#writeblr

[writing-prompt-s]

Two lovers have reincarnated throughout history, destined to find each other and fall in love all over again. There’s also this third guy that reincarnates alongside them… we don’t really know what he does.

[the-ellia-west]

I'm bored, so how about this

20 notes and I'll go on a big walk and take a bunch of pretty spring pictures

50 notes and I'll show you my Cat

100 notes and I'll make a schedule for myself

200 notes and I'll Post an audio of me saying "Hello Governor, fine day it is outside isn't it. Care for a cup of tea?" In a shitty British accent

400 notes and I'll Start writing Lifesaver from the beginning

500 Notes and I'll write 3 new J&R scenes

700 Notes and I'll organize my papers

800 Notes and I'll do smash or pass with houses on Zillow

1000 Notes and I'll Start outlining an actual plot for J&R

1300 Notes, and I'll make a few(2-6) pages of Marril's Journal for you

1500 Notes and I'll clean my room

2000 Notes and I will make a fully improvised fake nature Documentary about Flowers with zero research

PLEASE don't spam too hard?

[novlr]

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Sharing Clothes

Prompts about fictional people sharing their clothes.

enveloped in their warm jacket, with a soft blush

always stealing their cap and putting it on their own head

wearing their jersey, proudly displaying their name

sharing gloves, so both of them don't freeze

wearing their worn shirt to have a better sleep

wrapping their scarf around their neck, breathing in their smell

no one knows who the piece of clothing belongs to, because they're both wearing it

drowning in the other's clothes, because they are way too big, but loving it

loving to see their partner drowning so cutely in their clothes

having the same size, so strangers couldn't tell that they are sharing clothes, but they know and feel warm thinking about it

finding their own clothes in the other person's appartment

using the other's clothes as a pillow

wrapping the other person in the hoodie or jacket they are still wearing, so both of them can stay warm

dressing the other up in their own clothes, feeling a tiny bit possessive, but both loving it

[writers-potion]

Writing Female Fighters

The Heroine Must. Fight.

Today's female protagonists cannot sit on the side crying and breaking down or whimpering as the battle ensues.

Readers want to see autonomous female fighters who can at least defense themselves with courage and adequate skill.

Not all women are the same, but the heroine should get her butt moving.

Less Muscle, but More Flexibilty

The average woman is shorter than the average man, which makes it more difficult to wield a long sword or slam something down on the opponent's head.

A woman who works out can plausibly be stronger than a male couch potato, but if her male counterpart works out as much as her, the man is going to be much stronger.

On the other hand, the center of gravity in a woman's body is lower than a man's which makes it harder to knock her off her feet.

She is also more flexible, which gives her advantage in grappling fights, making use of complex landscapes, or deflecting blows.

A woman's small size can also be an advantage if her opponent has only ever trained with male opponents. His big hands might not get a good grip on her slender limbs.

In historical fiction, giving your heroine good muscule build can be tricky as exercise was generally considered harmful for women, with some exceptions for horseriding any maybe archery at best.

In such cases, make your heroine an accomplished dancer or an eager horsewoman, or the only girl whose father considered to be son replacement and thus, gave her a boy's education.

Women of lower classes who couldn't afford to be fashionably weak will be plausibly stronger, perhaps even more than an idle gentleman.

More Room for Negotiation, but Prolonged Ruthlessness

In the Suspense part of your fight scene, females are more likely to negotiate and talk more, strategically trying to descalate the situation rather than attacking on a momentary impulse.

Generally, women are less aggressive than men and remain level-headed longer than her male counterparts, opting for non-violent methods first before using force.

Exceptions apply if she is trying to protect her children (or someone who she cares for as a child). Mothers can be tigresses.

A female pre-fight conversation may be: "If you had not done so-and-so and betrayed me with so-and-so, we could have been good friends as I thought we would be." "What do you mean? It was in fact you who brought bad blood between us. I can still hear you laughing with so-and-so, taunting me, purposefully making me look bad -" "But that was so long ago! If you want me to say sorry about something so insignificant, you should have just said so: I'm sorry. There. Satisfied?" "Ha! I can't believe you say that so easily. You still don't get it, do you?" "Who's being petty and unreasonable now?"

A male pre-fight conversation will be shorter: "Who's the coward now?" "You're wrong." "Prove it." "Bastard."

Compared to men, it will take more time for a woman's fight hormones (adrenaline, neurotransmitters and such) to kick in.

She would be slower to engage initially, throwing reluctant punches and thinking, but she'll grow more and more violent and lose all rational thought and compassion, and once she's in full flow, may not stop even when her opponent begs for mercy.

When writing a male-female duo, you can show him going for the first blow while she observes and strategizes first. When he's past his peak and panting, she is flying about left and right. Later when the tension wears off and she becomes wobbly and teary, she can rely on him to have recovered faster and distract other teammates so that they won't see her cry.

Plausible Skills and Backstory

In many cultures and time periods, the general attitude of society towards girls is that they have no place in fist fights or martial arts, unlike how it is encouraged for boys of the same age. So if your heroine has physical prowess that surpasses typical 'fitness' or is hidden, build a backstory of how she's obtained it.

For modern heroines, it can be as simple as signing her up for martial arts classes or yearly membership at the local gym. For historical fiction or girls with strict 'feminine' upbringing, it can be trickier.

It can be related to profession: maybe she was an erotic wrestler, catfighter, or an assasin who thought killing was more honorable than prostitution. They may have dabbles with it for a short time and is now trying to hide their past from their respectable employer or fiance.

It can be family backstory: Perhaps her mother was an accomplished martial artist or she had to fend for younger siblings on the streets from an early age. Maybe she was the only girl in a family of many boys who refused to be the punching bag.

Inexperienced Female Fighters

A woman with no fighting experience or training is likely to resort to one of these on instinct:

Try to talk herself out of the situation, attempting to persuade or negotiate for her life.

Grab something to use as a weapon. This instinct seems to be stronger for women than it is in men.

Use her hands to try and break free, or kick (often wth little success)

Pull hair

Scratch.

In a serious fight, pulling hair and scratching won't be helpful, except when the police come to find her body, they would find the opponent's DNA under her fingernails.

Plausible Weapons and Clothing

All of the above applies to scenes where both parties have no weapons, or has the bare minimum (like one dagger each).

Weapons are equalizers, and if your heroine is pointing a gun at her opponent she will definitely NOT hesitate to be the one to shoot first.

When giving your female character a weapon, choose one she can plausibly use. It would take an unusually brawny woman to wield a great medieval longsword.

For historical fiction, give your heroine something she'll plausibly own. Swords and firearm were a no-go for women, but archery was borderline acceptable.

For clothing starters, you definitely CAN NOT dress her in a tight miniskirt and chainmail bra with long, flowy hair and multiple silver chockers. Unless she's trying to seduce her way into her opponent's bedroom, and he has a chainmail bra fetish.

A practical heroine will have her thighs covered, preferably with leather but at least with fabric, since a lot of blood flows through the thighs and a slash would be critical.

She'll keep her hair tied, tucked under a helmet, braided back, etc. so that it won't impede her vision.

She'll support her breasts with a strong sport bra. In a historical eprioid, she'll either tie her breasts tight with a fabric bandage or support them with some kind of leather corset.

Invent a female version of male fighter clothing of the time you are writing about if it doesn't exist.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope 4/5

Okaaaay, so there's 5 parts instead of 4! I realized that the last part was over 6k words, so we're splitting it into two! The last part will still be posted next Friday, so this will keep us on track!

Summary: The picnic has an uninvited guest that you're uniquely suited to greet.

-------

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

“Didn’t think I’d see anyone able to catch Marie,” the Lord says, brows raised. His golden eyes track Isla across the garden and he whistles when she jumps to tag his former knight. “That was not within the capabilities of a Villager.”

Ivan scans the crowd around them. Most of the townsfolk are too far away to eavesdrop and the ones close enough to potentially hear are engaged in their own conversations. “Careful, Brennan. If the Director hears you speculate…”

“Yes, the Director,” Lord Brennan sighs. He brings his teacup to his lips, but doesn’t drink. He contemplates Director Sarah where she crouches with a glass of water near Annie. “You know this is the first time we’ve met?”

It’d been a fight to get Sarah to agree to today at all. Ivan chooses his words carefully. “Your predecessor did not have the sort of…kind interest you do.”

The former Lord’s interest Sarah shared with them was a lot more horrifying. There’s a reason that Isla at only fifteen years old is the eldest at the orphanage.

“That’s one way to put it,” Lord Brennan agrees. He settles back into his seat and sighs in satisfaction. He watches the children gradually grow tired of their game and drift towards the dessert table. He grins when the townsfolk naturally make room for them, a few of them even fetching treats from the center of the table for the littler ones. “See my people together? It was very good of me to lure you and Marie to my territory.”

“You gave us a castle,” Ivan says. They weren’t so much lured as bludgeoned with generosity. Some days it feels like they blinked and ended up standing amongst fine silk and filigree.

“It’s a manor as far as paperwork goes,” Lord Brennan says.

“It has buttresses.”

“A very fortified manor.” Lord Brennan finally sips his tea and sighs again. “This tea is from our fields, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It’s delicious.” The full canopies of the trees enveloping the estate rustle in the wind. The sun shines warmly overhead. Lord Brennan takes another drink. Delicious. “The land’s come a long way since we ousted my father, hasn’t it? Plentiful harvests, an established trade route, a new school. If it weren’t for the demons, my work would be done.”

“I would prefer you had no work then,” Ivan says dryly.

“Me too.” Lord Brennan sets his tea aside and rubs his eyes. “Any updates?”

“None,” Ivan admits, frustration leaking through his words. His face is still amiable and the disconnect between his tone and his visage is jarring. “We investigated the wolf tracks in the woods and only found carnage. No signs of the demons themselves.”

“So they are demons?”

“Regular wolves wouldn’t be able to evade a squadron of your knights, my lord.”

“Neither would demon wolves,” Lord Brennan says. He rubs his chin, brow furrowing. “I don’t like what that implies. Any sign of larger foes?”

Ivan doesn’t want to discuss this here. Marie’s eyes are on him, sensing his rising distress. He smiles and waves to her. “Besides the horned rabbit migration?”

“Is it a migration?”

“Isla saw five within the first four weeks of summer,” Ivan says.

The Lord’s attention falls on the teenager. She’s patiently letting one of the other children – Hera? The one who’d curtsied to him like a little noble – weave flowers into her braid. He tries to imagine her fighting a horned rabbit and his lips thin. “I’ll call for reinforcements from the capital.”

“Marie and I can—”

Lord Brennan waves Ivan off. “No, no, I’ve asked too much of you already. Aren’t the two of you too busy in your retirement already? I thought you’d be settled with a child by now.”

“It’s not good to rush these things,” Ivan says as he has the last three times Lord Brennan has asked. This time it’s Ivan who sighs. “It took Marie and I a good few months to win Director Sarah over after our misstep.”

“Asking about Destinies, was it?”

“Implying we’d value any child less for not being a knight like us,” Ivan corrects.

“There seem to be a lot of unusual Destinies in the orphanage,” Lord Brennan says. He’s not an Identifier but he’s got a good eye. Though no one can know for sure until a child either develops their mark or comes into their power at fifteen, he’s seen more than a few signs of a Scholar, a Guardian, and a Teacher. Once again he finds his gaze being drawn back to Isla. She’s got a child under each arm and is running from Marie again, the game having resumed after their snack break. “That one is a Guard, at least. Nobody else would have physical abilities like that.”

Ivan ignores the Lord’s comment. “It’s been worthwhile getting to know them all.” His smile turns a little more genuine. “They’re all good kids.”

“Surely you and Marie have an inkling of who’ll be a good fit?” When Ivan doesn’t reply, the Lord clicks his tongue. “You can’t choose all of them.”

Ivan’s voice is a study in nonchalance. “Can’t we?”

Lord Brennan opens his mouth only for no words to come out. At length, he has to laugh. His knights do like to keep busy. “You’d need a castle.”

“You did give us one, my lord.”

“I suppose I did.”

The two men lapse into a pleasant silence. It is good to see the townsfolk this cheerful. This town is the furthest from Lord Brennan’s own castle and he rarely has a chance to visit. The first time he had had been very different. The people still bore the wounds of winter in gouged cheeks and brittle smiles. Now he sees the glow of health everywhere he looks.

He contemplates the Director once again. She’d been the only one back then to not seem pleased to see him ride in on his white horse. Even now he can feel the chill of her scrutiny as she stood defensively between him and the orphanage. None of that chill is present today. Her smile is as sweet as his tea while she tends to a scrape the little Scholar sustained in this round of tag. “Ms. Sarah is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“I know we can’t adopt them all,” Ivan blurts out. He doesn’t seem to have heard Lord Brennan. His gaze is turned towards his own inner conflict which is why he also doesn’t notice the blush dusting the Lord’s cheeks. “It wouldn’t be fair to them. Marie and I decided to adopt a child who would benefit from what little we can offer. Military arts and luck.”

“I don’t think you’re being fair,” Lord Brennan says with raised brows. “You and Marie offer a lot more than a Knight’s experience. Haven’t you shown that already in your actions?” He’s not aware of everything his former knights have done, but he’s heard plenty from the children today. He didn’t think Marie had the patience to teach anyone how to read.

Ivan’s hands fist. “It’s not enough, it’s not—the little boy. Josiah. He’s so smart. I don’t even know where to start with him and even Marie says that he’ll soon outpace her—”

“Well,” Lord Brennan says, “Neither of you are Teachers, true, but there is a school for that--”

“And Annie wants to know why bread rises and why the sun sets and how many seconds are in a day—”

“All kids are curious—”

“Hera staged a whole theater production for my birthday and all we could do was clap—”

Is he missing something? “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“We don’t know any actors or directors to introduce her to!” Ivan cries out. He quickly lowers his voice, but can’t hide the stress around his eyes. “What could we give to a child like her? Like any of them?  Marie and I are out of our depth. It would be so much simpler if one was a Knight!”

The Lord tentatively offers, “If Isla’s a Guard--?”

Ivan gives a cry of distress that he barely capture in the palm of his hand. “Isla! That girl feels like my daughter already, but…she’s been through so much. She doesn’t need a father who teaches her how to fight or a mother who teaches her how to withstand a siege! She deserves to never have to fight again. What could we offer her? What could we possibly give to her she hasn’t already learned on her own?”

A light goes on in the Lord’s head. He takes in the festivities with new eyes. The town’s Baker, Blacksmith, Teacher… His friends have invited every possible parent they could in hopes of providing for the children in ways they felt incapable of doing themselves. As noble as that was…“Ivan, being a parent goes beyond the skills you can give a child. It’s more than fostering talent or an offering an apprenticeship. It’s—”

A horse’s scream drowns out the Lord’s next words.

Ivan is in front of Lord Brennan with his sword drawn before the horses and their blood-splattered riders even round the side of the castle.

-----.

 You throw Annie and Josiah behind you the moment you hear the sound of hooves galloping towards the manor.

“Isla, what—” Josiah starts to ask and then cuts himself off as the innkeepers and their entourage burst into the party.

You smell blood before your eyes register the terrible red staining their fine clothing.

“ORCS!” Mr. Innkeeper screams over the frightened snorts of his horse. He stumbles down from his mount and staggers towards the Lord. “They overtook our carriage—please, my wife, she’s hurt—”

Mrs. Inkeeper is holding her side and seemingly barely holding onto the saddle horn. “Our guards won’t be enough to hold them off—”

“Inside,” Sarah hisses into your ear. She points after Hera who’s already shepherding the younger kids into the building. “Now.”

“—an army—”

“—fast—”

“—waiting for us—”

You move faster than you’ve allowed yourself since you arrived. This is no time to take care in hiding your abilities; there are roars coming from the forest unlike anything you’ve ever heard before. Your senses seem to dial up with your heartrate and you can hear the clash of steel against rock and flesh. You scoop Annie into your arms and leap after Josiah and Sarah.

Mr. Dallen’s face is pale as he ushers you all into the manor. He holds the door open for the townsfolk. The hall fills with the sounds of panic and sobs as fear washes through you like a tidal wave. There have never been orcs south of the mountains, there have never been demons bigger than a horned rabbit in the last twenty years, even when the Winter froze the river—

Mr. Dallen waves down Marie as she sprints to the large doorway. You think that he’s going to pull her inside to safety, but instead he thrusts her bow into her outstretched hands.

“Do not open these doors,” she commands. Behind her the knights are assembling into a formation, their Lord at the center. Ivan stands before them all, barking orders to ready their spears as the trees in front of them begin to sway. Marie pulls a dagger from under her skirts and slices the bottom half of her dress clean off. She kicks it away from her feet as she talks. “Take everyone to the basement—”

“Ma’am, the escape tunnel still isn’t cleared of debris—”

Marie swears so violently that half the townsfolk gasp. She grabs Mr. Dallen by the shoulder, her eyes flicking back and forth between him and her husband. “Then we will draw them away. The moment you think you can, run to the wagon. Get the children to—” She bites her lip. You can see the devastating truth flash through her mind. There isn’t anywhere to go. “Damnit. Bar the door and arm everyone you can.”

Mr. Dallen’s lips are bloodless as he nods. “My lady.”

Marie turns to everyone. Her voice is unlike anything you’ve heard come from her lips; it’s harsh and barking. A commander giving orders much like Ivan is doing outside. “Listen, everyone. We are in danger. Our best estimate is that 25 orcs are marching on the manor. There is no guarantee of survival. The moment this door is breached, it will mean the knights have failed. You must be prepared to fight. Do you understand?”

Twenty-five? Your hands ball into fists and your breath catches in your throat. You’ve heard of entire villages being wiped out by three.

“Then we’ll fight with the knights,” the Baker says. He pushes away from the center of the group and marches to the wall. He pulls down the crossed axes, keeps one, tosses the other to the Blacksmith. She catches it easily. “You’ll need everyone who can hold a weapon.”

Marie never voices her protest. You can see the strain of holding it back in her tense shoulders and her poignant silence. At long last, she nods. “You’re right. Stay behind the knights. They know how to handle the frontline better than you.”

There’s a flurry after that. The townsfolk divide in half. Those unable to fight slide back as those who can start scavenging for weapons. Mr. Dallen grimly pulls two long daggers from under his coat while pointing your neighbors to decorative swords, to ornamental spears, to the heavy coatrack just inside the parlor.

Grimly, you stride past Sarah, ignoring her hiss and darting hands. You can leave the weapons to the villagers, there’s a large knife on the dessert table you can use—

Marie slams a hand against your chest. You stagger back at the weight of the blow, breath knocked from your lungs. You’re more stunned than hurt as you gape at her.

“Children stay here,” Marie says. Her eyes narrow. “No exceptions.”

“But I’m—”

“We don’t have time to argue!” She pushes you further back, clearing the doorway for the armed villagers to run outside towards the knights. “You’re strong Isla, but this isn’t your fight. Stay here. Guard the door.”

The winter wind howls in your mind. You splutter. “But I—”

Marie spins away from you. “Director Sarah.”

Sarah’s arms slide around your shoulders. “Yes, lady.”

 The closing of the door feels like a blow in itself. You stare sightlessly at the unyielding wood as your emotions rage. How could she? You’re strong, you can do more, you can help, you’re the one who kept everyone from starving—

“We need to barricade the windows,” Director Sarah is saying to the townsfolk. Half of them gaze at her uncomprehendingly. Her hands slide from your shoulders slowly, as if testing that you aren’t going to leap outside. When you don’t move, she lets go entirely. “Isla, move the furniture. Hera and Josiah, find something to tie it down with.”

You move on autopilot. There are other hands alongside yours as you push the sofa and armchairs in front of the windows, the townsfolk coming together to defend the manor. Hera darts between you all and pulls the curtains closed, reclaiming the curtain ties to use as rope. She’s got a grim determination in her eyes that looks uncomfortably familiar.

Your attention is on the noise outside. The orcs are slow, but loud. The roars change to squeals and bellows of challenge. Branches break and there’s a terrifying, splintering crash as a tree falls. Metal rings as the knights raise their shields. You can see it all in your mind’s eye, the knights in a defensive line across the length of the garden, the Lord securely in their center. Ivan is shouting about this being what they’ve trained for, that there are more of them than there are orcs, that this city won’t fall—

And the Lord is speaking too, quickly and quietly to Marie. The escape tunnel? Damnit, I should have sent more men—

It will be fine, Marie says. Her bow sings as she holds it ready and you know the way her muscles flex and her eyes narrow from experience. We won’t let a single one of those monsters past us. We won’t--

The knights bellow alongside the orcs. Your heart leaps and your focus is jarred. You’re standing in front of the door again, your hands balled at your sides. Everyone can hear the battle now and the townsfolk scream when the orcs’ battle cries shake the manor.

“Quiet!” Is that your voice? It is. Your eyes slide to the frightened faces behind you. “You’ll distract the knights.”

Sarah steps up alongside you. “And let the orcs know exactly where we are.”

The villagers quiet into aborted whimpers and muffled sobs.

The battle rages, louder and louder. Are orcs big? They sound big. When you close your eyes you can hear the way their feet pummel the earth. Do they have weapons? Metal clashes. A knight screams that their hides are too thick. The Lord shouts back to aim for their eyes. A table splinters, a bow sings, there’s a liquid gasp—

BOOM!

You slam your hands against the door, muscles straining as another blow lands against it. The wood convulses under your hands and the lock creaks. The villagers scream.

“No,” someone whispers. “No, they found us.”

You’re eight and the snow spirits are howling for blood. Your shoulders ache with the effort to hold the door against the wind. The cold is biting at your fingertips and there is an old hope dying in your chest--

Small hands slam against the door next to yours. Hera is snarling and swearing, Josiah is crying. Sarah is telling the kids not to worry, Isla and Hera and Josiah won’t let them in –

They’re here. You’re not alone.

“GET AWAY FROM THERE!”

The orc’s bellow isn’t nearly as loud as Ivan’s roar.

The blow you’re bracing for never comes. Ivan goads the orc to follow him, to leave the manor alone, to eat the man readily available to him—

It does not sound like the knights are winning now.

“My Lord!” Marie’s voice is strained.

“Do not fall back, they’ll corner us—”

“Who is that? Who is—”

The crack under the door lights with a sickly purple. The smell of ozone seeps into the manor. For a moment there is a silence so complete you think you’ve been struck. What was that? Magic? You’ve never seen magic before--

Screams rocket across the field. The Blacksmith’s screams. The Baker’s screams. Marie’s rage-filled howls.

“DEMON KING!”

Your Destiny burns.

---.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

----------------

Thanks for reading! If you'd like read the last part of Isla a week early, please consider supporting me on Patreon(X)!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

the way I have heard so many talented fanfic writers say they started writing because they read someone else's fanfics that are so good they inspired them into becoming writers too? just proved my point that your writing is never 'in vain', even if you dislike it and think it could've been better, it's still good enough for someone out there that it becomes their source of inspiration and perhaps happiness. you'll never know.

but don't ever, ever belittle your own works. just because you don't like them, doesn't mean other people dislike them too. again, you'll never know. there could be someone out there who reread your works every day because those fics you wrote helped them escape reality for a while, they could be reading your works as a way to help get them through a hard time in their life. you'll never know.

your writing may have saved someone's life.

your writing may have inspired someone into pursuing their career and changing their life for the better.

several best selling authors started as fanfic writers, and the majority of fanfic writers started writing because they were inspired by someone's fanfics. you do the math.

your "silly fics" have permanent impact on this world, even if you think they're not good (they actually are good, I promise you, don't let your mind lie to you).

I mean ***I*** personally started writing my first fanfic about 7 years ago, and have been writing ever since, because I was inspired by my favorite fanfic writers. I still remember all the lines I like from those fics I read 7-8 years ago, I still think about those fics I read from 7-8 years ago and still remember the stories very well in my heart. I started writing because of them.

this blog would never have been created at all, if it weren't because of those fanfic writers whose works I read 7-8 years ago.

I wouldn't have so far written about 130,000 words this year alone, if it weren't because of those fanfic writers whose works I read 7-8 years ago.

to all the fanfic writers out there; your works inspired someone, your writing made a difference to someone's life.

[bodhrancomedy]

So, years and years and years ago, I started writing a book.

Today I found a list of the chapter titles from said book.

Help, My Boredom is Slowly Killing Me

This Play is Filled With Mermaids, Melodrama, and Cute Musicians (Not That I’m Complaining)

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Wizards Are Weird and Vaguely Useful

Enthusiasm is Great in Small Doses

: It’s Not Eavesdropping if You Don’t Have to Try

Dressing in Dark Colours is a Villain Cliché

Personal or Politics? Why Choose?

The Pros and Cons of Sneaking Around at Night

The Problem is Getting Them to Stop Talking

Dinner, Drinks, and Discoveries (Of Historical Import)

No, Tara, We’re Not Going to Dramatically Rob Him

Fine, it’s a Dramatic Robbery (Also Am I Being Threatened in Tree Symbolism?)

What Kind of Monster Locks a Child in a Prop Box?

Another Day, Another Attempt at Murder

I’m Sorry I Broke My Parole but It Was Kind of Important (Part 1)

Never Look Your Heroes Up in the Hall of Records

Hey, I Really, Really Fancy You (Please Be Gay)

Oh, Gods, a Plot Twist

Alright, So Now You’re Efficient at Your Jobs

I’m Sorry I Broke My Parole but It Was Kind of Important (Part 2)

Would You Mind? My Cellmate is Dying.

Fuck, I’m Surrounded by *Fucking* Heroes.

I Told You There Were Magical Locks For a Good Reason!

Well, Shit. I Guess That’s That, Then.

Fifteen year old me was having a Time.

[cy-cyborg]

Writing ableism is fiction is difficult, not because it's hard to include, but because a lot of real-life ableism actually does sound almost cartoonishly silly because people often don't even realise what they're saying is bad, and so there's no hesitation behind it. At least when people have said openly transphobic things to me, they know they're being transphobic and are usually saying it specifically to get a reaction, but when people say openly ableist things to me, so many of them are actually genuinely shocked when I don't agree/get upset. I've legitimatly had people say straight-up eugenics-level shit and they're confused that i dont agree with them.

And that's so hard to depict because for some reason, no one ever notices irl, but they absolutely do in fiction and call it corny, lol.

[writing-prompt-s]

You’re a demon. One day, you’re summoned into a living room, and an exhausted woman quickly rambles about needing to get to work and being unable to find a sitter before flying out the door. Now, you stand in your summoning circle, a toddler staring wide eyed at you.

[me-writes-prompts]

-:"Vampire and werewolves cannot be together...or can they?" Vampire x werewolf prompts:-

(Omg, I aboslutely love this request. Had way too much fun writing these! Tag me if you use any of this :) || requested by: anon)

By @me-writes-prompts

The werewolf catching the vampire drinking blood from a dead creature and just standing there in astonishment, not speaking. And the vampire getting startled when they look up.

^^"Gosh, your kind really sneaks up on people!" "You guys are not people, you're blood sucking monsters. Come on, we all know this." "That is not true." "It is."

Werewolves and vampires having annual competitions(as in who can hunt more/get past humans)

Getting paired up as roommates

^^"You cannot leave blood in the fridge! It makes the other food smell disgusting!" "Well, you cannot leave fur all over the bathroom floor either!"

Vampire and werewolves having to work together against humans.

stuck in a room together 👀

"So...what? You're having these mood swings because you haven't been in heat or whatever?" "That is not- I am not having mood swings!" "Oh, so this is natural you. Dang, I feel bad for the people who have to put up with you everyday."

"Look here, you little fang thing, I am not giving up this parking lot because you want to be in the shade!"

Accidentally stumbling upon the werewolf during the red moon, and being scared shit out of their mind.

^^ "H-hi, uhh, I'm your vampire neighbor remember? Me, [name]? Whoa, slow down! I'm not trying to harm you, okay? Look, I don't have weapons! Goddamn, you big puppy..." They mumble, slowly backing into the woods, and making a run for their life.

"Listen, I don't hate your kind. Vampires, that is. So let's just be friends yeah?" "Yeah. Now that I think about it...I don't really hate you guys either."

Falling in love without knowing each other's identities(aka forbidden loveeee)

[amateur-scribbler]

Romance is dead.

It’s a sentence said with such malice, something bitter and twisted; it carries the same pain that comes from choosing to sip from the poisoned chalice.

White roses tinted red with the blood of the romantics, who push this truth up a hill begging the mountain to be forgiving or kind, truthfully it’s all semantics.

Let’s forget we’re lonely just for a second, forget that you don’t love me, and pretend this isn’t an ocean of thick bitterness we’re attempting to swim in.

Romance is dead.

I see it in your eyes when you look at me as just another conquest, yet another prize.

I can’t remember the last time I felt myself get lost in a love song, that feeling that sweeps you off your feet and drowns you in the rose coloured visions of that certain someone.

Love isn’t a quest of convenience, or a tale of simple transactions. It’s heavy and all consuming like quicksand in action.

Romance is dead.

Maybe I think that because I’m lonely, or maybe this gaping hole where romance should be is starting to rot like a tree felled; the earth will claim it, as death has come to claim the love spoken only in soliloquies.

The roses at the funeral will be dripping red like the beating organ that is supposed to embody this lovely feeling. And, it will be quaint, few will mourn the idea that most only know fleetingly.

Because when romance died it came as a shock to no one; the greatest tragedies are almost always predictable, and love has always been all consuming, like Icarus selfishly soaring into the sun.

bury me with the romantics - t.k.o.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt #1093

It couldn't be them. It wasn't them. The prophecy was so vague, it really could be anyone else.

[writers-potion]

Writing Male Fighters

Body Language

Before they start fighting, they will communicate a lot through body language, either conscious or subconscious.

Standing with legs apart, elbows out to the side, shoulders aquared, chin thrust forward and up, hcest inflated and turned full front to his opponent, piercing stare. These cures are intended to make him bigger.

He may hook his hands into his belt, framing his genitals.

Subtly stretching his neck or spine.

Stepping close up to the other, invading the other person's personal space. The one who steps back will "lose" - when this happens, we know that fists will be flying soon.

Skills

When writing a scene from a male point of view, don't make the mistake of writing a detail about basic fighting skills (like landing a fist in the opponent's jaw). For a man (on average) who probably learnt to box in his playground days - it would be better to let the moves come naturally.

For fancier skills (like weapons handling or martial arts), you may explain in fuller detail so that your readers can follow what's happening.

Weapons

Men often have a special relationship with their weapon: very personal, almost intimate. The weapon may serve as a symbol of his power, masculinity and reflect his self-image, even.

The hero may be seen cleaning, repairing, oiling his weapon, bragging about it or comparing it with others'.

Men Against Women

Most men are reluctant to hurt a woman. This instinct is often hard-wired into them, even in martial arts school that pride themselves on gender equality.

While there is no biological reason for sparing a a female fighter - only the sense of good old chivalry - you can show your villain hesitate for a second or hit less hard when a see a woman coming for him.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[unboundprompts]

hi! Idk if you’ve done this yet, but maybe some prompts for a book loving/reader s/o or a book loving couple? 💙

Prompts for a Book-Loving Couple

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

"Hey, babe." He kissed the top of her head as he walked by, removing his work coat and taking off his shoes. "I got you a gift on my way home from work," he told her. "I stopped by that book store on the corner and got the next book in your series that you've been reading. I know you're close to finishing."

Their anniversary was coming up and she had spent the last week and a half reading and annotating a book to give to her partner as a gift. She was so excited to see them read it and find all the notes she left.

They spent every night reading together before bed. Their arms were interlocked, legs intertwined as they read by the light of their bedside lamp. The sound of their soft breathing and the rustling of sheets and pages turning was perfect. Everything about their relationship was perfect.

She was cuddled up next to him, his arm draped over her shoulder as they read from the same book. "Tell me when to turn the page," he whispered, kissing the side of her head.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[writerfae]

No thoughts, just Aiden and Henry hugging!

Also, how come Ranva used to call Henry little crow? (Not that it doesn't fit, it does (duh), I'm just curious if there's a story behind it)

And how did Hela end up in the human realm when she met Aiden?

Forest demons: uniting friends since day one!

And I wanted to rant at you a little about Bendegúz because I realized that I haven't really done that since I talked about his dad, and it made me sad, because I love him (also, I'm scared that sometimes I accidentally mischaraterize him because him and I have the same exaggerated humor but if you mix those together it just makes him sound insane💀)There's a very good reason why the difference between the villain Adél au, the villain Ákos au and canon is what Bendegúz does!

I wanted to tell you about some moments of his that I love (angst warning)

I mentioned that he and Ákos sometimes playfight, and Bendegúz sometimes shows him how to use his spear. And can you just imagine 8 yo Bendegúz with a 3 yo Ákos, and they're playing with sticks (pretending they are spears), and Bendegúz isn't that good with a spear yet, but to Ákos he already looks like an expert ❤️🥺

Also, there's this sweet moment where they're preparing to fly home from the swamp (and it's not the happiest circumstances for Ákos' first, real flight) and Bendegúz apologies for this and promises that after this is over they'll go on a real, nice, pleasant flight

The fact that he took care of Moss (who he doesn't even like) while Ákos was gone

When Adél is told that Ákos is dead the first thing she does is run to Bendegúz and he's holding her so tightly and aaaaa

Just his inner struggle of "It wasn't MY litte brother! I can't be sad!" But as soon as there's even the slightest chance to get him back, he's on it!

Both him and Adél being willing to go to the swamp even though they know that the chances of Ákos being alive are close to zero.

Adél and him spend so much time together! Ever since their parents introduced them to each other as babies they were always together. Never one without the other

Bendegúz learned to fly, and now him flying up to Adél's window just because, is a regular occurrence. They constantly have sleepovers (it's really easy since Bendegúz and his mom live on the castle grounds)

It's really cute because in Bendegúz's house Adél's childhood drawings are hung up, and vice-versa 😭

And they play a lot of boardgames 😭

He is very good at lighting up a bad situation with a joke but never in an inappropriate way. Just in those moments when people need a little cheering up, and this always makes his friends feel all warm inside.🥺

I'll stop cause we'll be here all day...(sorry if this got long)

I hope you liked this little rant 🙈

Ranva called Henry her little crow because of the color of his hair and for a second reason that I can’t say out in the open xD she also referred to her sons as her little crows sometimes, also for that second reason.

And Halea came to the human realm because while fighting the forest demon, the beast and her practically “fell” through an open portal to the human realm that someone (or something) must’ve opened shortly before and left open.

Bendegúz really is a sweetheart, his relationship to the royal siblings is really adorable! You can tell he loves them!