Hello, I Saw From Your Introduction That You Are Hoping For An Ask And I Think I Have A Prompt For You:

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)

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.

Did I daydream this, or was there a website for writers with like. A ridiculous quantity of descriptive aid. Like I remember clicking on " inside a cinema " or something like that. Then, BAM. Here's a list of smell and sounds. I can't remember it for the life of me, but if someone else can, help a bitch out <3

7 snippets 7 people

Thank you @oh-no-another-idea for the tag!

Superhero Novel snippets

1. Vidrian took a step back, just one, and the dagger glinted at her neck.

“It isn’t your fault,” she said, and somehow, by some twist of fate, Aletheia heard it over the alarm.

“Viridian, Wait—“

2. Her fists clenched, her jaw ground, and she finally let herself feel rage as she glanced down at her blood stained front.

Only this time, there was no one to fight.

3. “You could be my queen,” he offered, blood splattering from his nose onto the floor.

She stared at him, stunned, then said numbly, “Of what? Your fighting rink compound?”

He grinned, and it was half bloody.

“The world.”

Serial killer novel snippets

4. Jules looked mildly uncomfortable, but Melody wanted to know. Jules’s lips pinched.

“I have experience with this kind of thing.”

Melody tipped her head. “Children of serial killers?”

“Trauma.”

“Ah,” Melody laughed quietly. “Just that, then.” The tips of Jules's mouth went up.

5. She appreciated their faith.

But Melody had come into this world covered in blood. And she had never truly been clean of it since.

She would never be clean of her father. When the time came, she hoped she at least died quickly.

Siren Novel snippets

6. The salt and iron taste in her mouth intensified unbearably, and her eyes snagged on something she couldn’t quite make out in the waves.

It took her three seconds to recognize what it was as it floated next to the hull, just below the waves. Three seconds, for her brain to put the puzzle pieces together, then convince itself that it wasn’t seeing things.

Three seconds for the taste to make her gag, warning shivering up her spine.

Three seconds for Malcolm to finally get his mouth to say the right combination of words.

In the water, next to the planks of her beloved ship, the Siren winked at her.

7. “God, you idiots, can’t you see it’s just magic?”

At this, the Siren smiled, face so pleasant that it stunned Lucy for a second, like sunshine breaking through clouds, the smell of warm bread and bells tolling to mark the ships returning to harbor—

“Stop it,” Lucy snapped, and the Siren grinned further.

“Getting to you, darling?”

Lucy grit her teeth.

This was a lot of fun! I’ll be tagging @ettawritesnstudies @meadowofbluebells @megreads22 @prettyquickpoetry @silver-ink-iron-words @jay-avian and anyone else who wants to join!

I want to make a little game. Reblog if you want to be tagged to it. I'm hoping to make it a writeblr-wide tag game. 😁

Hopefully it'll help more writers find each other.

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