#cold fingertips

[diannabridden]

🧊 - because Harriet absolutely would do something like that

Send “🧊” for your muse to touch my muse with cold fingertips.

There was something about the air being so still and silent that Dianna should have realized it meant that the universe was up to no good, as she stood with her back to the bases kitchen slowly stirring a bit of milk into her coffee, body disheveled as usual in the mornings when she first rolled out of bed. Even as her back prickled with her natural alarm system alerting her that someone was behind her, it was fast enough to warn her of the cold icy fingertips of death that were laid out against her back, causing her to let out a screeched yelp that nearly tossed her coffee everywhere. “MOTHAH OF FUCKIN’ HELL- What tha fuck Harriet?!!” Her angry cry turning into a seething growl as she turned on whoever it was that was brave enough to put anything cold on her, honestly thinking that it was probably Sam or one of her cousins cheeky enough to pull that kind of stunt. 

@the-wild-hare

[flyingsassysaddles]

Cold Fingertips, Chp. 1 Teaser

I finally started writing the Tibet/Mongolia humanverse fic I've always needed (that I tend to be a series) but while I'm ironing out the first chapter, enjoy the teaser!

--

Damn, it was cold outside. Munkhbat wiped his nose, blood stains dripping down his thumb. Cold and miserable, that was today. His head was filled with drunken bees, billions of them, but at the same time it felt completely empty. 

But god did his wounds hurt. The bruises less so, he was used to it. But a harsh boot had cut open his face and his ears were wet with something that smelled like iron, hopefully someone else's. But no matter the warmth the blood gave, it was still cold outside, and the bees were tired enough to want nothing else but to be somewhere safe. Not home, just somewhere. Which was why he was at the house of the Tibetan guy who did his math homework at times. Fun. 

As his weakly tattered shoe stepped onto the front porch, he was having doubts- the moon was pretty high in the sky and his wanting to be gawked at even lower in the dirt. 

Everything was just so...cotton filled. Boiled. Remnants of anger flew by once in a while, but his limbs were so tired. Tired and battered and broken. 

A cold burst blew by and alit reason, letting him really think for a moment. He could go home. Face his family accusations and nurse his wounds. But their words bit, batted him into pieces, and he was already in pieces. He just wanted somewhere quiet. He needed someone quiet.