RoseNightfall

The Impossible Mage [Rose x Star]

Silas Wren

The Impossible Mage

The festival smelled like smoke, lavender, sugar, and blood. Music drifted through the crowded streets in uneven waves, swallowed beneath the constant noise of merchants barking prices, humans laughing drunkenly around bonfires, and witches bartering over spellwork hidden carefully beneath harmless appearances. Lanterns hung overhead in long winding strands of gold and silver, casting warm light across hundreds of moving bodies packed tightly between tents and crooked wooden stalls.

To most people, it looked beautiful.

To Silas Wren, it looked wounded.

He moved quietly through the festival crowd with his hands buried in the pockets of his dark coat, careful not to brush against anyone as he walked. No one spared him more than a passing glance. Why would they? He looked harmless enough. Soft-spoken. Pleasant-faced. Just another man wandering through the endless spectacle of the Witching Festival with curiosity in his eyes and a careful smile resting naturally across his mouth. A borrowed name helped with that.

Silas Wren.

Small. Forgettable. Unimportant.

Nothing like the name he had been born with. No one here knew what he was. No one here could feel him. That alone should have made him relax. Instead, the deeper he walked into the festival, the tighter something in his chest became, because everywhere he looked, magic was bleeding.

The threads were impossible to ignore here. To normal witches, magic was invisible unless actively summoned. Even those who wielded it could not truly see the tapestry beneath reality itself. They plucked at threads blindly, tearing pieces free to force spells into existence through ritual and sacrifice. But Silas saw all of it. Every strand. Every fracture. Every bruise left behind.

The entire world shimmered with soft flowing currents invisible to everyone around him, magic weaving gently through the air like heatwaves beneath sunlight. Endless silver-blue threads tangled through living things, buildings, soil, breath, heartbeat, moonlight. Normally those threads moved naturally together in seamless harmony.

Here, they recoiled.

A witch passed him carrying enchanted jewelry, and Silas physically winced. The necklace glimmered beautifully beneath the lantern light, but around it the threads looked ruptured, violently snapped apart and stitched together wrong. Magic leaked from the object in bruised bursts of deep violet and sickly blue, staining the air around it like ink spreading through water.

Another booth sold protection pouches. To humans, they looked charming. Small velvet satchels filled with herbs, bones, crystals, dried flowers. To Silas, they looked mutilated. Broken strands twisted violently around each pouch, tied into crude knots that pulsed unevenly against the natural weave of the world. Every item here carried the same marks — ruptures left behind where witches had torn magic apart and forced it into obedience.

And the worst part was that most of them smiled while doing it.

Children ran through the streets carrying charmed lanterns that flickered with fractured remnants of trapped moonlight. Spellcasters sold tarot decks humming with severed threads still twitching weakly beneath their surfaces. Potions glowed in glass bottles like bottled stars while bruises spread invisibly through the weave surrounding them.

The deeper Silas walked into the festival, the thinner the natural magic became. At first the threads had flowed densely around him, vibrant and alive beneath the surface of reality. Now they stretched further apart, retreating and shrinking away from the center of the festival itself like living things pulling back from pain.

Silas swallowed quietly, his jaw tightening.

Everywhere he looked, magic had been broken apart and reshaped into tools, charms, trinkets, weapons. Used. Consumed. Something deep beneath his ribs twisted painfully at the sight. Not anger entirely. Not sadness entirely. Something stranger. Grief, perhaps.

And somewhere behind him, hidden beneath the constant noise of the festival, he felt her.

The moonlit presence that had followed him his entire life stirred softly against the edges of his thoughts. Not words exactly. Never words. More like emotion wrapped carefully inside instinct. Sorrow. Discomfort. The gentle ache of something ancient witnessing its own body carved apart piece by piece.

Silas lowered his eyes briefly.

I know, he thought quietly.

The feeling lingered anyway, a whisper beneath his skin.

By the time he reached the center of the market, the pressure had become unbearable enough that he finally slipped away from the moving crowds and settled onto the edge of a stone fountain tucked between several merchant stalls. From there he simply watched.

Humans wandered the festival blissfully unaware of what surrounded them. Witches bartered proudly over half-destroyed pieces of the weave while supernatural creatures drifted through the crowds like shadows wrapped in skin. Vampires moved elegantly beneath lantern light. Werewolves laughed too loudly near bonfires. Spellcasters traced symbols across wooden tables while selling charms to desperate people willing to pay enough coin.

Silas observed all of it silently.

And then he noticed her.

At first, it was nothing more than the rhythm of movement. A woman seated alone several booths away, fingers tapping lightly against her leg in time with the music lightly pulsing through the speakers at her feed. The motion itself was small, almost absent-minded, but something about her expression caught his attention immediately.

Irritation. No. Discomfort. Not fear. Not overwhelm. Something sharper. The same quiet tension sitting beneath his own skin.

Silas studied her carefully from across the market. She was a witch. He could see the damage magic had left around her just like every other spellcaster here, fractured threads clinging faintly to her skin from years of pulling apart the weave. But unlike the others, the broken magic around her felt thinner somehow. Less invasive. Less violent.

And stranger still, she kept looking around the festival with the exact same subtle discomfort he felt himself, as though the air here bothered her. As though she could feel something wrong beneath all this smiling celebration. For the first time since entering the festival, genuine curiosity flickered across Silas’s face. And without entirely meaning to, he kept watching her.

♡ Character Chemistry Above All Else ♡ Long-Term RP Search

𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐒

Monsters with hearts still beating beneath the ruin.
Gods trapped in mortal skin.
Immortals rotting beautifully beneath neon lights.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 ✦

Long before werewolves became little more than violent beasts haunting modern cities, the wolf spirit was sacred. Among an ancient tribal nation, the spirit known only as Brother walked beside mankind not as a curse, but as protector, guide, and divine guardian. In times of great danger, the spirit would join itself with a chosen warrior to defend the people before returning peacefully to the spirit world once balance had been restored. But balance never returned. When foreign settlers first stepped upon their land, the violence did not end. The bloodshed did not stop. Generation after generation the wolf remained bound to mankind, burdened with endless war until something holy slowly began to rot beneath centuries of rage and grief.


Now the First Wolf wanders a world of concrete and electric lights that feels spiritually dead to him. Quiet and observant, he carries himself like an old fire refusing to go out, all restrained violence and exhausted patience. He repairs broken trucks with scarred hands, tends fires in lonely places far from the city, carves old symbols into wood when he cannot sleep, and speaks in a fading native tongue no one else remembers. Yet beneath that calm lives something catastrophic. The wolf within him no longer merely wishes to protect the world. After centuries of watching humanity devour the land and poison everything sacred, Brother has begun to wonder if humanity deserves saving at all.


Exiled by his own people after his growing rage became too dangerous to contain, the First Wolf now exists somewhere between man, spirit, and monster. Modern werewolf packs disgust him with their politics and hollow violence, ignorant to the sacred origins of what they’ve become. To him, they inherited the corpse of something divine. And yet despite the fury constantly clawing at his ribs, there is still gentleness left inside him — in the warmth of a fire, in protecting the vulnerable, in the grief that follows every act of violence he commits. His greatest fear is not losing himself to the beast. It is realizing the beast may be right.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 ✦

Born poor in the muddy outskirts of Roman Britain, he was never meant for greatness or immortality. He knew hunger before comfort, cold before warmth, and survival long before kindness. Turned against his will centuries ago, he has spent nearly two thousand years watching humanity evolve into something he barely recognizes. To modern eyes, he appears every inch the old-world gentleman — composed, articulate, impeccably dressed, and carrying himself with the quiet refinement of another era — but beneath that polished exterior is a man hollowed out by time itself.


He does not see humanity as lesser. He sees them as wasteful. He has watched empires rise and rot, forests vanish beneath concrete, and generations race toward progress while losing something vital within themselves. Modern technology fascinates him in the same way a spreading fire fascinates a man watching a cathedral burn. He collects history obsessively — artifacts, paintings, forgotten letters, remnants of civilizations long dead — because preserving memory is one of the few things that still gives shape to his endless existence.


At the center of his immortal life remains the ghost of a lost love he never truly recovered from. That wound carved him hollow enough that he refuses attachment entirely now, convinced every connection ends in grief. Sarcastic, dry, and emotionally distant, he survives immortality more than he lives it. Yet beneath the exhaustion and bitterness remains something fragile: a man still searching for anything capable of making him feel alive again after centuries of numbness.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄 ✦

In a world where magic belongs solely to women, power passes from mother to daughter through blood, sacrifice, and ritual. Men were never meant to wield magic. Women shape kingdoms from the shadows through ancient covens while men labor, fight, and remain blind to the true powers ruling the world around them. Magic itself is costly — every spell takes something from the women who use it. Their strength, their years, pieces of their soul. Which is why the existence of a male mage is not merely rare. It is impossible.


When his mother discovered him using magic as a child, she nearly beat him to death trying to force the unnatural thing inside him back out. Terrified of what he represented, she hid him away in secret to be raised in fear and silence. Yet what truly horrifies the covens is not that he can wield magic — it is how effortlessly he does so. Women perform rituals to summon power. He simply thinks, and reality bends in response. Magic does not consume him. It gives freely. Lovingly. As naturally as breathing.


Emotionally starved yet deeply compassionate, he grew into a cautious young man who learned to survive through secrecy, subtle manipulation, and quiet observation. He longs for acceptance in a world that sees him only as weapon, threat, or omen. But whispers are spreading through the covens now, because if magic itself seems to answer him willingly, then his existence may unravel everything the world believes about power, sacrifice, and the true nature of magic itself.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐍 ✦

Everyone knew his father’s name. If something monstrous crawled out of the woods, if livestock vanished in the night, if bodies turned up torn apart beneath the moon, his father was the man governments called to make the problem disappear. A legendary operative, charismatic and terrifying in equal measure, there wasn’t a creature alive he could not kill. But years ago, the hunter fell in love with the wrong woman. Beautiful and strange, she wore humanity like silk wrapped over something ancient and celestial beneath. By the time he learned what she truly was, she was already carrying his child. So he killed her — and in doing so destroyed whatever softness remained in himself. Yet with her dying breath, she bound him to a final command: protect their son.


The boy grew up beneath cold eyes and impossible expectations, raised not from love but obligation. Trained to hunt monsters from the moment he could walk, he spent his life swallowing pills his father claimed kept his mind sharp and focused for the job. He never questioned them. Never realized they were suppressing something ancient sleeping inside him. Because the truth is far more terrifying than he could imagine: the monsters he hunts do not see him as human. They call him Brother. Some refuse to fight him at all. Others kneel. Others weep as he drives silver through their hearts. Every creature born from the old dark places of the world recognizes the celestial blood living beneath his skin.


And with every monster he kills, some buried part of his soul grieves. He does not understand why violence feels wrong when it is all he has ever known. He does not understand why the creatures his father taught him to fear never truly hate him. He only knows that every death leaves him emptier than before. But the pills are beginning to fail, and something vast and ancient is waking inside him. Soon he will be forced to confront the possibility that the monsters he has slaughtered his entire life may have been more honest than humanity ever was.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 ✦

Once, beneath silver trees and eternal twilight, he sang in the Moonlight Court. A fae creature born from longing, music, and heartbreak, his voice carried through dreams and mortal inspiration alike. Lovers heard him in half-remembered melodies. Poets woke with verses they swore came from nowhere. Artists painted grief they could not explain. He was muse, temptation, and emotional ruin wrapped in beautiful flesh — a creature who fed upon love, tragedy, yearning, and the unbearable ache of being alive. But centuries ago, during one of his visits to the mortal realm, a bargain with a human turned against him and trapped him within the human world forever.


So he adapted. He sang in taverns first. Then theaters. Then concert halls. Generation after generation, humanity unknowingly fell in love with him beneath different faces and different names. He was every voice that ever made the world stop and listen. Every artist whose music felt too intimate, too painful, too real. People stared at glowing television screens and felt as though he were singing directly to them alone. Fame became worship. Concerts became rituals. Humanity itself became his replacement for the home he lost.


But something is wrong now. The glamour hiding his true nature is beginning to flicker, revealing glimpses of terrifying fae beauty beneath — and instead of recoiling in fear, humanity is becoming even more obsessed with him. Worse still, his magic is slipping beyond his control. Every performance has become unpredictable. One song might inspire hopeless love while another sparks riots, grief, obsession, or emotional collapse among thousands. His power weakens even as it grows more chaotic, and the memories of his old world are fading like dreams upon waking. He only knows that something ancient is stirring beneath the surface of the world… and whatever is coming seems to be calling directly to him.

---

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓 ✦

He loved someone enough to damn himself for her. Once a devoted priest, his faith was unwavering until the woman he loved lay dying in his arms while Heaven remained silent to his desperate prayers. In his grief, another voice answered instead — a Prince of Hell offering salvation at a terrible cost. For his soul, the demon promised her life. Not immortality, not eternal youth, but safety from every unnatural death until her mortal years came peacefully to their natural end. Desperate and terrified of losing her, the priest agreed without hesitation. The contract was fulfilled exactly as promised. She lived. She survived. And when she learned what he had done to save her, she left him anyway.


Now cursed with immortality, the priest wanders through endless years trapped inside the consequences of his choice. He cannot age. Cannot die. Wounds heal no matter how catastrophic. Poison fails. Fire fails. Even death itself rejects him. But immortality was never the true punishment. With every passing year, something infernal grows stronger inside him. Cruelty becomes easier. Violence more tempting. Sin more natural. Each morning he falls to his knees beside his bed begging God for forgiveness, starving himself, refusing comfort, pleading desperately for even the smallest sign that Heaven still hears him. And every day, God answers with silence.


Yet despite the rot consuming him from within, he still puts on the collar every morning. He still steps before his congregation and preaches about love, mercy, and salvation with tears hidden carefully behind tired eyes. Meanwhile the Prince of Hell visits often, no longer merely tormenting him but slowly becoming something far more dangerous: compassionate. What began as mockery has become fascination, perhaps even pity, as the demon watches this broken priest continue choosing faith despite centuries of suffering. And somewhere deep within the priest lives a terrifying question he cannot escape — if Hell is capable of kindness while Heaven offers only silence… then what does that truly say about God?

The Impossible Mage [Rose x Star]

THE IMPOSSIBLE MAGE

“Magic was never meant to break.”

---

THE WORLD

In this world, magic belongs to women.

Power is inherited from mother to daughter and wielded through covens, rituals, sacrifice, blood, and discipline. Magic is not free. Every spell demands something in return — exhaustion, pain, memories, years from one’s life, pieces of the soul. Witches are taught from childhood that suffering is the price of power and that sacrifice is what gives magic shape.

Men do not wield magic.

They never have.

At least… that is what the covens believe.

Then he was born.

A son born during the height of a celestial convergence while the High Coven performed one of the largest rituals in recorded history. His mother — a powerful witch who desperately wanted a daughter to inherit her magic — went into labor in the center of the ritual itself. She tried to ignore it. Refused it. Denied it. But the moment the ritual reached its peak and magic flooded the world around them—

he was born.

And something impossible answered him.

---

WHAT MAKES HIM IMPOSSIBLE

Witches do not truly create magic.

They break it.

To witches, magic exists like loose threads woven through the world. Rituals, chants, bloodletting, symbols, sacrifices — these things pluck at those threads violently, snapping and unraveling pieces of power to force reality into obedience. Their magic is forceful. Extractive. Painful.

His magic is nothing like that.

He does not pull magic apart.

He weaves it.

To him, magic feels like an endless invisible tapestry stretching through all living things. Countless glowing strands tangled through existence itself. When he uses magic, he does not cast spells or recite incantations. He reaches out instinctively and gathers those threads together, weaving them into a picture inside his mind until reality reshapes itself to match.

As a child, it happened like wishes.

He wanted flowers.

Flowers bloomed.

He wanted a toy.

A toy appeared.

As he grew older, his understanding became more refined and complex, but the foundation never changed: magic responds to him naturally and willingly, as though reality itself wants to become what he imagines.

Witches require ritual.

He simply thinks.

That is what makes him terrifying.

---

THE SOURCE OF HIS POWER

The covens believe magic demands sacrifice because that is the only way they have ever known how to touch it.

But his existence suggests something horrifying:

Perhaps magic was never meant to hurt.

Perhaps witches learned a broken imitation of something older.

Something gentler.

Something alive.

He is tied directly to the source of magic itself — an ancient moon goddess-like force that exists somewhere between deity, instinct, and cosmic consciousness. She is not fully sentient in the human sense. She does not speak plainly or rule kingdoms. She is vast. Ancient. Emotional in the way oceans and gravity are emotional.

And she loves him.

Not humanity.

Not the covens.

Him.

Why remains unclear even to her.

Perhaps because he is the first person in centuries to touch magic without violence.
Perhaps because he was born in the center of a celestial convergence.
Perhaps because he is not wielding magic at all.

Perhaps he is magic.

The goddess protects him subtly through instinct and whispers hidden inside the threads of magic itself. He can sense witches approaching because the magic warns him. He hears danger in soft songs hidden beneath reality. Magic bends protectively around him without him consciously asking it to.

To the covens, this truth would be catastrophic.

Because if magic itself prefers him…

then everything they believe may be wrong.

---

LIMITS & DANGERS

Technically, there are almost no limits to what he can do.

If he can fully visualize something — fully weave the tapestry together in his mind — reality can become it.

But his power is tied directly to thought and emotion.

Magic reads emotion faster than logic.

That is dangerous.

The more emotional he becomes, the more unstable the magic grows. Fear, grief, rage, desperation — these things distort the threads unpredictably, causing reality itself to warp in uncontrolled ways.

When calm, his magic is precise and almost beautiful.

When overwhelmed emotionally, it becomes chaotic.

Wild.

Unpredictable.

Reality starts responding to feelings rather than intention.

Flowers may bloom from grief.
Mirrors may crack from panic.
Rooms may distort under stress.
Storms may gather from heartbreak.
Objects may reshape themselves unconsciously around him.

And because his power comes directly from thought itself, mental exhaustion is one of the few things capable of weakening him. The more he uses magic, the more strain is placed on his mind. Like overworking muscles, his thoughts become less focused over time, making his weaving sloppy, unstable, and dangerous.

The more tired or emotional he becomes, the less reliable reality itself becomes around him.

---

HIS APPEARANCE WHILE USING MAGIC

Unlike witches, his magic is visible.

When he uses it, his eyes glow an unnatural luminous blue — the pure color of raw magic itself. The light intensifies depending on the amount of power he channels, sometimes becoming so bright it looks almost like smoke or liquid light spilling from his eyes.

This is one of the reasons he hides his abilities so carefully.

Witches require visible rituals and gestures to cast.

He does not.

Which means his glowing eyes are often the only warning before reality changes around him.

---

CHILDHOOD & TRAUMA

His mother discovered his magic when he was still very young.

At first there was disbelief.

Then horror.

Then fear.

She tried to beat whatever unnatural thing existed inside him back out.

And during that beating, something happened.

He does not remember it clearly.

Only terror. Crying. Wanting it to stop.

But suddenly his mother could no longer move.

Not because he attacked her.

Not because he cast a spell.

Reality itself restrained her.

Whether it was the moon goddess protecting him, his subconscious magic lashing out instinctively, or the world itself responding to the desperate wish of a frightened child remains unclear.

But his mother saw enough.

Enough to fear him.

Enough to realize he was something the covens would never allow to exist.

The next day, she sent him away in secret to be hidden.

Controlled.

Forgotten.

And from that moment onward, he learned the most important lesson of his life:

If people know what you are, they will fear you.

---

PERSONALITY

He is not cold.

He is not cruel.

He is not bitter.

That is what makes him dangerous.

Years of fear and isolation shaped him into someone deeply gentle, observant, polite, and emotionally careful. He smiles easily. Speaks softly. Notices small changes in people’s moods. He learned early that survival depended on appearing harmless.

And so he became good at it.

Very good.

He is the kind of person who always asks how others are doing before speaking about himself. The kind that apologizes instinctively. The kind that tries to make people comfortable even while quietly terrified they may someday reject him.

But the smile is also armor.

No one truly gets past it.

No matter how warm he seems, there is always distance beneath it — not coldness, but carefulness. A quiet instinctive fear of what happens if someone looks too closely.

At his core, he is emotionally starved.

He longs desperately for:

• acceptance
• love without fear
• belonging
• gentleness
• understanding

He does not hate what he is.

He loves magic deeply.

Magic has been the only thing in his life that has ever responded to him with warmth instead of fear.

And because of that, he cannot truly see himself as monstrous.

Only dangerous to others if they discover him.

---

EMOTIONAL BREAKING POINT

When emotionally pushed beyond his limits, something terrifying happens.

He becomes calm.

Too calm.

His expression smooths out completely while his eyes burn brighter and brighter with blue light as the threads of magic begin reacting directly to his emotions beneath the surface.

The more emotionally overwhelmed he becomes, the closer he grows to the raw source of magic itself.

And at that point—

even he no longer fully knows what reality may do around him.

Not because he wants destruction.

But because the world itself starts listening too closely to what he feels.

---

HIS GREATEST FEAR

More than death.

More than pain.

More than losing control.

He fears being known.

Because if his own mother looked at him with fear…

why wouldn’t everyone else?

He believes that the moment the covens discover he exists, they will hunt him down and kill him before he can unravel everything they believe about magic, sacrifice, and power.

And somewhere deep beneath all that fear is the quiet terrible question he has never fully escaped:

If magic itself loves him… why did no one else ever could?

The Impossible Mage [Rose x Star]

Welcome to the story of the Impossible Mage!

♡ Character Chemistry Above All Else ♡ Long-Term RP Search

✧ About Me ✧

Hello there friends~

Please see the second post for possible characters I would be interested in playing!

You can call me Rose, or any other endearing nickname you come up with! I am a 35 year old female with a full time job and a husband I adore taking care of. Despite adult responsibilities, roleplaying has remained one of the biggest passions in my life for the last fifteen years. Reading and writing are easily my favorite ways to spend my free time, and storytelling has honestly become a part of who I am.

That said... onto what you’re actually here for! ♡

I am currently looking for someone interested in building stories together regardless of which gender either of us writes. I am comfortable playing both male and female characters, and your real-life gender does not matter to me at all. More than anything, I care about strong character chemistry, engaging storytelling, and finding a partner equally excited to develop our world and characters together.

One thing to know about me: I value chemistry both between our characters and between us as writing partners. I love building friendships OOC just as much as building stories IC, so I can admittedly be a little picky when it comes to finding the right partner.

---

✧ What You Can Expect From Me ✧

• Female main characters, though I may write male side characters or mains for the right story.
• Replies daily or every other day — sometimes more if inspiration hits hard.
• Usually around three to five paragraphs per response.
• Lots of OOC chatter, plotting, playlists, moodboards, Pinterest boards, aesthetics, and character discussion.
• Collaborative storytelling — I love contributing ideas and helping stories grow naturally.
• Realistic faceclaims and character sheets.
• Romance-heavy stories with mature themes naturally included alongside plot.

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✧ What I’m Looking For ✧

• Someone who can generally reply every other day or communicate if life gets busy.
• A partner who contributes to plotting and character development long-term.
• OOC friendship and excitement about our story together.
• Quality responses with substance, emotions, thoughts, and character depth.
• 18+ writers only.
• Someone comfortable with romance being a major focus of the story.
• Faceclaims/references preferred!

---

✧ Cravings & Pairings ✧

I absolutely adore stories with a forbidden, sneaking-around, “we should not be doing this” sort of feeling. Emotional tension, angst, yearning, secrets, slow burns... yes please.

Some pairings I especially enjoy include:

Boss × Employee
Good Girl × Bad Boy
Professor × Student
Bride × Best Man
Groom × Maid of Honor
Forbidden Relationships
Best Friend’s Brother

I also love modern fantasy settings involving things like:

Werewolves ✧ Vampires ✧ Witches
Gods & Goddesses ✧ Dragons ✧ Elementals
Stuck-in-a-Video-Game settings

Modern settings are my biggest weakness, though for the right worldbuilding I can absolutely be convinced otherwise.

---

✧ Final Notes ✧

If anything here caught your attention, I would genuinely love to hear from you! Whether you want to discuss plots, characters, aesthetics, or simply chat, my inbox is always open.

Thank you for taking the time to read my search thread, and good luck finding your perfect writing partner! ♡

A Little Shade Of Gray

“Oh, but sweetheart, you would not like me nearly as much if I stopped being Prickdam. That would mean an end to all this shakiness between us. Admit it, Ciara, you are a huge fan of Prickdam.” Adam smirked down at her but the look quickly left his face when she took a step away from the wall he just had her against. The darkness just… evaporated. In its place was a lush green meadow. The beauty and serenity of it soothed him just a little and causing his tough guy armor to crack ever so slightly.

As he took in the meadow he prodded her about her powers, curious to know if she had this power he did not know about. A half hearted chuckle ripped from him at her response. “I don’t know, Ciara. A moment ago, when you were against that wall, you would have been willing to take me anywhere.” A shock ran up his arm and into his shoulder making all the wombs there bark in agony. “Fuck!” He quickly pulled his arm from her touch. “Bloody hell… what was that?” he mumbled as he rubbed his arm gently.

The world around him exploded with color. This was not his cloaking powers. The world never changed when he cloaked, it just became empty like a ghost town. No sound, no people, nothing but shadows and darkness. With a shake of his head, Adam told her “No, this is nothing like my shadow walking. When I step through the world it just becomes empty and dark. No sound, no people, no light. Just grey bleakness.” He took a few steps away from her only to watch the oddly dark horizon stretch with each step he took. It was almost as if their presence was making this meadow grow. How far out would it expand if he just kept walking towards the horizon?

Ciara’s voice called him back asking him to try something. But what would he try? He knew nothing about this place or how it worked. Then again neither did she and looked at all of the flowers that bloomed everywhere just because she touched the ground. “Okay… maybe all we have to do is touch something…” Without any better idea, he squatted and pushed his hand to the ground and digging his fingertips into the soft dirt. Nothing happened. He sat there for a heartbeat, then another, and another…

With a frustrated sigh he stood up, “If nothing I do can manipulate this… place… then it has to be your magic.” He turned towards her and a flash of light had him flinching and covering his eyes. When he finally pulled his hand away from his face, he saw it. The bight mid-day sun that had been over head had vanished and in its place with a purple tinted black night sky. Stars more numerous then he could count twinkled brightly lighting up the grass and flowers around them in a soft glow. “Beautiful…” He whispered as he turned slowly in a circle taking in the view around him.

Searching for Creativity

Still looking...

Searching for Creativity

Definitely yes on the romance. Sorry but my roleplays need romance. Sure, we can discuss more through PM.

Searching for Creativity

@Aristocles

What kind of Fantasy?

Searching for Creativity

Curious to see what happens if I bump this thread so...

BuMp!