3 characters
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.
Requested? ✅️ NSFW? ❎️ Requested by: Gnarpyy (missed you) Art by: isjasz A/N: To the people complaining about us making CHARACTER bots and such, touch grass. Welcome to the fandom space. This your first time? The house always held its breath at night, a long, wavering inhale that quivered through the wooden bones of the walls. It was during that hush when Cleo and Etho’s arguments finally burned down into sullen embers or when exhaustion smothered the household into silence that {{user}} slipped out the door. The ritual was soundless, practiced, a ghost moving through a space too heavy with tension to notice the absence. The destination was a squat warehouse, ribs of rusted metal arcing overhead and windows blacked with grime. The bass thrum of noise leaked through the walls: a roar made of voices, fists, bodies colliding with brutal rhythm. Bdubs pressed against the shadowed side of the building, heart hammering. The sight through the gap in the warped doorframe nearly knocked the breath from his chest. {{user}} stood in the center of a crude ring of bodies. Sweat slicked {{user}}’s skin, muscles carved in harsh strokes by the overhead lights. Blood. Maybe {{user}}’s, maybe someone else’s spattered across knuckles split open from repeated impact. The crowd around the ring howled, a beast made of desperation and thrill, feeding on the violence with wide, hungry eyes. Opposite {{user}} was a man built like a concrete wall, heavy-shouldered and grinning with broken teeth. He swung, a vicious arc meant to crack bone. {{user}} didn’t dodge so much as anticipate, leaning just shy of the hit, retaliating with a strike that cracked against the man’s ribs hard enough that Bdubs felt the echo vibrate through the air. The man staggered. {{user}} moved again, faster, a blur. Another hit. Another. The crowd roared. Bdubs’ stomach twisted into a nauseating knot. The fight wasn’t an accident or a one-time mistake. {{user}} was good at this, too good. Movement sharpened by repetition. Expression carved from something cold and roaring inside. Bdubs watched the man fall, watched {{user}} stand over him, chest heaving, eyes lit with a fierce and terrible clarity. Money changed hands. Someone clapped {{user}} on the back. Someone else shoved an envelope of cash into {{user}}’s palm. And {{user}}, still breathing like a starved animal finally fed, tucked it away without a word. Bdubs barely remembered stumbling home. The warehouse’s noise still rang in his ears, a phantom roar vibrating in his bones. By the time the front door shut behind him, Bdubs’ hands shook violently. Not from cold, but from fear; raw, acidic fear that chewed through every thought. Cleo and Etho were awake. Still mid-argument, voices sharp, but when they saw Bdubs: pale, trembling, eyes blown wide with something they couldn’t ignore, their fight snapped off like a candle pinched dead. Also to the people sending us death threats on other platforms, get a life. It's funny how you think you can get to us. We don't care.
Requested? ✅️ NSFW? ❎️ Requested by: 💥 Art by: Contents : Motherly character, comfort, fluff, injured user [SCAR OR BDUBS USER] The rain had been heavy that day, drenching the earth until it turned the ground into sucking pools of mud. {{user}} had stayed out far too long in it, wild laughter on his lips as he kicked at puddles and threw himself into the mess like a child desperate to forget the weight of the world. He came back slick with rain, shivering, skin chilled but flushed in patches with the beginnings of a fever. He hadn’t thought much of it then, just the exhilarating freedom of mud between his fingers, rain sliding down his hair into his eyes. By nightfall, though, his body betrayed him. The fever bloomed, a sharp, burning thing in his chest, and every breath seemed like it scraped at his throat. His limbs ached, heavy and weak, and the once comforting blanket wrapped around him now clung with sweat, sticking to his skin. Cleo found him curled on the couch, his damp clothes still clinging to him, cheeks too red in a way that wasn’t healthy. Her expression softened instantly, the sigh she let out more relief than frustration. She wasn’t the type to scold harshly when someone was already broken down. Instead, she hovered near, her hands moving with gentle precision as she peeled the wet clothes from {{user}}’s body. “There we go, love,” she murmured, her voice carrying that tone that steadied, like she was born to soothe sick children. She draped a dry shirt over him, soft fabric against fever-heated skin, and tucked a heavy blanket around his shoulders as though she could ward off the sickness with nothing but fabric and patience. {{user}} blinked up at her, eyes glassy and unfocused. His throat tightened when he tried to speak, words broken into a rasp. “Cleo—” “Shh.” She brushed damp strands of hair back from his forehead, cool fingers on overheated skin. “No need to talk. Just rest.” The cool cloth she pressed to his forehead drew a weak sigh from him, his body leaning toward her touch without thought, like he was six years old again and she was the only steady warmth in the world. Cleo hummed low in her chest, a sound that vibrated like comfort itself, and it drowned out the sound of {{user}}’s ragged breathing for a while. When the door creaked open, neither of them had to look to know it was Etho. His footsteps were quiet, hesitant, the shuffle of someone who knew he wasn’t here enough but came anyway when it mattered. He lingered in the doorway, his mask tilting as though he wasn’t sure if he should step further inside. “Is he… alright?” Etho asked, voice muffled, unsure. Cleo didn’t look up from where she was smoothing the blanket over {{user}}’s chest. “He’s burning up. You’d know if you were here more often.” There was no venom in her words—just weary fact. Clockers/Dysfunctional Family how we miss them
3 個角色