Hero Has A Fencing Sword. Villain Has A Fencing Sword.

"Consider it done, my king," said the Right Hand, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"S-Surely you can't be serious, y-your highness," the Advisor balked. "P-please, you must--"

The King grabbed the Advisor by his collar. "When I begged for an audience with my father, when I pleaded with him to spare my mother, what is it you said?"

"T-the king's word is law," the Advisor murmured, a haunted look in his eyes.

The king's hand tightened. "And when my sister and I were banished to the Northern Wastes, what is it you said?"

"The... The's king's word--"

"And when my sister was ill, and I pleaded for my father's mercy, what is it you said?"

"P-please, sire--" The Advisor gagged and kicked as the King lifted him from the ground.

"Be thankful I pity you," he spat. "As spineless and self-serving as you are, be thankful I find you pitiful enough to spare your life." He dropped the Advisor bodily, and he scrambled away on hands and knees.

"Be thankful I'm sparing all your miserable lives," the King said, addressing the throne room of what was once the most powerful subjects in the kingdom.

"My king," said the silver-tongued Duke. "It pains me to hear of the trials you have endured, but not all of us are culpable in your treatment. Perhaps we could--"

The King rounded on him. "You? YOU of all people?"

The Duke huffed. "You intend to make enemies of us? To destroy our lives for petty scores?"

The throne room ignited in cacophony, with constituents screaming in indignation. The Rebels, donned in the armor of a royal guard, sprung to life to quell the screaming masses. The Right Hand went for his sword, but the King shook his head. Subjugated, the throne room silenced once more.

"How readily you have all forgotten," the King said, "whose blood is on my hands. Be forewarned that I do not shy away from spilling more, but I will not be like my father."

He gave the Right Hand a long and weary look. "I... choose to not be like my father."

"You are to be banished to the Northern Wastes," the King continued, voice hard. "You will be given a forenight to collect your valuables, and then will be escorted to the border by my men. Your families will be given the option to join you or to remain here, stripped of their titles."

"How do you expect us to survive?" The General snapped. "Winter is almost upon us!"

"Perhaps it is unkind of me to leave you without options," said the King. "So, you may choose. Execution, or exile? I can promise you a swift and painless death."

"If you think you've heard the last of us, mark my words--" The General began, but the Right Hand removed his blade, and the General silenced with a whimper.

From the scabbard of the blade came a thick, impenetrable mist that permeated the room. The Advisor scrambled to the King's boots on hands and knees, shaking and pleading, "Oh God, spare me, spare me! I'll go to the Wastes! Just no! Please, I have a family! I'll do anything, please!"

The King pulled his boot back and looked away, a mixture of discomfort and disgust. "Right Hand, stop. This wasn't our agreement," he said firmly. Too long, the Right Hand glared back. Though the Right Hand was shorter and of a smaller build, in that moment he was much more imposing than the King.

"It isn't?" He said, a hint of a threat in his voice. "After everything?"

"No. They have families." The King said, voice distant. "I won't be like my father."

The Right Hand laughed mirthlessly, but nevertheless he drew back the mists and put away the scabbard.

"You will all be escorted to your homes to prepare for the long journey," said the King. "If you attempt to flee, you will forfeit your lives."

Most who had seen the mists in battle left quickly, and any who attempted to linger were forced out by the Rebels. Alone with the Right Hand, the King slumped in his throne.

"It's time for me to collect on our bargain," said the Right Hand, breaking the silence.

The King froze, then turned. "After everything?" He breathed. "And-- now? I thought that--"

"I made you king," said the Right Hand, gripping his chin. "I upheld my end of the bargain rather marvelously. Your enemies are in gone, and you bathed in the blood of your father. You have everything you ever asked for."

The King shuddered. Though he hated the man, and did not regret ending his life, the memory of the slick, metallic blood coating his mouth made him sick. His father's blood. The former King.

The Right Hand narrowed his eyes, which began to faintly glow. "I upheld my end of the bargain. Do you intend to keep yours?"

The King grimaced and closed his eyes. "One year."

"One year?" The Right Hand glowered.

"One year. I..." The King struggled for words. "Consider this a revised contract. One year. And I will pay interest."

"I'm not interested in gold," said the Right Hand. "You know that. What else could you possibly offer me?"

The King could not meet his eyes.

"Why are you stalling?" The Right Hand pressed.

The King handed him a slip of paper, then hung his head.

The Right Hand sucked in a breath. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"One year then," he said. He clapped the King on the back. "With interest. It's a deal."

The King covered his eyes with his hands.

"What is your first decree as king?" "My generals and advisors are all banished to the Northern Wastes." "Wh-What?" "My father's empire was a ruthless, evil rule that destroyed the lives of his subjects. All those in leadership are banished. If you return, you will be killed."

Christmas with the snarky, morally gray anti-hero notoriously known as Shadow!

Warnings: none

I know a LOT of people take the days near Christmas off from writing or doing anything, but I literally have zero friends in real life to hang out with for the holiday or do fun stuff with so I just decided to write instead 😭 (wallowing in self-pity because I'm such a dislikable weirdo I guess LOL-- on the sorta bright side at least I'm making new friends on Tumblr?? Even though most of them are anons at least I kind of feel appreciated I suppose--)

This is a short story about Shadow learning about the human holiday called "Christmas" -- and getting an unexpected surprise in the process.

Shadow glided down and elegantly landed in front of the lab's front doors, shaking snow from her wings. She’d originally wanted to go on a short flight around the city to stretch her wings, but it was snowing so hard it was hard to see anything, and she didn’t want to accidentally crash. There had to be at least four inches deep already piled up on the ground.

Shadow walked into the main room of the lab and was hit with a blast of bright colors. She halted and stared dumbly, trying to process all the colorful lights draped around and a... literal tree in the corner? Who cuts down a whole tree just to stuff it indoors?!?

And in front of the tree was Thomas, hanging little round balls on the evergreen branches.

Shadow quietly approached from behind, head tilted to the side in confusion as she watched the human work, tying strings to decorations to the branches. She curiously reached out and flicked an ornament experimentally with a finger, making a quiet clink sound.

"What in the entire universe are you up to, Thomas?" She asked warily. It looked like a unicorn had puked random decorations all over the place in a general theme of red and greens.

"ACK!" Thomas jumped in surprise, instantly dropping the ornament he'd been fiddling with as he startled.

Shadow snatched it in a hand before it could hit the floor, raising a questioning eyebrow at it. "Why are you putting these things everywhere?"

Thomas's face turned red with embarrassment. "Can you NOT sneak up on me like that?!?" He squeaked. "You're like a literal ghost -- you're everywhere!"

"I'm not sure whether to be offended or complimented by that statement." Shadow wrinkled her nose, carelessly tossing the ornament in the box with the other Thomas had been taking out. "Mind explaining why it looks like a hurricane of colors tore through this place?"

"It's uh, a human holiday." Thomas rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You decorate trees and houses and cookies and eat a ton of sugar and stuff. And some people host large gatherings and prepare giant feasts. There's also making gingerbread houses."

"And why must you bring a tree indoors to decorate it?"

"Not everyone does it, in fact a lot more people go and put lights on the trees in their yard -- but it's a human tradition to cut down an evergreen to light up a room. And then we put these cool things on it--" Thomas bent down and grabbed an ornament from his box, shoving it eagerly into Shadow's hands. "Go ahead and try it! It's fun."

"I think your definition of 'fun' is vastly different from my own," Shadow grumbled. But she humored him and hesitantly hung the ornament's string on the tree, adding to the dazzling sparkle. It was kind of pretty, she had to admit. But she'd never say it out loud.

"Oh! And there's one more part of the tradition, it's the most important one--" Thomas darted off and returned holding a small yet colorful box with a fancy bow on top. "Humans buy awesome gifts to give to each other! So here's to your first human Christmas!" He held it out, and Shadow cautiously took it with a puzzled frown.

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that it's so small," she said gruffly.

Thomas rolled his eyes with a chipper laugh. "Lighten up, Shadow. Just open it!"

Shadow raised a skeptical eyebrow at the gift. "If this is one of those pop-up-scare things I've heard so much about, I'm going to seriously kill someone," she growled.

Thomas paled, reaching to take it back. "Sheesh, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive! Fine, I'll keep it!"

"Ah-ah!" Shadow raised the box above Thomas's head where he couldn't grab it, holding it just out of reach. "No taking it back. You gave me something, and you'll live with the consequences of your choices like a responsible kid."

"I'm 19 years old," Thomas scowled pointedly.

"And I'm 312 years old. Your point?" Shadow rolled her eyes dramatically, bringing the box back down so she could open it.

Thomas made another determined grab for it, but Shadow spun and swatted him like a fly with one of her white feathered wings, using it as a shield to block and keep him from snatching it.

"Shadow, come on, cut it out!" Thomas snapped, trying to reach over her wing instead -- with no luck.

"You first," Shadow growled back. She found it amusing how fast the human was trying to backpedal his gift after her threat -- which meant it was definitely one of those pop-up-scare things. Her threat had been a bluff, of course -- she wasn't actually going to kill anyone over a Christmas gift -- but Thomas wouldn't assume that, considering how morally-gray she was in general. He fully believed it to be a real possibility, which was perfectly in line with her past actions.

And Shadow couldn't help having some harmless fun with him, watching him sputter and panic uselessly in terror, believing her every word like the idiot he was. Well, mostly harmless fun -- the human might suffer an actual heart attack with how much adrenaline was rushing through him right now.

"Hmm, interesting," Shadow chuckled as she shook the box lightly, listening to the contents rattling around. She barely bit back a cruelly delighted laugh as she watched Thomas turn a few shades paler. The human was right, Christmas was fun.

"Whatever did you get me, human?" She purred teasingly. It was all a game to her -- but not for poor Thomas, whose heart was practically jack-knifing out of his chest. After all, Shadow was known to be violent and aggressive at times -- he had no way of telling she was in a relatively good mood today.

Shadow slowly untied the bow, taking her sweet time and using her wing to keep Thomas at bay. She held the lid on tight to keep it from springing open on her as she let the ribbon fall to the floor.

A mischievous smirk twisted her lips, and in a swift movement she aimed the top of the box at Thomas and let go of the lid.

Her intuition was right: it was one of those pop-up-scare-things. A coiled up plastic snake came shooting out of the box and smacked the human straight in the face, startling him.

Thomas yelped in surprise and flinched backward hard enough to trip and end up sprawled on the floor, a cartoonishly shocked expression on his face.

Shadow burst out laughing. She rarely ever laughed, unless it was sarcastic. But this was a genuine laugh for once, at his expense. Her wings shook with the force of it as she cackled evilly, clutching her ribs. "Oh, I think I DO like your gift!" She laughed between breaths. "That was priceless.”

"That was mean," Thomas sputtered indignantly, face flushing red with embarrassment.

"No meaner than trying to jump-scare the most lethal person in existence!" Shadow retorted, still laughing her head off. "You humans have the weirdest holidays!”

Thomas smiled sheepishly as he got back to his feet. “It’s a time of happiness and family gatherings. There’s nothing weird about that.”

“It's probably not weird to you because you live in the ‘world of weird’ on a daily basis – this stuff is normal for you,” Shadow chuckled. “I’ll admit though, you’ve piqued my curiosity. What else do you humans do to celebrate Christmas?”

“Oooooh you’re really going to like this one!” Thomas chirped. “Let's go outside!”

Shadow raised an eyebrow, but followed him to the front of the lab, watching as he bundled up in warm jackets and donned a hat and gloves. She didn’t bother copying him; she was naturally extra hot-blooded due to being a Falkry. The cold didn’t get to her as bad.

Soon the two of them were walking down the street to the local park, snow crunching underfoot. It was cold enough that their breath came out in foggy puffs.

“Okay, so have you ever heard of making snow angels?” Thomas turned to his white-winged Falkry friend excitedly.

“Ah, the age-old tradition of getting frostbite. I’m familiar,” Shadow answered sarcastically. “But I think I’ll sit this one out. Don’t want to damage my feathers.”

“Pfft, buzzkill,” Thomas snickered. “Then try this instead–” He bent down and suddenl;y scoffed up a handful of snow, flinging it at Shadow.

“Hey!” Shadow nimbly sprung out of range. “Oh, you will pay for that!”

Thomas blinked, and she was gone. “What the–Oomph!" His voice choked off when he was suddenly flattened beneath a massive wave of freezing snow that crashed down on him from above. He quickly scrambled out of the aftermath and shook the frozen flakes from his hair, dancing a little as he tried to reach the stuff that had fallen down the back of his shirt. "Ack! Cold! Very cold!"

Once he had finally rid himself from the last of it, he looked up in confusion to see where it had come from, and spotted Shadow perched on a bobbing tree limb directly above him, laughing hysterically. The limb was devoid of any snow, and it was clear that she had intentionally jumped on the branch to knock the snow down on him.

"Seriously?" Thomas huffed, scowling up at her. "Was that really necessary?"

Shadow raised her hands innocently, still laughing. "Sorry, sorry, I just had to. You make yourself such an easy target. I couldn't resist. You should've seen your face!"

Thomas wordlessly bent down and scooped up a large handful of snow, packing it tightly together.

"Wait, what are you—?!" Shadow’s voice cut off sharply as he chucked the newly made snowball up at her with all his strength, and she yelped in surprise as it clocked her in the face with a pfft sound, knocking her out of the tree. Her wings flailed wildly for a moment until they caught the air, halting her descent.

"What was that?!" She shouted from above with a shocked expression on her face, hovering in the air and sputtering from the snow that had gotten in her mouth.

"It's called a snowball. We humans use it to start snowball fights," Thomas called back.

"Snowball fights? So it's like... a non-lethal war with packed snow?" Shadow asked.

"Basically. But emphasis on non-lethal!!" Thomas leaned down and scooped up two more handfuls of snow and launched another round at her, which narrowly missed her face again as she smartly dodged to the side.

"Oh, it is so on human! Prepare to be destroyed!" Shadow let out a war cry and swooped down towards him, sharply pulling up at the last second so that her wings flung up a powerful gust of snow that covered Thomas head to toe. But he was not so easily beaten, and he revealed a hidden snowball he was hiding behind his back. Shadow was close enough that there was no way he could miss.

Her eyes widened for a moment in realization before the snowball hit her square in the chest, making her stumble back. It was all the opening Thomas needed to launch a barrage of snowballs at her, his arms becoming a blur as he threw one after the other, madly scooping handfuls from the ground, not allowing a moment's reprieve. Shadow used one of her wings as a shield against the attack, ducking her head behind it as she scooped up a snowball of her own.

Then, she moved her wing aside and threw her handful at Thomas as hard as she could with Falkry strength. It hit him in the stomach hard enough to knock him back into another pile of fluffy snow. She wound up for a second throw as he scrambled to his feet, and let it fly, this time smacking him square in the face in an explosion of white fluff.

Yeah, maybe Shadow was enjoying this whole ‘Christmas’ thing after all.

Main Masterlist

Masterlist featuring Shadow and Thomas-related stories

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.

"P-please don't kill me," Hero whispered.

Villain recoiled. "Who said anything about killing you?"

"You did. Multiple times. You have a knife to my throat."

"That-- THAT WAS FLIRTING!" Villain shouted in exasperation.

"WHO FLIRTS LIKE THAT?!" Hero screamed.

"Ugh. This is all wrong." Villain cut Hero's ropes and put away the knife. "Listen, I completely misread the situation. Just... Just go."

"Wait, no, we need to talk about--"

"There's nothing to talk about," Villain said quickly.

"Yes, we do! Clearly we need to communicate!"

"No. Let me die of embarrassment alone," Villain grumbled. They moved to leave, but something slapped their wrist. A handcuff.

"You're not going anywhere," Hero said, tightening the other cuff to their own wrist.

"Did you just CUFF ME?" Villain screeched.

"We're going out and having a proper date WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT."

Even when you suspect what's happening, you are hit by the reveal. Very fun read.

will you write something vampire themed for spooky season?

The coffin was luxurious, as far as coffins went. The protagonist had half-expected just a plain wood box, scratchy and full of splinters. They supposed, if they had to die, they could at least do so in style.

It didn't really make them feel better.

And it didn't make the coffin fit two people any better either.

"Stop squirming," the secret love of their life snapped. "You're just going to get us more stuck."

"I don't think it's possible to get more stuck." Their voice was only a little, reasonably, hysterical. "We're buried alive in a bloody coffin!"

The secret love of their life looked awful beneath them. Pallid, even in the crowded gloom of their shared grave. They felt clammy and cold beneath the protagonist's limbs.

The protagonist swallowed. They tried to stop squirming. There were no comfortable positions.

The love of their life hissed between their teeth with irritation, and if the protagonist could see properly, they were sure that a terrifying and wrathful and gorgeous glare would be pointed in their direction.

"I'm sorry," the protagonist said. For the squirming, sure, but mostly for everything else. For somehow getting them into this mess. For being the last idiot that the love of their short life would ever see. For not knowing how to save either of them.

"You should stop talking and conserve your air."

"You should stop talking and conserve your air," the protagonist mumbled. They closed their eyes. They tried not to panic. The panic closed in on them on every side, just like the too close suffocating padded walls, and the steady weight of six or so feet of packed soil crushing them on all sides.

"Someone's going to rescue us," the love of their life said. "Your friends - someone - will figure out where we are."

"Coffin. My first guess too."

"They'll get us out." The growl in their friend's voice was almost inhuman. Quite impressive.

The protagonist bit down hard on their lip, and the rather unhelpful response of 'before or after we die from the lack of oxygen? Because, you know, I read that people can survive five hours locked in a coffin. Tops. If they're not hyperventilating. But who's hyperventilating! I'm not hyperventilating! Are you?'

Their friend drew a sharp breath. Then they squirmed, hypocritically, before managing to place cool hands on either side of the protagonist's whirling brain.

"Easy," they murmured, abruptly far more gentle. "You're okay. You're going to be okay. I'm not - I won't let anything bad happen to you."

The protagonist felt tears prick the corners of their eyes. Absurd.

One of their friend’s thumbs grazed over their lip, wiping away the bead of blood there.

"Match your breathing to mine," their friend murmured, voice a little hoarse and trying-to-keep-it-together. "Concentrate on me."

The protagonist did their best. Their friend breathed very slowly, admirably calm really, given the circumstances.

"I won't hurt you," their friend said. "I love you. I won't."

"It's not you I'm worried about. Wait - you love me?"

It was impossible to see the love of their life's face, and really, a coffin was the worst place for a confession. Because the protagonist would very much have liked to have seen their face. At least if they were hanging over a lava pit, the protagonist would have been able to see their face, and make a judgment on if they meant that platonically or romantically.

God. They hated their brain.

Their friend didn't say anything and the silence was surely almost as agonising as dying. Almost. They brushed a tear away from the protagonist's cheek, feather-light.

"More than anything," their friend said. "Now shut. up. Please. And please, please, stop moving."

The protagonist shut up. Somehow. They rested their head against their friend's chest, letting the knowledge of that confession fill them with warmth, or try to.

At least they were dying in a coffin with someone they loved. Who loved them back. Someone's whose heart was so...

The protagonist stopped. It was a trick. A mistake. Something. But it felt, beneath their ear, like their friend's heart wasn't beating. Actually, when the protagonist really thought about it, now that their breathing was more or less steady, even in the squashed space they couldn't hear their friend's breathing at all. They couldn't feel it against their cheek and...

They didn't think the love of their life had always been so cold.

"Why." The protagonist resisted the urge to shift again. "Why do you think you're going to hurt me? Worst you're going to do is elbow me in the face?"

Their friend was silent a second time.

"Right?" The protagonist pressed.

"Someone will find us. They'll get us out. It's not a problem. It won't be a problem."

"What...what won't be a problem?" But the protagonist, with a dreadful twist in their stomach, knew. It should have been obvious, maybe, in the last twenty four hours.

The stomach bug. The dark glasses. The cringing from the sunlight.

"I won't hurt you." A mantra. Not a reassurance; a mantra, a plea. "I love you. I won't hurt you. You're going to be fine."

Five hours, suddenly, seemed like a lifetime.

The coffin was luxurious, as far as coffins went. Excellent quality. Top notch.

Nothing else, after all, would keep in a newly turned and starving vampire locked up.

"Shit," the protagonist whispered.

And that about summed up their current predicament.

"It looks like I win."

"It does look like that, doesn't it?"

"Admit you never stood a chance."

"You sound a bit insecure, demanding my validation."

Hi, welcome. I'm chaotic-scraps and I post scraps on here. Pronouns are dealer's choice.

If I complete a story on here, you have witnessed a miracle. I occasionally reblog other stories and/or art/comics/animation.

Feel free to leave asks/requests.

Respectfully, I've seen this advice hit the opposite extreme, and I agree with the intent, but not the message. Power fantasies, Mary Sues, and Self Inserts wouldn't be popular if a "perfect" character was always uninteresting to read. (That said, "perfect" characters tend to show a writer's ideologies and imperfections) Conversely, when a character is always beat down on, always losing, always choosing the worst possible option, that can reach a certain banality too. Characters need contrast in some way. If a character keeps suffering extreme loss, give them something to help cope. Let them have a tiny moment of levity. If a character is flawless, give them a problem with no clear or "correct" solution. Contrast them against flawed characters. Again, I feel like you said this in a way, but I felt it needs clarification. Variety is the spice of life and all that.

Listen, you can’t write perfect characters. No one cares about reading about someone who never screws up. Your characters need to make bad decisions, they need to hurt people, and they need to be hurt. They should doubt themselves and do things they regret. That’s where the magic happens, when they’re flawed, messy, and human. People don’t fall in love with characters because they’re flawless; they fall in love because those characters remind them of the chaos inside themselves. So don’t be afraid to put your characters through hell. Only then will their journey mean something.

You don't even have to write responsibly yall, and best of all it's free

writing tip #3639:

did you know that you can write what you want and no one will stop you

"It's dark. It's time to set up camp," the swordsman said.

"We lost all our gear, though. Nowhere to sleep unless we conjure something up."

The party pointedly turns to the wizard.

"...No," the wizard says. "I'm not using magic."

The party shouted in indignation. "WHY?! Come on, we're tired! Why can't you do it?!"

The wizard groaned. "Listen, I'll get us some light."

"You always use light spells! Why can't you ever conjure something useful?!"

"Because it's-- it's very hard to quality control magic!" the wizard sputtered. "Do you want tent spikes sticking out of your leg-- or, or HOLES in your tent?!"

"It's better than sleeping in the open air--," the swordsman tried.

"And then!" the wizard continued, "And then, you have to keep such an item conjured! Did we buy an emerald in the last town? Maybe a ruby? NO, I'm working off a crummy hunk of quartz! A polished quarts, maybe? REFINED QUARTZ?! NOOOOO. I have a small, dirt-stained, misshapen LUMP!"

"Why does that--"

"BECAUSE THE ROCK CONDUCTS THE MAGIC THAT KEEPS IT PERSISTING!!!" the wizard shrieked in dismay. "You need quality gemstone that can HANDLE that consistent power need! You know what happens when a gem overdraws magic energy over an extended period of time?"

"...No?..."

"You get a fire hazard! You risk breaking your gem! And if the gem gets broken, where does the magic fall?"

"I don't--"

"The WIZARD!!"

A timid scholar spoke up, "... Can't you transmogrify something?..."

"Can't I-- can't-- " the wizard laughed and gripped his head. "I'm working WITH A LUMP OF QUARTZ!!!"

"I heard of a wizard who could--"

"And Lord Agument is the best in our field! Do you think I'm the best?! With the way you pay me?!"

"But your fire spells--"

"Yes!!! Yes, because that's what I've studied!!! I am good at the section of magic I studied!!! Pardon me for wanting hobbies outside of work!!! Not EVERYONE can be Lord Agument, who mastered all forms of magic on a crummy little quartz."

"Listen-- just-- can you start the light spell," the swordsman wearily sighed.

"YES. I CAN."

Wizards have as much faith in magic as software designers have in software - none at all. A wizard is explaining to the rest of the party why they won't use magic to solve all their problems.