It wasn’t every day that Cinnamon—a self-proclaimed "badass winter fairy"—found herself stuck in the middle of nowhere with a motorcycle she had absolutely no idea how to operate. Sure, she had wings, but flying through a snowstorm? Absolutely not. Snowflakes made her wings sticky, and sticky wings were so last season. So, there she sat, cross-legged in the snow, glaring at the hulking machine like it had personally insulted her choice of striped stockings.
“This is your fault,” Cinnamon hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at the silent motorcycle. “If you weren’t so heavy, I could’ve just magicked you back to the forest. But nooo, you have to weigh as much as a troll’s backside.”
To her chagrin, the motorcycle did not respond. Not that she expected it to, but in a world where pixies threw shade on social media and gnomes ran underground coffee shops, you’d think a bike could at least muster a sarcastic beep. The nerve.
The Trouble Begins
The trouble had started earlier that day when Cinnamon, in an act of defiance against her overbearing fairy godmother, decided she was “done” with traditional fairy life. “No more glitter dust and flower arranging for me,” she’d announced to her bemused squirrel neighbors. “I’m gonna live dangerously. I’m gonna ride a motorcycle.”
What she didn’t know was that riding a motorcycle involved more than just sitting on it and looking fabulous. The guy who sold it to her—an actual troll with a suspicious number of missing teeth—hadn't bothered explaining little details like starting the engine or shifting gears. He was too busy laughing as he counted the gold coins she’d “borrowed” from her godmother’s stash.
“I’ll figure it out,” she’d muttered. Famous last words.
A Fairy's First Ride
Fast forward to now, and Cinnamon was stranded on the side of a snowy path, her wings too cold to flutter, her stockings soggy, and her attitude in full sass mode. “Maybe I should’ve stuck to riding ladybugs,” she grumbled, kicking the bike’s tire. It was as effective as scolding a dragon for breathing fire.
Just as she was contemplating setting the motorcycle on fire (purely for warmth, of course), a tall figure emerged from the swirling snow. Cinnamon squinted. Was that…a human? A handsome one, at that. He wore a leather jacket, carried a toolbox, and had the kind of rugged stubble that practically screamed “I fix things and break hearts.”
“Need help?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement as he took in the sight of a candy-striped fairy sitting in the snow next to a motorcycle twice her size.
Cinnamon straightened up, brushing snow off her tutu. “Depends. Do you know how to fix this thing?” She gestured at the bike, trying to look both annoyed and adorable—a combination she had perfected over years of charming woodland creatures into doing her chores.
“I might,” he said, kneeling to examine the bike. “But I gotta ask—what’s a fairy doing with a Harley?”
“First of all,” Cinnamon said, hands on her hips, “it’s not a Harley. It’s a… um…” She paused, realizing she had no idea what brand it was. “It’s a very expensive bike, thank you very much. And second, I’m reinventing myself. Fairies can have a rock-and-roll phase too, you know.”
The man chuckled, pulling a wrench from his toolbox. “Fair enough. I’m Jake, by the way.”
“Cinnamon,” she replied, adding with a smirk, “but you can call me ‘Your Highness.’”
Reparations and Revelations
As Jake worked on the bike, Cinnamon hovered nearby, offering “helpful” advice like, “Don’t scratch the paint,” and “Is that the thingamajig that makes it go vroom?” Jake, to his credit, took it all in stride, though his smirk grew wider with each passing minute.
“Alright, Your Highness,” he said finally, standing up and wiping his hands on a rag. “You’re good to go.”
Cinnamon clapped her hands in delight. “Finally! I knew I could fix it—well, with a little assistance, of course.”
Jake raised an eyebrow but said nothing, stepping back as Cinnamon climbed onto the bike. She revved the engine, and to her surprise, it roared to life. For a moment, she basked in the glory of her newfound biker persona. She was Cinnamon the Rebel, destroyer of stereotypes, queen of the open road.
And then she accidentally hit the gas.
The bike shot forward, skidding on the icy path, and Cinnamon let out a very un-queenly shriek. Jake dove out of the way as the bike swerved wildly, coming to a halt only when it hit a conveniently placed snowbank. Cinnamon tumbled off, landing in a puff of snow with all the grace of a drunken pixie.
The Moral of the Misadventure
Jake walked over, trying and failing to hide his laughter. “You okay, Your Highness?”
Cinnamon sat up, spitting out snow and glaring at the bike. “Stupid machine. This is why fairies don’t drive.”
Despite the chaos, she couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for motorcycles, but she had to admit—her first (and probably last) ride was one heck of an adventure. Plus, she’d met a cute human who knew how to fix stuff. Not a bad day, all things considered.
“Come on,” Jake said, offering her a hand. “Let’s get you and your bike back to town.”
“Fine,” Cinnamon said, taking his hand and dusting herself off. “But for the record, I let you help me.”
Jake smirked. “Of course, Your Highness.”
And with that, the fairy and the mechanic trudged off through the snow, leaving behind a trail of glitter, sarcasm, and just a little bit of peppermint mischief.
Shop the Scene
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