s favourite season. He especially liked to watch the snow fall. He loved snowflakes - how they were so intricate and unique.

One landed on his dark violet hair and he gently reached up to reach the small spot of cold on his head.

People called him weird.

He could walk into a blizzard with nothing more than a shirt and pants and he wouldn’t get cold or have frostbite. He could hold snow and snowflakes and they wouldn’t melt in his hands.

Aspen stared down at the snowflake on his fingertip. It didn’t melt. He didn’t understand why, and sometimes he didn’t want to.

He just wanted to appreciate Winter.

based on this one i did myself~

blep :D

By breath I shudder, by shade I shiver, by sunbeam I sweat. I hold myself with threads of magic, drifting just apart from the world, so that it will not take me apart.

My world is covered in bubblegum and iris, to keep the moonlight that blinds me at bay. Cotton candy stuffs my ears, so whispers cannot deafen me. I taste and smell strawberries and melons and lavender, so I will not choke myself on smog, and touch is soft as dawn-lit clouds, so concrete feels less like hot knives.

In this world, I am real, I am whole, and all else is little more than a dream set adrift on the stars. But do not mistake my efforts to live as invitation to mock, to hurt, to take advantage. I am not for you, I did not make myself like this for you, I made myself like this so that I might be able exist. If you cannot coexist, then let the rest of the colors take you far from me. I have no need for them or for you.

Nothing out this far but waving scrub and red-gold rock hot enough to burn, and the breeze doesn’t even have the decency to be cool, in fact it might actually be warmer than the still air. Not that Wyatt’s about to complain, he loves the desert and everything that comes with it, even the heat.
His horse doesn’t agree with him though, she nearly as red as the rock it’s self and sets her heels to tell him he either needs to pick a place out of the sun or carry his own gear, and he can’t help but chuckle. Maybe she’s right. No one trailing them will be out in this heat anyways and he can hear water.

It takes scrabbling down two dry banks to get to where a little river cuts through a hill, safely shadowed by some twisted sticks one could almost call trees and and boulder overhang Wyatt ties Mary in east reach of the river and the shade and all but throws himself down on the surprisingly cool stone. His mare huffs at his antics but has better things to do, like drinking her fill. They’ve been on a long run, riding hard since they cleared that mess in LA almost a week ago. Wyatt wasn’t 100% sure what state he was in, but they had to be nearly through Arizona by now. They’d been staying off the beaten path since they’d picked up a whole pack of men with bounty posters somewhere a few days ago. Just had to keep ahead of ‘em to Santa Fe and then it was a train ride to freedom for him and Mary, the mare would be happy to see actual grass again Wyatt was sure.

Half out of habit, half out of an inability to let his hand go idle, Wyatt pulled out his revolver and sat up, going over the weapon carefully for dirt and damage and just enjoying the comforting weight in his hand. This old girl had been with him since he was a kid chasing coyote’s out of his ma’s hen house and he was getting the distinct feeling that, at this point, it was this weapon he’d live or die by for a long time.

The sun beat down overhead, noon come and gone, and the outlaw and his red-rock mare stayed in the shadow of the hill. Waiting for the cool night to run again.

A child plays alone in a courtyard. At least, to a passing observer that may be what it seems. But if they were to pause and look closer they would realize this was no game. There was something desperate in the way she scrambled back and fourth across the cobblestones, frantically gathering up as many petals as she can and stashing them in the bottom of her night gown. Flower petals are tricksey things though. When the breeze blows they dance on the wind, out of her skirts and out of her grasp. The futility is crushing to one so small, and she collapses in tears at the base of the tree that is the source of the delicate rain. Her ammê‘s tree, the sacred tree of the Ilya.

She doesn’t cry alone for long though. Rian knows their children all to well, and when told that one was missing from their bed he’d gone straight to the tree at the center of the temple. Such sad eyes look up at him when he approaches.

“The tree is crying, Atta.” she sobs, tiny hands opening to show her father the last of the petals she’s managed to save. “The wind is blowing them away, and I can’t stop them.”

Parti colored eyes smile down at the sweet babe as he scoops her up into his arms, dabbing at the tears with his sleeve. “It’s not crying, Izrê. The old petals fall so that new blossoms can grow.” But she shakes her head, surprising him with her adamancy.

“Only a little! These are a lot!” The winds blows, sending another shower of petals falling around them in the moonlight. She squirms in his arms, trying to catch them. “No! Stop! You’re hurting ammê!”

Realizing what is going on he chuckles softly, catching her hand with his own and kissing in. “Ammê is fine, sweet child. The tree is not hurting her. There is still plenty of time before she will have to leave us. Come on. Let’s go cuddle her and see.”

As she’s carried off she still looks back over his shoulder, watching the tree sway in the breeze as the clouds begin to cover the moon. And though he tries to ignore it even Rian can’t help but wonder how much longer the tree will flower before it’s time to say goodbye again.

“Fins in the sea, head in the clouds.”

Quiet little daydreamer that she was, Sanja had heard these words all her life to describe her. Not that she had much idea what clouds looked like in real life, given that she had spent her entire life in a twilit cavern, expansive enough in size to contain an entire deep, dark sea, yet not so majestic to contain sun or sky, or even much light beyond a hazy eternal dusk.

A familiar chuckle broke Sanja out of her reverie, and with a self-conscious smile, she flipped a fin in lazy greeting toward her brother. Sandor laughed and splashed his fins in return, then swam away to join the rest of his pod, clustered around some shore rock slabs with lunch.

Sanja frowned and clutched her school satchel and lunch pail close. She continued her lazy swish in the rough direction of so much splashing and so much more raucous laughter and conversation, yet every table slab seemed occupied. She couldn’t find a quiet place to settle, and goodness, she didn’t want to skip lunch!

From almost out of nowhere, a dragonfly darted past her nose, and Sanja couldn’t help swishing through the dark water to follow the little insect. It finally came to rest on a low-hanging branch of a willow tree, surrounded by so many more of its flutter-winged kin, and not another Kelph in easy earshot.

Smiling to herself as she settled among the willow branches and the dragonflies, Sanja unpacked her lunch and a picture book, nibbling on roasted saltfish as she flipped through the pages. Fairy tale landscapes greeted her eyes, with lush orchards and sparkling waterfalls and pastel skyscapes.

And the clouds, the clouds! This was the only glimpse she ever had of beautiful puffy clouds outside of her dreams. Flipping past one last scene of a watercolor sunset with little twinkling stars decorating the deepest hues, Sanja found herself feeling a little sleepy amidst her daydreams.

With a little yawn, placing her half-eaten fish back in her lunch pail, she drowsed for just a moment, letting the buzz of dragonfly wings and faraway conversation accent her reverie.

He had felt bad about leaving like he did but life gets complicated. Shit happens as they say. And it had really hit the fan for our dear hero. For a while there he was beginning to think he wasn’t going to be able to come back. No more school. No more goofing off. No more Judah…

That was unacceptable.

And while he may be a professional irresponsible young adult he’d managed to pull up his big boy pants and get stuff taken care of.  Affairs were settled. Plans were made. Big plans. Go big or go home like the saying goes. Well screw that! He was doing both. And no one was going to tell him otherwise. 

As the train that carried him back got closer he couldn’t help but giggle to himself. He’d told no one of his plans. Not a single soul knew he was coming. Not even Jude. Oh he couldn’t wait to surprise him! The whole trip he’d been thinking about it. Plotting. Trying to figure out the best way to get the biggest reaction. Maybe he’d figure out what class he was in and wait in the hallway for the boy to get out. Maybe he’d ambush him on the walking path on his way back to his apartment. Or maybe he’d show up outside his window with a boombox like something out of an 80’s movie. However it happened, you could count on their being fireworks.