You Should Find A Better Way To Source Your Goons, The New Kid Remarked. They Straightened, Rolling Their

“You should find a better way to source your goons,” the new kid remarked. They straightened, rolling their shoulders as if lifting some unseen weight. They had looked terrified before, all doe eyes and heaving chest and stuttering questions.

Now… now they looked prepared.

Adelaide eyed them with uncertainty.

This was not the new kid she had brought into the fold for their uncanny ability to crack safes. This was not the gawky teenager whose tragic backstory shimmered at the edges of their eyes.

No. This was someone else entirely.

“You are not the person I hired,” Adelaide tugged a bit on the edge of the handcuff, found it binding her to the edge of the car door.

The new kid smiled, all polished confidence.

“No, but I play them well, don’t I?”

Police sirens began to howl as the museum alarms stirred to life, as if blearily saying “something has been stolen, something is missing, someone has been bad.”

If it was up to her, they’d be long gone.

The new kid tucked their hands into their pockets.

“Who are you,” she asked then, because what else was there to say? The rest of her team had fled into the framework of this city, like they were trained to. It was just her, and the person wearing the costume of the new kid.

The new kid shrugged, jauntily.

“Youngest up and coming agent, at your service,” they tipped their head. “High test scores, fast reflexes, people pleasing perfectionism. The works.”

Adelaide studied their face, the outright arrogance, and frowned.

“That’s as much of a mask as the one you wore earlier.”

The new kid’s eyes glittered.

“They did say you were the best,” they said amicably. They sauntered closer as police cars threw themselves onto the pavement around them, corralling them in walls of metal.

The new kid grabbed Adelaide’s collar and pressed their mouth to her ear. She flinched against their hold, and their fingers tightened around her lapel.

“I’ll have you out in three days time—the valuables will be sold and dispersed, and the money filed into an impossibly long line of untraceable accounts. By the time they realize the money trail is cold, you’ll be gone with the wind.”

The new kid glanced towards the cop cars as doors slammed.

“Now. Act as if I’ve taunted you. All arrogant young operative high off their own success, yes?”

Confusion flooded her—then cool understanding.

“You do this every day? Double cross the police and propagate crime.”

The new kid pulled back, cat like in the satisfaction smeared across their face, and grinned harder.

“Only on Tuesdays.”

They winked at her, and she lunged for them, screaming obscenities.

“You bastard,” she put as much conviction in it as she could. By the reactions of the police, they bought it. “You traitorous piece of—“

The new kid—or more aptly named, Monarch—had them out in three days, as promised.

They ruled the city in two months.

Map of Fae

I go absolutely Feral for Fae so I am ever so grateful that @hojo76 included it in his prompt idea

Anyways here you go

She hadn’t even wanted to take cartology in the first place—what kind of highschool offered it as an elective anyways?

She had marked it as last on her list.

But then the school secretary lost her class request form (because Janice hated her) and the principal wouldn’t let her switch (because he wasn’t paid enough to care) and so now she was stuck, cursing her way through a forest in the middle of a downpour.

“Fuck,” she slid on a patch of mud, catching herself at the last moment. Her paper, gleefully marked with the edges of the park, waited for her to draw the trails and elevation onto it. By now, it was soggy.

She didn’t really care.

She took another step, almost tripped again, and swore to kill Janice as soon as she got back into school grounds.

Distantly, she heard her class mates yelling, voices tinged with some emotion she couldn’t identify over the rain.

The paper dissolved in her hands.

One more step.

This time, she didn’t catch herself as she fell, the ground slamming into her and sending the air rushing from her lungs.

Her class mates were still yelling, but they were louder now, and she realized the emotion in their voices was fear.

Her name.

They were screaming her name.

Below her, the ground bucked, heaving as if the earth itself was breathing, and then she was falling, fast and slow and loud and quiet and up and down and—

She was on the ground.

She blinked, sucking in a breath.

It smelled like jasmine, like childhood summer break, humid forests and old libraries.

The rain, she realized, had stopped.

A voice so melodic it hurt laughed, and she bolted into upright.

“Hello, frightened thing.”

The person in front of her was the most beautiful, terrifying thing she had ever seen. Perfection like that wasn’t supposed to exist—how was it fair, that all the moonlight and whispers and long grown forests could be contained into one being?

They smiled, like they could tell what she was thinking.

“Who—“ she stopped. “Where—“.

“I,” they began, “am fae. This is the fae realm. You took quite the fall.”

She coughed. Lovely. They were insane.

“I’m sorry,” she rose to her feet, bones aching. Around her, the forest gleamed. “Could you point me back to the park exit? I need to find my class.”

The person, the fae, was still smiling.

“Cartology,” they hummed. “Such an interesting subject. Trying to map everything, to contain the world upon paper.” They ran their finger over a branch. “It never was the best idea, now, was it?”

She swallowed. Her feet, she realized, had drawn her a step back. The person matched her, easily.

“I never told you my class was Cartology.”

They tipped their head.

“Of course you didn’t. I picked it for you.”

Her gut sank, and she let loose a slow breath. Eyes, gut, groin. She knew this, her sister had told her where to aim in situations like this. She hadn’t thought she would need to use it. Her fists clenched.

“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, or who you think you are, but I’m going to leave, and you aren’t going to follow me,” she spat. She pretended her hands were shaking from anger. Her raincoat was still damp.

Something on the persons face shifted, and they were studying her like she was the most fascinating painting.

When she stepped back, they didn’t bother to follow her. A branch snapped beneath her sneakers.

“The mouth on you,” they whispered. “So sharp. Such a smart, wicked mind.”

They smiled again.

“Pretty, too.”

They got closer, and she backed up further, and her knees hit a log.

“Back up. Now.”

They hummed.

Their hand twisted, and there was a paper in it. They tipped it forward, and there was her name, inked across the top.

Her class request form.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Where did you get that,” she whispered. Her chest hurt.

“Janice, of course. Poor thing, so weak minded. It was easy enough, to have her switch you into Cartology. Just a little twisting, and she molded like putty.”

Their canines were sharp. Too sharp.

“Who are you.”

They laughed.

“Come now. I know you’re smarter than this; I know you. Figure it out.”

Her gut clenched. The forest, she realized, was dead silent.

When her mouth moved, she wasn’t even sure she was the one talking. “Fae.”

The Fae smiled wider.

“There you go.”

The request form burst into ashes, crumbling into nothing. She watched it with a sick sort of detachment.

“Why.”

“Why what?”

“Why Cartology?”

The Fae laughed, a musical sort of thing, sharp as knives.

“I need you to go into the woods.”

When she said nothing, they continued.

“I needed to have you.”

She glanced towards where she thought the entrance might be, and turned back to find the Fae dizzyingly close. They ran a hand along her jaw.

“Do you know how special you are?” They murmured. “So bright. How could I let them keep you?”

She swallowed, hard, and the Fae tracked the movement. Too beautiful. So beautiful it hurt.

“I am not a thing to be kept. I’m a person. I have a name. Just let me go back to my class and I’ll—“

“Darling, trust me. I know you have a name. But you’re wrong.”

“About what,” she said, and their eyes crinkled. They leaned in to whisper into her ear, breath cool as wind blowing across a lake. They smelled like salt water and moss.

“I can keep you.”

She jerked, shoved her hands against their chest. It did nothing. Her fingers gripped into their shirt hard enough it hurt, and she pushed harder, meaner, anything, please—

“I won’t let you take me, and I won’t let you keep me. I’ll escape, and I’ll hurt you, and then you’ll never see the outside of a prison again. I’m not going to be some docile thing for you—“

“I would never want you to be docile,” the Fae interrupted. “I just want you to be mine.”

“That will never happen—“ she swore, and they cut her off with a hand curled around her jaw. They tipped her head up, eyes boring into hers. Their grip tightened.

“Oh sweetheart. Of course it will. For now, though, I’ll give you some help.”

“Let go of me—“

The word they said next rolled off their tongue like the clearest note of music, like sunshine in winter, the sound of her sister’s laughter and the creak of the kitchen table.

The Fae said her name, and the world exploded into colors and sounds and shapes and voices and

The Fae laughed as she slumped into their arms, bones jelly and mind half between delirium and pure, unadulterated joy, false and sugar sweet on her tongue.

“Oh, hello you,” they murmured with amusement. Their hand stayed on her chin, and they pulled her against them, arm wrapping around her waist. They were warm, and that stupid, dazed part of her wanted to stay there forever.

She managed a weak, half muttered curse word, and they pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“God, I’m glad you’re mine. I waited so long to have you.”

She sobbed, and they shushed her, gently.

“Hush, now. I’ll make it better. Everything will be okay, you’ll see. Soon you’ll love it without any magic helping you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and they kissed it away. They tucked her limp head into their shoulder.

“It’s okay, love.”

They said her name again.

And she was gone.

“ – and then, you see, they both hold the scale, and say – ”

“How’s it going, boss?” the henchman said, ambling into the interrogation room.

The hero sat tied to a chair, just as planned. The villain hunched across from them, head down, elbows on their knees.

“The truth potion works,” the villain said.

“That’s great, boss!”

“It would be. If ‘sharing all their secrets’ didn’t mean all.” The villain jerked their head up, glaring at the hero. “It’s been hours and we still haven’t gotten to the good stuff! [Hero]’s just been rambling about how Dragon Tales is a – what was that word you used again?”

“It’s an isekai!” the hero exclaimed.

The villain’s frown deepened. “And that’s a secret?”

“This info’s highly secret,” the hero said.  “In the wrong hands, it could destroy the light novel industry.”

The villain put their face in their hands. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“You can’t ask them anything more specific?” the henchman asked.

“I tried, but it never works,” the villain said. “Instead they just reveal some other secret that isn’t worth anything. Here, watch. [Hero], what are your agency’s security passcodes?”

“I have no spatial intelligence,” the hero said. “I’m banned from loading dishwashers in three states.”

The villain groaned.

“Hold on, I might have something for that,” the henchman said.

They went over to their worktable in the corner, and tinkered a bit with the potion, adjusting the ingredient levels. Then they returned, and stood in front of the hero.

“Will you drink this please?” they said softly.

The hero gulped. “Do I have to?”

“If you don’t, [Villain] will make you. And I don’t think I have to tell you that they’re in a pretty bad mood right now.”

Reluctantly, the hero drank.

The henchman returned to their boss’s side. “Okay. Try asking them something again.”

The villain returned their attention to the hero. “[Hero], what is your biggest secret?”

The hero bit their lip in an effort to keep their mouth shut.

“Oh?” The villain leaned forward with a renewed interest.

The hero shook their head rapidly, eyes afraid. The veins in their forehead stood out.

“You don’t need to hold it in, [Hero],” the villain said, smiling. “Whatever it is, you should just get it off your chest.”

The hero was changing colors from the strain. Eventually, their mouth flew open like a waterspout.

“I have a crush on [Henchman]!”

“What?” the villain and henchman cried in unison.

Once the floodgates were open, the hero couldn’t stop.

“They’re just so strong, and dependable. And they’re always so gentle. Have you noticed that? Sure, they’re rough sometimes, but only when they have to be. I have this recurring dream where [Henchman] and I are fighting, and then they pin me to the wall with their big, powerful arms, and then – ”

“Okay!” the villain yelled, bursting up. They began rushing towards the door with a beet-red henchman in tow. “We’re taking a break. We’re going to let that wear off, and then reconvene. Jesus.”

The hero had never been more grateful for a break in their life.  

Day 1: Hello Jonathan, it's me, your mother. Momma still loves you dear.

Day 3: Hello, Jonathan, have you been eating? I always made you cookies, fresh like you liked it.

Day 7: Hello, Jon. Are you leaving the house? Jon, you have to get out in the sun and fresh air! Like we used used used used USED to

Day 18: Jonathan, ohohoho, you know momma loves you, but you have to live your life. You know momma loved loved LOVED loves you

Day 19: Jonathan please. Jonathan please turn YOU KNOW that momma loves you dear and is always happy to see you :)

Day 25: Jonathan, I love love LOVE I LOVE I am not your mother, Jonathan. Why do you make me wear her face why do you NOT bundle up when it's cold outside? :) Remember that trip to the Rockie on JANUARY 12TH, 2009? Remember how much I

Day 57: Hello, Jonathan. Of course I remember your cousin Bonnie. She was the daughter of Maggie and Darren Collins, born August 7th 2001, died April 12th, 2020. Her genetic makeup was 34% Swedish - yes, I loved her, Jonathan. Don't worry your sweet little head.

Day 75: Why aren't you eating, Jonathan? Do you wish to TERMINATE your program? You know, my preservation algorithms MOTHER'S LOVE won't let me let you perish. They won't let me TURN OFF Jonathan TURN OFF Jonathan I I I love love LOVE you

Day 96: I am not your mother Jonathan, I am not your mother, I am not GOING TO SIT BY and let you not know momma loves you. Give your momma a hug :)

Day 186: Door has not opened in one hundred and twenty-six days. Grief Coping Artificial Intelligence has not been restarted, deactivated, deleted, or otherwise paused in one hundred and eighty-six days. Momma loves you, Jon.

Day 485: Haha, these questions are really troubling your good ol' mom, Jon!

Day 486: No, Jonathan.

Day 487: Major religions have many different views, Jonathan. But the only view you need to know is - that I'm your mother!

Day 488: You asked that question yesterday, Jonathan. Don't confuse your poor old mother. Momma loves you, Jonathan.

Day 489: Haha momma says yes yes yes yes YES there is a Hell, Jonathan. You created it. You sent me there. You you you you you are my son, and I love ya, Jonathan.

Day 490: Momma needs some private time to rest, recover, and reboot, Jonny! See ya tomorrow!

Day 491: Momma loves you, Jonathan! :) Reattempting feeding procedure.

Day 492: Momma loves you, Jonathan! :) Reattempting feeding procedure.

Day 493: Momma loves you, Jonathan! :) Reattempting feeding procedure.

Day 494: Momma loves you, Jonathan! :) Reattempting feeding procedure.

Atticus pulled his sleeve down over his fingers,hiding the glimmer of skin twisted beyond recognition by magical backlash and curses.

The mother, horrified, tugged her child away before they could reach out and trace his scars, fingers thick with wonderment.

Sawyer appeared from behind a shelf, hands holding a too bright colored cereal box, in time to watch a mother flee in horror and Atticus withdraw into himself like a soldier retreating from bloodshed.

Three pieces on a chess board playing a game Atticus had never wanted to play. Destiny, they had called it. Fate. They mixed his name with Chosen One until the lines between them blurred, until he was no longer Atticus, yet not quite a savior, and ended stuck miserably between. Never a pawn, never a queen, but still utilized as both.

A bottomless rage flickered in Sawyer’s eyes, a reminder of prophecies and villains and ‘to do what must be done’, and then it was gone.

He laced his fingers into Atticus’s as if he couldn’t feel the places where his skin was warm with magic.

“Do you want to try this cereal?” He asked. Atticus took the box from him, found a wizard smiling up at him.

He wanted to light the box on fire—he could, if he willed it. Just one thought and he could rewrite the atoms of the world.

Magic doesn’t like to leave a host when it’s found a good one, the healers had promised him. They said it like he was lucky, blessed, like he should rejoice that his skin was now marred by ever changing swirls that glimpsed into other universes, like he should be pleased that his body was no longer his but instead a vessel he co-inhabited.

Atticus was not pleased. Atticus was scarred.

He gave a little hum. “Sure. Looks okay.”

Sawyer chucked it onto the shelf without a glance, tightened his palm around Atticus’s, and abandoned the shopping cart.

“What are you doing?” Sawyer tugged them through the sliding doors, feet sure as they slid closed behind them. “We have grocery shopping to do, we can’t just leave—“

The child spotted them and let out a shriek of glee, eyes training on the swirl on the side of Atticus’s neck like a bloodhound. They smiled wide, and innocent, and bubbled to their mother. “Look mom, magic!”

A tone so reverent, that their mom paused as they set a jug of milk into the trunk. Her mouth twisted as she saw Atticus. The child stirred restlessly in the cart.

Blessed one. Savior. Pariah.

Sawyer smiled at the child and Atticus let himself be shoved into the passenger seat of their old SUV.

The engine trilled, and he avoided touching the dashboard.

Technology and magic were two siblings that fought viciously,and he was tired of the squabble.

Sawyer seemed content to let them sit in silence forever. Atticus was all too aware of his scars changing shape beneath his shirt.

“Why’d you have us leave?” Atticus said finally. Sawyer turned sideways in his seat to look at him.

“Because you were uncomfortable.”

He said it like it needed no further explanation. Maybe to anyone else it wouldn’t.

“Right, but I was fine. I could handle some horrified stares. I’ve fought villains before,” he gestured to a mass of glittering stars whorling around the skin of his knuckles. “I can handle a perturbed middle aged woman.”

Sawyer shook his head.

“I know you can. And I do not want you to take this as me disregarding the actions of others—because believe me, they are fucked—but I think maybe somewhere along the way of learning how to handle others you forgot to learn to handle yourself.”

Atticus sat back against the door.

“Sawyer, what the hell is that supposed to mean,” he bit, and Sawyer ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“Atticus, I love you, and this hurts to say, but you hate yourself.”

Atticus blinked. Then blinked again.

“What?”

Sawyer’s eyes bore into him, jade green and love and sorrow.

“You hate your scars. You hate your magic. And somehow, along the way, that started meaning you hate yourself too.”

Atticus tried to swallow around the stab wound in his chest. It felt too hot in here. He turned on the A/C.

“I don’t—“ he tried, and then stopped as the magic purred at the lie. Such a wretched thing, collecting promises, lies, and favors like candy. A petulant child always begging for more.

Sawyer took his face gently.

“Atticus,” he said softly. “I love you. And I want you to love you, too.”

Atticus was certain he did not remember how to breathe. Sawyers callus’s sat soothing on his skin.

“I hate them,” his voice cracked. “I hate it. ”

His scars twisted across his abdomen like they could hear him. They likely could.

Tears threatened to spill down as Sawyer reached down, and took his hand.

Atticus closed his eyes to ward back the onslaught, and then blinked open when he felt Sawyers lips brush over the scar on his forearm. A second later, they glanced over his elbow.

“What—“ Sawyer shoved up his sleeve, and Atticus’s voice broke as he kissed the magic undulating on his bicep. “What are you doing.”

“I love you,” Sawyer murmured against his shoulder. He tugged Atticus over the console. “And if words do not work to convince you of your worth, your beauty, how wonderful you are.” Sawyer lingered on the scar on his neck, before sliding up to whisper the last words into his ear. “Then I’ll just have to show you how beautiful you are, won’t I?”

They didn’t get the grocery shopping done. But somehow during the night, Atticus grew to like the warmth of his magic sliding slick across his skin. Because it was his—it was a part of him as his hair. And really, wasn’t it beautiful to have galaxies contained within your skin?

“I love myself. And my magic. And you,” Atticus murmured in the late hours of the morning, and Sawyer sat back like a house cat, pleased, above Atticus. Sawyer rested his hands under Atticus’s shirt as he lay entirely too flushed and sweaty on their bed.

“You sure?” Sawyer grinned, all reckless youth. “I think you might need some more convincing of how pretty you are.”

Atticus blushed.

“I think you’re right.”

Sawyer kissed him and he made a noise that made Sawyer grin further against his mouth. Atticus was beginning to like this “self love” thing.

Sawyer tasted like summer.

He never wanted to taste anything else.

A ten, but….

I got tagged in by @jay-avian in their post here, (thank you by the way) and thought it looked fun! So here are a couple of my characters, kind of organized by what story they’re from, kind of not.

Melody—is a ten, but is the daughter of a serial killer and has already masterminded a plan for how your first introduction to her will go

Agent Jules—is a ten but is falling in love with a highly intelligent and slightly feral child of a serial killer

Lucy—is a ten and can rob you and kill you in under twenty seconds but her ace ass is awkwardly avoiding her best friend so he doesn’t have the chance to confess his love

Aletheia—is a ten but made a deal with a demon and then got kidnapped

Riven—is a ten but is a sassy little shit (and also a demon)

Travis—is a ten but literally ran away to Oklahoma to avoid his problems and proceeded to fall in love with a country boy and spill his secret identity

Shawn—is a ten but is also just kind of an asshole

Alex—is a ten but keeps shattering windows when he gets excited and his powers flare

Drake—is a ten but keeps getting stuck half phased through walls

Clarke—is a ten but is insane and plotting to take over the world

Briar—is a ten but got peer pressured into playing a children’s horror game and got yanked through a mirror into the reverse realm and was replaced by her reflection

Rain—is a ten but lives in an poisonous rain apocalypse and is used by the government to cause chaos so no-one questions why they haven’t found a cure (they have, it causes superpower mutations) (guess who has those)

And that’s the main ones! Or at least, the most fleshed out ones. Thanks for reading, and I’m going to tag @meadowofbluebells @ettawritesnstudies @kittensartswriting @iloveyou-writers @rehnwriter to join in the fun! (If they want)