#frost & fire excerpt

[relaxartworld]

Fire and Ice ✒️📜 a poem by Robert Frost (subtitled excerpt - PART 1) FULL POEM VIDEO ▶️ https://youtu.be/1BRuq4m6FDA 👈

"Fire and Ice" is a poem about destruction, about the inevitable demise that hatred and obsession will bring. Frost ponder which of the two elements would bring the end, or demise: fire or ice.

Follow us for more on www.youtube.com/@RelaxArtWorld (link in bio)

[burning-thistles-bt]

actually, i really love Frosted Thistles/Burning Thistles Reflamed Frostfur lol... i wish we could have shown her pre-cultist more, she's so fun and silly

this just makes me giggle idk why, its just so funny to me that i have a bunch of blank titles and then was abruptly like "ah, yes, I know the perfect name for this chapter, of course"

(to be fair, it's a very funny chapter)

[britcision]

Alright I went through more of the new Discworld audiobooks last night so an uncomprehensive review list:

Maskerade: fucking EXCELLENT, they did Agnes’s audition in such a cool fucking way this alone makes it all worth while. Even having a 5 second pause, sparkle music, and then a Different Fucking Person reading every footnote. And DILF Death. Will try the rest of the Witches and see if their “Magrat” is one or two words when used more. Indira Varma crushed it

Death/Susan books: good narrator, sounds interesting, gonna start with Soul Music because again, sonically interesting 👀 Sian Clifford (I assume) does a very good Susan voice and shows aging from Soul Music to Hogfather

Watch books: Nope. Nope. 0/10 completely misunderstood the assignment. His different voices for characters are SPECTACULAR Jon Culshaw is an excellent voice actor! But every other thing is just. Wrong.

His inflections are off, the pacing is wrong for the excerpts in the sample, the tone of the narration swings from “reading to small children” with over-exaggerated emotion and surprise at things like the first description of a golem in Feet Of Clay to “gritty noir novel” for the other books and all Vimes scenes and Neither Of Those Are Right

The Watch books are not gritty noir novels. Vimes is pretty blatantly a satirical deconstruction of a gritty noir detective - by The End Of The First Book he’d be fired from gritty noir for finding love and quitting drinking

The Watch books are police procedurals, detective thrillers, mysteries, sure, all distinct from the other series. They’re not the best for young kids. They’re not fucking noir. The noir elements like the descriptions of the city, the rainy nights, Vimes’ cynicism, are immediately undercut by jokes

Carrot, good mountain dwarf by way of Lancre, has a fucking posh city accent???? By Men At Arms?????

(Did like that Edward d’Eath is de-ath not de-eth like Nigel Planar’s)

On the whole, sounds like they used the old Artemis Fowls for a template and nailed that tone, which is absolutely wrong for Vimes

Moist von Lipwigs books: minor Rise of the Guardians Jack Frost vibes, I was not expecting that low of a voice from the narrator but Richard Coyle also does great voices

Moist is… a little weirdly emotive in his first cell like he’s got no real mask between his actual feelings and talking to the warders but that might improve. Will try

Rincewind books: interesting accent on the main narration, more distinct than any of the other narrators, with interesting inflections. I like it. I predict it making The Last Continent very interesting. Colin Morgan’s got a good clear voice, will try

[madarasgirl]

A Night for Hunting Ch. 19 -Valentine's

C/W: Alucard (Ultimate) x F!Reader, canon-typical violence, gore, Millennium, battle-thirsty vampire, some shadow writing, OVA2 @alastorhazbin Words: 5511

Another reminder that Hellsing is NOT a fluffy show, despite all the fluff I wrote between Alucard and the Reader.

An excerpt is under the cut

“Feeling sorry for yourself?” His voice slithered through the darkness, a soft rasp like a cat’s tongue, but it was oil on fire.

You bristled at his callousness, the false niceties rapidly forgotten here away from the prying outsiders. “You brought on all these problems of mine! All I wanted was a quiet life, not the spotlight on my face everywhere I go!”

He said nothing.

“It isn’t fair!”

His silence dominated like midnight frost, twin lights glinting as he opened his eyes, his pupils like pitch within an incandescent carnelian.

“Fair? ‘Fairness’ is but a pretty word, a reassuring concept for the weak of will who demand a seat at the table. The world simply is not fair, Dear.”

“The things they say about me! About you!”

“Should steel be bowed by the breeze? Or a boulder be moved by something as intangible as words? Their utterances are the mere rabble of the masses.”

“You make it sound derivative. Words can cut as deeply as physical wounds, Alucard.”

He laughed. “Only if you allow it.”

“You brought me here and that’s all you have to say?! You’ve never even defended me from their lies!”

“What would you have me do? Shall I present their heads on pikes? Or perhaps I shall still their tongues by commanding it so?” The blistering lights glowed with infernal power. “You will not find absolution from the rabble. Care not for their whispers.”

--------------------

You whimpered at the racket. The coffin smelled like Alucard, which was good –the scent of safety was always comforting, but the thunderclaps of what seemed like a million shots destroyed that illusion. It was almost deafening even from your enclosed space in another room. How could it be so loud? Was the throne room caving in? Were you getting buried with the rubble? Thank goodness for the coffin.

It began to glow blood red. Alucard wasn’t speaking to you, but you heard him all the same.

Releasing control restriction system…

Level 3, level 2, level 1.

Recognizing approval of Situation A according to the Cromwell invocation.

Commencing limited lifting of ability to use restrictions until the enemy before me has been rendered completely silent.

What was happening outside?! The temperature was plunging as bursts of light speckled your vision through the darkness in tune with the explosive banging.

Depraved aggression smacked into you. The vagaries of a bone-deep bloodlust came to him naturally. How Alucard longed for a good fight and a satisfying end. He was gloating and deranged. The gargling of a man’s screams drifted through the wooden walls of the coffin, though it was getting more distant. 

Exactly what was happening out there, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t like it. The scene of many of Alucard’s targets desperately begging him for mercy was something you were accustomed to. There would be none.

You recalled the warmth of his toothy smile earlier tonight.

More far-off screaming. 

Your skin crawled. The dark lord of legend felt as foreign to you as a stranger, his glee almost drowning out your bond. It was disturbing.

“Luke Valentine! Excellent! I have not had this much fun in too long.” Someone else’s fear scrambled your head as Alucard egged on his enemy to show him more.

You aren't a monster Alu. You felt so small and insignificant.

The bloodlust went away as your vampire snapped out of it.

~To be Continued~

Ch. 20- Millennium

[petitprincess1]

hey can you verify any of the claims against viv here?

I know what you're referring to, since you reblogged one of my posts with that "information". Which, btw, pls do not do that again. I'd rather not have that toxic crap attached to any of my posts.

The thing you sent was talking about Erin Frost and I've spoken extensively about her. Unfortunately, Erin's Twitter no longer exists and some of my posts are no longer accessible. So, I'm just trying to get what I can. I'll leave links to posts in no particular order:

Erin calling herself mentally unstable: 1, 2

Erin outting others who did not want to be in Vivzie drama (images and links): 1, 2, and image:

Erin getting upset over Sallie being trans. She also was disgusted that Sallie was being "sexualized", even though Morgana works on OF (correct me if I'm wrong) and have done sexual cosplay. Plus, she had a hand in designing Sallie May: Link

Erin getting upset at being overworked, despite being reprimanded for taking on work and causing delays:

Excerpt from a deleted tweet from Erin,

She also talked to Adam Neylan about leaving Spindle and spoke positively. So, it wasn't like she was fired:

Vivzie wasn't blacklisting people nor not allowing them to work anywhere else:

(My reply could've been better, I admit)

I wish I could give more info, but like I said, a lot of it is scattered or erased at this point. Hopefully, this gives a better idea, however, about the whole situation. Plus, my eyes were getting tired from squinting and scanning

[grey-wardens]

i am trying to be prouder about things i've done so i'm taking this opportunity to share a link to my completed durgewyll fic, featuring default durge! it is easily my most self-indulgent fic - about half of it is written in second person :) it is also as sad as i can make any piece of my fanfic lol.

if you do check it out please read the tags for warnings! just about all the companions got their bad endings along with everything those endings entail.

also, here is an excerpt, below the cut

-

As the Blade of Frontiers leapt down to face the goblins, rapier in hand, the Hells’ magic at his fingertips, his eyes alighted on you. You, your body that of a white-scaled dragonborn, hide veined with crimson, a rare sight in this Sword Coast backwater. Your body tensed in anticipation, ready to fight with him against these forces.

Before long you were back-to-back on the battlefield, eldritch energy crackling from the Blade’s fingertips, rays of fire and frost from yours. Even as his focus had been on putting down the attacking goblins and worgs and bugbears, he had been intimately aware of the heat coming off your scales, the strength of your arms, the power at your clawed fingertips. It impressed him. It excited him. You were a warrior from some long-lost legend stepped into reality, here to fight at his side, to write myth into truth.

[gaiaseyes451]

A Carol Conversation - Or, Crowley tells Aziraphale how he feels through Christmas Carols

There was an artistic Secret Santa exchange on Good Omens After Dark and the fic I wrote for my giftee is now live on AO3. It is set post-Season 2, after Aziraphale has returned from Heaven. Crowley decides to use a Christmas Carol scavenger hunt as one final attempt to become an Us. Essentially, it's an accidental, sort-of Fix-It fic that reads more like a Hallmark movie with a teeny little bit of mature content toward the end.

Here's an excerpt - Keep reading on AO3:

As Aziraphale opened the box Crowley studied his shoes carefully, watching from the corner of his eye and attempting (unsuccessfully) to will his corporation not to blush. He saw Aziraphale reach into the box for one of the shortbreads and emerge holding the matte black card with gold lettering. He read it, his lips mouthing the words silently, before turning to look at Crowley.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asked, his voice light.

“‘S just,” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and tried to look casual leaning on the shop counter. “Well, you know, how, how,” he stuttered, “know you enjoy riddles and puzzles. Always doing those crosswords. Thought you might fancy a little … Christmas carol themed scavenger hunt,” he trailed off.

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed and wiggled with delight. “That sounds wonderful! How does it work?” He asked, studying the card thoughtfully.

“Well, the cards have Christmas carol lyrics on them, see. You just need to know the next line of the song and it’ll be a hint where you should go for the next clue.”

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed as he read the card, humming the tune.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

Jack Frost nipping at your nose

Yuletide carols being sung by a choir

And folks dressed up like Eskimos

Aziraphale’s face lit up with recognition and he met Crowley’s eyes even through the dark lenses as he spoke “everybody knows some coffee and some mistletoe…” His gaze changed and he broke eye contact, Crowley was gratified to see that Aziraphale’s cheeks had also taken on a hint of pink.

Maybe, just maybe?

*~*~*

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

E Rated Fics Masterlist (28)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18 / Part 19 / Part 20 / Part 21/ Part 22 / Part 23 / Part 24 / Part 25 / Part 26 / Part 27 /

Created: November 17th, 2023

Last Checked:-----

Change of Plans-thegirlonpeetamellark (ao3) Summary: Katniss and Peeta can't agree on what to do for New Year's Eve. Written for the Tumblr 'Prompts in Panem' Holiday Challenge. Modern Day AU.

Frosted Glass-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: Peeta wakes up to an empty bed, but Katniss is in the shower.

How Katniss Everdeen Got Her Groove Back-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: Written for the Everlark Fic Exchange Springtime 2021 Edition Prompt 34: Modern AU where a forty year old Katniss has shut herself off from the world from fear of getting hurt. After her sister dies she realizes how isolated she is and now wants to open herself up to love, but hasn’t a clue where to begin. Everlark HEA - the details of how they meet and what Peeta’s been up to are entirely up to you. :) [submitted by anonymous]

If we met at midnight-Lbug84, MockingJayFlyingFree (ao3) Summary: Unable to sleep, Katniss is hiding, deep in 13, where she doesn’t think anyone can find her. But someone does. The person who hates her the most.

Love Don't Cost a Thing-titania522 (ao3) Summary: Peeta convinces Katniss that the best Christmas gifts are free. Written for the FYeah-Everlark Secret Santa Fic Exchange.

Mirage-MockingJayFlyingFree (ao3) Summary: In the Training Center, shortly before the Quarter Quell, Katniss and Peeta know they only have a few days left to live. To escape the nightmares, they seek comfort in each other’s arms every night. But sleeping next to the girl you love can be difficult when you’re a 17-year-old boy. Catching Fire – slight canon divergence. Peeta POV. Written for Prompts in Panem, round 7, day 5 - "Tongues".

Shoot First-misshoneywell (ao3) Summary: Retiring from a hard life as a gunfighter in the Wild West, Peeta Mellark finds one last wild thing he might never learn to tame.

That's the incentive-Lbug84, MockingJayFlyingFree (ao3) Summary: "This is how a lot of scary movies start." "Actually," he corrects. "This is how a lot of pornos start." Katniss delivers pizza to Peeta. OOC since there's no pizzeria in The Hunger Games, Modern AU… Oh, and we agree with Peeta.

The Ride Home-AnotherSongAnotherMile (ao3) Summary: Needing a ride home from a late night party, Katniss swallows her pride and calls on her former best friend, Peeta Mellark.

Welcome Back Mr. Mellark-Diana_Flynn (ao3) Summary: Peeta Mellark has an appointment with Katniss Everdeen and she is ready to please him in anyway she can. The Kitty Ranch excerpt for PiP challenge Day 5.

[honeycrispjamz]

-✦ excerpt from a current WIP ✦-

She’s beautiful, a chipped champagne glass with light beaming in every single direction. Her perfume saturates their shared air, and it burns the inside of Natalie’s nostrils— she doesn’t mind. It’s all-encompassing, Jonah being swallowed by a fucking whale, forests devoured by waves of fire. Misty’s looking up at her through her glasses now, eyes full of genuineness.

Natalie loves staring at her. This isn’t a new revelation, nor is it specially world-collapsing, but it hits her in the gut all the same. She remembers watching Misty sleep in the bitter winter, the spring heat— it takes her somewhere else for a while, somewhere kinder and away. She’s there now, far away but closer than ever.

“You did good today,” Misty whispers, and it’s offensive how it makes Natalie’s heart flutter.

“Yeah?” Is all Natalie can say back, Misty nodding.

“I know it was hard, with everything,” She starts, voice sweet. “Still, you did wonderful— I knew you would, as long as you didn’t get in your head about it.”

Natalie doesn’t respond, so Misty takes it as a cue to continue.

“Sometimes, you get trapped in there, you know? And you tell yourself you can’t do something, so you don't even try. But tonight, you tried… I’m proud of you.”

A car passes by, its headlights streaming in through the open window behind Misty. It illuminates her in a white-hot glow, just for a moment, but it’s enough. She’s a hotel angel, her gold curls nothing less than a glittering halo.

“Do you really think I can do it?” Natalie asks, and it comes out just as pathetic as she imagined. “Stay sober?”

“I do,” Misty breathes out, no hesitation, and it cuts. “I really do.”

She reaches out, interlocking her fingers with Natalie’s. It’s gentle, soft, something Natalie wants to tear apart with her teeth. Natalie closes her eyes, just for a moment, and breathes in Misty’s perfume once more. She lets it fill her, and under it all she can still dig out the underlying scent of mint that Misty always exudes. She doesn’t understand how someone so fucked can be so… clean.

Natalie opens her eyes again, and she half expects to be back there, surrounded by death and Canadian flora, the air wet with summer heat or frosted by an uncaring winter— but she isn’t, she’s here, and Misty’s still looking at her like she’s worth something.

Maybe she is.

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Business & Brunch

Silco and Sevika debrief before a meeting. A Councilor arrives.

Taken from 'webs of blood and gold,' a story on Sevika, Silco and Mel securing a political alliance (with some inklings of Melvika on the horizon). This takes place loosely in my scraps and doves series, somewhere between 'heron blue' and 'fire and thread'. Full story on AO3. CW: Themes around war, political disempowerment and social unrest; mentions of dysfunctional parental relationships; gaslighting, emotional manipulation.

"She's late."

Idly, a gloved hand slithers between wool dark as raven's blood: twists free a glint of silver. "Only by some minutes."

"She has us drag our asses up here on a damn Sunday, and she's late."

The tick-ticking of his pocketwatch clips shut. "Plotting your vengeance, already?"

Sevika scoffs. Slumping into the booth's cushions, she cuts her eyes across the room. A gloss of checkerboard tile reflects countless-faced prisms and too-clean light, sugardust and fluffed eggs sweetening the air: a burst of warmth diced by raucous chatter. To her left, a window bleeds a nasty draft.

Winter had always been a damned nuisance—but never worse than here. For all the ails that came with the Gray, there was one thing it was good for: this season never dared to cross their streets. A thick cloak of fog trapped the heat far into the bowels of their city, each lane waxed with a layer of mugginess and grime, enough that the touch of dry air on one's skin felt all but alien.

This many levels above the Fissures, the chill was unbearable. Worse yet, it'd laid a personal vendetta against the arm that blue-headed hellspawn had augmented for her; she'd had an ache in her shoulder all morning, clear to each copper-tamped fingernail.

Sevika rolls out her wrist, tries to force heat back into her wired veins. "I'll be plotting something, if the royal bitch isn't prancing out of her carriage by the half-bell."

Canted across from her, Silco's mouth twitches. "Then let's hope, for her sake, that she does."

"Meaning?"

He smooths the crease of his pocket with a bird-boned hand. Behind his silhouette, past the warbled glass, a myriad of streetlamps bloom in a frosted haze. "Any butcher worth their salt knows which cuts to age," he rumbles, dryly, "and which to roast on a spit."

Metal fingers lay a sharp triplet over the varnish. "Didn't know we were working the meat business, now."

Sevika loosens her palm, crooks a quick-footed server over for a coffee. "Two," Silco amends. The boy takes off.

The noise of the café sits nauseatingly between them. For a breath, she wrangles with it, watches him think, click-ticking the gilded points of her claws upon the table. His stare sits on them like a blade playing pinfinger.

The air of it all is too still—too misfitted.

She needs a drink. Needs the burn of a cigar in her lungs. Needs to sever this frostbitten stump from her shoulder. Needs him to say something.

Mismatched eyes, cold as the arctic and burning as scorched earth, flit back to her.

"A delicacy," he prowls, elbow sliding in an easy hush over the leather at his back, "requires a refined taste." He flicks his wrist, studying the dome of glass that crests past their shoulders. "I expect you may lack the proper palate."

Something unpleasant knots up in Sevika's mouth. "Topside refineries weren't made for us," she gruffs: challenging, denying.

They were the supply. Never the intended demand.

Silently, the tapetum of his dead iris leers at her. Lingers. "Weren't they?"

Two coffees clack to the table. Sevika takes the distraction like the needed blessing it is. She knocks two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream in hers, stirring it until the metal sings. Silco takes his black as the Pilt.

It's not the motor oil either of them prefer—but enough to make the morning bearable.

She shakes out her spoon, slowly, and keeps her eyes averted. He's left the conversation dangling on a hook, as always: waiting to see what else will make her bite. It's the guise she expects from him, most days. A black-finned beast dormant beneath the waves, stirring the shallows for unsuspecting prey.

At some point, though, that bathypelagic creature will slip back into its cave—traded for something more human; more imperfect.

This Councilor of theirs isn't here to play bait. They've fished the deal from her, already.

Still.

For now, they have a moment of respite: to plot, poison, provoke. Two predators yet to file their fangs, trapped between the walls of this marbled palace.

Her fingers itch for a smoke. She puffs out a phantom drag. "They won't give us a seat."

"We don't need one."

"Bold assumption."

Silco hums. "They've hedged their bets on those, for generations."

She sits on that, for a moment. Squeezes her cup by the rim, sliding the porcelain aside, to nest her arms in the space it clears. "New blood ain't gonna change that," she hushes. "They've tried to change it, before. They'll try to, again—and they'll fail."

"As the barons had?"

(Before he'd come along, like some spirit lifted from the gallows; strung every family on a tether and bought their loyalty in blood, upheaving all that the Undercity used to be—all the complacency that had shackled them, for decades—with profits no Sump-child could have dreamed, in a lifetime.)

Sevika drags her thumb against her knuckle. "Topside's a different beast."

The scarred line of his mouth ticks at one side. "Same animal," he gravels. His eyes shift. "Different cage."

Instinctively, she turns to follow the line of his sight. It doesn't take long to find their target.

Weaving through the maze of the café floor are two women, heels clacking off the tile, dressed head to oil-slick boot for a political runway. Unhurriedly, the spear of his stare unwavering, Silco reclines in his seat. Sevika feels his leg shift beneath the table: a sharp knee nudging into her own. She straightens, on command.

"Lesson one," he leaves her with. His hand turns to pick at one of his gloves, tugged clean finger by finger. The leather lazes to the varnish.

It's not long before their company has found their place at his table—their office for the day; one that, for every inch of public air and Topside frivolity surrounding it, stands eerily enough as his—and, by then, the second glove has been stripped: bared fingers laced, laid patiently upon the table's edge.

"Councilor Medarda," Silco greets.

The woman who stands front-and-center before them wears a flourish of navy and moonstone, vibrant as an ocean tide tressed over one's skin. She carries the taste of winter with her. It lays an odd contrast with the fragrance that ebbs sweetly off her wrists: the cool bite of melted frost encasing a desert flower.

Sevika takes her in, with a fine-toothed comb.

Not a strand of hair stands out of place, an elegant knot of gold-stamped locs. A brush of gloss shimmers at her eyes. Her lips are kissed with wine. She watches them form around her words, giving breath to a voice incense-smoked and ambered.

"Goodness, you've drinks already." Medarda lifts a thin hand, swiftly shedding her gloves. "I do apologize—I've left you waiting. A meeting ran over, I'm afraid."

Silco gives a thin smile. "No doubt the Council is in the throws of annual planning."

Medarda clicks through the clasps of her coat. "Horrendous time of the year," she sighs. "But, alas—it's a necessary one."

"I can empathize." He gestures to the empty chairs at their table: a command wrapped in silk-lined civility. "Please—take a seat."

Even in so few words, he has the attention of their Councilor wrapped around his finger—and the companion who gawks, blatantly, at her side.

Had she been spoon-fed a life of luxury, rather than survival; raised to view every interaction as a marker of prestige and self-deliverance, Sevika may have empathized with this skittish thing's wandering eyes.

The lot of them always had a morbid curiosity, when pulled to his table. Most up here knew him only as the hell-eyed Industrialist of the Underground; his heels were lined with a shitstain of Piltie superstition so thick it rivaled the cult fervidity that shadowed his every turn downtown.

Some let that curiosity get the best of them: flight instincts wrestled down to bask in a strange, offputting charm: like this dollfaced stranger, tressed in velvet and green, does now—and were Sevika anything like those foolish, naïve things, too brazen for their own good, she, too, may have eyed the directive sweep of his palm with more intrigue; may have found the serration of his demand a dark sort of thrill, rather than a dismissal tightly-leashed; may have took more time than she needed to watch him unlace the scarf at his neck, with a loose-wristed flippancy that did nothing to match the smoked cavern of his voice.

But Sevika's nothing of the sort—not for such surface-level contradictions as those.

(There were far more than that, beneath it all.)

Instead, she claims a front-row seat for the show, pitting a scoff under her tongue when the lift of his frigid stare sends the woman's own stumbling to her boots.

The fates must be on their side, today. The little sparrow gets stuck with the vacancy to his left.

"My assistant," Mel says, settling at Sevika's right. "Elora."

Late, Sevika thinks, and with unannounced guests.

Beneath the table, the point of a boot bruises into her calf, snapping any choice words at the neck.

"Sevika," Silco trades back—part introduction, part steel-lined warning. "My right-hand."

Medarda smiles, faultless a shield as any. "A pleasure." Her coat finds a home on an ornate carving, her gloves pocketed within it. Even reduced to her thinnest layers, she is no less armored. Blue cascades here, too: a seamless flow from the high neck of her collar down to the loop of fabric that cinches her sleeves at her fingers. On one, her familial crest glints in the light: a guiding star locked in a golden brace.

Sevika takes note of the ring—and of the silence.

The board has been set.

At one head of the table, a demon reigns in a fog of shadow: the streets at his back, winter's light a harsh carving through every edge: slicked hair, sloped shoulders, eyes glowing like sea-ice and cinder. At the other, a queen lays a barrier to the bustle of her people, the clamor of her commerce, bathed in crystalline light.

Their server returns, carefully polite in his Councilwoman's presence.

The game begins.

[witchhazelevesque]

a spring shoot in snow

✨Alternate end to words frost once wrote✨ The game of truth or dare goes differently. Nico's heart has been skewered, Leo reaches a wall he can't turn from, Will makes a decision sooner, and Chiara doesn't have to hurt the way she did. read on ao3

Excerpt under the cut:

"Okay then," Damien says. "You good?"

"Yeah," Leo says to him, not to the group as a whole like he has been. 

The quiet, serious way Leo's dark eyes look up at Damien makes Nico feel like he's just been struck through the chest with a spear. And then, placing a hand over the ache to rub it away, he sees a phantom of an arrowhead protruding from his sternum, casting an eerie illumination over his jacket and hands. 

He looks up to see if anyone else has noticed, but the whole theater has frozen.

For a moment, Nico thinks he's been sucked into a nightmare scape, but then a voice that he never wanted to hear again speaks to him in his mind, saying, "Watch. Watch what will happen of your own making."

The unsettling pinkish-red illumination spreads out from the arrow, reanimating those around him, letting the fire resume its flickering. Now the scene looks like it's happening in slow motion. 

That slower passage of time gives Nico ample opportunity to watch the way Damien's hand comes up to cup Leo's cheek. Not the one that Nico can see, because that would have been so much simpler. Instead, he can see the entirety of Leo's profile as Damien tilts his face up into his, as his eyes fall shut, his lashes fan out on the apple of his cheek, as their noses brush and then slot against each other, as Leo's lips part when Damien's touch them. 

His limbs feel heavy and numb like the ghost of an arrow is actually bleeding him dry.

The two standing across the fire don't have his issue, because Leo's hands rest on Damien's chest, sliding up around the back of his neck to disappear under the fold of his jacket collar, and Damien's free hand grasps the dip of Leo's waist, pulling him close. 

It's not the kind of peck that people give in spin the bottle or the chaste press of lips that Nico's experienced. It's not performative either, the kind of joking embrace with exaggeratedly wandering hands and interruptions for laughter. 

It looks like a real, real kiss. 

[1indigoisles]

Chapter 1 - Excerpt 4

I’d hoped for a few minutes, at the very least, of peace.

Instead, I was immediately ambushed at the entrance of the main hall of my new school by a girl just a few inches shorter than me, with a bright expression that I would soon come to know was her being cheerful.

At first I’d thought her hair was on fire, and she had galloped to me expecting a waterfall to sprout out of my backpack. A fraction of a second later, though, I realised that that was just the colour of the girl’s hair, burning orange, not red, orange, like fire.

Her hair was bright orange. She had hazel eyes with flecks of green and gold in them, sweet pink lips that looked naturally dyed, and freckles that covered the appex of her nose and cheekbones like dust. She wore a white tank top that should be illegal to wear, a brown leather jacket to cover it up, fashionably tattered and faded jeans, and a bright smile that could give the sun and the stars a run for their money.

“Hi,” she said, in a naturally crisp and friendly voice, “I’m Jolene Frost, head of Knightville High’s welcoming comittee. Welcome to Knightville High!”

I jumped. “Hello,” I managed to stammer, “I’m Kenneth Teigen.”

Jolene’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly at ‘Teigen.’

“What?” I asked.

“What ‘what’?” Jolene looked a little bemused.

“Never mind,” I muttered.

She regarded me for a long moment, not like I was acting strangely, but more as though she’d just discovered something about me that told her there was more to discover.

Then she peered over my shoulder as though she’d just spotted someone, and called, “Rowan, Rowan!” I turned around, but I couldn’t be sure who she was calling. A beat passed. No one came, and no one looked at her weirdly for shouting that name, possibly because she was popular and wouldn’t have cared about it anyway. With an exasperated sigh, she flipped out her phone and dialled a number. She held up a finger that told me I should wait a minute and heard the phone ring twice before the person on the other end picked up.

Jolene did not pause to say ‘hello’ to make sure the person on the other end was there, instead immediately speaking into her phone, “Rowan Frost, if you do not emerge from whatever hidey-hole you’ve found for yourself, I will whisper your middle name to the new kid.” She said the last two words as though it would be a treacherous fate for Rowan, who I now realised was Jolene’s brother.

A reply came from the other end. Jolene retorted, “oh, I will, and I will do it seductively for good measure.” She seemed to have either not noticed my slight discomfort at that, or she was ignoring it entirely.

“Relax, I’m here,” came a child-like voice. A boy an inch or so shorter than me approached us, dettaching his phone from his ear as he did.

Jolene smiled a winning smile, and leaned in to loudly whisper, “It’s Duncan, by the way.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell,” reproached Rowan while looking affronted, before abruptly grinning slyly, “Mildred.”

Jolene shrugged, clearly not the reaction Rowan had been hoping for. “I have no insecurities about my middle names. No one will ever call me Mildred, unless, of course, they have a death wish.”

“You just said you had no insecurities.”

“Mildred is a disgusting enough name to hate without being insecure about having it.”

“So is Duncan.”

“No, it’s only you who hates it because it’s old-fashioned.”

“I don’t understand why that isn’t a good enough reason on its own.”

While they went on with their incessant banter, I studied Rowan a little more closely. He had ash-blond hair that was more ash than anything really, and big grey eyes that at first seemed to be comparable to the grey of Knightville’s sky, but soon, it would look more like silver, gleaming and refracting in the light.

He had a long, thin face that had a fine sort of bone structure to it, all angles in some places, all softness in others. His body looked wiry and his shoulders were slim, similar to a girl’s. It was then I drew to the conclusion that ‘handsome’ was not a word that could be used to describe him – he looked more... pretty, yes, that’s the word. He was rather pretty.

“Shouldn’t we be showing the new kid around instead of wasting time arguing?” said Rowan a little grumpily, after Jolene had thrown a cutting remark at him.

“Perhaps,” Jolene allowed, “but maybe we could just skip the tour.” She turned to me, “don’t worry, the school layout is really simple. You’ll get it as we go along.”

The Frost siblings then took me along the halls, to my locker, through various classrooms and labs, the library, the canteen, the infirmary, other staffrooms, all while encompanying it with more banter, assurances that I could ask questions if I had any, and other interesting details, like a long crack that spread across the floor in front of the chemistry lab that had always been there. It was thin, but not so much that it wasn’t noticeable – in fact, I’d noticed it before Jolene had told me about it – and pitch black, as though it had been drawn on the ground with a marker of the darkest black, and shaped like real-life lightning, starting and ending abruptly. It was strangely unsettling to look at.

“Following so far?” Jolene asked, when I spent too long looking at the scar on the floor. “Any questions?”

I looked up, and spotted someone. “Actually,” I said, pointing, “yes. Who is she?”

Tagged: @mayaheronthorn, @jeahreading

[blackknight-100]

The Corruption of mildly protective Thranduil in five parts + an extra

This fic is inspired by this amazing artwork by @chicotfp

This fic was supposed to be 1k so I could post it here, but somehow inflated to 3k+ Therefore: here is a random excerpt and the Ao3 link. The timeline is a bit skewed for plot purposes.

One evening that winter, he receives a visitor. He sits by the fire, nursing a glass of wine. Legolas – so sweet and so dear – slumbers on his lap. He strokes the tousled blond head and watches the flames shift. All at once the fire has a face, and a soft hissing voice. “Vigorousss S-s-s-spring,” it says. Thranduil wraps a hasty hand around his son, subtly feels for the knife in his boot. He has lived in Morgoth’s shadow, fought at Mordor’s gates. This fell Maia he will know even in sleep, yet he asks anyway, “Who is it that speaks?” In the flames, he sees a fair, smiling face. “Do you not know?” “Sauron,” he says with thrilling boldness. The flames laugh. “Mairon isss my name,” it tells him, and dissolves. Mairon has a sweet voice, and sweeter words. He flickers in the flames every night, and Thranduil, taken by curiosity, lingers.

Fandoms: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien  

Teen And Up Audiences

Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Gen

Complete Work

Tags

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Bard the Bowman/Thranduil

only if you squint

Thranduil (Tolkien)

Gandalf | Mithrandir

Sauron | Mairon

The One Ring

Elrond Peredhel

Galadriel | Artanis

Celeborn (Tolkien)

Bard the Bowman

Bilbo Baggins

Original Orc Character(s)

Dark Thranduil

Mirkwood

Spiders

Mind Manipulation

Orcs

Blatant misuse of Robert Frost's quote

Not Beta Read

Dol Guldur

[safyresky]

craving a climactic battle after whatever the hell the santa vs santa fight in the finale was?

BOY DO I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU!

🆕 Crystal Springs Chapter 27: Stick It to The Man is now up on ao3 and fanfiction dot net!! :D

Chapter 27: Stick It to The Man

Blaise and Pyros face off. Jack tries to get through to Jacqueline, with a little help from some friends. Working together, the Frosts stick it to The Man.

I was SO TORN between making the summary just "The Frosts stick it to The Man" but then I was like "but so much cool stuff happens outside of that! Twin Princes fight! Cold Front angst/hurt/comfort! AH! So I relented on my. Tomfoolery. And came to a happy medium!

BUT I CAN ASSURE YOU, THERE IS MAJOR TOMFOOLERY IN THIS CHAPTER! CHECK IT OUT ON AO3 HERE AND FF DOT NET HERE!

Oh, and in this tasty little excerpt here which even has, dare I say it...some BADASSERY?!?!? HELL YEAH:

“This doesn’t usually take this long,” Pyros finally spoke, looking up at his curled hand. “Performance issues, huh?” “I—no! No, I’m the greatest warlock that has ever—” he dropped his hand, uncurling it and thrusting it up in the air once more, fist glowing red. “—lived! I don’t have—” he uncurled his fist once more, repeating the motion for a third time. “—performance issues! I will—” another attempt was made to summon his staff. “—I will summon my staff and—” His fist was curled so tightly his knuckles had surpassed white, the veins on his hand bulging. He squinted in concentration, in frustration as the red glow suddenly went out with a fart noise. His staff could not, would not be summoned. Blaise let his smirk escape. “You were saying?” Pyros growled. Bringing his fists down, he shoved them forward. There was a high-pitched squeal as fire burst from his fists. It spiralled, rushing towards Blaise and hitting him square in the chest. Blaise let out a whoosh of breath as the fire knocked him off his feet and into the air. He fell into the snow, rolling twice before stopping. “HA!” Pyros pointed, watching as Blaise struggled to pull himself up, coughing. “That was so satisfying, you know? You’ve always excelled at our spritely lineage and I cannot express the joy that this,” he said, gesturing towards him with both hands as Blaise’s elbow slipped, knocking him back down into the snow, “just brought me. I—” WHAM! Blaise lifted his head, his eyes widening as Pyros pushed back against a stream of snow that had slammed into him hard. A seemingly endless avalanche pushed him farther and farther back as he turned his face away, trying to keep his airway clear. He tried desperately to regain his footing in the snow, trying his best to stay grounded, but to no avail. Now he was the one knocked off his feet and sent flying, landing on the ground with a loud THWACK as the entire blast of snow settled upon him, pellets hitting pellets with a droning sort of buzz. “Who’s laughing now?! HA!” Blaise shouted, struggling to push himself up.

Who IS laughing now???? Who threw the snow?? WHAT HAPPENED TO PYROS'S STAFF?!?! WHERE'S JACQUELINE? All those answers and MORE in the climactic, magical battle you all deserve to read/see in Chapter 27: Stick It to The Man, HERE on ao3 and HERE on fanfiction dot net :D

Not sure who these mofos are? Want to know more about them? You CAN do this in one, simple step! Taking Crystal Springs from the top with the Prologue: An Encounter, right HERE on ao3 and HERE on fanfiction dot net!

Summary (and author's rambles) below the cut!

It's been almost a year since Jack Frost thawed and things are looking...well, not so great. Jack's powers are seemingly gone. Without them, the Dome that keeps the North Pole safe from the cold and its magic controlled is melting, putting everything and everyone magical at risk. Unable to hide his power shortage any longer, Jack is forced to admit the truth. Thankfully, there is a solution: enacting the Legate Law, bringing Jack and the sister that he hurt so many centuries ago back together again. But when Jacqueline starts experiencing destructive blackouts, the pair are forced to head back home to Crystal Springs, bringing Jack face to face with the rest of the family. Needless to say, between getting his powers back, helping his sister figure out what in the FROST those blackouts even were, reconciling with his parents, meeting the two even younger siblings he didn't even KNOW he had, NOT TO MENTION the ancient threat that's had it out for the ENTIRE Frost family finally making a move? Saving Christmas (regrettably) is looking to be a little bit...complicated.

🆕 This chapter:

More MEAT on some SKELETONs

See the word count for deets:

CS 2014 (OG): 4,488k 😬

CS 202X: 15,758k

WOW!!

A lot more lore inspired things: staff nonsense, mainly. I hope you all pick up what I put down ;)

BUT YEAH! WOW! WHAT A DOOZY! I have been sitting on this chapter for AGES. This chapter is the HOT chapter. Between Blaise's Thor moment, Jacqueline's big FUCK YOU moment, Jack's "oh it's LOVE" moment, and the last minute cold front hug I added in LITERALLY today??????? HOLY HELL. I AM DECEASED!!!

I hope you all enjoy it like that too! It was so fun to write the banter AND the hurt/comfort/angst! Twin Princes my beloved. Maybe one day you will all see how they act when Pyros is NOT doomed to repeat the cycle. I hope so! I got ideas for THAT.

AND MAN AM I GLAD JACK'S GOT HIS POWERS BACK! If I played my cards right, you can go back and actually SEE moments in the last 3 chapters where he was using his magic! It was always there, he just had to realize what it was that was driving it! I LOVE LOVE!!

PHEW.

Action scenes are hard to write, mainly bc I run out of descriptive words?? So hopefully it reads well and has you all on the edge of your seat 🥰🥰🥰 THE CLIMACTIC CONCLUSION WE ALL DESERVED! (eyeballs whatever the goddamn hell Scott vs Magnus was)

I'm only a bit bitter.

Next chapter next week! See you then! :D

[itsagrimm]

Master of Winter

I am fighting my own perfectionism here by publishing it as drafts and excerpts bc I have been working on this for months and I am starting to get desperate. Also I need this to reference it in the 'He Who Comes from Under The Water' Series and even after the 7th rewrite it's not hitting like I want it to. So let's all collectively say fuck it and ask ourselves the most important question: What if Santa fucked?

John Price X OC

CN: mentions of sexual themes, mentions of pregnancy and failed pregnancy, found (?) family, wanting to have kids, John Price becoming a dad weird folklore edition

Masterlist

One

The Master of Winter, some call him Ded Moros, others call him John Price, wanders back home. After bringing the cold and the frost down south to the people, he returns back to his Ice Queen residing in the Castle up on the north pole. He missed her greatly - her piercing blue eyes, her unforgiving voice, her sharpness and beauty.

As he returns, she happily embraces him. But some changed between them and Price finally decides to ask her about her sorrows.

***

The snow was bright under the polar day, reflecting the sunlight. Ice was towering up high into the arctic sky. Somewhere far away it was summer – past the ice and great tundra steppe where the trees grew again and not the mighty ice castle as the only thing reaching up high.

Jonathan Price did not care about that. He was sitting before his castle, staring into the endless white. He had returned home a few weeks ago. His queen had welcomed him as always. Like countless times before he as the Master of Winter, the Ded Moros, had travelled south to bring the cold. And like all those countless times before when he had returned, he had expected his wife to be joyful and happy to see him.

But she was not.

Looking at him with sad eyes, burning with a cold passion he adored.

“Love, what is it?” He had said. “Are you not happy to see me, dear?”

“Husband.” She had cried falling against his chest. “I am. But my winter had been lonely, so I had travelled down to find you. Instead, I found humans, living together in their tiny houses huddled around the fire as it could keep the cold in their bones away. I found animals hibernating under the snow, pressed close to each other for warmth. I found words of hope for a future after winter and when the sun would rise again.”

Price knitted his eyebrows as he embraced his wife. “My Queen, did the presence of fire, warmth and summer disturb you that much? Did I bring not enough of the cold to keep our kingdom safe?”

She shook her head.

“No, my dear. I do not ask you for more cold to keep my ice body and this kingdom in pieces.”

She looked up, searching for something in his eyes before reaching up and kissing him.

“What I wish for-” Another kiss from her cold, addicting lips. “-is a child. I want a family. I want to be a mother and hold our child like the humans did in their huts. I want it to curl up against us in their sleep, feeling for us to be close, I want to show it the beauty of our world in the never-ending day.”

“We are a family.” Price whispered weakly. His queens’ words were making him as drunk as her lips.

“We are. But we could grow into a different one.”

***

Cultural References:

Ded Moroz can be understood as Soviet Santa Claus. However, he is based on an older, pagan entity. Since as always the source material for pre-christian traditions and believes from Eastern Europe and central Asia are sparse to nonexistent, we can only guess how exactly this entity was perceived. Some argue the Ded Moroz (literal translation father or grandfather Frost) is a kind of evil winter spirit. Others argue him more akin to a snow wizard.

In the Soviet Union religious traditions were frowned upon and oppressed, especially all non-christian believes and practices. The Jolka as a substitute Christmas celebration was introduced as an alternative to various winter festivals, most importantly Christmas. This Jolka festival included Ded Moroz, who brought gifts to the kids.

The snow queen comes from a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. It has little to do with the movie Frozen. In the tale the snow queen kidnaps a boy and his friend Gerda travels up to the north pole castle to get her friend back from the Queen. There is a very cool Russian animated movie The Snow Queen (Russian: Снежная королева, Snezhnaya koroleva) from 1957 and it's fairly known classic. You can watch it on youtube with english subtitles.

@queenquazar

[imagine-you]

find the words tag game

tagged by the lovely, amazing, talented @residentdormouse thank you so much my friend!

The rules are simple - find a sentence, or excerpt, that includes the words you're given and paste it in, and include a link to the finished story if you want. But honestly, guidelines at best - do what you want.

My words to find: White, Cold, Snow, Frost, Ice, Gloves, Hat, Cocoa (or Tea), Blanket, Snuggle/cuddle

___

White: Found In 'Waiting For the Sun To Go Down' [Eric Northman/Reader]

You knew Eric was shadowing the pair of you, but when you caught a glimpse of a white dress out of the corner of your eye, you were surprised to notice Sookie was there as well.

___

Cold: Found In 'Meet Me Under the Stars' [Daryl Dixon/Reader]

Later, when you were huddled near the fire with your arm wrapped around Carl, you tried to keep from shivering. It was so cold and with winter approaching, you knew that it was going to be rough trying to keep the group fed and warm. You kept your gaze focused on the fire. You were barely aware of the conversation going on around you, but you caught certain snippets of it enough to get the gist of what was going on.

___

Snow: Found In 'I'm Coming For You and I'm Making War' [Johanna Mason/Reader] (yes I'm cheating and this is a fic I haven't posted yet)

It wasn't until the 69th Games were about to kick off that you met President Snow. "Congratulations," he told you. His presence loomed over you and you couldn't help but feel like you were caught in a predator's sight. "It's no small feat to win the Games."

___

Frost: I couldn't find this one in my fics. It might be somewhere, but I lost and didn't find it.

___

Ice: Found In 'writin' you a letter and I don't know where to start' [Steve Harrington/Reader]

Steve groaned and shook his head. "I needed to ice my feet that night because you kept stepping all over them. You couldn't get the timing right."

___

Gloves: Found In 'Love's Strange' [Billy Hargrove/Reader]

Once you got inside, you started pulling off your gloves. "I see you've finally showed up," you heard from in front of you. You glanced up to see Principal Himbry standing there, an unimpressed look on his face. "I had to walk," you offered helplessly.

___

Hat: Found In 'Baby, You're a Haunted House' [Billy Hargrove/Reader]

"Of course not," he backtracked. "I'm always glad to see my number one girl." He froze and then shook his head. "Shit. You know what I mean." Robin was laughing by now, shaking her head as she looked at Steve. "You're hopeless, Harrington." "Shut it, Buckley." Steve grumbled something under his breath and adjusted the hat on his head. You couldn't help but think that it was a shame that his uniform required him to wear the hat. Hiding all of that hair was probably not doing Steve any favors when he doubtlessly flirted with customers. "You need a ride to the pool, Y/N?"

___

Cocoa/Tea: I couldn't find this one either! Which is crazy to me...but coffee might have turned something up.

___

Blanket: Found In 'Time For a Hero to Step Into the Fire' [John/Reader]

You wanted nothing more than to talk to John. Before the world fell apart, he was the person you thought about most. Your feelings for him were just as strong as ever, but you felt like there was a distance between you now. You sighed before you finally managed to speak. "They sent us out today," you started, reaching out to pick at a loose thread on John's blanket. "I heard," John said. "You okay?"

___

Cuddle/Snuggle: I could only find 'cuddling' in one fic and it was 'Tickin' Like a Timebomb' [Klaus Hargreeves/Reader]

Luther considered you and Klaus where you were practically cuddling on the couch. "I guess it's not the most important thing we need to discuss now."