#Transgender author

[the-night-that-feeds-if]

NOT ABANDONED, NEVER ABANDONED

[eve-rose-author]

My debut novel, Rage of The Barbarian, is now available for pre-order! Get it on your preferred digital platform here

[eternitysirys]

It's done.

My book is done.

Six years.

It's done.

No more edits.

No more changes.

It's done.

My story.

My characters.

My heart and soul.

It's done.

My pride and joy.

The fulfillment of a dream.

IT IS DONE.

Now on to the next...

Jk there's still technical work to be done like copyrighting and obtaining ISBNs but yeah. It's done. "Eternity's Irys" is 100% complete. The rest is up to finances. My work, however? Is done.

"Eternity's Irys" is coming to readers October 31.

Stick around to find out how you can get a copy of this crazy gay little book of eldritch warfare and two dudes being bro's! Roommates even!

[kavalyera]

𝒔𝒆𝒊 𝒎𝒊𝒐 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 ( 𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒊 𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 )

paura di uscire, anche se non accade | trans mtf!gianna d’antonio

⟢ a/n: la mia prima volta a scrivere in italiano scusate se ci sono errore :[

version on ao3 for quick translation | wc: 1090 | divider by @/benkeibear

Il buio gelido della mezzanotte che albeggia sulla casa della Famiglia D'Antonio, l'odore della polvere depositata su ciottoli e marmi, la puzza di un qualcosa di dolce, l'odore del mare che circonda l'Italia. Un mare freddo di notte. C'è un sentimento, quello disgustosamente opprimente dell'empatia. Non essere spietati per qualcuno, nientemeno che per Gianni stesso. Gianni D’Antonio. Il figlio d’oro. Il favorito della famiglia.

Santino è avido, è sempre stato un uomo avido, avido. Tutto quello che voleva, e anche di più, lo pretende da tutti gli altri. Lui è così.

Vuole tutto e ancora di più. Lui, è avido. Ma mantiene una facciata di elequonza.

"Gia", chiama Santino bussando alla stanza del fratello. La risposta? Silenzio. Santino bussa ancora, prima di decidere di aprire la porta a se stesso. “Gianni?” La stanza è buia, fredda. Molto freddo. L'odore del profumo—

Aspetta.

Profumo? Santino si guarda intorno nella stanza del fratello. Profuma di ciliegie e di odori dolci e femminili. Qualcosa che Santino si aspetterebbe dalle sue ragazze— e non dalla stanza di Gianni. Oro e ornamenti finemente lavorati sono sparsi ordinatamente per la stanza. Alle pareti sono appesi quadri, la collezione d'arte privata di Gia.

Santino invidia Gianni, da cose semplici a una comprensione molto più complessa. Il suo aspetto, la sua sicurezza, il suo carisma, il modo in cui si comporta; Santino vuole sentire che, la falcata sicura di Gia.

Un’altra cosa: è differente. Più morbida. Le coperte che drappeggiano il letto sono morbide, foderate di pizzo insieme ai cuscini. Fiori in vaso: sul comodino, nell'angolo, accanto all'armadio.

Ora che è qui, forse può rubare l'auto di Gianni per un'ora o due. Santino apre uno dei cassetti di Gia sulla scrivania per le chiavi dell'auto. Lo trova quasi subito, ma sotto c'è un piccolo quaderno. Suscita il suo interesse, così lo raccoglie rapidamente e si siede sul bordo del letto di Gia."Non gli dispiacerà se ho dato un'occhiata ai suoi pensieri,” Santino pensa che mentre sfoglia le pagine. Le parole non lo interessano, poiché si tratta soprattutto di come Gia racconta la sua giornata e le cose che ha fatto. A Santino non importa nulla della sua vita.

Ma c'è qualcosa che cattura lo sguardo di Santino.

‘Non mi piace essere un uomo. Vorrei essere una donna. Prima a Roma ho comprato degli oggetti che mi aiutano a sentirmi meglio.’

“Santino!” Santino ha appena il tempo di accorgersi che Gianni è tornato nella sua stanza. Rapidamente, Gia strappa il taccuino a Santino. “Cosa hai letto?”

“Niente!” Santino promette, mentre prende le chiavi della macchina e le infila in tasca. “Posso avere la tua auto?”

“Non dirlo è papà, per favore, Santino.” Gia sa che Santino sa. “Qualunque cosa leggiate qui, non diteglielo.”

Santino è silenzio, la sua lingua diventa secca. Gia espira pesantemente.

“Perché?” Santino chiede. Santino ridacchia a mezza voce. “E’ uno scherzo, vero?” Gia è silenzio stavolta. “No..?” La voce di Santino si disperde mentre guarda Gianni, osservando l'espressione del volto del fratello.

“No, Santino.” Gianni dice. “No. Vorrei che fosse uno scherzo. Vorrei. Così posso ridere con mia madre quando chiedo di andare in altri posti. Ma non. Fa male desidare qualcosa che non si avvererà.”

Santino guarda Gianni con attenzione, in attesa di qualcosa. Non si sa bene cosa stia aspettando, ma tra i due fratelli c'è silenzio. Sorella? Forse.

Schiocca la lingua prima di passare silenziosamente davanti a Gianni per andarsene. Santino non aveva intenzione di fare nulla. Ma ora lo fa. Gli costerà molto, ma non gliene importerà nulla.

Sono passate quattro o cinque ore da quando Santino è tornato alla villa e ora è di nuovo qui!

“Quello stronzo ha preso la mia macchina.” Gia sussurrò sottovoce mentre vede Santino scendere dalla sua auto. “Cazzo,”

Quel coglione sta tornando a casa dal garage con le borse in mano. Probabilmente un regalo per la sua nuova ragazza. Esibizioniste.

Gia ha un sapore amaro in bocca mentre guarda Santino che torna verso la porta d'ingresso della villa. Il palmo della mano sotto il mento, guardando con i suoi occhi verdi. Gia sospira, la mano gli accarezza la testa mentre lui sbuffa per lo stress. È in difficoltà. Il suo cuore batte forte e i suoi pensieri corrono più veloci dei cavalli in fuga. E se Santino lo avesse detto al padre? E se lo avesse detto a tutti? No, no, no. Cazzo. Non avrebbe dovuto scriverlo, non avrebbe dovuto—

“Gianni!” La voce di Santino è forte dall'altra parte della porta bianca. Bussa, con forza.

“Vattene.” Gia grida dall’altra parte. “Vattene, Santi, Vattene.”

“Le chiavi…?” Santino dice di entrare. Si lascia convincere e Gia ci casca. “Le chiavi dell'auto, le ho prese io. Se non apri questa porta, la tua macchina è mia!”

“Questo fastidioso parassita…” Gia borbotta sottovoce. “Mio dio,” Gia apre la porta, ma Santino entra a forza con un sorriso fastidioso. “sei irritante, Santino.”

“Sì, lo so, cara sorella.” Gia deve ammettere che quelle parole di essere chiamata sorella le hanno dato un po' di felicità.

Santino ha in mano delle borse. Gia è un po' preoccupata per l'interno delle borse. "Santino, che cazzo hai in quelle borse?" Gia chiede, indicandole.

"Sei molto eccitata, Gia." Un'osservazione sarcastica e sciocca di Santino, che si siede sul letto di Gia come se fosse suo. Santino apre la borsa che ha, prima di richiuderla e lanciarla a Gia perché la prenda. “Ho graffiato la tua auto. Non voglio pagare i danni.”

“Certo che hai danneggiato la mia macchina, insolente, disordinato, irritante stronzetto....” Quando gli occhi di Gia guardano la borsa, le sue parole svaniscono mentre elabora ciò che sta vedendo e che suo fratello le ha appena comprato (sacrificando la nuova verniciatura della sua auto). “Cosa?”

L'incredulità colpisce Gia.

“Cos’è questo, Santi?” Gia chiede a Santino che sta scegliendo delle scarpe di Gia che molto probabilmente vuole portare con sé.

“Ha?”

“La borsa, Santino.”

“Sì, è?”

“Gli abiti di seta sono per le donne.”

Gia dice, mentre Santino raccoglie le scarpe— "Non toccarle.” Lei dice severamente.

“Non ti ho ancora comprato un vestito o dei tacchi. Dato che potresti dover iniziare dal primo livello. Bisogna entrarci lentamente.” Santino fa spallucce.

"Non so cosa dire" Dice Gia mentre si siede e guarda l'accappatoio.

“Grazie mille?”

“Benvenuti,” Gia dice che è un modo per colpire Santino.

“Dovrebbe essere il contrario, Gia.” Santino dice.

“Hmmm….. no.” Dice Gianna prima di lanciare un paio di scarpe a Santino. "Ora vattene"

“Hey!” Santino osserva le scarpe. “Puttana.” Sussurra prima di andarsene, posando le chiavi sul letto di Gia.

( wickblr pride anon if you see this i love you )

[shockpulse]

Demon HRT

A story by Shockpulse, inspired by countless amazing artists and authors.

"I've thought about it for a long time." she had told the doctor, "Years, decades, in fact. Since I was 5 or 6. Maybe it's just unhealthy coping mechanisms that caused me to have violent thoughts about those around me, but whatever the case, I was stuck with these 'sinful' urges."

"And how did that make you feel?" he had inquired.

"Alienated. Unlike those around me. My upbringing told me that my thoughts were evil, and I was supposed to feel ashamed of them. But.... I didn't. I embraced them. I labeled myself a 'demon' because of them, and I finally felt happy with who I was supposed to be. Well, I still felt like I didn't belong in this body for gender reasons, but now I had two transition goals to reach for."

"You say 'I', but your system had a different host back then, right?"

"Well, yes, but I'm sort of a.... mixture. Of the two previous hosts, I mean. I share a lot of their feelings and memories, while being a unique person. All three of us have shared these thoughts. Jonathan's agender and Melissa sees herself as a cis girl, so it's no wonder I'd be trans, too." she stated, knowing it was obvious to her, but not to someone outside her own head, "Oh. You meant the demon part, didn't you? Melissa even used to call herself 'Princess of Demons' online, and Jonathan still feels distanced from humanity. It's a strong feeling that we've shared throughout the years, and our newest alter, Zephaniah, doesn't even have a 'humanoid' shape. Even if most of us don't feel like demons, it's a strong enough feeling for me to seek out your help. I really, really want my outside to match my insides. I mean, even better if you could give us the ability to shapeshift at will, but I'll take what I can get, heh."

---

She looked at the pills in her hand, three oblong tablets of deep purple, not unlike the blue-green ones she already took for her gender HRT. She was nervous. Changing biochemistry was one thing, but these pills were going to change her in ways it would almost seem like magic.

"What are a few more pills? I take so many already...." she murmered, before quickly popping them into her mouth and swallowing them with a gulp of soda, the soft drink's fizz doing wonders to override the disgusting taste in her mouth.

At first, there were no outward changes, though within a few days she started feeling overheated and nauseous, as her insides began the slow process of changing her body in ways more dramatic than regular HRT had ever done. Within a month, the nubs of horns had sprouted from her forehead, her nails had started to become long claws, and she had to stop wearing shoes as her feet had elongated and become digitgrade. Over the following years, the pain was unimaginable, far worse than any she had or would experience in her soon-to-be-immortal lifespan. Once, she couldn't sleep for a week straight due to her tail forming, growing new bones one by one. However, she told herself that it would all be worth it in the end, and her spouse did all they could to support her through this difficult time.

Eventually, she finally felt like herself in her body. Ram-like horns curled around the sides of her face, framing her short, bright pink hair and pitch-black eyes. Her teeth had changed, pushed out by a sharper set of replacements, and she had grown accustomed to her sharp claws and other new anatomy. Although people would stop and stare at her, she new that she was comfortable in her own skin at last, and that was what really mattered.

[whitehathexerswriting]

White Hat Hexers Part 1: Battle at the Ball

Written by: @nighttimedaydreams and edited by: Anastasia M. ( @fighterpilotdragon02 / https://www.instagram.com/fighterpilotdragon/ ) tw: transphobia, homophobia, deadnaming

    Elizabeth woke to knocking on her door. She sighed and pushed some raven strands, which had fallen out of her braid and into her eyes, behind her ears. It was midnight, but she was the village���s cursebreaker. Technically, she was a hexer, but she had only ever cursed one person: herself. As mismatched as her skillset and job title were, however, she had the knowledge she needed to keep the village safe. She slipped on a flowy black dress streaked with white – the uniform of a cursebreaker woman. She twirled in it; even after all this time, she loved how it flared. It was no longer at all new to her, but she kept her dress so that it looked fresh to anyone else.  She slipped into and laced up her boots very tight.  They were slightly too big for her; they were a gift from long ago, but shoes weren’t easy to replace in the village, and she didn’t want to go far for something she only wore when going out.  She much preferred walking barefoot, but now wasn’t the time for frivolity.  Someone was knocking at midnight.  She stood up and stuck her hands in her dress’s pockets; other cursebreakers kept their supplies there, but she didn’t have to use them for that, although she did keep the willow bark there. She opened up the door, and standing there was Edward, the younger of Jacob’s two sons.  Jacob was the village leader and a retired knight. Edward was dressed hastily, with loose sleeping clothes, his hair clearly windswept by his speed, but he still wore a ring with the emblem of his house: a spider riding a boar. His heavy breathing filled the night, overcoming the sound of owls and other nocturnal creatures that lived near the forest behind Elizabeth’s house.

    “Elizabeth, come quick,” he panted, turning as if to head back into the village.

    “What’s going on?” Elizabeth asked.

    “It’s my brother. He was out hunting in the woods, and now he’s slowly turning into a toad.”

    “A toad? You are certain it is a toad and not a frog.”

    “NO! Of course I’m not certain about that, you’re the cursebreaker.”

    “I need to know which curse I’m breaking. I suppose I’ll learn soon enough when I see him. I presume he is at your home?”

    “Yes. He just got back from his trip.” “This late?”

    “He was held up by being cursed.”

    “Right, right.”

    Elizabeth knew Edward’s brother, of course. Henry came to her once of his own accord when he was thirteen. She was barely his senior at sixteen back then, but she knew he was under no curse – he simply liked other men. They had maintained touch ever since. She knew the other women in the village swooned over his grey eyes and wavy hair, but she didn’t see it as anything stand-out.

    They reached the house. Jacob was waiting outside.

    “Edward, I thought I said everything was fine, why did you go get that,” Jacob said.

    Elizabeth gripped the inside of her dress pockets tightly. Now wasn’t the time to cause a scene. “Father, with all due respect, my brother clearly has a curse on him. You must know time is of the essence.” “It’s simply a fever. It will pass. Edward, send it away.”

    “Father, you know that is a lie.”

    Elizabeth knew better than either of them how important time was.  She barged into the house.  Let the family squabble outside.  Jacob raised a hand to stop her, but Edward swatted it down.  She saw out of the corner of her eye that Jacob followed her.

    Today was not like the day her and Henry first met. The moment she laid eyes on him, she could tell he had a curse placed on him; she felt its magic pulsing. Soft, weak, barely there – a simple curse. Good and non-infectious, although she herself didn’t worry too much about that. 

    There were a handful of servants milling out about the room nervously moving around Henry.

    “Everyone out,” Elizabeth said. 

    The servants left; Jacob stayed.

    “You too, sir.” 

    He glared at her, but chose to do nothing more, slamming the door to Henry’s room as he left.  She let go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

    “Henry, can you hear me?”

    He nodded.

    Good, good, he’s not gone mentally yet, Elizabeth thought to herself, gathering the willow bark into her hands. “Chew this,” she said, putting it in his mouth.

    Henry did as ordered.

    This next part is always the worst for the patient, Elizabeth thought to herself. She began chanting. Simple sounds – it didn’t actually matter the sounds she made, per se. All that mattered is she drew magic tight around her. All the strings of magic became visible to her.  The level of reality beneath the surface looked like linen threads on a loom, though to the untrained eye it only looked like lines.  To Elizabeth, each string connected to each other, like the way sinew connects to bone: every part interconnected, yet distinct.  Elizabeth remember reading in her studies that there were those who claimed to be able to see the future from the strings.  Hexers always were boastful and cursebreakers tried to avoid dealing with the threads unnecessarily, so Elizabeth never believed in such things, and dismissed the distracting thought.  She could clearly see the strings that made up Henry. Every piece of his thoughts and memories, every piece of his body all connected: all things became only magic to her. 

    There! she thought to herself as she spotted the string of the curse. The aberrant thread formed a breach in the pattern, its jagged lines a clean break from the smooth consistent threads that made up Henry.  Where the other lines looked like linen and connected like sinew, this one seemed woolen and looked like it was connected by a shoddy sewing job.  Even the curse she had placed upon herself was better weaved into her. She grabbed it and wound it around her hand, absorbing it into her and using it to add to the reserves of magic that made up her own curse, reinforce it, make it unbreakable. Elizabeth knew she no longer needed to worry about her magic ever running out on her, but it never hurt to be sure. 

    “Heat from fire, fire from heat,” she said, ending her chant. She watched Henry rapidly and painfully return to his original form. He screamed.

    Jacob barged in.

    “Peter! What did you do?”

    “My name is Elizabeth. And I saved your son’s life,” Elizabeth said, turning on her heels. She stormed out from Jacob’s house.

    Bastard. I save his son’s life, and that’s what he says to me? Elizabeth seethed. A fleeting memory appeared in her head in her hexer teacher’s voice, the first rule she heard when she learned magic: Those with power do whatever they please. 

    It would be simple for her to turn him into a toad.  That would neatly take care of the problem.

    No, no, I’m not like that; the first duty of a cursebreaker is to do no harm, Elizabeth reminded herself.

    She began to chant to herself. “Heat from fire, fire from heat, heat from fire, fire from heat…” Soothing words; there’s a reason she ends cursebreaking with them. Her feet moved in time with her speech. She heard other footsteps. She kept walking. Henry appeared in front of her.

    “Hey, Re,” she said tersely to him.

    “Elizabeth, I’m sorry for my father’s behavior.”

    “I’m sure you are,” She took a breath and looked at Henry. He had come out here so quickly after she left; she clenched her fists in her pockets a couple of times. “You really shouldn’t be moving around so much right now.  I apologize for my tone earlier; I was being rude to you. You’re not your dad.”

    “He has given you offense, and the hour is late. You have offended me none.”

    “Drop the formalities, Re.”

    “Oh thank magic. You know I hate talking like that, Liz.”

    Elizabeth laughed, “You really do.”

    “Well, while I have you here, there’s a ball coming up soon in the Lord’s manor.”

    Elizabeth had gotten a letter about that; as a cursebreaker she was invited as a matter of etiquette, not of desire.

    “You know I don’t do parties, Re.”

    “Please make an exception, just this once.”

    “Why? Are you asking me to attend with you?”

    “Magic forefend! No! Not like that at least, but there is a man I want you to meet.”

    “Ah, so you’re setting me up. You know I have no interest in marriage either.” She doesn’t say the quiet part, that she could care about marriage if it was between her and someone like her. Those people don’t exist. Even other cursebreakers considered her an outsider.

    Henry laughed. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I know you’re a spinster through and through. No, I want you to meet the man I’ve been seeing.”

    Oh. Oh! Elizabeth thought to herself. “Oh that’s amazing, Re!  … Does Jacob know?”

    “No.”

    “My lips are sealed. Cursebreaker-patient confidentiality.”

    “You invoke that right a lot.”

    “This village has a lot of secrets. I keep them.”

    Henry nods solemnly. “So, will you come?”

    “I suppose I can fit time in my busy schedule.”

    “You work on a summons basis!”

    “Speaking of which, you will need to contact the Curse Corps; they deal with the hexers after all.”

    “Right, right. I was with him tonight, you know.”

    “The hexer?!” Elizabeth grinned.

    “Magic, no!” Henry laughed out loud, “Me and Thomas, the man I’m courting, but we were seen and… you don’t think he was cursed too, was he?!”

    “He may be. Where does he live?”

    “About a half day’s ride north.”

    “Mina watches over that region. She’s a good cursebreaker. He’s probably fine. It was a simple curse.”

    Henry calmed down at that. “Good, good.”

    Elizabeth yawned and stretched, the interrupted sleep finally getting to her. “Well, as you said, it’s late.” As much as she liked talking to Henry, she knew the two of them rarely let a conversation end, and she was still tired. “I already have an invite to the party, so I’ll be there and meet with Thomas. But right now, I’m going to meet my bed.”

    Henry laughed, “It is late, I’ll give you that. I’ll see you there.”

    He turned and left. Elizabeth walked into her house, changed out of her uniform and into a simple nightgown, and fell onto her bed and to sleep.

***

    The party was upon them. Elizabeth was wearing her uniform; it was the fanciest outfit she had. She really should start charging more for her service, but she knew not everyone could pay. Maybe she should seek a proper patronage, perhaps once Henry took over his house. She shrugged at her thoughts. She watched couples dancing while she sat alone eating cake at her candlelit table.  Her eyes wandered to the flame of the candle; she did always like the sound the flickering flames made.  It was different from the crackling of wood, a sound unto itself.  The only other thing that compared was the sound grass made blowing in the wind.  Although, no one ever seemed to talk about the beauty of either. Her leg was bouncing from her boredom, but the cake was strikingly good. She needed to find out the recipe. Henry approached her with a man who stood a head taller than her in tow. The newcomer’s arms had the look of an archer’s.

    “Elizabeth, this is Sir Thomas. Thomas, this is Cursebreaker Elizabeth,” Henry said.

    “Well met, Cursebreaker Elizabeth,” Thomas said.

    “Please, Elizabeth is fine. No need for formalities, Thomas. We’re among friends,” Henry said.

    “Are you quite certain?” Thomas asked, his face scrunched.

    Elizabeth takes another bite of cake. “Yea.”

    “Then, I must say, Henry has told me much about you.”

    “Oh?”

    “He speaks to your kindness, your charity, and your calm demeanor.”

    She laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “He speaks half truths. But he has told me little of you, so who are you?”

    “I am the firstborn son of Sir Matthew of Huntersford and Lady Mary of Riverside. Heir to both fortunes, excelled in my studies, bested three tourneys held by our host.”

    “Boastful.”

    “I-” He stopped at that, jaw going slightly slack. “I suppose I am.”

    “He’s really not that bad, he’s swee-” Henry started before he abruptly cut off with a choking sound, and suddenly Thomas started choking too. It rippled out from there. Elizabeth stood up. She felt the magic smothering the room. A curse. She looked around the room.

    No, several curses woven together, she thought to herself, feeling the magic that smothered her. An asphyxiation curse, a transformation curse, and a memory rewrite curse, all woven together? How? That shouldn’t work, and for what reason?  Who would attack here? 

    Elizabeth shook herself. She had to solve this. She started drumming her fingers on the table, trying to think this through. She started moving; it helped her think. Walking by the people that had fallen into an unconscious daze, she saw in the crowd of downed dancers many faces of cursebreakers she knew. Her mind began listing them as she noticed each face. 

    Mina, Alexander, Paul, Mary – did all of this region’s cursebreakers come?  Was that normal?  Elizabeth shook her head to dismiss the thoughts.

    She looked up, and she saw a man about her age standing up. He wore a black and white suit – the outfit of a cursebreaker man. He was looking around in just as much shock as her.

    Is he the hexer? She thought to herself. She started to approach him. Softly, she began the vocables of magic. The sounds kept getting caught in her throat, the wall of magic in the room overriding her attempts to bring magic to her. She was near enough now to hear him chanting the same. His voice was a pleasant baritone; in another life, she imagined he could be a singer.

    He saw her out of the corner of his eye and turned to her. “Is this magic smothering you too?” he asked; she could now see the strain in his face. How hard had he been trying to push his magic?

    “Yes. I can feel the curse, but I can’t reach the weave.”

    “Then we’re in the same boat. I’m Michael. I must admit to being anewcursebreaker, justpassedtheexamlastwe-”

    “Elizabeth. Now breathe. I’ve been at this for about a decade now. Although I’ll say I’ve never seen anything like this before. Multi-curses are incredibly rare,” she said. And why weren’t you affected? Just who are you?

    Michael took a breath. “What do we do?” His hands were shaking.

    “Our job. We don’t have long, either; this curse is powerful, so it won’t take long before it will become truly irreversible. Panic will just make us sloppy. Focus, what are the facts we know?”

    “Right, right, focus, I can focus,” Michael said, his hands still shaking. “A powerful curse has been placed upon the castle; we don’t know why.” His hands kept shaking. “It smothers our magic, and, for some reason, us two have not been affected by it.”

    “Not entirely accurate, but good enough. Keep your mind on what you know,” Elizabeth said. Drumming her fingers on the side of her dress, she hurried to reach the next room.  Her dress billowed backwards and fluttered behind her with the speed of her movement. I need to know if it’s the whole castle, but the amount of magic here, it almost rivals what I’ve taken in over the years.

    Michael hurried behind her. “Wha-what are you doing?”

    “Checking the manor; we just know the ballroom is cursed, not the rest,” Elizabeth said, crossing the threshold of the next room, where she got hit by the wall of magic even more intensely than where she came from, and was forced back into the ballroom. “Huh. Cursed room, too.”

    “What’s theplan?”

    Elizabeth looked around the room; her eyes settled on the other unconscious cursebreakers. “Got any rosemary?”

    “What? Ah, y-yes.”

    “Excellent, get all their rosemary too.” Elizabeth looked at the candles lighting the tables. They are not ritually made, but it should work. Rituality is just a guide after all. She began to gather up the candles, carefully trying to not extinguish their flames.

    One to the north for the winds which guide ships, one to the east for the sunrise which brings the dawn, one to the south for the stars which guide sailors, one to the west for the sunset which brings the dusk, and one for the center which returnbrings one back to the self,  Elizabeth thinks to herself, remembering where to put the candles for the ritual. It had been a long time since she did any true cursebreaking with proper technique instead of just ripping the magic out to feed her own. Michael approached her; his hands were shaking still.

    “I’ve got the rosemary you wanted.”

    “Thank you.”

    She began the vocables of magic once more. The smoke from the rosemary began to take the shape of the weave, but it began to dissipate.

    No! No!

    Then Michael’s baritone voice joined in. The two of them together forced the weave to take shape.

    Elizabeth saw where the aberrations in the weave were around the room.  They were sloppy connections like the curse on Henry earlier.  This wasn’t the work of a practiced hand, but someone working unsure of the weave’s pattern.

    How did they get so much power if they are this sloppy?  It almost feels… borrowed.  In the same way using a quill that isn’t yours does.   Elizabeth thought to herself.  She noticed Michael in the weave. 

     Michael himself was covered in sewn lines. It wasn’t a shoddy job; it was a lot like hers, as if they had been taught to sew the weave by the same person. If she wasn’t intimately familiar with what she was looking at, she may not have noticed, but his were fainter than hers. They had not had as much time to set or absorb power.

    Is he like me? Similar at least? If he is, are there yet more; am I not alone? No, no time to think about that. Just don’t touch him. Focus. The room is ours, Elizabeth thought to herself. She grabbed hold of line after line; she pulled on it, acting like a seam ripper, and spooled the loose magic around her. It was hers to have, hers to keep; she grabbed what should’ve been the last thread, but it grabbed her.

    A voice pounded in her head. CURSEBREAKER, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE INTERFERED. NOW YOUR MAGIC IS MINE.

    Elizabeth felt herself unraveling. Memories flashed by. She felt like she was burning. She had felt this once before, when she had reshaped herself.

    She knew this could only end one way. No. No! I won’t let it end like this.

    YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. NO CHANCE. ALONE IS HOW YOU DIE.

    She pulled back on the magic trying to hold herself together.

    “She’s not alone!” Michael said, his voice cutting through the pain. She felt his hands helping hers guide the magic back to her. They were still shaking. But they were enough. She began braiding the weave of magic together.

    WHAT!  BUT HOW?!

    “Because we’re cursebreakers, hexer bastard!” Elizabeth screamed out, grabbing tight onto all the threads of braided magic, and her and Michael tore them from the hexer. The pair pulled the magic into them and collapsed.

    “We won!” Michael cheered out in an airless laugh, a bright smile on his face as he lay on the ground, collapsed. The other party goers, breathing hard as if they had just ran a marathon, began to get up.  Elizabeth stayed supine upon the ground and was trying to get control of her limbs again; they felt wooden.  There was a static buzzing about her ears.  It sounded like the flickering of the candles, but just ever so off, and it was so much more annoying.  Measured footsteps came from the hallway outside the ballroom echoing in.

    “I wouldn’t rest on your laurels just yet. What a pain in the neck,” a man’s voice said. Elizabeth recognized it: it was the same as in the weave, and now, without the pounding of magic, she recognized it even more.  It was Jacob’s.

    Elizabeth got up onto one knee. She lifted her chin and looked up at the hexer.

    “Jacob?” Elizabeth asked, shocked.

    “Yes, I had hoped to deal with my worthless son here. Although I will also be glad to be rid of you.” He spat out the last word. He lifted his hand and began chanting.

    “Father?! What are you doing?” Henry cried out, his voice cutting through the noise. He looked shocked and appalled.

    Jacob started laughing. “My fool of a son. I know whom you love; who do you think cursed you and Thomas that night? Your brother just had to get that involved. But, at least he’ll take a wife.”

    Elizabeth seized this moment of distraction; grabbing the raw weave, she chanted fast, “Heat from fire, fire from heat,” and she bound him with the threads of the weave. His arms were constricted to his sides, and his gagged voice fell silently. He started choking.

    “Liz!” Henry shouted.

    “What? He was a threat. Give me a knife. I can end this quickly.”

    “You are not an executioner, Elizabeth; he shall stand trial. He is, unfortunately, a noble. To kill him without due process is a serious offense,” Henry said, spitting in the direction of his father.

    Elizabeth looked at Jacob, his face turning pale. Rage was building inside her. Her feet tapped the floor hard until she started making her way towards him. Henry and Thomas both grabbed her shoulders.

    “Cursebreaker Elizabeth, please,” Thomas pleaded. She shook them off. Michael had gotten in front of her.

    “Elizabeth, what is the first rule?” Michael asked, his arms trembling.

    She remembered the first rule she was taught when she learned magic. “Those with power do what they please.”

    There was a flash of recognition on Michael’s face. It was clear to Elizabeth that he was taught in the same manner as her. “Not the first r-rule of m-magic, the first rule of c-cursebreaking.”

    Her shoulders slumped. “To do… no harm.” She loosed the grip of the weave around the man’s throat, but tightened the magic gagging him. She really didn’t want to hear him talk right now.

    She turned her back to Michael, her dress flaring out as she did, and sat back down at her table. Henry, Thomas, and Michael joined her at her table. Her feet were still tapping the floor. The other people in the room looked at Elizabeth in fear of her, and they gave the table a wide berth. The mood had been quite soured. Elizabeth didn’t care. She felt incredibly exhausted. She ate some more of her cake.

[bookspoemssongsetc]

I write :)

Hey y’all!

I write poems, original stories, fanfics, songs, etc.

This sideblog is where I post that stuff.

My main is @unstableunicornsofasgard

I take requests.

Just send me an ask (I don’t do DMs)

No nsfw requests please

These are the fandoms I write for:

Mha

Kny

Pjo/hoo/toa/tsats

Tsoa

These are the ships I write for:

Kny:

Sanegiyuu (possibly sabigiyuu too)

Genmui

Mha:

Bakudeku

Shinkami

Erasermic (maybe)

Pjo/hoo/toa/tsats:

Percabeth

Solangelo

Conchel

Valgrace (maybe)

Frazel (maybe)

Shelper (maybe)

Tsoa:

Patrochilles

These are the characters I write about (in angst, or fluff. I specialize in both):

Kny:

Giyuu Tomioka

Sanemi Shinuzugawa

Genya Shinuzagawa

Muichiro Tokito

Yuichiro Tokito

Shinobu Kochou

Yae (kudos to those who even know who she is)

Mha:

Izuku Midoriya

Bakugou Katsuki

Shouto Todoroki

Denki Kaminari

Eijirou Kirishima

Kiyoka Jirou

Shinsou Hitoshi (maybe)

Shota Aizawa (maybe)

Hizashi Yamada (maybe)

Pjo/hoo/toa/tsats:

Percy Jackson

Nico DiAngelo

Leo Valdez

Clarisse La Rue

Will Solace

Annabeth Chase (maybe)

Chiron (maybe)

Tsoa:

Patroclus

Achilles

Chiron (maybe)

DNI:

MAPs/pedos, TERFs/transphobes, homophobes, antisemites….

Just don’t be a dick

Other than that…

Welcome

HEY!!!!

YOU!!!

YES YOU!!!

Go follow these awesome poets/writers:

@poemsofanentomologist

@counterculturecryer

(ill add more later)

Credits to @inhumanliquid for the ‘get fucked’ banners tysm <3)

I forgot who made the other ones, but if you find them, lmk, and i’ll credit them

If you would like to be mentioned, lmk

If you don’t wanna be mentioned, lmk

Love yall!!

[staxdeadempress]

Today I launch my first webcomic

"Who ever claims the Shard of Tephim can have their wish granted. Deep in the forest, the Ishtani think they've found it. Many hands wish to claim the shard, but only one can.

Rohta, a young Ishtani Guardian, has their life upended upon its discovery, forcing them to understand their own wish."

[bravegrumpy]

I am anxious as I start my drive through the mountains, 2 lane road, twisting as if cut through the rocky terrain. My ears pop as the elevation increases, and I continually ride the brakes as I take hairpin turns, practically praying that I won't fall off the cliffs or run into an oncoming traffic. As the paved section narrows into a single lane gravel path, just wide for my coop to pass, while just scraping the driver's side mirror, I start to regret taking the mountain pass, rather than spending the extra month of travel time to go around the range.

I have some paints and brushes in the car, allowing me to perform minor fixes and injuries but rolling off this cliff, is far more than i am prepared for, especially if the paint tubes break. As I round the next bend, I realize I only have 2 extra containers of fuel which is not nearly enough for a fill up. Based on the map I reviewed back in the library-museum at home, i surmised that I could cross the range through this pass within a tank and about six hours.

But that map assumed the pass was paved.

It is not paved. Not even close. The maze of roads means that I so not even know if I'm still on the pass.

I also wish there was some way for me to have access to a map, if only to orient myself.

--Audio recording stored in the Academy Archives. Skylar needed special access to hear it, as the fidelity of audio seems to degrade with each play. We figured out how to play it, but it is not technology from the river valley.

[sojournerstales]

GIRLS AND GHOSTS - a sapphic short story collection

I have a really good reason for being so inactive, it's called writing and self-publishing an entire book.

It's a 24-story collection of sapphic horror, romance, and ghosts. It's really good, you should watch this space for more info to come like a pre-order link and some chapter previews maybe.

[zdux]

Left Wanting

I do not want to be the main character of my own story

I do not want to be the so called hero, I don't like it when I am looked to first, when I am the one people glance to for an answer the moment a question leaves someone's lips, all eyes on me as if I am an angel descended from the heavens to be stared at with awe

Awe in their eyes, awe, hope, this pleading look for guidance and yet I cannot guide myself to the things I want most, I cannot guide my pen to the page I cannot guide my hand onto his I cannot guide myself from this room to the next without feeling the pain in my legs grow with every step I take. I know that I must step, for I have no other choice, why else would they have wasted all that time teaching me how to walk if not for me to take steps of my own and yet I find myself glued to the floor, my shoes stuck down in tar like Cinderella and yet I am no princess, I am nobody's princess.

A small part of me desperately wants to be, to be someone's princess, to be saved from a tower by a knight in shining armor but I stuff it down, I bury her in my closet like the skeleton she is; thin, fragile, weak. So easily broken, so easily bent, so I hide her deep deep down in the castle dungeons that makes up my past and I tell myself to let her rot but she is already rotten there is no meat on her bones to be picked away by vultures. She is rotten because she no longer exists and she is rotten to me, I find her rotten I do not like the taste of her name on my tongue as it was once my own.

I do not want to be the main character of my own story because I once was and years upon years later I find myself realizing that Achilles was right, no hero has a happy ending. The story cuts of at the best moment of their lives, it pans to them staring into the sunset, surrounded by loved ones with a smile on their face but the sun is too bright on their skin for the scars to be seen. They link arms with their friends, hold their family close to them, kiss their lover with all the passion of an musician and the gentle touch of a sculptor before the screen fades to black and the viewers are left with a smile, thinking, knowing, that it was a happy ending but it wasn't. The show never goes on long enough to let the sun set and the scars be shown again, to see the blood flow start up once more. The arms unlink from one another as the friends realize the monster that stands before them, their family retracts as the warm skin they felt turns to fur before them and their lover watches in horror as the lips that they once kissed now bare fangs and snarl at them. The sun is down, the story is "over" and yet the hero now stands before everyone they hold dear as they realize they have lived long enough to become the villain, they are now the monster in another person's story, they are now the dragon to be slain.

And should those they love try to adjust, try to learn how to care for dragons no amount of healing potions will cure the burns they collect when I breath fire upon them. No amount of gold can replace the furniture I crush as I try to fit myself inside a house not built for me, no amount of flights on my back into the sky will make up for the time someone slips and I am too slow to save them, like Icarus they fall and like Daedalus I can only watch on in horror as I realize it was my own creations, my own ideas that lead to their death. They may blame it on their want to fly but deep down I will always know it was my giving them wings that is to blame.

I do not want to be the main character in my own story because I am already wearing so much armor, armor that will not come off after years of use it is rusted onto my body and I cannot find the strength to take it off. The sword I once used to vanquish foes and the shield I once used to protect the kingdom now beaten and battered, the pommel cracked, the leather ripped, and the steel bent out of shape: irreparable.

My helmet no longer covers a mind that dreams of a better life, my chest plate no longer protects a strong and noble heart, my greaves no longer cover legs that carry me across the kingdom. I am rusted, I lay in a field where I once fought battles and let the earth overtake me, the plants using my hollowed out armor as a new home and yet I still sit inside it. In the field where children play, where families have picnics and lovers kiss for the first time I sit, rusted and overgrown, unable to shake the image of the bodies that once lay in that field soaking in their own blood.

I do not want to be the main character in my own story because no matter if I am the princess, the dragon, or the knight I do not get a happy ending. No matter if I am rescued, if I am slain, or if I am hailed as a hero, I am left wanting. The crown atop my head means nothing as I crave for the peace and solitude of my tower, the sword in my belly does not give me the release of death that I crave as my scales stop it from piercing my heart, leaving me to hide in my cave in agony, and the shield on my back does not protect me nor others from the pain and grief of what I have seen, it does not protect from the thoughts that race in my mind.

I do not want to be the main character of my story. I have been the princess, the dragon, and the knight, and yet I am still left longing. My story is not yet done but I do not wish to be in it. Maybe the next chapter will not be about me, maybe the next chapter will change my story, maybe the next page, the next line, the next word, will make me want to be the main character. Maybe one more day in the tower, one more piece of treasure, one more foe slain or peasant saved, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe! I cry out, praying my author chooses to be kind to me and yet I realize with a shock that I am still standing with my shoes in the tar and a pen in my hand. My eyes unglaze and I look into the other room which I have so desperately been trying to get to and see my desk and my paper waiting for me and yet I still cannot unstick myself from the floor as I realize I am my own author. The pen in my hand feels like a shackle just as much as the tar on my shoes and yet I know it is the one thing that can change my story, the one thing that can give the hero not just a happy ending but a conclusion, a reason to be proud of being the main character of my story. And yet, I stand still. The tar has dried, I could slip out of my shoes and cross it now and yet I don't. Why don't I, why don't I leave this retched room and finish my story, why do I stand here like the princess waiting for be saved, like a dragon caught in a cage, like a knight caught in a trap?

I do not want to be the main character of my story. I do not want to be the princess, the dragon, the knight, or the author and yet I am all of those things. The pen in my hand my sword, the shoes on my feet my glass slippers and the tar that surrounds me my treasure hoard. The other room is my happy ending, it is how I escape the tower, it is how I secure my gold, it is how I save the princess. I curse all three of them for being in my way and yet I know it is not their fault it is mine alone, I am the author who has been avoiding writing, I am the author who keeps saying I have writers block when the publication house tells me they need another chapter, I am the author who does not want to write my own story.

I am the author, not the main character. The main character, my façade, is nothing more than what I wish to be. I sit here and curse myself "I do not want to be the main character, I do not want to be the main character, I do not want to be the main character," over and over again but I know that those words are a lie every time they leave my lips. The main character is exactly who I want to be but I am the author, the author who is so jealous of my own protagonist that I cannot bring myself to finish their story.

I want to be the main character in my own story.

I am instead the author, left wanting.

[sjw-cafe-mew-mew]

Hey! Do you like isekai? Do you like otome isekai specifically? Do you like men in a gay way? Then you might like the webnovel I've been working on: Reborn as the Second Male Lead.

As a nonbinary author trying to survive, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could take a look at my patreon and maybe show it to people you think might enjoy it. Even if you can't support me monetarily, I'd appreciate if you could support me with your eyes.

[eve-rose-author]

My book, Rage of The Barbarian, is officially published! Get your digital copy below, or dm me to buy a print version

[shinyasahalo]

[alectepohe]

Avast! Pirate Stories from Transgender Authors edited by Michael Earp and Alison Evans @alisonwritesthings is out now!

More info here.

[thelostwordsofangelprimrose]

The Computer In The Sun - A Novel

Five years ago, I began to write a story. One of pain and suffering and death and-

No. That isn’t right at all. Five years ago I began to write a story based off an idea I heard on a podcast. One that no longer exists, but still became a part of me all the same. I took this idea, this… fraction of a concept and dwelled on it until it felt real, alive even. I could feel it’s beating heart beneath my fingertips with each strike of the keys. In it’s life I found peace. I found an escape from the things that afflicted me, from the people who inflicted suffering upon me.

And so I made this story bleed for me. I took it apart over and over again, covering myself in it’s viscera so that I could survive the hell I had to endure.

I’m safe now, a world away from the abuse I experienced, and yet it feels just as real in every memory I have. Every sharp word and raised hand, every bit of disgust and hatred levied by the family who was meant to protect me. Perhaps that’s why I am releasing this story now, as a way of letting go of the pain I suffered, of the death I feared at their hands.

I began writing this story before I knew I was trans. I was a different person when the first words touched those pages, but then time changes us all. It is, after all, the only constant.

The Computer In The Sun is a work of science fiction, a fantastical tale of broken hearts and simulations and creatures the darkness hides from us. It’s about love and despair and a thousand other things that perhaps only I will ever know the extent of, but I hope you can gain something real from reading it, just as I have from writing it.