#fantasci tumblr

[thatwritergirlsblog]

Advice for Creating a Magic System

As a fantasy author, I thought I'd share my 5 tips for creating a captivating magic system.

1. Are you writing low fantasy or high fantasy?

Firstly, it's good to know from the get-go whether you're creating a magic system for a low fantasy or high fantasy story.

Low fantasy doesn't necessarily mean there are less fantastical elements or that the story has to take place in a version of the real world. Low fantasy simply indicates that the fantasy elements/magic is not commonplace in that world. Magic and other fantasy elements exist, but only a privy few know about it.

Examples of low fantasy stories include Harry Potter by She Who Shall Not be Named, the Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare, Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer and my book To Wear A Crown.

High fantasy, on the other hand, indicates that the fantastical elements and magic are known about and commonplace in that world. The people of the world know that magic exists, that there are fantastical beings, other races etc.

Examples of high fantasy stories include Eragon by Christopher Paolini, Crescent City by Sarah J Maas, The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R Tolkien, and Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard.

2. Hard magic systems vs soft magic systems

The next thing that's vital to decide is whether you're creating a hard or soft magic system.

A hard magic system has built-in limitations. There are certain things that magic can do and that's it. Examples of stories with hard magic systems include Avatar: The Last Airbender and Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo.

A soft magic system doesn't have inherent limitations in relation to what it can achieve. Examples of soft magic systems include Eragon, Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings.

3. What can magic do?

Now that you know whether you're writing low or high fantasy, and whether you're working with a hard or soft magic system, it's time to create some magic!

This is the part where I can't give you too much guidance, because it's all about your creativity.

What do you want magic to look like in your story? What do you want magic to be able to achieve? How big of a role do you want magic to play in the story and your characters' lives?

Do you want different classes of magic wielders, each with mastery over their own element? Do you want magic to be a flexible tool that can be used to achieve almost anything? Do you want your magic to be limited to telepathic actions or creating portals? Do you want different people to have power over different aspects of nature or different magical disciplines?

Can wielders use magic without any tools, or do they need spells, runes or rituals?

The possibilities are endless, but it's important to establish exactly what magic is capable of in your world.

4. How does it work and where does it come from?

Now we know what the magic can do. Next up is why it can do those things. Where does the power of the magic come from and how do wielders command it?

Does the power/force of magic come from within the wielder? Does it draw from inner life force and energy? Does it draw on energy from another realm or dimension? Does it pull from the surrounding natural elements? Does the power come from a deity or from demonic forces?

Identify the source/origin of the magic.

From there, elaborate on how it works. How does a wielder access the source of the magic? Is it through strength of will, incantations, selling their soul etc.?

For example, let's say that the power of your world's magic comes from the cosmic energy of another dimension. In order for wielders to access that energy, they draw specific sigils on their skin and these sigils act as portals to that world. Once the sigil is complete, the cosmic power flows into the wielder and they can now command it.

5. The limitations

Very importantly, you have to be clear on the limitations of your magic system. Fantasy magic systems often fall flat because they don't have clear confines.

If you're writing a hard magic system, this step is a bit easier, since there are inherent restrictions on what magic can do. With soft magic systems, you have to decide just how much magic is capable of.

But whether you're writing a hard or soft magic system, you need to consider the cost of using magic.

Does the use of magic drain the wielder's energy? Does each instance of using magic darken the wielder's soul or deteriorate their body further? Does using magic damage the natural world around the wielder or drain others of their life force?

Magic without a cost, limitations or consequences just isn't as captivating.

Reblog if you liked these tips. Comment with your own advice. Follow me for similar content.

#write #writing #writeblr #writing advice #writer #writing tips #writing fantasy #writers on tumblr #fantasci tumblr

[yourheartonfire]

The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist's side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They'd have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don't catch anyone's...

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

"Hello, little sacrifice," she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist's head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

"Are you serious?" she sneered.

The god of the protagonist's childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

"Spare this one," the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. "Please. This one is mine."

The god of war laughed. "You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I'll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics."

"Oh, I'm no god of anything so prevalent," the protagonist's god murmured humbly. "And I'm not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we're here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you."

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

"A song!" they blurted. "A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and... and honor your name."

The god of war... paused. Tilted their head.

"A fitting tribute to your potency," their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. "From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead."

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. "Fine. But I expect my song. I'll hold you responsible, godling. I don't forget!"

She was gone and the god of the protagonist's childhood turned to look down at them. "Well," he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. "I hope you can actually write music."

"Seems like a priority to learn," the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.

#my fiction #fantasci tumblr #you just turned a perfectly good soldier into a bard #no proofreading we die like men #gods #dnd ocs #fantasy #fantasci #100

[arealphrooblem]

Kidnapped by the Boss Part 6

Part one here

Synopsis: Civilian is a secretary to the Prime Minster. But when the political summit between the city states goes awry, she finds herself kidnapped by the very boss she tried to protect and nothing is what it seems.

CW: Hunger Strike, disordered eating *summary of chapter will be at the bottom for anyone who wants to skip it.*

Breakfast was delivered via servant a short while after he dropped her off. Her stomach roiled at the sight of all her favorites carefully arranged on the tray. It reminded her, quite forcefully, of how her grandmother used to wrap bitter pills in peanut butter balls or turkey for her ailing dog.

He wanted so badly to preserve the relationship they had before, as if he hadn’t completely obliterated it himself. He must have thought it would keep her complacent when her fear faded out.

He thought he knew her, but he had only ever seen her at her job. And sure, some days were hard and he caught a glimpse of her frustration or anxiety. As the years bled into each other, he learned little things about her, like her favorite foods or the TV shows that she rewatched obsessively.

But he never actually saw her. Even at the height of her newfound crush on him, Val kept a tight lid on any unprofessional slip ups and her personal life rarely leaked over into her job.

He thought patient, reliable, helpful Val was the only facet of her being. He knew nothing of the depths of her rage, her pig-headed stubbornness,

She took a slice of toast and threw the rest in the trash.

“Knock knock, Val. I hope you’re decent.”

The driver’s voice sounded about two seconds before the door opened. Of course, by the afternoon Val had already showered and dressed for the day. Still, it was a little unsettling how little time he’d give her if she wasn’t.

“Does it ever get old, coming here to irritate the shit out of me?” she demands, crossing her arms.

“Angel, it got old the first time.” He rolled his eyes. “Do you think it's my choice to be here?”

“Do you actually have free will or are you just a highly realistic robot?”

“Do you want a tour of the castle or do you want to stay stuck in this room?”

“ . . .What?”

“Apparently the rumor goes that your incredibly lavish and luxurious rooms are not good enough for you. So I’ve been tasked to show you around, let you stretch your legs or whatever.”

“Stretch my legs?” she repeated skeptically. “Where? Over the edge of the roof?”

“Or, you know, to the library. Or the zoo.”

“There’s a zoo here?”

The driver waved his hand dismissively. “Technically a rescue animal sanctuary. He calls it a menagerie because he’s pretentious as hell. But let’s be real — its a glorified petting zoo.”

A zoo and a library. Val had to admit both intrigued her greatly. Staying in this room did her no favors, mentally, with nothing to do but stew in her own fear and frustration.

She opened her mouth to comply and then promptly shut it closed.

Bitter pill. Peanut Butter.

Any kindness from him came with strings, no doubt, so he could yank her around like a little puppet.

“No,” she said instead. “I’m staying here.”

The driver’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not going to kill you unless he asks me to — no matter how annoying you are. And if he does, I’ll snap your neck. Quick, efficient. Shoving you off the roof is cowardly and makes too big of a mess.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but it has nothing to do with that. I just don’t want to go. You can tell your king to stick his zoo and his library up his ass.”

The driver gave her a long stare. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a stubborn fucking idiot?”

“Once or twice.”

He shook his head. “If you want to go slowly insane in this room, have at it, I guess.”

Lunch came. Her stomach growled at the sight of her favorite sandwich but she forced herself to throw that away too. (she ate the pickle spear though). He wanted something from her and he wasn’t going to get it just because he plied her with food and entertainment.

 A cage was a cage.

She didn’t even bother to check what dinner was. The tray and lid sat untouched on the table for the servants to whisk away tomorrow.

Hunger woke up her up later that night, her mouth dry. Head dizzy. Her stomach cramped with it, a howling beast. It was so tempting to tear the lid of the dinner off and eat it with her hands that she went and locked herself in the bathroom for a while.

A few handfuls of water from the sink was all she allowed herself. When she felt strong enough, she set the tray in the bathroom floor and shut the door to block the temptation. Sleep claimed her for a long time.

“My lady. You need to wake up.”

A hand kept delicately patting her shoulder, chasing her out of another nightmare. She jerked awake, scrambling to sit up in the bed.

One of the servants, a woman old enough to be her mother with a calm but impassive face, stared down at her. Her uniform was immaculate.

“I’m sorry,” Val found herself saying. “What — what time is it? Has something happened?”

“It is nearly eleven, ma’am. His majesty will be here in roughly ten minutes with breakfast. I advise you to dress.”

“Ten minutes?” she squawked.

“Do you need any assistance?” the woman asked.

God her head was splitting now that sleep started to fall away. “Painkillers?” she asked weakly. “My head hurts.”

To her surprise, the woman gave her a stern look. “I’m sure it does,” she said with a bland tone that did not match the look in her eyes.

The woman swept off through the door without another look in Val’s direction.

What was that about? she wondered as she stumbled to the dresser. But the fogginess in her head lay too thick to figure it out. She felt like complete and utter shit and the last thing she felt ready to deal with was him.

The bed beckoned her with its feather pillows and down comforter and high thread count sheets. She stared longingly back for a moment, debating on how convincingly she could pretend to sleep when he showed up, before sighing and putting on a fresh change of clothes.

She had just tamed her hair into another pony tail when a knock came from the door.

“Rise and shine, princess,” said the driver’s voice.

Goddamn it. She had to deal with both of them.

“Can we reschedule?” she yelled out. “I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid not, love,” said the king’s voice.  “I’d rather not wait.”

She did not like the sound of that. “Fine,” she growled. “Let’s get this over with.”

The door opened, the driver propping it open with his foot as the king stepped in with a large covered tray.

“I don’t know why you bother with knocking,” the driver muttered. “It’s not like her permission matters.”

“Because I have manners,” the king sniffed, setting the tray down on the table. “Unlike some people.”

He looked up and gave her a wink, as if sharing an inside joke.

“You don’t keep me around for manners.” The driver hopped up on her unmade bed, pulling a knife from his belt and setting it on the comforter.

“Make yourself at home,” Val said scathingly.

“How generous of you.” He bared his teeth in a dangerous smile. “I think I will.”

The king made himself busy setting out the spread. Toast and jams and sausage links and cubed cheese and a thermos of coffee with delicate china cups.

“Children, play nice. It’s not even noon. Val, please, heave a seat.”

Just looking at the food made her stomach rebel, even as the rest of her body desperately craved it. The smell invaded her nose, making her swallow back a gag. God, why couldn’t she just sleep all day? It’s not like she had anything else to do.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “What do you want now?”

“I have something for you.” The king lowered himself down in the chair opposite of her and gestured for her to do the same. “But first, we should eat.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You’ll think differently when you see what it is. Now sit.”

He gave her a warning look, the danger of his true self slipping out from behind the mask. Val sat, feeling the presence of the assassin behind her with a knife like a prickle on the back of her neck.

“Which jam would you like on your toast?” he asked. “We have peach, strawberry, lemon chardonnay, and cherry.”

“No thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach felt as if it were trying to eat itself.

“I insist you try the lemon chardonnay, it’s phenomenal. I have it every morning.”

He covered a triangle of toast in a thin layer of bright yellow jam before setting it on a tiny plate and handing it to her. The citrus smell washed over her, intoxicating. Any other time she would have devoured it. She loved lemon flavored pastries and he knew it. Which was why it didn’t cost her much to set her plate down off to the side  and ignore it.

The wave of twisted self satisfaction more than made up for her hunger.

Next he poured her a glass of clear water from another thermos and slid it over to her.

“Water?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

She wanted to drown herself in that glass of water, but she’d rather drop dead than give him that satisfaction. He wanted her to eat and drink so badly. He wanted her healthy enough to pretend that her life wasn’t in his hands. To forget how responsible he was for ruining it.

She wouldn’t let him.

“You are thirsty, though,” he said, his stare cutting her from across the table. “Because you haven’t eaten or drank anything in almost three days.”

“That’s not true.”

She had a pickle slice. And a piece of plain toast. And some water from the sink. His gaze narrowed, though, the previous warmth in his gaze clouding over.

“Oh but it is. The servants have found your food in the trash after every meal, save for last night’s dinner, which they found in the bathroom while you were sleeping.”

“I’m still figuring that one out,” muttered the driver from behind her.

“Why does it matter what I do with my food,” she retorted.

Silence answered her. Silence and that unnerving gaze pinning her down like a push pin in a cork board. She fought the urge to squirm under it, to feel like a student confronted by an angry principal. Though only a decade separated them, she felt like a child around him at times. A silly, clueless child.

But of course . . . He wasn’t actually a decade older. He was several decades older. Over a century older, at least in his mind.

“Val.”

He kept using her name like it meant something to him and it pissed her off.

“Eugene,” she said, his old name still feeling like sacrilege to the part of her brain still clinging to her previous professionalism.

If it bothered him, he showed no sign.

“I know what this is,” he said finally. 

Her hackles raised.

“Breakfast” she said, raising a brow.

“Control,” he countered. “Rebellion. Whittling yourself down to spite me.”

She hated how easily he saw through her. How well he could guess what laid under her professional mask when she couldn’t get a read on him at all.

“Maybe I don’t like the food,” she said, purposefully obtuse.

“Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “I know everything you like.”

“You’re not going to get anywhere because of that,” she snapped. “I’m not a kid you can bribe with candy and a trip to the zoo.”

“So that’s what this is.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m not trying to bribe you, Val. I’m just trying to feed you.”

“Well I don’t want to eat it.”

“Would you rather I send you food that you hate? French onion soup and pork rinds and spicy curry? Would that make you feel better?”

“I’m not eating anything that you give me.” She crossed her arms, fingers clenching tight at her sides, feeling as if she were digging and digging further into her own grave.

She would rather die than give him any kind of satisfaction and it scared her that that thought could be literal. But she didn’t know how to back down yet she couldn’t stomach the thought of giving him the one thing she could deny him when he had taken everything else.

“For how long? Because I’m not sure if you noticed, Val, but the only food available to you comes from me.”

She shrugged, not having an answer. It’s not like she planned a hunger strike. But refusing to eat fueled the rage simmering inside her and that felt so much better than the fear. It felt like she could do something, even if it only hurt herself.

His gaze flickered over her shoulder for a moment before returning to hers.

“It stops today. I am not leaving this room until you eat something.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” she retorted with bravado she didn’t feel.

Especially with the hands that dropped suddenly onto her shoulders. She launched forward, even when she had nowhere to run, but the hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms back behind the chair. Tugging only brought sharp pain in her shoulders, the driver’s hands a shackle around her own. 

The king stood up and stepped towards her. “You will eat today, by your hand or by mine. The choice is yours. And if you make either impossible I will chain you to a hospital bed and an IV drip. To be fair you might be close to that already with your dehydration. So we will start with that glass of water.”

He plopped a glass straw into the cup and held it out for her.

“Why does this matter so much that I live?” she demanded. “That I’m healthy? What does it matter to you what I do to myself?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he set the glass back down on the table and knelt down on one knee beside her chair, hand resting lightly on the arm. It brought him a few inches under her gaze so he had to look up, dark eyes fathomless. She couldn’t tell what emotion shone out of them, but it burned unfiltered.

“I must admit, when I pulled you into the car and onto the plane I didn’t know what I was going to do with you,” he said quietly. “ But I never considered torture or punishment — you’ve done nothing wrong. And yet, it didn’t matter, because you have done nothing but torment yourself since you got here.”

She broke away from his gaze, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but he didn’t stop. 

“You don’t sleep and then you stop eating. You live in constant fear despite our reassurances that you’re safe. I try to give you comforts, things to make you happy and you reject it all. It’s not meant as a bribe to lull you into complacency or servitude. The reason why you’re here is because you cared about me enough to risk your safety and I refuse to have you punished for it but that’s exactly what will happen when you go back home.” 

Fingers nudged her chin until their gaze met again. 

“I’m trying to give you a life here. Bit by bit. Will you let me?”

He looked so beseeching, so soft. It hurt. She wanted to believe it so bad. 

“You tell me I’m safe but  you’ve threatened my life multiple times since I got in that car,” she pointed out. “You both have. He especially loves to point out how I live on borrowed time and borrowed favor,” she added, jerking her chin back towards the driver. 

Ice settled in those dark eyes as he flickered them over her shoulder. Immediately the driver released her arms, relief following immediately afterwards. She shook them out, then cradled them to her chest. 

“Rook has a penchant for practicality that borders on the sociopathic,” the king said. “And I haven’t threatened you so much as warned.” He took one of her hands in his. “I’ve been building up to this moment for three lifetimes and I cannot allow anyone to stand in my way. Not even you. So long as you don’t actively impede me, you have nothing to fear from me.” 

She swallowed. “You’re a very terrifying person for someone who wants my trust.”

He smiled then, a soft rueful thing. “I was not always so. Will you trust me, anyway, Val?”

And this was why he was elected, she thought with a mental shake of her head, despite his vague past and unknown status. 

“I will . . .consider it,” she said slowly. 

“And will you eat with me? . . . .Please?”

Val sighed deeply, knowing she lost this round. “Yes.”

His smile spread, slow and bright, like the sun coming up over the ridge and butterflies rioted in her chest to meet it. Goddamn it. If kidnapping and captivity and threat of potential murder wouldn't kill this stupid crush, did she have any hope at all of ever being rid of it?

Tag list:

@rivalriotrenegade @sunyside-world @fishtale88 @those-damn-snippets @suspiciousmuffin @thats-alittle-gay @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars @tobeornottobeateacher @burningkittypoet @kurai-hono-blog @clover-sage

Summary: Val goes on a spontaneous hunger strike, not really intending it to be one but because she sees serving her favorite foods as a bribe to get her to comply. She compares it to the peanut butter her grandmother wraps medicine in for her dog.

After three days of very little to eat and drink, the king and the driver visit with breakfast. The king tries to force her to eat, Val and the King have a confrontation when she refuses, and he admits that he isn't trying to bribe her, but to help her make a life here since she will be punished if she ever went back home. He doesn't want her punished just because she cared enough about him to look for him in the parking lot. Eventually Val agrees to eat again and she says she will consider trusting his word when he told her he didn't want to hurt or kill her.

#hero x villain #villain x civilian #heroes and villains #writeblr #original fiction #kidnapped by the boss #named characters #enemies to lovers #fantasci tumblr #my writing

[watercolorfreckles]

hi, thank you so much for your wonderful writing :))

I've especially loved reading Deep Blue and I was wondering if you...do continuations? if not that's totally okay, just thought I'd ask :)

have some ice cream :) 🍦

Thank you, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to get to this request. Hope you like it!

Deep Blue - Pt. 4

siren x pirate

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

When his eyelids parted again, the midday sun split the room, haloing the sleeping siren in a honey blaze. Her hair pooled around her head in golden spires where she'd sunken against the cotton pillow during the night.

Her shoulders swam beneath the gauzy knit of the pirate's shirt, pearl-pink skin peeking free. She smelled of the ocean, all salted breezes and chalky sands.

She seemed peaceful, chest swelling with even breaths. An outsider may have labeled her harmless.

The pirate knew better.

His fingers itched to caress the delicate curls framing the siren's forehead all the same. The supernatural charm of a siren, he told himself. He caught his hand when it twitched halfway to action.

He stood up, tearing himself away from the magnetic pull of her. He turned around, shaking out the clumped waves of his hair. His clothes, too, were scratchy with the crust of dried salt. The folds of fabric creased like paper.

He stepped outside and cranked out several pumps of water from the rusted spigot, scrubbing it over his face and hair. The cool droplets streamed fissures down his neck and chest. He pumped fresh palm-fulls to spread over the rest of his exposed skin.

"If you're trying to drown yourself, I can do a much better job of it."

The pirate startled, straightening. "Golden. You're...- How are you feeling?"

Clinging to the open door, the siren stood awkwardly on foreign limbs. The hem of his shirt hung a few inches above her knees; a curtain brushing against his clumsy first aid.

Though her posture painted her a wounded damsel, her eyes were predator-sharp. It set his teeth on edge and sent something primal in his instincts jangling.

The siren's nose crinkled, scanning their surroundings. He tracked her gaze as it roamed over every rock and tree and bump of the earth. "What is that smell?"

The cabin boy snorted, cranking fresh water into his hands to dump over his head. "Dirt."

"Repugnant.”

"Yeah, well... As much as I love it, the smell of salt water and fish can get old as well."

When he glanced up again, he studied the siren more closely. Instead of itchy, irritated skin--sun-dried and chapped--she was glowing as ever. Her golden hair hung in silken waves hardly so much as mussed by his rough sheets, not gritty and salt-riddled as his own locks had been. Her skin faintly shimmered in the daylight.

The only thing about her that wasn't perfect was the red stain weeping through the muddied fabric of her bandage.

Her eyes followed the drip drops puddling beneath the spigot. She wet her lips.

The cabin boy watched her. "Are you thirsty?"

As he'd learned from his hours of curious reading, most sea creatures didn't drink water. They gained their hydration through the food they ate, or their bodies were designed to filter out the harmful sully of salt from the seas they swam in.

Though, his siren was a sea creature no more.

Her feet twitched, seemingly with the urge to take a step, but she hesitated, toeing the wooden step's treacherous edge without letting go of the door.

A small smile cracked the pirate's lips. This creature who had held his life in her hands mere hours prior, capable of capsizing ships and carving out the hearts of men, was afraid to walk. Afraid to fall.

Gravity did have an unforgiving vice above water that it didn't below, weightless and languid in all its honeyed drifting.

He found himself standing in front of her. Ever drawn to her as a moth to its fiery death.

She hissed at him when he offered his hands toward her, sounding like a startled housecat. Jerking back, her heels snagged the rim of the top stair and she fell with a yelp. "Don't touch me!"

Though the cabin boy held up his palms in surrender, the mermaid swiped at him with dull, paddy fingers for good measure.

"Easy," he said, "I was only going to help you."

"Why?"

His brow creased. "...Why?"

"Why are you trying to help me at all?" she demanded.

"You saved my life."

"I tried to drown you! You should have left me there, I would have been better off! Your 'help' is a scourge, a curse!" She pushed herself up onto wobbly feet, smacking his hand away when the pirate reached out again, reflexively, to assist her.

He heaved a sigh, stepping back. “You would have bled to death.”

“It would have been better!” There was something terribly broken in her voice. A windchime once ringing melodic lullabies now cracked and shrieking. She staggered down the remaining two steps, swaying unsteadily on her heels. Her voice softened. “It would have been better than this.”

Guilt twisted the cabin boy’s stomach. “Golden…”

“No. I am now a prisoner in this…weak, defiled body. I have been stripped of every last thread of my identity. My tail, my strength– The ocean has disowned me, I am cursed to die a fumbling human. There is no greater disgrace! I want nothing more from you.” She shoved past him, limping and teetering as she went.

“Where are you going? You’re injured, hungry, and wearing nothing more than my shirt,” the pirate protested, following after her. “You can’t venture into town like that. Many men would take that as an invitation–”

The siren rounded on him, promptly stumbling and catching herself against his shoulders. Her eyes were alight like an August day.

“I know perfectly well what your kind feels entitled to when they come upon a beautiful woman. That is the very foundation of why you are so easily captured under our sway,” she spat. “Your desires overwhelm you, and our songs coax you to believe you can have all you want if only you surrender to us. I cannot make you believe what you do not already want to. You invade our home and hunt us in our own waters, you take and take and take, then call us monsters when we do not let you have us too. As if we are sunken treasure for you to pluck from the seafloor and sell to the next hungry pirate.”

Any response he had readied died behind the cabin boy’s teeth. He wanted to protest that they ‘weren’t all like that.’ That some pirates led with honor, and that many men were decent. He was decent, wasn’t he?

And yet… He still felt homesick for his captain, his crew, his ship. The very ones who cast him to his death for the mutinous act of having a heart.

He swallowed. “I freed you.”

“And for that alone, I spared you. Yet you damned me. Spare me further humiliation and leave me alone.” The siren gave his shoulders a sharp squeeze before letting go, limping away again in the direction she had chosen.

His eyes followed her, clumsy and graceless, all the way to the start of the dirt road that led into the village.

She would certainly be a spectacle there. With shimmery skin and perfect hair of spun gold, eyes like winter fire and only half dressed, she would steal the attention of every human she passed.

She might be found out for what she was. She might be overpowered and hurt, or taken advantage of.

The possibilities burned through him.

She’d begged him to stay away…

The siren’s bare feet kicked up dust along the path that sent her coughing, batting at the air with the same fury she’d faced him with moments prior.

The sight coaxed a tentative smile from the pirate’s mouth. Cursing the sky, the earth, the gods of sea and shore and everything else, he followed after the grounded mermaid.

He would not be responsible for any more of her misfortune. Even if it cemented his own.

He’d always thought the ocean to be fair, even in all its cruelty. It did not shrink itself for the convenience of others. Its crashing swells that swallowed ships whole did not ask for any less from the creatures within it.

He had to believe that there was hope for her, his siren, creature of water and night and song. She would be whole again. He had to try.

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[thepenultimateword]

Tomfoolery

She wore bells in her hair. Big gold ones hung on the red ribbons weaved into her braids. The chimes bounced and jingled against her spine when she backflipped and sailed in gleaming arcs when she cartwheeled.

Apparently, she'd been part of a circus act before the prince's uncle bought her for the court. And with such a background, she could do all manner of oddities and diversions: contortions and gymnastics, juggling and skits of false clumsiness. She could balance knives on her nose like a seal--up to three at once. Her ribbon dancing was the prince's favorite, the way she made the cloth rush like a river current or swell like living flame. And on the days when everything failed to divert her royal charges, she did not shirk from their endless ammunition of rot, always armed with a bright, laughing smile. As if even in the face of yesterday's scrap pile, she too, was in on the joke.

The prince did not enjoy that last one, especially once he began noticing how the light in her grin never reached her eyes. They stayed dull and opaque all the time, like the frosted glass his father had installed in his windowpanes to keep him from staring out.

However, the prince's father and uncle seemed to revel in food-lobbing days, and it was after one such merriment involving the curdled remains of a creamed spinach dish and a rancid meat pie that the prince found her in the kitchen, swearing and ripping at the knots in her ribbons as she bent upside down in front of a half-filled wooden tub the prince was pretty sure, from the smell, had already been used for mass washing heads of cabbage.

"Can I offer you a hand?" he said.

She beat her bare toes into the wall of the tub with a yowl, flipping her hair back over her shoulders as she whirled to face him. For the first time, her eyes were clear, not shining with lovely laughter but deadly fire.

"Do I look like I want--" The flames doused, and her eyes went wide as silver coins as she registered his face. "Your Highness."

All at once she was on her knees, head nearly touching the greasy stone floor.

"I apologize, I didn't expect anyone of your..." she swallowed as if struggling past something foul, "standing to be here. In this part of the palace."

"Well, I used to come down and read next to the ovens, but I'm not quite so inconspicuous anymore. A little too big to hide behind the flour bags." He chuckled awkwardly. The jester did not smile. "Anyway, Catry said you'd be down here."

The jester leaned back on her heels, eyes narrowed. "That little--" She caught herself, gaze flicking warily back to the prince. "Angel! That little angel. So good of her to direct you to me. May I be of assistance, my prince?"

A warm blush spread up the prince's neck to the roots of his hair. He hadn't exactly thought about the peculiarity of a member of the royal family searching out the court jester. Many a servant could be spoken to on pretenses of orders, but he had no good excuse for why he'd be in search of her.

The truth sprang to his lips before he could think to smother it.

"I was wondering if you were alright. When Uncle thew that last pie, it looked like the tin-- Oh!" He canted his head toward the purple splotch making itself known under her left eye. "It's bruising."

His hand reached as if of its own accord, and she swiftly side-stepped, this time smoothly avoiding the lip of the tub. Her eyes narrowed even further. "I'm fine. Thank you, your majesty, but I assure you the bruise will not affect my performance. I'll have it covered and be ready to go by tomorrow."

Ice. Sharp, pristine, palace-perfect ice.

Right. That was about what he'd expected He had learned long ago that the people hired to serve and take care of him were not comfortable with his attention or friendship. What he meant as concern was always interpreted as criticism, expertly masked by royal politeness.

"I'm certain you will be." He paused, glancing over the tub and its room-temperature water. It was situated in an alcove at the very back of the kitchen, out of sight unless standing directly in front of it. He hadn't realized anyone might... He heated a little thinking about what would've happened if he had arrived a little later.

He pointed at the tub lamely.

"Would you like to use mine?"

As soon as it left his mouth he knew he'd made a mistake. She wouldn't even accept an inquiry on her well-being.

"What do you think I am?" she snapped, face red with embarrassment or fury or both. All decorum had fled. "Your uncle might have purchased me, and maybe to you, that makes me property. But I would rather be guillotined than accept the passes of a disgusting, spoiled, power-abusing, prince!"

The prince thrust up his hands, attempting to block the heat of some of her fire. "Th-that's not what I meant at all! Of course, I think you're beautiful, but I honestly only had your well-being in mind. I would never dream of--" His hands flew over his face, and he cringed as he found his cheeks hot to the touch. He pinkened at the slightest of embarrassments--something his father never ceased to remind him of--so right now he must be vibrant. "Excuse me."

His heart beat loudly in his ears, the blood rush making him a little dizzy.

"You're...really red."

A new wave of heat the prince didn't even realize could outdo the last one washed over him.

"I know."

"If you're this embarrassed just talking, how..." She trailed. "You were serious."

The prince didn't dare confirm or deny. Everything he said today had disastrous results.

"Why?"

He should just leave. Leave and pretend none of this ever happened. It wasn't like she could confront him about it later. But he also wasn't sure he could accept leaving her opinion of him tainted.

"Because that looks terrible." He jabbed a thumb at the foul water, his other set of fingers still clapped firmly over his eyes. "And they already treat you terrible. Me too I suppose. So I wanted...I simply thought you might like some help."

There was a long pause. So long, the prince half-wondered if she'd tiptoed around him while he hid his face in his hands. Finally, he peeked out through the cracks at her clenched jaw and dulled eyes. Reverted from the fiery phoenix of a few seconds ago to the submissive show bird of the court.

She locked onto his gaze. "No. Thank you. I appreciate, your highness's concern, but I fear my acceptance of such a magnanimous offer would not be appropriate. I fear I would tarnish your highness's name if anyone were to misunderstand. For this reason, I must also advise your highness not to seek me out."

A politically correct way of saying, 'Leave me alone.'

The prince's heart sank. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting of this encounter, but he couldn't help but feel he'd failed spectacularly.

"Right. Of course. I appreciate your heartfelt concern." He turned, moved a few steps, then turned again. "I-if you change your mind, about needing help, let me know. Alright? It's not personal. As a prince, I have all my subjects' best interests at heart."

A thin smile. "You have my word, your majesty."

That too, was all politeness, and maybe, at the heart of it, fear.

As the prince miserably retreated, he did not expect to hear from the jester again.

So it was rather a shock when she showed up at his bedroom window two days later, pale as a ghost and covered in blood.

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[puddleslimewrites]

Prompt #12

Deity looked down at their chosen mortal. "They treat you so poorly and yet, you stay with them." They frowned, their disdain as clear as the white of their eyes. "Why?"

Mortal looked away. They felt ashamed to be the subject of Deity's disapproval. "They're my friends. I can't just abandon them."

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[im-a-wonderling]

Lowly Soldier ~ a continuation of Sorrows Can Swim

Ugh, I have such a soft spot for Prince, and I hope y'all do too. Any and all lynch mobs formed will go towards Guard’s residence and not mine, d'you hear me? 😂

Word count: 2.7k

Sorrows Can Swim masterlist

-

A WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING

In the dead of night, the towering shelves cast long shadows that danced and hid from the light of the few, flickering candles resting in front of Prince on his desk. In this dim lighting, if one tilted their head and relaxed their eyes, they might mistake the library ladder at Prince’s left for a monster. 

But no, the monster stood not to Prince’s left, but directly in front of him, shifting in the way only guilty men did. 

“I know about your relations with Princess.” Prince didn’t bother glancing around the library or lowering his voice. 

Guard didn’t move, but Prince could’ve sworn he paled slightly. “Your Highness, I don’t know–”

“Spare me the act of innocence.” Prince took a deep breath, reining in his anger like an unbroken stallion. 

The soldier wisely went silent, leaving the two men to stare at each other for a few moments.

“How long do I have to pack my bags then?” Guard asked, his chin held far too high for the situation. 

Prince considered it. It would be so easy to simply send him away. Prince wouldn’t have to go so far as to remove him from the King’s service. Guard could be reassigned to a different fort. Perhaps somewhere south where the high temperatures and heavy rays of sun would cause Guard to sweat like a pig and burn like a roast. The image of Guard in full uniform, wiping at his dripping and sunburnt forehead brought Prince such satisfaction.

Then came the image of Princess’s face when she learned Guard had been sent away. 

He sighed, dismissing the image. “You must act swiftly if the two of you are to avoid scandal.”

Confusion colored Guard’s face. “Sir?”

“You must–” Prince’s voice failed him, and he chided it. “You must…marry Princess.”

The soldier gaped at Prince, clearly questioning what he’d just heard. “Your Highness?”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Prince said frigidly. It’d been hard enough to say it in the first place. 

Guard stood perfectly still for a while, and Prince impatiently waited for the soldier to get his wits back so they could continue this conversation. 

“But…ho-how?” Guard stammered. “She is royalty, and I am but a lowly soldier!”

A lowly soldier, Prince scorned in his head. Guard rose through the ranks faster than most, and he caught the attention of far more than Princess, even if Princess was the only one Prince really cared about. 

“We must be crafty.” Prince took a deep breath, sitting down, the plush red velvet sinking underneath him. “I can’t simply promote you, it would look too suspicious. We will organize a way for you to receive an increase in rank. It will–”

Guard started frantically shaking his head, making Prince stop and narrow his eyes. Why was Guard protesting? He got to marry and become honorary royalty. He wouldn’t be king, not while Princess’s older brothers still drew breath, but the rank of a prince was nothing to sneer at. 

Perhaps he was simply having a hard time wrapping his mind around it.

“It will take some time, of course,” Prince continued, “which brings its own risk, but if we’re going to do this–”

“But a marriage between us would be improper!” Guard interrupted. 

Prince fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “And the impropriety didn’t cross your mind before you stole her virtue?”

“I did not steal her virtue!” Guard snapped. “She’s the one who–”

“I would recommend,” Prince interrupted calmly, “that you don’t waste my time by finishing that sentence.”

Guard shut his mouth, looking quite taken aback as he eyed Prince. 

Prince sighed. “It doesn’t matter how things progressed.” The words tasted like vinegar in his mouth, but he pushed on. “What matters is what we must do to protect everyone in this situation, and we will get started at once.” 

Guard blinked, bringing a hand to nervously fiddle with the chainmail of his soldier's uniform. 

This is it, Prince thought. This is the moment when Guard complies, and we plot for the wedding that will soon follow, a wedding I forced Guard into, a wedding Princess isn’t expecting, and a wedding that will break my heart. It would require all of Prince’s strength to sit through, and it would cost him all his self-respect, but he would do it.

For Princess, he would do it. 

But instead of hearing words of agreement, Prince saw a sudden, dangerous gleam in Guard’s eyes. “I’m sorry, You Highness, but I cannot do that.”

Prince simply stared, trying to process what he’d just heard. Was Guard disobeying a direct order? Perhaps he hadn’t understood that Prince’s statement was a command in the first place. “All due respect, this is not a request, Guard.”

Guard’s gleam didn’t dim. “All due respect, sir, but you cannot force me to marry her.” His voice was remarkably calm, as if they were discussing the weather and not the fate of a woman. 

For a moment, Prince couldn’t form any words. He could only stare at Guard, wondering how the man could be so cavalier and care so little about Princess’s reputation?

He wanted to toss Guard out the library window, but that wouldn’t save Princess.

Prince clenched onto his self-control, imposingly rising to his feet instead of rushing at Guard in fury. “Do you realize who you are speaking to?” He stepped closer to Guard, holding his posture as tightly as he held his fists. “I am your prince. I can demote you so that you are guarding a kitchen for the rest of your days. I can have you branded as a traitor and exiled. I can have you flung in the dungeon, facing execution in a week.” Prince raised his chin. “It all makes no difference to me.”

The threat in his tone would make most men concede by prostrating themselves in front of him. 

“If this kingdom finds out that the Tunican princess had affairs with a lowly soldier, the gossip will spread like wildfire,” Guard said slowly. “And if the Tunician King finds out, it will be war.” 

“You would create war for your own country?” Prince seethed.

Guard spread his hands. “This may be the country of my birth, but that doesn’t mean it’s the country of my life.” He pointed at Prince. “That’s your position.”

Prince gaped at Guard.

Had Guard gone mad? All the authority rested with Prince, and yet Guard acted as though he possessed the upper hand!

What pure selfishness.

What audacity.

Prince slammed his hands into the desk, making the candles shake and drip wax down onto the polished wood. “You dare threaten me with war?” 

Guard smiled back at Prince. “Do you know what Princess told me last night?”

Prince froze, sensing the wave of pain about to crash over him, an upper hand that was about to be gained. “That is neither here nor–”

Guard stepped closer to Prince, baring his teeth like a child who hadn’t quite mastered the art of the smile. “She told me she loved me.” 

A groan of pain nearly ripped through Prince’s throat as the knot of pain coiled tightly in his chest. He blindly fell back onto his chair, trying to relearn how to breathe under the weight of this information. 

She…she loved Guard? Truly? It wasn’t merely some youthful dalliance or fleeting fancy?

Prince looked back to Guard with a sharp inhale, realizing too late that he’d given away too much with his silence. 

“You love her.” The triumph in Guard’s voice set Prince’s teeth on edge. “You can’t bear to see her in pain, or you would’ve sent me away instead of trying to get me to marry her. If you banished me or imprisoned me, it would only hurt her, and you can’t bear to do that.”

There was no point in denying it. Unlike Guard, Prince was a man strong enough to admit to the truth. So Prince glowered at Guard. “I’m warning you–”

“No, Your Highness.” Guard smirked. “I’m warning you, unless you promise me that you won’t mention this conversation to anyone, I’ll tell the Tunician King about our affair myself.” The satisfied smile widened. “See what happens to your precious princess then.”

“You are a snake,” Prince fumed.

Guard’s only reply was to grin. 

“Fine!” Prince burst out. “I promise, now get out of my sight!”

Guard wisely didn’t reply. He simply slipped out the library door, likely off to go sleep soundly in his bed.

Now what? Prince thought desperately.

Princess was not the first royal to be in this compromising situation, but the world would see her as damaged goods if they found out. It didn’t matter if it was a year from now when the truth got out, she would be seen as damaged goods, and whatever husband she possessed would turn his back on her, for no self-respecting husband wouldn’t care if his wife dallied with a soldier. Except for Lord perhaps, but Prince couldn’t subject Princess to marriage with him. His breath smelled fouler than the stables, and he was old enough to be her grandfather. 

Whoever married Princess would have to know beforehand.

But who would ever marry her with that knowledge? And even if they didn’t care, Prince would be breaking his promise to Guard, and who knew what the soldier would do?

Prince sat at the desk, his hopes dwindling by the second.

If only status and dignity didn’t matter so much. If only the world could see Princess for her sweetness or even her beauty, and value her for those things instead of whatever station she possessed.

Alas, it seemed the only one who saw Princess’s sweetness and beauty was Prince and Guard, and Guard wouldn’t marry her.

Prince sat bolt upright.

Was that…?

Could it be…?

Prince lifted his hand to his hair. 

Was that really the solution? Marrying Princess himself?

The idea which would normally make his heart soar instead made his stomach turn over. 

He couldn’t marry her, not like this. Not as a last resort to stave off scandal and potentially war. Princess deserved better than that. Everybody deserved more than that. 

Prince leaned forward, resting his forehead on the desk. There had to be another way, a way where Guard wouldn’t win without Prince losing so badly. 

But there wasn’t. No other desperate solution in his mind was feasible in the amount of time they had left. 

Prince let out a breath. 

He couldn’t count on Princess to understand. He loved her, but she could be naive. No, Prince would conduct this himself, and it started with talking to his father. 

God help him.

A MONTH LATER

“Well, this is a sorry sight!”

Forever a light sleeper, Prince started from his horizontal position on the couch. He blinked blearily around at his study, trying to find the source of the words. For a wild moment, in the delirium of having one foot in the real world and the other in the land of dreams, he wondered if his desk had spoken to him.

Then Prince’s eyes fell on Brother, standing in the open doorway with folded arms. 

Prince glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s six o’clock in the morning,” he grumbled, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. 

“Yes, and you’re sleeping on a couch in your study alone instead of in your bed with your wife.”

Prince didn’t bother to answer the question asked by his younger brother’s tone. Yes, he didn’t sleep in their bedchamber anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to explain himself, certainly not to Brother, who had yet to be married. 

Brother swept towards Prince’s desk, ignoring the neatly ordered papers as he jumped up to take a seat on top of them. “Your wife says she hasn’t seen you for days. Is there a declaration of war I don’t know about?”

Prince almost bit back, not appreciating the dig. Yes, Prince had assumed the Tunican party had nefarious intent, and yes, it turned out to be a company of soldiers containing Princess’s dowry. But in Prince’s opinion, it was better to be overly cautious than taken unawares.

Getting to his feet, Prince shoved at his brother. “Get off your porcine behind.”

“It’s a royal behind to you.” Brother hopped off the desk to recline lazily on the sofa on which Prince had just woken from. 

“If you’re in the mood to pry,” Prince said bluntly, “go down to the launderers to hear the gossip. I’m busy.”

Brother sat forward, the usual merriment gone from his face. “Why are you avoiding Princess?”

Prince grit his teeth. He’d promised himself that he would only return to the scene of Princess’s encounter with Guard when he was sure he could control his temper. 

As of yet, his temper hadn’t dissipated. 

So he avoided it altogether—which meant he avoided her altogether. 

“What happened?” Brother asked, dropping his voice even though they were the only two in the room. “Did the two of you have a fight?”

Prince shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“If you can’t tell your own brother, who can you tell?” 

“I won’t be telling anyone anything.”

“Maybe not, but that only makes it worse for you.”

Prince wanted to scream at his brother, beg and plead with his brother to stop prying, but it would only make clearer the gravity of the secrets he held. 

“You’re married,” Brother said 

“Believe me, I’m painfully aware of that!” Prince snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to reel in the slip in his temper. 

“You need to get to know your new wife,” Brother insisted. 

“I know my wife!” Prince growled at his brother. A heavy silence fell while he once again tried to get his temper under control. “I know that she loves to spend her entire mornings sleeping. I know that her favorite flowers are white roses. I know that she has a birthmark on the side of her neck. I know that she hates boiled eggs and always wants her eggs fried.”

I know the name of the lowly soldier she loves.

Prince sat heavily on his chair, sagging against the armrests like he’d gone boneless. “I’m not ‘getting to know’ my wife because I don’t need to.” He swallowed. “It’s her that doesn’t want to know me.” 

“You think your wife doesn’t care for you,” Brother said, as if it were some grand realization, the truth behind what kept Prince awake at night. 

Prince bowed his head, wishing that that was all it was.

“You have to give her time,” Brother said gently. “She came here as an effort to strengthen kingdom ties, not to gain a husband.”

The great ache in Prince’s chest threatened to swallow him whole. 

He knew he’d practically forced himself onto Princess. That’s how she saw it, and it’s how Prince’s kingdom saw it. They saw him as a man who took what he wanted. But how could this ever be what he wanted? To be married to a woman who belonged in his dreams and yet loved someone else? To know that she wanted nothing more than to spend her time with Guard? 

He heaved a large sigh. “I will give her that time.” 

Brother didn’t say anything more, and Prince didn’t want him to. He didn’t want any more of his brother’s pity nor his brother’s advice. He wanted Guard gone, and he wanted Princess’s heart intact when Guard left. 

Impossible. 

“Leave me be,” Prince said wearily.

Brother hesitated a moment and then got to his feet and walked towards the door. He paused before opening it. “Why would she marry you if she didn’t see something in you?” With that, Brother left. 

Prince knew the question was rhetorical. He knew it was meant to make him believe in the chance that his wife could love him. But all it did was remind him of the answers he couldn’t share. 

At this point, Prince was fairly certain those answers would die with him, and the only way anyone would ever know was if they opened his chest to see the words carved into his heart.

-

Part 4

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[amethystpath-writes]

Between Mice and Magic

NOT A PR0MPT

Spicy (but not explicit- and only for a short bit, really)

******

“I hate to admit it, little mouse, but you are becoming quite the nuisance.”

Hero ignored Villain as best she could as she fought with the ropes which bound her. Her wrists stung behind her back and her ankles were screaming from another over-the-top restraint.

As anyone would know it, Hero was weak. Her skillsets relied on nimbleness. Being small and lightweight meant she was the best sneak anyone could afford, but it came at a cost.

This wasn’t to say she couldn’t fight. Swords were no match for her when they were easily knocked to the ground. And after then, it was only a matter of pushes and pulls in just the right places of her opponent’s body.

However, hand-to-hand combat meant nothing in the face of magic. Hero thought such a force was an outdated source of combat- after so many wars, so many imprisonments...as far as the world knew it, magic was a thing of the past, buried so deeply in earth that it could never be found again. It would remain unknown, even to the gods, many had thought.

Yet here she was, trapped.

Of course, ropes were far from magic, but the deadly, deafening pulsing of the room when she had snuck through the window hadn’t been. Hero figured the use of ropes had been within reason; she just wasn’t sure how.

Maybe it was to belittle her- Hero didn’t know magic, and perhaps Villain thought she would want magic. Would feel lesser for not having it.

Or maybe it was to frighten her- magic was so poorly thought of that anyone, even a king, would be scared to witness it. And, if Hero couldn’t escape regular restraints, what would make her think she could face Villain’s magic? He could snap his fingers and she would fall to one knee, or both.

Though, if Villain had been trying to scare Hero with his magic, it wasn’t working. She was more bothered with the scratchy ropes than breath of old gods.

“What should I do with you?” Villain wondered aloud.

Clearly, it was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Hero answered anyway. “If I am such a pest, would it not be easiest to kill me?” She didn’t consider the absurdity of joking with Villain as she continued to pull uselessly at her wrists. “Then again, I could never fit in a mouse trap, so if playing is another option, then I guess I should take that instead.”

“I could play with you, if that is what you wanted.”

The confinements were weighing less on Hero’s mind. There was peril in the game she was playing- this Cat & Mouse- but she was confident. She shrugged, as much as she could manage. “Maybe if you untied me-”

Villain laughed, a sound so gaudy and aggravatingly alluring. Like any lord, he was attractive, but Hero was willing to bet it was a guise made by magic.

“But you look so nice all tied up for me.” His voice was mocking now, playful. Just as Hero intended when she started this charade.

“Please,” she scoffed, understanding perfectly well what he was implying- what she implied first. “What could I do to you that you could not do to yourself? I am sure your magic has a better hand than mine.” She rolled her eyes, still in her seat, still in her restraints.

Eventually, she hoped, the lord would tire of this banter. He would untie her, thinking he could make a toy out of a mouse, and she would make her escape.

“You know what I think?” Hero taunted.

Villain hummed, expectantly.

“I think a game is all you ever wanted,” she admitted, and for once, she wasn’t playing a survivor’s role. “If I were such a nuisance, you would have done this already.” She nodded, a gesture to herself. “You wanted me all along; you just wanted a chase first. Am I not right, cat?”

“You think you know me better than myself.”

“An easy observation when you think about it,” she tutted. “You are becoming predictable after so many of my break-ins.”

His eyebrows went flat- unamused. “Tell me again,” Villain said.

Hero stayed silent. There was a stone-cold edge to Villain’s voice. It changed so frequently that Hero almost felt dizzy despite her stillness. At first, he was calculated, then playful, now dangerous. He was insulted, and as scary as he could be.

“Go on. Tell me how predictable I am. Tell me all the secrets I have up my sleeve and how easily you know I could tear this world apart if only I had the patience and will to do so. Tell me how well you know me.”

The air was heavy, and Hero found herself swallowing, before daring to say, “I know that it is neither patience, nor will, which stops you from doing as you say.”

“Is that right?”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Even with all your magic,” Hero said, silently reciting the countless letters she found hidden in the lord’s manor, “you are afraid you will never be enough- that somehow your image will never outgrow your father’s. You fear judgement, Villain.”

“I was so certain you wanted to play”- he admired his hand, turning it as if he held something in it- ”but now I wonder if you-”

Something was glowing in his hand- something so close to a flame that Hero exclaimed, “I do! I do want to play.” The game was no longer about flirting; it was about fear and desperation, chasing each other like a fox and a rabbit.

Please do not kill me. It was such a quiet request, even in her own head, but she knew the urgency which she spoke in was real. Hero was desperate, and she knew Villain understood that by the grin he wore.

“Then run,” Villain spoke.

A weight dropped from Hero’s wrists and ankles but she didn’t make a move. “You are tricking me,” she whispered. He wouldn’t let her go that easily. The moment she stood, Villain would slam her back down with the breath of his nose, or he would spring roots from the ground to drag her into the ground...

“Please.”

“Play the game, or I will end it right now.”

******

#not a pr0mpt #Between Mice and Magic #suggestive #first post for: #fantasci #fantasci tumblr #fantasy #magic #heroes and villains #hero #villain #good hero #evil villain #hero/villain #villain/hero #hero x villain #hero x villain story #hero x villain snippet #hero x villain drabble #writeblr #blah blah blee #i've been gone for a while because stuff keeps popping up :'D #such as the possible tornado that is about to hit #AS WELL AS the power outage and various electric lines in the road from that day i asked for sketch ideas #i wish i was making that up. i was fully prepared to take requests :/ #This story started with an aim and slowly fell out of control but I just needed to write something. This will do for now.

[cee-grice]

✨ hi!! welcome to my domain ✨

about me

my name's Cee, I use she/they pronouns, and I'm from Lithuania :) I write almost exclusively fantasy, often together with romance. Besides writing, I like to draw, so I may post some art later down the line, too. I'm trying to use tumblr more to mingle with the writing community on here, so I'm always on the lookout for more writer friends!! I also really like tag games, so feel free to tag me in any!! also: I offer free-of-charge beta-reading with no strings attached to help me get more experience in the editing field, so feel free to hit me up with projects you'd like me to look over :)

my works

WHEN WHITE CROWS CRY - an adult queer romantic fantasy set in a secondary world. It features a hard science-based magic system, an academical community as the ruling class, magical afflictions with no (legal) cure, and is primarily character-driven. It has themes of mental deterioration, bodily autonomy, death and grieving, the grey morality of science. For an actual summary of the story and more details, check out the links below: WIP intro Characters intros Worldbuilding Writing Art Writeblr intro General WIP tag

let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist :)

#writeblr #writeblr intro #writers on tumblr #looking for writer friends #writing community #thought i'd make a proper post that i could have as my pinned #might rework it later but eh it's fine rn #fantasci tumblr

[sio-writes]

Movie Night

I challenged myself to write a short blurb in under 1k words, and we capped in at 998 (hell yeah!)

I've been inspired by my writing buddies in the fantasci discord server, so have a bit of a Hero/Villain interaction. It's a bit out of my usual wheelhouse but I think I did the concept some justice! There's some mild swearing but that's all c:

The steam from the shower nearly chokes the small apartment, but Hero wouldn’t turn down the temperature if their life depended on it. It’s the easiest way to release the tension in their joints, ease the tightness of their muscles after beating back Supervillain for the third time this week. It was a victory hard-won, and Hero was still finding bruises and scrapes that they hadn't felt during the heat of battle.

The shower also acts as a ritual of sorts, one that started out of necessity - saving a city was a hard job, and then as Hero got better at that job, the ritual just kind of stuck.

Scrubbed and dry with fresh bandages over the worst of the injuries, Hero knocks back several ibuprofen and changes into pajamas. The fight took everything out of them, and they want nothing more than to relax for the rest of the evening.

Which of course invites a knock on their door, and Hero knows exactly who it is. They barely have a chance to unlock the door before Villain pushes past them and into the apartment. They pace the small living room as Hero closes and locks the door, then turns an accusing finger in Hero's direction. "I can't believe you!"

"You saw the fight, huh?" Hero asks, leaning on one shoulder against the wall. "I assume you have notes?"

Villain's eyes widen, indignant. "You bet your ass I do! Never fight Supervillain alone, your own words! And what do I see on TV first thing in the morning? You! Being flattened into the fucking Metrix high-rise!"

Hero cringes, hating that Villain is right. "It's not like I planned it. I did call for help, but by the time everyone else got there, Supervillain was long gone." They shrug, and the movement pulls at a nasty gash over their back that makes them wince. They kick off the wall to step around Villain, and then flop dramatically onto the couch, ignoring Villain's increasingly indignant stare. Standing takes effort, plus it hurts, so if Villain wants to yell at them more, they'll have to do it from down here.

"Don't you care that they might--"

"Wanna watch a movie?" Hero interrupts, reaching for the remote.

Villain sputters for a second, but this song and dance is nothing new for either of them. One gets hurt, the other gets upset, they brush it off and continue on. So after a long-suffering stare, an arm movement like they're a bird taking flight, and a hefty sigh, Villain drapes themself over Hero's couch as Hero fiddles with the channels.

“Anything but the news,” Villain says.

Hero flips to a channel playing a movie— they haven't seen a proper movie in months— and Villain grunts their approval.

Normally, Hero enjoys war movies, but those pain pills kick in fast, and before the opening credits are over, Hero’s already struggling to pay attention. It's an older movie, made in the 70's, something about the Cold War, and there's so much talking and so little action that Hero is fighting to stay awake, until Villain starts on a tirade.

"It's just like the government, eh? Fuckin' politicians, they just waltz all over--"

Hero groans, thumping Villains leg with their fist. "Knock it off. I heard nothing but this all damn day."

Villain scoffs, cutting off their rant but still broadcasting their frustration. They turn their attention back to the movie, and in sympathy, Hero pats their knee where it's draped over their own legs. "Things'll get better, you know they will."

Villain scrunches their face in displeasure, sinking into the couch as they cross their arms over their chest. "Not fast enough. People are dying."

Hero sighs through their nose, fond yet exasperated. This argument never seems to stale, no matter how often it comes up. They never reach an agreement, only until they run out of talking points and one gives up. Currently Hero is in the lead at 43-42.

At a commercial break, Villain reaches out to gently brush their knuckles over a large purple bruise on Hero's ankle. “This looks bad.”

Hero hums, noncommittal. Supervillain had actually broken that ankle, but with Hero's accelerated healing factor, it was back in place before they got home, and the bruise will be long gone before the weekend's over. “I mean, you saw the fight.”

“You should be more careful around Supervillain,” they say, serious. “They don’t have a conscience like I do.”

Hero scoffs, smiling. “Didn't you gut-punch me last week?”

“I was aiming for the senator," they mumble, looking down. They look back to Hero, eyes still hardened. "They’ll kill you given the chance.” Villain’s expression brokers no argument, and Hero holds their gaze for a moment. Hero’s easy smile fades, taking in the concern of Villain’s expression.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hero mumbles. “It’s part of the job.”

“An avoidable part.”

Hero rolls their eyes. "I can't just quit, and I--" Hero squints at the screen. “What the fuck is that?"

It's not a distraction this time, Hero genuinely can't make heads or tails of why this plane is sitting on its ass-end and taking off like the space shuttle.

Villain sighs, turning their head back towards the TV, and then they perk up. "Oh, that's a Lockheed XFV-1," Villain says easily before tossing back popcorn into their mouth. Hero didn't remember making popcorn, and couldn't recall Villain making any - they must've made it when Hero dozed off.

"It was made for vertical take-off and landing," Villain continues. "Like a helicopter, but shaped like a plane. Oh! That one's a Lavochkin-LA, super big during the Cold War."

Hero squints at them. "Are you a history nerd?"

Villain flushes. "Kind of? I'm not as keyed-in as some people." They snort, and their smile is lopsided. "Don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my street cred."

Hero recognizes an olive branch when they see one, and they smile easily. "I won't tell anyone. Hand me some popcorn."

#my writing #hero x villain #heroxvillain #under 1k #fantasci tumblr #I'm not sure what else to tag this as I'm usually in the monsterlover side :< #Fantasci

[fantasci-side-blog]

Since I know a popular trope in fantasy and royalty stuff is marriage, both forced and arranged

Here's the difference between arranged and forced marriages copied from another post I wrote

No hate if you use the trope, just make sure you're using the right terms and aren't putting your culture on a pedestal while putting others down

-

If a marriage is forced then it can't be called arranged, even if it's arranged for one, as a matter of principle and definition since arranged means they both agree. If either one doesn't agree, it's not arranged it's forced.

And arranged marriages are the norm in most of the world, most of which are healthy (most arranged marriages are perfectly healthy and the people involved are perfectly okay with it).

It's not that arranged marriages have more instances of unhealthy over love marriages — like you haven't heard of abusive boyfriends/girlfriends or otherwise significant others in Western culture — in fact, since arranged marriages mean that both person's families researched their potential spouse AND their family AND personal history, AND you find them more via word-of-mouth, arranged marriages seem to be the safer bet.

(of course, your family and friends can research your SO you're in love with too. But if you're like "I don't care about their past! They've changed!" that's, well, I hope the best for you.)

Arranged marriages can also have a period of getting to know the other person before making it official, and the engagement period can be as long as they want — I'm talking multiple years — where the couple interact and invite each other places, on dates, or just outings with family or friends, but it's all chill. Or just message each other on your phone.

You can even do the thing where you, like, ask your fiance to drop and pick you and your friends from places and stuff without anyone batting an eye (they're part of the family, your friend group (your social circle) etc now!).

Arranged marriages can (and most are) healthy; please don't confuse them with forced marriages which are (ideally) a crime both religion- and legal-wise.

Just wanted to clarify because someone once told me people confuse all arranged marriages as forced and think of the cultures where this is a norm as backward or in an otherwise bad light.

#fantasy #royalty #tw forced marriage #tw arranged marriage #tropes #bad tropes #Misconceptions #engagement #fantasci tumblr

[vaya-writes]

The Wyvern's Bride - Part 3.5

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

3000 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

No notable content warnings. Some mild descriptions of food. Perhaps some self worth and image issues from our dear wyvern. Enjoy Slate and Adalyn's first date :)

Adalyn waits until the following morning to pick up the book, too self-conscious to read about wyvern mating habits with Slate hovering around. The text is dry but contains a depth of knowledge she hadn’t even considered.  

Rin had marked out sections on pheromone production, courting and mating habits, and – more embarrassingly – reproductive organs and processes. 

Adalyn is drawn into the treatise, nearly missing her lunch with Slate, and almost jogging back up the Tower when they’re done. Glancing at the sky, she scowls before heading to the garden and ensuring her cuttings have been taken care of. She washes the dirt from her hands before returning to Slate’s chambers to read.  

Settled down in the pillowed nook tucked behind his bookshelves, she learns that female wyverns use colour changes and body language to indicate interest in a partner, and pheromones to indicate, among other things, sexual readiness. Most wyverns are sensitive to touch, making physical contact another important aspect of courting. 

The book offers occasional points of social commentary too, to supplement the biological details, and Adalyn learns of just how revered females can be in the hierarchy, and how frowned upon it is for males to approach them without the right signals.  

“Rin, you are a godsend,” Adalyn murmurs.  

Before dinner she opens the wardrobe and looks over her options. Hope and anxiety battle for dominance in her chest as she starts planning for tomorrow’s outing. 

--- 

Adalyn and Slate walk side by side through the forest, boots crunching against detritus and stone. Her belted tunic is a pale green; a colour akin to Slate’s blush and intended to be sweet and disarming. Useful, according to her research, but on the milder side of wyvern signalling.  

Stray hairs that have escaped her coronet tickle her cheeks in the breeze. Adalyn breathes in deep, enjoying the forest air. Her arm brushes Slate’s as they follow an old trail towards some underbrush. 

Slate points out various animal tracks and leavings and identifies several bird calls. Most of the information he shares means nothing to Adalyn – especially the bird related tangents he goes on – but she’s reminded again that the wyvern contains a depth of knowledge, apparently pertaining to more than just construction and craft. 

“Do you see that there? Those are blackberry seeds,” Slate points to some bird droppings, splattered down a tree trunk. 

She raises her brows. “How do you even know? How much time have you spent going through animal leavings to learn this stuff?” 

“I had a phase probably two decades back.” He winces. 

She bumps his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s more interesting than weird. Barely, though.” 

The pair have a basket each, Slate carrying their lunch and blanket, and Adalyn with an empty pack for foraging. They make a day of it while they hike, with Slate showing Adalyn a handful of ways to set snares, pointing out a small waterway with the glimmer of fish inside, and helping her pick out some edible greens. They talk as they walk. 

“You know where I’m from. What about you? Where did you live before here?” 

Slate pulls back a branch, letting Adalyn pass unscathed. “I lived with my grandmother on the Farset Peninsula. She had an estate on the outskirts of Rendcliff.” 

“I’d assumed your family wouldn’t want to live so close to human powers.” She ducks under his arm. 

“We’re one of the few clans who do. The Matron considers it good practice to build relations with different people and places. I’m probably one of the few family members who live in such a remote area.” 

They stumble across a handful of blackberry bushes, Slate grinning almost gloatingly. None of the berries on the outer layers are ripe, picked clean by birds, but there are several juicy looking handfuls deeper in the thorny tangle.  

Adalyn hesitates, but Slate rolls up his sleeves. His arms ripple with shadow as scales emerge along his forearms and the backs of his hands. He starts picking berries for her, safe from errant thorns and scrapes.  

“Do you prefer your human form?” she blurts. 

He freezes, following her line of sight to his arms. “Uh. Not always. It just- well, it looks better, does it not?” 

“Does it?”  

“Well, I can’t imagine the grey, and the horns, and the spines to be aesthetically pleasing to you.” 

Adalyn blinks. Impulsive curiosity morphs into a mix of concern and dread. 

“Slate, have you been in human form all this time because of me?” 

There’s a long silence as he searches for the right words. 

She crosses her arms, irritation suddenly spiking. “I appreciate if you’re trying to put me at ease, but did you consider that your demi form might not bother me?” 

He’s almost frozen, unable to meet her eyes. “Does it not?” 

“I don’t know, I’ve hardly seen you in it!” she lets out a sigh, and reigns in her exasperation.  

Another long silence. One that Adalyn is content to let stretch, for fear of yelling again. 

“W-” Slate starts. “Would you like to?” 

Some of the tension drains out of her. It’s not hard to smile, to look up through her lashes and meet his gaze. “Yes, Slate. I would.” 

He shrugs and looks away again, letting the shadows swirl over his form. She watches attentively as his weight shifts. She’s not entirely sure if he grows in height, but he certainly seems bigger. It might just be the way his muscles adjust to hold the scales, the claws, the weight of his horns. His neck seems a little thicker, his shoulders wider. 

Finally, he stands before her, pallor ashen, skin dappled with plates of keratin, and silhouette modified. He glances between her face and his feet, seemingly waiting for a reaction.  

“Can I touch?” 

He nods, almost eager, then blushes. 

She steps into his space and looks over him. There’s not much she hasn’t seen before, honestly. It’s a little disconcerting seeing somebody in such a strange colour, and the horns definitely stand out. But they’re not ugly. 

She reaches up to tap one. “So, what are these for?” 

He looks away, demure. “They make it hard for larger creatures to swallow us.” 

“What’s larger than a wyvern?” she runs her finger along one of the lower horns, curving around to protect the back of his neck. 

“A dragon.” 

She nods, contemplatively. Then gestures that he turn. 

Slowly, he does.  

His coat sits differently, and Adalyn realises that it had hung lose around his shoulders. The length of his back is no longer flat, and she traces her finger along the new jagged shapes. 

“Spines?” 

He nods. 

“Are they supposed to scare me?” 

He shakes his head. “Same purpose as the horns.” 

When he faces her again, she takes his hand in her own. With surprise, she looks down at his fingers, tipped slightly with claws. “I could have sworn these were longer.” 

Shadows coalesce once more, lengthening his claws, and she watches with fascination as he wriggles his fingers; now each a deadly weapon. “My demi form is a bit malleable. I can make the spines come and go. Or the claws longer. Others can summon a tail. And I know dragons can use wings in their demi form too.” 

With his sleeves rolled up she has access to his forearms, and drags her finger along the edge of his scales. They’re cooler than his skin. “They’re pretty.” She doesn’t look at his face or notice his cheeks going verdant as she feels them, keeled and textured on the back of his arms, but flatter and smoother the closer they get to his skin.  

She drops his arm and looks up at him again. “Thank you.” 

He nods, at a loss for words. 

“Shall we break for lunch?” 

Relieved at having something to do, Slate finds a spot to lay the blanket, and starts setting out the food. Adalyn takes stock of their forage and sits with him, stretching out her legs. She ignores most of the prepared lunch in favour of the blackberries.  

“If I had enough of these I could make tarts. Or jam. Or a pie.” The thought doesn’t stop her from eating half the berries they’d collected. 

Slate smiles, slowly losing some of his previous tension. He sprawls back on the picnic blanket. “There’ll be more tomorrow.” 

Adalyn watches Slate throw a berry into the air. It arcs neatly into his mouth. Her eyes linger on his lips a moment longer before she pulls them away, cheeks warming. 

“What did you do at the Matron’s estate? What was the place like?” 

His nose crinkles. “Busy. There was always someone visiting. Family, or foreign dignitaries. There were meetings, or parties, or some event or another on nearly every day. And I was expected to attend all of them. Even if I had no interest or say in the proceeds.” 

“Because you’re male?” 

“And young. I was a fledgling when the Matron took me in. I attended those events for centuries before anyone would hear my opinion.” 

“Why go, then?” 

He shrugs. “Like I told you. My grandmother was grooming me for a leadership position.” 

The words tug at her memory. The Matron had said something during the trials. Something she’d completely forgotten in favour of pressing matters. 

“Are you her heir?” 

He looks at Adalyn sharply, eyes widened. “When- how did you... Yes.” 

Adalyn frowns. “You make it sound like a problem.” 

He stares down at his food, face falling in shadow. “It’s not a popular decision. I’m not sure if anyone will accept it when Matron passes.” After a beat he corrects himself. “That’s a lie. I know it will cause a schism.” 

Adalyn considers the situation. She hasn’t seen the matriarchy in full force, nor has she seen Slate’s family berate and badger him the way he claims they do. But if the situation is as severe as he’s led her to believe... yes, it wouldn’t be a surprise if his leadership was contested. Especially if the Matron dies and is unable to enforce the change.  

Do wyverns abdicate? Or do they relinquish their titles at death? It would be a key difference in deciding Slate’s rule. Without the Matron’s ongoing support, Slate’s succession would be an uphill battle. He’d need to make friends. Make an effort to please his family.  

Adalyn opens her mouth to ask, but one look at his expression tells her that he’s considered all of this before. At length. 

She resolves to make him feel better. And if there’s nothing she can say to console or encourage him, she can at the very least distract him. Adalyn shakes off the topic and throws a berry in the air. Attempts to catch it. Fails.  

“What did you do for fun?” 

After a few moments his muscles loosen. He relaxes back on the blanket, staring up at the canopy. At the clouds overhead, barely peeking through. 

“I liked going into the city. Visiting the markets or the craft quarter. Sometimes I’d sneak into the university lectures. Eventually I was sensible enough to enrol. I spent some years studying. Architecture. Engineering. Philosophy. That one was boring. I followed some of the artisans around until they apprenticed me out of frustration. Or amusement. The university library was a favourite haunt. Maybe I could show you one day.” 

Adalyn lays beside him and listens to tales of his forays into the city. His descriptions of the streets and the buildings. Of the food and drink, the people and music, the festivals and wares. So relaxed, she is, that she dozes off, halfway through a story about a horse thief and a chase through the streets.  

“Adalyn.” 

She stirs, rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes. “Sorry. You were saying?” 

“Shall we head back to the Tower?” 

She sits up. Stretches. Yawns. “Sure. I’m tired enough.” 

They pack up and Slate flies them to his quarters. He hesitates at the balcony, having deposited her gently, but not landed.  

I’m going to go back to work. Thank you for today. I had a good time. 

Adalyn hides her disappointment. She’d been enjoying her time with the wyvern, and the flight had banished some of her fatigue. “Of course. So did I. Thank you for sharing with me.” 

He hesitates, as if pondering something else to say, before shaking himself and leaving. 

With the sun starting to set, and not wanting to trek to the kitchen and back by torchlight, Adalyn decides to set up in the Tower. She washes and cooks their foraged vegetables and sets aside the rest of their spoils to deal with tomorrow. 

After a bath she takes her time choosing her sleep wear. With all the clothing she’d received as wedding gifts, she finds she has many options to choose from. And while at first, she’d considered clothing to be an impersonal and standard fare gift, looking at them closer reveals their alternative uses. She notes the repeating themes in colours; greens, blues, and deep greys, and recognises the consideration some of her in-laws must have taken in choosing their gifts.  

She’s used to sleeping in her chemise – it's simple, short sleeved, thin. Many of the new clothes are quite different from her modest tastes, and Adalyn wonders if she should push the bounds of her comfort zone tonight. 

There are chemises woven from silk and satin. Woollen drawers and shirts for cold weather. Things made from lace and gossamer, with open backs and plunging necklines, things that barely cover her thighs. Thankfully they’re not all coloured. There are still familiar whites and greys.  

She finds herself wishing for attractive reds and pinks. It’d certainly be less daunting trying to seduce somebody wearing colours she knows are effective on human men.  

Feeling exploratory, but still cautious, Adalyn chooses one of the undyed silken chemises. It’s shorter than her old one, just brushing the tops of her knees, and the neckline plunges enough to reveal her collar bones. With the decision made, lets out a deep breath and sits back on the chaise, donning a matching dressing gown and pulling out the treatise to read while she waits for Slate.  

He returns before the night grows late, and she greets him with a warm smile at the table. He’s damp, and his clothes cling to his skin, but Adalyn lets herself stare a little as she notes his demi form. On the other hand, he can hardly meet her eyes, conversation stilted. 

It’s not a reaction she’d been hoping for.  

Perhaps today had been too much. Or the outfit too suggestive. If she’s lucky, he’s just self-conscious, sitting in his second form. But the tension still makes her nervous.  

After she eats, she washes her hands and face before crawling into bed with a sigh. Slate stokes the hearth and puts out the torches before migrating towards the screened off area. Eventually he emerges in clean clothes and sinks down onto the lounge. 

She keeps her eyes to herself, but burns to prolong the evening. To try again. Torn between pushing too hard, and not hard enough. 

“How’s the chaise?” 

For a moment he’s silent. “A bit too firm. Perhaps I should order a new one.” 

“It’s not really designed for sleeping on.” 

“Mm,” he agrees. 

She pauses again, weighing her words. Deciding how far to push. 

“We could swap for a few nights?” 

“Nonsense. I’ve slept in worse places.” 

She swallows.  

“We could share?” 

There’s a long silence, before Slate replies in a measured tone. “I don’t think I’d be a good host if I were to impose on your space like that.” 

For a moment she feels the sting of rejection. Then she frowns. No. She hadn’t even tried, not really. If she’s going to be rejected again, it had better be crystal clear.  

She sits up. “You’re not my host. You’re my husband. And husbands usually share their beds with their wives. At least in human culture. Do wyvern’s act differently?” 

She thinks she hears his breath hitch but isn’t sure. 

“It’s... it varies from couple to couple.” He pauses, taking his time to formulate a response. “I don’t want to make any presumptions. I’d hate to make you uncomfortable.” 

She feels a twinge of sympathy. “Listen, Slate. I’m not used to taking the lead with these things. I don’t want to overstep either. And if I do, please, please tell me, so I can back off. And know I’ll do the same in turn. But you cannot overstep my bounds if you don’t take any steps.” 

Another silence from the wyvern. 

She starts rambling, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst, and desperate to ignore it. “This bed is the size of my old bedroom.” An exaggeration. But not by much. “The only way you could possibly make me uncomfortable is if you were to shift into your wyvern form during your sleep.” 

There’s a snort. And a pause before he replies, voice hoarse. “Are you sure?” 

“Completely.” She doesn’t let the doubt creep into her words. She hadn’t felt any before; is only hesitating now because of Slate making such a large deal. 

“Okay.” 

She watches his silhouette rise from the chaise. Her daring leaves her when he approaches the bed, words emptying from her head. Thankfully the lights are low enough to hide her blush. She lies back down as Slate climbs under the covers, taking extra care not to jostle her. The pair face each other, eyes open. 

With the apparent staring competition, Adalyn suddenly regrets inviting him. Just a little. She lets out a sigh with a wry smile, and closes her eyes, working hard to ignore the large presence beside her. 

“Goodnight, Adalyn.” 

His fingers brush her own.  

She flinches with surprise, before relaxing, and gripping Slate’s hand. 

“Goodnight dearest.”

Next

#the wyvern's bride #vaya writes #monster romance #dragons #wyverns #tetaro #exophilia #fantasci tumblr #thank you for the encouragement everyone <3 #we are getting close to the end of this arc #very excited #perhaps two or three chapters left that ive prewritten

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

Fantasy Masterlist

Reversed chronological order. My favorites have an asterisk. (prompt) indicates when the original idea is from someone else.

Magical Daddy* (prompt): A magic lady wants to transform one of your daughters into a magical girl to fight evil. Like you’d let that happen!

Old God (prompt): The town folks decide to pillage an old temple. They regret it soon enough.

Meaty Heart (prompt): Your friend might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s such a sweet guy, so when he tells you he’s heartless, you’re...confused.

Talking Frog, Werewolf prompt, Demonic Dwarf, Bloody Drabble: Just tiny things.

New God* (prompt): not fantasy, Greek mythology. Bad luck! Zeus has his eyes on you and won't take no for an answer because that's how he rolls. When you find yourself in the Pantheon after an accidental death, time is ticking to find a solution out of this mess. Fortunately, not all Greek deities are horrible to humans. Have you met my fave?

Bard's Lullaby (prompt): A young knight finds an unexpected host in the horrifying castle she’s trying to storm.

Denial Cake (prompt): Your father comes back after an unexplained absence of ten years. But hey, he has cake!

Tiny (prompt): Sure, you’ll kill the dragon. It’s your job, after all. But when said beast is revealed to be a baby, things get complicated.

The Human Beast (prompt): My first post here. Let’s hope for the sake of both of us I got better since.

*

And now for something mildly different:

Hero x Villain Masterlist

Whump/Horror Masterlist

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #creative writing #fantasy #masterlist #fantasci tumblr #my writing #fantasci writing

[arealphrooblem]

Kidnapped by the Boss Part 4

Sorry for the wait but surgery went well and I'm back!

Part one here

Synopsis: Civilian is a secretary to the Prime Minster. But when the political summit between the city states goes awry, she finds herself kidnapped by the very boss she tried to protect and nothing is what it seems.

I’ll take it under consideration he said. That was not a guarantee or even a promise. It was nothing. A deep paranoia settled in her bones. It chased her throughout the day and haunted her at night. No matter how still and quiet the room was, she felt watched. It made using the bathroom or taking a shower the most terrifying and nerve wracking experience of her life. She chased shadows in the room like a lunatic before she deemed it safe enough, but even then she never felt entirely alone.

And she was, on the surface. Servants delivered food, books, even a basket of yarn and crochet needles (strange that the Prime Min — the King remembered that silly detail of her life) and then disappeared. Neither the driver or the King made an appearance. It was if she was a toy stowed away in an attic and forgotten all about. It was infuriating, as was her restricted access to news, television, newspapers, anything to do with the world outside this room.  

But the paranoia was worse. She didn’t sleep. She barely ate. She couldn’t read or crochet without having to get up and pace, like a lion in a zoo cage, strategizing for escape plans she didn’t dare enact for fear of her invisible guard.

By the time the driver did show up,  in lieu of the servants who normally served her breakfast, Civilian’s sanity was in tatters. She must have looked insane because he set down the tray immediately and took hurried steps towards her. Panic jerked her backwards, stumbling over the coffee table leg until her back hit the wall. He followed after her, brow furrowed in a mockery of concern.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled as he lifted his hand up.

He ignored her, pressing the back of his palm to her forehead. She slapped it away, glaring fiercely.

“What has gotten into you?” he demanded.

“As if you don’t know! As if you haven’t been skulking around here just so I can go insane from feeling watched all the time!”

“Skulking?” he barked out a laugh. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Just following you around invisible all day? Like I have nothing better to do?”

Anger ignited, burning up her panic like kerosene. She shoved him with all the force she could muster, sending him stumbling back.

“And how would I know that you’re not? How am I ever supposed to know I’m actually alone when I shower or sleep? You could attack me at any moment and I would never see it! I’ve lived with that fear for days and it's not funny!”

She was yelling by the end of it, her voice ringing in the empty room. The driver looked bewildered in the face of it and she was too angry to be satisfied with it. Her throat tightened with tears of fury and she desperately bit the back. She refused to cry in front of him.

For a long moment the driver studied her, his face carefully neutral and impassive, as she struggled to get her breathing back in check. Then he rose his hands up, palms out, in surrender.

“I have not been here since you last saw me,” he said slowly. “You have been alone this entire time.”

“You expect me to take you at your word that that’s true?” she asked. Even still, the tension in her shoulders relaxed.

“No. It would be stupid to trust me. But my king — for whatever reason — is very fond of you. He entrusts your protection to me and he  didn’t do it so I could psychologically torment you. If you can’t trust my word, then trust his.”

She snorted. “He’s so fond of me that he locks me away in this room like a doll and never speaks to me.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” the driver snapped. “Plans that have been in place for years are finally moving forward. You were not supposed to be here.”

A pit started forming in her stomach. “What plans?”

“An excellent question. One you can ask the king. Today.”

She stared at him. “Today? Today? When?”

“Now. That’s why I’m here — to escort you.” He said this last part with a twist of bitterness, as if such a task lay beneath his skill set. Which it probably did.

“I can’t go now.” New panic flared up. “I’m not ready!”

He laughed again. “Why not — are you busy? Come on.”

She looked down at her rumpled shirt and leggings.  The servants had brought her soft, stretchy clothes that didn’t need exact sizing. “But I look —“

“—Like shit?” he finished. “Yeah. That’s what you get when you don’t sleep or eat. He has breakfast waiting and you can take a nap after.”

“If he’s the king, don’t I need to look presentable?”

“If you were anybody else. With you he doesn’t care. What he does care about is punctuality. So let’s go.”

With a firm hand on the small of her back, the driver guided her out firmly from the bedroom. Civilian smoothed her shirt out as best she could and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. While she had seen the King in robe and pajamas many times, he had never seen her in anything less than perfect professionalism.

The halls of the palace were old and ornate, with lush carpet and intricate crown molding and silk wallpaper. It shared few similarities with the sleek modern buildings of her parliament. Save for her clothes, Civilian felt like she’d stepped inside a fairy tale.

The driver led her through a confusing route of sharp turns and side doors and little staircases, keeping the layout of the castle a complete maze despite her trying desperately to remember her bearings. Finally they passed through a door that led her out into a walled garden.

Flowers in red, gold, and purple bloomed everywhere in immaculately manicured beds. Underneath a huge tree, a table was set up with three chairs and a generous breakfast spread. The King sat, spreading jam on a scone. To her relief he was dressed in soft pants and a sleep shirt. His hair looked slightly rumpled on one side and her heart squeezed at the painful familiarity of it all.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, as if she had just stepped into his hotel room to badger him into getting dressed. Like she had done so many times.

Her feet dug into the ground, out of instinct, afraid of this mockery of their past relationship. The driver spread his hand over the middle of her back, thumb digging in the muscle as a warning. She walked to an empty chair and sat down, inwardly fuming.

The King’s happy grin faded as he took a closer look at her. Lines furrowed on his forehead and his eyes flickered over to the driver, his gaze suddenly cold and terrifying.

“It’s been handled,” the driver murmured, looking impressively stoic underneath that gaze.

When the King turned back towards her, his expression smoothed out into the warmth she was accustomed to. It hurt to know that it wasn’t real, that he thought he could fool her by wearing the same mask he did as prime minister. She channeled the driver’s apathy in her own gaze.  

“Are you hungry? I have all your favorites,” the King said, gesturing to the table.

Her stomach growled, her hunger suddenly ravenous. But she clenched her fists in her lap and resisted.

“What do you want?” she asked instead.

“For you to eat. There’s peach marmalade, soft boiled eggs, avocado, sourdough. Scones.”

He took a bite out of his rather pointedly. She crossed her arms and glared just as pointedly. Hiding under her panic and fear and exhaustion was the steel backbone that made her hustle the Prime Minister to his meetings and events when he got distracted by every phone and television in his vicinity.

 “I’m not going to be fooled with this fake version of yourself just because it's familiar. I’m not playing games, sir.”

He said nothing, turning his attention to spreading avocado on a slice of sourdough toast. Then he put it on a plate and held it up to her across the table. The gentle kindness from his eyes slid away, replaced with a stubborn, firm gaze.

“I’m not playing games either, Civilian. You’re not well and you’re going to fall ill so you are going to eat this before we discuss your future. Is that clear?”

Never had Civilian seen him so assertive. The Prime Minister phrased commands as requests and backed them up with a smile and doe eyes that few found easy to deny. Now those dark eyes looked at her with the command of a predator.

She dared a glance to the driver, who flickered his eyes to the plate as if to say, I’d eat if I were you.

Civilian snatched the plate from the King and took one muleish bite. It was delicious. Of course it was. As basic as it made her sound, she loved simple salted avocado on toast. She didn’t want to eat because she thought it would be horrible. But the list of things she had control over grew shorter and shorter each day.

Like the clouds breaking on a dark day, the warmth came back to the King’s eyes. “Good girl. You’ll need your strength so keep eating. Meanwhile, I feel like I should start this with an apology.”

Civilian almost choked on her toast.

“I had no intention of leaving you in that room for four days. I can see the toll it has taken on you.” Once again, his gaze flickered to the driver, as if laying the blame at his feet. “You were a  . . .surprise in our plans. And once we had put them into motion we couldn’t stop until certain things were done. I put you someplace safe and out of the way. I should have checked up on you sooner.”

“I’m fine,” she bit out. “I don’t need you to check up on me. I need you to take me home.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “As usual, your definition and my definition of fine vastly differs. But getting you home . . . that can certainly be arranged. However, I need you to make an informed decision and you have missed some crucial developments during your detainment.”

Her heart rose and crashed. Hope hung on a terrifyingly delicate thread. 

"What crucial developments," she asked, a pit forming in her stomach. 

The King leaned back in his chair, his gaze narrowed and business-like. 

"First, we must establish that, due to your stubborn recklessness, your absence is tied to mine. In the eyes of your country, our ambitions, decisions, and loyalties are tied together."

Your country. As if he hadn't helped to run it for the last five years. As if he had no connection or loyalty to a place he had defended and cared for. It chilled her. 

"What does that matter?" she asked. "We were always viewed like that. I worked for you."

Worked. Past tense. She realizes that technically she's out of a job now. Does this situation even qualify for unemployment?

"Yes, that's true. And that relationship will be to your detriment when I invade your country."

The words didn't make sense at first, almost as if her brain refused to process it. And then when the meaning became undeniable, it felt like he had sucked the air from the courtyard. The King continued on, either oblivious to her shock or ignoring it.

"I imagine they will pull you in for questioning when you first return and then arrest you when I invade. You can protest your innocence as much as you like, but I doubt they'd believe you. You ran straight to me during the attack at the summit, after all. They will think you a treasonous spy and they will imprison you indefinitely if you're lucky and execute you if you're not. After all, your absence thus far looks terribly guilty."

The sounds of the garden faded as a dull roar thundered in her ears. All the pieces started convalescing together and it made her feel faint. 

"You did this on purpose," she said, head swimming. "You kept me here long enough to make me look like a traitor so I can't go back."

"Of course you can go back, Civilian. I'm not going to force you to stay here."

"Would you let me leave and tell everyone your plans?"

He smirked. "And what are my plans? What details could you give away? You know nothing and you have no proof."

The truth of that hit her like a kick to the chest. He made sure to imprison her in every way that counts. Suddenly her throat felt tight and breath came in light and restricted. The King cocked his head to the side, brow furrowed. His gaze flickered to the driver. 

"Civilian looks ill. Perhaps you should take her back to her quarters."

He sounded muffled and far away. The driver guided her out of the chair and she let him, feeling dazed and dizzy. The walk back to her quarters passed in a hazy blur. She was grateful for the firm and guiding hand on her back through the maze of corridors. Just as she was grateful for the shut of the door behind her when she finally made it. 

Civilian collapsed to her knees on the lush carpet and sobbed, uncaring of any invisible watchers. 

Part five here

Taglist: @rivalriotrenegade @sunyside-world @fishtale88 @those-damn-snippets @suspiciousmuffin @thats-alittle-gay @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars

#hero x villain #heroine x villain #my writing #enemies to lovers #kidnapped by the boss #villain x civilian #fantasci tumblr #writeblr

[watercolorfreckles]

Of Oak and Sparrow

(Part 2 of The Girl Called Sparrow)

Sparrow returned to the fallen oak tree one final time.

To her, it was a skeleton. A creaking spine wrapped in an armor of bark that, in the end, wasn't strong enough to keep the true monsters at bay.

The sleeping hill was a graveyard beneath the weight of the tree that once crowned it.

Its branches reached toward the sky like bony fingers. The wind whispered through its foliage to pluck down the browning decay. Those same leaves crunched beneath the sole of her boot. She imagined her faerie's hair muting into an earthy brown to match it.

Sparrow traced the scars in the exposed wood. Each mark splitting the stump was an open wound. Its roots and its core were a bleeding heart, severed from the rest of its great height and graceful limbs.

In the tree rings, she saw his fingerprint. Her Kind Oak. The fae who'd held her heart in his hands and treated it with gentleness.

Her tears soaked into the wood's cracks and grooves, fingers tightening around the acorn that promised her a chance at a future.

The encroaching winter drained the life of the forest away. When Sparrow left her home, it felt as a hollow corpse.

She walked until her feet ached and her body swayed with exhaustion. She sank down against the cover of a mossy knoll, eyelids begging for rest. But it would be of poor manner not to acknowledge her hosts.

Sparrow picked three long strands of grass and weaved them into a ring, testing it on her own finger before sliding it off and tucking it into the knot of a tree.

She spoke aloud to any fae that might be near. Listening. Waiting. "I apologize for my intrusion. I am merely passing through, and am most grateful for your hospitality as I take a night's rest. I left you a gift in the hole of that tree. I hope you take no offense to my presence."

Shivering even beneath the thick wool of her cloak, she let her eyelids drop closed as the night swallowed her up.

Sparrow awoke to a pale sun and frost on her lashes. Her breath formed clouds in the morning chill. Scrubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hand slipped into her pocket, seeking the familiar comfort of her Oak's acorn.

Her heart lurched. She checked again. It wasn't there.

Straightening, she scrabbled through the crust of frost coating the ground around her, searching with a despair that made her dizzy. "No- Where--"

"Tell me, I am dreadfully curious, what is so valuable about this acorn?" spoke a voice like crushed velvet.

Sparrow jolted, swiveling around. Her breath caught.

Before her was a fae that glistened like a winter star. His eyes held the glint of cold steel. A knife's edge, harrowing and beautiful all at once. The gently falling snow avoided him in its path.

Pinched between his moon-pale fingers, was her acorn.

Sparrow's heart gave another awful tug.

She reached for it before she could stop herself. The acorn disappeared into the fae's fist as his lips lifted into a flash of pearly teeth. A little too sharp and a little too amused. Something about it reminded her of the maw of a hungry cat.

Sparrow swallowed. She dropped to her knees. "Forgive me. You startled me."

"Such a pretty gift," the faerie murmured. He lifted his other hand, the ring she'd offered up wrapped around his index finger. Surely he was mocking her. It looked terribly simple against the porcelain of his skin. "It is refreshing to meet a human who still knows the old ways. Are you going to answer my question or do I need to repeat myself?"

Sparrow's fingers twisted in her lap. Her blood ran cold. "I need that acorn to resurrect one who is dear to me."

The fae hummed, holding up the acorn again and glancing it over. "This is magik born of the fae wilds."

Her stare tracked his hand as if he were carelessly handling glass. "I have no knowledge of its origin. Only that the tree this acorn fell from was tethered to a fae who could not leave its shadow. The tree was cut down. I need to plant that acorn to give him renewed life."

The fae's smile was that of a predator toying with its prey because it found the creature's helplessness against it adorable. He crouched in front of her, nimbly balanced on the balls of his arched feet.

His head tilted. "Give me your name and I'll return your precious acorn to you."

"That, I cannot give you," Sparrow said softly. "My acorn is no use to me if I am too intoxicated by your sway to plant it."

"What difference does it make?" The fae's cadence was the crackling of a candle flame; the sparks that rain down from a shooting star. "Even if you plant the seed, years will pass before it grows tall enough to harbor your fae in its shadow; a great many years longer than if this were an ordinary acorn. Magik born of the faerie realm behaves as the fae wilds do. Time is of little consequence there. A moment is stretched for decades.

"Humans age in an instant. What will your dear one think of you when time creases your face and steals your youth? What will happen when you fall away to dust and your love is trapped alone in the confines of a shadow?"

It took the taste of metal in her mouth to realize she'd bitten down on her lip. Her insides swam.

Her mother's voice was clear in her head:

Do not make dealings with the fae.

Follow the rules of fae etiquette.

Do not owe anything to the fae. They will always collect.

But if he could magik a better way... If she could see her love again...

Sparrow forced the fear from her voice. Fae hated weakness, her mind screamed. "Will you make a deal with me?"

The faerie's wicked smile split further across his perfect face. "I was hoping you'd ask."

Look at meeee, i posted twice in a little over one week

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl, @valiantlytransparentwhispers, @distance-does-not-matter, @redbircl, @lilaccatholic, @crazytwentythrees-deactivated, @thelazywitchphotographer, @chibicelloking, @lolafaiy, @thinkwrite5, @putridghost, @tobeornottobeateacher, @sunflower1000, @bouncyartist, @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen, @silverwhisperer1, @distractedlydistracted, @pensivespacepirate, @appleejuicee, @deflated-bouncingball  @maybe-a-cat42

 , @m0chik0furan, @mercurymomentum, @fairysprinkles, @vuvulia, @amongtheonedaisy, @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room, @scorpio-smiles, @inkygemuwu, @wolfeyedwitch, @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo, @moonquires, @lem-hhn, @fanastywhump, @smallangryfish, @ladybookworm @freefallingup13, @acaiaforrest, @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict, @talkingsperm, @qualitychaoslover, @deckofaces,@7eselt, @annablogsposts, @lunatic-moss-studio, @medusas-hairband

#my writing #writeblr #fantasci tumblr #fantasci #fantasy drabble #fantasy romance #writers of tumblr #creative writing #fable #writing drabble #writing snippet #fairytale #fae #fae x human #fae folk #faeries #hero x villain

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #196

"What's with the webbed fingers?" Pirate asked, nodding lazily to where the cabinboy gripped the swab.

The man leaped a little in his own skin, tucking his curled fists, still gripping the mop pole, into the folds of his linen shirt. "Birth defect. Nothing special."

"Ah." Pirate leaned back on her elbows and leveled him with a hopefully, not too knowing look. She'd always been bad at hiding her hand. It was why she never joined the crew in the gambling dens ashore. "Like freckles?"

She pointed to the sun-drawn speckles dusting her cheeks and grinned wide at the man's nose wrinkling hesitation.

"Um...yes," he said agreeably--he was learning, never a good idea to argue with a pirate, no matter their idiocy.

She threw back her head and laughed, and he squirmed a little, clearly uncertain what to make of the conversation or of her. He was a cute thing. Too dainty for piracy. But steel ran through the sea storm in his eyes. A little blood and grit and he'd fit in just fine. Well, unless anyone found out the truth, that is.

She knew, but lucky him, she wasn't saying a word. Captain and crew would see a treasure, but not the same way she did. They'd only see gold. Not the wonder.

No, she was keeping quiet. And the moment she figured out where he'd stashed that fur coat, she was going to make him hers.

#trying to reach 200 #prompt #short prompt #writing prompt #selkie #selkie x human #selkie x pirate #fantasci #fantasci prompt #fantasci wriitng #fantasci tumblr #writblr #I kinda just want to keep writing #I know Selkies are mainly females #but there are male selkies too