Alright, Ive Seen This Introduction Game For Writblr Bouncing Around, Started By @iloveyou-writers ,

Alright, I’ve seen this introduction game for writblr bouncing around, started by @iloveyou-writers , and thought I’d give it a go, because I know like. Nobody else on here lol.

Hi! I’m Archangel, or Arch, and I use she/her pronouns. I tend to traverse writing genres pretty freely, but my favorites (and most common) are fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia, heroes and villains, and horror. I’ll write anything though, so be warned. As far as tropes I love, it’s a lot of Hero Villain stuff, that one “Oh. Oh.”, hurt/comfort, anything to do with fae(is that a trope?), and of course, enemies to lovers. Also one bed. Sue me.

I would say I’m SFW, but everyday I am dragged towards NSFW, and it is entirely my friend’s fault. So uh. I may not stay SFW for long? I do tend to write a lot of mental health stuff, (including self harm, but more so healing from it/getting help), kidnapping, and hurt comfort, as of now. I don’t know what tropes I won’t write, but if someone ever asks for one (if one day, I am blessed with an ask 🕊️) and I realize I won’t write it, I’ll let you all know.

In my opinion, the best work I’ve ever written is either my half written, totally not mildly abandoned book The Edge of Truth, or my other book that is slightly close to being done and has no title, the poor thing. The Edge of Truth is entirely serial killer based and I love that the main point is to not only trick the characters, but the audience too, while leaving clues the whole time. Haha, foreshadowing. Also it’s lesbians so like. My no name book is superpowers based and has been a war to write, but I love the character dynamics and also my demon character. On here, though, my favorites are likely my Map of Fae story, or the one with the hero who can steal powers. I will not link them because tumblr hates me and I can’t make it work for the life of me :(

My favorite characters I’ve written are probably Riven, Mercy, Lucy, Melody, and Aletheia(but sometimes she actively fights me as I try to write her, which sounds over dramatic, but of course it does, I’m a writer.) (All of those are book characters that I’ve written so you likely won’t find them on here, at least for a bit)

One last thing is that I go absolutely feral for anything to do with fae, or other supernatural creatures. Also hurt/comfort. I’m lgbtqia+, and my writing is too, so check the homophobia at the door, and if you can’t part with it, then kindly find the nearest exit.

I’m also obsessed with the All For The Game series (It’s rather unhealthy, really), and my friend is relentlessly trying to get me to write megamind fanfiction. Sometimes my writing sounds British, but I’m not British, and I have no explanation.

Thanks for reading that horrifying essay, and I challenge these people to fill this out (I have very few writer friends and I’m very lonely so here are the few I know): @ettawritesnstudies @jtl-fics @save-the-villainous-cat @epiclamer @megreads22 @d-cs @lektricfergus @meadowofbluebells

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

“What would you give,” the villain drawled. “To save the world?”

The hero swallowed. Their arms hurt in the binding, pressed too tight against their skin.

“Everything.”

The villain tipped their head.

“Mmm. Lovely. But I have everything. Try again.”

The hero did know, they didn’t know what the villain wanted and the world was going to burn and people were going to die and it hurt—

“Whatever you want,” the hero blurted. “Take it.”

The villain smiled.

“You panic so pretty, darling.” The villain crouched down in front of them. They tipped the hero’s chin up with one elegant finger. “What I want,” they said slowly, like a secret. “Is you.”

“I—“

“You think yourself worth the world, then? I release you, and the world burns so you can stay free and live the rest of your meaningless life. After all, what’s a hero without anyone to save?”

The blood drained from the hero’s face. Their powers lay aching, stolen in their chest.

“No,” they said, and they weren’t sure if it was a plea or a command.

The villain stood.

“You or the world, hero. I’d take either, given the chance,” their eyes burned into the hero’s. “Choose.”

A tear, one, traitorous tear, slid down the grime on the hero’s cheek.

“Me,” they whispered.

Something dark simmered in the villain’s gaze.

“Look at you. Such a good hero, saving the world,” they cooed. They motioned a guard to haul the hero to their feet. “I’m going to have so much fun watching you break.”

The hero never saw the outside world again.

They just hoped it was safe.

“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.

Hello, I saw from your introduction that you are hoping for an ask and I think I have a prompt for you: A villain who is tasked with poisoning the hero only to realize that the hero is their little sibling. You don't have to write it if you don't want to, but it came to me while working on my introduction and I thought you might enjoy it.

Anyway, have a good rest of your day. :)

This is such an awesome prompt, thank you so much!!

(Edit: part two)

The villain was a lot of things, but they weren’t one to use poison. They planned, they sabotaged, unleashed mind games and carefully tilted domino effects—but they didn’t use poison.

But some ostentatiously rich benefactor wanted the hero to die without the mess of broken buildings and bones, so they had paid off a higher up, who paid off someone else, until an envelope filled with a packet of poison ended up tucked into the villain’s hands.

So here they were, at a party, a vial of something toxic and deadly and shimmering tucked up their sleeve.

Someone bumped into them, muttering an apology, and they straightened their suit. It took two seconds to snag a champagne glass off a waiter’s tray, one to empty the vial into it, and four, to arrive at the hero’s side, grin fixed on their face.

“Having fun yet?”

The hero turned, blinking beneath a masquerade mask—wouldn’t do to reveal their identity, now would it—and smiled, slightly.

“Absolutely loads of it.”

The villain glanced at the table the hero stood at, all but abandoned, and hummed.

“Looks like it.”

The hero did nothing more than sigh, elbows resting on the standing table. Somewhere, the mayor laughed. The hero winced.

“Why don’t you go talk to him,” the hero gestured with their head. “He organized this for us to make peace, you know?”

The villain slid a baleful look at the center of the party.

“He organized it to parade us around like dogs.”

The hero simply went back to studying the half crumpled napkins.

The villain blew out a breath.

They nudged the glass of champagne towards the hero’s hand. The hero didn’t take it.

“Peace offering,” the villain urged. The hero gave something between a grimace and a frown, eyes darting between the villains face and the glass.

“Oh. I mean, uh—thank you, but really, I can’t—” the hero went to rub the back of their neck, and stopped halfway there.

“Too much of a goody goody for alcohol?”

When the hero didn’t rise to the bait and take the glass, the villain clucked their tongue. “Come now, it’s only champagne.”

This time, they took it, fingers hesitant, as if they had never held a champagne glass before.

Too trusting, their hero, with their wide eyes and still soft face.

The villain clinked their glasses, indicating for the hero to drink. The hero downed their glass whole—which they hadn’t expected but made this a lot easier—and coughed.

“It’s champagne, not whiskey,” the villain laughed, and the hero squinted at their now empty glass. “You have to admit this is a relatively nice bottle.”

The hero coughed once more, looking a little green.

“I don’t know, I’ve never had it before.”

“What, champagne?”

The hero shot them an unreadable look.

“Alcohol.”

The villain paused. “What are you, sixteen? You sound like my youngest sibling.”

The hero choked on a breath, face flushing slightly as they looked away.

“Strange comparison,” the hero said, voice slightly strangled, and the villain simply stared at them.

A moment later, they shoved off their elbows. “I should go, mingle or whatever—” the hero stopped, frowning, as they swayed slightly.

They made to raise a hand to their head, and simply stared at it as it shook.

The poison was fast acting, then.

“I—bathroom. I should—“ the hero’s hand dropped, and they took a stumbling step.

A moment later, the villain had an arm around their shoulders, guiding them through the crowd with an easy smile. They were light, shorter than the villain, and for that, the villain was grateful.

They were one step into the bathroom when the hero dropped like a stone, slamming into the side of a stall with violent thud.

“Shit,” the villain murmured. They clicked the lock, leaving them alone together. “They didn’t say it would be this fast.”

Really, they just wanted to make sure the hero’s power didn’t go off, decimating the entire building. The villain knew it could—and under their right mind, the hero would never let it. But while dying…

The hero let out a sob into the bathroom tile, and shadows began to trail their way across the floor, as if desperate.

Control of shadows was an expansive and brutal power, stealing thoughts, forming beasts, sending terror down spines in broad daylight. It was the one thing the hero and villain shared—the shadows, even if the hero was gentle and the villain was brutal in their usage of them.

That’s what made it so, so easy for the villain to scatter them from the hero’s grasp.

The hero shuddered, and managed to shove themselves upwards in time to vomit into the nearest toilet. The building shook around them, and the hero’s mask dissolved from their face.

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want you to die like this,” the villain admitted. “You deserve a valiant battle.”

The hero heaved again, and those shadows blasted outwards, as if on reflex. The villain tucked them away.

The hero managed an incredulous laugh.

“I didn’t think you would poison me.”

The villain blinked.

“You see too much good in people.”

The hero rested their head against the toilet, face still turned out of view.

“You hate poison,” they offered, and the villain hesitated.

The villain hated poison, yes, but there were very few people who knew that—one person who knew that, bearing the memory of small fingers swallowing pretty colored liquids and the number for poison control. Weeks in the hospital, their younger sibling’s hand clutched in theirs, as the villain watched them recover.

But the hero couldn’t know that; they had made sure nobody knew that.

The hero was just delirious, that was all.

“You seem to be grasping at straws.”

The hero laughed again, and it sounded like it tore something in their chest. “I forgot how much this hurts.”

The hero had been poisoned before?

“Hero—”

“It was never supposed to end like this.”

The villain took a step closer and the hero didn’t flinch, even though they undoubtedly sensed them.

“We’re on opposing sides, someone was bound to get hurt—“

“I never hurt you,” the hero shivered, and then retched once more.

“You’re a hero, you’re not supposed to.”

The villain took a step forward, until their shoes almost touched the hero’s sprawled legs, and the hero slumped further.

“I never caught you, either,” they murmured, and the villain frowned.

Something was wrong. They were missing something, a vital piece of information.

“I was supposed to keep you safe.”

The villain froze.

“Hero, what are you talking about—”

“I’m sorry,” the hero sobbed. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get hurt. If I wasn’t your hero then someone else would be and they would hurt you and catch you, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t—“

The hero dragged a hand down the back of their neck, as if wiping off sweat, and their hand came away smothered with concealer.

The villain stopped breathing.

There, on the hero’s neck, half covered by foundation, was a birthmark.

A birthmark only one person carried, imprinted into every childhood memory and scrapbook photo the villain had.

The hero was still rambling, half desperate and half broken, but as soon as the villain touched them, their voice fell away.

They hauled the hero up, glancing desperately over their sweaty face, their unfocused and half delirious eyes, body shivering with pain. Those too trusting eyes latched onto the villains face, and the hero smiled. A smile the villain had been looking at for the past sixteen years. A smile that had never had a drink before. A smile that had been poisoned once, by a cleaning product under the sink. A smile the villain looked forward to seeing every day. A smile that belonged to the only person the villain had left.

“You were never supposed to poison me,” their sibling whispered—and collapsed into the villains arms.

(Part two)

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.