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moontyuns · 11 months ago

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{06:20 pm}

Word count: 0.6k Pairing: Minghao x gn!reader Genre: established relationships, fluff Rating: pg-13

a/n: idk i just suddenly craved something wintery, fluffy and a bit cliche so i wrote this short piece out of the blue eheh

You come through the office doors, it’s late evening by the time you finish your work, and that’s when you realize that you made the greatest mistake by throwing on a coat instead of the puffer. The temperature dropped significantly, unlike the morning you’re sure that it’s around 4 negative degrees but it feels much colder. “Uh well okay, getting sick is not in my plans so let’s pray I won’t” you muttered under your nose and buried the lower part of your face under the thick material of the sweater's neck. It’s not like it actually helps you the slightest bit to get warmer, but at least the cold wind doesn’t bite your chin anymore.

When you went a few meters from the office building, your hand, which you tried to warm up in the pocket, felt the phone buzzing. You thought that it could be your boyfriend but you remembered that he should still work and he rarely messages you unless it’s something important. You brought the phone closer and it was indeed messages from Minghao.

Haohao <3: “Hey, love” “Are you free already? I ended earlier today, so i thought we could meet up” “Call me when you see this”

Once you read the last message you dialed his number right away, and after a few seconds, you heard the voice that brought you comfort “Hey, saw my messages?” the boy on the other line asked you. “Mhm, I just went outside of the office. Where can we meet?” you felt your teeth start chattering, you need to go somewhere as soon as possible. “Let’s meet in the “Cosmos” cafe, it’s a block away from your office,” Minghao said, and you felt grateful because it’s probably the farthest you could get without dying from frostbite. “Yep! See you there in a few!” you replied and disconnected.

You almost run to that cafe and once you are in front of it you peek through the windows to see if Minghao got there or not. When you see no trace of your boyfriend you, for some reason, decide to wait for him outside. You don’t feel your limbs as they feel more like pieces of ice but you still stand outside of the building. A few minutes later you saw your lover getting closer, so you started waving your hand as energetically as you could (even though it probably looked funny considering your state) to greet the boy. “Hi, baby,” Minghao said as he stood before you, he leaned to place a chaste kiss on your cheek and then squinted his eyes at you, “Wait..is it your autumn coat?” you feel embarrassed a bit because it’s always you who can’t predict the weather correctly. “Well yeah…you know a funny story actually..” you didn’t finish your sentence when you heard the boy sighing loudly “God, when will you start checking the forecast before going outside?” The question was obviously rhetorical so you opted to not answer it but divert your eyes to the other side of the road. You heard the boy shuffling and a warm something placed around your neck. It was Minghao’s scarf that he gave to you to warm you up slightly. “Dummy you even waited for me outside..” he shook his head and took your cold hands in his much warmer one and then kissed them. “Let’s go inside, I will buy you a hot chocolate and then we will return home in a taxi, I don’t want you to become an ice princess and then get sick” he placed one last kiss on your forehead and you silently nodded and followed him inside.

Reblogs and likes are highly appreciated <3 Do not - steal / copy / repost / translate any of my works !

#kflixnet #k-labels #kvanity #minghao scenarios #the8 scenarios #minghao x reader #the8 x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #minghao

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electricbluebutterflies · 4 months ago

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Bertha x George and the “ i think i’m falling in love with you. “ prompt, if you feel like it. :)

PG-ish and also on ao3.

Just a few more months and she won’t have to be so cautious.

Slipping away into a cold night is unpleasant, but no worse than being indoors, and if she hears one more comment about how she’s worn the same dress all season she just might stab someone with a hairpin, and-

A few more months, Bertha reminds herself, and then… probably years of still being looked at like an exotic animal but at least she’ll be a pet with a second ring on her finger and-

She supposes this garden is still pretty, covered in the lightest snow. There are perhaps places she could have slipped away to indoors, but she needs the shock of cold on her too-exposed skin, anything to distract her, anything to-

“I won’t have my future wife catch cold.”

At least part of her night is going according to plan. The one advantage of this awful dress is it’s a hard color to miss even in a too-crowded room, and-

“Better than minor scandal.”

She turns just as he gives her a look like he will never understand the behaviors of women and that might be for the best, but… something more respectful about that than most men, separate worlds but still important and-

“What happened this time?”

“I’ve been seen too much without effort, apparently. Might need to do my hair differently, that’ll distract-“

“You didn’t-“

“Did you hear any breaking glass?” she laughs.

“Not this time.”

“Feels successful enough, then.”

They stay just out of reach, boundaries uncertain. The wedding date has been set, fabric bought for her dress, and perhaps there are more possibilities now but-

“Successful, and yet you’re-“

“I’d like the silence of my own mind. Ideally somewhere no one else would pick for a tryst.”

She supposes that could be taken the wrong way, but… there have been less issues of interpretation with him than she had expected. It is as if they were made for each other, and that is not something she believes in but-

“At least let me keep you from frostbite.”

She can’t help rolling her eyes, but being held is quite nice and his hands are respectful on covered parts of her body and-

“You are always so kind.”

“I’m falling in love with you. Of course-“

Bertha feels her breath catch, something unbearably tight inside her all of a sudden. They have not used that word before, and the affection between them has been more implied than actually-

“Is that so?”

“It’s not what it will be, I think I’ll love you even more as time passes but-“

She turns her head and takes a heartbeat of a kiss. She won’t do more, and if he’d meant to push her they would’ve crossed that line months ago, and it still feels like a risk and-

If she gets to see the delight in his eyes forever, she thinks, everything else she means to do could be ignored.

She pulls away just as quickly and she can feel herself blushing in a way that has nothing to do with the cold, and too-pink skin will look awful against this damned dress and-

“I’d hoped you’d do that.”

“Oh?”

“It would have felt forward if I had, but-“

“We are very alone, I am trying to bury myself against you, and you aren’t sure I want you?”

“You aren’t so simple.”

She is deeply understood, she thinks, in the safest way imaginable, and-

“I don’t think a few light kisses would completely destroy my reputation.”

She takes another one for emphasis, lingering a heartbeat longer, and… she will get used to this, in time, but for now it makes something flutter inside her, warm and hopeful and-

“I should get you inside.”

“Or you could get my coat and take me home.”

“Or that.”

It is near-painful to slip out of the embrace, but there will be more to come, she thinks as she watches him walk away. Soon enough, so much more, and-

Is it really so wrong to be impatient?

#bertha x george #ebf writes fic

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clangenrising · 1 year ago

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Trigger Warning Tag List

Some content on this blog may be triggering. For the most part, RisingClan content will contain Warrior Cats typical violence and subject matter. Most pieces are PG or PG-13 for violence and language. However, this is a story written for a more mature audience and some pieces may discuss or contain more upsetting topics. Posts that contain more sensitive content than usual will be tagged accordingly. Below are a list of tags I use so you can block them if needed.

Swear Warning - will cover any piece where a piece includes real world swear words. Will only apply to official art pieces, not to asks and answers. TW Character Death - will cover any piece where a character of any importance dies. TW Major Character Death - will cover any piece where a member of RisingClan dies. TW Graphic Injury - will cover any piece where a severe wound or an affliction such as frostbite or burns is described in detail. TW Human Injury - will cover pieces where cats are injured by a human such as a car accident or any instances of animal abuse. TW Permanent Injury - will cover any pieces where a character receives a permanent condition such as blindness, a missing limb, etc. This will not be used for cats who are born with a permanent condition or any pieces that simply include a cat with a permanent condition, only pieces where a permanent condition is recieved. TW Vomit - will cover any piece where a character pukes, considers puking, or characters discuss puking in detail. TW SA Mention - will cover any piece where topics relating to Sexual Assault and Dubious Consent are discussed. Note: This blog will never depict sexual assault on screen but some characters are SA Survivors and their struggles may be explored. TW Intrusive Thoughts - will cover any piece where a character has or expresses self harming or suicidal thoughts or impulses that may be triggering. This does not mean that a character is acting on these thoughts, just that they are having them.

This list will be a living document and will be updated as needed. If new tags are added to the list, an announcement will be posted. This announcement will always precede any content containing the relevant trigger unless the tag was requested after the fact.

If there is a tag that you would like to see added to the list, please send an ask requesting it. I will try to accommodate these requests although I may not add another tag if I think a tag on the list already covers the same topic.

Heavy Content Alert

Some readers have expressed interest in receiving advanced notice when a post is going to contain emotionally taxing content, like a character death. In order to avoid spoilers for those who do not want to see this kind of warning, posts of this nature will be tagged with "Heavy Content Alert" and will have vague spoilers at the top and more detailed spoilers below a read more.

Other Tags

Here is a list of other tags I use to sort different kinds of posts and content.

(Character Tags) - Every character has their own tag, simply their name, that contains every writing piece and asks where they are prominently featured. This tag updates as cats are renamed and will correspond to their current name, so, for example once an apprentice becomes a warrior, all previous posts will be re-tagged with their new warrior name. (Clan Tags) - Each Clan has its own tag (RisingClan, EarthClan, FallenClan, SkyClan, and even City Cats) that is used when that Clan is featured prominently, although the RisingClan tag is rarely used since most posts are about RisingClan. Character Refs - A tag for all character reference art. ClanGenRising - The tag for all writing pieces, character refs, heavy content warnings, and other posts considered 'canon'. This is the tag I use for the Chronological Order link. Ceremonies - Alternatively, Ceremony. Used on writing pieces where a ceremony is held. There are also specific tags for Warrior Ceremony, Apprentice Ceremony, Elder Ceremony, Healer Ceremony, and Leader Ceremony. Omens and Prophecies - A tag used when a cat receives an Omen or Prophecy. (Note: This tag has not been showing all of the pieces in it for some reason. Thanks, tumblr) (Season Tags) - There are tags for every season (Newleaf, Greenleaf, Leaffall, and Leafbare) in case you want to sort posts by season they take place in. Asks and Answers - My default tag for asks. Anon Asks - Used on any ask sent by an anon. Asks sent off anon will be tagged with the sumbitter's user name. Tips and Advice - A tag for advice on how to draw, write, run a ClanGen blog, make content, etc. Housekeeping - A tag for any posts about changes to the tag list, out of character updates, etc. Not Art - A tag for any post that is not a writing piece or an art piece. Poll - A tag for any post containing a poll. RisingClan Playlists - A tag for any character playlists, songs, or discussions of songs that may fit a character. RisingClan Voice Claims - A tag for suggestions for and discussions about what actors I headcanon as voices for my characters, otherwise called Voice Claims. You can also find a master post with all of the current Voice Claims (coming soon). Featured Follower Post - Alternatively, FFP. This tag is for my monthly Featured Follower Post where I highlight one follower and shout out all of my $5 Patrons. These posts can also be more specifically searched by with the format <Month> Featured Follower Post or FF <Month> <four digit year>, for example FF May 2024. Mentor Betting Pool - A tag for the Mentor Betting Pool competitions I hold when new apprentices are announced and for the prizes for the winners. RisingClan AU - A tag for all Alternate Universe posts or discussions. AUs include Human RisingClan, Cowboy AU, and Hallmark AU. Human RisingClan - A tag for any AUs where the cats are humans instead. Patreon - A tag for discussions about or links to my Patreon. Ko Fi - A tag for discussions about or links to my Ko-Fi. Header Archive - A tag where all previous and current headers can be found. Battle With Razor - A tag for the 9 Part Battle With Razor that was fought in Month 15.

#not art #Tag List #Trigger Warnings #Heavy Content Alert

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doofus-shmoofus · 5 months ago

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Before I turned 20 I

-got hospise for mental health issues (the lite version of grippy sock vacation)

-went to therapy

-collected trash from a dumpster once

-attended some funerals (surprisingly or not, every was for males, who'da thought?)

-owned my weirdness

-got bullied for being a catgirl (autistic/adhd/same-dif)

-ate dirtcake instead of actual dirt

-made mud pies

-had water related insidents

-got pnemonia

-got mild frostbite

-stubbed my toe

-laughed so much I peed

-got abs

-develop an impressive vocal range

things I didnt do:

commit arson.

'knuckle sandwich' a bully.

pg 13/r stuff:

-learnt about the clitoris

-worked on my shame about sexuality

-pleased a woman from just crown of her head to her breast 'cause im just that good.

things I didnt do:

-have an orgasm (from another person, I certainly can give myself those)

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excentrykemuse · 2 years ago

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Ashmoure

Title: AshmoureAuthor: ExcentrykeMuse Fandom(s): Pride & Prejudice / Twilight Saga / Vampire DiariesPairing(s): Darcy/Bella, (past) Bella/Edward Wordcount: 3.7kRating: PG Warning(s): frostbite, Twilight vampires, Vampire Diaries vampires, open ending, Darcy never married ElizabethPrompt: for Rebecca is Cool who wanted Bella/Darcy where Darcy is a vampire and Bella meets him after the…

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cybermoonmoon · 2 months ago

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Weird 2021 Lockdown memory. (Story PG-13)

Just got up next thing I know the sun is headed down. Bathed stared blankly. Shopped. Covid gouging. I will 'not' spend $10 bucks for a pack of fucking hot dogs! Was gonna wander to the park. But a thousand pissed off screaming cop cars beat me to it. Shots echoed in our narrow streets. Heat was headed to some serious shit. This town is jump'n! Folks getting blown away everywhere. It's like Times Square in the 70's, but without the porn.

I gets back to my digs alive. Does that Delta/Covid detox. Reeking of disinfectants I sits down. Watches 1950's commercials on You Tube. Era of peace, and stability. Biggest problems Segregation and Nuclear annihilation. The foul hangovers of these sticking around like crashes from giant speed-ball binges.

The bleeping two toned chromed 50's. Chilled to visions of regular guys no blacks or gals yet, with decent jobs driving '57 Chevys' puffing the hell away on Chesterfields. Gawd was in his heaven, and Eisenhower in da White House. What the bleep more could ya ask for. We'll never see such days again...thank fucking gawd!

Aside from folks getting shot in the head and ten buck hot dogs. I just loves this town. Anyway, da days getting shorter. Soon instead of heat stroke we'll complain about frostbite, and 'Black Ice'. Deadly shit ya can't see, but will slide you, and your car into a ditch. Tax-free.

Yeah, it was a nice sunny day in the shot to hell Emerald City. Anywhere else on earth. All this noise would be front page news. Here it's just Tuesday. Below artist conception of the fun in da park. Hope you're having as much fun as we are.

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carolinemillerbooks · 9 months ago

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New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/dementia-and-communion/

Dementia And Communion

A question lingers in my mind three years after my mother’s death. Was I a dutiful daughter in her declining years? An earlier blog recounts an incident when I failed her. She’d taken a spill as the pair of us left a restaurant during a rain storm. She was 101 at the time and already suffering from memory loss. Given her condition, the mishap roiled in my mind for several days. Finally, I decided I’d been guilty of placing my parent in a life-threatening circumstance and decided never to take her out again. Instead, I carried her favorite meals to her. Deprived of stimulation beyond her four walls, however, her acuity seemed to decline. By the time she died at 104, I decided I had been over protective. Age is a much-feared disease and all who suffer it will die. Ponce de Leon dreaded the thought of growing old. A 16th-century Spanish Explorer, he secured his place in history as the traveler who searched for the fountain of youth. Like Herodotus who lived in 400 B. C. Greece, he hoped the myth that such a fountain existed was true. Sadly, he never found it or managed to recapture a single lost second of his life. Time’s direction is forward, and we grow old because of it. At 87, my decline is undeniable. I need hearing aids and glasses. Last week a company installed a caption phone to improve my ability to understand what callers have to say. Mercifully, the installer left me with a manual—a rarity these days. Otherwise, I’d have been forced to search the internet for instructions, a procedure that seldom works for me. Despite the diminuendo of my life, I have no plans to go gently into that good night; but I won’t take extreme measures either. Starving myself to extend my days strikes me as a living death. Nor will I arrange for my body to be frozen after I’m gone in the hope I can be resurrected in the future. (“The One Body Problem,” by Rachel Dodes, Vanity Fair, Feb. 2024, pg.98.) I’ve no doubt I’d awake with my wrinkles preserved but suffering from frostbite. My goal as I age is to be at peace with my decline. That includes accepting the onset of dementia should it come. I see no handicap in living in the moment after recollection fades. One happy fact about the disease is that memory loss doesn’t affect creativity. A retired accountant who can no longer balance his checkbook, for example, has become a gifted photographer. (“Love, Dementia and Robots,” by Kat McGowan, Wired, March/April 2024, 70.) His story gives me hope that no matter the state of my memory, imagination will allow me to continue to spin yarns for many years. Whether we like it or not, old age forces us to reframe who we are. We may no longer be doctors, lawyers, or candlestick makers, but we do keep our inner lives. Even René Descartes, the father of science and reason, wouldn’t deny that truth. I think, therefore I exist… even in my fantasies. If dementia takes us to another place, that’s no proof we are lost. Erased memories may prevent me from reliving experiences with my friends, but who’s to say, they can’t enter mine? Technology and AI are beginning to ask that question. Sometimes, a memory device can be simple. One is a musical pillow. Touch it and it plays songs from World 11. “We’ll Meet Again,” never fails to wake one elderly woman from her dreams. Hearing the music, she breaks into song. Her daughter, seated beside her, touches her hand, and then their voices rise together. The “reunion” may bring tears to the daughter’s eyes, but I suspect they are good tears. (Ibid, pg. 73) I wish I had thought to enter my mother’s world instead of insisting she remain in mine. She didn’t seem unhappy where she was. I’d no need to drag her through the rain to keep her with me. I could have sought other ways to send my words through time and space to greet* her. If I had, it might have made all the difference. *James Elroy Flecker, To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence

#dementia #Descartes #Herodotus #Kat McGowan #musical pillow #my mother's dementia #on aging #Ponce de Leon #Rachel Doddes #the fountain of youth

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rosemairebelikova · 2 years ago

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“Hey, little dhampir.”

Startled, I realized someone was indeed standing on the porch. A guy - a moroi- leaned against the wall not far from the door. He brought a cigarette up to his mouth, took a long drag, and then dropped it to the floor. He stamped the butt out and crooked a smile. That was the scent, I realize. Clove cigarettes.

Warily, I stopped and crossed my arms as I took him in. He was a little shorter than Dimitri but wasn't as lanky as some Moroi guys ended up looking. A long, charcoal coat - probably made out of some insanely expensive cashmere-wool blend- fit his body exceptionally well, and the leather dress shoes he wore indicated more money still. He has brown hair that looked like it had been purposely styled to appear a little unkempt, and his eyes were either blue or green - I didn't have quite enough light to know for sure. His face was cute, I supposed, and I pegged him to be a couple years older than me. He looked like he’d just come from a dinner party.

“Yeah?” I asked.

His eyes swept over my body. I was used to attention from Moroi guys. It just usually wasn't so obvious. And I usually wasn't bundled up in winter clothing and sporting a black eye.

He shrugged. “Just saying hi, that’s all.”

— Frostbite (Chapter 10, pg 135)

#vampire academy #va #vampire academy family #va family #vampire academy cast #vampire academy fandom #vampire academy tv series #rose hathaway #vampire academy tv show #vampire #sisi stringer #adrian ivashkov #leo woodall #vampire academy quotes #vampire academy peacock #vampire academy stan #rodrian #frostbite

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misscloudiedays · 2 years ago

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More frostbite because I missed those guys

The boys meet the PG cast, how does it go?

Can’t word so

Doodles

#frost bite au #frostbite au #frostbite sonic #sonics playground #sth #sth au

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autumnalwalker · 2 years ago

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Empty Names - 2 - Back From The Looking Glass

Author's Note: The second chapter rough draft and second core cast intro for Empty Names. The previous chapter can be found here. Masterpost with table of contents here. Word Count: 3,043 Content Warnings: Violence/combat in the form of a wizard duel. What might qualify as mild body horror as a part of said wizard duel. Frostbite. Probably nothing in here that would be worse than a PG-13 rating. Once again, if anyone reads this and sees something that I should have included a content warning for, let me know and I'll go back and add it. Here goes my first attempt at writing a fight scene.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

“I hate anime,” Ashan grumbles to himself for the second time that day.

No, that was not quite fair. He had some vague recollection of enjoying some show or another as a child. What was it called again? Something with magic cards and a girl on roller skates. An interesting concept for quick casting of spells, but unlikely to be practical with its reliance on bound spirits. There was also the one with the talking hamsters. That one had been fun.

Perhaps it is not so much anime itself as anime conventions that bother him. Even after being back on the world of his birth for a few years now, he is still not used to the sheer density of the crowds. And the novelty of convention goers stopping to ask him who he is supposed to be wears thin quickly. Even worse are the ones who mistake him for a favorite character and ask for a picture. And while he is used to being mistaken for a woman - and even finds amusement in it so long as the mistake is not repeated after correction - the well-intended compliments mistaking his white robes for a dress are beginning to test his patience.

All that is secondary though to the fact that such concentrated escapism and suspension of disbelief makes for a Masquerade breach waiting to happen. Coupled with the sheer number of cosplayers making it easy for outsiders to blend in, it was no wonder that there is nearly always an incident at these events.

An incident like one in one hundred event pamphlets listing an event in a room that the other ninety-nine in one hundred mark as not being in use.

At last, he finally extracts himself from yet another group wanting a photo - this one with costumes unsettlingly similar to his own raiment - and waves them off with a practiced smile. Almost always best to play along and blend in. Alone in the crowd once more, he double-checks the pamphlet.

Room 322. 2:00pm. Get Isekai’d!: An interactive panel to kickstart your magical journey to another world (without being hit by a truck).

Just around the corner and several minutes to spare yet.

Turning said corner feels like stepping into a new building. Empty and unadorned, save for two doors flanking the terminus of a dead end hallway. Through some quirk of acoustics the constant background noise of the crowd fades to a distant murmur after only a few steps down the hall. Even the lighting is perceptibly dimmer without the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main concourse. Room 322 has no sign outside to proclaim the event yet the door remains cracked open enough to catch a glimpse of the small audience already seated inside.

After a quick glance to verify no one else is coming down the hall, Ashan stretches to touch a finger to the top of the doorframe and begins tracing esoteric symbols. Wherever he touches, the surface takes on a glassy sheen.

Tapping the center of his work a final time, his breath mists in the air as he makes a quick chant with no literal translation. The drawn symbols shimmer in response then fade, now invisible to the untrained eye.

He blinks, observes his ward, finds it satisfactory, and rubs some warmth back into his hands before stepping into the room.

The room is a small one by convention standards. Only a few dozen plastic chairs lined up facing a small stage set against the far wall. Less than half the chairs are occupied, making for a lower attendance than Ashan had feared. Good. Fewer people to worry about getting hurt.

Up on stage a tall man in a turtleneck that strains against his bodybuilder proportions paces in front of a freestanding wooden door with a polished white stone inset into the top of its frame. The stage rattles with the weight of his every step. As Ashan takes a seat near the front the presenter checks his phone then walks over to a podium with a laptop. A projector comes to life and throws the title of the panel across a screen next to the stage.

As the presentation begins, Ashan only halfway pays attention to the words being said or the slides on the screen. Watching for signs of hostile spells and workings takes up too much of his focus for that. And besides, the history and greatest hits of a genre about normal people going on adventures in other worlds can only hold so much interest for one who has actually lived it. Although in his experience the real thing involved significantly fewer women of dubious proportions in impractical and revealing outfits.

Twenty minutes into the scheduled hour-long panel, Ashan begins to wonder if this is simply a case of a magically-inclined nerd using his abilities to skip out on paying the panel booking fees. True, the presenter’s body is obviously modified, but it would hardly be the first time a new mage transmuted himself in an ill-conceived attempt at “improvement,” and he has not really done anything incriminating yet. Still, the “interactive” portion of the panel’s title is worrisome and the door’s function remains forebodingly elusive.

“Show of hands: who here wishes you could get away from this life and start over as a hero in a new world?”

The sight and sound of a score of hands going up around him jolts Ashan’s focus back to the speaker’s words.

“Well then, do I have the chance of a lifetime in store for all of you.” The presenter saunters over to the door in the center of the stage and leans on the frame. A murmur of anticipation goes through the crowd. With a theatrical flourish, the presenter knocks four times and the door swings inward.

The door does not come out from the backside of the frame.

On the other side of the doorway everyone in the audience can see a trail coming out of a forest and meandering over rolling grassy hills. A castle can be seen in the far distance, white walls gleaming in the sunlight. A breeze blows into the room carrying the scent of flowers.

Several people gasp. Others start whispering, asking what is going on. Someone starts clapping at what they think to be a clever trick.

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing, I know,” the presenter says. “And to answer the question I’m sure you’re all asking yourselves right now,” he steps in front of the door and begins walking backwards, “this is very real.” To drive the point home he steps to the right, disappearing out of sight entirely before coming back into view from the left before coming back through the door and walking a circle around it on stage.

“So, who wants to go first?” he asks with a smug grin.

Hands shoot up. Chairs get pushed back as audience members jump to their feet. The questions of what is going on get louder. A couple of people with stronger survival instincts start edging toward the door.

Ashan sighs, gets to his feet, and calmly climbs onto stage before any of the over-eager fools can beat him to it.

“Now that’s what I like to see!” the presenter says as Ashan approaches the door. “Can I have your name miss…ter?”

“My name is mine to keep,” he replies, “but perhaps you would not mind answering a few questions? I imagine it would set the rest of the audience at ease to know more precisely what awaits them.”

“I’d be delighted. Although I assure you all that this is perfectly safe.”

“As we saw with your demonstration, I am sure.” Threshold wards rarely affect their casters. “But what about language? Will we be able to understand the people we meet on the other side?”

“Obviously. The portal auto-magically applies the standard multiversal translator spell used by all travelers. Would you believe I’m not even speaking English right now?”

“Fascinating.” Ashan mentally runs through the signs of the seven different translation practices common in this local cluster that he can recall off the top of his head. This man is showing none of them. “And what of the Autogenesis Principle? Do you have any advice for those here wanting to escape their failures from physically manifesting their own internalized inadequacies?”

The presenter’s smirk falters. “I’m not sure what fandom you’re roleplaying at right now, but that’s not anything anyone here needs to worry about. So either go on through or get out of the way so everyone else can get their adventure underway.”

“Just one more question, if you would kindly humor me.” Ashan places a hand on the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them and asks “Does this essence siphon function on infernal or necromantic principles?”

The presenter’s smile disappears altogether. “How did you - ”

“Necromantic then. I cannot imagine a patron willing to aid a novice who would fail to even recognize another mage in this blunder of a Masquerade breach.”

The necromancer regains his composure and shrugs. “Okay, you got me. But hey,” he snaps his fingers and spikes of bone erupt from the floor, barring the mundane exit from the room, “it’s not a Masquerade breach if the witnesses are all dead. So what do you say we split the haul seventy-thirty and you look the other way.”

The room goes silent for a moment before the dawning realization of the situation finally breaks and the audience starts shouting and rushing the barred exit, trying in vain to escape. Except, of course, for the handful of stubborn skeptics mocking them for freaking out.

Ashan looks at the crowd pressing themselves into the bars of bone and makes a tsk sound. He should have noticed that on his way in. Returning his gaze to the necromancer he says “I shall never understand people like you.”

“Fine, sixty-forty and that’s the best you’re getting unless you wanna help me herd the sheep in here.”

“I shall never understand those who believe the possession of knowledge and power makes the lives of those without expendable.”

The necromancer begins to back up. “So that’s how it is, huh? Fancy yourself some kind of hero?”

“No one has yet been hurt. I shall give you one chance to leave now and never try this again.”

“How very generous of you,” the necromancer replies. The words drip with sarcasm and venom. “With an offer like that I can only say…” he reaches the edge of the stage. “Get boned!”

The surface of the stage splinters and cracks. With a flick of the wrist Ashan has his pearlescent wand in hand. An ivory spear hurtles up at him from below. A quick looping motion with the wand and a transparent shield appears in the air. The spear is deflected through the portal. As are the next three after. Ashan follows up with drawing another, larger shield over the door. It would not do to fall in himself.

That precaution proves timely as the necromancer lets out a bellow of pain and rage and his right arm explodes into a tendril of muscle and bony spikes that darts across the stage before slamming into Ashan’s side. He manages to get his free hand up, palm out, in time to keep the tendril from making direct contact but now finds himself squeezed between two of his own barriers. Stabbing the wand into the barrier holding back the tendril he wills his conjuration away and up. The tendril swings away from him and out over the heads of the audience before retracting back into a semblance of an arm.

The audience is screaming now. Even the most skeptical have been made believers. The bars on the door still hold. Ashan’s breath mists in the air grown cold around him.

The necromancer wastes no words as he charges the wizard. As he runs, his other arm shreds its sleeve as it bulks up and grows talons over its fingers. A morbid parody of dance ensues back and forth across the stage. The necromancer rains down crushing blows and Ashan casually deflects them with shields that flicker in and out of existence. More spikes erupt from below and Ashan gracefully sidesteps. The necromancer’s face twists in rage and Ashan’s remains placid.

Eventually, the necromancer grows frustrated with this game and changes tactics. He extends the tendril of his right arm once more, sending it plunging toward the one audience member still seated. Ashan makes a slashing motion with the wand followed by an upward flick and a wall of what looks like glass rises to cut the stage off from the rest of the room. The tendril crumples on itself as it slams into the newmade wall.

The fact that the seated man in the yellow vest did not so much as flinch at nearly being impaled distracts Ashan enough that the followup swipe from the left claw manages to graze his cheek. Enough playing around to wear the brute down then.

Wielding his wand like a brush, Ashan visualizes the chains running from the floor to the necromancer’s limbs and then paints them into being. The next blow comes to a rattling halt midair. The necromancer has just enough time to look at his wrist in surprise before Ashan makes another gesture and the chains pull him down, forcing him to his knees.

“You have lost,” Ashan says in an even tone. He is no longer the only person in the room whose breath is condensing into mist. Every surface in the room now bears dewdrops from the rapid drop in temperature over the past few minutes. Ashan resists the urge to shiver before continuing. “And still, no one has been hurt. Come along quietly and I imagine you can still negotiate a lighter sentence than you deserve.”

“Who the hell are you? Some kind of cop?” The necromancer pants heavily, pausing for breath between sentences. “How did you even know I was here? And why is it so damn cold in here?”

Ashan cocks his head at finally hearing a question from the novice mage he might deign to answer. “Tis but a slight twisting of thermodynamics. Absent a local concept for ambient energy such as aether or mana, one must needs improvise. Only the inexperienced and the foolhardy draw from their own metabolism,” Ashan nods toward his shaking opponent, “as you seem to be.”

“Oh really…”

“Indeed. Although I would not advise such a technique to the untrained.”

“Cocky bastard, bragging about your secret techniques when you think you’ve won.” Frost begins to form on the stage around the necromancer.

“It is hardly a secret. And really, you should not attempt it. Especially in your current state.”

“You know.”

The spikes of bone scattered about the stage begin to shake.

“Where you.”

The necromancer begins shivering violently.

“Can take your advice.”

The spikes rise into the air.

“And shove it?”

The spikes all turn to face Ashan.

“‘Cause I’m about to show you!”

The spikes begin to move in on Ashan, gathering speed.

The necromancer falls over with a thud and the spikes clatter harmlessly to the stage. Ashan walks over to him and notes the white and blue patches of frostbite covering the fallen man’s skin. He bends down and checks for a pulse. He finds one. Unconscious, but alive. Beginner’s luck.

Ashan stands back up, exhales, lets his remaining conjurations dissipate, and allows himself to shiver.

A slow clap from the sole remaining audience member disrupts his reverie.

Wait. Sole remaining? When did the screaming stop? Where did everyone go? He whips around to see the man in the yellow vest leaning against the wall next to the exit door. The bars of bone now lay shattered on the ground.

“You certainly live up to your reputation, Ashan Glassheart.” The man stops clapping and looks around the ruined stage. “Well, maybe a little more collateral damage than I expected, but credit where credit is due, the rookie knew what he was doing with stashing unenchanted raw material for his trap.” He pauses to stroke his goatee in consideration. “Or maybe just dumb luck on his part.”

“Do I know you?” Ashan asks.

“I should hope not,” the man replies. “I try to keep out of the spotlight. The name’s Sullivan Bridgewood. At my service.” He gives a flourishing bow as makes the introduction.

“I thought the sorceress Bridgewood was a woman.”

“That would be my dearly departed wife, Void rest her soul.”

“My condolences, but that still does not explain what you want with me.”

Bridgewood puts a hand to his chest and feigns an offended gasp. “So suspicious. And after I helped and set all the normies free while you were giving your lecture. Nice job on the amnestic ward by the way. Always fun to watch them go from running for their lives to milling about confused.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“Oh, lighten up will you, I’m getting to that.” He walks over to the stage and leans an elbow on it, looking up at Ashan. “Have you ever heard of the individual known as Road?”

Ashan arches an eyebrow in surprise. “The guy who runs around in purple armor fighting subway dragons and saving goth kids from vampire cults?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“From what I have heard they are a noble fool who just happens to be skilled and lucky enough to back up their reckless actions. But a fool whose heart is in the right place. Supposedly they used to be a big deal before disappearing several years ago.” Ashan stops himself and gets back to the still unanswered question. “Why?”

Bridgewood chuckles. “Because,” he drags out the word, “said noble fool just so happens to be an old friend of mine and recently got back to town. They’re looking to put a team together and could use a proper spellslinger.” He smiles just a little too widely and reaches up a hand. “So, interested?”

Ashan feels a shiver go down his back that is only partially related to the cold.

“Help me clean up in here and get this villain to the authorities in Crossherd and I shall consider it.”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

#writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #Writeblr #WIP #Empty Names #serial fiction #writing practice #writers on tumblr #creative writing #literature #prose #writers #web novel #novel #fantasy #fiction #my writing #emptynameswriting

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ftwkcomic · 7 months ago

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Helluva Bussiness Comic Page 20

Get yourself a man that looks at you like Jarrod looks at a Multi-Ring Pass. Portfolio: https://ftwkcomicbooks.myportfolio.com Discord: https://discord.gg/TQUA26Naj8

Socials and comms info https://ftwkcomic.carrd.co/

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hawnks · 4 years ago

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Hi there! I was wondering if you take requests? If so could I request Hawks/Fem.Reader where reader is hit with a quirk by a villain that is slowly freezing her. By the time Keigo gets to her ( at home) her fingers lips and skin look blue, so he has to warm her up ( with cuddles). If not sorry to bother you and thank you for taking the time to read and answer this :D

uuuuuhhhhhhh the answer to that is, vaguely: perhaps. i’ll take them as more of a suggestion than a stick to poke at muse with (i maintain my right to write what i want uwu), but i’d love to hear ideas!! :3

Anyway…...have a snack

................................................................................................................................

wc: 1,000, pg 13, [post attack snuggles, protective keigo, bathtime]

By the time he makes it home, the last vestiges of the attack are the shivers that wrack your body and the layers upon layers of clothing you wear. You’d gotten back from the ER about two hours ago with the instructions to bundle up and rest.

You were lucky, in a lot of ways. The freezing quirk you were hit with was at the end of it’s range, weak and mostly ineffectual. It hit you in the arm. You were treated for a middling case of frostbite in the affected area and then sent on your way.

You spot Hawks barreling toward the penthouse balcony, a bright ray of red in the sky.

“Non-lethal!” you hurry to assure him as he whips open the door.

Doesn’t matter. He looks nearly feral as he falls to his knees before the couch, grabbing at any piece of you he can, all of you.

You give him your frigid fingers. He presses a smattering of kisses into your palm, then guides your hand to the warm column of his neck, trying to give you his heat.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, flexing your thumb. It brushes against his adams apple, the coarse tendons straining under his skin. “I got you.”

He’s still shaken by the afternoon, the message he received from his assistant after the dust had settled and the villain was in custody. You had been swept up in the melee, on your way to get coffee with a friend. He wasn’t even made aware until after the press briefing, as he was on his way back to the office to clean up.

Everything is fine, he was informed.

But it wasn’t. You had been hit, hurt, and he didn’t even know until an hour, maybe two, after the fact. It makes him seethe in his own skin, fills him with an impotent energy with no outlet.

He picks you up off the couch and carries you to the bathroom. As the tub fills with steaming water, he peels off your layers. Overcoat and sweater, leggings, two pairs of fleece socks. They pile on the floor, a limp accusation.

Every inch of skin revealed he kisses and pets and rubs, heats with his breath and his own body. Your temperature is still too low for his liking. He wants to press his own warmth into you, wants to bundle you up inside of him and keep you safe.

“You’re good to me, baby,” you tell him as he lifts you into the water, follows you down. The two of you do nothing, no cleaning involved at all, just sit in the simmering warmth, wrapped around each other.

When the water starts to cool he hauls you out again, sending a couple of feathers to grab some clothes and a blanket for you both. You don’t make it out of the bathroom. He’s too clingy to get distance, and he turns on the shower on the highest setting to warm the room again.

You end up curled into one another on the floor, you in his lap, facing each other.

It’s quiet for a long while. You’re not cold at all anymore, not with him wrapped around you so well. In your closeness you can feel the way he starts to fall apart. His chest shuddering with half-breaths, his mouth working in silent murmurs against your throat. With your arms wrapped around his middle your hands brush against his interior feathers as they tense and release sporadically. You brush a finger along one of the spines to remind him not to let them get sharp.

He’s not crying yet, but as his wings spread in response to your gentle prodding, you know it’s coming.

“Baby, what’s the matter?” you whisper.

His response is just a quiet, warbling, “Please.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay silent. Just smooth out the knotted barbs, press stray kisses against his bare shoulders, his collar bones.

The lack of control is hard for him. There are darker, less tame parts of him that want to lock you up, force your safety. He admitted to you, once, that he’s thought about running, stealing you away to some secluded place where it would be just you and him and the sky. He has pictures on his phone. Sometimes he flicks through them when patrol is slow, a ranch out South, where you could both just slow down, rest. He wants it so bad. But he wants your happiness more than that. More than anything.

There’s no right answer. You’re soft, vulnerable-- there’s no helping it. You weren’t trained to survive, not like he was. There have been precautions taken. A surprising amount, actually. For someone as seemingly laid back as he is, Hawks does not take your security lightly. Still, there’s only so much he can do to keep the outside world from touching you. Life can’t be lived inside the penthouse alone, as much as he may try to convince you otherwise.

All that’s left to do is hold on and hold on and hold on. Keep each other warm in the aftermath, as best you’re able.

You feel yourself growing slurred with sleepiness. You can’t stay here forever, and you’d like to crawl into an actual bed after your strenuous day. Finally you try to pull yourself up, but his grip goes rigid and tight, his teeth brushing against your skin as he buries his mouth hard against you.

“Stay. Please.”

You settle back against him, your eyes creeping shut. You know he’ll take care of you, when you’re out. He always does.

“Okay,” you tell him. “We can stay. We can stay for as long as you want.”

#i have a Thing for bathtub fics #hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #bnha x reader #mint talks #maemi324 #request

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electricbluebutterflies · 1 year ago

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Kabby + get inside before you freeze to death.”

This is what I get for thinking that writing them couldn't hit the intense internal places anymore. WRONG. Post-s2 grayspace, PG-ish, and also on ao3.

This is just not her day.

To be fair, Abby has thought that… most days for the past few months, and the exceptions were usually worse but at least too much going on for her to process how bad it all was. The calm of winter was supposed to fix that, but winter on the ground hasn’t exactly been…

Mundane frustrations, she’s starting to think, are somehow worse than the possible end of the goddamn world. She’s not sure how that works, but it does.

Today, as usual, the primary cause of her anger and anxiety is the same person who’s reliably given her those emotions for close to thirty years. If she remembers right, the first thought she ever had about Marcus was that he was going to be a problem, and the judgment of twelve-year-olds is rarely so accurate but in this case…

The nature of the problem has changed a bit, but the problem remains. And today, apparently, the problem is passive-aggressively trying to kill himself. Again.

The power hierarchy is more fluid than it’s ever been in Abby’s lifetime, and while she’s functionally running things, she’s decided there are some areas she can delegate. Like anything involving the Guard – not her world, not her interest, not her problem now that Marcus has made it multiple months without even accidentally trying to kill her. In a functional world, she would not have to make suggestions about, say, more frequent rotations for outdoor shifts. In this one, apparently…

If the rumors are true, and anything four separate people report back to her tends to at least be worth checking out, he’s decided to give himself all the dangerous postings. Like overnight in the middle of a snowstorm. Alone.

In another life – two months ago, even – she might’ve thought about ignoring this particular bad life choice. He’s comfortably in her age bracket, aka more than old enough for fuck-around-and-find-out, and she might enjoy watching whatever goes wrong. Unfortunately…

Adequate damage control means going out in said nighttime snowstorm herself, in the thickest oversized coat she could find and armed with a flashlight the width of her lower arm, and reminding herself that this bullshit rescue mission is going to be easier than whatever frostbite might be acquired if someone were left unsupervised, because that would also end up her problem, because that man is living proof the universe hates her and-

“Are you out of what’s left of your fucking mind?” she says in greeting once she’s close enough to… well, not yell yet, but…

“Do I want to know what emergency brought you out here?”

“I’m looking at it,” she replies. “You’re out here in the middle of this and-“

“Someone has to-“

“No. Not today. Anything that might be an actual threat to us presumably also has the sense to stay in some kind of shelter in this weather. Now get inside before you freeze to death.”

Marcus looks her up and down like he’s more worried about her than himself, and of course he is, too many of his failed attempts at whatever he’s even doing have looked like an atonement tour, and she’s starting to wonder if-

“Someone-“

“Not. Today. And not you.”

She can’t lose him, she thinks and can’t say under these circumstances. Too much of her identity has gotten tangled up in their complications to a point where he’s almost the only thing she has left and-

“Like you actually give a damn.”

The fucking nerve of him.

“Would I be out here in this lovely weather, halfway up into a questionably stable uninsulated watchtower, if I didn’t care about you? Has it at any point occurred to you that maybe I don’t-“

“You shouldn’t.”

Oh, like she needs reminding. His recent behavior is actually tolerable, the personality shift seems to have stuck well enough, but… this is still new and dangerous, and fascinating out of that, and-

“You don’t get to die on me and leave me like that, understand? You want to go out there and die tragic somehow, fine, but you don’t get to intentionally do that without a succession plan and-“

“I wasn’t aware-“

“Of course you weren’t,” she hisses. “You don’t think about anything but yourself. Even now. And no amount of moralistic-“

“You would be better on your own.”

“Maybe. But I’d be lonely.”

That makes him quiet, brings him closer to her. She sees that quiet pain in his eyes, all the things she thinks may be hers alone because she’s the only person left who’d think to look for them, and maybe…

“I will escort you back inside,” he says after adequate silence and time. “As is within my responsibilities.”

“You’ve done too much to me to be that formal right now.”

“Can you believe I am trying to do better?”

Maybe not in words, she thinks, but actions have shown her enough. Whatever quest he’s on for absolution, it seems to start with doing right by her, and he… has, lately. They’ve made it multiple days in a row, primarily working in the same space, without sparring. The last time she felt threatened by him was… the last time. They are in a new era now, and-

“I want to,” she breathes. “I am trying to.”

He joins her on the ground, and it’s easy enough to entwine their gloved hands, to stay that close as they walk back towards warmth. There are snowflakes in his beard and she has the fleeting thought that she should brush them out with her free hand, and she does, and-

“What was that for?”

It has been, Abby thinks, far too long since she’s given that kind of touch, and it awakens something in her that she knows now is not the time for and-

“I wanted to,” she replies, recoiling just as quickly before anything else can happen. “I-“

She realizes she probably worsened the issue, and she’d offer to deal with it again when they’re indoors but skin on skin might be a problem and-

“You always have to take care of people. Whether they ask for it or-“

“Better than trying to become a sacrifice at every opportunity,” she counters. “And you leaned into that, you weren’t exactly-“

“You of all people should know a biological reaction isn’t-“

“I am trying to respond to you! And I would love to know what you get out of saying you want to do right by me and at the same time pushing me away every time I-“

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“You deserve better.”

“I don’t think we’re in a situation where that matters. I have you. Fuck me for wanting to make that functional.”

She expects him to fight back, but he’s been doing that less and less lately and instead they slip back into comfortable silence until they’re indoors, hands still entwined as he walks with her to her room and-

“If you go right back outside…”

In this part of the building she’s taken up residence in, they can hear the howling winter wind. Nothing is out in that. Any living thing, regardless of intentions, is too cold to be a threat.

“I could claim that you had requested my presence.”

“Don’t make this weirder than it has to be.”

It isn’t, though. In the haze of everything that had happened when logistics were worked out, and her own immobility at the time, someone had appropriated a bed suited for two people and… it had been a nice week of knowing there was another presence near her, as cautious as he was not to touch her. Nothing happened, no matter what anyone else thinks, and-

“You heard something and you asked for me,” he decides. “Plausible enough.”

“You realize too many people think we’re screwing each other every chance we get,” she counters. “We don’t need a story, realistic or otherwise. Just… stay, okay? Stay where I can see you and let me sleep.”

There’s no real need for talk after that. They’ve done this before, this fakeout domesticity, and… it’s a little different with neither of them wounded, but still familiar enough. Still perfectly safe for her to strip down to minimal layers and slip under blankets that will be shared and-

“You’re a terror,” he mutters, letting her get comfortable before he joins her.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

#ebf writes fic #kabby #queue

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