We are two queer cowriters who love fantasy, grey morality, and writing stories - usually those stories tend to include one or more supernatural creatures, as a treat.
While only one of us takes care of this blog, most snippets you read were a collaboration between us. We are also open to prompts! We have the softest spot for villain x villain dynamics.
And on that note, we are currently working on our queer adult fantasy Chained in Silver featuring two villains falling in love with each other in our own modern fantasy setting.
hey my sapphic witchy fantasy THE HOLLOWS is releasing November 29th but only 44 people added it to their tbr list on Goodreads.. please consider adding it to your list too✨
I finished reading this book... Witches, pumpkins, crows, magical pastries, cats, lgbt romance, deadly fog, swords, and women leads ?!! A delicious recipe for a good book.
I had a great reading experience! The vibe was magical. The characters are diversed, full of potential and I was delighted by the quest and the world-building.
There's a perfect mix of humour, fantasy and romance. LOVED IT.
(+ look at the cover!! That's going on my shelves for everyone to see)
Cael whirls around with wide eyes, but his hatchet remains pointed at the ground. “Victor!”
He knows this man will not harm him. And even if he chose to, no blade could hope to hold him back.
Cael’s mentor has emerged from the forest atop his fiendish steed, its hooves soundless and its wings shadows more than substance.
Could Victor truly be considered his mentor? Galen is supposed to be the one who guides him on his path, but he has never taken personal interest. The being in front of him was the one who chose him out of everyone.
He smiles now, and shakes his fair head. “They took from you everything that they could and left you here to die. I am surprised they did not steal your sword too. Would it not serve a higher purpose in the hands of a new bright-eyed recruit?”
“They did not leave me,” Cael protests. His pulse is racing, his mouth dry. Death is a terrifying prospect, but he means to face it with bravery. “Someone needed to stay behind. I volunteered.”
Victor’s smile drops, and with it Cael’s heart. “A lamb that goes willingly to the slaughter. I believed you a wolf, young Cael. Was I mistaken?”
“No!” There could be nothing worse than to die a disappointment in the eyes of the one man who believed him capable of more. Cael steels his expression and stands up straight, his hatchet by his side. Victor’s violet eyes are piercing in their intensity. “I am no lamb. I am saving their lives, saving the mission. This is how I want to be remembered! You told me I could be great and this is it. I will be remembered-”
“You will be forgotten,” Victor says mercilessly. His eyes track Caels’ flinch and soften, as much as Victor’s eyes could ever be soft. “Ah, I should not be so harsh with you. This is what they do: they shape people to their purposes, they make them choose to die unrealised and unfulfilled. They praise those who sacrifice themselves and shame the ones who survive, until death becomes the mark of a hero. Their cause is a hopeless one and so many have to die, and those who die are remembered as one being. ‘The brave ones who saved us all’, they say, and their names are lost to history.”
Cael stumbles back. Each word finds its mark in his wavering soul, deepening the cracks of doubt. Can he name any of the soldiers who died before he joined the cause? He has seen them on plaques all around the city. Small carved letters in the marble, not even coloured in. Has he ever bothered to stop and read? There are so many.
The smile is back on Victor’s lips, and for a moment Cael thinks it is of pity. But no, Victor has no pity to give. The smile may be gentle, but it hides anger. “But let us say you survive today. I am here now, and I could save you so easily. What of the ones who live on?” He must see the confusion in Cael’s eyes, and his lips turn sharp. “Tell me, Cael, are any of you superiors happy?”
“Happy?” The confusion only grows within him. “I… would not know. Their private lives are not something they share.”
“Think, Cael. Am I happy?”
“Yes.” Victor's satisfaction and pleasure are vivid in everything he does.
“What do you know of my private life?”
Cael has to concede the point. He does not know exactly what makes Victor happy, he just is. His superiors… “They don’t seem happy. They are focused on the objective, on the next mission, I don’t think they have time for leisure.”
Victor nods. “Precisely. That is what you have to look forward to. For as long as you live, you will not know happiness. And Cael, this is the most important lesson I could ever teach you: no one who is unhappy could ever be great.”
“But that makes no sense.” Cael frowns and looks down at his hatchet, then back into his mentor’s eyes. “I can think of so many heroes who were never happy. Men who did great things, legends!”
“They did great things, but they were not great themselves.” Victor says those blasphemous words as if they were obvious. “They did not feel great. Never. Those who are truly great are the ones who know. They are the ones who bend their life to their will until it suits them perfectly. Great men have a smile on their lips and the world at their fingertips.”
A hand is extended towards Cael. The black glove that covers it is of the highest quality, fitted perfectly to every finger until it looks like it was painted on. Everything about Victor says he loves himself. Victor is great, and he is happy, and he has taken an interest in Cael even when he cares nothing for his cause.
He promises many things. They are things Cael never even imagined he could have.
“Cael.” Victor’s eyes are glowing. “When I look at you, I do not see the grimace of those who labour and fight until their very soul is ground into dust. I see you smiling at your future.”
Cael is only a man.
He does not feel like a coward when the wings of shadow lift them up into the night.
-
“Now you see how he does it. His words hold more power than his sword.”
“He is good. Too good.”
“There is no such thing as ‘too good’.”
“He will break the boy!”
“One day, yes. But not before he serves his purpose."
A failed lab experiment is sent to die in the lair of the most dangerous monster the lab has ever produced. Luckily for him, the monster is far less insane than the scientists like to believe.
Ninety-seven days after they took Saka, his captors stopped caring if he lived or died.
All the awful concoctions they injected him with changed his body, but not to the degree they were hoping for.
He can see in the dark. He knows he has fangs in his mouth, fangs he knows to be venomous. He feels the itch of scales on his skin, patches of them. All kinds of drugs have stopped working on him days ago.
But they were hoping for a monster, and he still has the shape of a man.
Saka stays curled up as much as he can, too alone and in pain to put up a strong face, keep his spirit. Nothing feels like him anymore, every day he is taken and prodded and modified, and he can’t- He can’t take this.
His body is not his own, his freedom is gone, his life is over.
And he is cold. Always, he is freezing cold.
What else is there to do but curl up and wait in dread for the next day to come?
But today the guards escorting him are stopped long before they can bring him to the usual lab.
“Doc doesn’t think she can do much else with him,” the scientist barring their way says, barely even looking at Saka. “She says give him to the Harbinger. He’s been restless lately, he needs something to distract him.”
The name rings a bell. Harbinger. The infamous monster no one seems able to kill. The first one to appear during the Night, and the last to go. The one that can make people see things that are not there, that can twist limbs and break bones with a mere gesture. The only beast that resembles a man, even though he is anything but.
One of the guards snorts. “Sure thing,” he says, and makes Saka turn around to go back to the cell sector - a different wing from the one he’s been kept in up to now.
“What happens to the ones who are given to him?” Saka barely recognises his own voice after weeks of only using it to scream and beg. So rough and weak, so flat. The fear is hidden deep inside.
What could the Harbinger possibly want with him if not tear him to pieces, first his mind and then his body?
The guards seem amused he dared to speak up.
“Good question.” They exchange a glance. One of them grins. “I bet you one hundred he’ll last... eh, maybe three hours.”
The other one shakes their head. “They say the thing’s restless. Either it tears him apart as soon as it sees him, or he gets to lose his mind. In that case... one hour. Tops.”
Such carelessness in speaking of such dark topics. How many people were led to that containment cell before him?
“Boy’s sturdy,” the first guard says, patting Saka’s shoulder as he makes him stop in front of an extremely reinforced door. “I still say three hours.”
In front of them, a series of clicks announces the opening of the reinforced door, delicate mechanisms releasing one after the other. There is another identical door a few feet in, creating an air-locked room in-between.
Saka’s arms are restrained behind his back, his ankles bound together with a short chain. But guards are careless. They never realize all of them have lost hope.
He turns around and slams his head into the first guard’s nose.
He’s dead anyway. If he’s shot now it would be a mercy.
Pain explodes in his skull as the other guard hits him over the head with the butt of their pistol, jerking him backwards by his shirt.
“You little-” The first guard spits, holding their bleeding nose, trembling with rage. “I hope that thing keeps you for longer than three hours! Throw him in!”
Before Saka can blink past the dizziness and pain, he’s shoved forward and through the opening. Immediately the first door starts to close; only when it is completely sealed does the second one open, its mechanisms just as complex.
Fallen on his knees, hands open on his thighs, Saka turns watery eyes to the ceiling and prays.
There are monsters in here that go far beyond any nightmares man is capable of conceiving. The only mercy is that so many of them are too bloodthirsty to make painful deaths last.
His breath shudders out of his lungs and he squeezes his eyes shut, a sob caught in his chest. Please. Please.
He is so tired. He wants to die while he is still at least a shadow of his former self.
Silence falls as the second door folds away.
Perfect, heavy, oppressive silence.
A whisper of fabric.
And then Saka’s body is seized by an invisible force and lifted high into the air, brought forward.
He goes rigid, fear choking him.
Once, instinct would have made him struggle to get free. But now he is too used to unbreakable restraints, to his limbs being immobilized no matter how great the pain and how unbearable the restlessness.
He opens his eyes and stays perfectly still. It’s always so much worse when you don’t see it coming, no matter what they say.
What he finds is a well-furnished room. He can see a large bed, a sofa, an armchair. The walls are covered with hung up paper scrawled with charcoal drawings of... buildings, maybe. Alien buildings, impossible architecture. The floor...
The floor is made up of tiny pieces of stone and glass, a sprawl of colors forming the strangest shapes that make no sense, that represent nothing. A section of it has been dug up, the pieces lying in a pile around the shallow hole.
It takes him a moment too long to see him. He is so unnaturally still, dark blue clothes so similar to the blue of the bed linens.
He sits there, cross-legged, staring at Saka with those glowing blue eyes he saw only in the pictures and recordings. His unnatural charcoal-black skin is exposed, and so are the glowing cracks running all over it.
This being looks exactly like what it is: a man pumped full of chemicals and energy until he burned up from the inside out.
He must be completely insane. Is he in constant pain?
And what relief is there but to take it out on others? Monsters like them are made to savage and kill.
“Hi,” whispers Saka, his voice still so rough and ugly, just one more thing he doesn’t recognise. “I’m sorry.” He blinks away the tears.
The Harbinger blinks.
There’s the horrible sound of metal twisting and being torn apart; Saka’s restraints fall from his limbs. It doesn’t really matter, he’s still suspended a meter from the ground in a telekinetic grasp.
Until he isn’t. Until he finds himself on the ground, on that strange textured floor that is one big mosaic.
The Harbinger tilts his chin down slightly to keep looking at him, and a lock of blood red hair brushes the line of his jaw.
Saka wants to beg him to make this quick, but the Harbinger has been given furniture, has been given the means to draw and entertain himself, which means he retains human intelligence.
Begging would just encourage him to make this last longer.
So he looks down, chin still up in the face of his end, and admires the pretty colors of the mosaic. He wonders how he cleans the grooves between the little stones. Blood must be hard to get out.
Maybe he likes it better that way.
“What for?”
The voice comes suddenly, but it’s not a voice at all. It’s a thought, placed in Saka’s mind and made to resemble a voice. This being really is beyond any human scope.
And he has still to move a single muscle, has still to get up from the bed. Not that he needs to.
He might not move a muscle the entire time he is killing Saka.
“You’re just like me.” A single tear falls from his eye and crosses his cheek, dampening the corner of his mouth. “You're just like me.”
He was someone once. He only wants this because they made him want this, no matter what he thinks now.
They didn’t deserve what happened to them, and no one is coming to save them.
The Harbinger is silent. He shifts just slightly, his clothes swishing in a gentle whisper.
The telekinetic grip comes back, lifting Saka off the ground and bringing him closer, until he’s hovering above the bed - and being placed on it, just shy of the Harbinger’s body.
Darkened fingers rise to wipe away that tear, and perfect warmth brushes against Saka’s cheek.
Saka’s breathing falters and his eyes widen.
He bites his lip. So warm, the Harbinger is so warm and he is freezing, always freezing, never not in pain.
His sigh is a pathetic, trembling thing. “They’re not happy with how I came out,” he tells him falteringly, terrified out of his mind and yet somehow glad he gets to speak to someone, no matter how insane. “I’m not monstrous enough.”
The venom is not enough. The fangs are not enough. They want violence and horror.
“Mh.” The Harbinger passes a thumb under his eye, studying it. The Harbinger has glowing eyes, Saka’s reptilian ones might look normal to him. His other hand touches Saka’s wrist, the back of his hand, feeling the scales.
“I think you are beautiful,” he finally murmurs. “Don't cry.”
Saka doesn’t stop worrying about his eyes being plucked out.
Not being able to defend himself is- well, the norm at this point. It’s normal, and he is still just as scared every single time.
“Are you going to hurt me, Harbinger?” What a stupid question. The guards were so kind to tell him exactly what he was going to be given to. He looks down once more, not a single spark of hope remaining. “I just want to be free.” Free me.
“I do not feel the urge to do so.” The Harbinger tilts his head slightly, regarding him. “Do you want to die?”
His hand is still so close to Saka’s cheek, almost cupping it. If he just moved a little to the left he would feel that incredible warmth all pressed up against his skin.
Saka aches for it. He doesn’t remember what it means to be warm.
“I don’t want to be in pain anymore.” He dares to lift his eyes enough to meet the Harbinger’s, so blue and unnatural.
He can’t help but notice that he looks so young underneath all the unnaturalness. He doesn’t look like a feral beast.
The Harbinger’s lips twitch, no amusement reaching his eyes. “The pain will fade once your body adjusts to the changes,” he comments. “How long has it been?”
Those cracks all over his skin must hurt. They pulse sometimes, like they’re still an open wound.
It’s been more than a decade since the Harbinger’s first appearance. This man has been a prisoner since Saka was a boy.
“A few weeks since the first changes.” Nothing in comparison to him. “They keep adding things.”
He blinks. “Kept adding things. It seems they have given up.”
No more being strapped down, no more horror at the idea of waking up changed, different.
He is supposed to die in here.
“And I don’t- think it will,” he adds, keeping himself still, so still. “They made me cold. Everything is cold.”
For some reason, the Harbinger seems exasperated. “They never learn.” His fingers twitch, and that’s all the warning Saka gets before the telekinesis is on him again.
Before he knows what’s going on the covers are being pulled back and his shirt is being torn off.
“Dirty clothes,” the Harbinger mutters, the words only for Saka. “Why do they even bother?”
Saka is laid down on his back, head on the pillow, and the Harbinger moves to cover him completely with his body. The bedcovers go over them, creating a warm cocoon.
For long seconds, Saka stays stiff as a board.
He- The Harbinger is...?
Once the heat penetrates his skin and finally warms him for the first time in weeks, he goes limp.
A shocked, wounded sound comes out of his throat. “Why?” he asks, helpless, even as he clutches at the monster and holds him closer, greedy, unable to stop. “You- They said you would…”
“Oh, I know they take bets.” The Harbinger hums and allows Saka to keep him close, presses down on him with his solid warm body. “You were lucky. I am restless, not angry.” He places a hand on Saka’s head, fingers going under his hair, lightly gripping the roots. “Relax. I am not killing you.”
Saka hides his face in the Harbinger’s shoulder, so miserable he will take comfort even from the one he is so afraid of, and starts shivering and shaking. His chilly body is slowly warming up, becoming more pliant, letting go of the pain and discomfort.
Even the shiny patches of scales are slowly gaining some heat.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you, I- You’re warm.”
“You’re getting warmer, too.” The Harbinger tucks the covers around him a little better. “You’ll see the pain will lessen soon.”
“It already is.” The realization that he is feeling better for once finally hits. Someone is actively helping him.
He reaches for the monster’s face and moves his hair to the side. “Will they take me back now? They don’t seem to like it when I’m not in pain.” A very neutral tone for such a helpless question.
With a thoughtful hum, the Harbinger leans into the touch. For all his might and terrible powers, he must be always alone too. “I suppose they will leave you here a while longer to see what I do with you,” he guesses. “The previous times they waited until my routine check-up to take the bodies, so they will probably do the same with you. If that’s true, you still have days to go.”
Another hum. “To decide if you want to die.”
It wasn’t supposed to be a choice Saka got to make. It should have just happened.
If he chooses it, it’s suicide. It tastes so bitter on his tongue, acidic with fear. But the Harbinger here is proof that his torment has only just begun.
Years. He nods quietly and cups the back of his head, going back to hiding.
“A few days,” he repeats. “I won’t bother you.”
“We’ll see,” the Harbinger says, but it doesn’t sound ominous. There’s almost the slightest hint of humor in the words.
He presses down on Saka and gently caresses his naked arm, helping him warm up.
“Why are you helping me?” Maybe he shouldn’t ask. “It’s nice of you. Why?” Now Saka understands why their captors never let the prisoners interact with each other. It’s too easy to retain their personalities, to find a kernel of contentment in simple interaction.
“You were in pain.” The slightest tug to Saka’s hair. “And I wanted you to stop cowering.” Which, by the sound of it, was incredibly annoying to the Harbinger. “There are cameras everywhere in this room, and in the bathroom too,” the supposed monster tells him. “But no microphones, since I do not speak. There are some in the antechamber, however.”
The insistence in using telepathy makes more sense now. “Thank you,” says Saka again, and means it for everything. “I’ll be careful.”
He’s a person. The Harbinger is a person, not a monster. “Is there anything I can do to help you not get angry? I’d rather not know what happens then.”
He can- imagine.
“Don’t try to ruin my things.” A basic rule of hospitality, something that’s supposed to be a given, but nothing is taken for granted here. “Don’t attack me.” A moment of consideration. “Try not to bring dirt anywhere. I like being clean and having clean things. This includes the floors as well.”
Since Saka is not sure where he would even find dirt, that’s probably not going to be an issue. “I will be a polite guest.”
He burrows a little better under the Harbinger, the permanently tense line of his shoulders finally easing. He has knots for days and a headache that will never go away, but this helps so much.
It’s making him feel human again. A bed, a warm body against his own, a conversation... All perfect things.
I can’t go back to my cell. He tries not to think about that. About how dangerous and destructive giving a prisoner crumbs is.
He slides his hands beneath the Harbinger’s clothes and holds on. His skin is scorching hot. If he were to take those clothes off and press himself against Saka, chest to chest, it would feel incredible.
“You do that,” the Harbinger murmurs, and caresses Saka’s cheek. “Rest, if you like. There’s not much to do here.”
If Saka closes his eyes he can imagine this man as one of his friends, or as a random one night stand willing to cuddle him.
He doesn’t have to be a monster. They don’t have to be in a cell, wasting away their time, waiting for the next horror to begin.
He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth so he won’t feel the fangs, and stays still so he won’t feel the weirdness of the scales.
The adrenaline crash and the poor, poor sleep of the last few weeks have left him deeply exhausted. Surrounded by this warmth, he has no chance.
With a nuzzle of the Harbinger’s hand, he finally convinces himself this is probably not a cruel trick and falls dead asleep.
part 3 of the 2023 version of this post: adult books!
part 1: middle grade books | part 2: young adult books
this is a very incomplete list, as these are only books I've read and enjoyed. not all books are going to be for all readers, so I'd recommend looking up synopses and content warnings. feel free to message me with any questions about specific representation!
list of books under the cut ⬇️
yerba buena by nina lacour
if we were villains by m.l. rio
everyone in this room will someday be dead by emily r. austin
i want to be a wall by honami shirono
portrait of a thief by grace d. li
the thirty names of night by zeyn joukhadar
on earth we're briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong
love & other disasters by anita kelly
take a hint, dani brown by talia hibbert
boyfriend material by alexis hall
almost like being in love by steve kluger
the charm offensive by alison cochrun
something wild & wonderful by anita kelly
red, white & royal blue by casey mcquiston
something to talk about by meryl wilsner
honey girl by morgan rogers
one last stop by casey mcquiston
once ghosted, twice shy by alyssa cole
kiss her once for me by alison cochrun
a spindle splintered by alix e. harrow
finna by nino cipri
every heart a dooryway by seanan mcguire
the starless sea by erin morgenstern
under the whispering door by tj klune
space opera by catherynne m. valente
light from uncommon stars by ryka aoki
dead collections by isaac fellman
the city we became by n.k. jemisin
light carries on by ray nadine
an absolutely remarkable thing by hank green
feed them silence by lee mandelo
summer sons by lee mandelo
upright women wanted by sarah gailey
lavender house by lev a.c. rosen
fried green tomatoes at the whistle stop cafe by fannie flagg
the seven husbands of evelyn hugo by taylor jenkins reid
a master of djinn by p. djeli clark
witchmark by c.l. polk
a marvellous light by freya marske
a restless truth by freya marske
when women were dragons by kelly barnhill
plain bad heroines by emily m. danforth
a lady for a duke by alexis hall
infamous by lex croucher
passing strange by ellen klages
even though i knew the end by c.l. polk
the chosen and the beautiful by nghi vo
whiskey when we're dry by john larison
wake of vultures by lila bowen
silver in the wood by emily tesh
the once and future witches by alix e. harrow
the kingdoms by natasha pulley
a tip for the hangman by allison epstein
she who became the sun by shelley parker-chan
the song of achilles by madeline miller
spear by nicola griffith
this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone
A sentiment I see shared around a lot in writing space is that of the struggle of having to write the boring scene in order to get to the exciting scene and don’t get me wrong, I’ve been there. But I’ve also observed that something beautiful happens when you get deep enough into a project, when you’re redrafting or editing but the first draft is done, in which the boringness just…disappears. And even the most menial of scenes is such a joy to work on. The investment runs so deep you’re in love with every part of the work. And that’s such a wonderful feeling.
An injured, hunted hero hides in his former lover's safehouse to catch a breath. Unfortunately, his presence is soon noticed by said ex-lover.
The safehouse has been abandoned for months, maybe even longer - just as Hero hoped.
He remembers Villain bringing him here once, after a rough betrayal that left Hero poisoned with no one to rely on except for his then-friend. Here they first kissed. Here Villain decided Hero would belong to them.
But all of that was a lifetime ago. Before Hero betrayed his lover. Before he left leaving just a note and no goodbyes.
Now that he finds himself in a very similar situation, betrayed and with no allies, it's ironic that it would be Villain helping him - even indirectly so, by unknowingly giving him a place to rest for a moment.
As he's treating his wounds, he hears the softest of steps in the hallway. Just around the corner. The noise is enough to make all his senses stand on high alert.
Impossible. No one would dare.
And yet he knows what he heard.
He moves quickly on silent feet, darting to the wall next to the corner, a knife in his hand. He holds his breath, muscles tense. Ready to strike.
But when someone steps around the corner, the frame of their body is familiar. One Hero has felt against his body countless times.
Hero's blow halts in midair, the air leaving his lungs in a shocked exhale. He takes two rapid steps back, eyes wide.
No. No.
Villain lowers the arm they've raised to parry the blow and watches him with cold eyes. "Hero." Their voice holds no surprise, same as their expression.
They'd known they would find Hero here.
Hero slowly shakes his head, in shock.
No. They shouldn't be here. They should be off the continent. Like thinking it enough times will make Villain disappear.
Their hair is a little longer than he remembers, curling around their ears, caressing the sides of their neck. It looks soft, a stark contrast with their stern expression.
"Hero." Villain calls him again, commanding his attention. "What are you doing here?"
It's been years since he heard that voice. It's never been so cold and stern when talking to him.
Hero straightens up, knife lowering slightly. He really doesn't think he can take Villain in a fight right now. His injuries slow him down too much, his leg almost unusuable, exhaustion pulling him down.
"Villain." Voice carefully neutral. "I... didn't know you were in the city."
This is worse than being captured.
"Clearly. Or you wouldn't have come here." Villain tilts their head, studying him. "Everyone is looking for you, I hear."
But I found you first, goes unspoken.
Hero knows Villain has been looking for him since he left. He always knew what would've happened if he were ever found.
to celebrate its 8-month release anniversary, THE SILVER BIRDS is FREE for 48 hours! May 27-28 only—grab the ebook on Amazon now!
🖤 On a cursed island where birds steal hearts and blades of grass cut sharper than knives, two young women driven by revenge take on solving a series of mysterious deaths. 🖤
if you love witches, plant magic, sapphic enemies to lovers (where they do actual hate each other), gothic woods, and terrifying birds with a penchant for stealing hearts, this dark fantasy novel is for you!
Fascinated by stories of the - I guess you'd call it the "stolen identity" genre, like, of the Anastasia Romanov variety. But - from both sides.
Your husband has been at war for thirty years. You married when you were teenagers. The man who returns bearing his name looks... plausible, you don't remember his eyes being quite so blue, but it's been thirty years and it's not like you could ever afford to have a portrait painted. He knows your name and the names of your children and your parents, but there are curious gaps in what he remembers. But war does things to the mind. And if he's kinder than you remember? Kind enough that, maybe, you let yourself believe...
No one has ever looked twice at you, since you're just the maid, until the day a revolutionary bomb goes off, blowing a crater in the summer palace. The famously reclusive duchess and the rest of her household lie dead in the rubble. You know that you and she were the same dress size. You know where her jewels are kept. Most importantly, you know the location of the secret tunnel that leads down to the docks, and to a life overseas that would be torturously hard going for a poor maid, especially one suspected as a thief, but a lot more comfortable for a royal in exile...
The old king's most faithful retainer swears this is the heir to the throne, raised in secret and trained to one day step into his father's shoes. As the usurper as dragged off the throne, she screams that the old king's children are all dead, she made sure of it; no one pays her any heed. (Maybe they should have...)
The man in the tavern is buying drinks for the whole bar before he sets sail tomorrow for the far side of the world. He's got it all figured out - a ship of his own, retirement to a tropical paradise when he gets sick of the pirating life. His lip curls as he talks about the stultifying boredom of the aristocratic world he's already left behind. You find out that his parents recently died, and the estate is in the care of his younger sister, who was only six when her brother first left home two decades since. Between the lines, they sound like a good family; they sound like they love him, the way your family never did. Your heart aches. He shows you portraits, letters, before shoving them carelessly back in his coat pocket. They would be so easy to lift...
It's a surprisingly common concept and I just love it. It's The Return of Martin Guerre; it's multiple 90s romcoms; Agatha Christie pulls it half a dozen times. Sooner or later, it crops up in fanfic for just about any fandom with a royal or aristocratic main character.
And I can see why, because there's so much richness to it. From the outside, it can be anything from a horror story to an unlikely love story; from the perspective of the person pulling off the con, a heist movie or a tragedy or a heartwarming tale of found family. And then there are the longer-term implications: What happens if you wear a mask so long that it becomes who you are? What happens if you come to love the "replacement" to the point where you don't want to find out the truth? What is it like to uncover such a deception a century down the line, to find out that your great-grandfather... wasn't?
werewolf body horror is under utilised- imagine pissing a guy off and his bones start rippling under his skin only to settle back as if nothing happened because he decided you werent worth it
If you're an aspiring author working to get published, slaving away on a novel in progress with perfection as your goal... I would highly advise you, every once in a while... to write.
Not on your novel, not in your notes and concepts document, not on anything even remotely professional and not in a journal. Simply tell a story, stress free, with no expectations. Could be fanfiction from your favorite series, a random short story idea you had three months ago, or a writing prompt you found online. Allow yourself to have some fun again. Remind yourself why you love what you do. It will make you all the more determined and inspired to one day complete your ultimate work.
Fanfiction was how I originally fell in love with writing (that and my adventures in my paracosms). I started putting my story ideas on paper when I was eight. Four years ago I stopped writing fanfiction altogether, deeming it a waste of time when I could be putting my talents elsewhere. But a couple days ago I randomly decided to sit down with a computer and a few ideas, no outline or notes whatsoever, and just have a good time. Incredibly cleansing.
You will wear the crown, you have no choice, the spikes growing on your head have a metal sheen to them and coalesce into a mock halo. You will command, for your voice is a terrible thing, you are a terrible thing. You will be just, and you will be fair, for any grievances you cause to your people scar your body and leave lasting pain and false promises sizzle on your tongue like hot oil. Your god is watching and it won't forget what your ancestor did and it won't let you go
Little Silver Links @levwrites - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
