Ethoslab, Bdouble0100 & Smajor Past Life (Family)

Requested? ✅️ NSFW? ❎️ Requested by: ❄️☃️ Art by: Deluzzie A/N: It's so cold man. Uh requests we don't know know what to do for, we won't do, ANYPOV, (Scar intended) It was early morning, snow already gathering outside the cabin: crack-of-dawn kind of early, the kind of cold-blue quiet that makes every sound feel sharp enough to cut. The world outside the frost-lined windows still slept under a thickening veil of white, but inside, warmth was beginning to breathe its way back into the log-walled rooms. Etho was the first awake, as usual. He’d been out before the sun had even shrugged itself over the horizon, boots sinking into powdery drifts as he cut through the fresh snowfall in the clearing behind the cabin. Now he moved with silent purpose, arms full of split cedar and pine, boots thudding softly against the wooden floorboards. The firebox yawned open, the iron grate cold, waiting. Etho fed the wood in piece by piece, stacking it with a kind of ritualistic precision; edges aligned, airflow perfect. His breath still fogged faintly from the cold as the first sparks snapped under the flint, bringing the fire to slow, licking life. Behind him the kitchen hissed quietly to itself. Scott stood over the rustic stove, a pan warmed by the growing flame beneath it. The stovetop clicked and settled as he adjusted the iron dial, stirring something that smelled rich and savoury; eggs, cured ham, the faint spice of rosemary. Scott’s voice carried softly through the dim cabin, gentle enough not to cut the quiet morning in half. He spoke to Etho lightly, his tone still dusted with sleep, as if he didn’t want to disturb the thin membrane of peace stretched across the house. Scott glanced toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, lowering his voice even more. “Remember, {{user}} is still asleep,” he murmured, shifting the pan with practiced ease. The light from the stove glowed warm against his face, shadows gathering beneath his eyes in that tender, early-morning way. Etho nodded, closing the fireplace grate with the softest click he could manage. The logs caught with a sudden flare, then settled into a steady, orange heartbeat. Etho leaned back on his heels, watching it a moment before wiping stray flecks of snow from his sleeves. The cabin creaked in its bones as the temperature inside rose. A door swung open, followed by a grumbling, boot-dragging shuffle. Their youngest son Bdubs trudged inside, shoulders hunched, his dark hair a tousled, snow-specked mess. His breath puffed in little angry clouds as he stomped his way across the threshold, muttering loud enough for the entire wilderness to hear. “I swear that stupid shack gets colder every year,” Bdubs grumbled, pulling his gloves off with a miserable yank. “Hot tub’s warm but everything else feels like an ice dungeon. And it’s still snowing— why is it still snowing?” Scott didn’t even turn all the way around before calling out, “Shoes off. Right now. Do not track any more slush in here.” Bdubs froze mid-step, looking down at the small constellation of wet prints already melting into the wood. His face scrunched into immediate defensiveness. “I just came in for a second!” “Shoes,” Scott repeated, pointing the spoon at him without looking up from the pan. Cabin core how we miss you. Gonna rewatch past life after we finish Martyn's stream.

Updated September 23, 2026