FangedCinnamonRoll

Lover of many weird and wonderful things :)

[fangedcinnamonroll]

Masterlist

Just keeping tidy! Titles are wip and may change. For the meantime, these will be snippets until I can write out chapters fully (and in order!). Critiques and suggestions welcome!

The Green Count

OCs Count Deren and Blane - the story of a budding romance between an unlikely pair threatened by obsession and possessiveness. Nobility, captivity, and a sprinkling of angst.

Snippet - The Deal

Snippet - The Winter Feast

Offering

OCs Narim and Farrick - fugitives on the run from hunters and royalty alike, join our protagonists on their search for refuge in the magical White Woods.

Chapter One

[writingmaz]

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

[herstories]

omg this is so helpful

[writing-prompt-s]

!!!!!!!

[fangedcinnamonroll]

Guys, I need inspiration for writing practice as I've fallen from the writing wagon :(

Anyone got any games or challenges, please tag me in!!! Tagging everyone I can think of!

@agirlandherquill @sharkblizzardblogs @nondelphic @whatwewrotepodcast @defire @sunflowerrosy @ashintheairlikesnow @becstar96 @belovedwhump @diabolical-blue @darkluminosity @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @johannaflowers @melpomene-grey @oliversrarebooks @oros-ash3s @paingoes @sarandipitywrites @sunnynwanda @the-modern-typewriter @thecaffeinebookwarrior

[the-modern-typewriter]

Can you do long NSFW one with a dom villain? Extra points if the villain is a vampire and the hero is a human!! Hope you’re having a great day!

Can you do long NSFW one with a dom villain? Extrapoints if the villain is a vampire and the hero is a human!! Hope you’re havinga great day! // Hey, I love your writing sm ;w; would love to seesome supernatural x human m/m from you, if you have the time! (Possibly NSFW?)//Hey could you do a submissive hero x dominant villain? I would love it if ithad plenty of 18+ NSFW and sex (preferably bdsm and bondage and the lot) ! Ilove your writing style! Teach me your ways!!! PS - hero and villain are bothmale!

–

“Are you sure this is something that you want to do?” thevillain asked.

It was a stupid idea, probably. It was definitely a stupididea. If he was going to go to someone for something like this, it should reallybe someone he trusted. Someone who was safe.

The villain was many things (lethal, terrible, intoxicating)but safe was not one of them.

The hero swallowed hard. Still, the villain was asking, and thevampire’s piercing gaze demanded an answer. The hero managed a nod.

Perhaps, he should have gone to somebody else. He didn’twant somebody else. Nobody else had even suggested the ideas that the villainmurmured to him, even if the vampire said them only to distract during a fight.Nobody else he knew moved like the villain did, made his breath catch likethe villain did, made some switch flick in his brain so anything other thanpaying attention was impossible.

This was most likely how he was going to die, but the tightcoil in the pit of his belly was anything other than dread. His mouth felt dry.They’d already discussed limits, boundaries and safe words.

(“Forget the safe word,” the villain had said. “You can haveone, but chances are if you are truly panicking, you might forget it. Just tellme to stop. Or say my name.”

“I don’t know your name,” the hero whispered. Not his realname.

The villain’s head had cocked to one side, and he smiledwith a flash of those sharp fangs.

“Dante.”)

They had also discussed what the hero might like to try.Somehow, talking about that had been far more difficult than telling thevampire with great bravado what he shouldn’t do to him.

“Give me your hands,” the villain said, in response to thenod, though he could have crossed the living room and seized them before thehero could even blink.

The villain sat on an armchair a professional distance away,a small case on the coffee table beside him. It was a perfectly normal armchair,suitably squashy for comfort, but the elegant sprawl of the villain’s limbs stillmade him look like a king holding court.

The hero stood on slightly wobbly knees, walking over, stoppingin front of the villain and offering his hands up. He felt hyper-aware of hisbare wrists, the way his veins ran clear blue beneath the skin. It changednothing. It only made him more aware of the desperate way that his heart waspounding, blood pumping; knowing the villain could hear all of it, every quiverof breath.

The villain traced a nail down along that vein, watching thehero’s face, almost testing. Then he had the hero’s hands bound with a shortlength of rope in a matter of moments, faster than the hero’s eyes couldfollow. One end stayed hanging, and the vampire curled the rope around hisfist, giving a small playful tug that made the hero stumble a few steps closerstill between the villain’s legs.

“Can’t get yourself in any trouble now,” the villainmurmured.

“Except with you.”

“Except with me,” the villain agreed. He looked the hero upand down, slowly, like he was trying to decide where to start now that he hadhim exactly where he wanted to, after all of this time. His eyes had turneddarker.

The hero concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, hisexpression even, on being casually unaffected.

They hadn’t even moved out of the living room yet, where theyhad done all of their talking. He was still surrounded by the familiar harmlessness,the shocking ordinariness, of the comfortable sofa and chairs. It seemed unreal. He’d expected thevillain’s house to look significantly more like a secret lair. Then again, hedoubted the villain would simply take him to his secret lair, lest it no longerbe secret.

“How about we start by taking that shirt off,” the villainsaid. “Go on.”

“…you just tied my hands.”

“That sounds like your problem. If you can get it off withinthe minute, I’ll let you get off too sometime in the next hour. If not…”

The hero wasted a good five seconds staring, wide-eyed,blood rushing to his cheeks.  Then heswore and jerked into action. It was harder with his hands bound at the wrists,but not impossible. Mercifully, he hadn’t decided to wear anything complicated,no long line of buttons to fiddle around with.

He had barely reached for the material before the villaintugged the rope again, with all of the casualness of a vampire’s strength. Thehero’s hands were tugged away too, before they could touch. He tried again –rather, the villain let him try again – only to achieve the same result.

“Come on now, hero.” The villain’s voice had dropped to apurr, low and velvet and wickedly teasing. “You’ve saved hundreds of lives.Surely you can get your own top off?”

The blush on the hero’s face deepened and he glared at thevillain, full of heat and empty of anger. He tried again, this time using thebulk of his own not inconsiderable strength to pull against the villain’s gripon the rope.

The villain yanked back harder in response, a blatant grinin his eyes if not on his mouth, and the hero tumbled forwards into his lapwith a yelp. Still wearing his shirt. The villain took the opportunity to pressa chaste, rather mocking, kiss to his lips. The hero growled, not about to getdistracted from the challenge set, but ended up squirming rather uselessly onthe villain’s lap which was – promptly – rather distracting.

“Oh dear,” the villain said. “That was a minute and you’restill fully dressed. It’s like you don’t want me to do anything to you.”

“You’re a bastard,” the hero gasped.

“Are you sure that’s the tone you want to take, darling?”The villain leaned in, one hand curled around the rope and the other sliding icybeneath the hero’s t-shirt, mapping out ribs and skin and upwards still to skimover the hero’s nipple, rubbing. “You’re at my mercy for the night.”

The hero opened his mouth to say something further and…caughthimself. He swallowed again.

“Good boy.”

“Screw you.” It did not come out anywhere near like he wanted it to, it was much too hoarse, too breathless, given the villain had barelytouched him yet.

The villain pinched in response, but gave a thoughtful hum. “Not yet, I have other plans for you at the moment. Maybe next time.” Thesecond after that his hand had moved and ripped the hero’s shirt clean off.

The hero sucked in a breath at the sudden wash of cooler airon his unprotected skin. He found, to his shouldn’t-be-a-surprise-but-it-wasthat he was half hard in the villain’s lap.

The villain moved fast again, a shift of air, a blur, andthe case beside him was open and there were a pair of clamps in his free hand.He dangled them before the hero’s face for a beat, perhaps giving him a space toprotest.

He did not protest.

The villain could have had them on with the same speed as he’dbound the rope, but he moved slowly, even by human standards, fitting the firstone on and then the second.

It didn’t hurt exactly, but the hero could feel themwith every breath he drew, a pressure that could so easily turn to bite. Thevillain flicked one. Then it hurt, and the hero closed his eyes and bit down hardon his lip. The villain laughed softly.

“You’re taking forever,” the hero bit out; flustered by hisown reactions, the way it was impossible to hide them at this pace. “You don’thave to drag this out so much.”

“Of course not,” the villain said. “But I want to take mytime with you. You’ve made me wait long enough, haven’t you? Now…” his hand traileddown, stroking the hero through his jeans, and his voice turned to a whisper –not entirely unaffected at all. “Now I want to ruin you.”

***

The villain kissed thehero’s neck, his shoulder, along his chest. He stripped him of his jeans, onehand squeezing his arse, and had him once in the living room while the herostraddled his lap.

The hero felt like a boiling point of tension, most of theway to a mess already, panting and needy as he met the villain’s eyes.

“Were you serious about the thing about me not-?” hefloundered. “You know, for an hour?”

He already had no idea how long it had been since theystarted this – surely it couldn’t have been that long, but beneath the wave ofsensations it felt like it could have been eternity. He wasn’t sure he wassaying it to protest either, only that it felt like he should, that he couldn’tpossibly be enjoying the way the villain was toying with him and making himwait so. Denying him. As if he had the right to.

“Absolutely,” the villain said, and nipped the hero’s lip. “Whenyou come, you’re going to be far too incoherent to ask me questions like that.”

The hero had to bite down hard on his lip again to hold backa moan, nearly drawing blood with the effort.

The villain reached for the case one last time, drawing out whatlooked suspiciously like a vibrator, and working it into place.

The hero pressed his face against the villain’s neck,already so wanting from before.

The villain switched it on.

That time, the hero moaned.

The villain made sure it stayed put, experimented cruellywith the different settings for a while, then lead the hero to the bedroomby his hands.

***

The bedroom was large, filled with a closet along one wall,a door to the ensuite and then a huge bed which dominated the scene. Thecovers were a deep blue.

“To match those pretty eyes of yours,” the villain said.

The hero thought that was a very unfair thing to say, consideringthis was supposed to be meaningless sex, and thought it also very unfair that thevillain could afford such a beautiful bedroom when the hero couldn’t. It was likecrime did pay after all – what was the justice in that?

It was easier trying to think about that, then the fact thathe was naked in the villain’s bedroom, then the fact that his head was spinningand his stomach was hot and every brush of touch against his body made him feeleven more lightheaded.

He couldn’t quite manage a response and the villain smiled,entirely too smugly, at the silence. The vampire moved forwards once more,dragging the hero along with him just a little too fast, and attached the ropeto the centre of the headboard. Without having had reasonable time to climbonto the mattress, the hero was bent over the side for his wrists to reachwhere he was pulled, arched up on his toes.

The villain placed his hand on the nape of the hero’s neckand squeezed, almost reassuringly, before dragging his hand down along theexposed line of back, idly, like he was enjoying that he could. He landed ahard smack on the hero’s arse.

The pain mingled up with the pleasure and the hero’s fingersdug into the rope. It wasn’t like he’d never received a blow from the villain –they had fought before, but it hadn’t been like this. God, it was nothing likethis. The hero had thought about this, though, in the moments when the villainhad moved fast, slamming his wrists into a wall or the pavement so he couldn’tfight back, straddling his hips to keep him from kicking.

He could feel the villain’s stare on the back of his head,more exposing than anything else, tracking his reactions. The sameattentiveness to weaknesses, to opportunity, that he had so often used entirelydifferently against the hero before.

“The way your heart starts racing,” the villain murmured, “whenI get close to you…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The hero’sheart had been pounding the same way all night, jumping up faster and faster attimes. He smacked again. Another bolt of pleasure-pain rushed over the hero. Itwas almost too much. He shifted on the spot, restlessly, and it made the clamps bite. He buried his face against the bed and went still, gasping. The villain landed a third smack.

He didn’t know if he was supposed to reply. His head reeled.It was getting harder to think straight with every minute that passed.

“Still with me, darling?” the villain asked.

“Yeah.”  

“On the bed,” the villain ordered. “Spread your legs.”

The hero found himself glad for the command, for somethingtangible to focus on that he could do without having to think about it. Thoughthe rope was still tight around his wrists, the small added length of theattachment made it easy for him to twist and turn on the ocean of sheets. He layon his back, taking a second to catch his breath as the villain undressed andmoved around the room.

The villain attached one leg to right foot of the bed, theother to the left.

A fresh shiver ran down the hero’s spine; even more stucknow than he had been before. The villain appeared in front of him, onceagain making no effort to mimic a more human speed. His knees bracketed thehero’s hips.

The hero stared up at him, dazed.

“Good,” the villain offered. “You’re just perfect.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” The villain seemed less human now in general,eyes darker still, and closer to red than brown; just subtly different in someway as if he had dropped a mask. Maybe it was the posture. It made no pretenceat harmlessness. The villain flicked one of the clamps and watched the hero jolt,watched the hero’s expression flicker. “You suit being like this on my bed. I’denjoy coming home to this every night.”

The hero froze at that – a different freezing, because,well, he knew who he was dealing with. There was a chance the villain might gothrough with that. God, he’d been so stupid, so reckless, he was entirely –

“Breathe.” The villain placed a hand on his thigh, nothing more.“What is it?”  Your heartbeat justchanged.”

“You’re not going to…”

“Darling, if this was work, you would not be tied to my bed.You’d be dead.”

That probably shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was.

The hero exhaled, managing to relax again.

“Need a moment?”

He shook his head, though he felt disorientated. Less bywhat was happening but by – well – he’d never seen the villain like thisbefore. For a second he imagined what it might be like if they were never onopposing sides at all. For a second, he allowed himself to enjoy the thought ofthe villain keeping him like this, of his life narrowed down to simple thingsand no decisions that were too difficult to make or too heavy to carry after.

The villain gave him a moment anyway, leaning down to kiss him once more. Leaning down to work him up once more, until the hero was soonclose and trembling all over again, writhing. The thoughts, the imaginings,slipped away to being just one moment to the next.

The villain reached down, stroking him, fingers wrapping around him. This time,he kept going, and the sensation kept building, until the hero was over theedge with a cry and blissfully floating. One hour. It had only been one hour, hadn’t it?

He sagged against the bed, limbs boneless.

“One hour,” the villain said, as if he could read the hero’smind. “Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty more hours still to go.”

He flipped the hero onto his front only too easily andstarted over.

The hero woke up in the morning after the first dreamlessnight of months.

[zerozerozio]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[boimann]

reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements

[mk-writes-stuff]

Please :)

[write-with-will]

PLEASE

[vesanal]

I BEG

[the-broken-pen]

Hi! I just watched Mulan and I think it was AMAZING (which inspired me to send this ask) and I love your writings too! If youre not too busy, can you write a male villain x female hero who disguises as a man but one day in their fight, the villain finds out! You can continue how you'd like the next part to be

Thank u, have a nice day <3

“Well,” the villain said, swallowing hard. “This certainly makes things regarding my sexuality a bit more confusing.”

Out of all the things she had expected him to say, it certainly hadn’t been that.

She dropped her hands down from where they had been protecting her face.

“I’m sorry?”

The villain waved a hand at her, brow furrowing.

“Yeah, you know, this complicates some stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Stuff,” the villain agreed.

She rubbed a hand over her brow.

“So you’re not…mad?”

At first, it had been an accident. She had been undercover, and her disguise had apparently been better than she thought, because the villain had taken one look at her and decided she was a guy. Which she didn’t have a problem with. It for sure made her worry less about her secret identity. But at some point it had been too long for her to correct the villain, so he called her a him and she did her best to drop her voice an octave and failed so spectacularly she was surprised that hadn’t tipped him off in the first place.

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know,” she said, voice wavering. “I’ve been lying to you? Apparently, this is causing a major upheaval in your understanding of your identity? There’s a lot of reasons!”

“Would you…” his brow furrowed. “Like me to be mad at you? Because I can do that if that’s something you need to get through this situation. I’ve been told I’m a good actor. Tree number four in my school play when I was six and all that. Talent you can’t teach, you know?”

She stared, slightly dumbfounded, because this was not what she had expected. This wasn’t even in the same realm, same dimension, as anything she had expected.

“You are being remarkably chill about this.”

The villain laughed, then gestured to himself.

“Oh, no. There’s a fair bit of internalized screaming going on at the moment. Like. Quite a lot to be honest.”

“Screaming,” she said faintly, and he nodded.

“Yeah, loads of it. Which is not your fault at all,” he blurted out, like he truly was incredibly worried about her taking it the wrong way. “I’m just. Grappling with the fact that I don’t like you any less as a woman than when I did when you were—well, when I thought you were—“ he amended, “a man.”

“Oh,” she said intelligently.

And if they were being honest in this acid trip of a conversation, she had a fair bit of internal screaming going on too.

He just stared at her with something like awe. “You’re just. So pretty. Like even as a guy you were pretty. You really can pull off masculinity. Or like. Androgyny. Just for future reference if you’re wondering. Just like. Damn.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Should I be feeling objectified right now?”

“I mean, I don’t think so, but I’m not really the one who should be telling you how you feel.”

He had a fair point with that.

“Okay,” she made a gesture that could have been interpreted as ‘spooked feral raccoon please don’t bite me’ but was mostly just to stop anything else from tumbling out of his mouth. “Can we just run this back before you say more stupid things in an effort to keep all your,” she gave him a dry look. “Internal screaming internalized?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Go for it.”

She sighed. “You liked me as a guy. Apparently quite a bit. And now you know I’m a woman—which by the way, sorry for not telling you, that’s my bad—and you still like me quite a bit. And that’s…helping you discover some things about yourself?”

He thought for a second.

“Pretty much hit the nail on the head, I think.”

“Okay,” she managed. “Okay. In all of my bouts of anxiety surrounding this, this was never any of the scenarios my brain conjured. I’m not even sure the chemicals in my brain would have come up with this. They certainly don’t know how to handle it.”

He frowned, and it was too reminiscent of a kicked puppy for her to look at it for too long. Or directly at it, for that matter.

“What did you think would happen?”

“Murder,” she replied. “Like, an immediate attempt on my life. Very gruesome.”

His eyes snapped to meet hers, filled with so much immediate, panicked concern that she almost choked on it.

“I literally bought you a sandwich last week.”

“And you also threw me into a wall. Lots of mixed signals there so I feel justified in my own insane scenarios.”

“Ok but like. The wall throwing was in a nefarious way.”

“And the sandwich wasn’t?”

“It could have been poisoned. You don’t know. I’m nefarious like that.”

“You’re overusing that word—“

“You ate a potentially poisoned sandwich without thinking about it, which I think we should talk about—“

“It had the good cheese on it, did you think I would turn that down? That stuff is expensive—“

“It’s like seven dollars from Fred Meyer. What cheese are you eating—“

She slapped a hand over his mouth, and his eyes widened to something almost comical.

She was surprised.

He was surprised.

The universe itself was probably surprised.

“We are getting very off topic.”

He nodded behind her hand, but made no move to contribute further to the conversation. Which again. Was probably for the best.

“So.” She glanced over his face. “You like me.”

He paused. Then nodded once.

She blew out a breath. “Okay. Alright. Well, that complicates things for me. I did not calculate for this—“

He snatched her hand from his mouth, but his grip stayed gentle. 

“Wait. Did you think I wouldn’t like you if I knew you were a girl.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“Ok. Well. We can very gladly put that fear to bed.”

She nodded once, and he returned her hand back over his mouth.

She snatched it back before he did something stupid. Like lick her.

She wouldn’t put it past him.

The silence between them was awkward in a way it never had been. 

She kicked at a rock.

“So,” she said.

“So.”

“Haven’t they made a movie about this kind of thing before?”

She shrugged one shoulder.

“What haven’t they made a movie about?”

“Dogs that play basketball.”

“No, I think they got that one.”

His eyes lit up. “Will you—“

“I will not watch it with you,” she said sternly. “I don’t do well with CGI dogs.”

He deflated, morose.

She sighed.

“So gender doesn’t bother you then.”

“I’m beginning to realize gender is a construct,” he said slowly. He stopped for a second. “Unless you like gender! Then it’s very real. I am supportive of Schrödinger’s gender.”

She squinted at him.

“I fear they should have studied you.”

“They did. Didn’t figure anything out though.”

It startled a laugh out of her, and he grinned like it was the best thing in the world.

“You’re not going to go easy on me because I’m a woman, right?”

He looked insulted.

“If I go easy on you, it’s because I’m in love with you,” he corrected. “But then it’s not really fun if there isn’t the underlying threat of serious bodily harm, so unfortunately you’re going to have to deal with more fighting,” he said, very seriously.

She bit her lip to stop the next laugh.

“Oh darn.”

“I know,” he agreed, and she could hear the amusement on his tongue. “What a bummer.”

“Not exactly the word I would have used, but—“

“I know. You use all the serious words in correct circumstances, and I use all the stupid ones at the right times and the smart ones at the wrong ones.”

“I mean. At least you’re aware.”

“At least I’m aware!” He said it proudly.

He looked at her with a sort of extreme fondness she had never been on the receiving end of.

In the distance, something exploded.

She jerked around to look at it, then whirled back to him.

“I should,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, and he merely stepped back.

“Off you go,” he said, sweeping his arms out like a butler welcoming her into their house.

“You’re not worried I won’t come back?”

He grinned, a boyish thing.

“Oh, you always come back to me.”

She flushed bright red, then took off over the tops of the buildings.

He was right, though.

She always, always, came back.

[jcdiener-deactivated20250619]

Hi, hello 🪄🥀🗡️🌙🖤

I've been quietly posting things here and there but haven't really introduced myself so far. Figured I should finally get to that.

Hi, hello. My name is Johanna Flowers, the latter being a direct reference to Ramona Flowers, because like her I love dyeing my hair flashy colours.

I've actually been on tumblr for well over 10 years by now (believe it or not, I am 30 years old and have really witnessed the good old angsty emo times of it) but I've been on a very long break. My old blog I have - to my heartfelt regret - deleted in a 2018 fit of not wanting to be part of said angsty emos any more. I'd probably cringe were I able to look at it today but at the same time I'd love to see teenage me's interests and ideas.

Anyway, I digress.

I've come back here last year because I am utterly exhausted with all other social medias I've been using (which weren't many to begin with but still managed to give me a burnout) and had an urge for the good old days I've experienced here. Plus I needed somewhere to put my writing.

As I'm (again) becoming more serious with wanting to finally finish writing a novel and feel in dire need of a community to share ideas and thoughts and questions with, I want to be more active on here again.

Alas, welcome to my blog!

I'm gonna try and focus mainly on writing. Currently working on a couple of long form things, but so far only one is worth mentioning. A story I've been working on and off for about eight years, working-titled Curse the Dreamless. It's a mystery story filled with magic, love, betrayal and a good old curse.

You can find some snippets of that here.

I also enjoy writing short stories or one shots every now and again to keep my brain active and inspired.

For my general writing tag you can come here.

(all pictures found on pinterest, not mine)

I am generally a big fan of fantasy, everything Victorian/Edwardian set, pirates and sail ships, I love mysteries, magic and darker narratives and I am dead set on writing something on Atlantis one day because the myth has my brain in a choke hold ever since I first watched the disney atlantis movie as a wee 8-year-old. I usually write original fiction in the form of prose, but might slip poetry, song lyrics or even fanfics into the mix if I feel like it.

Fandoms you might encounter on this blog:

Star Wars

Lord of the Rings

Avatar The Last Airbender

Arcane

Battlestar Galactica

The Expanse

Grishaverse

The Witcher

Atlantis

Sleep Token

Halsey

Bad Omens

(might extend this list over time)

If you've made it this far, thank you! I'm really looking forward to interacting with the people here - some of whom I've already got to exchange a few words with and found to be very lovely and welcoming. Feel free to follow if you're interested in any of the above mentioned things.

'til then, see you around!

[fangedcinnamonroll]

Hi guys! I've written the first chapter of Offering! I may well still change the title as I'm not 100% set on this, but I'm pretty happy with the first chapter.

Take a look and let me know what y'all think! It's a reworking of one of the snippets from @agirlandherquill 's tag game, but I've changed up a few things.

Happy reading! Let me know if you want tagging for the next chapter!

Chapter One - An Offering

"Move!"

Narim stumbled forwards, pushed along roughly by the armed guards at his sides. The long stone corridor they were headed down ended abruptly with a set of large metal doors. They were crude, with no thought spared for ornament. The stone around the doors was charred with great black stains, like slashes against the cold grey. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. 

With each step the temperature rose a little higher, and for the first time that evening Narim was grateful for the ridiculous clothing he'd been forced into. They'd stripped him of his practical leathers and belongings, scrubbed him all over until his skin felt raw, and laced him into his new wardrobe - loose-fitting pants, tied tight at the waist and ankles with ribbons, and made from a blue fabric so sheer it left little to the imagination. Strips of the same fabric twined loosely around his torso and arms, in a way that seemed to serve no greater purpose other than to piss him off. His wrists were bound together thickly with the same cloth, and he'd been picking at the knots for awhile now, slowly working the slippery stuff free.

At least the clothes were light and airy - while he could feel his skin start to prickle, he wasn't dripping in sweat like the guards, clanking away beside him in their full leather and steel armour.

Bastards.

As the doors loomed, Narim threw one last look over his shoulder. He reckoned he could overpower the guards at his sides - they were armed with pointed spears, but there wasn't enough room in the corridor to use them effectively- but the others at his back would take him down before he could take more than a couple of steps.

He considered digging his heels in, refusing to go any further, but he was still aching from the beating they'd served him in his cell, and he didn't fancy a gauntlet to his tender ribs.

So it came to this… death by a dozen armed guards, or face whatever lay beyond those doors…

As it happened, the choice wasn't his to make. 

With a screeching groan, the doors were wrenched open, and before he could make out more than the swirl of smoke and the flicker of warm light, he was hurled into the room beyond.

He landed hard, unable to break his fall with his wrists bound as they were, and his left shoulder and side took the brunt of the blow. He groaned into the flagstones, eyes screwed shut as he welcomed the new injuries to the party.

The door slammed and locked behind him. Definite. Final. There was no going back to face the guards now…

Narim hissed as he shifted. His arm stung - the skin definitely broken, and most likely bleeding. The stones beneath him were covered in dust, and he could feel it sticking to his skin, tickling his nose.

He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. Inches away from his nose, staring right back at him was the charred remains of some poor bastard's skull.

Narim gasped, coughing as he inhaled a lung full of dust… no, god, a lung full of ash… and scrambled awkwardly backwards until his bare back hit the steel of the closed door.

"…shit…" His whisper rang loudly in his ears.

He tore his eyes away from the skull, from the shapes strewn beside it - more bones, from the grey dust that coated it all.

He whipped his head to the side, in search of something, anything else, but his frantic gaze landed on another mound. This one bore more resemblance to a human - the blackened bones of it's arm stretched out towards him, towards the door, grasping desperately for freedom.

"…shit, shit, shit!"

He screwed his eyes shut again, tried to slow his ragged breaths, to calm his heart hammering away in his chest.

Check your space… His mentor's advice from years prior had his eyes snapping back open. Know your dangers in rest and in panic.

Wise words. He had to survey his surroundings and search for an escape. Before whatever had happened to these unlucky souls happened to him.

The room he'd been dumped in was large, much larger than he'd expected, the shadows that clung to the edges making it seem like an endless space. With flagstones floors, stone walls, and the steel door behind him it should have been freezing, but the vast fireplace on the opposite wall blazed with flickering red and orange flames. The heat that emenated from the hearth was sweltering, and Narim found himself sweating in earnest. Besides the flames, there seemed to be no other source of light - no barred windows, no arrowslits, nothing - only darkness.

There were at least three other skeletal piles that he could see - that made five people that had been burned in here before him. Who knows how many more were laying in the shadows?

"Another one? I thought they had finally given up."

Rumbling tones filled the room, and Narim's heart lodged in his throat.

He squinted at the spot to the left of the fireplace where the voice had come from. There was a recess swathed in shadows beside the hearth. Narim couldn't make out anything more than a vague figure beyond the orange glow.

"Have they finally run out of the skinny ones?" The voice rumbled through him, prickling his skin with goosebumps. "You've far more muscle than the last whore - she was all skin and bone."

Whore? 

Through the chill of his fear, Narim bristled, but he could hardly argue. There he was on his knees, barely dressed, and tied up like a goddamned present. Even his hair had been cleaned, oiled, and twined with threads that sparkled gold amidst the chocolate brown waves. If he could see himself, he'd probably have drawn the same conclusion. 

"Many have tried to love me, human. Do you think you have what it takes?"

…did it just say…

A breath of laughter escaped him. It was a dry and slightly hysterical laugh, but it was out before he could stop it. He'd always had a bad habit of finding humour in dark situations, but hearing the word 'love' while surrounded by evidence of violent death was faintly ridiculous.

"…You find this funny?" Two sharp eyes glowed red in the shadows, and the fire surged with the figure's furious tone. Narim flinched away from the intense heat.

"N… no!" He gasped, all trace of humor lost now. "No I-"

"Do you wish to perish like those before you?"

Again his eyes found the bones. At the blackened fingers outstretched. They'd all been heading towards the door, towards salvation, running in fear only to fall in agony.

…Fuck no. Not me. Not after everything I've been through. I won't go like that…

Narim took a deep grounding breath, and pushed himself up onto his feet, wobbling a little as he struggled to balance.

"I may be trussed up like a whore, Lord Dragon," He said, his voice much steadier than he'd expected. "But I'm not going to be loving you today."

"…You know me?" Suprise tinged the rumbling tone, the red eyes widening in the gloom. "The others thought I was human… until the end."

"…I took a wild guess." Narim gulped, took a couple of tentative steps forwards. He motioned at the hulking steel planes behind him. "Those doors were made to contain more than a human's strength."

He picked his way slowly across the room, careful not to stand on any of his… predecessors as he went. His feet were slick with ash and sweat.

"That," He continued, "along with the intense heat in here, and, well... those..." He awkwardly gestured to the scattered piles of blackened bones and ashes, now behind him. Narim was only a few meters away now, and he could now make out the creature's form more clearly. It stood a little taller than him, though it seemed to be leaning against the wall. It was hard to make out fine details, only the red eyes stood out, narrowing as Narim drew closer still.

A flash of sharp white fangs and a low hiss had Narim regretting having laughed at the creature.

"A-and I'm guessing you're injured?" He gingerly took another step, and the fire cracked and flared, the warning clear - stay back.

I won't run from you, creature. Not when you could be my ticket out of here.

"Even reinforced as they are, those doors wouldn't withstand the full force of a dragon, so you're either here of your own free will," He stumbled at the growl that erupted from the shadows, but pressed on. "O-or you're hurt."

The growling lessened. Narim was now no more than a few feet away, and he could make out the features of his dragon cellmate more clearly.

A male form stood shrouded in the shadows. His body looked well- built, muscles bulging under skin so pale Narim was suprised the shadows had hidden him at all. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the large hand that grasped his bicep was tipped with golden claws. His golden hair swept back over his head, the light shining off of the thick, straight strands. Those crimson eyes bore holes into him, unnervingly steady, and seemingly without the need to blink. They were set into a sharp-featured face, all hard lines and angles. The features looked like a mimicry of humanity. Reptilian and cold.

The sheer power that radiated from him had Narim avert his gaze. It set some deep-seated animal instinct in him screaming - turn, run, escape!

Steady hands, steady mind.

He repeated his mentor's mantra to himself over and over as he forced his feet to stay rooted, to halt the quiver in his fingers. His fear had always taken him this way - sending shivers down his limbs until he could grasp it and tame it. Until he could breathe through the storm and see the calm on the other side.

The dragon shifted, hissing a little. Narim could see subtle signs of pain and weariness - the tightness in the creature's jaw, the strain on his posture, how he let the wall behind him take his weight. He couldn't see where, but the dragon was definitely wounded… and a wounded animal was a dangerous thing.

"You're trapped in this form, yes?" 

Silence, except for the crackling of the logs in the fire. This close to the flames, Narim could feel his skin starting to catch - he'd be pink all over if he survived the night.

"I can help you," Narim offered, grasping at the only life-line he had left. "I-if you'll allow it?"

"And how do you intend on doing that?" The dragon growled, but there was less venom in his tone, perhaps a touch of intrigue.

"I…" He gulped. He'd only told three other people this about himself - his parents, who had brutally thrown him out, and his mentor. "I can… do things… things others can't."

A chuckle, like rolling thunder. "Oh, so you're a special whore?" The chuckle turned into a cough, then another, the dragon's body heaving as he winced in pain.

"I can heal you." He said, ignoring the dig through gritted teeth. "My ment-… people have called me a mage."

Come on, just give me a chance…

"A mage?" The dragon huffed, sagging against the wall. "They threw a mage into the dungeons? No. You're lying, and you'll regret it."

The flames surged again, and the heat hit him so hard that Narim dropped to his knees, shielding himself ineffectively behind his bound wrists.

No, not yet, just one chance!

"I'm not lying!" He cried out horsely, "They don't know! They think I'm just a normal prisoner, please… Stop!"

He locked eyes with the pale dragon - perhaps the last thing he would ever see? Two glowing red eyes squinting back at his in the gloom.

Please...

His vision started to blur, turning the world into a fuzzy smear of blacks, whites, and reds.

"…I can… help…" He murmered as he toppled over, losing himself to unconsciousness.

.....

[agirlandherquill]

truths

goodness it's january 1st already, only feels like yesterday that i typed up the final post for writeblr - which was such a blast, and thanks again to all who participated - and even if you didn't, it's never too late to use the prompts for a little inspo! - anyways, for the past couple of days i've been working on a little story, something completely outside of my usual comfort zone,

for starters, it's not fantasy, in my mind it's a contemporary thriller, and it's written in first person (cue the nervous butterflies)

and incase the title wasn't a give-away, i've decided to give this story a very simple title - truths.

it's a story about a journalist in a small town trying to solve a series of murders terrorising the community, and she's teaming up with a private detective to do it - which is bound to have it's chaotic moments, just like the case and the story she's trying to write

and for once in my life, I've come up with a little blurb (queue sarcastic applause, because blurbs are the bane of my existence)

"Three murders and counting plague a small town, where no-one has a clue who's responsible, not even the police, and it's the greatest story to hit the local papers in years - only it's not been written yet, because journalist Bette never publishes an unfinished story. She is going to find the truth, find who's responsible, and finish the tragic story for her community, once and for all. Only she's not alone. Someone else is along for the truth-seeking ride. Private-Detective AJ appoints himself her partner in crime - or truth, if we're being specific - and he has no intention of letting the killer walk free. Let the search for truth begin - for all of them. Because the truth is twisted, it is tragic, it is different, from every angle. And for Bette and AJ, the truth could be just as deadly."

have i got your attention? read on if you'd like a sneak peek to the story, with the first chapter :) (and if you want to read more, i'll be sticking the chapters up on ao3, which you can find here)

He’s looking at me again.

For the fifth time in the last hour, I pretend to sip from my empty mug, using the opportunity to catch a glimpse of him. Only this time as I shift in my chair, someone walks past, crashing into my table. Coffee spills from their mug and onto my shirt. 

I stand up with a gasp at the shock of it, then try to swipe a few napkins from the rack on my table, dabbing frantically at the stain while the person whose coffee has now ruined my day leaves the shop without another word. 

“Some people hey? Are you all right?”

I look to my left. A man, early twenties, unruly brown hair and blue eyes stands there, offering me a few more napkins. Oddly nice of him. Nicer than anyone else in here. 

“Thanks. I’m all right.” I take them, and make a pitiful attempt of rubbing the stain out of the material. “I can’t say the same for this though.”

“At least it didn’t damage anything more important.” 

“What?” I look at him, confused. Is my shirt not important? Is it not important to not look like a coffee-stained slob at 11:33 in the morning? 

He gestures to my laptop, sitting next to my empty mug. The criminally empty mug, which he spots, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Oh,” I sigh, reaching and double checking nothing had spilt on it. It was fine. “Yeah, I guess so.”

That’s when I notice it. The table where the staring man had been, was empty. I look away, then to him. “I guess this was just the perfect excuse you needed to come over and talk to me, wasn’t it?”

He props a hip on my table. As though he has the right to do so. I fold the useless napkins into a ball and stuff them in my empty cup before I look at him again. “Get bored of staring for an hour?”

“I didn’t need an excuse to talk to you.”

“No?”

“I just needed to know the right thing to say.”

I tense. “I’m sorry?”

He blinks, then holds his hands up. “I swear, I’m not one of those guys that tries to pick girls up in coffee shops - I’ve never- I don’t-”

Why is it on me to stop him digging his own grave? I sigh. “It’s fine. Look, I’ve got a busy morning ahead of me, and I’d rather not stand here in a stained shirt and become a spectacle, so if you want to say something… Go for it.” 

He clears his throat. “I’ve been here for the past couple of days, wondering when you’d come in.”

“Right,” I stare at him. “Because that’s not creepy.”

“No, no, I-” He rubs his neck, clearly flustered. “I was told, that if I wanted to talk to you, that this was the best place.”

I should be more alarmed by this, shouldn’t I? But there was that usual nagging at the back of my head, curiosity doing its usual tactic of becoming irresistible. It’s going to become a problem for me one day, I know that, but for the past 23 years of my life it’s not steered me too wrong so far. I sit back down in my chair, scoot my laptop out of the way, and nod for him to sit. He looks surprised that I’ve not told him to scarper. He sits down and I take a minute to take him in. His shirt is white, new, I think, judging by the lack of creases. All of the buttons are done up, save for the one nearest his throat. He likes to be presentable, but not so uptight that he’d rather not breathe. Brownie points in my favour. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people who act as though they were born with sticks shoved up an unspeakable orifice. He wears a blazer - if I had to name the shade, I’d go for slate - Not too obtrusive on the eyes, but nice all the same. And it fits him well. Tailored? No. I think that’s muscle under there, not fabric. 

That’s when I realise I’ve been staring for a fraction too long. He’s smiling at me, an awkward one, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, if he’s been watching me for the past hour, I’m allowed to return the favour, right? 

I prop my chin on my hand. “So, first off, who told you I’d be here?”

“Alfie.” Down at the Piper. Course he did, mouthy bastard. I’m not allowed to have my own private schedule down there.

“You want a job down at the Piper then?” I’m surprised. He doesn’t strike me as a journalist. In fact, he looks too nice for that.

He shakes his head, and I have to admit, curiosity digs its claws into my mind a little bit more. “What then?”

“I-I think it’ll make more sense first if I explain to you who I am.”

Policeman. Christ. He’s come to tell me I can’t use my sources on this story and without them, I’m-

“I’m a sleuth.”

I have to hear him say it again in order to believe my hearing’s not just left me and gone to hell. “What?”

“A… Sleuth. A private detective, whatever name you want to call it.”

Private detective, not an actual one. Phew, I’m in the clear. I tilt my head. “Go on then, Detective, tell me about yourself.”

He shifts in his seat, as though the mention of the title makes him squirm. “Well…” He looks nervous. I pity him. He’s not the sort of person I like to see squirm. For starters, his suit hasn’t come from the posher shops way down the high-street. I raise a hand to the passing waitress and order us two more coffees. He looks at me, blinking, before he seems to relax a little and goes on. “My name is AJ, I’m investigating the…” He stops as the waitress brings us our coffees, I slip her the cash and take a sip of mine, while he waits for her to be out of earshot before he continues.

“I’m investigating the Chapel Murders.”

I very nearly spit my coffee in his face. It scorches my throat as I force it down and reach for my laptop, discreetly shutting the screen. The screen of the story I’m writing for the Piper’s front page, about the very same thing. If he’s seen anything- No, he can’t have. But how does he know I’m the one that’s writing- Oh. Alfie. I’m going to drown him with the water fountain one of these days, then he’ll keep his mouth shut.

I take a napkin and dab at my lips, gesturing for him to go on.

“I’ve been asked by one of the families to find who’s responsible, and since the police aren’t about to do me any favours, I thought I’d come to you.”

“And you think I know anything?”

“I think that you’re the best chance I’ve got in this town, and you’ve been typing for 30 minutes straight, you’ve got something.”

“Listen, there’s such a thing as credibility and I can’t have you putting mine into question,” I sigh, packing my laptop into my bag. I pick up my coffee and stand. “It’s been nice talking to you AJ, I wish you the best of luck but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” No matter what Alfie’s said.

His face falls. I didn’t expect to see him so disappointed, but then I remind myself. He’s a P.I. He’s got to be used to doing things on his own. I raise my coffee cup to him. “Have a nice day.”

I leave The Brew, my favoured coffee spot in town, at precisely 11:48, when I check my phone and round the corner. I get to the zebra crossing when someone touches my arm. I jolt. My phone flies out of my hand and clatters to the floor. Someone reaches it before I do. I turn and see AJ, holding it out. “Look, I’m sorry, I just really need your help.”

“So you try to give me a heart attack?”

One of the cars at the crossing beeps at me. I shoot them a glare. Drive past then, it’ll be my funeral if I step out. But I’m busy right now. They beep again and I wave them through, turning back to AJ, who is still touching my arm. “I told you, I can’t help.”

There’s something in his eyes that stops me from bolting immediately. He looks… Sad? 

He takes a deep breath, then pulls his hand away from my arm. “Matt Colton. The second victim. He’s my brother.”

I pause. His face did feel familiar. But when I’ve spent the last two nights staring at the photo we’ve put out for Matt’s eulogy, it would be one I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Guilt kicks me in the ribs. I can’t just tell him to get lost now, can I? He deserves to know. He deserves to find the truth about who took his brother’s life. Isn’t that why I took this job? For the truth? For people’s stories?

I thrust my coffee cup into his hand. “Hold this for me.”

He stares at me, but takes it. “Why?”

“Because, I can’t write with my hands full.” I fumble with my bag for my pen, then take out my notebook, flicking to the back page. I scribble the address for the Piper on it, then my email address, then I tear the page out and hand it over to him. “Meet me there, 7:45am tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

I take my coffee from him, a small part of my stomach fluttering at seeing the hopeful smile dawning on his face.

“Thank you. I mean it. T-Thank you.”

I salute him with my coffee and head across the road, only to be stopped by someone shouting. 

“Hey! Hey!”

I pivot on the curb, confused.

“I called about you at the Piper, but Alfie never gave me your name.” He gave you everything else though - Christ, I’m having words about privacy when I get back to the office.

“It’s Bette.”

He smiles at me, and waves. “I’ll see you tomorrow Bette.”

And then he walks away on the other side of the street, and strangely enough, I find myself looking forward to it.

~ ~ ~

now for the tag list!

(p.s if you'd like to be included/notified too, interact with this post :) p.p.s im finally getting around to updating it, so bear with me :))

@humbly-a-doppelganger @imawholeassmood @frostedlemonwriter @yrndrgn @abditorywriting

@riveriafalll @lead-to-code @casualsuitturtle @floweryprosegarden @joeys-piano

@catwingsathena @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @nothoughtsjustmhaandotherthings @anaisbebe

@drchenquill @leahnardo-da-veggie @tiredpapergirl @pastelpinkhobbies @a-mimsy-borogove @the-letterbox-archives @corinneglass @darkluminosity @kuebiko-writing (so sorry for the super late addition!)

[inhurtandincomfort]

A Night to Regret

CW: Kidnapping, abusive relationship

“Hey babe,” Kieran answered his phone with a grin, “Yeah, I’m on my way back now. Guess what? I’ve got a job!” 

“Really? That’s amazing!” He pulled it back from his ear as Abigail squealed, “What is it?” 

“It’s a short film, an original horror I think. I don’t know all the details, Kate said she’d email them to me first thing Monday. It’s a student film, but they’ve done quite a few popular ones.” 

“You know what this means? Celebration! We should invite Mike and Lisa, I’ll see if Cameron’s free too, and Jaysen, though I think he’s busy…”

Kieran laughed softly, “Is that really necessary? I was thinking we could just have a quiet night in, just the two of us.”  

“We do that all the time! Come on, we haven’t had a get together in ages. It’ll be fun. We’ll order pizza, and if you pick up some drinks on your way home… ooh, make sure you get some of that beer I like.”  “Since when did this become about you?” 

“I’ll pay for everything!” 

He smiled even though she couldn’t see it. “I got it, don’t worry. You order some pizzas, I’ll be home soon. I love you.” 

“Love you!”

Kieran slid his phone into his pocket, making a u-turn to head towards their favoured liquor store. He shivered, hugging himself as he walked down the quiet street. Strange, to be so quiet on a Saturday evening; it was freezing, he reasoned. It wasn’t that late, but the sun set early this time of year and a starless sky made the frigid air seem bleak. Still, deserted streets always held an eerie feeling. Though they weren’t completely empty, he only saw an occasional passerby in thick coats, scarves weaved around their faces. Man, he should have brought a scarf; his lips were probably turning blue. 

A small, childish part of him wished he had stayed talking with Abigail. Past every alley, every covered stranger, a chill crept up his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He considered calling her back. She was probably calling their friends though. You’re worrying over nothing, he scolded himself. He was a grown-ass man, he could handle walking down a street himself, the same route he’d taken many times before. Alone. In the dark. 

Abigail kept telling him he should ask his doctor about anxiety meds. Maybe she was right. 

He was relieved when he made it to the store, offering him a brief respite. There was only one other customer who seemed to be studying two bottles intently. Kieran made his purchase, making easy small talk with the grizzled cashier trying to ignore his stomach twisting in knots.

He rubbed his hands together in an attempt to get warm, an awkward motion carrying bags of glass bottles. He hummed to himself as he walked, a cheesy romance he hoped would stave off anxious thoughts. He glanced behind. A couple of men were trailing at a steady pace, scarves concealing their faces. He turned back to face forward, his pace quickening just slightly. People are allowed to walk behind you, Kieran. He told himself firmly. Learning to face your fears is an important part of recovery. Don’t let anxiety control you. 

…But he’d also been taught to follow his instincts. What was he supposed to do when every gut feeling told him to run? 

He considered stopping to let them pass. Would that just make him seem suspicious? It would probably be weird. Home wasn’t far, he’d be there soon. A black car with tinted windows was parked up ahead. Had it ever been there before? He shook his head. Paranoid. He’s just paranoid. Lukas had always said so. It was hardly an unusual car, it’s no surprise he’d never noticed it. And people were allowed to visit.

Still, as he got closer his shoulders hunched, blood rushing in his ears. His stomach cramped, tightening painfully as every signal in his body rang wrong, wrong, wrong. Something was wrong. He halted in his tracks, willing himself to move, his body frozen as his mind raced, every alarm bell screaming go back, go back, danger danger dangerdanger-

A heavy weight slung around his shoulders drawing him in. He opened his mouth to yell, a gloved hand silencing him. Something hard pressed into his back, small and rounded and fuck, this wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening-

“Don’t make a sound,” A gruff voice whispered, a voice that didn’t sound natural. They were trying to disguise it. “Come with us quietly, and there won’t be any problems.” 

Kieran nodded numbly, his heart hammering against his chest. With a small nudge from whoever stood behind, with a gun did they have a gun please say that’s not a gun he was bundled into the black car where someone was already waiting to drive away. Two men sat either side of him, blocking every exit.

“Head down,” One commanded, shoving his head to his knees before he even had a chance to do so himself. His shopping bag was placed by their feet. They’d probably take the drinks for themselves. They took his phone too, along with his wallet leaving him with no form of identification. 

“Who are you?” Kieran dared to ask, his voice trembling. “Where are we going?”

“Shut up.” 

They were going to kill him. Oh god, he was going to be murdered, his body thrown in a woods somewhere or a lake or burned and oh god. Would they ever find him? Would his mother get to bury him? What about Abi, would she blame herself? How long would it take her to grow concerned? Was she already pacing around anxiously, wringing her hands, waiting for him to come home?

When they were out of city limits, they pushed him to the floor, wrapping cloth around his eyes, binding his wrists and ankles with duct tape which they also placed over his mouth. They must have driven for miles. He was transferred to another vehicle at some point, open conversations taking place in a language he couldn’t understand. Occasionally they’d rip the tape off to pour water down his throat. He fell asleep at one point, he thought. It was all a haze, fuzzy memories leaving him unable to distinguish what’s real and what is fake. 

Next thing he knew he was being roughly dragged outside, mud staining his clothes as  he was thrown to the floor. 

“Good to see you again, Angel.” 

Kieran stilled, every hair on his neck stood on end, his heart leapt to his throat. He thought it might just stop. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Lukas jeered, his honeyed voice washed over Kieran like acid. The blindfold was yanked off his face, letting him look up to a man he wished he’d forgotten. 

Calloused fingers cupped his cheek tenderly, bronze eyes filled with such gentle warmth met his own. He used to melt under that same gaze, putty in his hands. He would have done anything to please him, debased himself in so many ways just to see those soft eyes look at him once more. 

Now they just filled him with fear. 

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it Angel? Were you afraid you wouldn't see me again? I was beside myself. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing your face, haunting me like an enthralling ghost. I didn’t know what to do, I was so lost without you.” Lukas grabbed Kierans face in both hands, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, staring deep into his eyes in a way that made his skin crawl. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be some horrible nightmare, he was gone, he got out, he fled across half the country just to be safe and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to scream, wanted to yell, wanted to kick and scratch and do anything that would get him out of here, anything to never be trapped with this monster again. 

But his limbs were bound, his mouth stuffed full of cloth. Even if they weren’t, he wasn’t sure he was capable of it. He’d never fought back then. He hadn’t changed at all, not really. He was still the same meek figure he’d been back then. 

“You should never have left me Angel,” Lukas breathed, his breath hot on his face. “You’ll never leave me again.”

If you enjoyed please consider reblogging, it really helps the reach and lets others enjoy it too!

Being kidnapped by your abusive ex is bad enough - even worse is Lukas needs to make money. How will he do that? Hurting his Angel on camera, of course <3

[fangedcinnamonroll]

Heads Up 7 Up

Woo! Thanks for the tag, @whatwewrotepodcast!

Tagging - @sunflowerrosy @agirlandherquill @ashintheairlikesnow @sharkblizzardblogs @the-modern-typewriter @melpomene-grey @johannaflowers

Here's 7 lines of Narim and Farrick getting spicy below the cut.

Farrick kicks the door shut behind them, his hands too busy burying themselves in the round flesh of Narim's ass, his tongue and lips kissing trails along his neck and collarbone.

"I-I thought you were green to all this?!" Narim gasps, bouncing as Farrick drops him down onto the bed, leaning over him like a cage. A very sexy cage, grinning down at him, mischief in his now crimson eyes.

"I've seen over seventy winters," Farrick hums, nipping at Narim's ear and setting his head spinning. "You really think I didn't pick up a few things?"

"Wai- what are you doing?" Narim stammered, as Farrick pushed up his shirt, exposing Narim's bare chest to the cool air. He'd expected him to flip him over, pull down his pants a little and fuck him into the sheets, like the others whom Narim had indulged over the years, but Farrick simply smiled up at him and lowered his head.

[sunnynwanda]

On Christmas Eve

In which Hero arrives home after a long day only to find Villain sitting under their Christmas tree like a present Hero never dared to ask for.

Warnings: suggestive (clearly), cute spice

The last weeks of December were something akin to torment. The season of giving meant the resurgence of crime, thus leading to late hours and unending shifts for Hero. Christmas Eve was no different. They spent the entire day dashing from one part of the city to the other, only to end up missing several key attacks, deemed more important by the mayor and being reprimanded by the main asshole of the town. Hero was seconds away from smashing the idiot's face in when the bells of the city cathedral started ringing. The early mass was about to begin.

Hero cursed under their breath, finally remembering what day it was. With a sigh, they stepped away. Now that their patrol was over, Hero wanted one thing and one thing only - to crawl into bed and remain under the covers for the entire holiday season, preferably with something - or someone - warm under their arm. With the second option being as unrealistic as it gets, Hero had no choice but to opt for the more probable one.

By the time they get home, the clock chimes quarter to midnight. They don't bother with dinner, dropping their suit onto the floor and planting face-first on the mattress, somehow managing to pull their pyjamas on in that position.

With how exhausted they are it's no surprise they fail to notice the soft tapping sound from downstairs - someone's bare feet against their kitchen tiles. However, the tapping noise continues, followed by clanking of ceramics. That finally draws Hero's mind out of the blissful hazy state, prompting them to turn over with a deep groan, their eyes still shut. A part of them wishes to allow the intruder to rob them to avoid getting up. If they are a failure to the city, they might as well let this crime slide.

It's at that moment that their brain catches up to the thoughts drifting lazily in it, prompting them to jolt into an upright position on the bed. No one would break into their house when there are better (and less secure) places to rob.

They take a moment to listen as the soft tapping of feet comes once more, moving about their house with purpose. This forces Hero out of bed, as they rub their eyes, tiptoeing out of their bedroom and down the corridor, ears on high alert for any weird noises. Except it's not a noise that catches their attention this time. Why the hell are the lights on their Christmas tree on?

Hero prances down the stairs, squinting in the dark as they scan the hallway and the front door, noting that it's locked. They take a deep breath before stepping into the living room, illuminated by the soft glow of the flickering Christmas lights, only to find Villain sitting under the tree. Like a goddamn present. In fucking pyjamas. With a cup of hot chocolate in hand.

"What the..." Hero's voice dies down, their thoughts trailing off in utter confusion. They rub their eyes to make sure they're not hallucinating the little shit of an enemy they had since day one of becoming a hero.

"Hi," Villain looks up with a toothy - and breathtaking - grin, taking a sip of their drink and releasing a satisfied hum at the warm feeling.

"Excuse me?" Hero squeaks, incredulous and slightly dumbfounded by the casual demeanour of their nemesis in their home. Since when does Villain know their address? They don't manage to ask that, interrupted by the voice that intrudes their thoughts in the same unabashed manner as their house.

"You're out of marshmallows," Villain states, chuckling sheepishly as they point toward the second mug on the coffee table. "Well, now."

"Um..." What on Earth is Hero supposed to say in response to that? They freeze, gaping at Villain.

"Stop staring at me like I've grown a second head," Villain snorts, giving them a quick once-over.

Hero shuffles, Villain's gaze sending a shiver down their spine. They step closer, lowering themself on the armchair, still doubtful but finally able to form coherent sentences. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was feeling lonely," the criminal shrugs, taking a gulp of their drink, while still maintaining intense eye contact. "You've been ignoring me."

Hero picks up their mug, tentatively sipping from it. The rich chocolaty taste fills their mouth, relaxing the lingering tension in their shoulders. "I've had a busy week."

"A lot of parties to attend?" Villain teases, leaning against the leg of the armchair behind their back. Their tone is mocking, but there is an undercurrent of curiosity in their words.

Hero rolls their eyes, huffing. "Sod off," they grumble. "I don't like those events if you weren't aware."

"I thought you loved the attention," Villain keeps pushing, eyes glistening with mischief at the prospect of getting under Hero's skin. They smirk, looking Hero up and down again, their gaze dark and charged with something unreadable. "Pity. Not just the supersuit you fill out nicely."

Hero raises their brow at their nemesis, about to comment something smart on that statement when a realisation pops into their head. "Did you just compliment me?" Their voice nearly breaks at the end, forcing a cough from their throat.

"You look hot in those PJs," Villain admits, averting their gaze to stare at the extremely enticing Christmas tree. They hope the flickering lights will suffice to mask the flush on their skin.

Hero hums, digesting the new information, their gaze trailing over Villain's body. "Can't deny you look good in yours too," they murmur, a smirk blossoming on their face as the penny finally drops.

This idiot came to spend Christmas with them. Now that was interesting enough to be out of bed tonight or get back into it later - depends on how things go. Certainly not the worst turn of events; Hero will give them that.

"Are you mocking me?" Villain asks, watching them with surprise clear in their warm brown eyes. They don't know what they were expecting from coming here, but it turned out better so far.

Hero chuckles, shaking their head at the adorable reaction. "No, I meant that," they state, sliding off their seat and onto the floor across from Villain, their knees brushing against the other's. Their nemesis looks stunned, not responding long enough for Hero's amusement to grow. "I'm glad you're here," they muse, bringing their cup up to their lips to hide the softened smile on their face.

"You..." Villain pauses long enough to fix their suddenly high-pitched voice. "Really?" They take another sip and lick melted marshmallow fluff from the edge of the mug, causing Hero's breath to hitch in their throat.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus...

"Mhm," Hero hums, downing their chocolate in one large gulp. They can feel Villain's smouldering gaze on their throat as it bops up and down. "I was craving something sweet after a long day."

"I can, um, fetch more chocolate?" Villain suggests, trying to get their mind out of the gutter yet failing miserably, their cheeks heating up even more at the thoughts running wild.

Villain is about to get up when Hero catches their wrist and pulls them onto their lap. "I'd rather have something else," Hero murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of their mouth.

They expect to be shoved away, maybe even slapped across the face. What Hero does not expect is for Villain to shiver and wrap their arms around their neck.

"You have some fluff left here... and here," Hero mutters between kisses before taking Villain's bottom lip into their mouth, sucking gently. Their fingers trace the curve of Villain's jaw, their free arm wrapping around their nemesis' waist, guiding them to straddle Hero.

Villain's lips part almost instinctively, allowing Hero to deepen the kiss with a deep moan in the back of their throat. Hero's grip on them tightens, pulling Villain's body flush against their chest and tangling their hand in Villain's hair.

They break apart minutes later, gasping for oxygen through heavy pants. Villain remains still in their arms, fingers idly tracing the sides of their neck. Hero peels their eyes open, resting their forehead against Villain's with a faint murmur. "You're all I need right here, underneath the tree, baby."

Villain meets their gaze with a darkened one, words dying on their swollen, reddened lips. "I-"

"Stay," is the only word Hero whispers before Villain captures their mouth in another heated kiss. Hero can't help the moan that escapes them, their hand slipping under Villain's pyjama top as they kiss them back.

"Why, because it's cold outside?" Villain jokes, earning a growling laugh from Hero. Their arm tightens around Villain's waist, their free hand sliding to grab Villain's leg as they push forward, laying Villain down on the soft carpet and hovering over them.

"Cheeky little-" Hero's words are cut short by the clock chiming midnight. They pause, looking down at Villain, sprawled out underneath them, in their starry-eyed and kiss-drunk glory. "Because I want you for Christmas."

Villain gazes up at them, licking their lips before nodding. "Merry Christmas, baby." They murmur, leaning up and brushing their lips against Hero's jawline, mouthing down their neck. Hero lets out a low moan, their hands squeezing Villain's thighs as they bring their body down, flush against Villain's.

If there is one thing Hero knows for sure it's that they won't let Villain leave when the morning comes.

A/N: I have no idea if I should even be posting this on a religious holiday, but it's Christmas-themed, so... I guess it's okay? Hopefully?

Anyway, thank you so much for reading! It's finally the end of the year so I will (I hope) have some time to write. As always, let me know what you think. And to those that are celebrating now...

Merry Christmas!

Love,

xo Sunny

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy@alltimelowing@lateuplight@surplus-of-sarcasm@betwist @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon @burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney

@thiefofthecrowns @crow-with-a-typewriter @qualityrabbitsoup @stargeode @villain-life @villainsblood

@whumpifi @glassthedumbass @silviathebard @misskowe @ayeshaturnedtoashes4444 @m4iloblu3

[kaiwewi]

Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

[heartwarminganimals]

[yomikoreadsbooks]

#GOALS

[wigglybunfish]

BRO...

[mothman-etd]

@thebibliosphere

[fangedcinnamonroll]

Hi all! This is technically my installment for the 22nd day of Writemas (hosted by the lovely @agirlandherquill), in that I used the prompts of "storm" and "How could I be cold when I have you?" to construct a daring escape for Narim and our dragon (Farrick).

However, as brains do, mine went a little awol and decided the bit to focus on would be a cute scene sheltered from the storm in a cave. I will link back to this when I've written the connecting passage, but until then, Merry Christmas, keep toasty, and enjoy folks!

"...not sure... I said I don't know! They're fragile things, aren't they? ...Well I have to try - Fessa, you're older, have you not - oh good, you're not dead!"

Narim pried his eyes open to see a blurry tanned face with piercing green eyes above him. As his vision cleared, he saw relief, then concern flash across his features. Narim tried to move, and was met with all manner of screaming protests from every part of his body. He lay back, groaning.

"Urgh... you sure?" He coughed, his voice catching in his parched throat. "Dead might... be better..."

"Dead men usually don't talk, yes?"

Narim huffed a dry laugh, but stopped once he caught the dragon's intensely concerned expression - was he genuinely asking the question, or just concerned that Narim had completely lost his senses?

"Hrm...your voice changed." The echoing, rumbling tones he'd gotten used to back in the cell were no more. Not gone completely, but dampened - softened to something more akin to a human voice.

"Dragons can change more than just their appearance," Farrick tilted his head, as one might expect of a cat or dog, and his eyes flashed red for a moment, then back to vivid green. "and in this state, I did not think intimidating you would be helpful."

"Ha-ah!" Narim chuckled at the honesty and instantly regretted it, wincing as his muscles throbbed. "...argh, thanks..."

A hot hand slapped gracelessly down onto his clammy forehead, and he hissed as his head thumped onto the rocky surface below. Another pain to add to the list.

"You're not cold anymore, so why can't you get up?" Farrick's brow drew even closer together as he stared intently at Narim. "What's wrong with you?"

Narim briefly considered replying with a pithy 'how long have you got?', but as he recalled the events leading up to this point, and the dragon's apparent inability to discern humour from statement, he let the joke die on his tongue. No, no more jokes. Not until his bones stopped screaming.

"I'm not sure..." He tried to take stock of his body, but it was hard to separate the physical sensations at this point. "Am I injured?"

"A cut and some scrapes." The dragon gestured to the slice along Narim's forearm where he'd caught himself on one of Farrick's giant claws. Once he'd set his eyes on it he could feel its dull sting.

"Maybe...infection?" He murmured, more to himself than to Farrick as he tried to zero in on the area with whatever measly magic he had left in him.

Farrick grabbed his arm, pulled it up to his nose, and sniffed the cut. Before Narim could ask whether dragons could detect infected blood - which would have been an undeniably helpful skill - Farrick let out an incredibly long pointed tongue and slathered it over the wound, probing inside, and covering it with sticky saliva.

"Uragh!" Narim shuddered, mortified. "What are you doing?!"

"It's not infected." The dragon said with a frown.

"H-how... I... You..." Narim stammered, "Don't do that again!"

"What? I was cleaning it for you."

"You don't just lick people!" Narim pulled his arm away, far too aware that it now glistened. He couldn't remember having ever said this to another adult.

"Fine. Humans are so odd." Farrick folded his arms across his chest, pouting a little. "So what is it then?"

Narim sighed, the weight of fatigue pressing in on him again. He was warm, and the cut apparently wasn't infected - at least it hadn't been, who knows what dragon spit does to an open wound? Then that left...

"Backlash..." He concluded. He'd felt this once before, many years ago, and had hoped not to experience it again. "The healing...took a lot out of me... Tired."

"But you've been sleeping all day!" Farrick's astounded expression was comical, and Narim resisted the urge to laugh.

"Well...sorry!"

"What will make you not tired?" He asked, and his expression was so earnest that it took Narim aback.

His voice wasn't the only thing that was different. In fact, his whole demeanour had changed - the prickly beast from the cell that had threatened to burn him alive had been replaced with this tense and oddly attentive creature. It was strangely... comforting. Perhaps that was the fatigue too.

"Rest... food."

"Then I will go hunt." Farrick jumped to his feet, and turned to the fire beside them. "Fessa, Seyt, keep him warm." The fire fluttered, and almost seemed to crackle and whistle in protest. Narim blinked at it, too tired and confused to be shocked. "No he won't."

"Are you... talking to... the fire?"

"They are fire spirits. Fessa and Seyt." Narim squinted with blurring vision at the fire, and though he couldn't be sure, he thought he could make out two distinctive forms in the flames - globular cores amidst the flickering light. "Seyt is scared you will eat him. Tell him you won't."

Narim checked, but there was no trace of humor in the dragon's expression. At least he didn't think so - his vision was swimming at this point.

"... 'm not... gonna eat you?" He managed.

"See?..." Farrick said soothingly to the fire, his tone sharpening as it hissed back at him. "No, you cannot."

"...hmm?"

"Ahem... Fessa asked if she could eat you instead - don't worry! She was joking!" The dragon held up his hands, smiling reassuringly. He needn't have bothered - Narim was so tired he probably would have let the little demon eat him anyway. "I will be back soon."

Narim let his eyes close as he listened to the dragon's heavy footsteps recede towards the mouth of the cave. Those heavy footsteps were the only thing that betrayed the true magnitude of the beast behind that slight frame.

There was a pause, filled only with the roar of the storm outside, then, so quietly Narim would have missed it were it not for the echoes that followed... "Don't die."

"...m'kay..." Narim murmered as he slipped into the warm embrace of sleep.

[agirlandherquill]

a letter for writemas

alrighty, as promised, a little last writemas surprise for you all! - a little letter that i hope you'll read <3

~ ~ ~

dear writers,

when i first started this game, i had a dream, a dream of helping to inspire someone, i didn't know who, nor did i know just how many people would be impacted by this game - and 24 days on, the sheer amount of engagement has blown me away!

it has been a pleasure to witness your stories and your characters grow, to read the longest of adventures to the little glimpses into the wonderful worlds that reside in your heads - writing, for me at least, has always been a pleasure and a joy, and it's gotten me through some pretty difficult times, it's also made me appreciate more things too - and i cannot put into words how much it has meant for so many of you to have played along with a few little prompts i put together at the end of a day, and to share my holiday season with you all (even in such a small way!), and of course, help people writing - a feat i hold very dear to my heart (even if i've been unexpectedly busier this holiday season and not done as much writing as i would have liked - but hey, creating prompts counts, right?)

now, to end this letter, i would like to say a great and eternal thank you to every writer out there, from the bottom of my heart, whether you've participated this season or not, whether you've written tons or a few pages over this holiday, i want you all to know that you're doing amazing work, and i've enjoyed writemas far more than i ever thought i would!

for the final time this writemas, this is me signing off - as always, wishing you all a happy holiday, thank you so much for participating, and keep writing!

~ A Girl and Her Quill

(if anyone looks this far - p.s, read a little further for a final, parting message :)) this may be the final post for writemas, but it's not the end of the prompts i can assure you - something's cooking in the depths of my blog and i cannot wait to share it - so keep your eyes out dear writers, but for now, merry christmas eve to all, and to all a good night! <3 for the final time, the tag list! the invitations have been received so here you all are, i bestow upon you the gift of writemas! p.s if you want to be added to the tag list, interact with this post <3

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[agirlandherquill]

my entries - writemas day 17

goodness knows it's been a few days since i first shared my entry to the game, and i thought, after spending most of the previous day working on adod, why not use one of the prompts to help me along with a scene i'm working up to in the book?

so here it is, a little snippet of a fight scene between reid and isolde, under the cut,

“Let this fight be our last, make it so.”

She laughed in his face, angling the tip of her wooden sword directly in front of his eyes. “Or what? What will the Viscount do to me otherwise?”

“I’ll make you suffer for it. And I can promise you won’t enjoy it as much as I will.” He grasped her sword and jerked, forcing her to step forward, into his space, and his hand came to rest on her hip, the corner of his lip twitching smugly. 

Isolde bristled. “Take your hand off of me.”

“Remove it yourself. We both know you’re capable.”

She glanced to his hand, scowling. “What game is this Reid?”

“Why does there have to be a game?”

“Because I don’t understand it if it isn’t.” She spoke bluntly, driving her heel into his instep. He shifted his weight and she twisted, bringing the sword around his throat and forcing him to bow his knees before she crushed his throat. 

“No game, Isolde.” His chuckle disturbed her. 

“Explain yourself.”

“I think you’ll figure it out when you’re ready. Why ruin the moment now?”

“The moment where I’m a move away from crushing your windpipe?”

He tilted his head back to smile at her. “The one and the same.”