Someone Stepped Into Her Bedroom, And She Woke Up.

Someone stepped into her bedroom, and she woke up.

One beat.

She grabbed a knife.

Two beats.

Her power flared.

Three beats.

A hand tightened over her wrist until the knife went clattering from her fingers, and she struck out and found no purchase.

They grabbed her leg, and there was the horrible sensation of being moved against her will, and she slammed into the ground.

Not her bedroom floor.

She blinked, and a boot came to rest on her sternum.

“Done fighting?”

The ceiling was the kind of bright, shiny metal that gave her headaches.

“Hadn’t started, really.”

The boot lifted, and she sat up, rolling to her feet.

She sighed.

“You?”

The villain blinked.

Behind them, the hero stirred.

“Oh. Them?”

The villain gave her the kind of smooth look she reserved for psychiatrists.

“I have a deal for you.”

Despite herself, she laughed.

“When do you not?”

“Would you rather I just kill you?”

“You could, if you wanted. But you don’t want to.”

The villain’s jaw clenched. “And why would you think that?”

She jerked her head towards the hero, bound in glowing cuffs.

“You just kidnapped me, and yet all you can look at is them.”

At this, the villain hummed. “I don’t care about them.”

“I know. You want them dead.”

The villain eyed her.

“You know an awful lot, don’t you,” they said, and it was a question and a demand all in one.

“Yeah well. You’re looking at them the way I did, for a while. And the way you looked at me, for a bit.”

“You were a hero.”

“I still am. I just don’t work with them.”

The villain cocked their head at the hero. “Now why wouldn’t you tell me such a pretty little detail. Have you been holding out on me?”

The hero shrugged, but their jaw was tense. The villain clucked at them.

“They gave me your name, you know. When I asked for one.”

She stared at the hero. “Asked for one?”

“Someone who would make the choice the hero isn’t strong enough to make.”

She tore her eyes from the hero, looking at the villain.

“I’m a hero too, you know.”

They smiled, just a bit.

“They didn’t give me your name because of that, though.”

“The choice involves them dying, doesn’t it.”

“So astute. Are you sure you work with them.”

“Worked.”

“Sorry?”

She was back to staring at the hero. They wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I used to work with them. I don’t anymore.”

The villain gave something akin to a sympathetic coo.

“Aww, lovers quarrel?”

Her power cracked through the air.

“What’s the deal,” she snapped.

The villain went quiet.

“They die, or you come with me.”

For a moment, she just stood there.

“That’s a stupid deal,” she swallowed. “Who would pick them dying?”

The villain tilted their head. “I don’t know. Who would.”

The hero looked at her with such a scorching and silent ‘please’ that she looked away.

“You’re such an idiot,” she hissed, and she wasn’t sure which of them she was saying it to.

“Something to say?”

It took her a moment to slide her electricity back into her skin.

“Well, I know why they picked me.”

The villain didn’t have to ask before she answered.

“They want me to choose for them to die.”

Silence, the kind that hovers over cemeteries, slid between them.

A moment later, the villain laughed.

They looked at the hero, and they wouldn’t meet their eyes.

“You think she’d pick for you to die?”

The hero’s eyes said they knew she would.

“I told you I was done,” she said quietly, and the villain and hero’s gaze snapped to her. “I told you that you hurt me, and I was tired of fixing it. I told you I wouldn’t say sorry for your messes anymore. I told you that you had burned what we had, and that I would never come back.”

She had to stop to breathe.

“You were my best friend, you idiot. And I love you, and you broke it. And I still hate you for it, and I wanted you to die so I wouldn’t have to grieve someone who was still alive, but I won’t let you do it like this.”

The villain opened their mouth, but she cut them off.

“You don’t get to use me as a way out,” she seethed. “I stopped being your answer when you stopped being my problem. And believe it or not, I don’t really want to look at you right now, either.”

The hero was crying, but they didn’t say anything. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Me. Take me. Let them go.”

The villain didn’t move.

“They truly thought you would—“

“Yeah,” she said quietly, and this time it sounded like a sob. They both ignored it. “They really thought I would pick for them to die.”

“God, still a hero,” the hero croaked, and she stared at them. “Your power still crackles when you’re mad.”

“Stop it—“

“Just let me go,” they whispered. “Let me go, please.”

“No.”

“It hurts, and I’m tired, and I’m done,” the hero murmured. “Just pick yourself, and leave.”

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be scathing and screaming and unleash everything contained in her bones.

But she didn’t.

“It hurts,” she said gently. “But you broke it. And I moved on. And you have to live with that.”

A tear ran down the hero’s cheek.

“I don’t want you dead,” she admitted, and they looked like she had gut punched them. “But I haven’t forgiven you, either.”

She turned to the villain.

“Let them go.”

For a moment, they simply stared at her, as if they couldn’t process what had just happened.

“Alright, I- yeah, got it.”

She gave one last glance to the hero.

“Get some help, please,” she studied their face. “And maybe we can talk someday. Not soon, but. Close. Alright?”

“You’ll forgive me?”

She gave a one shoulder shrug, like this wasn’t crushing her. “We’ll see.”

The villain gestured for her to follow them, and the hero coughed.

“You’ll be okay?”

At this, she smiled.

“Still a hero, darling. I’ll be out in a day.”

Thanks @hojo76 for the writing prompt you gave me like a month ago

If I’m not starting a brand new enemies to lovers superhero WIP at three in the morning then what am I even doing

Lemme know if you want a character introduction because I am obsessed with them they’re gonna be so cute when they stop trying to kill each other ❤️

Word Tag

I’ve been tagged again, oh the horror (I kid) by the lovely @imaginativemind29new with the words Fire, Light, Book, and Chance. You keep picking words I do not have and I have realized I use the words lightly and slightly far too often.

Tagging with mild pressure, @imaginativemind29new @clairelsonao3 @jay-avian

Fire, Aletheia POV

“I curse you,” she called, voice raw. “I curse you with my bloodline, I curse you with my magic. I curse you with my heart.”

Her power rattled inside her with the rage of a thousand-pound waterfall, an earth slide, a roaring fire, a tornado.

She glared into him as if she could see his soul, see what made him twisted enough to pit her against her cousin.

“I curse you with everything I am.”

She let her power go, and it rocketed into the arena with a thunderclap so loud her ears rung—above, Clarke had the decency to look unnerved.

Around them, the walls of the arena began to crumble, and the crowd began to scream.

Light, Melody POV (and oh boy, does she have secrets)

Shit,” she cursed, and she fumbled her way out of the bathroom and into the hall. She made it to the kitchen with a fresh blooming bruise on her leg and an aching side and slammed into the countertop. Her fingers scrabbled through the door, the smallest amount of light coming in from the streetlight, until she found the drawer she remembered had the flashlight.

It clicked on, illuminating the empty kitchen in front of her like a beacon. She reached for her phone to check the signal and found it dead.

She cursed again. Jules was going to be pissed.

She headed for the garage, feet quiet on the ice cold wooden floors, and creaked open the door. There, on the wall, was the breaker box.

Her breath clouded in front of her as she stepped down onto the concrete, and she hurried to the breaker, wishing she had put on shoes.

When she pulled it open, she found a mess of wires and switches, unlabeled.

All of them off.

“Well fuck,” she said into the empty garage. “Time to get some work done.”

Chance, Briar POV (new character? No. Another WIP I forgot I had. I’m a horrible mother)

“Chelsea—”

“Shut up,” she hissed, shivering against Briar’s side. Her skin was uncomfortably cold. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Please.”

Briar bit her tongue, and Chelsea shifted to press her lips to Briar’s ear.

“This world and its occupants are not made for us— we are a rare commodity. If we are found, they will take us, and we will never be allowed near another mirror again. They will never let us have any chance of freedom. And we will suffer, until we die.”

Gooseflesh sprung to life on Briar’s arms.

A sound that’s otherworldly and terrifying rattled through the walls, somewhere between a scream and a roar, and her very soul stilled.

Chelsea isn’t joking.

Book, Melody POV (because this is the ONLY time I have typed book ever in my life apparently)

Bromwell read her face like a book, then closed his notepad.

He nodded to the agent above her.

“You can take her wherever Waters wants her to go. I think this was a decent first session.”

She let the agent guide her to her feet, hands gentle around her stitches in a way she had never had someone be, as her mind played the same question over and over in her head on repeat.

Have you ever wanted to hurt someone?

No.

Her mind purred with animosity.

Liar liar, it whispered. Such a liar.

Well how about that folks? I want to write but am so utterly enthralled with my own story ideas (and so utterly incapable of doing them Justice) that I cannot decide which one to work on. The options are: Serial killer story, pirate and siren story, dystopia rain story, superhero story, and mirrored fae world story. Comment your pick please I beg.

“I don’t love you. How could I? You ruined me. You took every shining part of me and ground it to dust beneath your palms, showing me the grit like it was a kind of adoration. So, no, I cannot love you.” She went to leave, and Clara stopped her, a hand on her arm.

“Wait.”

She stopped, chest aching. “Why.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t quite the excuse Clara was hoping it would be either.

“But you did it anyways.”

“Sophie, please.”

“Clara, I’m not doing this with you anymore. I can’t.”

Clara let out something between a sob and a laugh, hand dropping from her arm.

“I love you,” Clara’s voice cracked, and Sophie knew it was a prompt. Say it back, Clara was urging. Please, Sophie, say it back, take me back, don’t leave me.

Sophie didn’t cry. She didn’t.

“I told you that you destroyed the best parts of me, didn’t I?” she said softly. Clara nodded, hesitantly, like she could see where this ended and didn’t like the destination.

Sophie tipped her head up, turning away until she could no longer see Clara at all. Just feel her, at her back.

She was not crying.

Her cheeks were wet.

“Well,” she said, and her voice was wet and it broke and she tried to pull the aching shards of agony back into place around her heart like emotional barbed wire. “You didn’t get the ending you wanted, did you. No fairytales, right Clara? No heroic endings, no sunset credits. No Pinterest boards or motivational quotes, because we aren’t that kind of love. You said that, remember?”

“Sophie.”

“You ruined me,” she said, and this time, it wasn’t an accusation. Just a statement.

“Sophie.”

“When you destroyed me, when you destroyed all of those wonderful parts, those fairytales and quotes and sunsets, what did you think you were taking from me?”

Sophie didn’t let her answer, turning to face her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered for Clara. Clara grimaced. “Because when you destroyed those best parts of me, you destroyed the only part of me that knew how to love you.”

Clara looked like Sophie had shot her.

Sophie wanted to laugh. She cried instead.

“Don’t you see,” she said wetly. “You ruined me, but you ruined me for yourself, too. Killed me so no one else could have me, but didn’t expect to lose me in the process, did you.”

Clara took a step forward, and she stepped back.

“No takebacks,” she warned. “No fairytale endings. No kissing in the rain. We aren’t that love, are we, Clara,” she spat, and it was venomous. Clara looked sick.

“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered, and maybe, just maybe, Sophie thought she might mean it this time.

“Regret is beneath you,” Sophie said in place of forgiveness, and she opened the door. “Next time, don’t destroy the only part of someone that knows how to love you. Leave that bit as you destroy the rest. But whoever you destroy next time won’t be me.”

Clara didn’t stop her when she slammed the door behind her.

Sophie never said her name again.

Thank you for the tag @clairelsonao3

OC I would enjoy being in an elevator with: it’s a pretty even tie between Cat and Adelie

Cat: just mouthy enough that I’d be entertained, but not want to kill him (cough, Riven, cough) also, there’s a high chance he’s the reason we’re stuck in the elevator, so he gets to suffer too

Adelie: good person with a good sense of humor. Least likely out of the majority of my OC’s to kill me without provocation

OC I would NOT want to be stuck with: yeah, this ain’t an easy answer. Agent Jules and Shawn, probably.

Agent Jules: she’s nice, but eventually she’d profile me, intentional or not, and things would go downhill for my emotional state very quickly (I’d be crying in an elevator with a member of a government agency)

Shawn: He’s not a super bad person, but he’s also an ass. So. That wouldn’t go well for either of us.

Now, the question I’m handing off is:

A murder had occurred in a hypothetical town with all of your OC’s in it. Who’s the killer? Who catches them? Who’s the victim? Who’s covering things up? Who’s got an annoying podcast broadcasting things? Who’s (fake) crying on the news?

With love, tagging @imaginativemind29new @jay-avian

OKAY!

WRITEBLRS if you're seeing this, you're legally obligated to reblog with an answer, and then a new question for the next person!

Here's the start:

Which of your OCs is most likely to punch somebody in the face?

There was blood on the hero’s hands. The hero had felt blood before, on themself, on their knuckles, on their clothes. This time it hurt. It was cold, and it cracked every time the hero moved their fingers, and yet they couldn’t look away.

If they looked away they would have to look at—they couldn’t look.

The hero stared at their hands. They were cold, too.

Footsteps, the hush of clothing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” hands skated along the Hero’s chin, tilting it up. “Hey, can you look at me, please?”

They blinked.

“There you are,” the villain murmured, hands gentle as they smoothed the hero’s jaw. “Love, can you—“

“I need to buy eggs.” The hero’s lips were numb.

The villain paused. “Eggs?”

“I’m out,” they stared at the villains face. It was safe, and it was familiar, and they were staring back at them with worry. “They’re my roommate’s favorite.”

The villain knelt, then, eyes briefly dropping to the hero’s hands before training back on their face.

“You’re in shock.”

“My mailman keeps putting my mail in my neighbors’ mailbox. It’s never the same neighbor either, so I think it’s on purpose—“

The villain looked pained. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The hero had words, and then they didn’t. It was their fault, wasn’t it? They hadn’t—their mind slipped off it like water, and their chest eased.

“I failed my geometry test,” they whispered, and their tongue hurt.

The villains hands shifted to the hero’s forearms. Gentle, so gentle. Like the hero would break if they weren’t.

“Can you stand up for me, please?”

“It’s cold.”

The villains face rippled.

“The city is in the middle of a heatwave,” they said softly.

The hero drifted, and found the sun. It looked warm. So warm.

“I’m cold.”

“I know, love.”

They drifted back. It felt like sinking.

“They’re cold, too.”

The villain tensed. They looked over. The hero didn’t.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the villain repeated.

“They stopped breathing,” the hero whispered, and the words cut their lungs on the way out, shredding their tongue.

The villain’s face dropped.

“Let me help you,” the begged. “Please.”

“I tried so hard,” the hero’s voice broke. “And I did compressions and their ribs broke but they—“ their voice left, their mind slid.

The villain’s hands gripped their face, guiding it to look at them.

“You did everything you could.”

Their voice was firm.

There was no room for argument.

“They didn’t deserve to die,” the hero sobbed, broken wretched sobs that ached on the way out.

“Love,” the villain breathed, and then they were sobbing into the villain’s chest like a child. Their hand rubbed soothing circles on the hero’s back. “I know. I know.”

“They were just a kid—“

“I know,” the villain said softly.

The hero shattered, and they looked, and it hurt and it hurt and it—their mind slipped.

They blinked, and the villain was wrapping a blanket around them on a too soft couch.

“Where?”

The villain’s head snapped up, and the tension bled from their face.

“You passed out.”

“Oh.”

The memories came like sludge. They stung.

“It hurts,” they breathed.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay.” The hero took the mug of tea they were handed. “Breathe.”

The hero did.

They watched the villain. There was a plant in the corner of the apartment. It made the hero smile. So mundane, so soft. So gentle, their villain.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

And this time, the hero almost believed them.

Later, when the tea was cold and they had pressed themselves against the villain’s side, the villain kissed the top of their head and murmured “Stay.”

Bundled in blankets and the villain’s arms, the hero did.