#Original fiction
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Think it would be hot if mithrun scathingly (uncaringly) asked kabru what he so enjoys about laios' company and kabru taking the chance to have laios mercilessly fuck mithrun in front of him as laios sweats with effort, desperate to please, and mithrun barely even moans
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There's a demon that's been spotted around your city, around your neighborhood. All the local monster hunters are getting ready to find it, it won't be the first time some dangerous creature got loose in your city and had a hunt out for it. But this one is dangerous, she's faster than most cyptids, humanoid but not from a humanoid species that's known or common, and she's deadly, a few days after she's spotted its found that she kills. Somebody was found dead in the winter snow, on a street corner, with her claw marks on his chest.
You're not a monster hunter. But you are interested in these types of things, and you thought you spotted her one night and chose to give chase, against your better judgment you gave chase. You just want to see her, you just want to see something so strange, so inhuman. And when you see her she's as strange as you can imagine, most of her looks humanoid, slender and graceful, like the most beautiful human you've ever seen, but she has eyes with slit pupils like a cats, and long horns coming from her head, and sharp teeth in her mouth, bat like wings come out her back, and a scorpion's tail from the base of her spine, and where her genitals should be, instead there's the body and head of a snake coming out of her body. She's beautiful and horrifying.
When she comes near you she doesn't hurt you, she just looks at your camera. She doesn't seem to know what it is. When she realizes you're as harmless as you are she let's down her guard. You're afraid, but you slowly realize she's not interested in hurting you. She seems cold, it's very cold and she's not wearing any clothing. You offer to let her into your apartment, just for a night, just because nomatter what she is she deserves to be warm.
She lays on your bed for awhile, she seems so excited just to be on a bed, just to see a bed. She spends awhile under the covers. You were originally planning on letting her sleep on your couch, but she seems so excited to have a comfy bed. She finds one of your plushes and starts cuddling it at one point. You've never seen someone so happy just to have a place to rest.
In the morning the demon is still there. You don't want to kick her out. You bring her food and she seems really paranoid, it seems like a lot of people have hurt her before. You have to leave the room while she eats. But she does seem really happy to have something to eat at all.
Eventually you ask her about who she is. She says she doesn't have a name, and doesn't remember when she was born. She admits to having killed those people, which scares you to be reminded of, it scares you to hear her say it. But she tells you they shot at her, and she doesn't seem like a good enough lier to lie about that. They shot at her the momment they saw her. She was demonized for it, but it's the right of all creatures to attack someone trying to kill them, rather than die.
She really likes being in your apartment. You let her barrow your clothes, though she doesn't like wearing clothing, except for pajamas which she wears when she sleeps. You show her cartoons she can watch, and give her paper and pencils to draw with. It takes awhile for her to be willing to show you her drawings, but when she does they're quite good, you compliment them, and her face lights up. It takes her awhile to feel comfortable being touched by you too, but when she let's you she starts to love your affection, she likes being pet, and hugged, and cuddled, you don't think she's felt these things in a long time.
You let her stay longer than you expected too. There's still people hunting her. And there's still the winter, she says she's been through worse, but it's getting colder. Eventually you even introduce her to some freinds who you know you can trust. You just let her rest there, and part of you home this can just be a way she can exist, getting to draw, and have her head pet, and laying in bed when she wants to. You end up talking with her a lot, she's passionate about stories, and about things she finds pretty, and she loves asking you about the world, and about humanity, about all these things that are alien to her.
Eventually she tells you she has to leave. You try to tell her to stay a little longer, but it's a demon's nature to be free. She's been hurt by humans before, hurt by more than cold and bullets, but by binding spells, and deals she shouldn't have made. And as spring comes she needs to find a new city, and new space to exist it. You spend your last night together cuddling in your bed, and she tells you of ancient lands, and stories nobody else remembers. And then in the morning she's gone, she said she might visit you again, but for now she's gone. You thought you would see her leave but she spared you that pain, she thanked you for being warm to her as you fell asleep, and let your hands run across her cold skin. And now your room lays empty.
#196#my thougts#worldbuilding#writing#my worldbuilding#my writing#fantasy#urban fantasy#magical realism#short story#short fiction#flash fiction#original fiction#demons#angels and demons#demon girl#demon#devil#cryptids#cryptid#hurt/comfort#sympathetic monster#cuddles
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When the wayward heir of a grand duchy crosses paths with an impossibly handsome American chef, they experience un coup de foudre; a bolt of lightning, love at first sight. Unfortunately, River is NOT gay (he swears!) and Ro, heartbroken from a recent affair, has vowed never to catch feelings again.
Happenstance (or perhaps the hand of Fate) keeps them colliding with one another—and falling a little more in love—until River is forced to contend with his closet door and Ro realizes he is too warm to have a heart of ice.
Inheritance re-launches 6/1/24. Links to follow.
#rivro#storytelling#oc art#writing#original fiction#indie comics#graphic novel#lgbt comics#m/m romance#m/m fiction#gay art#illustration#cybersketch
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EXCERPT #28:
Hello. I hope somebody is listening.
[...]
I haven’t seen her since I last spoke to you, old sport. It’s been harder to wander the streets of the City these days. It’s been harder to get up and get the day started. Thalia and I were so close… We went from spending all our time with each other, to not speaking for days at a time.
What possible reason could she have…? For someone who cares the same way, she certainly doesn’t enjoy showing it.
It is so hard to read her mind. She doesn’t give me much to base any guesses on… If only she would talk to me. Have a conversation with me. One that doesn’t lead to her deflecting, or running away.
Every time I think we’re so close, but then the tide just goes back in again. And when that wave comes crashing back into shore, are we ever able to ebb and flow the way we once did?
Or am I back to drowning, waves crashing into my lungs I am no longer able to scream…? Did she ever hear me? Can she hear me?
I suppose I never recalled walking to the beach in the first place, old sport. But I found comfort in the waves. I found myself in the waves.
[A small and distant knock is heard in the background. Equipment rattles. Radio stutters in astonishment.]
Hello…?
THALIA: Can I come in…?
[Beat.]
THALIA: Please, Radio. Can we talk?
RADIO: …Okay. Come in.
[Door squeaks open, footsteps approach.]
RADIO: Hold on. Let me just mute this call quickly.
[A button is pressed, but sound continues to play. A chair squeaks and footsteps get further away. A conversation begins from afar, distant and quiet.]
THALIA: Radio, I… I am so sorry.
RADIO: I know. You say this every time… Do you want to get to a point?
THALIA: I want to be with you. But… I can’t.
RADIO: What do you mean, Thalia? What do you mean, ‘you can’t’?
THALIA: I mean that I can’t. I care for you… So much. I have never met anyone else like you. But, I just can’t be with you.
RADIO: I don’t understand… That makes zero sense, Thalia.
THALIA: I know. And I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t explain it very well. I just- I have other commitments-
RADIO: Other commitments?
THALIA: In the City. And I-
RADIO: What can even be meant by ‘other commitments’? There’s someone else?
THALIA: No, Radio. There’s no one else. I just… I can’t be with you.
RADIO: We’re in the City… What possible- What do you mean… I… How could you have other commitments? You don’t have time? How is it possible to have that problem here, Thalia? I run out of things to keep myself occupied, stuck here. And with you gone, even fewer things. And I just have to be stuck here while you go and do other stuff? Leave me, even though I love you?
[Silence. A quiet, but suppressed sob is heard as it breaks past Radio’s boundaries.]
THALIA: It’ll pass…
RADIO: But what if-
THALIA: I love you too. And it’ll pass.
[A much louder sob is heard. It comes from both Radio and Thalia, this time.]
RADIO: [Quietly, through tears] Will I ever see you again…?
[Beat.]
THALIA: I think… that wouldn’t be good for either of us.
[The conversation fades into radio static. After a while, this fades to silence. Until a melody softly begins to play.]
♪ There’s nothing left for us anymore
Why aren’t you listening?
Why aren’t you listening to me?
There’s nothing left. ♪
#aled last#alice oseman#frances janvier#osemanverse#radio silence#universe city#universe city podcast#carys last#february friday#original work#universe friday excerpts#universe city excerpt#letters to february#universe friday#osemanverse books#original story#original fiction#daniel jun#hstv#aled and frances
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Royal Courting: The King’s Summon
Chapter One
In which Lucian, a humble baker, meets two very interesting customers who seem to be more than meets the eye.
Content/Warnings: Original characters, slow burn, Medieval/Fantasy, charmingly mundane slices of life stuff, just fluff and character set up in this chapter, but if you like MLM Poly relationships you should stick around!
You can find the masterlist for this series (among others) in my pinned post!
I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, USED COMMERCIALLY OR FED TO AN AI. IF YOU DO THIS I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND KILL YOU.
Not fully proofread! Please let me know if you catch any errors!
Lucian stretches out in his bed, groaning as his joints pop and his limbs wake up, readying themselves for the day. Begrudgingly he sits up, dirty blond hair tousled by his pillows in the night. He smooths it down as best he can with his fingers, but there’s not much he can do without the unforgiving bristles of a brush.
With a yawn he throws his legs over the side of his bed and slides his feet into his tattered slippers. He cracks his back for good measure, sighing and blowing a curly lock of hair from between his eyes. As the outside world slowly leaks into his sleep-addled brain, he recognizes the familiar sound of the jays chirping endlessly outside his window; a sure sign that it is, in fact, time to get up.
When he pushes himself out of bed and parts the old curtains hiding his chambers from the rest of the world, the sun is eager to cover his freckled face in its warm light. He blinks a few times to adjust, the blinding brightness of the morning slowly melting into a pleasant glow.
His shapeless pajama gown flows about his round body as he trudges to the bathroom, another yawn crawling up his throat as he comes into view in the mirror. His hair is flicked up in every which way, hazel eyes tired but not unhappy as he walks up to the sink, pudgy tummy bumping against it when he leans over to splash a bit of water on his face.
He feels much more awake than before once he’s dried his rosy cheeks and rubbed his eyes. He plucks his hairbrush from its holder and runs it briefly under the faucet before running it through his fawn tresses, only until the thatch of curls becomes presentable enough. No one’s going to be looking that hard, anyways.
The hairbrush clatters back into its holder and the toothbrush comes out instead. It too is run briefly under the water before being put to work, another step in the morning routine Lucian often finds himself repeating ad infinitum. Minutes later he’s back in his bedroom, rummaging through drawers for something that resembles a put together outfit. It doesn’t have to be perfect when it’s going to be covered with an apron all day.
He decides on brown trousers that are loose around the bottom and a comfortable, worn tunic that won’t get in the way with its flowing sleeves or make his binding garment too obvious. He slips his feet from his house slippers and instead into his trusted woolen-soled shoes, long since shaped to the arch of his feet after so many years.
He pauses to glance in the mirror, turning halfway just to make sure nothing has an obvious rip or tear in it. He adjusts his pants and the bottom of his shirt around the chub of his belly before ultimately deciding it’ll do.
He turns back to grab his mossy green, woolen sweater from the chair he draped it over the night before. The edges are fraying again, he notices, he’ll have to fix that when he has the time. He doesn’t mind it so much now, though, as his arms fit comfortably into the warm sleeves of the garment, thumbs skillfully avoiding getting caught on any of its unnoticed holes or the hasty stitching of its owner from decades prior. Lucian does take note, though, that the split in one side pocket is growing. He’ll have to fix that later, too.
When Lucian pushes open the door connecting his home with his bakery, the comforting, lingering smell of strawberry and buttercream greets him with vigor. It seems to permeate everything in his bakery, though he certainly doesn’t mind. This early the only ones out on the streets are stray dogs retreating to their hiding spots and children headed to the school building up the road.
He pulls the door open and props it with the stop, then flips the sign set up in the window:
Hensley’s is Open! Come on in!
“We’re open, everyone!” Lucian calls, not to anyone in particular.
The first preparations of the day are always the easiest.
First, he pulls his trusty apron from its rack and ties it behind his back, double knotting it just to make sure it’ll hold. Then he pulls the still-good loaves and pastries from yesterday that weren’t sold from their covered baskets, arranging them in his display in the particular way he can’t explain but can’t do without. When he’s satisfied with the results he moves on, giving a quick glance to the door before turning to his oven.
He grips the fire striker with less confidence than he should, his other hand tossing a few logs into the oven before grabbing his flint. As he strikes the stone and the spark sets the wood alight he resist the urge to scramble backwards despite the familiar heat on his knuckles. His back aches as he rises to his full height once more, setting the flint and striker back on their shelf.
He turns his attention to the plants in his windows next. He fills the can with the spout around the side of the bakery (it’s too bulky to fit into the little sink at his station, after all), dropping a bit of water on the wildflowers that bloom outside the building on his way back inside.
Slowly, the watering can’s spout moves over each pot, moved by a practiced hand that has done this countless mornings before. Only when the soil is thoroughly wet does he move on, cycling through one by one until all of his green children have had their fill and the can can be tucked neatly back into place in the cabinet.
Lucian pauses as he takes a look around his bakery. He stops and leans against the counter, taking a moment to admire the scene.
The morning sun comes in rays through the windows, sunning his plants and warming the wood floors. The spring breeze meanders through the open door and just barely rustles his hair about his round cheeks. The distant sound of horseshoes on the path and the other businesses opening their doors signals the awakening of a bustling town. The—
“Mr. Hensley! Mr. Hensley!”
Lucian turns quickly to the sound of clattering and a call of his name outside his bakery, followed shortly by a bleat of surprise. He has only a moment to process before his first arrival in standing in the doorway, his dark hair bouncing in sweet curls around his flushed face and little tail flicking quickly to and fro as he recovers from his crash, bike now laying against the side of the building.
“Oh, Callum,” Lucian sighs, rushing to the boy to brush the dirt from his sleeves, “You have to be careful! Your mother spent a lot of money on this uniform, there’s no telling how much that school will make her pay for another…”
The young faun only blinks up at him with wide blue eyes. He shakes some leaves from his unkempt hair and the fur of his ears before holding out the hot mug he’s brought with him, wrapped in a cloth to keep it from burning his hands.
“Here, Mr. Hensley. Your coffee.”
Lucian’s eyes soften as he takes the mug, removing the covering from the top and watching the steam rise.
“Thank you, Callum.”
The mug is set aside to cool for now, and Lucian quickly returns his attention to the faun boy who’s just collided with his bakery.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, plucking a stubborn twig from Callum’s nest of hair and rubbing over a scratch on the fresh nubs of his horns.
“No, I’m okay,” Callum replies quickly, brushing off his uniform jacket, “Just in a rush. I woke up late, that’s all. I grabbed my books and I was out the door, I didn’t even have to eat breakfast…”
“…Is that why you’ve left home without shoes?”
Callum pauses and looks down, groaning at the sight of his bare hooves on the wood floors.
“Aw, man! I’m gonna get an earful from the headmaster…”
Lucian feels a bit bad for giggling at the boy’s plight, but he can’t help it. He misses when his problems were that simple.
“You don’t have to bring me coffee every day, you know. I appreciate it, but I’ll survive without it,” Lucian assures him.
“Yeah, I know,” Callum replies with a shrug, absentmindedly toying with the leaves of one of Lucian’s plants, “But Ma says it’s a nice thing to do, especially since you don’t have magic.”
“Oh, well—“
“She says that making coffee ‘n’ stuff without magic takes a lot of time that you don’t have, since you have to work so hard and stuff. Is that true?”
“Er, y-yes, but—“
“She wonders how you do anything without magic, yanno. She says it’s really impressive that this place has stayed open so long when you—“
“Callum! I mean…I understand, Callum. Thank you. Here…”
Lucian takes a loaf of bread from his display, handing it to the boy with haste.
“Can’t have you going on an empty stomach. Run along, and quickly, you’re already running late.”
Callum takes the bread without hesitation, immediately digging in and thanking Lucian through a mouthful of it. In an instant he’s out the door and back on his bike, disappearing down the path. Lucian watches him go only until he’s sure he won’t crash once more.
Lucian sighs as the ache in his back starts to return. The day waits for no one, though, and he’s got work to do.
Throughout the day people pass through his bakery with leisure. Most are familiar, others are new but not unusual. The town of Lydell is a small one, after all. Not rich, but not too poor either, with a good part of its inhabitants planning bigger and better things for themselves and their families beyond the town limits. Every now and then he toys with that idea, that maybe one day he’ll pack himself up and move into one of the big, bustling cities he reads out in the books, with magic pouring from every brick in every wall on every street…
…Foolish imaginings, that’s all. He’s got far too much to do here.
He watches from behind his counter as the sun lazily rolls into place in the center of the sky. The cool breeze of the March morning melts into something warmer, though not suffocatingly hot. Every now and then Lucian must wipe the sweat from his brow after standing in front of his oven for too long, but ‘tis the price one pays for a fresh batch of strawberry turnovers.
Lucian looks up from the hot tray now cooling on the counter at the sound of a crackly meow.
There, in his doorway, a slim figure of a cat with milky white fur splotched with inky stains of black around the feet and tail. It rubs up against the door, mewing softly just to make sure its presence is known. It sits with a regal confidence, not at all perturbed by the people who pass through the door beside it.
“Well, look who decided to stop in today,” Lucian says with a chuckle. The cat meows in reply before lazily sauntering over to the counter.
“Give me just a moment, my dear. When I’ve gotten these customers taken care of I’ll get you your treat.”
The cat seems to understand. This is an exchange they have quite often, after all. With no collar to speak of and an insatiable desire to wander, the little animal is nearly an enigma to Lucian, but he’ll never complain about the company. For now he has to turn his attention to the lanky elf that is patiently awaiting his turn to speak.
By now Lucian can navigate customer interactions with little to no friction. No, he does not have those in a different flavor. Yes, he can make them in a different flavor, but they wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow. Yes, he can go ahead and get some bagged up anyways. No, he does not offer a discount. No, he really doesn’t offer a discount.
“Thank you, come again!”
Lucian sighs as the elf takes his leave, seemingly satisfied enough with the small bag of raspberry shortbread cookies.
He turns to look down at the little cat still waiting patiently by his feet. It blinks slowly, then meows. Lucian laughs and mimics the sound.
He then turns his attention to the cabinet beneath his sink. That’s where he keeps the little bowl and bag of dry food his feline companion loves so much. The cat meows excitedly, and Lucian can see it resisting the urge to hop up on the counter as he dumps the food into the bowl.
“Here, you’ve waited very patiently,” Lucian says as he sets the bowl on the floor, pushing it to the side where he can keep an eye on the cat without it being in his way when he walks around or behind the counter.
He looks back up and out the open door, only to squint in confusion as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.
It looks like two horses and their riders coming down the path, which wouldn’t be so odd if it weren’t for what Lucian could swear was the royal crest embroidered onto their side bags. The riders themselves are clad in varying degrees of armor, the metal clinking slowly getting louder as they approach the bakery.
Royal guards? Here? In a little town like Lydell?
Lucian quirks a brow as he watches them approach. He’s expecting them to simply pass by—they probably have important business to attend to, after all—but then one of them pauses. He pulls on the reigns of his horse, whistling and calling to his partner with words Lucian can’t make out from where he’s standing.
It’s clear now that they won’t simply be passing by. Before Lucian even realizes they’ve stopped their horses outside of the bakery, and now they’re hopping down from their saddles.
Now that they’re closer, Lucian can get a better look at them. They’re definitely guards, that’s for sure, and much taller and stronger than any human Lucian has met here in Lydell.
The first one is the shorter of the two, about 5’9, if Lucian were to guess. His skin is tan, a natural copper tone, and his curly hair is dark and thick, shaved underneath and left long on top. He’s smirking for some reason, the expression pressing dimples into his warm cheeks, though something about him makes it seem like he doesn’t need a reason. His eyes are sharp and foxy, the kind that notice little details about everything and everyone and leave others to feel uncomfortably analyzed. His armor is minimal, only a leather chest piece and gloves, and a few daggers are sheathed in his belt. He moves with a lithe swiftness as though he’s unaware of his own weight, hitting the ground without a moment’s stumble as he dismounts from his horse.
The second man isn’t nearly as graceful, but certainly isn’t to be taken lightly. He’s a hulking beast, 6’0 at least, perhaps 6’1, in a full suit of metal armor, save for the missing helmet. He’s paler than death, with long, golden blond hair that’s been lazily thrown back into a low, loose ponytail, leaving a few strands to dangle around his face. His long lashes are the same light color, hovering over icy blue eyes that give way to no emotion. Lucian can only see half his expression, as the bottom part of his face is covered with a dark neck gaiter. He comes down off his horse with a thud and a bit of metallic clinking, giving the animal a gentle pat. With a quick flick of his wrist and a skillful bit of magic he fastens the horses’ reigns to the post without touching them, and shortly after follows his companion inside.
“Woah, it smells amazing in here!” The shorter one exclaims, the pale one giving a nod of agreement in response, “I told you stopping was a good idea, I— Oh, look! They have strawberry turnovers!”
Lucian has to bite back a chuckle as he rushes up to the counter like an excitable child, fumbling around in his pockets for money.
“Two silvers each,” Lucian replies, “How many? And will you be staying, or should I get you a bag?”
“Six please, three for each of us, and, eh…we’ll stay!” The man replies, shrugging at his partner, “We could use the rest. We’re headed back to Bascilium from Nora.”
“Nora? Gods above, that’s far up north, what could possibly be so urgent the king felt the need to send his guards?” Lucian asked, not looking away from the two men as he moved to slip a few turnovers from their tray onto plates.
“Oh, you know, just a little farm worker’s uprising. Apparently people don’t like having their gifts of agricultural magic exploited to feed corporate bigwigs. Funny how that works!”
Lucian forces a laugh, although he’s not sure what’s funny. The taller one still hasn’t said a word, instead occupying himself by looking around the bakery.
“So, I take it you got it figured out, then?” Lucian asks, handing the plates over.
“Mhm!” The man replies with a grin, eagerly taking the plates and handing one to his colleague, “Well, as figured out as it can be for now. Things like this happen a lot in Nora with all the industrialization. King Ambrose is working on sending a few delegates down there to smooth out some of the systems. You know there’s—“
The man is swiftly cut off by an elbow to the ribs from his partner. He turns to question what the could have possibly been for, but the taller one gives only a one handed gesture in response. Sign language of some kind, if Lucian were to guess. Whatever he said, it puts the first man at ease.
“Ah, yeah, I’m rambling. Sorry about that, mister, uh…” He pauses, squinting to read Lucian’s name tag. “…Lucian. Hey, I like that name. I’m Tobias, Tobias Silva, and the guy I rode in with is Rex Theroux. I take it you’re the ‘Hensley’ that runs this place?”
“Yessir,” Lucian replies with a suddenly confident grin, “Lucian Hensley, that’s me. Forgive me for bragging, but this little place is my pride and joy.”
“Well then I’m glad we stopped in! Feels like this trip has us running all over Divestia.”
This earns a snort from Rex, and a few more signs that have an air of sass to them.
“Well, okay, yeah,” Tobias concedes, “It was my idea to take the scenic route through here, but it worked out well enough, didn’t it? You could never find good food this cheap in Bascilium. Oh, shit, I almost forgot—!”
He quickly dips his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a small pouch and setting it on the counter. He pulls out twelve silver coins and hands them to Lucian, who gladly accepts them and tucks them away into his drawer.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Silva.”
“Just Tobias is fine, don’t worry about it. We don’t really do formalities.”
“Oh, alright then. Thank you, Tobias. Enjoy your turnovers.”
Tobias gives a quick nod before gesturing for Rex to follow him to one of the little tables pushed up against the large windows of the bakery. Lucian finds himself smiling at the talkative young man and his silent, looming shadow; a charming pair, those two are. Perhaps that’s why Lucian finds himself glancing over at them as they eat despite his occupation with his work. Tobias’s chatter never ceases except for when he’s chewing, but at the same time his attention doesn’t waver from his silent partner when he signs a response. Tobias gestures widely as he speaks, threatening to knock over a plant or two when he gets particularly excited, whereas Rex keeps his movements sharp and controlled, a skilled hand showing his familiarity with the silent language he utilizes. The pair seem to get along with no issue despite the way their natures juxtapose one another, but then again, perhaps that’s what makes them so compatible.
Tobias and Rex sit and shoot the breeze for about an hour, maybe, having finished their turnovers halfway through but not realizing, or at least not caring. The sun has just barely rolled towards the west end of the sky, shadows now slanting under the light. The foot traffic around the bakery has slowed a bit, so Lucian has taken to wiping down his counter and empty tables. That is, until he looks up at the sound of his name.
“Hey, Lucian?” Tobias calls with a wave of his hand, “Can you come here for a sec?”
Lucian collects his rag and approaches the table Tobias and Rex have made themselves comfortable at, giving them a polite smile.
“Yes? Is something the matter?”
“Oh no, not at all,” Tobias is quick to reply, “Rex just wants to know about your plants, what kinda magic you’re using to keep ‘em looking this green.”
Lucian’s eyes turn to Rex, and he’s almost surprised to see his neck gaiter pushed down under his chin. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; how else was he supposed to eat? Or, perhaps, he’s simply surprised that his face is so unremarkable. Handsome, yes, but no scars or deformities, although Lucian doesn’t know why he expected there to be any. Maybe that’s simply the assumption one makes when another has their face covered for without obvious reason.
Wait, what was the question? Oh, right, the plants.
“I don’t use any magic, actually,” Lucian explains, suddenly feeling sheepish, “I, um…don’t have any.”
“Wait, what?” Tobias says, a bit louder than he meant to (a lot louder, actually; the sudden exclamation makes Rex wince a bit), “You run this whole damn place without magic? Wow, I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s really impressive! I just can’t believe someone like you would— Ow!”
He’s promptly cut off once more with a smack on the arm and a sharp look from Rex. Tobias swipes his arm away and puts his hands up defensively.
“What? What I’d say? I didn’t deserve it that time!”
Lucian laughs softly behind his hand, unable to ignore Tobias’s natural dramatics.
“It’s alright,” He assures the two, “I get that sort of thing a lot. I admit, it is rather impressive, though I don’t like to gloat. As far as the plants go, it’s just a matter of keeping them watered and not letting the soil go dry.”
Rex considers his words, nodding and doing a brief gesture that almost resembles a salute.
“Oh, he says thank you,” Tobias clarifies.
“It’s no problem,” Lucian says, returning the courteous nod, “Can I take those plates from you?”
“Huh? Oh! Yes, please, we’ve really got to get going…thanks again, those were amazing. We’ll definitely be stopping by again.”
“Well, I’m very happy to hear that,” Lucian replied, unable to stop himself from grinning as his heart swelled with pride. He’d just bagged himself two more returning customers, and royal guards no less! Perhaps they’ll spread the word of this little place. Wishful thinking, maybe, but maybe not.
Rex and Tobias gather themselves and rise from their table as Lucian drops the plates into the sink. He returns a brief wave as they both walk out the door, Rex giving another salute before turning away; one last thank you, Lucian assumes.
He watches as the pair mount their horses once again, settling upon their saddles before heading off down the path.
“Interesting pair of characters, those two are,” Lucian mumbles to himself as he turns back to his work. The little cat, which has now moved to basking on the window sill, meows in what Lucian chooses to interpret as agreement.
The pair of guards arrive back to the castle at nightfall, the last few rays of sun allowing them to walk their horses back to the stables before they head in for the night.
First thing’s first: The king expects a full report.
Tobias doesn’t bother knocking, entering King Ambrose’s office with an incredible amount of casualness. He strides in with Rex, who at least has the decency to close the door back, following close behind him, as usual. Ambrose looks up from the papers he was studying, hard expression instantly melting away into a familiar smile.
“My boys,” Ambrose purrs, standing up from his chair and walking around the front of his desk, “You’ve finally returned.”
The guards nod in unison, and Tobias can’t stop himself from taking a moment to study his beautiful king. Ambrose is quite the stunning man after all; his skin is dark, as are his eyes, and his ebony hair is done up in locs so impossibly long they nearly brush the floor when he walks, decorated with gold cuffs and never less than perfectly maintained. His slim figure is draped in gold and white, as usual, for even a king’s most casual outfit is extravagant. He’s set his crown aside for now, as he usually does when working, but he has yet to remove the rest of his jewelry, as evidenced by the gold sparking on his wrists, fingers, ears and neck.
“So? How did it go? I assume well, seeing as you aren’t quite as disheveled as I’d expect from a failed attempt at quelling riots,” Ambrose teases as he hops up onto his desk, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable.
“It went very well, sir,” Tobias answers with a grin, “Things have been set straight, and a temporary peace agreement was reached to keep the people satisfied until your delegates arrive.”
“Very good, both of you,” Ambrose praises. Tobias’s grin only widens, and Rex signs a humble thank you.
“Oh, and,” Tobias eagerly adds, “On the way back we stopped in at this little bakery in Lydell, and—“
“Lydell?” Ambrose interrupts, “That’s quite a ways off the path back from Nora. What were you two doing there? Is that what took you so long?”
He’s trying to feign seriousness, but the playful quirk of his brow and hint of a chuckle in his voice gives away his humor.
“Mm, maybe,” Tobias says with a sly shrug, “But it was worth it. They had the best strawberry turnovers.”
‘Although T was far more interested in the man behind the counter,’ Rex signs, eyeing his colleague with a lighthearted sort of suspicion.
“I was not,” Tobias quickly protests, “And just how do you figure that, hm?”
‘You kept glancing over at him while you ate. I don’t think you realized you were doing it, but it was obvious to me. Maybe he liked it, though. He kept looking at us, too.’
Tobias huffs, crossing his arms and cursing his inability to pull an argument from thin air like usual. His cheeks are getting warm.
Ambrose laughs, hopping down from his desk and giving Tobias a reassuring pat on the arm.
“So, he was a cutie, huh?” Ambrose chortles, “What was he like?”
“Honestly, cute is an understatement,” Tobias replies, “He was this short, chubby little thing who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was nice, too, and I know he has to be nice to us because, you know, we’re customers, but still. And, I mean, how can you not be interested in someone who makes such heavenly strawberry turnovers?”
“If they’re that good, I shall have to try them some time. See what all the fuss is about. Maybe I’ll have a chance to meet this little baker crush of yours as well.”
“Oh, come on…!”
Ambrose laughs again, unable to stop himself. For a moment Tobias swears he can even see a smile make Rex’s eyes crinkle at the edges despite being hidden by his neck gaiter.
“Well, either way,” Ambrose coos, reaching up to gently cup his guards’ chins in his hands, “You’ve both done very well. Come here.”
Tobias rolls his eyes, but nevertheless they both lean in, allowing their king to give them each a brief kiss on the cheek.
“Good boys. Go on now, you need your rest after such a long trip,” Ambrose says with a wave of his hand before returning to his seat at his desk.
His guards bow briefly, all three of them exchanging well wishes and good nights before the door is shut again, leaving Ambrose alone in his study.
“Cute little baker indeed,” The king mumbles with a laugh, “I’m sure they’ll be going back there…if Tobias has anything to say about it, at least…”
Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!
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Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!
#royal courting#original fiction#fantasy#magic#original characters#original character#fantasy oc#medieval romance#fantasy romance#slow burn#fluff#mlm fiction#mlm romance
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Blessing Of Salmakis is Out!
A gender-bending misadventure of a romcom.
Romeo Valenti is a super star and embraces it. Perhaps a little too much for his ego's sake.
The hubris comes back to bite him during a vacation to the Aegean coast, however. A run in with a cursed spring leaves Romeo suddenly rather more feminine in appearance and the focus on some divine interest. Will he learn some humility? Grow as a person? Or, at least, think about gender a bit?
If he manages any of those, it won't be on purpose.
You can buy it as an ebook or paperback on Amazon.
Or ebook and pdf on Itch.io.
#original fiction#writer on tumblr#writing promo#trans author#gender bender#greek mythology#polyamory#wlw#mlm#and wlm#Ro does it all
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what is your current wip word count? talking total of all the wips in your folder.
mine is: 86,746 😶🌫️
#theres one wip sitting at 8k#who tf wrote that?#NOT ME#I barely make it to 2k before I post#wips#wip stuff#wip#my wips#current wip#work in progress#writing#writers#writers on tumblr#writeblr#writerscommunity#writer community#ao3 writer#ao3#archive of our own#fanfic#fan fiction#fanfiction#original fiction#word count#writers block#now watch me wip
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I n n o c e n c e L o s t
He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever.
– or: A story about a cowboy who falls in love with a prostitute, who happens to be so much more than that.
GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.
__ Chapter 1: The Girl __
m!OC x f!OC -- WORDS: 5.9k -- READ ON AO3
when a cowboy meets a prostitute
1
Bourbon, rum, whiskey, anything that burns on his tongue, spilling liquid fire down his throat. It all blurs in the end. There's laughter, slurs, hands slapping backs, stumbling, murmurs, more laughter. That post-heist-haze sinking into his bones. Everything whirls inside his head as he makes it up the stairs. “Gimme your best...newest,” he hears himself mumble.
Last door on the right. Somehow he makes it there, leans heavy on the door knob, twists it, almost falls as the door swings open. There he stiffens, blinks slowly, his motions so heavy, frozen in time, slow as molasses. The door closes behind him, he stares ahead, blinks again, eyelids almost stuck to his eyeballs.
And yet he sees her.
The room is dark, small, a large bathtub in one corner, a four-poster bed in the other. An old armchair next to a fireplace, the fire roaring within, the only light source. And in front of it, between the flames and the chair, kneels a girl, pale legs illuminated by the orange glow next to her, skin, so much skin, not everywhere though. Her slender torso is covered by a loose blouse, unbuttoned in the front, falling off one slim shoulder, held together by a tight corset that pushes up her small breasts, creating a cleavage that doesn't suit her. Thin arms in wide cotton, or satin, he can't be sure, it doesn't matter.
He's fixated on her bare legs. The blouse barely covers the hint of hair between her legs, peeking out despite her kneeling position, thighs pressed tightly together as she sits on the heels of her feet. Her hands rest folded on her lap, the chest is moving up and down, and his eyes wander again, to her face. Pale. Soft edges on the jaw, high cheekbones, a small straight nose, lips... full lips, pink and shiny, a tongue darting out and wetting the bottom one.
And those eyes. Big eyes, glowing in the dim light, greenish, blue maybe, like the deep sea at midnight, a wave illuminated by the moon. They look both surprised and eager, but the flutter of her nostrils tells him she is more surprised and shocked by his sudden entrance, by the unsteadiness of his large body.
She looks so young.
Something stirs within him, and not just the strain in his pants, but something more like a knot in his stomach. This is wrong. He stumbles further anyway, watching her closely. She flinches when he comes closer, but doesn't move. Somehow he makes it to the armchair, flops down in it with a heavy grunt, his belt tilting even more on his hips. He shifts his holster away. Her eyes follow him.
He stares at the girl in front of him, immobile, waiting, patient and yet anxious. What is she waiting for? Why isn't she moving? Why is she here? When she eventually moves, only slightly, a little shift on her knees to face him, he lets out a groan, and she stops, eyes wide.
“How old are you?” he slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth.
She tilts her head, long brown waves falling over her shoulder, some strands gathering in the cleft between her pushed-up breasts. “Old enough to please you, mister,” she replies, her voice feeble and quiet, but there's a fire behind those words, uttered in confidence as if she's done it before, many times.
“Age,” he grunts again, staring at her. She holds his gaze, jaw clenching slightly.
“Eighteen,” she says quietly, her chin tilted up a bit.
He narrows his eyes, he's noticed the twitch in her folded hands, the tension in her slim shoulders. “Really?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers, tilting her head. “Why does it matter?” she then asks, a little louder, batting those long eyelashes. “You're here to have some fun, aren't you?”
“You're young,” he simply states. Not too young, maybe, but young... young enough to make him think despite his drunken state. This is wrong. She shouldn't be here. “How long have you been here?” Done this?
“All my life, mister,” she answers, and he frowns, deep creases on his forehead that hurt inside his temples. “I was born here.” The ache grows. His head thumbs to the beat of his thundering heart, mirroring the throbbing behind stiff fabric.
He leans forwards then, causing her to flinch once more, as he rests his elbows on his thighs and stares at her, scrutinizing her, takes in her young face. Pretty, no, beautiful, in spite (or because) of the rounded edges of her face. She's slender, sharp collarbones visible in the wide opening of her blouse. Those soft mounds tease him, urge him to release them from their unnaturally squished state.
His hand twitches, itches to touch her, but something holds him back. She's young. And... weirdly familiar. His eyes narrow even further as he squints at her, her small frame dark in front of the crackling fire. She shifts under his intense gaze, body stiff, hands wringing in her lap.
“Sir?” she whispers, lips moving slightly, a sweet voice like honey falling from them. Lips... full, shiny, wet, and a sudden image presses into his hazy mind. Lips parted, closed around –
He clears his throat and leans back with a grunt, wiping at his face, the scrape of his beard against his calloused palm a rough noise in the quiet of the room. He sighs deeply, lowering his hand, resting it on his upper thigh as he watches the girl.
“You shouldn't be here,” he huffs out, wetting his dry lips.
“It's my job, mister,” she says, tilting her head to the other side.
He shakes his head. “This shouldn't be a job... not for a young girl like you...”
“I'm eighteen –”
“You're a child!” he grunts, louder, rougher than intended.
She flinches, inhaling sharply, lowering her big eyes. “Do you want somebody else?” she whispers quietly, almost disappointed.
Suddenly he is aware of the noises around them, bleeding through the walls from the other rooms. Moans and cries and squeaking wood and metal. They crawl over his spine like ants, making him shiver as he stares at the small figure in front of him. Why is he here?
She is still sitting on her knees, stiff and immobile, waiting. For what? Her eyes look up at him, chin tilted, the slender column of her neck visible between her silky hair, soft skin, untouched (really?), innocent. Why is she naked below the waist?
He waves a hand at her, his arm stiff, heavy, the alcohol making everything harder to do. “Shouldn't be here,” he growls, tongue twice its size in his mouth. Does he mean her? Or him? Or both? He doesn't know. His mind is fuzzy, spinning out of control. His cock strains against his tight jeans. But his heart is protesting.
“Sir?” she asks again, blinking slowly, dark lashes batting against pale skin.
He leans back into the chair, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes, relaxing. Big mistake. Suddenly there is a warm hand on his knee, a touch like a pistol shot. He jerks awake, stares down at the girl, who has shifted, kneeling between his spread legs now, the same position, just closer, frozen in time with her other hand hanging in mid-air, ready to touch his other knee.
“What are you doing?” he grunts.
“Giving you a good time,” she replies quietly, and a shy smile curves her full lips. Lips around – He groans, rubbing his face again, his tired eyes. “You paid for this, mister. You should get something for your money.”
He shakes his head, hands back on his thighs, staring down at her. She is closer in her new position, backlit by the fire behind her, features blurring. Both hands are on his knees now, warm and small, hesitant but eager. Her pushed-up breasts nearer, the cleft between them deeper. His hands itch.
“Do you like doing this?” he utters, the words spilling without being processed in his muddled brain.
There is a flinch, a wince, a visible reaction in her tense shoulders. She swallows, her throat moves, but the smile on her lips is there, the lie tangible. “Of course, sir,” she whispers. “Let me show you how much...”
She leans up then, lifting from her knees, her hands sliding up his thighs, almost brushing against his. Actress, he thinks. Nothing more. He can't imagine –
But then he does: full lips around a variety of different – He clenches one hand into a fist, presses it to his upper thigh, straining, ignoring the tension in his stomach. The image stays. Lips, a wide mouth, bulging cheeks, closed eyes, tears streaming down a pale face, slurping sounds, helpless gurgles, muffled gasps, rough hands in her hair as her head is pushed deeper onto –
A groan escapes him. “Fuck,” he growls, shaking his head. His eyes find hers, his breath heavy, his body on edge, the strain in his pants almost unbearable, and yet...
She is settled between his legs, shoulders pressed against his thighs, hands inching closer to his belt. “Don't,” he hisses, and his hands grab hers, making her gasp, her lips parting, eyes widening. His long fingers curl around her smaller ones, holding her, inches from the tent in his pants. She looks startled, then confused.
“But mister...” she whispers, letting him hold her hands, her wrists. His hands are large enough to wrap around it all. Lashes flutter, the tip of her tongue sliding over her upper lip. She trembles slightly.
And then he lets go, and his hands grab her face instead, careful, as careful as he can in his dazed state. She lets out a surprised yelp but stays perfectly still as he cups her cheeks with his big hands, his fingers slipping into her soft hair, his thumbs wiping at the corners of her mouth. She holds his gaze, holds her breath.
“You look like...” he starts, quiet, a low rumble in his chest as he stares at her, his mind spinning, new and old images whirling together.
Soft lips, wet, full, strained around –
Green eyes, sparkling in the sun, a smile, a laugh like honey on his scarred soul.
“Her,” he mumbles, tilting his head, leaning closer until his nose brushes against hers. She stiffens, but doesn't move, can't move with how he holds her face. She swallows slightly, lips trembling against his thumbs.
“Who, sir?” she breathes softly, warm and cautious against his dry lips. Her eyes are on his face, taking in every detail with how close he is. Scars, wrinkles, creases, his rough beard stretching along his jaw, up his cheeks, around his lips, fluttering slightly as he breathes through his nose.
“Keira,” he finally utters, the image clear in his dazed mind. The same woman. No, not the same, similar, and a woman, not a girl. The same hair, the same small nose, the same eyes. “You look like Keira.”
And that's why it feels wrong to use her like he wanted to when he first entered the room, to be here, in this house of moans and grunts and creaking wood and metal.
The girl stares at him, lips parted, face warming under his palms. There's recognition in her deep eyes, darkened by the fire glowing behind her, the only light source. “You... knew my mother?” she whispers, barely audible, shifting back onto her knees, bare legs folded beneath her, her hands straining against his thighs.
His heart sinks and swells at the same time. Mother. Her mother. She looks like her. Like Keira. But what is she doing here? I was born here, she has said. Bound to a life of... servitude. Pleasure for others. A slave, a body to use, for money. The moans and grunts of the other rooms flood his ears, louder than before as his mind clears up, as the shock settles in.
“No,” he says apprehensively, a low hum over his dry lips, and his hands tighten around her delicate face. The girl frowns, he notices his mistake. “I mean, yes, I knew her,” he utters quietly, staring at her, gently caressing the corners of her lips with his thumbs. “I didn't know... about you...”
She blinks slowly, watching him, curiosity in her big eyes. Her lips part, a flood of questions ready to spill over them, but he lets go of her face and leans back, shaking his head.
“What happened to her?” he asks, already afraid of the answer as he drives a big hand through his messy hair.
The small figure between his legs shrinks as she sits down further on her knees, her hands leaving his thighs, resting on her lap. She lowers her eyes, inhales sharply. “I don't know,” she whispers. “She... left me here.” There's a hint of resentment in her soft voice, and he can't blame her. Anger rises in his throat like bile.
“She did what?” he hisses, leaning closer again.
She flinches, looks up. “Madam Claire said she worked here, got pregnant from a customer, gave birth to me, and then left, ran away, without me...” Her voice breaks as she retells her story, and his gut clenches.
The tiny frame in front of him shrinks even more, falls into herself, and he can't stand it. He leans in, brings his hands under her arms and lifts her up, easy, as if she was a doll, her wavy hair bouncing slightly. She struggles in his grip, but then she's sitting sideways on his lap, her very bare bottom warm against the fabric of his jeans. She stiffens when he pulls his arms around her shoulders and her against his broad chest.
“I'm sorry,” he slurs, his tongue heavier than ever.
“What for?” she breathes against his collarbone, where the buttons of his black shirt are open, revealing weathered skin.
He sighs, his hand wide on her back as he holds her, his breath making strands of her hair fly before he presses his dry lips to her warm forehead. She lets out a strangled gasp, tenses in his embrace, her hands squished between his chest and her own. “If I'd known about you – I... wouldn't have left you to this – to endure this fate...” he mutters, his heart as heavy as his tongue.
“Why do you care?” she asks, her voice quiet but curious.
“I loved your mother once, many moons ago, twenty years it must be by now,” he says into her hair, his own voice a deep thrum in her ears. “She left me, one day, and I made the mistake of letting her go. Maybe I pushed her to end up here, maybe she wanted to work like this... she's always been a free spirit, couldn't stay long at one place. I guess... I learned that from her.”
He feels her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she slowly relaxes on his lap, leaning against him, warm and tiny and frail. “What do you mean?”
“I travel a lot,” he says simply, sudden images of tents and horses and wagons filling his mind. But also of masks and guns and blood and shouts, and comically large bags filled with money, cowering people, screaming women, the rattle of a train, the silent squeak of metal doors, splintering wood. And pictures of him, drawn, some more flattering than others, and his name printed all over them. Dead or alive.
She tilts her chin up, big eyes looking at him, her lips parted slightly, long lashes grazing pale skin. He sees her better now, in the orange glow of the fire. She looks like Keira. But she's alone, left to her own devices, forced to work a profession she was born into, that she didn't choose. “What's your name, mister?”
He frowns at her innocent question, trying to forget the Wanted posters. “Ben,” he growls, a deep thrum in his throat. “And yours?”
“Nebbia,” she replies quietly, her eyes wandering over his face, her small body molded into him, warm on his lap, pointy bones digging into his thigh, pressing on his erection. Nebbia like Neigh-bee-ah, long e, more like ehh, short i, like an e, and the little ah at the end, like a soft moan. Rolls off her tongue like honey.
“Nebbia,” he repeats, her name rumbling out of him as he tries to figure out why Keira would name her daughter this. But then a smile crosses his lips. “Fog in Italian,” he whispers and watches how she nods, the same kind of smile curving her lips. He wonders if Keira has made it over the pond, finally seeing the country she always wanted to visit. But why did she leave her kid?
Free spirits can't have children pulling them down, grounding them to the earth, binding them to one place. The poor girl... If Keira knows what happened to her? What she has to do?
Full lips around –
He clears his throat, his big hands resting on her small waist. She still looks at him, somewhat hopeful, big eyes, there's innocence in them, but also something else. A shadow in her green irises. A stain.
“Why aren't you wearing any bottoms, Nebbia?” he asks quietly, his fingers teasing at the curve of her rear.
He sees her blushing, red spots dancing over her pale cheeks. She looks away, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “I figured it'd be easier for you...”
“Easier for me?”
“I heard you were drunk, very drunk,” she whispers into his neck, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. “And I thought –”
He stares at her. In his mind, he can see her lips straining around a variety of cocks, but he can't see her lying on her back with her legs wide open, taking any of those wretched members into her sweet little – “Have you ever...” he starts, furrowing his eyebrows. “Am I your first? Would I be your first?”
She licks her lips, then chews on them. A nod, short and jerky. Eyes dancing over his chest. The sigh that escapes his throat is both filled with anger and relief. She is young. Inexperienced, has never learned the reason why those women in the other rooms cry out in pleasure. She (her mouth) has only been used for the pleasure of others, and that fact only spurs his anger, makes the vein on his forehead pulse.
Why did they choose her to satisfy him? Gimme your best...newest, he hears himself mumble. Newest. Freshly eighteen, huh? Just come of age, open for business. (To think this filthy little brothel has actual rules and has given her time to develop is almost absurd.) He closes his eyes for a moment, relieved it was him who found her without bottoms.
Because he knows he will not soil her innocence.
“I'm gonna take you with me,” he mutters as he closes his arms a little tighter around her, holding her safely on his lap.
“What?” she breathes, trying to look up despite his bear hug.
“I can give you a better life,” he says softly, tilting his head to meet her gaze.
“Why?” Despite her innocent tone, there's doubt in her voice. Disbelief. Why would anyone want to be nice to her?
He laughs darkly. “Because you deserve it?” One of his hands moves up, caresses her warm cheek. “Unless you actually want to keep sucking dicks.”
His lewd words make her flinch, her face flushed as she looks away, takes a sharp breath, her fingers clawing at his shirt. She shifts on his thigh, her body tense. “I... don't...” she mutters under her breath.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks, pressing his thumb under her chin to make her look up. Her eyes are wet, glistening, her lips trembling.
“Can I?” she whispers, a tiny flicker of hope in the green pools that stare at him.
He smiles, a genuine smile that lights up his rough face, deepening the dimple on his cheek. “If you want to. I can get you out of here, no one will notice anything...” he tells her quietly, watching her closely.
There's turmoil behind her eyes, shivers running down her body, her throat moves when she swallows hard. “They'll be angry with me,” she breathes, blinking, looking away, her eyebrows furrowed. “The women...”
“You don't owe them anything,” he says, the hand on her lower back applying soft pressure, fingers playing with the laces of her corset. “They may have raised you here, but they made you do heinous things that no girl your age should do! No respectable woman without her consent...”
“And the men? Some of them come here only for me...” He stiffens at her words, imagining those sleazy men, salivating at the thought of shoving their cocks down this poor girl's throat. “I bring good money...” He scoffs at that, shaking his head.
“And how much of that do you see, hm?” he asks her, tilting her chin back up so she looks at him. She inhales deeply, avoiding his gaze once more. “Yeah, that's what I thought...”
“I have a comfortable life –”
His hand closes around her throat, long fingers pressing into her skin. She stares at him, gasps, eyes wide. “Sweetheart, you're eighteen now, you're fair game. Men will do anything to you now, fill every single hole you have!” She gasps again, cheeks flushing at his blunt words. “You might have gotten used to sucking dick, but believe me, opening your legs will be a whole other ordeal.”
She frowns at that. “Is sex really that bad?” she whispers, voice feeble, bashful, he's surprised she is able to get these words out at all.
A laugh rumbles through him as he eases his grip on her neck. “No, sex can be amazing, but with the wrong person, there can be a lot of pain and discomfort, and the consequences...” He looks at her, holds her nervous gaze. “You're so young, you deserve better than a drunken guy forcing his cock into your hole, leaving you either completely soiled and sore, or sick, or pregnant...”
She cringes and pulls a breath through her teeth, averting her eyes once more. “You talk so obscenely, mister,” she mumbles.
He breathes out another deep laugh. “It's the harsh truth, darling. That's how the world works, get used to it,” he says matter-of-factly.
“And you want me to go out into that world?” she whispers quietly.
“Trust me, out there you'll be better off than here, if you stay with the right people. I'd worry about your current world,” he mutters, listening to the noises from the other rooms, remembering, despite his haze, how run-down this building is, its clientele, and the state of the whole town.
She can't stay here. He won't leave her, now that he knows of her existence. She's Keira's kid, and unlike her mother, he will never abandon her.
Sighing deeply, he moves his hands along her body, encircling her waist, gripping her gently, before he picks her up and puts her on her feet next to the armchair. She stares at him startled, her hands immediately going down to cover her modesty. He grunts and stands up too, towering over her. She takes a cautious step back as he starts swaying, the alcohol still buzzing inside his head.
“I could really use a bath,” he growls, wiping at his eyes, trying to dispel the dizziness. The girl stands next to him, so tiny and frail, the gentle curves of her legs backlit by the fire, her soft face tilted up to look at him, her long hair cascading down her shoulders. For a moment he is mesmerized by the sight, by how naturally beautiful she is – how out of place she feels.
When he feels the strain in his jeans, he sighs again and turns away, stumbling past her towards the tub in the corner. There's already water in it, a thick layer of soapy foam even, and when he dips a few fingers into it, he notices that it's still a little warm. He can't remember it, but he must have left a good penny in this establishment, for booze, a hot bath, and the best...newest –
He turns back to her. She is still watching him, standing behind the armchair, her hands on the backrest, biting her lip. “Hey kid, you wanna join me?” he calls to her, his fingers already at the buttons of his shirt.
She inhales sharply, then walks around the armchair, her naked legs catching his eye for a moment. “I'm not a kid, mister.”
“Ben,” he corrects with a smirk, now working on undoing his belt. It creates a thud when it falls to the wooden floor, his holster and the heavy pistol pulling it down. Her eyes follow his movements as he undresses, kicks off his boots, steps out of his jeans, shrugs off his shirt. Then her feet tap over the ground as she rounds the tub and stands on the other side.
“Not a kid, Ben,” she whispers, chewing on her lips, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blouse as she drags it lower to cover the hint of hair between her legs.
She doesn't look away once he is completely naked in front of her, his clothes, gun and bags discarded on a chair, but he can see the red in her cheeks when her eyes flick down to his hard cock, bouncing slightly when he raises a leg and steps into the tub. The semi-warm water lulls his muscles as he sinks into it with a groan, stretching his long legs, leaning back, placing his arms on the edge, before he looks up at her.
“I meant it, Nebbia,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Come join me. I promise you don't have to do anything but sit with me.”
“I... shouldn't...” she whispers, her eyes trailing over his naked chest, half-submerged in the tub, before she looks towards the door. “We're not allowed...”
“I paid for you, didn't I?” She looks back, meeting his gaze, and he smiles at her. “Technically I can do anything to you. But I just want you to enjoy a semi-hot bath. There's still enough room,” he adds and spreads his legs, creating a space between them on the other side of the tub.
She hesitates, and he wonders why. Moments ago she seemed content to give him a good time, as she has called it, but now she is strangely coy for a prostitute who's had her throat fucked countless times before. The image of her lips strained around a cock – his cock maybe? – comes back into his mind, and he has to clench his jaw tightly to fight the urge to grab her and pull her close, do all those things to her that he has warned her about. That he's promised not to do to her.
Eventually she turns around, presenting her well-formed rear to him, those plump little cheeks, well-rounded, squeezable, the cleft between them guiding his eyes between her legs, but when her hands move up to the string holding her corset, he sighs, nodding to himself when he sees her predicament. He reaches out and tugs on the bow with one finger, loosening the tight laces slowly, carefully, and she lets him do so.
The stiff thing falls down her hips once it's loose enough, and she steps out of it, slowly turning back to him as she unbuttons the rest of her blouse and shrugs it off her slender shoulders. He can't help himself, he stares at her naked form.
Keira's kid. Half his age. He's promised her a better life.
And still he can't look away, taking in every detail of her body. How her small breasts perk, nipples hard already, the gentle slope of those mounds he wants to weigh in his big hands. How her hair falls over her shoulders, soft springy waves, silky, the same color as her mother's. His eyes trail down her chest, over the shimmer of ribs under thin skin, the flat stomach and little indent of her belly button. And that small waist, the swell of her hips, soft pale legs, cushioned thighs, and between them, the hint of hair above her sex.
Her skin is pristine, pale like alabaster, unmarked, pure.
There's a blush on her face that slowly spreads down her shoulders and between her breasts, and he has to force himself to close his eyes as she steps closer and lifts a leg to step into the tub – even though he wants nothing more than to take a peek at her sweet little cunt. Unused and innocent. He has to keep it that way.
Water splashes against his stomach when she sits down opposite him, knees bent and pulled against her chest as she settles between his outstretched legs. He looks at her with a gentle smile, and she smiles back, her eyelids fluttering.
“Not bad, eh?” he laughs quietly, moving a fluff of foam towards him with his big hands, then lathers his arms with it. She just sits there on the other side of the tub, watching him.
“Do you really mean it?” she whispers after a moment of both of them just soaking in the water.
“What?” he grunts, leaning his head against the edge of the tub as he slides a little lower, using the space she's left to fully stretch his body.
“That you're going to take me with you,” she replies, her eyes scanning his face.
He sighs, his breath blowing a tuft of foam towards her. “Yes, I mean it. I won't let you stay here, objected to all these... things,” he says. “You're Keira's daughter, and even if she might not have wanted you, I will take care of you.”
She frowns, trying to ignore the sting in her heart, the flinch of her tense shoulders at his words. “But why? You don't know me! And I don't know you! Why should I go with you?”
“You wanna stay here? Rot away and die in ten years or sooner?” His voice is harsh, his eyes dark, his jaw tense. “There's no money to be made if you stay under your Madam's thumb. You'll just be another body with a bunch of holes, destined to take it all, if you want to or not. How is this a life you'd want to continue?”
She licks her lips, her arms hugging her knees tighter. “I have food and a roof above my head...” she says quietly, averting her eyes.
He scoffs. “If that's your standard, then I can assure you that you will never go hungry, always have a comfortable bed, be safe from the elements, when you come with me.”
“But why?” she asks again, finally looking back at him. “Why are you so... nice to me?” She takes a shuddering breath. “Just because I'm the kid of a love lost?”
“I thought you weren't a kid,” he teases, and she groans with a slightly exasperated smirk. “I know it's a rare thing for people to just be nice nowadays, but you can trust me. I'm a good guy,” he lies through his teeth, a glint in his eyes.
“And you expect me to believe that?” she says, shifting in the tub, extending her legs slightly, her feet brushing against his inner thighs. “I might not know how the world works, but I see the men coming here. I've seen all types. And you look like the type I might encounter on a Wanted poster.”
He raises his eyebrows, his lips twitching. “Interesting assessment, missy. And you can tell by just looking at a man's cock?”
She grunts in indignation and splashes water towards him. He laughs and shields his face with one arm. “A fine gentleman would never talk like that...” she mumbles.
His laughter gets even louder. “And you expect a fine gentleman to walk into this establishment? Do you know where you are?” She scoffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest, slowly stretching out her legs until he can feel the soles of her feet pressing right against his groin. “Careful now,” he warns.
Her cheeks are flushed, but that doesn't stop her from rubbing her foot upwards and along his hard shaft, pressing it into his lower stomach. He watches her closely, holding in a groan. And she looks right back, green eyes hard and a dark smile on her full lips. Lips around his cock. He leans back and lets out the noise he has been suppressing. Her toes curl around his tip, his breath hitches in his throat.
And he savors the moment, just a moment, a few seconds, because it feels good. She is good, doing what she does. Would be a shame to stop her now, hm? But then he leans in and lowers his hands into the water, grabbing her ankle, stopping her after all. She yelps quietly as he pulls her leg towards him, causing her to slip. Her hands squeak along the edge of the tub as she tries to hold onto it, but before her head submerges, he lets go of her, letting her leg rest on top of his thigh.
She scrambles back into a sitting position, her eyes on him, her lips parted. “I don't have a choice, do I?” she then whispers, allowing him to put his big hand on her shin, holding her there.
He smiles at her, his eyes twinkling. “Correct, sweetheart. I will force you to have a better life, no matter what,” he says quietly, rubbing his hand up her leg.
She inhales deeply and leans back, her arms resting on the edge, hands hanging off, as she relaxes in the water, under his touch, with her bare chest exposed to him. Trusting. “You're a strange man, mister... Ben,” she whispers, smiling softly as she watches him.
He grips her thigh gently, winking at her. The buzz from the alcohol is as good as gone, replaced with a different kind of vertigo. Ignoring the twitching of his cock under the water surface, he keeps his eyes on the girl in front of him, taking in her features, a strange warmth gathering in his stomach.
He came here to celebrate the successful heist, drink himself stupid and have a good fuck afterwards. He hasn't expected to meet Keira's kid here, to be this attracted to her, to tell her he wants to take her with him. But he has, is, does, all of it, he wants her by his side, wants to give her a chance at a different life, away from pleasuring strangers every night of the week.
Does he want her for himself? Maybe. But he still also genuinely wants her to be happier, be herself, have the freedom that he has. She deserves it. And he does too, selfishly so, to have her.
END NOTES: Hello and welcome to my first original work (that I share with you)! Thank you for reading!
Please note that I am no expert on anything wild west/western/horses/cowboys/brothels/etc. - I write silly little love/smut stories. This story, even though it's not mentioned, is set at the end of the 1800s somewhere in the west, I'm keeping it vague on purpose, this is about Ben and Nebbia.
Picture credits to their respective owners. I don't own anything. I gathered these from all around the Internet. If you see your picture and would like to have it removed, please tell me!
AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS
#innocence lost#chapter 1#original character#original fiction#original writing#original work#western#wild west#cowboy#smut#mysmut#fluff#adventure#angst#slow burn#love story#ao3 writer#ao3#writeblr#creative writing#writers on tumblr#loosely inspired by#red dead redemption 2#rdr2#older man younger woman#size difference#age g@p#ao3 smut#ao3 original work
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A guy doing marine research into phytoplankton is far out to sea and waiting for the samples to be ready when he spots a fast-moving ripple in the water up ahead.
Fully aware that this spot is home to a migratory orca pod, he assumes he's stumbled across an orca hunting a seal and settles against the railing to watch, because it's not every day you get to see that.
The ripples get closer, the shadows in the water more defined, the water choppier, and suddenly the orca and its unfortunate prey are zooming directly towards the boat and he's waiting, breath held, for them to duck right underneath--
When the water breaks, the ocean sprays, and he's suddenly smacked fully in the face by a very wet, very confused, and very pretty merman, throwing them both down onto the deck while the boat rocks as a confused and now quite hungry orca dives beneath it.
The merman, it turns out, thought that the boat was an ice float and didn't realise his mistake until it was too late. But he's very thankful for the impromptu rescue, and wow don't you have nice arms, and holy shit you've got legs, can I touch them? Is that weird? Can I touch them anyway? And your hair--
So of course they get to talking because they're both utterly fascinated with the other, and soon the sun has set and the samples are long-since ready and the moonlight is making the ocean look black and they part with the knowledge that they'll never meet again, and a kiss, and a lingering look over the shoulder for all the things that can't be...
And the researcher gets back to land, moors his boat, readies his samples. He packs up his things, shoves them into his bags, and prepares to go home. He steps onto the jetty boards and thinks of the merman and the solid wood beneath his feet seems to sway for more than one reason.
There's a splash. He turns, pulled as if by the tide, and there's a ripple in the water. A face. A pair of eyes made black by the moonlight.
And this is how the researcher acquires a merman boyfriend who helps him find samples and the merman acquires a human boyfriend who rescues him from whales.
#short story#i guess?#original fiction#merman#mermaids#queer#fantasy fiction#writers on tumblr#writeblr#writers#guess what suckers this is just a one night in hartswood AU!!!!#mer!penn 4 LIFE#this is NOT a prompt lmao#im happy for you to use it with fanfic or w/e tho#but not original fiction#on account of how its my idea for a book
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Passionate fisherman who enjoys rockpooling alongside catch and release fishing, is fascinated when he finds a cave with an octopus-like creature within, one that SPEAKS. Praises his scientific mind, his curiosity about life in the sea
He's likewise curious about life on land, about various aspects of human culture and society
The young man is evidently fascinated by the breeding habits of various species, how they lay their clutches
Perhaps he might offer a similarly scientific mind an opportunity to observe
The man bringing a hookup down to the cave and the guy laughing at the kinkiness of it, this guy bringing him down to this cove, away from the rest of the beach, lit by the strange glow of luminescent corals and algaes
Laying him back on a blanket and eating gin out, sinking his cock inside him, playing with him, making him come again and then as his new friend watches eagerly, raptly, curiously
His partner spread out afterwards, exhausted, mind blown by this weird geeky guy
"May I?" His new friend asks, tentacles reaching forward, and the fisherman doesn't even think about what he might want, be asking for
He just says, "Of course, please," and then watched as his tentacles wrap around the partner he'd brought down
Begins to fuck him with his tentacles as he writhes and cries out in shock and surprise and fear, and then eagerness and want and desperation as the tentacles delve into him - drop eggs inside him
The fisherman watches, focused, his eyes hungry
After, his partner is bound up in gooey strands of bondage, blindfolded, his belly bulging with eggs, moaning softly around the tentacle pumping nutrients down his throat
"Would you get me another?" his new friend asks.
"Fuck yeah," the fisherman whispers. "Yeah, I will."
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Encouragment for writers that I know seems discouraging at first but I promise it’s motivational-
• Those emotional scenes you’ve planned will never be as good on page as they are in your head. To YOU. Your audience, however, is eating it up. Just because you can’t articulate the emotion of a scene to your satisfaction doesn’t mean it’s not impacting the reader.
• Sometimes a sentence, a paragraph, or even a whole scene will not be salvagable. Either it wasn’t necessary to the story to begin with, or you can put it to the side and re-write it later, but for now it’s gotta go. It doesn’t make you a bad writer to have to trim, it makes you a good writer to know to trim.
• There are several stories just like yours. And that’s okay, there’s no story in existence of completely original concepts. What makes your story “original” is that it’s yours. No one else can write your story the way you can.
• You have writing weaknesses. Everyone does. But don’t accept your writing weaknesses as unchanging facts about yourself. Don’t be content with being crap at description, dialogue, world building, etc. Writers that are comfortable being crap at things won’t improve, and that’s not you. It’s going to burn, but work that muscle. I promise you’ll like the outcome.
#hope that helps!#writers on tumblr#writing help#writing advice#writing tumblr#writer tips#writing blog#writing tips#writing tip#writblr#writing#fanfic writers#writeblr#writer blog#writers of tumblr#ya novels#fanfiction#original fiction
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There's an orc attending your college. Your city is pretty diverse, there's a lot of human cultures represented there, and even harpies and dwarves are common. But an orc is still a really rare sight. And she's not assimilated at all, she wears the symbol of the dark lord around her neak, and the strange black cloths from the wastelands she came from, and she always seems to have a gun somewhere on her. It's strange just to see an orc in person, she's not like the green skinned monsters you see in movies, her eyes are pitch black, and her skin is so pale you can see veins, she's muscular and tell but also strangely skinny, and her teeth are sharp and spiked like a sharks, this one doesn't have tusks, just these rows of serrated teeth.
Everyone avoids her at first. There's something creepy about her. She doesn't move like a human. She emotes weirdly, being stoic during conversations, but sometimes smiling or laughing at odd times. In class it becomes clear that she lacks knowledge anyone growing up in your society has, but has extensive knowledge on things most humans will never know. She also very clearly supports the dark lord and the demons who serve him, and gets mad when his narrative of conquest and strict genetic hierarchy is challenged in class.
You end up paired with her for a class project. It's weirdly awkward. But you end up spending more time with her then most. It still takes awhile to get used to her mannerisms, and you have to convince her of evolution in a long debate (but eventually you do convince her). She seems strangely naive to a lot of things. Every time she does something that she considers a failure she goes into self loathing, and she gets really afraid she's going to be punished. You have to explain to her things are going to be ok sometimes.
You try to spend time with her. She supports the dark lord but out of a strange sense of fear more than the type of ideological support humans in nations not under his control have. When she does something that she thinks is heresy agaisnt him she becomes afraid. And while she's angry at people who follow gods other than him (which is basically everyone here) she's more afraid of them than everything. When a holy symbol you own touches her she's surprised it doesn't burn her, you have to tell her it's ok.
She has a lot more freedom here than she did back in the wastelands. You slowly help her realize she doesn't have to worry about being punished for sinning agasint the dark lord. She's able to go on the internet for the first time, you help her get everything set up. You also introduce her to your freinds, only some of whom feel safe around her, but those who do seem to like her.
It's weird just hanging out in her dorm. She can be weirdly laid back and introspective at times, at least when she's not nervous or paranoid. But when she's just relaxing she'll tell you about things, about the beauty of the desert sands, about what it was like to observe the rattlesnakes and condors and wyverns of her homeland. How she likes to observe the city, the way the diffrent people flow through it, she was scared of it at first but now she likes to explore it, and the way it lacks stars at night but the lights from the buildings replace it. She says she wishes she could stay here forever, that she wishes she could be an artist but that she was sent here to learn skills useful to the dark lord's empire.
There's something nice about showing her new things. You get to take her to a musical for the first time. Get to show her neighborhoods you like. Get to explain to her what public transport is (though she got scared feeling trapped in a subway car). You get to show her stuff she never got to experience because orcs are never really children, she loves getting to hold a plush for the first time, or watching cartoons for the first time, it's like she's finally getting to live an experience she never had. Even though she's a well armed adult she really likes plushies once she finds out about them, they weren't something she was allowed to have back home.
Over time she starts meeting people and learning things that go against her worldview. As she makes more friends, understands new things, slowly learns that she shouldn't be punished for mistakes, she slowly comes around to seeing how fucked up the world the was raised in is. She tells you she doesn't want to worship the dark lord anymore, she cries just from saying it. You hug her, and realize she's never been hugged before, she seems to really like that feeling. She bathes in the waters of a healing goddess, and she worships something out of love instead of fear for the first time.
Eventually the spawning warlock who spawned her and her siblings comes to visit her. You told her to be careful but she ended up spilling that she doesn't worship the dark lord, she ends up spilling all the things a warlock like that considers a sin. When he leaves she tells you she can't go home. Not ever. Never again will she see the shifting sands, or flying condor, or flowing serpents of her homelands. She's trapped where she is now.
You know it hurts her a lot. She says she feels like she's in a small pocket of safety. Back home she'd be hurt for being an apostate. In human lands outside of the city she'd be hurt for being an orc. But she's safe here. She stays in her apartment for awhile, while you try to make things work. She's finally changing her major to art, and despite everything she's finally free, free to watch the starless sky, free to not be punished when she makes a mistake...
#196#my thougts#worldbuilding#writing#my worldbuilding#my writing#fantasy#urban fantasy#original fiction#flash fiction#short story#short fiction#orcs#orc girl#orc#magical realism#dark lord#dark fantasy#sympathetic monster#redemption arc#demons#fantasy races#fantasy writing#fantasy world#fantasy worldbuilding#orc rights#ex christian#ex evangelical#anti christianity
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In world where there are two types of tower-dwellers, a Princess is locked in a tower.
There are two types of tower-people: A Princess, put there to remain pure until marriage or until rescued, and a Wizard, put there by choice to study and learn in isolation. Princesses are defined by their beautiful long hair, and Wizards are defined by their beards and impressive 'stache.
There is a Princess, and she lives in a tower. She was put there recently by her mother and father, to keep her pure and untouched until they can secure the marriage to another kingdom and a prince shes doesn't love. She has long, almost brown sandy-blonde hair, pale green eyes and a slim, tender build. She is not the fairest in the land, but she is tall and pretty. If compared to a rose, she would be the humble yet graceful willow tree, slender and long. She has wanted to be a wizard since a young age, but there is no way for a princess to become a wizard. Princesses are delicate girls to be protected and sold off until their either dead or Queens or have found True Love, unsuited to the life of experimentation and study of a wizard. That is what her mother tells her, in a quiet scolding that is far more forceful and cruel then it has any right to be. And the princess, terrified, believes her.
She used to run the castle halls, stick in hand, robe fashioned out of a delicate silk bedsheet, shouting fake spells at birds while her servants chased her. But as she grew older, her restraints became tighter, and more and more often, she was confined in her room to embroider in solitude with barely the comfort of a window or a maid. The life she is forced into makes her hang her head low, makes her hands be paper-soft, and demands her hair be long and beautiful and perfect like all other princesses. The world she longed to be a part of was a world of study and experimentation, and as the kingdoms princess and tool, she could not even dare to hint at her desires into adulthood. She could become a witch, she knew, flee the castle barefoot and sink into the loving embrace of the swamp. But witches don’t live in towers, and they make potions instead of spells, and they don’t grow the flowing whimsical beards that wizards do.
But that does not mean she has to be bored in her tower. Fascinated by magic as she always has been, she arranges with a long string of bribes for books on spells and forbidden potions to be smuggled along with her meals. She studies them while the clock ticks down for either a prince to arrive or her marriage to be finalized. Either one will doom her, and she wants to enjoy herself as much as possible until her marriage. She pours over the books long into the night by candlelight, and all day, she rests her pale, tired eyes. She experiments, and she reads, and she studies non-stop, barely stopping for meals and littering her books with an assortment of food stains. She cuts off her hair to use in bubbling gold potions, her skin becomes scarred with a rainbow of the consequences of failed experiments, and her dresses turn into makeshift cheesecloths and fire-fuel. She washes late into the night after she is done with her work for the day in the darkness, not glancing into the mirror that has become cracked and dusty. When her eyesight starts to fail from strain and working in darkness, she fashions for herself bottle-round glasses, blown by herself in the depths of her tower. Engrossed as she is in her studies, she does not notice the tower warp, and the meals stop rotting, and how she started out in one circular room but now has a loft and a second floor and the fact that the tower seems much much taller then it was originally.
What she DOES notice though, is when brushing crumbs from her face she feels facial hair on her upper lip.
She rushes to the bathroom and thrusts a candle into the holder as she looks at herself. In the dusty mirror, she sees the beginnings of a bushy mustache sit on her upper lip, much further along in growth then be logically possible without her noticing. It’s a pale blonde, like her hair, and she notices faintly that there are streaks of grey in it, a very familiar shade of classic wizard grey. She brings a trembling hand to her upper lip.
Much, much later, a prince rides up to the tower. It is tall, and warped, and very clearly belonging to a wizard, despite the royal family claiming their daughter lives here.
He shouts up, a bit nervous because of the thorny vines wrapping the beautiful stonework.
“Hey! Does a Princess live here?”
A young man with large bottle glasses and a rather impressive mustache leans out of the tower, his short, sandy-blonde hair spilling lightly in the wind. He starts to say something, then glances back into his house. A smile breaks out on his face as he seems to realize something.
“No!” He shouts back, after a moments hesitation. “But a wizard does!”
#Stories#original writing#Creative writing#Wizards#Wizard#Princess#Spells#Transgender#<- In case. U couldnt tell?#Trans#my unfortunate writing#Hihihi#Im gonna be drawing the characters later LMAO <3 Here u go babes#worldbuilding#<- Sorta ig? Anways reblog this post#For thise who cant tell: Princess gets locked in a tower -> starts studying wizardry -> wizard by will#APAB (assigned princess at birth)#wizard tower#Original fiction#creative fiction#The Wizard#PLEASE RB THIS VERSION#.
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I love love all your writing and jealous villains / possessive villains always make me kick my feet!! Can I request a hero that’s been under appreciated by the city and getting hurt / almost killed by civilians they were meant to protect? And the villain finds the aftermath? ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡
"My god." The voice was strained. Familiar. Them.
It really wasn't the hero's day, was it? They released a slow, pained breath, pushing themselves gingerly off the grimy, rain-puddled street. "Enjoy the show?"
"What show? You could have taken them. You should have taken them."
The hero grunted. They straightened. They wobbled.
The villain appeared out of the shadows, at their side, in an instant. It took the hero a moment to realise that the villain had placed a steadying hand on their arm.
The villain's face was harsher in the streetlight; all firelit edges, beautifully demonic, orange pinpricks glinting almost red in their furious eyes. Rain spat down, soaking into the villain's hair and clothes. They didn't seem to care.
The hero did a double-take. The flippant comment they'd been about to make died in their mouth.
"How much did you see?" the hero asked.
The villain's jaw clenched. "I just got here."
It was an unexpected confession. On closer inspection, the rapid rise an fall of the villain's chest suggested they'd been running.
"Huh," the hero said.
The villain's gaze raked over them, taking in every bruise and scrape and bit of blood. "You didn't fight back. Why didn't you fight back? You could have pulverised them. Made them fear ever hurting someone again. That's what you do if I attacked you."
The hero shrugged, awkwardly. They eased their arm free of the villain's grip.
"That's not an answer," the villain snapped.
"I would have killed them. Normal people can't deal with my powers."
"So better to let them nearly kill you?"
The hero shrugged again. Everything ached; they weren't especially in the mood for hearing about how wrongly they'd handled getting the flying spit kicked out of them, they weren't in the mood to explain how the villain was different. Even at war, it was easier with them.
"You're in uniform," the villain said. "They knew who they attacked."
"Oh." The hero hadn't realised. The truth of it struck them like a low blow and their shoulders slumped, as if it wasn't already far too late to brace and curl into a foetal position to guard the heart of them. "Right. Yeah. Well, bold move on their part!"
They tried for chipper. They failed completely.
The whole time, they'd been so preoccupied, they'd thought the strangers had no idea. A wave of stupidity, prickling with humiliation, washed over them. Their eyes felt hot.
The hero swore under their threat.
"I'm going to kill them." Possessiveness threaded low and heated through the villain's voice.
"I don't need you to do that."
"I know. It will be my absolute pleasure." The villain grabbed the hero's arm again as the took a step and stumbled. "They shouldn't-"
The hero could feel themselves beginning to shake, a myriad emotions welling up inside them, threatening to explode, as they listened to the villain's insistence that really no one else should be allowed to touch what was theirs.
"I said, I don't fucking need you to do that."
The villain went quiet. Still.
The hero closed their eyes again, already regretting their sharpness. A treacherous tear rolled down their cheek. Christ. That was all they needed, wasn't it? Cherry, meet the top of the garbage pile. They swiped furiously at their face and didn't say sorry. They couldn't say sorry. They'd never stop, they were sure of it.
"What do you need?" the villain asked.
The hero glanced up at them, startled.
It wasn't that the possessiveness was gone from the villain's face, only that the burning of it had finally cleared enough for the hero to see what lay beneath it.
The care, the sincerity, in the villain's question felt like a knockout blow. They didn't know what to do with it. They had no armour for it, no shield.
"What do you need?" the villain asked again, softer, when the hero said nothing. Their other hand rose, cupping the hero's cheek. "You want me to get you home? Your leg's screwed. You can't walk."
"I can walk." The hero looked down at their leg. They could...well, it wouldn't be fun walking. They eyed the villain. "Seriously?"
"Well, I'd prefer to hunt the bastards down and kill them, but I also do an incredible taxi service, yeah."
"Thank you."
The villain looked almost as uncomfortable as the hero felt. They shrugged. Their jaw worked, eyes narrowing when they caught sight of the hero's injuries again. The hero could feel the villain's fingers flexing against their skin with barely leashed violence - and, yet. It was leashed.
The villain dropped their hand.
"My car is this way. Can you - can I - I can help you get there. If I'm allowed."
"You're asking permission to touch me?"
The villain glared at them.
Despite everything, the hero managed a weak smile back. "Yeah," they said. "You're allowed."
The villain nodded, wrapping an arm around the hero, before pulling them up into an unexpected bridal carry. They were strong. All lean muscle and warmth against the hero's frozen body.
"I'm going to get blood on you," the hero said.
"Because nobody has ever bled on me before ever."
The hero huffed.
They let the villain walk them out of the alleyway, brain still sluggishly working its way through all of the implications of the villain's sudden appearance.
They'd come running when - what? When they learned the hero was in trouble? When they learned that the hero wasn't fighting back to the full extent they were capable of?
Thoughts were hard and the villain's car was warm, the heating soon on full blast.
Thank you. It welled in their throat again. The hero choked on it.
They didn't think they'd ever been as well looked after as they were that week.
#hero x villain#villain x hero#writing#villains#heroes#heroes and villains#whump#whumpblr#creative writing#short story#ficlet#original fiction#original stories
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Sorry everyone I was thinking about the lonely werewolf tgirl and her friend the sentient intergalactic magic warship again. 🥺
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ok the last post was infodump friendly. this one is NOT.
i expect you to explain your/something about your magic system as badly as possible. i want to be confused. i want to lack context.
i'll start:
big wyrm gives off radiation that is also magic. ohhh no gas.
#i am definitely not doing these posts because im procrastinating actually working on my stories what makes you say that#writeblr#original fiction#worldbuilding#writers on tumblr#writeblr tag games#maybe? you guys can do it if you want#im not sure who to tag tho so im just leaving this open#creative writing#magic system
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