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“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.

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)

Last line game

Thank you @jay-avian for the tag!

“You always were such a clever girl. You held a knife so well when you were younger. We were all so proud of you,” her father’s smile dropped. “And then you got the silly notion of being a hero into your head, and you needed to so much correction after that.”

Melody let out a laugh that was closer to a death rattle. “Clearly I still do.”

Her father hummed, tilting his head. He watched her, and then, as if he had found something within her image that pleased him, smiled slowly.

“No,” he murmured. “You don’t, do you, little one.”

Her breath seized.

“Don’t call me that.”

His eyes darkened and that incredible violence—that wrath, surfaced. Melody looked away.

“Yes, you’d rather I call you Melody, wouldn’t you,” he spat her name like a curse. “No matter how much blood you spill, your blood is still mine. You are still mine.”

She was half her mother, too. But she was nothing more than an unmarked grave and a cut off scream.

“I was never yours.”

Her father grinned, and it was feral.

“You’ll be glorious when you’re older,” his eyes glinted. “So much bloodshed.”

“I have questions to ask you—“

“Do you still know how to hold a knife?”

She swallowed, and he watched her like he was waiting for a misstep.

“Yes.”

He leaned forward, handcuffs dragging on the table.

“You finally grew the spine to use it, didn’t you, daughter of mine.”

She stood, and her chair scraped. To hell with these questions. Her father was toying with her. He may have refused to speak to anyone other than her, but he wouldn’t ever tell her anything of use.

Just remarks, as sharp as his knives.

“I am not yours,” she said again, and then she slammed her hand into the table, dragging her father by the collar to whisper in his ear. “And I am already glorious.”

When she let go, she saw something close to bloodlust but even closer to pride in his eyes.

By the time she had exited the facility, her hands had almost stopped shaking.

Almost.

(I know it’s a bit long just roll with it lol)

Anndddd here are the people I’m tagging in!

@oh-no-another-idea @megreads22 @writeblrfantasy @writtentodeath @writingwithcolor @prettyquickpoetry

Little snippet for you, fae flavored ❤️

“I love you infinitely, pet,” the fae murmured into her ear, and Clara laughed.

“I love you too.”

The fae smiled against their ear.

“But not to infinity?”

“My infinity is not the same as yours. You have it, and I never will,” she breathed, and stepped back.

“I could give you infinity,” the fae said smoothly. “If you wished.”

Clara laughed again.

“You know that’s not how immortality works.”

The fae got a confused twist to their mouth, like something she said irked them, but it was gone as quickly as sunlight over running water.

Clara tugged their hand.

“I love you for all of my eternity, however short. And I do not wish for immortality. I wish to spend my moments with you until I have no more to cash in.” She smiled at them, and whatever trouble had lingered between their brows vanished. “Does that not mean as much as your eternity?”

“I suppose it does, pet.

The fae still had that easy way about them, all long limbs and fluidity.

“Now. What was it you wanted to show me?” She asked.

Impossibly, the fae smiled more.

“Come, pet. Let me show you,” they lifted one elegant hand and the door glided open behind them. Clara followed them through in time to see the lights flicker on, one by one.

Her breath caught.

“What—“ she paused, her throat closing. “What is this.”

The fae turned to look at her, pride glimmering behind their eyes.

“My art gallery. Do you like it?”

Clara choked.

“Art—no. No, this isn’t art. How could you—“

She turned for the door, wishing for nothing other than to let her feet carry her from this wretched place, fast, fast, fast—

It slammed, shimmering as wards fell into place. Wards she knew held her name, entrusted on a now broken promise. Wards that would kill her before she was allowed to pass.

The fae glided deeper into the cavernous space, all white walls and gleaming pristine floors, as if they hadn’t heard her.

“It is beautiful,” they mused. “Nothing in here comes close to matching your beauty, though, pet.”

“Please,” she said under her breath, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from dragging across the pieces of ‘art’. “Let me go. Let them go. Stop this.”

The fae paused their careful stride.

“Oh, pet,” the fae simpered, and suddenly they were tucking her chin into their palm. “I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can,” she said bluntly. She thrust a hand towards the glimmering doors.“Just release the wards.”

The fae clicked their tongue. “I would,” they smiled, and it was just a touch wicked. “If I wanted to.”

Clara forgot to breathe, fury and sickness and betrayal rising in her chest and sinking into her stomach like lead.

“How can you not see how wrong this is—“

“All I see,” the fae interrupted, almost gently, “is beauty, forever cherished and kept. There is no pain or suffering here.”

“Of course there is,” she bit out. “You aren’t human. You don’t understand what this would even feel like.”

“I do this to understand, pet.” The fae tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I hadn’t found it before you. But I think you’re the answer. Out of everything in here, I cherish you the most. To have you depart from me would surely kill me, and see, it’s the most human thing I’ve ever experienced. Love,” the fae said wistfully.

“So then let it happen. Let me die in my own time. Feel the love and the loss and the grief, and then you’ll be more human than you ever have been. Then you’ll understand.”

The fae smiled like they were talking to an unruly child.

“Oh, darling pet. I told you, I do understand. You have given me understanding; I cannot bear to have you apart from me. So I’m doing the most human thing of all. I’m keeping you.”

“You cannot keep a human being—“

“This is what selfishness feels like,” the fae murmured. “It’s a vicious thing, I’ve found.” They smiled at her. “I quite like the burn of it.”

“You can’t do this to me, I won’t let you,” she swung her fist into their chest and it felt like hitting the side of a mountain.

The fae sighed.

“I never said you would let me,” the fae tucked her close to their chest, ignoring her as she writhed and shouted. “Oh, darling Clara,” they murmured, and her knees went slack. “Do stop fighting me, won’t you?”

Her body followed the command even as her mind protested, her spine quivering at the use of her name from a being like the fae.

It had never matter before. The fae had never used her name, even when she had given it as an act of love. Even as she blindly trusted them, they never once let those syllables fall from that ever sharp tongue.

But now— now they used it as a weapon, just as they used the rest of their words.

The fae ran a hand lovingly over her forehead.

“I must thank you,” they said as they picked her up, striding towards an empty pedestal. They took the time to position her just so, ensuring every angle of her body was perfectly aligned. “You have taken the beast of me and turned me human. And oh, is it so delightfully painful.” The fae clucked quietly to themself. “And such, I cannot bear the loss of you. Now, Clara dear, stay still for me.”

Her muscles froze into stone, ropes of concrete twining up her bones until she was more a statue than rock itself.

The fae smiled in adoration.

“You always were my favorite. Don’t let the rest of them tell you otherwise,” the fae strode for the door, stopping to call after themself. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here, pet. I love you, eternally.”

The wards shimmered as the fae passed through, until Clara was left alone in a room of living statues that stretched for miles.

Her mother had told her never to trust the fae, but she had sworn this one was different. And judging from the hundreds of frozen humans in this room, they had sworn the same. She wondered if they cursed her, silently, for her stupidity. She wanted to tell them she was sorry.

She had been wrong. And so had they.

So she stayed—they all stayed, statues in an art gallery borne of the delights of a creature with stolen humanity.

Safe, and loved, and oh so still.

Forever.

Map of Fae Pt. 2

A piece of gravel had sliced its way into her heel, and with every step, it embedded itself a little further.

If she cared to look, she might have been able to make out the edges of her bloodied footprint before the rain washed it away.

She didn’t look.

Building lights came into view, soft and warm, in a dull kind of way

Not soft in the haze of sunshine, not warm in the scent of butterscotch.

Just yellow, in the way of humanity.

And somehow, that hurt.

She left blood on the glass pane as she pulled the door open—when had her hand started bleeding?

Her feet squelched slightly on the floor, and she looked down, staring dumbly at the floor. Her footprints were red. She was leaving puddles of water behind her.

It was raining. Had it always been raining?

Her hair stuck uncomfortably to her neck, and her dress was sticking too, and it was such a bright green and she hated it and it took her a moment to remember why and it hurt and she was scared and she was molasses and sugar sweet slow—

Thunder cracked, and the person at the front desk looked up.

One blink, two, and then—

“Miss, are you alright?”

She blinked rainwater and maybe blood and maybe tears out of her eyes.

The person rounded the desk—she looked nice, but not ethereal nice, just Girl Scout cookie and preservative nice, and her soul eased a bit—and she stopped a foot away from her and her bloody footprints.

The person—she was a cop? She was a cop, this was a police station, in the drum of heartbeats and guns.

The cop’s tone gentled.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Was hurt even enough to encompass it? Was the robbery of choice existence breath love freedom air life taste memory thought considered hurting?

She settled on “yes.”

The cop’s face softened further and she began to hate soft things.

“Hey, Roberts, grab Smith and tell him to radio an ambulance.”

There was a shuffling, and a man popped out.

He stopped when he noticed her.

“Is she—“

“I don’t know.” The female cop turned to her. “What’s your name?”

Her tongue turned to lead in her mouth and she purged herself of every syllable.

She wasn’t stupid enough to give that freely. Not after—no.

The cop simply nodded, as if she had expected this.

“How old are you?”

When she finally spoke, it sounded like it hurt, and it did. “What’s the date?”

The cop blinked.

“February 19th.”

When she didn’t answer, the cop added, “2023”.

Seven days. It had felt like forever and it had been a week? So much suffering, so much kaleidoscopic bending and it was a week?

Time, it seemed, was obsolete in the fae realm.

“17.”

Roberts disappeared, a radio crackled through the wall, and he returned with someone.

Maybe Smith. He looked like a Smith.

The cop took a step forward, and she took one back, and her heel bled more and the gravel sunk further and—

“Is there someone we can call?”

She couldn’t remember.

She felt like maybe she had once been the kind of someone who had someone else to call, who had someone’s at home who ran dishwashers and wrote to do lists. The cops looked like they had someone’s.

Was she still a someone who had someone’s or had they stolen that from her too?

“I can’t remember,” she murmured, and the female cop—her name was Ryan, or at least her last name was, her name tag said so—shifted closer.

“Have you been in an accident?”

“I think it was planned very carefully,” she answered absently, and Ryan shot a look towards Roberts and Smith.

“What was?”

“All of it.”

She was cold. She had forgotten what cold felt like. She liked it. Her fingers shook.

She tugged on the ends of them, but they didn’t stop.

Ryan shifted.

“Is there anything you can tell us?”

The clock ticked and the lights flickered and her spine tingled and she was pretty sure they were all related.

Had things ever not been?

“I don’t want to go back,” she breathed, and it was a promise and a secret and an oath.

The cops didn’t know what to do with those, so they blew away like dandelion seeds.

It was nice being around people who didn’t understand true currency.

“Did someone take you?”

“Yes.”

Ryan reached a hand out. “Let’s get you some dry clothes, and check on those cuts of yours, yeah?”

She didn’t move. Her hair dripped onto the floor.

Ryan wavered slightly.

The clock stopped. Her spine cramped. The lights flickered.

Connections. So many connections.

She wanted their help but nothing came without a cost—what would bandages be worth? What would a blanket be?

The lights shut off, and she knew it didn’t matter anymore.

When they turned on again, the fae was there. Her teeth hurt with the sugar sweetness of it.

The air smelled like jasmine.

“Hello, officers,” the fae smiled. They wrapped an arm around her, so gentle. They had never bruised or bloodied her, though.

Just broken her. So broken. Like a doll.

Ryan startled.

“Sir—“

“I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you. Our car broke down just up the road, and she got in a bad accident when she was young. I thought she was fine, but the next moment—“ they waved their hand, as if encompassing the whole of her shaking wet body and bleeding skin.

Ryan relaxed slightly.

“We have an ambulance on the way, we can get you some blankets while you wait—“

“That won’t be necessary,” the fae said, and she could hear the sharks teeth and bite. “It was just a flat. All fixed now. I can take care of her myself.”

Something flickered in Ryan’s eyes, something flickered in all three cops eyes.

The fae guided her towards the door, bearing most of her weight as she stumbled, and Ryan grabbed her other arm.

“Sir, I really don’t think you should leave,” Ryan began.

Her eyes said please and her mouth said wait.

She felt the exact moment when the fae decided to kill them.

One moment, nothing, the stagnant kind of nothing in which nothing of importance is happening.

The next, the bloody kind of nothing.

Robert and Smith’s bodies hit the ground with a wet sort of thud.

When Ryan fell, she slid down the side of her body. She stared at her absently.

There was more blood on her dress now.

She couldn’t remember if the fae would be pleased by this.

The fae moved to the computer, a single touch causing it to fritz. They turned to her with a smile.

“Now, love, that wasn’t very nice of you.”

She didn’t know if they were referring to her running away or her seeking help or her stabbing them.

She laughed, and her throat burned.

“Which part.”

The fae’s eyes flickered, but they didn’t move closer.

The world fritzed like the computer for a moment. Her lungs hurt. Her hand clenched on plastic and regret.

“You belong to me,” they reminded her.

She jerked her head, just once.

“No.”

The fae stepped forward.

“I have your name—“

“Don‘t.”

The fae stopped, then, and appraised her.

The smiled returned, and it was a ravenous thing.

“Oh, love, I should have known.”

She took a step back.

“Known what?”

Her hands were slippery.

The fae tipped their head.

“That much compulsion, so fast, for that long?” They paused, amused. “It changes you. Tell me, can you even remember why your hair is wet?”

She looked down, surprised. When had she gotten wet?

The fae laughed, just too far on this side of delighted.

“It’s raining,” the fae supplied. When they took a step forward, she didn’t move. “Your mind is like a shattered mirror. You’re halfway between realms. Not quite a thing of humans, not quite a thing of fae. Don’t worry, I can fix it.”

“I don’t want you to.”

The fae paused.

“I don’t want to go back.”

They tutted. “I’ll admit, I never meant for it to get this bad, but I can make it stop hurting,” they soothed. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I’m fine—“

“You’re slipping. You have to be able to see that. Let me fix it. That smart mouth, that wicked mind of yours is breaking.”

“Then I’ll keep breaking until there’s nothing left,” she spat, and for a moment, she remembered.

Cartology. She really hated it.

Fucking Janice.

The fae took a step closer.

“You took me.”

The fae simply nodded. “How could I not.”

“You had to know I would never stay.”

The fae turned grim.

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

She laughed.

“I got away, didn’t I?”

“An oversight.”

“You just killed three people.”

“They would have kept you.”

“You would keep me, too,” she said over the drip of her blood onto the floor.

The fae shifted on the balls of their feet.

The sound of an ambulance drew closer.

“Humans, they don’t deserve something like you. You aren’t like them. You’re halfway between the realms. I didn’t mean to break you, but you came out so much stronger, can’t you see? Not quite human but not quite fae,” they looked at her with reverence. “You’re exquisite.”

“I am neither human nor fae. But I am still not yours.”

The fae twitched like they wanted to erase her words from memory.

“They cannot love you like I can.”

She laughed again, and it was sharp. It felt like her. This newer, shiny edged metal of her. It felt like the thrill of perfection and the adrenaline of free fall. Like power and love and mortality and the immortal in one. The clock began to tick. The lights steadied.

Neither human or fae, but both.

“No,” she ceded. “They can love me better.”

And then she raised Ryan’s gun, slippery with water and blood, and fired a single shot.

I don’t know how I feel about this but I refuse to proof read. Maybe I will at two am. Spontaneity, am I right?

A thank you to @hojo76 for saying he had no idea how I should continue this, which was super helpful considering I gave him two options and he chose neither, which was NOT an option. Don’t worry, you guys got the good option, it just had to stew for a couple weeks.

And because you asked to be tagged, my lovely reader, @d-cs

Heads up, Seven Up

Well look at that. She’s posting a tag game. Thank you @imaginativemind29new I genuinely didn’t think I could manage this one because the last thing I remember writing (coherently) was some Spanish homework, but apparently instead of doing my physics final (in class) I was writing, so here you go.

This post is dedicated to my academic chaos and my bruised rib (it really hurts btw I am being so brave and strong rn you don’t even know)

This is from my pirate book!

If Lucy had thought the siren couldn’t look any angrier, she had been wrong.

“Stand down,” the siren hissed, and Lucy had laughed.

“No.”

The screaming started again. Lucy would not win this fight, would not injure her crew in the place of the siren—but she would try.

She failed.

And now here she sat, in the brig.

When the door opened, it did so with a slam, rattling the walls with supernatural force.

The siren filled the doorway, blocking the light, dressed in sailor’s clothes. It felt wrong, to see a creature of the sea in clothes from the land, but there they were.

They appraised her, as if attempting to read the thoughts on her face. Maybe they could. There was little information on sirens, other than fairytales and ghost stories.

Lucy presumed the people who discovered information about sirens firsthand now lay at the bottom of the sea, rotting.

The siren smiled.

“Hello, darling. Let’s talk.”

I forgot how much I like ending chapters like that. Anywho, here’s my tag victims (with no pressure, darlings) @jay-avian @ettawritesnstudies @clairelsonao3 @writingwithcolor @writersandkitties-blog-blog-blog @wildbooklover @hojo76 (hojo you don’t write but you won’t notice my goddamn posts unless I tag you, and you’re the one who gives me writing prompts that you never even READ, so I’m salty. So deal with it)

Find the word game

Thank you @jay-avian for the tag you lovely human. These are a disjointed mess but the words are in there I swear.

Yes, that was the problem. Lex was right. And she hated him for it, for looking at her and the blood she left behind and somehow knowing that she had liked the silence of it, the thrill, the heart pounding act of destroying something. A building. A body. A life. But mostly, she hated herself. What messed up person enjoyed the thrill of murdering someone, and then going home to make blueprints for weapons so devastating they could destroy half a city?

They found her three hours later, leaning against a wall in some random corridor she had decided was quiet enough, faces grim as they pulled out restraints.

Rain smiled and offered up her wrists. “That took you less time than I thought it would. You must be getting faster at this.” One of the cops gave her a disgusted look, and she winked. “I really am an upstanding citizen then, pushing the police force to better themselves. Really, I should be commended-”

They took one last step forward, and the door to the warehouse slammed shut with a final, rattling thump.

“They’re going to die,” Melody whispered, and Jules didn’t disagree with her.

A second later, the screaming started. The camera was abandoned on the ground.

Minutes later, two faces appeared in front of the camera, torches materializing in their hands. They wore skull masks—one with the horns of a bull bending over their face, the other with a blank white oval painted with the claws and pincer of a scorpion.

There was a grim air to them as the light flickered over the shadows of their masks. There was blood speckled all over them.

“They want me to come back,” she said after a moment. “It’s an offer.”

Waters looked at the wounds deep and violently etched into the skin, deep trailing symbols covered in barely drying blood. Around them, the grass was splotched with blood in a massive pentagram, a star with seven sides. At the very top, dug into the grass so erratically there were clods of dirt flung everywhere, was the word ‘Mercy.’

Jules walked to it to get a better view, taking care not to step in the blood. Melody glanced down at the faceless body and stood to follow her.

When Lucy finally stopped tasting the sickening mixture of salt and iron on her tongue, Elira told the crew to wait half a mark more before swarming to the surface. When they did, they found sunshine dappling the planks of the hull, a slight breeze brushing against any bare skin.

Tag you’re it!! @imaginativemind29new @clairelsonao3

I’m too lazy to tag more people so it’s open season for anyone who wants to hunt for words!

(I’m proud of that pun)

Romance Snippets

The only romance I’m capable of writing, it seems, is the off brand flavor. Like store brand cheerios. Slightly unsettling. Obsessive and unrequited love. These two are not an end game ship I swear to god if any of you ship them I’m gonna lose it. He’s problematic in an unhot way. Anywho, thank you @imaginativemind29new for the tag!

His hand gripped hers, and before she could grab for a knife, he had slammed her into the opal throne so hard her thighs groaned in protest.

“You want force?” He kept one hand clenched around her wrist, and materialized a crown out of the air. He set it on top of her head, and it was warm through her hair. “Is this enough for you?”

She sat, stunned, before she attempted to rise.

“What are you doing—” she had barely lifted off the seat before he pushed her back down.

“You wish to wield your titles like a dictator? Then I should make you one. Would that please that aching and ravenous part of you that dreams of my death?”

“You know it wouldn’t.”

“Because you hate me,” he mused, “or because you don’t want to be powerful?”

She sneered at him.

“I would rather die than rule beside you.”

He hummed.

“Oh, Violent thing, I know. But I think you would love the power of corruption—such strength, total control over hundreds? You would go hungry for it.”

“Then you’re just as stupid and desperate as I thought you were.”

Riven laughed, and Clarke snapped his head to Riven. A moment later, he turned back, face drawn.

“Of all the choices and paths to take, you made a deal with a demon for power,” he said lowly. “How desperate does that make you?”

Her heart clenched.

“Shut up.”

“I bet you told yourself it was to save your cousin, poor, precious, broken Viridian.” He leaned close enough for his breath to tickle her ear, and she stonily looked ahead, refusing to glance at him. “It was really because you were tired of being nothing, wasn’t it?”

Time ground to a painful stop, and she slammed her fist into his face.

His hand flew to his nose and when it came away bloody, he laughed.

“God, Violent Thing, you’re so beautiful when you’re angry.”

“I hate you,” she snapped, and he simply laughed more, a smile gracing his face.

When he lowered his hand fully, she found his face filled with fascination—as if he really did find her beautiful.

Her stomach clenched, and she fought off a wave of nausea.

“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 manic attempt at power?”

He grinned, and it was half bloody.

"The world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then we have these fluffy ones—

“I was fine, as always. Who do you think sounded the alarm?” she asked sarcastically, and she waited for him to laugh. Instead, when she glanced at his face, she only saw concern, mixed with an emotion she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Lucy looked away.

“There’s a fog front rolling in. Reeks of magic,” Lucy said, just to put something between her and the look on Malcolm’s face. He sniffed, like he would be able to smell it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Getting to you, darling?”

Lucy grit her teeth, wincing against Alistair's tightening palms.

“I don’t want to fuck you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The siren tipped their head, entirely to sensual for a motion so simple.

“Oh, such a crude, human word. I could be so gentle. So sweet, so lovely, so wonderful—” something on Lucy’s face stopped them, and that effervescently beautiful smile dropped from their face like a rock. “This doesn’t effect you at all, does it.”

Calculating. So, so calculating, their gaze. Lucy knew that look. She wore it often enough.

Lucy half shrugged a shoulder. “You’re pretty, but you’re no god.”

And for the tags! @jay-avian @ettawritesnstudies @jtl-fics

And of course, it’s open to anyone who wants to play ❤️

I got a short story and a poem published in a magazine and my family read it and they said “you’re a good writer kid. That story is creepy though.”

And I did NOT realize it was creepy lmao so like my bad

(It’s fae based, because of course it is)

My toxic trait is that when I write it’s genuinely only for a single sentence. Like the entire piece, the entire story, is for that one moment. The closing line, that one witty comment, the moment the character realizes “I love them” or “I hate them” or “I know them”.

It drives me wild. I’m like a little kid waiting for the anticipation of opening a present and yet I know what the present is, so I have to be the one to plan it and buy it and wrap it and put it under the tree. Insufferable.

hey!! Here’s a writing prompts for you: a human accidentally meets a sly, villainous vampire at a bar or club and the vampire messes with their mind (compulsion, hypnosis, or something else) to get their blood?

Hello! Thank you so much for the ask!

Someone entered the club, and Hannah felt it. The crowd got a bit quieter, as if someone had lowered the volume, and she turned to look—

A hand caught her chin, turning it back towards the bartender as its owner settled beside them.

“What’s a lovely thing like you doing in a place like this?” Their voice was smooth in an uncomfortable way, in scalpel precision and well oiled perfection.

The noise of the club slammed back into place.

She blinked, fingers cold around her glass.

“A night club?” Her voice felt rough, and she wasn’t sure why. The newcomer eyed her, and she was’t sure if it was appreciation or something a shade darker.

Her fingers began to ache around their glass. “As far as pickup lines go, that was spectacularly awful. Maybe start with your name next time.”

“Ezekiel”

Hannah looked over, and found Ezekiel grinning, mouth sharp like barbed wire.

“How biblical,” she murmured, and the bartender refilled their glass. Ezekiel simply watched, hands empty. The bartender didn’t offer to take their order. Ezekiel didn’t try to place one, either.

“You never answered my question.”

Hannah frowned, brow crinkling. “You mean your awful pickup line? I wasn’t aware that type of statement garnered a response. Or any type of favorable reaction, generally.”

Ezekiel simply smiled, and her heart jumped.

She sighed. “Enjoying a night out. Having fun. What does it look like?”

Ezekiel leaned closer, close enough that she could almost feel their breath against her ear, but not quite.

“It doesn’t look like fun,” they murmured. She stared into her glass.

“And this is your problem, how?”

She could feel them smiling.

“Pretty things shouldn’t be sad.”

She scoffed. “If you go away, I’ll give you enough money to buy a better book of pickup lines.”

This time, Ezekiel laughed.

“I don’t need help in that department, trust me,” they leaned against the bar, and took her drink from her. They sipped from it, too pretty and too sexual and too gorgeous, and smiled around the rim of it. “Do you think you aren’t pretty, Hannah?”

She jerked her head to look at them.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said, and it was entirely too close to a yelp. Her breath stuck in her throat like a rock, and she grabbed for her bag—

“It’s on your napkin,” Ezekiel soothed.

It wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t.

The air felt too hot, like she was drowning, and the lights looked the same but they were the wrong color.

Her napkin flickered when she looked at it, and her name was there.

Her heart slowed but her gut clenched.

“That wasn’t there,” she said shakily, and Ezekiel watched her with something that was a bit too hungry to be concern.

“Why would I lie?”

Hannah laughed, and it was panicked, and she stood up to leave.

“I think I should go—“ her eyes caught Ezekiel’s, and her temples twinged with pain, and she blinked, and she was sitting down.

“Are you alright, Hannah?”

The chair under her swiveled a bit, and she looked over at Ezekiel.

“Yeah, why?”

The bartender refilled her drink.

“You just seemed a bit panicked, is all.”

There was something close to amusement in Ezekiel’s eyes, so she laughed.

“Why would I be panicked?”

They grinned.

“Question of the year, love.”

She laughed again, and the world fritzed, like a bad signal television laying two images over one another, and snapped back to normal.

Her head hurt. The glass was too loud when she set it down.

“I think I’ve had enough to drink,” she said honestly, and it came out too loud. She put a stack of cash on the bar, and stood up.

“It was lovely to meet you—“ she caught Ezekiel’s eye, and she blinked, and she was sitting down.

They were laughing.

“What happened?” She asked, and her tongue felt numb, as if it were the wrong size for her mouth.

Ezekiel smiled, and for a moment, she was reminded of the big cats at the zoo, with that intelligent gleam of their eyes, the sharpness of their teeth.

She blinked and it was gone.

“Nothing, love.”

For some reason, the nickname made her warm, bubbly like champagne.

She laughed.

Ezekiel leaned forward, and she shivered.

“Why don’t we get out of here? It’s a bit loud.”

The noise was deafening.

She nodded.

“Yeah, let me just call a cab—“ she punched the numbers into her phone, glancing at Ezekiel, and when she looked back, her phone was gone.

Her head hurt, and something was wrong, horribly wrong.

“Where’s my—“

“I have it, love,” Ezekiel said. They tucked it into their pocket. “Come now, let’s go.”

She didn’t want to, and she didn’t know why she didn’t want to, but she opened her mouth to protest and found herself wrapping her arm in Ezekiel’s outside.

She jerked, but they didn’t let go.

“Alright there, love?”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, and they glanced down, amused.

“You’re very resistant to glamour, do you know that?”

Hannah grimaced, tugging at her arm.

“Let me go, or I’ll scream—“ she glanced out, because if they were by the club, then countless people would hear her scream. And somewhere among them would be someone who would help.

They weren’t outside the club. She had no idea where they were.

“What,” she breathed, and Ezekiel hummed.

“Resistant, but not immune,” they commented. They eyed her, examining her face, and tutted. “Still on the brink though.”

They turned to face her, keeping her arm clasped in their own.

“Hannah, love, I need you to do something for me,” her blood felt sluggish, and she wanted to start screaming, but her mouth wouldn’t move, and she was so so cold—

She nodded.

Ezekiel grinned, tilting her chin up, before placing his lips just below ear.

“Hannah darling,” he murmured, and her mind was a mass of colors and shapes and she was on the edge of being lost and she was scared and she didn’t want to let go and she wanted to go home. “Fall.”

She woke up in the ER.

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.

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

The villain stared down at them, eyes not quite cold, but not caring either. Their hands were steady. The hero shook.

“You’re my best friend,” the hero’s voice broke, and it was a plea and a statement and a reminder all at once.

Don’t do this, I love you—

The gun went off.

“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.

“We aren’t creatures of love, you and I,” the hero admitted. The villain was a statue behind their back, as if content to catch only the ends of their words. The hero kicked a foot against the side of the building, legs cold in the night air.

“Did you cook that up by yourself, or did they force feed it to you.”

The hero shrugged.

“Semantics.”

The villain appeared over their shoulder. The hero craned their neck to look up at them.

“They think you’ll fight me if they take away all the soft edges of you.”

The hero hummed, turning away. The villain settled on the lip of the roof a moment later. Almost close enough to touch, but not quite.

“They made me.”

“They’re remaking you,” the villain corrected.

The hero shrugged, again.

“Do you believe that?”

“I can see it on your face. It’s not a matter of belief, it’s a matter of ignorance.”

The hero laughed, bright enough to pretend they didn’t feel like a wound with the scab picked off. “You see too much.”

The sigh that came out of the villain was wrought with tension.

“Only with you.”

When the hero looked over they found the villain watching them, eyes intent.

“Stop looking, then.”

“Stop letting them break you, and I will.”

The brick crumbled beneath the hero’s hand. The villain paid it no mind.

They stared at them with something too close to concern, too similar to affection.

“You’re not supposed to like me,” the hero reminded.

The villain sat back. “I’m not supposed to murder people, either.”

“I’m hardly a crime.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

“Even with the heroics?”

“Because of the heroics,” the villain admitted softly, and the hero had to look away.

“We can’t do this,” the hero whispered. The villain simply stayed, radiating heat next to them.

“There’s a lot of things we can’t do. Don’t let this be one of them.”

The villain rose, brushing themselves off.

“Coming?”

The city hummed below them. Their city, even if they left it in ruins around one another, because of one another.

The villain waited, patient. Somehow, the hero knew they’d wait forever, if they had to.

They rose.

“Coming.”

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.

“If I help you learn this, you won’t do anything illegal with it, right?”

The villain shot them a dry look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question, and if it helps, you can pretend I gave a comforting answer.”

The book was soft like butter under the hero’s fingers, old and worn. There had been a lock around the cover, but that was easy enough to break off. It was a miracle the school kept any students at all out of the restricted section—but maybe that was the point.

The villain leaned over their shoulder, warm through the hero’s coat.

“You figured it out?”

“You asked me to, didn’t you?”

The villain snorted, reaching over to scoot the hero’s hand off a piece of the text.

“We’ll make a Baneswallow out of you yet.”

The use of the villain’s last name pulled a blush to the hero’s cheek, and they ducked their head. The villain’s family was—nice. Ostentatious, and well known, but they still smiled at the hero whenever the villain dragged them home for dinner. They looked at the hero like they were worth just as much as their own child, asked about their day like they were one of their own.

It was a kind of softness the hero didn’t have for themself.

“So. It’s mainly a concentration spell, which means you’ll need a conduit—“ they twisted around, and found the villain focused on them intently. “What?”

“Nothing.” They shook their head, stepping back. “I just forgot how happy you were.”

The hero’s brow furrowed. They closed the book.

“Are you okay?”

They reached for the villain, standing from their chair, and fell instead, the smell of metal permeating their nose, sharp on their tongue, down and down and down.

They slammed into wet concrete with a snap.

“Fuck,” the hero wheezed. It took them a moment to get enough breath to roll onto their back. They were dizzy, mind swirling as they tried to figure out where and when they were. The villain watched them closely. “A memory spell?” They asked as they sat up, head reeling. They massaged their temple with one hand. “Why?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder.

“I wanted answers.”

The hero swallowed, nauseous and sick with the bone deep out-of-place feeling that came with being thrown into a memory, especially one so old.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

The silence was palpable, a fragile sort of thing the two of them never used to hold between them.

“How’s your family,” they tried, and the villain’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“They’re fine. They miss you,” the villain’s voice was quiet, but it was steeped with anger. “They’re proud of you, too.”

Their mouth went dry. “They’re proud of me?”

The villain scoffed. “Of course they are. Did you think they stopped caring when you stopped coming around?”

The hero didn’t have an answer for that.

“You really thought—“

“I didn’t think they’d appreciate my profession.”

The villain shrugged once more. “They don’t care too much about that. Plus, it’s you.”

It’s you? Like it was any sort of answer, like the hero was something the villain’s family held dear.

When they spoke again, the villain’s voice was hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always told you everything, you know that.”

“No,” the villain spat. “I thought I knew that. Then I found out that you—“ they broke off. “Why?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s complicated,” the villain seethed. “That’s what you said. It’s complicated.”

The hero went cold.

“It is,” they rasped.

The villain turned away, hands shaking with unspent anger.

“It’s complicated is what you say when your parents don’t believe in magic. It’s complicated is when you aren’t speaking, or when they don’t accept you, or when they’re divorced. It’s complicated is not what you tell your best friend when your parents are brutally murdered.”

For a moment, they couldn’t breathe.

“Villain—“

“You could have told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” their voice was sharper than they had intended, and the villain froze. “What, you think it’s easy to tell someone, someone you love, that your parents died in the worst way possible? That you found them? You think I should have just said it over breakfast one day, like it was nothing?”

“I think you should have let us support you—“

“Shut up,” the hero hissed, and the villain did. “You still have your family at home. They’re wonderful, and they care, and they love you. I don’t have that. I haven’t had that for a long time. So stop telling me what I should have done, when you’ve never had to do it.”

They were wearing the villain’s coat, from all those years ago. The villain’s mother had given it to them on the way out the door, tucked it around them and whispered “keep it,” one winter break. They had wanted to keep that feeling of belonging, too, but the hadn’t. They wondered if the villain recognized it.

“They love you too,” They murmured, and the hero just stared at them. “To them, you were always just another child of theirs.”

“What?”

“They ask about you,” the villain continued. “All the time. Ever since graduation. Dad keeps all your newspaper clippings. Mom hasn’t given me a moments rest ever since she found out, asks me to invite you for dinner every time she sees that we’re fighting again.”

The hero was going to vomit, or cry, or both.

“Stop it.”

“Why,” the villain challenged. “It’s true. They miss you.”

They were a breath away from the hero, and the hero didn’t know when it had happened, or when they had stood from the ground.

“I miss you,” the villain whispered, and then, the hero did cry.

“I was worried you’d never look at me the same.” It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

“What way is that?”

“Like I’m something more than a tragedy.”

The villain smiled something soft.

“You are a tragedy. But you’ve always been my favorite.”

The hero swayed, and then they were tucked into the villain’s neck.

The villain hushed them, arms tight, and it felt like childhood.

“My parents are dead,” they murmured into the villain’s neck, and this time, they just hummed.

“Mom is making Alfredo,” they said quietly, and the hero didn’t move.

“She still makes that?”

“You told her it was the best thing you’d ever had, once.”

“I remember.”

The villain held them closer, like they were memorizing them.

“Let’s go home,” the villain breathed. “Please.”

Home. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Somewhere between starting school and ending it, they had become something more than just the villain’s friend.

Somewhere between starting the academy and eating Alfredo, they had become a Baneswallow.

“Okay,” the hero whispered. “Okay.”

With a snap of magic, they were gone.

Heads up Seven Up

Rules: post seven lines, then tag seven people

Snippet:

“Nat,” he said, and it was a curse and an oath and a prayer.

She just stared at him, running her eyes over his face.

God, she loved him.

His hands went to her arms, but his eyes stayed trained on her face. There was pressure on her wrists, and she squirmed in discomfort, pins and needles breaking out. He hushed her, finally looking down at her arms.

She opened her mouth to say anything, I love you, hey, just his name.

Thank you for the tag @meadowofbluebells

@jay-avian @oh-no-another-idea @imaginativemind29new @clairelsonao3 @ettawritesnstudies