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#fantasy au
Writing Prompt #1774
"I've grown tired of diplomacy."
The young noble took his seat at the head of the table, inspecting the weapon he often kept at his side for decoration.
"I'm beginning to consider that a war, at least, we can win."
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starker-sorbet · 2 days ago
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Dark king Anthony crowing his lover Peter as his consort to rule the kingdom at his side for eternity.
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arrowflier · a day ago
Methods of Magic (Witchy AU)
You can read Part One and Part Two on Tumblr, or all of it on AO3!
Content warning for part 3: death mention
Part Three
“My magic is wrong.”
A pause.  Two pairs of eyes blinking at you, one puzzled, one knowing.
“That’s fuckin’ stupid,” Milkovich says first.  His brow is crinkled, though it smooths when Gallagher nudges him with a knee.
“What?” he asks his partner, eyes wide.  He turns back to you, and adds, “Magic ain’t right or wrong, kid.  It just is.”
You blink.  
“But it—”
“Must be you,” Milkovich says with a shrug, the movement of his shoulder jostling Gallagher, making the other man twist toward him.
Your eyes stay on them, but you don’t see whatever comes next.  Your vision is inward, hearing those words over and over as they echo through your skull.
Must be you.
Your father watches, disappointed, as you fail again at your first incantation.  The words swim on the page in front of you, and you can’t make them stay still long enough to read them out.  
Must be you.
Your mother begs you to say the words, standing in the open doorway as the storm rages outside.  Your sister is outside, somewhere, lost and confused, and there’s nothing you can do.  Your father isn’t home yet, and your mother looks scared, but the words stick in your throat.  Then your father appears behind her, magic burning around his lips and your sister in his arms, and you feel more helpless than when she was missing.
Must be you.
You force out a phrase you’ve heard your father say hundreds of times, thousands, in the years before he died.  But it doesn’t sound right.  Doesn’t fill the air properly.  And your mother smiles, but it’s sad, like she knows you can’t do it.  Like she knows you aren’t strong enough, that your magic creeps and whispers instead of roaring like the sudden fire it should be when you command it.
Must be you.
Your sister clings to your side at the funeral.  Her little fingers clutch at yours, and her mouth moves with the words the minister speaks.  The air turns red around her lips, in a way it never did for you.  And you wonder, as you’ve always wondered, how you can nurture and protect when the stuff your soul is made of fails at every turn.
Must be—
“Hey,” Gallagher cuts through your thoughts, and you focus again.  His face is closer than it should be, his body bent over the table between you, one knee resting on its surface.  “You okay?”
You’re not.  You nod anyway, jerkily, and pretend your eyes aren’t wet.
He doesn’t look convinced.  But it’s Milkovich that calls you on it.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, scraping a hand over his face as he tugs Gallagher back by the hem of his shirt. “No they ain’t, and that’s not what I meant, kid.”
Gallagher sits back down slowly.
“Not what you…” he says, then, “oh,” when he gets it.
You don’t say anything.  Whether he meant it or not, Milkovich was right, and you know it.  Your magic isn’t the problem.
You are.
You, and the fact that you can’t harness your power for even the most mundane of tasks, while the men in front of you can challenge nature itself with a thought and the wave of a hand.
Everyone is quiet, for a moment.  Them because they don’t know what to say, you because words have never been your friend.  
Besides, it doesn’t matter.  Maybe they can’t help you after all.  It was silly to think that they—
“I’m not really a runic mage, you know,” Gallagher says suddenly, and it catches you so off guard that you drop your glyph-encrusted cup.
It plummets, stops.  Hovers.  Soars back up into a beckoning hand, lifted by glowing marks on porcelain that match those quickly fading from the air at Ian’s side.
You watch him catch it, the fingers of his opposite hand still tracing something in the empty space next to his body.
He must see your disbelief, your confusion, in the way you stare.  Because his lips twitch up in a sheepish smile, there and gone, as he sets the cup safely back on the table.
“Right,” he acknowledges, with a little laugh like he’s remembering something.  “Guess that sounds pretty stupid coming from me, huh?”
You’re not sure you should answer, but Milkovich takes it out of your hands anyway.
“Most things do,” he quips, letting out a snort when Ian turns wounded eyes on him.  He adjust his posture, leaning even more heavily into the arm of the sofa, and adds,
“People literally call you the most gifted runic mage of our generation, and you’re telling this kid that’s a lie?”
Gallagher frowns.
“It is though.”
“I know that, you moron,” Mickey says with a slow roll of his eyes.  “Tell it to the kid who’s lookin’ at you like you’re delusional, and thinks you’re takin’ pity on ‘em.”
He’s not wrong.  You know pity when you see it, and the softness to Gallagher’s eyes is something you’ve seen too many times.  You understand he wants to help you, wants to make you feel better, but that lie on his lips is too much for you.
“I should go,” you say quietly, making to stand up.  Those soft eyes widen, and you can hear Milkovich sigh, but you put your hands on your knees anyway and push upright.
“Wait,” Gallagher tries, making to follow you as you move toward the door.  You don’t stop.  It was a mistake to come here, just like every other choice you’ve ever made.
Your hand is on the doorknob, the blue and green of the wards dancing over your skin with tiny pinpricks of feeling, when he manages to make you halt.
“I blew up a van when I was nineteen,” he says, and it’s such a random statement that it works.
He sees you hestitate, or senses it, because you can hear both of them rise and walk toward you.  You don’t look back, but they stop close enough that you can feel the heat from their bodies.
“It was the first time my magic got out of control,” Gallagher shares, and you wonder why he’s telling you.  “The first, but not the last.”
“At least your magic did something,” you mutter, bitter, tasting salt at the back of your throat.  “At least it worked.”
“But it didn’t,” he insists.  “I was trying to help someone, using all the right runes my brother taught me, but it just…”
“It flew out of him,” Milkovich interrupts.  “Like a fucking fireball.”
“Because my brother’s magic, my family’s magic, it didn’t work for me,” Ian finishes, and his hand lands gently on your arm.  An arm still extended in an effort to leave, frozen there as you try to keep up.
“But you still use runes though,” you say, confused.  The evidence of it is right in front of your face, swirls in the cloudy colors of the wards forming and reforming ancient letters that mean nothing to you.  “They still do what you want.”
“Habit,” he answers, and lifts his hand from your skin to reach past you.  Holds his palm up, lets liquid magic pool there, drawn from the door.
“I like the runes, still,” he says, “and I like what they mean.  But if I need something…”
He closes his hand, reopens it.  Shimmering green magic has given way to a small seed, which grows as you watch it until a shining apple fills him palm.
You stare.  Turn to face him, and stare some more.  His fingers hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t drawn any runes.  And yet…
“It’s emotion, for me,” he whispers, but you hear it like a shout in your ears.  “It always was, I just didn’t know it.”
“I never understood how he does that, either, kid,” Milkovich confesses, taking the apple from his partner’s hand and tossing it between both of his.  “I was never good with all that hand-wavy, mental shit.”  
He raises an eyebrow. “First time I tried to do things his way, I almost killed us both in a fucking tornado.”
No other details are offered.  He wipes the apple on his shirt, takes a crunching bite, and smiles at you through his teeth.
“I always preferred things that were real anyway,” he says, jerking his head sideways to indicate the myriad of charms decorating the walls.  “Things I can make, things I can feel in my hands.”
He’s an artificer.  You already know that.  His whole family had been null before him; the day he was caught with his first enchanted object was infamous for the response of his magic-hating, witch-fearing father.  His line was as famous for being null null as yours was for being incantors.
As Gallagher’s was for rune magic.
“Now you get it,” Milkovich says through another bite.  “It’s not the magic, kid, and it ain’t that you’re broken, or null.”  He snorts, a sliver of apple-flesh falling from his mouth.  “I could feel the magic on you before you even came in, why do you think our wards went haywire?”
You assumed it was because you weren’t wanted.  Now you aren’t so sure.
“What he mean,” Gallagher speaks over him, hunching so he can look into your eyes, “is that you just need to find the right path.”
You start to retort, but he doesn’t give you a chance.
“Not the path someone else chose for you,” he says firmly, “but the one that you feel in your soul.”
“And if I can’t find it?” you ask, fearing the answer.
“You will,” he promises.  “Trust me.”
You aren’t sure when you ended up outside again.  But here you are, facing the door one more time from the other side, watching the wards fade back into wood like smoke slipping through a crack in a wall.  You might think it hadn’t happened at all, that you had hallucinated on their doorstep waiting for your courage to find you, except for a weight in your pocket that wasn’t there before.
You reach in, feel your fingers close around something hard.  Bring it out.
An apple seed, encased in amber.  Grow true in runes you shouldn’t know etched on the surface.
You put it back in your pocket, and take a breath, and turn away.
It’s time to go home to your sister.  And maybe to yourself, too.
“Soft motherfucker,” Mickey mutters as the kid leaves their doorstep, a spring in their step that wasn’t there before.  “You always have been.  Don’t think I didn’t see you sketch that.”
Ian shrugs.  
“They needed a reminder,” he says simply.
“What’d you etch it on, anyway?” Mickey asks, leading the way back into the house proper.  “Couldn’t tell from where I was standin’.”
Ian’s responding grin is too smug, and Mickey stops, then groans.
“The charm you magicked into his pocket,” Ian answers snaking his hands around his partner’s waist.  “You always were sensitive.”
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persphonesorchid · 2 days ago
↣ Mark Of The Arcane || Teaser ||
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↣ Summary; Centuries before, in the times of the ancient Kings, a prophecy was heard. When the three kingdoms of Valerem fall to ruins, their saviour would come in blinding starlight. Who is this saviour, you may ask? None other than Min Yoongi, who was too busy being late to work to realise he definitely wasn’t on earth anymore.
↣ Part; TEASER
↣ Release date; ??/??/??
↣ Warnings; Swearing, mentions of kidnapping.
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↣ Notes; Finally worked out the kinks and now the teaser is here, now this teaser consists of two scenes that happens at different points in the story. The story itself will be about 8-10 chapters long because there's so much planned and so much to do (I'm crying blz help) I hope you guys enjoy this little look! I'm super excited about it!! Let me know if you want to be tagged, drop a comment or swing by my ask box! Love y'all!
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"What the fuck." Yoongi whispers under his breath, gripping the soft, linen sheets between his fingers. He looks around, high walls surround him at every turn, and a light breeze pulls his gaze to the large window near the bed he was in. White curtains flutters softly with the wind, raising gracefully off the floor and sending sunlight glittering across the gold embroidery. There was a chair next to the bed, as though someone had been sitting there, a book laid on it, but he couldn't make out the words on the cover. On a small table pushed against the wall was a porcelain basin and white washcloth, and a gold candle holder that held none. His head was pounding, and Yoongi would've paid attention to the throbbing pain in his temples if he'd woken in his own damn bed. He looks around some more, eyeing the dark, heavy-looking door at the far corner. There was a large bookshelf next to it, filled with books, but once again, he couldn't read the spines. Now, Yoongi was usually nonchalant about everything. Easy to seem as though nothing ever bothered him to anyone not close enough to know any better. He would love to have that air of nonchalance now, to brush things off and store this at the back of his mind to ponder later. He wonders, if he'd taken something last night, maybe this was just some great big acid trip, or he was actually losing it after staying up too many nights and having too much damn coffee. Yoongi is pretty damn sure someone kidnapped his ass. That's it, someone broke into his shitty apartment and found nothing of value and took him for ransom. "What the fuck." Yoongi slowly removes the covers from off his legs, carefully, looking around to see if there were any cameras. He's seen movies; someone is always watching. The chill of the room hits him immediately, and he shudders, placing his bare feet on the floor. He sits up in the bed and waits a moment, eyes scanning the room as if something was going to jump out at any moment. He takes a breath, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye, he was starting to feel the headache now. Throbbing with each beat of his heart, harsh enough to hurt behind his eyes every time he shuts them. He gets up, taking slow, tenetive steps towards the door. When the curtain flutters again, he stops, gazing out of the window, peeking just through the crack in the curtains with a frown. He could just make out mountains in the distance, and the tops of trees far off, the view alone telling him that he was pretty high up. Okay, not only was he kidnapped, but he was already shipped off to another country. Yoongi feels panic well up in his chest, as it dawned on him, that he was so far away from home. No longer had he the comfort of his small apartment in the city, and even though his neighbours got pretty annoying most of the time, he was already missing their too loud arguments. Before Yoongi could move to the window to get a better look, the door swings open. A man comes in, his hair a brilliant shade of red, muttering to himself as he focused on something in his palms. He looks up and freezes at the sight of Yoongi just standing there, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler. Yoongi looks around quickly for anything he could use as a weapon, and grabs the candle holder. It was heavy in his hands as he holds it out at the stranger. "Where the fuck am I?"
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"Who are you?" Yoongi felt dizzy, the room before him swaying, the corners of his vision blurring and dark. Rope bites into the delicate skin of his wrists, burning every time he twists his hands trying to break free, or at the very least, loosen them. From his position on the ground, the marble cold under his knees where he knelt, he squints at the man before him. He's said nothing in the five minutes he's been in the room with Yoongi, simply watching him with enough scrutiny to make him uncomfortable. For a moment, a long one where they just stared at eachother, Yoongi felt as though the man was looking through him. Dark eyes narrowed, but far off as though his mind was not present, somewhere else entirely. "Me?" The man mutters, and Yoongi eyes the scar that ran from under his right eye and ended at his top lip. Hair a cobalt blue, framed his eyes and swayed with the tilt of his head, "No more than a man." He gets up from the wooden chair, and Yoongi noticed then, that the darkness at the corner of his eyes was not him on the pinnacle of losing consciousness, but something that moved with the man. Dancing at the edges of the room, curling an unfurling on itself in a way that was not natural. "You are the child of the prophecy?" The man sounds amused, if not a little offended, "You're the one the seers spoke of so highly?" He clicks his tongue against his teeth. His steps makes no sound as he approaches, crouching down to meet Yoongi's eyes. Yoongi holds his stare with a glare of his own, even though his head was pounding and the shadows moved closer. Climing up the walls like snakes, slithering closer, moving across the floor to where he knelt. He wasn't surprised anymore, at people knowing who he was before he'd even met them. The man laughs, a cruel sound that echoed off the walls. "They think you can save them?" He says, smiling still, "A boy, who can't even control his arcane."
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Tags: @allhobbitstoisengard @astormunchar @dontstoptime @amon-rei @eren-fall
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bakugous-sandbag · 2 months ago
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[ Heya, here’s my first attempt at participating in kinktober! For 31 days I’ll be posting a quick prompt with a different kink, all with everyones favourite Lord Explosion Murder <3 ]
[ All prompts are written with GN!Reader, PLEASE be mindful of the tags/warnings, and take care of yourself, y’hear? Xoxo, Knifey ]
DAY 1 - ORAL FIXATION (dom!bakugou, oral)
DAY 2 - COLLARS (dom!bakugou, language)
DAY 3 - DACRYPHILIA/CRYING (mean dom!bakugou, language)
DAY 4 - SEX POLLEN (dub-con, use of drugs/quirks, language)
DAY 5 - HATEFUCKING (pro-hero!bakugou, villain!reader, language)
DAY 6 - DEGRADATION (mean dom!bakugou, language)
DAY 7 - POWER IMBALANCE (dom!bakugou, use of a shock collar, language)
DAY 8 - (CONSENSUAL) INTOXICATION (sub!bakugou, use of alcohol, language)
DAY 9 - PREDATOR/PREY (barbarian/dragon!bakugou, slight dub-con)
DAY 10 - MANHANDLING (minor violence, language)
DAY 11 - SIZE KINK (dom!bakugou, slight breeding kink, language)
DAY 12 - POSSESSIVE/JEALOUS SEX (yandere!bakugou, non-con, blood, unhealthy behaviour, language)
DAY 13 - KNIFE PLAY (yandere!bakugou, non-con, blood, PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF THIS ONE: bakugou carving his initials into your skin)
DAY 14 - SPITROASTING (pro-hero!bakugou, barbarian/dragon!bakugou, oral, threesome, language)
DAY 15 - CORRUPTION KINK (villain!bakugou, hero!reader, non-con/dub-con, language)
DAY 16 - GOD WORSHIP (slight yandere!pro-hero!bakugou, sidekick!reader, slight dub-con, language)
DAY 17 - BOOTLICKING (mean dom!pro-hero!bakugou, sidekick!reader, punishment, degradation, language)
DAY 18 - A/B/O PT.1 (alpha!bakugou, omega!reader, omegaverse, knotting, possessive behaviour, language)
DAY 19 - A/B/O PT.2 (sub!omega!bakugou, alpha!reader, omegaverse, language)
DAY 20 - MIND BREAK (character death, language)
DAY 21 - PRAISE KINK (soft dom!bakugou, overstim, language)
DAY 22 - SADISM (dom!bakugou, sadism, use of alcohol, language)
DAY 23 - MASOCHISM (sub!bakugou, masochism, hair tugging, face slapping, praise kink, language)
DAY 24 - BONDAGE (switch!bakugou, bondage, slight size kink, language)
DAY 25 - BITING (dom!bakugou, biting/marking, slight public sex, slight possessiveness, language)
DAY 26 - BLOOD KINK (kitsune!bakugou, blood kink, god-like deities, self infliction (reader uses a dagger to seal a bond between them) language)
DAY 27 - HYBRISTOPHILIA (barbarian/dragon!bakugou, badass!reader, blood, violence, murder, language)
DAY 28 - DADDY KINK (dom!bakugou, daddy kink, dirty talk, slight spit, slight sadism, overstim, yandere!bakugou undertones, college!au, language)
DAY 29 - ORGASM DENIAL (dom!bakugou, orgasm denial, oral, collars, lil’ bit of praise and degradation, use of alcohol, language)
DAY 30 - BODY WORSHIP (soft dom!fallen angel!bakugou, praise kink, overstimulation, religious tones, slight yandere!bakugou, language)
DAY 31 - MONSTERFUCKING (werewolf!bakugou, marking/biting/scratching, knotting)
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I’ll keep updating this post as I finish writing the rest of the prompts~
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anaeresleepy · 2 months ago
// tw blood
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// tw blood
prince techno from my fantasy au ✨
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arrowflier · 2 days ago
Is it tomorrow yet for witchy part 2 😂
It is now! Except that I'm tired and headachy so now it's part 2 of 3...oops. I swear I'm not doing this on purpose but at least I wrote something.😅
Part One: “I need you to fix me,” you blurt, and the room stills.
Part Two
The two men are frozen, half-bent toward each other in an aborted play of domesticity, and you breathe in the silence like a runner just discovering that the top of their hill was just the bottom of a mountain.
“We don’t like that phrase here,” Milkovich mutters, leaning forward as he breaks the silence. He doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t sound pleased, and you’re not sure what you’ve done to rile him.
But you don’t have to address it, because Gallagher speaks next anyway.
“Why do you need fixing?” he asks calmly, if a bit flat, and rests a soothing palm on his partner’s chest when the other man makes a low sound.
His fingers are still, but you think you can see a faint glow pulsing under his skin. Green, like his eyes, like the color around their front door, casting an odd stain on the black of Milkovich's shirt.
“I’m not saying you do,” Gallagher clarifies, and your eyes move back to his face. It's a little pinched, a little sad, but his eyes are clear when you meet them.
“People aren’t something to fix," he adds, features softening a fraction. Milkovich leans back again at that, the fabric of the sofa stretching to accommodate his movement, but Gallagher’s hand doesn’t break contact with the cotton of his shirt. If anything, he presses more firmly, fabric crinkling around the connection.
You almost want to argue. When you ask to be fixed, that's exactly what you want, and you know they have the power to do so.
Somehow though, you think arguing would be a bad idea.
Gallagher seems to sense your dissension, because he shakes his head lightly and steers back to the topic at hand.
“Doesn't matter," he murmurs, almost to himself, then adds, "If you want our help,"-- he squeezes his hand lightly against Milkovich’s chest when the other man grunts--“we’re going to need more to go on.”
You don’t want to give them more. It was hard enough to get here, hard enough to knock--so hard, in fact, that you didn't. If it weren't for the door opening when it did, if it weren't for their invitation--an invitation you now think may have been laced with something more given the ease with which you accepted--you would still be standing outside.
You don't want to tell them your reasons. You just want them to make everything better.
So you busy yourself with your tea instead, taking a much-too-long sip, eyes cast down toward the short coffee table in the middle of the room.
You hear a sigh. A click, like metal on metal, followed by a sharp smack and the thump of something solid hitting soft cushions. You glance back up in time to see reproachful green eyes and Milkovich’s empty hand and faint pout.
Then the room gets warmer, and your tea gets suddenly cold, and you have no excuse to hide behind it anymore.
The two men across from you exchange looks, one annoyed, one smug. Gallagher breaks first, closing his eyes and breathing out through his nose, and Milkovich grins.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Milkovich answers to an unasked question, scooping a pair of what look like steel ball bearings out from between the cushions where they fell. His knuckles brush Gallagher's thigh as he pulls his hand back, and it presses into the touch until he returns his trinkets to his pocket.
He gestures with his other hand toward your face, visible again over the rim of the teacup.
"Got the kid to stop hiding," he points out, frank but not rude. You can feel yourself flushing, but blame it on the surrounding air that stole your tea's warmth. You feel a sudden urge to apologize, and push it down with the tingle on your skin that you've been suppressing for days.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” you admit, tightening your fingers on now-cool porcelain. “I just…”
You trail off. Bite your lip. Gallagher waits, sitting forward on the sofa, but Milkovich slouches and glares.
“You just what?” he prompts, irritated again already. “Spit it out, kid.”
You try. You do. And amidst the everyday magic of this place, the effortless power of these people, you manage to spit out,
“My magic is wrong.”
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inchells · 7 months ago
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art-the-f-up · 3 months ago
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Read Explanation about this AU 
Cinderella AU but Marinette is a maid in the very castle where Prince Adrien lives. Adrien has seen her around multiple times, even knows who she is, but Marinette thinks she’s practically invisible to the prince as she is a castle maid. 
fast forward all the pining and stuff etc etc, on the day of The Ball™ Prince Adrien accidentally sees her transforming for the ball with the help of a fairy. Adrien knows she’s the Maid but Marinette thinks he doesn’t know her identity and hahahappily ever after 
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no-star-no-war · 7 months ago
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predictable La Belle Dame Sans Merci redraw
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