#fantasy snippet

[alilbatflies]

I took part in @thepenultimateword's song-story writing challenge. It was fun!

My assigned song was Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel, submitted by @wacko-weirdo.

...

The fire cracks and sways, warm against the cold night. The shadows of those gathered around it dance much like flowers in the wind, swaying calmly without hurry. A unique form of slow dancing.

The hunter watches from further away. They could listen in on the conversation if they wanted to, but the sounds all smudge in their head. They barely manage to thread the waters of their conflicting thoughts. They’re tired.

The tree against their back is grounding. It’s the hunter’s only comfort. They don’t think to ask for more. They couldn’t possibly.

The group seems so calm. As if they’ve forgotten that there are still soldiers hunting them. The conversation is light, flickering with laughter like the dancing flames, all-consuming.

…perhaps they wish to forget for a while.

The hunter would much like to forget, too.

“Are you going to join us?”

The hunter looks at their old friend. Old friend doesn’t quite cut it. Neither does lover. Neither does any other label that the hunter has tried over the years. Their friend is simply always there.

Their witch friend.

The witch meets their eyes. The fire reflects in the deep brown that is so familiar to the hunter. Its familiarity offers comfort—comfort, which the hunter is unable to accept.

The hunter can’t bear to look.

They turn back towards the fire. Staring into the light is a bad idea, the hunter knows, for one cannot monitor the shadows blinded. And yet, they look. The blazing flames seem to swallow their worries, to soothe. The fire gazes right into their soul and warms its darkest corners. It all feels alright for a little while.

The witch gently takes their hand. They tug the hunter along, towards the fire.

The hunter’s arm lifts to follow the movement but they do not budge. The tree they’re leaning against is their anchor then. They fear losing their ground. They fear getting lost entirely.

They want to go. They want to let themselves be pulled along, they want to join everyone, they want to belong. They want to belong, to finally, finally…

“I’ve killed too many.”

On someone else’s orders. Because of someone else’s ideals. They didn’t know better.

The blood is on their hands.

I might have killed you, too.

The witch steps closer to them, interlocking their fingers instead. They examine their hand, the knuckles, callouses and scars. Those little wounds that tell the stories, if one can read them well enough.

They run their fingers over the hunter’s bandaged forearm, a ghost of a touch. They were the one who tended to the hunter’s injury that day.

“You’ve helped us get away.” The witch meets the hunter’s gaze. “You’ll help us still, won’t you?”

“Of course.” For you.

The witch keeps staring into their eyes. They might be trying to look right past, into the hunter’s mind and soul. They might just be able to read each and every of the hunter’s thoughts.

The hunter has thoughts. The hunter has many thoughts, flying around in their head, possibly causing more harm than good. The hunter can’t seem to stop them.

The hunter knows nothing of herbs. They know nothing of healing. With each moment passing by, they learn that they know nothing of witches, either. They try to learn.

They were told witches are dangerous. They were told they were vicious, vile creatures, evil beings beyond salvation. They were told death was a witch’s only comfort.

It used to be their only truth. The only thing that could help them carry the weight of their sword somewhat, when all of the life seeped out of another pair of silver eyes. It was their shield when the weight of taking a life threatened to slit them open.

It has all shattered so easily.

The hunter vividly recalls the moment their friend’s eyes flashed silver. Their friend was pushed to the edge, looking to them for help. The pieces fit together perfectly. The soldier next to them lunged forward. Their blow never landed.

The hunter met the others a little later on. The other not so evil creatures, who just want to live.

The hunter knows a little better now.

Witches are curious about the world much like their friend has always been. They bear their own weight, the magic running silver in their blood. They desire to live. To be safe. To be understood. The hunter can relate perfectly.

They try to learn.

“Thank you,” the hunter says.

“For what?”

Thank you for opening my eyes. For trusting me. For not letting me stay in the clutches of their truth.

“Being such a pain in my ass.”

The witch laughs. The sound wraps over the hunter like a soft blanket. Nobody ever told them that a witch’s laugh could heal.

The witch lifts the hunter’s hand. They press a kiss to it, holding their gaze.

The hunter shivers.

“I should thank you,” the witch whispers, “for protecting us.”

“Always.”

The witch pulls them along again. Towards the fire. Towards their family.

This time, the hunter lets them.

[paladinsandruffians]

The God with Locks of Gold

"Every 1000 years all of the Gods get together for a contest to see who can collect the most souls with a single catastrophic event. Last time Poseidon broke the 1M mark with a Tsunami/earthquake combo. You’re up." Response to a prompt from @writing-prompt-s

You were a minor god, name known to few. You lacked a pantheon and the strength associated with it. You, like most gods, required worship to increase your strength, yet with little power you could hardly answer a prayer. You could not strengthen armies, nor could you ensure each arrow landed true. There was no ending famines nor ensuring plentiful bounties for you, for you were just the golden one, an awful little child. Who would pray to you?

The other gods from their mighty pantheons would barely spare you a glance, while the other outcast and isolated gods would derive mirth by mocking your pale, twig arms, and common clothes, and so frail a youthful face. The only thing they dare not mock was the golden mop upon your head, your only saving grace, for your golden curls were beauteous coils that only the divine could behold. And for that, they were jealous. How dare this weakling have hair so fair?

And so, you concealed it with a cap, ensuring that none other than yourself should see your locks again, yet each time they mock or tease, you see their eyes, whether they be reptilian or mammalian, birdlike or fish, attempting to catch a glimpse of your golden curls. Never do they look into your eyes.

Absorbed in your pitifulness it came as a shock to you when Posiden, the great Neptune, shaker of earth and sea, selected you. You, one of - if not - the weakest and most unassuming of the gods, was selected to upstage the god who had sent a million souls to his brother’s hall.

You knew why he picked you, once given the chance to think. The contrast, the juxtaposition, would make his victory all the more renowned when a millennium passed and the next god could barely harm a soul. He would see his glory upheld and untarnished, as the theological joke only continued to fall, slipping closer and ever closer towards oblivion.

So you set upon your duty in the only way you knew how. You scoured great libraries searching for clues while expanding your knowledge. Then you returned home, amongst the people. You spread your knowledge amongst them, bringing hope of better things. You saw the sparks of light in their eyes. You saw dreams and desires on the brink of fruition.

Then you vanished…yet your knowledge remained.

They knew of the lavish luxuries just out of reach. They knew how their not-so-distant neighbors were getting along. They knew how sweet the fruit had been and now suffer from the aftertaste. Nothing they had would ever seem so great again. And so they fought.

They fought from deep within their souls to correct a perceived wrong, for how dare they live with their eccentricities while I live with only my necessities?

And so it spread. A few dozen at first turned into a few hundred, turned into several thousand, hundreds of thousands, millions, billions of corrupted souls. Billions of mine.

Every time they thought of what others have, wanted deeply that which was not theirs, smiled through gritted teeth as someone complimented what they did have, they were worshiping me: Aurelius, god of animus.

[paladinsandruffians]

You were a minor god, name known to few. You lacked a pantheon and the strength associated with it. You, like most gods, required worship to increase your strength, yet with little power you could hardly answer a prayer. You could not strengthen armies, nor could you ensure each arrow landed true. There was no ending famines nor ensuring plentiful bounties for you, for you were just the golden one, an awful little child. Who would pray to you?

The other gods from their mighty pantheons would barely spare you a glance, while the other outcast and isolated gods would derive mirth by mocking your pale, twig arms, and common clothes, and so frail a youthful face. The only thing they dare not mock was the golden mop upon your head, your only saving grace, for your golden curls were beauteous coils that only the divine could behold. And for that, they were jealous. How dare this weakling have hair so fair?

And so, you concealed it with a cap, ensuring that none other than yourself should see your locks again, yet each time they mock or tease, you see their eyes, whether they be reptilian or mammalian, birdlike or fish, attempting to catch a glimpse of your golden curls. Never do they look into your eyes.

Absorbed in your pitifulness it came as a shock to you when Posiden, the great Neptune, shaker of earth and sea, selected you. You, one of - if not - the weakest and most unassuming of the gods, was selected to upstage the god who had sent a million souls to his brother’s hall.

You knew why he picked you, once given the chance to think. The contrast, the juxtaposition, would make his victory all the more renowned when a millennium passed and the next god could barely harm a soul. He would see his glory upheld and untarnished, as the theological joke only continued to fall, slipping closer and ever closer towards oblivion.

So you set upon your duty in the only way you knew how. You scoured great libraries searching for clues while expanding your knowledge. Then you returned home, amongst the people. You spread your knowledge amongst them, bringing hope of better things. You saw the sparks of light in their eyes. You saw dreams and desires on the brink of fruition.

Then you vanished…yet your knowledge remained.

They knew of the lavish luxuries just out of reach. They knew how their not-so-distant neighbors were getting along. They knew how sweet the fruit had been and now suffer from the aftertaste. Nothing they had would ever seem so great again. And so they fought.

They fought from deep within their souls to correct a perceived wrong, for how dare they live with their eccentricities while I live with only my necessities?

And so it spread. A few dozen at first turned into a few hundred, turned into several thousand, hundreds of thousands, millions, billions of corrupted souls. Billions of mine.

Every time they thought of what others have, wanted deeply that which was not theirs, smiled through gritted teeth as someone complimented what they did have, they were worshiping me: Aurelius, god of animus.

Every 1000 years all of the Gods get together for a contest to see who can collect the most souls with a single catastrophic event. Last time Poseidon broke the 1M mark with a Tsunami/earthquake combo. You’re up.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! Big fan of your writing. Would you like to write a snippet about an evil vampire who is only soft to their human even though they swear that the human is nothing to them more than a convenient source of food .

"You are bleeding."

"I'm sorry. I've not-" The human gestured vaguely at the bowl. "I've not wasted any. I swear."

The vampire appeared at their side in a flash, and that would have been absolutely terrifying if the human wasn't so used to it. Well. It was still a little terrifying. Everything about them was always a little terrifying.

The vampire's cold gaze roamed between the large gash on the human's hand to the elegant mixing bowl tinged bloody, then to the knife left clattered on the counter. The remnants of dinner prep.

Their eyes went pinprick scarlet. That, and the slight inhale of a breath, was the only sign of the uncontrollable and insatiable thirst that so drove their species.

"Stupid accident," the human said. They felt a little woozy. "Sorry. I know it's not as good when it's not fresh but I- um." Well. The generous description was that they panicked.

They had no idea what the vampire would do if they wasted blood, even by accident.

"Hm." The vampire picked up the sharp kitchen knife, licking the wasted droplets from its wicked edge. "Have you considered trying to stem the bleeding?"

It took the human a second to process, to wrench themselves away from staring.

"Didn't get that far. I just sort of thought, 'shit, blood'. Catch it!"

"How considerate."

"You know me," the human tried for a laugh, "I aim to please and not die."

"Indeed."

The laugh had come out a bit strangled. The human cleared their throat. "Speaking of catching blood...would you like to be my receptacle instead of the mixing bowl, seeing as you're here now anyway? Hungry?"

Though that raised the question of why exactly their vampire had appeared. The forces of darkness and evil did not usually make themselves known before sundown, even if the manor was all tinted and sun-blocked windows. The smell of fresh blood must have woken them.

The vampire responded by reaching down and ripping a length off their no doubt expensive and very fine linen night shirt.

The human's eyes widened. "Uh..."

"Hand."

The human obediently surrendered their hand. They watched in mild astonishment as the vampire made quick work of cleaning and bandaging their hand, using their ruined clothes like an old-fashioned tourniquet.

"Didn't know you knew how to do that," the human mumbled. "You know we have a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs?"

"A what?"

"A first aid kit. Medicine kit. With bandages and plasters and stuff."

"And yet you were bleeding into your mixing bowl."

"Well, the bathroom's a long way to go dripping blood on your floors."

"Hm."

"I'm sorry I woke you. It's - I'm okay. I really didn't waste any."

"Good. Your blood is precious. How is your hand? Does it hurt?"

"It's okay. I'm okay."

"You need to be more careful."

"I'm sorry."

"You're a fragile thing, you could have taken a finger off."

"Sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."

"Hm." The vampire's sharp gaze flicked over them again.

The human realised, belatedly, that the vampire was still cradling their hand. They flushed. The vampire let go.

"Sit," the vampire ordered. "What are you making? Tell me what to do."

"What?" They were sure they'd only cut their hand, not suffered some form of brain damage that caused hallucinations.

The vampire's eyes narrowed; ever disinclined to repeating themselves.

"Uh..." The human swallowed. "Chop the veg. Put veg in frying pan."

They watched the vampire get to work. It was bizarre. They'd never seen the vampire do anything around the house. Their immortality was a thing of hedonistic cruelties, tempered only by the fact that it was easier to pay someone to take the role of blood bag in the modern age than kidnap them.

"You really don't have to do that for me," they said.

"Are you suggesting that somewhere in the last thousand years I became incapable of chopping vegetables?"

"No. No, of course not."

"Then hold your tongue. I don't pay you to question me or for your opinions. You're a walking blood bag."

"Right. Right, yeah. Sorry."

The vampire made them dinner, following instructions in a way that the human truly had thought them too proud for, as the sun sank slow and pretty beyond the window.

"Thank you," the human said, nonplussed, when the vampire eventually loaded a full dinner plate. They were more nonplussed when the vampire didn't hand it over, though, simply holding a fork up to the human's mouth. "Er...my hand is okay. I can hold cutlery. I know I don't heal vampire fast but..."

"You're questioning me again."

"Right. Sorry." The human accepted the mouthful of food, then another. Their stomach did something weird and flipping beneath the vampire's strange care, their intent focus.

"Good," the vampire murmured.

In the aftermath of dinner, the night black and endless beyond the windows, they stared at each other.

The human's heart pounded. They were all too aware of the fact that the vampire could hear it. All of their normal, comfortable routines felt disrupted somehow.

They wet their abruptly dry lips.

"Don't hurt yourself again, pet," the vampire said abruptly. "That's my job."

Then they were gone.

[naught-skull]

thinking about being so fucking pregnant, like ready to pop any day full belly full tits, yet still getting bent over every day and fucked deep and rough while you tell me you're fucking another baby into me. and i know it's impossible bc i have to push this one out first but i want it so bad that i can't help but push back against you and moan and sob and beg please please put more babies in me i'm not full enough i need you i need more please please please

[whoviandoodler]

something I haven't really seen people mention or consider in relation to riz and jawbone and the whole 'what's up with you, come in and talk with me' thing is that riz legitimately cannot do that. he cannot get better because getting better means losing all the things he gains by pushing himself to a wildly unhealthy degree- the points from his extracurriculars and grades in general, the usefulness he still feels he owes to his friends, the ability to push through grief and loss time and again. it's so incredibly sad because like- he was the one who first offered jawbone the job that got his life turned around! he tries so hard at all that he does and has a huge heart and he deserves to live a life that doesn't run him into the ground, but that life would be one where he wouldn't get the education he wants, or at the very best a life where he loses the control that he is gripping onto white-knuckled and has to contend with a lot of things he could never bear to consider at present. getting better would mean stopping, stopping would mean falling, and if he falls, riz is not getting up for a long, long time, and he just cannot afford that

[bookished]

The air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and dark magic. The gas lamps cast eerie shadows, stretching and twisting along the weathered buildings like grasping fingers. She clutched her satchel of healing herbs tighter, her senses on high alert, as she gazed out at the twinkling lights of the city around her.

A scream pierced the night, sending a chill down her spine. Without hesitation, she ran towards the sound, her witch's instincts overriding her fear. As she rounded the corner into a dimly lit alley, she froze. There, bathed in moonlight, stood the most terrifying and beautiful creature she had ever seen. He was holding a man against the brick wall, ready to strike.

"Please," the man whimpered, "I'll pay you back, I swear!"

She could see his dark eyes flashing with anger. "You prey on the weak, extorting money from those who can barely feed their children. Tell me why I shouldn't drain you dry."

"He is a monster," she recalled the whispers of the frightened locals, their eyes wide with terror. She did know. The words echoed in her mind, spoken by friends, family, and strangers alike. This was the monster everyone feared, the ruthless ruler of the supernatural underground. She should run, alert her coven, do anything but stay.

Yet she couldn't move.

"Wait!" she called out, surprising herself as much as the two men.

His head snapped towards her, his gaze piercing through her very soul. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

"This doesn't concern you, witch," he growled, but she noticed he hadn't attacked. Not yet.

Swallowing her fear, she stepped closer. A flicker of something—surprise? intrigue?—passed over his face. Slowly, he lowered the man to the ground.

"Run and take this as a warning," he snarled at his victim, who didn't need to be told twice.

As the man's footsteps faded into the night, he turned his full attention to her. She stood her ground, even as every instinct screamed at her to flee.

"You're either very brave or very foolish," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

"Perhaps a bit of both," she replied, forcing a smile.

"The question is, why would a respected healer from the Crescent Coven risk her neck for a stranger? And a monster, no less?"

"Because I believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Even the monsters."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, to her astonishment, the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Most people run screaming when they see me in a dark alley."

"I'm not most people," she said, her confidence growing.

"No," he agreed, his eyes roaming over her face as if seeing her for the first time. "You most certainly are not."

A distant clock tower chimed midnight, breaking the spell between them. She blinked, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

"I should go," she said, taking a step back. "My coven will be wondering where I am."

As she turned to leave, he called out, "Witch?"

She looked back, her breath catching at the intensity in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For reminding me there's still good in this world."

As the witch hurried home, her mind reeling from the encounter, she couldn't shake the feeling that her life had just changed irrevocably. The notorious beast, a monster by reputation, had shown her a glimpse of the man beneath the myth.

And against her better judgment, she wanted to see more.

The sacred circle of the Crescent Coven glowed with an otherworldly light as she stood before the Council of Elders. The air crackled with tension and the scent of burning sage.

"Healer," Elder Ancestral's voice rang out, sharp as a whip. "Do you have any idea of the danger you put yourself in last night?"

The healer witch lifted her chin, meeting the disapproving gazes of her coven leaders. "I was helping someone in need. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

A murmur rippled through the gathered witches. Elder Eclectic leaned forward, her ancient eyes narrowing. "Child, you interfered with him. He is not just anyone—he is a monster."

"And yet, he's the most kindest person I've ever met," she confessed to her disapproving coven. "He didn't hurt me," she protested. "In fact, he—"

"Silence!" Elder Ancestral cut her off. "Your naivety could have cost you your life. That monster has terrorized this city for centuries. The blood on his hands could fill the Arcanis Sea."

Elder Angel, usually the most soft-spoken of the council, spoke up. "Healer, surely you've heard the whispers. The screams in the night. He is ruthless, unpredictable. A predator wearing the skin of a man."

The healer's hands clenched at her sides. "But last night, I saw—"

"What you saw," Elder Ancestral interrupted, "was a facade. A trick to lure you in. He is a master manipulator, child. Do not be fooled by a moment of apparent kindness."

"The coven has maintained a fragile peace with the vampire faction," Elder Ancestral continued. "But make no mistake—they are not our friends. And he is the most dangerous of them all."

She felt a surge of frustration. "But if we never give them a chance, how can we expect things to change? Maybe if we—"

"Enough!" Elder Ancestral's voice boomed, magically amplified. The candles flickered ominously. "You will not seek him out again. You will not interfere in vampire affairs. This is not a request, Healer. It is an order from your coven."

A heavy silence fell over the circle. She could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon her, a mix of concern and disapproval.

Elder Angel's voice softened. "We say this out of love, child. Your compassion does you credit, but in this case, it blinds you to the truth. He is a monster. No amount of wishful thinking will change that."

She bowed her head, but inside, her thoughts were in turmoil. She couldn't reconcile the terrifying creature they described with the man she'd encountered in the alley. The man whose eyes had shown remorse, whose voice had softened with gratitude.

"I understand," she said finally, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "It won't happen again."

As the council dismissed her and the circle began to disperse, she felt a hollowness in her chest. She had given her word to obey, to stay away. But deep down, a small voice whispered a dangerous truth: she wasn't sure she could keep that promise.

#226

"He is a monster."

"And yet, he's the most kindest person I've ever met."

[watercolorfreckles]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy���at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. “I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. ���Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

Part 2

[tales-of-wocdes]

loved the demo! mc seems fairly interested in grandpa sheo (for obv reasons) and since they just heard mc speak in that void, I could see mc just talking aloud to grandpa’s cloak or the air like the ancient could hear them

Thank you! And that is a rather adorable thought! Well adorable because of MC, not necessarily adorable considering Sheo. Might even end up in the demo as an option...

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

You settle down for the night, and settle your cloak in front of you. You sit cross legged on your bed and stare at the cloak.

Then start talking. About your day. What you ate. The snacks you had. The things you didn't understand. What you and the twins played today. Odd things Lexia said. Things Havard taught you. What you liked and did not like.

You go through your day, from being woken up by Havard, to the evening being tucked in.

Then you go to bed, feeling better for having told Grandpa about your day.

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

Somewhere far away, a traveler listens to a child speak about their day. The traveler does not answer, he just listens. He could block out the sound but he has time. Even as he senses the fortress full of cultists and calmly walks towards it, he has time to listen. Even as the gate turns to dust and he calmly walks inside, he can hear the description of a game of hide and seek between children. His face never changes, but he is glad that the child turned thing by cruelty is allowed to be a child again.

Innocence after all is worth protecting. Or so the traveler thinks as cultists burn and scream around him, pleading for mercy that will never come.

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Ok I wrote this ages ago and it’s probably wayyy too dramatic but it does have an entire storyline behind it that I’m thinking of turning into a series (an adjusted rewrite of this would actually be a part in the middle haha)

Just wanted to reblog and add our new fantasci tags:)

Writing Snippet #5

Queen of the Harvest

*Vibe check: I listened to Warriors by Imagine Dragons while creating this one*

—————————————

Her city was surrounded.

The new queen sat on her throne, fingers brushing the oval sapphire hanging against her forehead as her advisors argued about what was to be done. Her golden hair stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the throne, gleaming just as deeply as the the gilded heads of wheat carved into the back and sides of the chair.

She dropped her hand back into her lap.

“Could they not have waited for the mourning period to be over?”

Her quiet words brought a crashing halt to the debate.

“Your Majesty—” the Master of the Markets cautiously broke the silence, hands clutching the skirts of her dress.

But the young queen held up a hand. “There is no point going down that path, I know.” She turned to the old grizzled soldier standing near the throne.

“Master of the Watch?”

“Yes, my queen?”

“How many men do we have within the city walls?”

“Less than six hundred, Your Majesty.”

“Against how many?”

“At least five thousand, Your Majesty.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“I thought Prince Raiiyn was busy attacking the Southwest border. Is that not why we sent nearly our entire army to repel him? And yet, somehow he is here, in the heart of our land?” She looked around the room, her slender brows raised in question.

“Your Majesty, the Crimson Prince is indeed at the border with part of his army. It is one of his generals that now beats at our door.”

“How much food and water do with have within the city walls?”

The Master of the Silos stepped forward. “Enough to feed our people for over a year.”

“If we use the seed intended for planting,” muttered the Master of the Planting.

The Master of the Silos ignored this remark. “But with last year’s drought... the harvest did not yield much. Now that you are queen and the rains have returned, the wells should be...” he trailed off at the raw sorrow upon the queen’s face.

He bowed low, fingers to his brow. “Forgive me.”

The queen offered a small nod and pushed her grief away. “How long would it take our army to return?”

The Master of the Watch shrugged hopelessly. “If they could disengage without being pursued by the Crimson Prince?” His tone suggested just how likely that was. “Ten days? Twelve? The cavalry could be here in three days, but that would leave our army weak, and 400 horsemen would do little against the army camped outside our gates.”

“They have little by way of supplies. Our people took every scrap of food they could when they retreated to the city. We can try to wait them out. The odds of them breaching the gate—”

“Maing Soundolung!” The doors of the hall burst open and a soldier rushed forward.

“Maing Soundolung!” He gasped out as he bowed, fingers to his brow.

Her eyes narrowed in concern. He was addressing her not as the nation’s queen, but as ruler of the harvest. It was the first time the honorific had been used since the sapphire had been placed upon her. Something was very wrong.

“The southern gate is on fire.”

The queen pushed off the arms of her chair and rose to her feet. The entire council bowed, fingers to brows, as she strode through their midst and out the doors. The hall opened up directly onto the hill overlooking the colorful city, which was bathed in the light of the setting sun. In front of her, smoke billowed from the distant wall, flickers of red and orange gleaming through the haze.

She walked across the stone landing until her bare feet rested on the grassy slope that led down to the city proper. Silence reigned as she closed her eyes and felt the earth.

Finally, she spoke.

“The roots are half an inch long. Master of the Fields?”

“They can handle some rain, but not much.”

“Master of the Planting?”

“We have enough seed to replant nearly three quarters of the fields, but that leaves us nothing for next year.”

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath. “Then we will pray it is enough.” The council bowed their heads as one.

Then she slowly lifted her hands from her sides, raising them towards the heavens. Black clouds formed on the horizon and drew closer as her hands continued to rise. Soon the sun was blocked by the dark boiling clouds.

Her palms touched above her head, and the skies opened. Rain poured down.

Water dropped from her lashes as she lowered her palms until her fingertips rested against the sapphire that adorned her brow.

She kept her eyes fixed on the angry flames that fought against the downpour.

They must have used oil.

“Signal for the guards to abandon the southern wall and have the townspeople retreat to the northern quarter.”

The advisors eyed one another but hastened to obey. A horn rang out in four quick bursts.

When the answering horn replied that all was clear, she split her hands. The rains slowed as she raised her right fist to the clouds and stretched her left down to the earth.

“Can you aim that carefully, Maing Soundolung?” The Master of the Market asked hopefully.

“I can try.” she replied, her quiet voice grim but determined.

In one swift motion, she spread her fingers wide. Thunder shook the air as bursts of lighting split the sky, striking the ground beyond the southern wall in angry streaks of light and power. The thunder rolled unceasingly as lighting struck again and again.

Rain streamed down her arms and dropped off her chin, but the Queen of the Harvest did not cease until a horn blast signaled that the enemy was retreating.

As her arms fell weakly to her sides, the air stilled and the clouds began to retreat.

The council stood, frozen in awe, as the queen looked out at the scorched strip of earth between her city and the vast enemy encampment.

To the right, a brilliant sunset had turned the sky blood-red. A sign of what was to come if she followed this path.

“How fast can you get a message to our army?” She said, voice steady but eyes wide as she took in the destruction.

“Our fastest messenger bird could be there by tomorrow. Are you going to call for the cavalry?”

“No. That would only result in a slaughter.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I’m going to surrender.”

—————————————

She raised her hands to ward off the building protests. “I cannot fend off their attacks indefinitely without destroying the crops, and neither can our army keep the prince’s force at bay forever. If they take the city by force, they will show no mercy. If I surrender, I can negotiate the terms.” She swallowed, then continued. “He does not want this war to drag on either. They want to rule over Zea because they have no good soil of their own. They rely on our harvest as much as we do. He will accept—”

“You cannot negotiate with that monster!”

The queen turned her head to look at the Master of the Fields. “He is a prince, a not a monster.”

“The Crimson Prince is a demon!”

“Prince Raiiyn is a Tyger. If heightened senses and reflexes make someone a demon, then what does that make me?”

She gestured to the burnt earth behind her.

Her advisors did not speak, but the soldier who’d first brought word of the attack stepped forward. “It makes you Cerelia: Soundolung, Queen of the Harvest, Singer of Storms, Protector of Zea.”

He bowed, one hand to his brow, the other raised as if to touch hers. As he straightened, his burning eyes met hers. “It makes you our queen.”

She inclined her head, touching her sapphire, symbol of her role and conduit for her power. “Then as your queen, I must do what I can to protect our people. From starvation and enemy soldiers alike.”

“Your Majesty,” the old Master of the Watch was regarding her with sorrowful respect. “Surrender... you know the cost?”

She turned back towards the hall, where the doors still sat open, the last light of the day casting streams of light on the throne of gilded wheat.

“I know the cost.”

[slowd1ving]

[INAMORATA] SNIPPET . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE, SOMEWHAT JIAOQIU??

more jiaoqiu and moze being a little creep, male incubus reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out. 

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others. 

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably. 

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks. 

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue. 

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair. 

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further. 

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own. 

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself. 

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body. 

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do. 

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact. 

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer. 

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too. 

[rosy-crow]

I really understand him. I fall in love with every video game boss that brutally kills me after I thought I was fully decently leveled up.

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

Hi!!! Hope you're doing well. Um I was wondering....could you write a story where caretaker is a magic user and they use a sleeping spell to put overworked whumpee to sleep? Or even villian using a sleeping spell on overworked hero. You don't have to write this if your overwhelmed with requests. If you do thank you! You would've made my day!

Hi Anon! Sure, I can write this for you! Here you go!

A Royal Pain

Whumpee swung their sword over and over again at the wooden targets. Caretaker looked on with growing worry. Ever since they had been rescued, Whumpee had been overdoing it on the training field. They practiced day and night, barely stopping for meals and definitely not stopping for sleep. They carried their sword everywhere they went, and they had started to drag it across the ground in a fashion most unlike them. Whumpee had always taken good care of their things, soit was increasingly concerning to see them handling their weapon in such a way.

“Whumpee-”

The blade held inches from their nose had Caretaker throwing their hands up in surrender. Whumpee stared through bloodshot eyes, a look of tired determination on their face. It took them far too long to recognize the court mage and their best friend. When they did, they lowered their weapon with a harsh clang against the ground.

“Caretaker,” Whumpee panted, “you mustn’t sneak up on me like that.”

Caretaker hadn’t been trying to sneak up on them at all. In fact, they were trying to make their approaching movements as obvious as possible so as not to alarm them. So much for that.

“I’m sorry,” Caretaker said, “it’s just… I’m worried about you.”

“I suppose you would be,” Whumpee sighed, “considering how easily I was taken. I won’t disappoint you again, I’m making sure of it.”

Whumpee went back to slashing at the targets. They were missing almost every swing. Whumpee, the most skilled swordfighter in the kingdom, hitting less marks than a novice. Caretaker shook their head.

“No one is disappointed in you, Whumpee,” they said, “you’ve been at this all day, why don’t you take a short break and come inside with me? Chef is making your favorite I’m told.”

Chef had been making Whumpee’s favorite meal for the last three days in a row, in hopes that it would entice them to settle down. Whumpee gave Caretaker the same answer they had been giving everyone else.

“Later. I just need more time.”

The incantation grew ever-present in Caretaker’s mind. They had been debating for some time whether to use it. The larger part of them said Whumpee desperately needed the rest, but the annoyingly noble part of them mentioned the slight drawback that Whumpee would feel terribly betrayed when they woke up…

Caretaker shoved their troublesome gallantry down. This was no time to be trustworthy. They mumbled the incantation, performing the appropriate hand movements from inside their robes.

“Sleep,” Caretaker whispered.

Whumpee turned slowly, holding their hand to their head and dropping their weapon entirely.

“Caretaker?”

“Yes, Whumpee?” Caretaker kept their tone light and casual.

“I… did you do something?”

Whumpee took a wobbly step forward. Caretaker closed the distance between them and caught them before they could fall.

“Only what I had to,” Caretaker admitted.

Whumpee’s eyes were starting to flutter, their body going limp in Caretaker’s hold. Everytime their eyelids drooped closed, Whumpee forced them back open. Strong-willed, the king and queen would say, though Caretaker preferred the term, “bullheaded”.

“Don’t fight it,” Caretaker huffed, “you’re not going to win.”

Whumpee’s breathing deepened as their body finally succumbed to Caretaker’s spell. Caretaker summoned two guards to help carry them back inside.

“Their highness requires constant supervision,” Caretaker said, “let me know the moment they wake up.”

“Yes, Caretaker,” the first guard said.

“And inform Chef that Whumpee will in fact be eating this evening.”

“Very good, Caretaker,” the other guard said, “that ought to lift Chef’s spirits considerably.”

Caretaker went to tell the king and queen that Whumpee was finally resting. Their majesties wouldn’t mind that they had taken some magical liberties to get them there.

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[the-modern-typewriter]

Heyyy I hope this is okay especially with how many requests you must get day in and day out 🖤 I had this idea of a dark knight who is in charge of watching over a captured princess and over the time of her being imprisoned she develops feelings for the knight. Eventually she decides to attempt an escape but when the dark knight catches up to her flirtatious tension arises (^◔ᴥ◔^) Honestly it’s your blog but if it’s WLW that’d be great, otherwise go crazy and have a good day!

"Trying to leave without saying goodbye? Heartbreaking. Just as we were getting along."

The princess whirled. Even as she did it, she knew it was foolish. By the time one had laid eyes on a dark knight, it was usually already too late to win the fight. Especially when it was her dark knight. Well, not hers, but...

The knight stepped forward, oh so obligingly, from beneath the night that begged for the honour of giving her cover. The moonlight kissed the sharp black edges of her armour, caressed the deadly tip of her sword, painted her lovingly in monochrome.

The princess's breath hitched.

"Wearing my clothes too," the dark knight said. "My, my princess."

"Well, my dresses do not exactly blend in. It is not sentiment."

"You look good in my things."

The princess swallowed. Her face bloomed with a treacherous heat.

"Have you come to say goodbye then?" She tossed the words half like a plea, and half like a gauntlet.

The worst part, after all, was that she had struggled over the thought of leaving without saying goodbye to her dark knight and captor - which was, frankly, ridiculous. Of course, that didn't mean she wanted her escape attempt to fail simply for the chance of seeing her again. She took half a step back.

The knight's head tilted, expression obscured by her mask.

"Goodbye," the princess said, determinedly. She kept her voice steady, or at least as steady, as proper, as she could. "I have enjoyed our time together."

"Then you will be delighted to know that this is not farewell."

The princess's fists clenched at her side. She edged back another step, gaze fixed on the knight. "Just let me go. You cannot bring me back to him!"

"I most certainly can. Or do you imagine it will be difficult to put you over my shoulder?"

She hated that part of the thought made her shiver, not exactly in terror. Made her think of the knight's lean arms, her lithe strength, the way she towered over the princess in the moments where they were pressed close. A force of nature. A girl made of shadow and bloodshed.

"Please," she said.

"Princess."

"Please."

"I won't tell him you tried to run."

The princess laughed, a bitter thing, shaking her head. She couldn't fight. Or, rather, she could fight but she would not win. Could she run? Maybe. People often underestimated how fast she could be, when she wasn't focused on the poise expected of her.

(People, her mind supplied, were not her knight.)

She jutted her chin up, she edged back another step. "If you cared for me at all, you would not bring me back."

"And if you cared for me at all, you would not expect me to forsake my job."

"Even if you drag me back I'll run again."

"Yes. And I'll catch you again."

"How did you even find out about this!?"

Her - the - dark knight moved then. Wicked fast. One instant she was a few metres away, the next second she had the princess pressed up against one of the forest trees. She did not reach for her sword. Her hand cupped the back of the princess's head, keeping her from bashing it as she was pinned back. Her hand tightened in the princess's hair, sending a sharp bolt of almost sweet pain and adrenaline through the princess's body as she tugged.

"Because, Zaria," her voice was a silken hiss, "I know you."

The princess's breath gave another treacherous hitch. She was sure her eyes were wide

The knight's lips were inches from her own, her head bent low. Lady death and the maiden, the gold jewels of a looming over kiss turned to lavish twilight and steel.

"I know you better than anyone ever has," the knight continued. "Your clever viciousness, your pretty lies, your beautiful cunning. People always mistake prey for something soft and sweet and innocent, don't they?"

"But you are not people."

"Of course you would run." The knight's free hand slid up too, from her shoulders, thumb brushing over the princess's parted lips. "As surely as I would hunt you. This was inevitable between us."

The princess's hand closed on the sword left abandoned at the knight's side. She could have drawn it. She could have plunged it forward in their closeness, hoped to dig past all of the armour to the intriguing thing she'd caught glimpses of beneath.

But then her knight would not be blood and shadow, she would just be blood, and pain, and gone. She wet her cracked lips.

"And does the hunter ever feel tenderness for its prey?" she asked, softly.

"The prey is everything to the hunter," the knight replied. "And so the hunter feels everything for her."

"But not enough pity to let her go."

"I feel no pity for you, princess. You are not a pitiable thing, are you?"

"Then that is not everything."

The knight laughed. "You are magnificent. Will you come willingly," she asked, "or should I actually drag you?"

"Oh, you can drag me. Kicking and screaming. I think you'd enjoy it. Me writhing and thrashing and hot and spent in your arms."

The princess was delighted, despite her losses, to see the dark knight swallow at that. To hear her breath hitch, a chink in the armour. Information, for the next time, perhaps. It felt like a victory, however small. Not escape, perhaps, but another rock chiselled hidden from her prison walls.

"Very unladylike," the dark knight managed.

"You should tell him," she said, and nipped the dark knight's mouth savagely. "How unladylike I am. A lost cause. Not worth keeping."

"Oh, you will always, always, be worth keeping. Of that I'm sure."

"Maybe you should work for me instead."

"Maybe I should. But not today. It is late, and the rest of us need our beauty sleep to keep up with you, my princess."

They were fighting after that.

[naught-skull]

there's something in the woods

ambiguously gendered mcs

monsterfucking, rape fantasy, knotting, voyeurism

wordcount: 489

(this one's more stream of consciousness, so no caps and why I'm tagging it as a snippet, but then it also got really long hence the readmore. i might polish this later idk but in case i don't here it is~)

the phone is ringing so you pick it up. it's me and i'm lost in the woods. I have enough service to call you but the gps isn't working. I'm sure if I walk the way I came for long enough I'll make it out, but I feel like something is watching me.

you can hear sticks and leaves crunching in the background, footsteps that aren't mine. the footsteps get closer and you yell at me to start running. I try my best but I'm not fast enough. you hear a deep growl and then hear something tackle me. the breath is knocked out of my lungs and the phone is knocked out of my hands, just far enough away to where you can hear everything but I can't hang up.

you hear cloth ripping, hear me struggle and scream in terror but not in pain yet. the growling continues, an animal you've never heard before. I beg you to hang up, not to listen to this, but you find yourself frozen.

you hear something wet, you think the creature is licking its lips, then licking me. where, you're not sure, but soon my crying is interspersed with reluctant moans. the licking stops.

I yelp, then beg: please not there, I can't take it please. I scream, muffled, as if I've buried my face in my arms. you hear rhythmic slapping noises, hear the creature panting. soon enough I'm moaning along with it, in pain but in pleasure too.

you could hang up, but for reasons you're unsure of you don't want to. something about listening to me being violated makes you more aroused than you've been in months. this has unlocked something inside of you. your hand reaches down into your pants, your underwear. you fondle yourself as the heat in your pelvis grows.

the slapping noise picks up speed. I'm begging now. begging for it to end and begging to cum at the same time. you're so hot and you move your hand faster. you stuff your shirt in your mouth to muffle your own moans. you don't want me to know how aroused this is making you.

i scream in pleasure. the creature growls and the slapping stops. my scream turns to one of pain as I beg the creature to pull it out, the knot hurts too much and it's still growing, I'm not built to take it. as I start sobbing in pain you cum harder than you ever have, making a mess in your underwear and shaking all over.

you listen in a daze as I cry. you're not sure how long it is before you hear a squelching noise as the creature pulls out, footsteps as it leaves. i manage to crawl over to my phone. the gps is working again, so I let you know what road to drive out to to meet me. please hurry, before the creature comes back.

[scalpho]

bill wants fabian to be just like him, but the problem is that bill is aggressively self-centred, and fabian cannot emulate him (by prioritising himself) without putting bill's wishes on the backburner. and bill, being as self-centred as he is, can't stand the fact that him and his wants are not fabian's number 1 priority. family in flames gives us a great example of this: bill yells at fabian for not defending himself against bill's insults specifically because it's not how bill would react ("i would never let any man speak to me the way i’m speaking to you right now"), and in the same minute also yells at him for defending himself ("you'll raise your voice at me now, will you?"). fabian can't emulate bill without disrespecting him, but he's expected to figure out some impossible way to balance these two conflicting expectations!

the trick is that this contradiction doesn't exist as long as fabian's wants are synonymous with bill's, which is why shit only hits the fan after fabian starts spending time away from his family and discovers the magic of independent thinking. the cracks in the formula are still super easy to see early on, though - bill killed his own father, but threatens to kill fabian if he ever attempts the same move. kudos to him for managing to say something both hypocritical and, in hindsight, incredibly ironic