Yes

So it's been about a week or so since I've written. I've been a bit busy and distracted which is, really, no excuse. I've neglected Bjarke and Iona, for which I apologize. This is my first prompt in almost two weeks and I'm not 100 percent pleased but it isn't terrible, per say. This is the first time I did a constrained writing.

[CW] Write a love story without using any adjectives.

Her touch was like a tango, igniting flames inside his chest.

He breathes in and out and rejoices as her fingertips trail down his face. He needed to drink her in and keep her in the circle of his arms forever. She was the ending he had always wished for. All these moments banded together after all these years is serendipity. This was the moment he had waited for.

He sinks to his knee and presents her a promise.

She smiles at him, corners of her mouth shooting up. She cannot breathe. This is what she has waited for. He would be hers for eternity.

Her voice was a song that slipped through the air on the breeze. Her answer -- yes.

Write Me A Love Story

Another poem. This time about love. So here's a secret. I used to hate writing poetry. When I was in high school, I took a creative writing class, thinking most of it would be fiction writing. Boy was I wrong. I was absolutely dismayed to find out that most of what we would be writing would be poetry. My poor, poor teacher. But throughout the class, I came to appreciate poetry more than I ever thought I would. I even participated in a poetry slam, something I never pictured myself doing. I even managed to get to the second wrong but got my tush beaten by much more deserving people. Also, my poetry was angsty as a teenager is apt to be. I hope you enjoy this. And I promise, there will be more Bjarke and Iona within the next day.

[WP] Write me a love story!


Love stories are like dreams.

Equally thrilling and terrifying.

Love stories engage a person's passion

and engage a person's rage.

Love stories are written by traveling lips

and bold declarations.

Love stories are written by tender fingertips

trailing fire down a spine.

Love stories can be full of pain

and venom can drip from pointed fangs.

Love stories are told as fairy tales

and are as delicate as a fairy's wing.

Love stories can be built on lies

and false promises.

Love stories can be built on strength

and unrelenting faith.

Love stories are a meeting of hands,

lips,

eyes,

minds,

hearts...

Love stories are written, not by societal expectations,

but the conviction of people.

Love can build bridges

and tear down walls.

Go forth and discover a love story,

one that is solely yours.

Brave

I really like the idea of a prompt almost being like dialogue. I think it gives it an interesting touch.

[WP] I need you to be brave


I held my breath, sweat dripping down my back. I waited, balanced on the edge of a precipice. Each minor hiccuping breath put me closer and closer to being discovered.

"Come now," came the deep, silken voice from the shadows. "Come to me."

I trembled and my leg muscles screamed in pain as I stayed crouched from behind a low wall. I had glimpsed the ill omen, it's bone white fingers beckoning. The words were enticing, almost like a lullaby. But I knew better. This is what the world had been running from. We had been successful until it caught up with us, the one person left I cared about sacrificing himself in the shattered calm.

"I need you to be brave," Nader had whispered to me. "I will draw it away."

I had let out a small sob and grasped his hands, dark against my pale skin.

"If you draw it away, you will die."

It hadn't even been a question. Just a cold, hard fact. Instead of answering me, he gave me a sad look then darted away. Not too long after he left me, I heard his tortured screams. I should have hidden in a better spot after he disappeared into the foggy night. If I had, I wouldn't have found myself hidden behind an inefficient wall with a harbinger of death stalking me.

"I found you," came a singsong voice above me head.

I looked up and found myself staring into a death masque.

"I need you to be brave..."

Nader's last words echoed in my head. The muscles in the thighs bunched as I sprang forward, launching myself at the creature.

I would be brave.

No Return

I am filled with all sorts of stories once again. I can't thank reddit Writing Prompts enough for helping me find the author in me again. And also to my boyfriend who was the one who introduced me to it. This is the first time I've been happy writing in a long time. Sorry it's not Iona and Bjarke this time.

[WP] "At first they came back with nothing, and then they didn't come back at all."


Katiya remembered when the men of her tribe used to don their heavy furs and thick soled boots, seeking food for the mouths of the hungry. It seemed so long ago when they would come back, sleds laden with thick cuts of meat, luxurious furs and bright silks and sweets that would melt away in her mouth quicker than a snowflake. There was laughter and celebrations all the time, thanks to the hunters and the tradesmen. Katiya remembers.

But the world became meaner, striping away the love it used to dole out. First, the men would come come back will less and less. The meat that used to taste so delicious became nothing more than fat and gristle. Furs and silks were few and far between and Katiya only had the memory of sweets.

"Why is there no laughter, Papa?" she had asked, noticing his face was lined with worry. "Why are things changing?"

Her father had placed a tired smile on his lips.

"It will be okay soon, myshka," he assured her, patting her head and she had believed him.

But it was never okay again.

Finally then hunters and tradesmen would come back empty handed. The air around them would fill with the cries of the hungry. And with the hunger sometimes came sickness. Katiya saw too many of her tribe members fade away into nothing. She feared she would be the only one left.

Every day, she would wake up with her father and watch him disappear into the darkness with the other tribesmen, desperate. And every evening, she would see the disappointment and despair etched onto their faces. Eventually, the world began to turn on them. Instead of being the hunters, they became the hunted. Beasts stalked them with new found confidence, waiting for the perfect time to pick them off -- finally high enough on the evolutionary ladder to take revenge.

The first day they had come back one man short, the stares of the tribesmen were hollow and their clothes were painted in blood of their friend. After that, there would always be one or two less men with them when the returned. Instead of silently watch her father go into the unknown, Katiya began to cry and beg him not to leave.

"Hush, myshka," he would say, wiping away her tears. "Papa will always return to you."

And then, one day, he didn't. No one did. And then she was alone.

Accords Pt. III

Guess what? There's a part 3! While nothing is concrete, I'm trying to flesh out Iona and Bjarke's world a bit. I was so excited about finally writing again that I didn't sleep at all. Maybe an hour. So thank you for inspiring, facesless masses of the Interwebs. I still don't have a real title, so I'm still calling it Accords. Again, this is cross posted from reddit's Writing Prompts.



It took another, nonstop complaining by Iona and several more threats by Bjarke before they reached home. Bjarke was not one to be homesick, but seeing the buildings come into view always made him feel warm inside. The village had been built in the shelter the high cliffs of a cove several generations before Bjarke had been born. The sturdily built wooden homes showed their age through faded colors and weather-worn wood but each home was cared for by its occupants.

A crowd had gathered on the shore to welcome the men home. Bjarke could see children running around the crowd, eager to get a first look at the plundered treasure they were carrying home. Tore, a hulking, grizzled man caught the thick rope tossed to him by Rangvald and helped pull the longship to shore. He strode up the wooden gangplank to greet the Viking.

“How were the spoils of war?” he asked Bjarke as his men began to unload the large pile of loot.

“Profitable.”

Tore caught sight of Iona, still naked and holding her head high amidst them activity. His wild greying eyebrows shot almost into his hair line as he assessed the Siren.

“Clearly,” he said before clasping Bjarke’s forearm and welcoming him home.

The younger Viking watched as the stolen goods were carted into the great hall at the center of the village where their return would be celebrated tonight. Iona joined him at the rail, causing some distractions in the crowd and a low murmur of curious voices.

“Am I to live on the ship forever?” she asked. “Or do I get to leave?”

Bjarke sighed, rubbing his forehead. Since meeting Iona and making the deal, it was as if someone planted an ax in the middle of his forehead. There was a constant pounding between his eyes. She was flat out vexing.

“We will go ashore in a minute,” he said.

The Siren clapped her hands.

“Fantastic! I know you love this thing and all,” she said gesturing to the ship, “but I will be so happy to get off of it.”

As the last of the loot was unloaded from the ship, the bearded Viking let Iona disembark ahead of him. In her usual overly dramatic manner, she strode down the wooden place and to the shore, her long silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Nothing was left to the villagers’ imaginations as the Siren’s toes hit solid ground for the first time in weeks.

The women gawked at her and she paid them no mind as she turned and looked at him expectantly. Fighting the urge to bang his head against the longship’s mast, Bjarke followed Iona ashore. One of his men’s wives, Ylva, stepped forward.

“Who is this… interesting creature?” she asked for the whole group.

“Um, this is Iona,” the Viking said. “I saved her from a Siren who was keeping her prisoner.”

The gathered women cooed and clucked their sympathies. While Bjarke didn’t doubt their misplaced pity, he knew they were looking for something to gossip about.

“And why was she naked before everyone?” Ylva admonished. “Did no one offer you clothing?”

Iona let out a laugh that sounded like a babbling brook. She had found the queen bitch of the village and already disliked her.

“Why would I hide my perfection from anyone?” she asked, eliciting surprised twitters from the group.

Ylva sputtered in shock.

“Surely you cannot walk around the village in the nude!” she exclaimed. “Asta will give you something to wear as you are about the same size.”

Iona made matters worse by wrinkling her nose in distaste. Great. In a matter of minutes she had managed to insult a whole group of people. Seeing the crowd of women become more irate, Bjarke decided, while it was fun to watch the Siren dig her own grave, he did not want them to run the beast out of town after only a few minutes. With a hurried goodbye, the Viking steered Iona to his house, only nodding at those he passed. Most of the people in the village stopped in their tracks to stare at them as they passed. Thankfully, they reached Bjarke’s home without further incident.

“What hateful little harpies,” Iona said, seething. “Don’t those nasty creatures have anything better to do?”

“They’ll run you out of the village if you aren’t careful,” Bjarke said, stripping off his kyrtill and tunic, baring his battle scars and leaving him only in his trousers and calf high boots.

All he wanted was to be clean. Being gone for weeks at a time made it hard to stay completely clean, but he made an effort as did some of his men. Bjarke gave up long ago at worrying about it, but if given the opportunity, he would ty and bathe as often as possible. Behind him, Iona tsked in disappointment.

“If only you desired the love of a woman,” she said wistfully, appraising him.

Byarke was definitely easy on the yes, the Siren thought. He had broad shoulders that connected to a muscular back and a solid waist. His stomach muscles rippled with strength. Iona imagined that everything hidden beneath her new companion’s remaining clothing was just as glorious. His face was pleasant to look at. Greyish-blue eyes peeked out beneath strong brows and Bjarke’s nose was proud and straight, not yet broken in battle. His thick, tightly braided blonde hair gave way to a rugged beard that almost hid his well-formed lips.

“I would devour you,” Iona sighed. “Are you sure you are not the bastard child of a god?”

“Devour me as a wanton woman or to take a nice big bite out of my neck?” Bjarke asked. “And last time I checked, I was not a product of a god’s wanderings.”

“Both,” she admitted. “But for all our ‘monsterness,’ I find the taste of man to be bitter. I’d rather eat something different. It sets me apart from my sisters, who have no problem devouring the flesh of men.”

When he and Iona first struck their bargain, the Viking had been unsure of what the Siren ate. When he asked, she had replied ‘the souls of men’ without blinking and a deadpan tone. Starve was all he said to her. Iona had burst in a fit of laughter, amused by her own joke. She assured Bjarke she at real food and it had been at least 100 years since she had feasted on a man’s flesh. After all, her territory had been in a tucked away corner of the world, almost never passed by. She had to sustain herself somehow.

“Lucky for you, fish is most likely not on the menu for tonight’s feast,” he told her, since she complained about the amount of fish devoured during the journey.

A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Bjarke went to open it. Standing at the threshold was a blonde-haired beauty, who blushed at the man’s state of undress. In her hands were a linen dress and a green woolen tunic. She also had a pair of thick socks and supple leather shoes.

“Hello, Asta,” Bjarke said. “Are those for Iona?”

“Y-yes,” the young woman stuttered, holding them out to the scarred Viking. “Will you be at the f-fe-feast tonight?”

He smiled kindly at her as he took the clothing.

“Of course, we shall see you there.”

She barely squeaked out a response before fleeing.

“Poor thing,” Iona tutted. “She’s so in love with you she can barely stand upright.”

Bjarke looked uncomfortable as he offered the Siren the borrowed clothing.

“I try not to encourage anyone’s affections,” he said tightly.

“You can’t help that you’re so darn manly and attractive,” she said cheekily, inspecting the clothing before her. “How do I put this nonsense on?”

“I’m not sure to be honest,” Bjarke said, feeling the need to tease her. “Want me to call Asta back or get Ylva?”

Iona scowled at him.

“So I can watch that girl simper at you the entire time or have that old she-wolf get her fangs in me?” she asked. “No thanks.”

The Viking let out a chuckle and headed to the bathhouse, leaving the sea beast to figure out the garments on her own. When he returned, Iona had more or less figured out how it went. The woolen tunic was slightly crooked and the linen dress was bunched in some places. The Siren almost looked human. She kept pulling and adjusting the dress like a fidgeting child.

“This is awful,” she complained, pulling at the dress’s collar. “I’m hot and itchy and this is heavy.”

“It’s like you were born to complain rather than lure men to their death,” Bjarke said, heading to his bed where a fresh kyrtill lay.

Iona sniffed and put her nose in the air, a picture of perfect arrogance.

“I’m quite efficient at both, thank you very much. But honestly, how can anyone stand to wear all this?”

The burly Viking shrugged before donning his own clothing. It was nice to finally have a proper bath, even if everyone at the bathhouse bombarded him with questions about his supposed war bride.

“Because it isn’t polite to waltz about in the nude whenever you feel like it,” Bjarke said, pulling on a thick pair of socks and his boots.

“Humans are strange creatures,” Iona mused, following him into the room.

“Speak for yourself, sea beastie.”

She gave him an indignant stare. What a heathen to call her a ‘sea beastie.’ She was practically a goddess. She was made to be worshiped.

Accords Pt. II

Thanks to everyone for all the encouragement! I will be continuing this story. It is cross posted on reddit Writing Prompts. I was not expecting the reaction that I got. Writing the second part, I took people's suggestions into consideration. I hope you enjoy part 2!



They pressed their bleeding forearms together to seal the pact. As Bjarke bound their wounds, he kept glancing at the small bit of land that had been Iona’s home until several minutes ago. He had expected the whole chaining a Siren to himself to be… well, more dramatic.

“What’s with the disappointed face?” Iona asked, exploring the ship as best as she could without stepping on the men lashed to it. She wasn’t having much luck, treading on several of his crews’ fingers.

“I guess I thought binding you to me would be spectacular or disturb the cosmos or something.”

The Siren turned around and glared at him.

“You are practically dragging a fearsome creature home as a magnificent war bride,” she said, offended.

Byarke’s mouth dropped open. By Odin, she was a vain creature.

“First of all, you’re not being dragged anywhere,” the Viking said, beginning to untie the ropes that held down his crew. “Second, you are far from a war bride and third, it is not as if anyone can know you’re a Siren.”

Iona fluffed her drying hair as she rummaged through the loot from a sacked village.

“Ugh, you’re taking the fun out of me being a dangerous creature,” she groused.

Bjarke ground his teeth in frustration and raised his eyes to the sky in supplication. He was already regretting his decision.

“Don’t you have anything in this pile of junk that doesn’t smell of peasant?”

Yep. He definitely regretted his decision, title of the most feared Viking in the world be damned.
When his sleeping spell eventually wore off a half hour later, he gave the crew a vague explanation as to what happened. Bjarke wove a barely believable story of a Siren knocking them unconscious and saving them and Iona in the process.

“How did you not fall under the beast’s spell?” Fiske asked, still a bit disoriented from the spell.

Bjarke glanced at Iona briefly and noted her gleeful smile. Of course she would watch him squirm rather than help him. She was definitely going to be more trouble than she was worth. Shaking his head, he pulled a small wad of wax from a pouch at his waist and held it up. The crew murmured, some of them nodding in understanding. Placing the wax in his ears would have made Bjarke immune to the Siren’s voice. His second-in-command, Rangvald, gave him a suspicious look, as if to tell him his story smelled like bullshit.

“I saved this woman from the clutches of the evil temptress who I slew,” the Viking said loudly and awkwardly, thrusting his sword into the air. “And then I claimed this woman as my prize!”

A half-hearted cheer went up from the crew, who were still slightly unconvinced and several of them threw furtive glances at Iona, who was still stark naked. She bared her teeth at them and hissed. Bjarke let out a groan at her antics. She certainly wasn’t acting like a damsel in distress. His fellow Vikings did not believe a word he said nor did they care about the strange, silver-haired, nude woman who had mysteriously appeared on the longship. Bjarke hastily disbanded the group and sent the crew to their duties.

Rangvald strode up to his friend and said under his breath, “Now why do I feel like you don’t even believe the crap that just came out of your mouth?”
The blonde Viking shrugged and scratched his beard, itchy thanks to the sea water Iona dumped on him.

“It’s true,” he said unconvincingly.

“If that’s true, then I’m a sheep’s ass,” Rangvald said, clapping Bjarke’s muscular shoulder.

“You’re already a sheep’s ass so drop it,” he said to Rangvald, who just laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, not for the lack of Iona trying. The Siren refused to were a stitch of clothing. Instead, she was perfectly content to languidly display herself on deck, stretching her limbs and drawing the crews’ eyes to her milky skin and perfectly proportioned body. Bjarke did everything he could to get her to cover herself.

“I am a sight to behold,” she argued. “They should be staring at me.”

“You’re distracting them,” he said, brandishing his kyrtill at her. “You won’t need to sing to kill us. The sight of you will run us into the rocks.”

Iona won the argument by sticking her tongue at him and ignoring him.

She also complained endlessly.

“I’m bored,” she whined to Bjarke for the umpteenth time one day.

“Was escaping your rock not good enough?” he asked through gritted teeth as Rangvald snickered in amusement at their arguing despite not knowing what they were saying. “Go enjoy the view.”

Iona leveled her pale blue eyes at him.

“Staring at water is tedious,” she said, stomping her foot like a child. “It all looks the same.”

At his wits end, Bjarke threatened to tie enough weight to her and drop her into the sea. The Siren shot him a wicked grin as the crews’ voices raised in protest. The little beast had charmed the men with her antics. Fiske patted Iona’s silver head as if she were a pet. Iona shot Bjarke an infuriating wink.

“You can’t throw her overboard!” Fiske exclaimed. “Then you won’t have a bride.”

Gods above, the man was as dumb as he looked Bjarke thought.

Hel, take him now. He would jump off the ship himself if they didn’t reach the village soon. Iona sauntered up to him, a mischievous smile on her plump, pink lips. Damn Siren was pleased with herself. Bjarke glanced down at her.

“I hope you know I already regret this,” he told her.

She laughed.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” she said with a nod. “But I have to keep entertained somehow.”

“How about I tie you to the prow and leave you there?”

“Oh, that could be fun.”

“Thor preserve me. You are going to be the biggest pain in the ass.”

Iona shrugged.

“And you’ll be the most feared Viking in the world,” she said. “Sounds like you’re getting a good deal.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Accords

This one was fun!

[WP] A group of Viking encounters a Siren at sea, her voice is luring the men to their doom - except one. Now it's up to a closeted gay Viking to save the day.

Bjarke heard a melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.

For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.

He looked at his men, who were entranced by the hypnotizing voice and moving close to the railing. If he didn't act soon, he'd lose his whole daft crew in seconds to the cunning beast. Bjarke spent the next several minutes strongarming his magicked crew into the belly of the longship before bolting the door shut from the outside. Lucky for him, his mother had been a witch and he was able to knock them out with a simple spell. That would prevent any of them from hacking a hole in the side of his ship. He worked hard to build it and Bjarke wasn't about to let some song-drunk idiot sink it.

The lilting voice grew stronger as the Siren tried to beckon the men. Bjarke stepped up to the railing.

"For Thor's sake, shut the hell up, you hussy!" he shouted over the gray water.

He saw head pop out of the water, rage written on her beautiful features. In an instant, the silver-haired Siren was at the side of the longship and scowling up at him.

"Hussy!" she shrieked. "Listen here you sansorðinn! I may be a lot of things but a hussy is not one of them. I will drag you down to a watery death."

Bjarke give her an amused smile. It would be a joy to tease this creature.

He brought his meticulously cared for nails to his face for inspection before saying, "What could you possibly need with all the men on my ship if not to be a hussy."

The woman sputtered in shock before summoning a wave to push herself onto the boat's deck. Bjarke yelped in surprise as he was soaked from head to toe. Great. This was one of his nicest shirts and now it was covered in seaweed and salt water. Blinking the stinging water from his eyes, the Viking saw the Siren stand up, her scaled tail disappearing now that she was no longer in the water. She stood before him naked, her long silvery strands of hair covering her breasts.

"You listen to me," she hissed, poking him in the chest with sharp fingernail. "I am Iona, a magnificent creature of the sea descended from Ægir himself. I will not be reduced to the image of a wanton woman by the likes of you."

Bjarke merely stared at Iona, unperturbed.

"Why are you not affected by my singing," the Siren asked, suddenly curious. "You are a male of a hale and hearty stock. You should have been one of the first to respond to my beckoning."

Bjarke's eye twitched. Yes, she would think that, wouldn't she. This was a secret he had kept close always. A secret that, if revealed, would come with a price. He was not ready to lose all he had worked hard for.

"Yeah, well. Not all of us are tricked by your charms."

Iona pursed her lips and circled him like a vulture.

"Hmmm," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. She glanced down towards his groin. "Are you lacking the needed equipment?"

Bjarke glared at her.

"I have perfectly working 'equipment' thank you very much."

Iona's perfectly shaped brows raised up high in realization.

"You're fuðflogi," she said, breathlessly. "That makes so much sense."

The Viking shushed the Siren harshly.

"Yes," he said in a hushed voice, despite the fact they were the only two conscious on the longship. "But no one knows."

"It is not an evil thing to desire the love of another man," Iona said to the burly, bearded man.

"Not everyone sees it that way," he said gruffly, running his hand over his braided blonde hair. "I will have to marry soon or else they will know."

"I will make you a deal," Iona said, taking sudden pity on the man. "I will help make you the most feared viking in the world if you take me away from this Odin-forsaken spit of land I've been stuck on. "

Bjarke looked at the silver-haired maiden curiously.

"You are a Siren," he said. "Can you not travel the waters freely?"

"Not as freely as you think," she said, sadly. "If I am captured in my human form, I am bound to them and the magic chaining me to this barren place will be split. I will instead by chained to you until you die."

"I would not wish that on anyone," he said.

"It is what I wish. It seems it would not be so bad to be chained to you until your death," Iona said thoughtfully. "I will appear as your wife and help you claim the world. Then we will both be free. I am able to mask my voice as to not charm your village. All you need to do is bind me to you through blood."

Bjarke looked at her, considering her offer. From his belt he drew a knife, slicing a shallow cut down is arm. He held it out to Iona, who mimicked his actions.

"Deal."




When I write these, I do some research. Viking warships were called longships and they were built for speed. Obviously Thor, Odin and Ægir are Norse gods. Even the characters names have meaning. Bjarke means bear, which is what a burly gay man is sometimes referred to as and Iona means born on an island. Sansorðinn is an insult and according to this website means "used in the position of a female by another man" or "demonstrably sodomized." Fuðflogi is a man who shuns marriage according to this website.