You are the adventurer who went on an epic quest and defeated the evil king, all to gain the sacred amulet and use its one wish to revive your sister. Now everyone expects you to accept her death and use the wish to undo the damage instead. You refuse.
Blood has stopped streaming from the wound bisecting your brow, but it still stings your eyes something fierce. You take your gauntlets off, grimacing as the grime and soot from battle tries to keep the metal welded to your skin. There’d been an explosion during the final fight with the king – no, the tyrant. Explosions, maybe. Your magic’s been erratic lately, the sudden growth of your mana pool far outpacing your control. You wipe your eyes with the back of your cleaner hand.
There’s pressure in your chest you’ve never felt before. You want to laugh. No, you want to scream. Your body is too tired to jump around like you did when you were a little girl, but you find yourself bouncing in place regardless. The thrill of battle and of escaping the castle as it collapsed is thrumming through your veins. You did it. You did it.
You are so happy, so devastatingly happy, that you can feel yourself shutting down. You need—you need rest. Food. Sleep.
Then you can save her. Then you can bring her back.
“Roksala,” Prince Eloyn says. You squint past the last rays of day to see him frowning at you. The ruins of the tyrant’s castle don’t appear to interest him. His eyes narrow. “Are you ignoring me?”
in a world where you get superpowers for doing good deeds, write the story of a super villain.
“Henchmen are a necessity, of course,” Jimena says out loud, leaning back in her desk chair. She’s supposed to be fielding her boss’ calls, but it’s nearly five and Mr. Rural had left nearly an hour ago, leaving her to make his excuses.
Again.
Yesterday he’d left two hours early, the day before that nearly three hours early, and the day before that–
Jimena takes a deep, calming breath.
This is why she needs henchmen. Or rather, the need for henchmen is a byproduct of what this really calls for.
———————————–
“You want to become a super villain,” Loyda says flatly, setting her coffee cup on the table with enough force that Jimena half expects it to shatter. “Are you out of your mind?”
There is a forbidden type of magic out there. It isn’t forbidden because it’s inherently evil, or forces you to lose your humanity, or requires human sacrifices - it’s just forbidden because it’s annoying as heck to fight against.
“Ma’am, I really must insist that you
pay for the room and board I’ve been giving you! It’s been a week!”
“Fine, fine,” I grumble. “I have a few options for payment: I could give you paper money, cheap gaudy jewelry, chocolate coins, spiders, some pretty seashells-”
“Spiders????” he repeats, baffled.
“Spiders it is, then,” I agree equitably, and with a wave of my hand the bed I’ve been sleeping in for the last week turns into a writhing mass of various spiders.
Worth it.
—
“Stop right there! You’re under arrest for fraud, destruction of property, and-!”
I yawn. “Didn’t
ask, don’t care.” A few gestures, and the guards’ swords are all
transmuted into spiders, and then they’re too busy to worry about little
ol’ me.
—
“You have insulted my honor and humiliated me in front of my children! I demand satisfaction! I demand a wizard’s duel!”
Shrugging, I say, “Sure, okay, whatever. Right here and now okay?”
The pompous wizard-noble blinks. “I- you don’t want to prepare? Get your wizard’s staff or anything?”
“Nah, I’m pretty good with somatic gestures.”
“Well, if you’re sure… here and now then! Have at you!” He slams his staff down on the ground dramatically, a small shockwave of fire radiating out from the impact.
So of course, I turn his staff into spiders.
“AHHHH WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK”
“So if you’re too busy screaming to cast spells, does that mean I win?”
“AUGH ONE OF THEM BIT ME”
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
—
After that, they start coming at me in waves, with cheap wands and staves and swords and bows bought in bulk, hoping to exhaust my magical reserves so they can get close enough to put a magic inhibitor on me.
They did not expect my reserves to be as vast as they were, not did they expect me to be able to transmute the inhibitors themselves into spiders.
“Didn’t you take Magic Basics in wizard college?” I yell at the panicking mages. “Inhibitors aren’t immune to magic until the moment they activate! Serious weak point in the design, tell your magitechnicians to fix that!”
—
So of course they try assassins next.
Poison fails, because I transmute any food and drink I get into spiders and then transmute them back. Pretty easy way to get rid of poison.
So then they try knives in dark alleys. The knives bruise through my full-body spider-silk outfit, but do not penetrate, and they only get one shot before they have bigger problems.
Next is killing me in my sleep. None live to report back that the human-shaped lump under the blankets is actually a mass of highly venomous spiders.
The kingdom throws everything it has at me, and I continue to walk away, heralded by the chittering of spiders and the screams of everyone else.
—
Finally, I stand before the king himself in his overly opulent throne room, and by now he is a broken shell of a man in the face of my unorthodox tactics.
Good.
“What do you want?” he practically sobs. “You’ve singlehandedly redirected the entire crown’s budget for the next three years into replacing every weapon you’ve turned into spiders. Much more and we’ll be invaded by our neighbors! We wouldn’t be able to resist being annexed! So what can I give you to make you stop doing this?!”
I pause and pretend to consider, tapping a finger against my chin thoughtfully. “You know, you sent my brother off to war a few years back. That conflict with the Yughs up north, I believe. He didn’t want to go, so your guards forced him at spearpoint. I haven’t seen him since.”
He seizes on that, as I expected. “Yes, yes, I’ll have him returned right away! Tell me his name and I’ll honorably release him from duty and have him escorted safely home!”
“Oh?” I raise one sardonic eyebrow. “Are you able to bring back the dead now, oh wise and glorious king?”
He pales, and it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in years.
“You have nothing I want,” I growl, letting the anger slip through for the first time in years. “You cannot bring him back, you cannot make up for my loss with all the riches in your kingdom. The only thing I want is to take everything from you, the way you did to me. Your kingdom will bleed out of resources, one of the neighboring countries you’ve been trying to conquer for decades now will take advantage and annex this place, and you will either be executed or forced to work for a living for the first time in your life.”
I glare at him, and he refuses to meet my eyes. “You will lose everything you ever cared about in your life. One spider at a time.”
I transmute his throne and crown into spiders (non-deadly; he doesn’t get to escape my wrath that easily), then turn and walk away, ignoring his screams and sobs.
—
And that’s why, when the Yughs finally annexed the kingdom I grew up in, they preemptively made Transarachnomancy a forbidden magical art. Not sure how they intend to enforce that, mind, but I’m not looking to challenge that. I’ve gotten what I wanted; if some other aspiring mage wants to try and follow in my footsteps, that’s not my problem.
Besides, in terms of magical skill, I’ve always been an outlier anyway. Most mages would be lucky to turn just one knife into a spider at a time; I can turn ten thousand with a few gestures. I doubt anyone will outdo my legacy.
But hey, if you want to try and surpass Georgia of the Spiders? Feel free. I’ll welcome the competition.
“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”
You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. “All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.” Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, “Yes, Duncan, that includes you.”
You don’t see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you’re used to that. You know they’ll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.
As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you’ve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.
“It’s okay, none of you are in trouble,” you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You’re so proud of their progress.
One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.
“Are you new?” you ask carefully.
He nods, and you drop to one knee. “It’s okay, sweetie,” you tell him firmly. “I love all of my sons, even ones I haven’t met before. Ask your brothers, they’ll tell you.”
“’m here because I heard you were nice,” he says in a tiny voice.
You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That’s good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they’ve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.
Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. “Why do we look like this?” he asks, curious.
“Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?”
A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.
“Wilson took on my son’s form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.”
Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.
“When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.” You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don’t mind.
“It’s not like you need to feed us!” calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don’t have a Lucas yet.
“That does help,” you admit. You put steel into your next words. “However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.”
You’d say more, but there’s a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.
Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.
“Please,” the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. “Please. She needs somewhere to stay.”
Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.
Your son’s bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he’d have been okay with that.
He thinks I don’t know, of course. He’s never told me that this happens to him (or that he can do this, possibly; I’m not sure which it is.) Maybe I’m a bad mother, if I haven’t proven myself worthy of that trust. But there is only so many times that one can watch their son trudge through a day with bored impatience, anticipating everything you say just a little too quickly and showing no surprise to even the most surprising event, and then come downstairs the next day disoriented but rejuvenated and with a new zest for life and a tendency to get blindsided by even the most predictable things, before one makes the obvious connection.
Marcus stopped abruptly in the middle of the grass. A woman in a blue dress was already sitting on the Crisis Bench. He didn’t recognize the dress. She looked up from where she was sitting.
“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t think anyone would be over here.” He didn’t think he remembered an introduction to anyone in that dress. It was a memorable sort of a dress. “I believe I ran into your mother inside?” he ventured, because he ran into so many mothers.
“She’s not here,” she said, which was not what he wanted to hear and which he absolutely could not handle at the moment.
“Right,” he said, trying to recover, pretending as if he’d just remembered something. “Your father–”
“We haven’t met,” she interrupted. “I’m not anyone.”
“Oh thank god,” he said, abandoning propriety to collapse onto the bench, dropping his head between his knees. “Thank you.”
“Too many people?” she said sympathetically.
“I’m really bad with faces,” he admitted.
“A lot of people are,” she assured him.
He dragged his hands down his face. “I just confused a Duke with a waiter.”
She bit her lip. “As long as you aren’t rude to waiters, you should be fine,” she said.
“I wasn’t rude,” he said. “I’m never rude. It would have been better if I was rude.” He buried his face in his hands. “I tipped him,” he said, anguished, muffled by his palms. Why had he been dressed like a waiter?
She burst out laughing, loud and with her head tipped back, overwhelming the empty garden. He separated his fingers to stare at her.
“Sorry,” she hiccuped, which immediately descended back into snorts. She laughed like she was hunting for truffles.
“Thanks,” he said, though he almost did feel better. “I’m feeling very supported in my time of need.”
“There’s only one thing you can do,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, trying to dab at them to not destroy her makeup. Reflexively, he offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted. “You have to flee the country. It’s the only way.” She checked the handkerchief for signs of smeared eyeliner. “Leave your family. Change your name. Get a new family. Never tell them your dark secret.”
“I think my old family might notice if I got a new family,” he said, now resting his chin in his hands, elbows balanced on his knees.
“That’s why you have to burn your house down,” she said matter-of-factly, now holding his handkerchief in a neat fold in her lap. “Just burn the whole thing. Everything but your favorite hat. You leave the hat on top of the ashes for your family to find. ‘This must be him’ they’ll say. ‘He would never have left his favorite hat’. It’s the perfect crime. Once it’s done, you become a pig farmer. Anyone comes around asking questions, you feed them to the pigs.”
“You seem like you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he observed. “How are your pigs?”
She looked him over sidelong. “Hungry,” she said primly.
fancytrinkets said: Prompt (to write or ignore as you see fit): A small moment in which Crowley or Aziraphale performs a casual miracle without really thinking about it and the other one notices and smiles.
“Naked mole rat,” Crowley said. The wind tugged his hair as they walked beneath the trees of St. James’s Park. Aziraphale believed the style he was sporting these days was called a ‘mop top,’ and he supposed he could see why, but he couldn’t help but find the way Crowley’s fringe was being swept away from his forehead somewhat nostalgic.
“They have a certain charm,” he replied.
“Really? With the– you know, the teeth?”
The wind whirled, and Aziraphale pulled his coat more tightly around him. The air was cold, surely there was a storm blowing in, but he could wait it out a little longer – if it started to rain, that would be an excellent excuse to invite Crowley to lunch.
He shrugged. “Have you ever petted one? Their skin is like velvet.”
“All right, how about the stink bird? Smells like death, that one. Not to mention it looks like a demon.”
Aziraphale thought that at least one demon of his acquaintance looked (and smelled) more appealing than a stink bird, but he kept that to himself.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “They don’t smell that bad.”
“Are you–” Crowley spluttered. “Have you actually smelled one? They’re worse than Hastur on a hot day.”
Aziraphale glanced at him sideways. Crowley seemed to be getting nicely wound up; Aziraphale was rather enjoying himself.
“All creatures, Crowley,” he said mildly. “Great, small, and foul-smelling.”
“No, but come on, there must be something,” he said. “Something that just–”
The wind kicked up again, trees rustling and creaking. A sudden cracking sound made Aziraphale jump, but before he could react, Crowley snapped his fingers and the branch that had started to fall across the path up ahead joined back up with its tree trunk, the rift in the wood sealing as though it had never been there. All this happened in approximately half a second, and Crowley barely missed a beat.
“–that just disgusts you.”
Ahead of them on the path, the woman and her young child who had stopped to look at the fallen leaves beneath that particular tree carried on oblivious.
“Blob fish!” Crowley said, snapping his fingers.
You just saved their lives, Aziraphale thought. It wasn’t clear that Crowley even realised he’d done it. Suppressing a smile, Aziraphale looked down and busied himself with adjusting his scarf.
“Yes, all right,” he conceded. “I suppose you have a point with that one. They are rather repulsive.”
Crowley made some triumphant noises, but in point of fact, ‘repulsed’ was quite the opposite to how Aziraphale felt just then.
first day as a second century warlord i have my men tie branches to their horses’ tails to stir up dust and make it look like there’s a lot of us but i forget it just rained so there isn’t any dust and the enemy can clearly see there’s like twenty of us all spread out in a line
second day as a second century warlord i bribe a bunch of kids to start singing a nursery rhyme i carefully crafted to spread misinformation and further my strategic ends but they change the lyrics to be about poop and the enemy isn’t misdirected at all
third day as a second century warlord i lure my enemy into a narrow valley and send a team of archers to shoot them from the high ground but there was a feral hog napping on the trail up to the overlook and they couldn’t decide whether to try and shoot it or just go around and by the time the hog woke up and left on its own the enemy had already passed safely below
fourth day as a second century warlord we attempt to join a battle on the side of the guy we want to ally with but he and the guy he’s fighting have really similar names and it’s finally dusty and i misread the standards and attack the wrong guy. so now we’re stuck with this total loser of a liege lord, because how the fuck do you explain that after a battle?
fifth day as a second century warlord and some sort of wizard wanders into camp, my loser liege lord wants to execute him for being a wizard but i convince him to let the wizard stay, because i want to do more weather-based strategies and i’m pretty sure having a camp wizard can help with that. after the welcome to the team banquet the wizard steals half the treasury and my liege lord’s wife and leaves
sixth day as a second century warlord my loser liege lord sends me to reinforce a city he’s taken, but in the confusion of leaving i forgot to take the token that would have gotten us into the city, so my men have to wait outside the city walls for like eight hours while i ride back to get it
seventh day as a second century warlord and my loser liege lord finally joins me in the city, it turns out he’s actually a pretty cool guy, and he isn’t even that mad at me for letting the wizard steal his wife. i decide to shoot my shot but i’m really nervous and keep on stalling because what if i mess up our relationship and by extension jeopardize the security of my men, and eventually he just says goodnight and goes back to his room, where an assassin is in the process of setting up to kill him
eighth day as a second century warlord and my loser liege lord tells me to fake defect to his rival warlord, the one i originally wanted to ally with, to find out if he was the one who sent the assassin and why. but my whole way over to the rival warlord i’m worried that this has something to do with the wizard thing or how awkward i made it last night
ninth day as a second century warlord i try to tactfully ask my fake liege lord if he sent the assassin to kill my loser liege lord and it turns out the idea of using assassins never occurred to him, but now that i’ve suggested it he’s really into it. in order to save my loser liege lord i volunteer to be the one to kill him
tenth day as a second century warlord on my way back to my loser liege lord’s city i realize i won’t be able to collect my men from my fake liege lord until i bring back my loser liege lord’s head. this would have been a great thing to think of before i got myself in this situation. i go back to my loser liege lord and ask him to rescue my men, and he tells me that if he could sack my fake liege lord’s camp he already would have. that doesn’t change the fact that my men are still trapped. they’re prisoners, even. i go back to my room to sulk
eleventh day as a second century warlord i find a little caged pigeon in the rafters of my loser liege lord’s room and deduce it belonged to the assassin. without asking permission or telling my loser liege lord goodbye i let the pigeon loose and follow it north. don’t ask what i was doing in my loser liege lord’s room. it’s not important
twelfth day as a second century warlord i disguise myself as a wizard and enter the camp of the coalition leader the pigeon led me to. in the middle of my little sleight of hand performance i make eye contact with the coalition leader’s second-in-command. IT’S THE WIZARD THAT STOLE MY LOSER LIEGE LORD’S WIFE. after the banquet i corner the fake wizard and ask him what the fuck is going on and he just says “wouldn’t you like to know” and leaves. i don’t know what to say to that so i just let him go
thirteenth day as a second century warlord i’m honestly so sick of not knowing what’s going on, so i adjust my wizard costume to passably disguise myself as a woman and break into the women’s area of the camp, where sure enough my loser liege lord’s wife is. i ask her what she’s doing here and she tells me the fake wizard overheard her singing a poem she overheard on the street, not knowing it contains the coalition leader’s formation’s weaknesses. the fake wizard kidnapped her and assigned an assassin to kill her husband before they figured out the poem’s significance. she shares the first couplet with me but i’m discovered and thrown out before she can share any more. she doesn’t need to. through a bizarre coincidence of homophones, it’s the poop version of my misinformation nursery rhyme
fourteenth day as a second century warlord i go back to my loser liege lord and tell him everything, urging him to join with my fake liege lord to attack the coalition leader according to the weaknesses in the nursery rhyme. he tells me frankly that he doesn’t trust me anymore. i ask him to execute me if that’s really true, because i can’t bear to live if i can’t protect him and i can’t protect my men. he agrees to attack the coalition leader
fifteenth day as a second century warlord. due to the information in the nursery rhyme, and thanks to my loser liege lord reminding me of the weather conditions multiple times while planning our battle strategy, our alliance carries the day. my loser liege lord gets his wife back. my men tell me that our fake liege lord actually treated them really well and they’d like to stay with him if i don’t mind. i do mind, now that neither the men i love nor the man i love have any use for me, but i don’t tell them that
sixteenth day as a second century warlord i’m preparing to leave to i don’t know where, maybe to try to become a wizard for real, when my loser liege lord stops me and asks me where i’m going. he says he had hoped i would continue to work as his advisor. i was unaware i was his advisor in the first place. i agree, and he tells me he’s truly honored to have me in his service at last. he has known i am a rare and talented man with a strategic intelligence far above his ever since the day he witnessed me tying branches to my horses’ tails in six inches of mud, and could not for the life of him figure out why
The walls didn’t bleed, but the black sludge that slid down them at the first hint of rain had no plausible source. The cellar smelled of death, and yet the rammed earth had been swept clean. Doors slammed. The hot water was either ice cold, or a hazard. The stairs were… agile and greasy.
“Do you remember when Grandma got sick? When her feelings got too big and she got tired and sad?” She said, softly and quietly to her children, holding their hands. “I think the house’s feelings got very big. I think the house saw some really scary things like Grandma did when she was little, and it’s feelings are too big to carry. I don’t think houses are supposed to feel things like that. It doesn’t want to be mean, it’s just tired and sad. We don’t have to let it be mean, but we can’t be mean back, okay?”
Ashleigh would read the house bedtime stories from her thick, cardboard, books. Stories about the moon, and kittens, and even one about a friendly spider. She still saw shadows sometimes, but they only stood in the doorway now. They didn’t try to reach for her ankles in the dark. That was okay, because she didn’t like to sleep alone anyway. She would tell the shadow goodnight, and that she hoped it had good dreams.
Bryce knew to use the infra-red thermometer to check the water before showers. “Hey, it really hurts when you try to burn me. Okay? I just don’t want to stink like a-… like butt after band. I don’t know why you don’t want us to shower but like… see these things on the floor? They’re rough so you can’t slip or nothing, okay? Please don’t burn me.” And it didn’t. Sometimes the temperature shifted a little but never as badly as before.
Sometimes they prayed with the house. They weren’t sure what else to do. They didn’t pray at it, and it wasn’t exactly Christian or … anything else really, but they just … just… sat with it, and said words of gratitude and peaceful contemplation. They wondered if it missed that moment of familial togetherness around the table. Each of them would note something good about their day, and something that maybe had been bad but had taught them something important, and there was always mention of being grateful for a roof over their heads… that shelter, togetherness, and safety made it a Home.
“I like it here, Mommy.” Ashleigh had said once. “It was scary at first but you were right… the house was just scared. We were new, and different and I think the house was scared we might tear it up and change it. But I like it here.”
“I like it here too, Baby.” She had said, quietly. She liked that she could afford to feed, clothe, and house two children because the house had sold for pennies on the dollar. She liked that there was room here for hobbies and game rooms, for a home office and a real dining room. “I think, deep down, the house likes us too. We know some sad things happened here, and that’s a lot of big feelings. I think that as long as we’re good to the house and show it that it doesn’t have to be scary, or scared… that it’ll get better.”
That night she stared at the spot of damp threatening to leech through the fresh coat of paint. “House… or… whoever you are. My kids have been through a lot. And we’re going to keep having this little talk for as long as we have to. Please just love them the way I love them. Love them the way they love you. You see how they walk in the door after school and the world falls off of their shoulders because they’re home? That’s not just us, that’s you too.”
The house settled, almost sighed. It, the amalgamation of suffering and grief and love and joy and birthday parties and funerals and breakfasts and beatings and… life… emotions… feelings… It, the House, considered the wisdom of this Mother’s words. It could run them away and sip on their fear and rage or it could love them fiercely, and grow strong with them for generations.
70k+ words so far, unfinished! - Drama/Fantasy/Romance
Seven demons, each a representative of a different deadly sin, are sent down to Urth to Tempt a human into forfeiting their soul. Along the way, however, some of these demons find themselves feeling a little too strongly about their assigned mortals to let go of them that easily–love, hate, and trust draw the demons’ attention. Maybe these assignments will take a little longer than expected…
Seven Lovely Sins is an anthology (sort of) of 7 short stories wherein a demon is tasked with Tempting a mortal, but slowly builds a relationship of some sort with them instead. Each demon and mortal pair is made up of characters from my various TTRPGs, but knowledge of those isn’t needed to understand the story!
Tu meets Tigh (and his obnoxious coworker, Sienne) and follows them to a coffee shop called CC Brews, where she meets Aeryn. Also, she has a tiny crush.
In short: polyamorous fake dating soulmate AU about a human, an angel, and a demon. Description below:
Levi is a human. Ey expected the two people who answered eir craigslist ad for fake dates to also be human… but instead ey got Valor, an angel, and Triz, a demon. Now Levi has to cover up Triz’s demonic nature to pretend to be soulmates with Valor in front of god, only to turn right around and cover up Valor’s angelic nature to be lovey-dovey in front of the devil, too. And then it’s time for the worst judge of all… Levi’s own, human, parents. The whole thing sounds like more trouble than it’s worth, but under threat of eir parents ruining eir life when ey eventually bring home actual girlfriends, ey’re willing to pretend… until ey realize ey’re unfortunately falling for the angel and demon by eir side.
Content Warnings: Drowning, Death Mention, Brief Torture Scene
Ileao, a guardian angel, receives an unusual assignment: watch over and report on a mortal villain named Alexander. As that mortal villain slowly but surely drags em into his life of crime, ey start to think he may not be as ‘evil’ as eir angelic superiors made him out to be, and that eir angelic ‘morals’ might not be so moral after all.
“Force field,” Barry replies, his legs dangling over the rim of the TARDIS. “Keeps the bad guys out and the oxygen in. I, uh, wouldn’t be able to answer the phone without it.” He reaches up sheepishly and pops open the hatch on the door to reveal a rotary phone.
Lup gives him a look that he’s beginning to realise means she thinks he’s being tremendously stupid. “Why couldn’t you wire it in to the console? Or install a door so it opens from the inside, even?”
“Hey, have you seen that?” He changes the subject with his usual tact. “Look, wow, supernova.”
She grins and sits down next to him, kicking her feet in the vacuum of space. “It is pretty.”
“I should think so,” he grumbles. “Take a girl halfway across the universe and a million years back in time and all she can do is criticise my phone.”
“I’m just saying, I thought the Time Lords would’ve invented better phones! It’s rotary, Barry, it’s from the sixties!”
“It’s retro,” he insists. “It fits the police box aesthetic. Did you miss where it says PUBLIC CALL on the top?”
The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.
Suggestion: The dragon’s definition of “steal” is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change hands–but on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.
They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.
“Here’s your change, ma'am. One gold piece.” The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.
“That’s a dragon,” you say dumbly. “One piece… and a dragon.”
“Yes.”
You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.
“Ma'am–no, ma'am, you have to take the dragon, too.”
“Sorry?”
The seller notes your dubious expression. “Not from around here, are ya?” They shrug. “Them’s the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.”
They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.
The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.
“Have a nice day, ma'am,” the merchant says. “Spend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.”
From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.
Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.
You are the owner of a very well received restaurant that caters to the… not quite human variety. You serve the vampire lords, and wolf pack leaders, zombie kings, and all sorts of supernatural guests, but one customer is causing you a lot of trouble. It is time to show why you are the owner
In every way you know of, you are human.
Some people call you an inspiration instead, but that’s just because of their biases and your cane and the alarms on your phone that tell you when to take your medication. Every once in a while, a witch will posit that you have the blood of a goddess, or a werewolf will proclaim you a mystic hero. Once, and only once, a vampire offered to bite you, to make you special like they are; but you feel special enough already, and you’re on blood thinners, anyway.
They respected your answer, of course. You’re the only restaurant in the city that’s safe for each and every one of them, and you cater to all of their dietary restrictions. “Magic’s Tavern,” you call this place, because you always thought that if your parents went to the trouble of naming you something as absurd as Magic in the twenty-first century, you might as well make use of it. The magical creatures in the region flock to you; you became a safe place for them without even really meaning to.
Andrew looks over his shoulder, the steep edge of the rocky mountain a little too close for comfort, even though he’s pressed as close to the grey, cold wall as he can get. He can hear the shouts from the horde of warriors following them, and he knows he doesn’t have time to hesitate. He knows he needs to keep moving. Keep climbing.
Phil is a few steps ahead of him, trying to find the best way to get ahead and not fall to their death trying to stay alive. It all just seems so impossible. Like no matter what they do, another threat is just around the corner. They’ve been on their feet for days already, and it doesn’t look like they will get a break to nurse their sore bodies anytime soon.
They didn’t mean to attract the travelling swordsmen, really. And they probably should have kept to the shadows once they knew they were even close to other people. Especially people with weapons. They really should know better than to interact with anyone able to chop their heads off if they wanted to.
awww i like this! i love andrew and phil’s relationship, and i feel bad for their predicament asldfkj like if you find an old spellbook in ur granddad’s attic, of course you’re gonna go buckwild on that shit! of course you are! who would expect to end up getting chased by swordsmen, accused of being sorcerers, because of that? i hope they make it home safe!
You are the royal translator. Due to your mistake, the hero from a faraway land defeated the princess and married the dragon. Now there is a hero demanding his reward, an angry princess, an oblivious king, an infatuated dragon, and you who must find a way to get out of this mess alive.
“Well? What will you do?”
I swallowed hard. Sitting across from me was the Princess, her arms folded and her face twisted in a scowl. Her pink gown was in tatters and dirt matted down her hair. I feared her more, at that point, than I did the dragon.
The dragon in question was outside my window, enjoying chin scratches from the knight who I’d tried to instruct. Their tail thumped on the ground as their pleased rumbling shook the walls. The knight managed to stay upright, laughing up at the dragon through his bushy red beard.
“Look at him,” I said, gesturing at the window. “No one would do that unless they truly loved that dragon.”
“You gave him the wrong instructions.”
“I doubt he’s foolish enough to unquestioningly accept my mispronunciation.”
The knight said something outside. The dragon straightened and beamed, nodding their head. The knight then drew his sword and swept it in a wide flourish. It sliced through the branch of an apple tree overhead, sending it crashing down on his head.
The Princess raised an eyebrow at me.
I dropped my head into my hands, massaging my temples.
i didn’t think this prompt would appeal to me much, but you wrote it fantastically! i love how soft the dragon and the knight are, and the fact that the princess kinda wants the far-away land more than she wants the guy who lives there. this was a really nice read!!
ALT
