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#not a prompt
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Since the submission guide never said anything about this, are we allowed to send in screencaps from games?
Absolutely, go for it!
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pluralprompts · 18 hours
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I am not a system, but I have many friends who are and have researched specifically DID due to having those friends. I'm curious your opinion on me writing these prompts - as I don't intend to invade a space intentionally made to provide positive content to communities that I'm not a part of.
Firstly, you can do whatever you want forever, so jot that down –
Okay, okay. On a serious note, I think it's fine. Some disagree with me, especially when it comes to DID, but I don't think someone has to be a system, have any specific disorder, or be of/have any particular identity to write about these sorts of things. I am much less concerned with the identity of the author than I am how the character of a particular identity is written. That is to say, I am interested more in variety of plural and system representation, especially when it comes to positive or optimistic views on our lives*, than I am worried about whether the one(s) writing that representation are plural or a system, too. I care more about if the author is making a well-intentioned effort than if the author personally knows they're a system and openly identifies as one.
* I am comparing, of course, to the two main portrayals of systems in fiction: that we are evil (serial killer trope), or that we need to be fixed (fusion treated as the inevitable, and only, way for us to recover and live happy lives). There are ways to approach these tropes that avoid simply perpetuating stereotypes or disableism, and I would hate for anyone who relates to either to be told they cannot read or write about experiences similar to their own, so I am not saying these should never be written – but at the same time, with these being so prevalent, and so often without nuance, I am naturally more interested in fresh takes that show more pleasant sides of plurality, or at the very least more relatable struggles, than just more of the same.
With this in mind, I don't see singlet writers of plurality as an enemy. Rather, I see any inclusion of plurality in creative writing – from a simple OC kept to oneself, to a poem shared with a writers' group, to a bestselling series – to be normalizing plurality, introducing the concept to some and serving as a reminder of its existence to others. I'm someone who finds representation to be very important to progress, and thus I consider anyone who offers respectful** representation to be an active ally to plurals and systems. I would rather have a singlet writer make some mistakes while creating representation because they don't have personal experience with the subject than have less representation overall; if you're willing to write a character as a system, I'll be glad to see more representation out there.
** When I say "respectful", I don't mean it has to be sanitized or perfect. I just mean that it's done with research, and avoids relying on stereotypes, treating us like a horror trope or, again, like we inherently need to be "fixed" by final fusion – by becoming as singlet-like as possible. Again, looking for good intentions, here.
Besides, people who are presumably singlets will keep accidentally writing systems anyway, regardless of what I think. Seriously, do you know how often I keep coming across this? Sometimes I just sit and wonder how many of these authors are plural, and how many of them know it. Especially considering how often writers describe their characters as "acting on their own".
And on a similar note, I don't want anyone to feel pressured to out themselves as a system in order to write about plurality (especially considering writing about it can be part of someone's questioning journey). I've seen how that's gone down in places like the queer community (*cough* harassing authors into coming out even when it may not be safe for them to do so *cough cough*) and am not interested in repeating it here. You do not have to tell anyone if you are a system – and you do not have to tell anyone if you are a singlet. You have a right to privacy about your identity and what goes on in your life, no matter the subject matter you write about.
In the end, these prompts are for anyone who wishes to write about plurality. Or even wishes to write in general – I'm well aware that many of these prompts would work for settings in which everyone is a singlet! If you want to write them, you're welcome to. If you mess up, that's okay. It's pretty difficult for even systems to write about what it's like being us, sometimes – you won't be alone in that just because you're a singlet.
(On that note, there are plenty out there who would be happy to give more specific advice if there's any particular details or story beats you want feedback on! Cannot recommend @writing-plurals enough for this.)
Thank you for the ask and for your interest in writing about plurality. I wish you luck in whatever it is you're looking to write!!
TL;DR: it's fine lol don't even worry about it, just try to avoid stereotypes and negative tropes about us, and maybe ask around for a plural beta reader or sensitivity checker if you're worried.
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multifandom-disaster · 6 months
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In Jason I'm gonna be civil with my brother days
Jason Todd: *calls Dick Grayson* Hey, are you busy right now?
Dick Grayson: A little bit. Why?
Jason Todd: Oh, no worries. Nothing important.
*5 hours later*
Dick Grayson: You were in jail?! Why didn't you say anything?!
Jason Todd: You were busy!
Tim ver.
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whump-kia · 26 days
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reminder that you can and most certainly should be self indulgent in your whump writing. no that's not too much blood. yes you should add a whipping scene. you think it's over the top? it's not enough. if you're not giggling and screeching internally and kicking your feet then what even is the point
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honey-writes · 1 year
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Listen. If you think writing fanfiction is cringe please know that I am currently pursuing my Masters degree in Creative Writing for fiction and I want you to know that most of the people in my graduate program either read fanfiction, write fanfiction, or do both. I promise you: cringe is dead. Write whatever you want. Do whatever makes you happy.
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clockwayswrites · 1 year
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Have a bit of a fic I'm totally not writing that is 110% @mokulule's fault. If I were writing it, it would include:
Accidental (?) sugar daddy Jason
Secret Identity shenanigans
The goons researching polygamy to be supportive of their Boss' lifestyle and new partner
Danny 100% knowing Jason and Red Hood are the same person
Jason being completely oblivious to this fact
Danny being a little shit
But I'm not writing it. Really.
Edit: master post of parts I totally didn't write
-
"So," Danny started. His tone was purposefully casual in a way that made Jason pay attention.
Jason was starting to understand that when Danny was too casual, he was up to something. This seemed doubly true when Danny was talking to Red Hood. It was fascinating, really, how Danny acted more mischievous around the crime boss than his supposed boyfriend.
They were currently taking a break in their sparing session to let some of the other goons take the mat and for them to have a breather. The way Danny was stretching out his muscles to stay warmed up was really, really distracting. Jason crossed his arms to avoid reaching out and touching the sliver of skin at Danny's hip where his shirt rode up. Jason swore that shirt had not been in Danny’s closet before.
He should know, he’d been replacing most of Danny’s heinous wardrobe for weeks now as Jason and what was basically a crop top had not been on the list.
"I've heard some of your crew talking." (It was cute when Danny tried to use lingo.)
Jason tilted his head to show that he was listening. It was the downside of the Red Hood helmet that it often seemed he wasn’t paying attention, so he had long since incorporated a few exaggerate head movements to telegraph his intent. It was nice, though, that at the moment hid his blatant staring.
Danny tilted his head back. "And the word from them is that Jason is yours."
Jason froze, mind scrambling about where this could be going.
Nothing could have prepared him with predatory smirk that Danny looked up at him with. Or the other's next words. "So what are your thoughts on sharing?"
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cookierunauprompts · 2 months
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Not a Prompt, but rather Shadow Milk Cookie headcanons
First off, literally all of these are x reader headcanons because unfortunately i love this jester bastard.
He calls you his 'Little Star', one because you're the star of his life, his most prized actor, and two because... Well, you're just so tiny compared to him!
Speaking of size he loves flaunting how huge he is compared to you, constantly picking you up when seeking your attention, smothering you with giant kisses, looming over you- You get the idea.
For your own safety, he keeps you in a tower far away from the mayhem he likes to cause. Plus, it has a balcony so that you two can be at eye level without him having to constantly hold you up to his face.
Oh? You think he can remain composed after each time you get to initiate affection? Sure it seems like that on the outside but once he's far enough away he's immediately kicking his legs like a school girl and screaming into his hands. You're just so cute like that! How can he not fawn over you?
Sure, he's crazy, but you might be crazy too for still loving him even after his corruption.
... You miss him, a lot. Why couldn't the witches have also sealed you?
....
Even before his corruption, Shadow Milk Cookie had always been a bit mischievous. Though it was more light hearted teasing and pranks compared to... well, making cookies fight each other for his own entertainment.
And... that's pretty much all of them! hope you enjoyed!
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endeerling · 7 months
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I love how arven —who has been introduced as a somewhat douche —has this bright colourful Rotom case that literally has flowers and a flabebe on it
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And yet Nemona —who has been introduced as someone who’s meant to be your best friend/rival and someone who is full of joy and has a seemingly endless amount of energy —has the solid colour phone case and it’s literally just plain black with no pattern’s whatsoever
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lefttomyownvices · 6 months
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snippet #25
With a lopsided little smile, Villain jammed the gun against the column of Hero's throat.
Mist had shrouded the streets in a hazy, late autumn blue; they were lingering at the corner of a deserted coffee shop, the puddle under their boots rippling as water fell, so gently it could hardly be called rain any more than a drizzle.
"Oh," said Hero warily, stirred from their thoughts. "You."
"Didn't think I'd see you in this part of the town," Villain said. They were angling the gun upward, to the hollow of the other's exposed chin. "A lot of criminals lurk around here. Dealers."
A pause.
"I've noticed," said Hero tightly.
"Hmm."
As Hero lifted their chin, the evening light caught on the fresh bruise blooming under their left eye. The center shone with a rich, bleeding cut that arched towards their nose. Noticing it, Villain's smile only widened. (A certain goofiness permeated their every expression, every move, and even now Hero was reminded of a cartoon mob boss, only more slender, cat-like.)
"Oh, baby," Villain said, "someone jumped on you, didn't they?"
"Stole my wallet."
Villain clicked their tongue.
Car horns blaring in the distance, the sound mixing hauntingly with the chime of church bells, further towards the seaside.
"I wasn't looking for a fight." Hero's eyes drifted down to the licorice-black gun aimed at them. Funny, how they kept thinking about candy; Villain's eyes, gray in this light, brought to mind the sugared sweets they had had as a child, the ones that had tasted lemon-like. "I understand why I'm unpopular around here."
"You idiot," said Villain fondly. "So basically, you let a couple of children beat you up because you didn't want to hit them back."
Hero had nothing to say to that.
The gun, half-resting against their throat, felt too light to be loaded. There was a possibility that it was just a party trick, a bit of drama, the intense kind that Villain lusted after, whatever they did. The flash of fear in a rival's eyes when you pulled a knife against their soft stomach. The flash of betrayal when you came with three men, when you had assured you were coming alone, no weapons, nada, coming in peace, very good friends forever and ever, love ya.
Hero's head was full of disco lights. The headache was growing.
They were five seconds from passing out when Villain jutted the gun deeper again, and the sheer shock of adrenaline made their mind more alert.
"Wait," Hero said, the word coming out slurred. "I'm just going home."
"The most merciful thing would be to shoot you right here in the head," said Villain, "before someone comes and beats you up with a hockey stick instead. Has anyone told you that you lack the most basic survival instincts?"
"I don't care," Hero said mildly. "And if someone wants to beat me up, that's my problem, not yours."
"But the thing is, I've gotten oddly attached to you. A bit like I got attached to that tramp dog a few months ago." The gun crept down, the touch lightened, pressed down again. "I mean, the poor puppy died, but you might still have a chance, you know, if you just took my advice for real."
"Sure," Hero said. The headache was so raw they felt it in their teeth. What had slammed their head against again? A parking meter? "I'll think about it when I get home."
With that, they moved, waving the gun away like it was a poised microphone instead of a firearm, and started stumbling down the street.
They got about three feet forward when the same gun pressed to their back.
"Ah, ah, no," Villain said, "you're not going anywhere like that."
"What would I have to offer you?"
"Your life, for instance," Villain said, in the same, conversational tone one might use with a friendly-yet-daft old aunt, "and the suit you are wearing, which, I'll admit, is very nice."
Hero's jaw tensed.
"Turn around."
Bright spotlights swaying in a half-moon, trailing its silhouette on the wet, black cobblestones. Hero bit down on their tongue.
There was the distinct possibility that Villain actually wanted them dead, and that the moment they turned, they would shoot. Villain prided in the fact that they never attacked anyone who had their back turned to them. In their opinion, punching someone in the face was much nobler than, say, kicking them in the shin when they'd already turned to leave.
But there was also another possibility; for Hero to keep stumbling around until night fell, lost, chilled to the bone. And the indirect promise of the hockey stick.
They stumbled around and met the other's gaze.
"Well?" they said.
Slowly, slowly, Villain lowered the gun. It slipped with elegant ease onto the beige holster at their hips. As Hero waited there, Villain held out a hand.
They stared at the hand; bloodied knuckles, scarred flesh.
"I told you they took my money," Hero said, exasperated. "They even took my phone. I don't have anything on me."
Villain rolled their eyes. "I don't want your trinkets," they said, and wriggled their marred fingers. The movement should have been ordinary, but in its smoothness became obvious the years of lock-picking, training, playing with silver and coins and knives. "Take my hand, silly. You are coming to my place. Try to run off and I'll snap your wrist in two."
Sighing, Hero took their hand. It was clammy but soft.
And with that, they were walking hand in hand down to the direction where Hero had emerged from; towards the darker side of the town, where the streets knitted into thinner and thinner side-alleys, stretching like the many heads of a Medusa and plunging into the night.
When they finally halted in front of the dusty door to Villain's apartment, Villain suddenly turned and grabbed Hero's face, angling it into the yellow street light.
"What now," said Hero.
With their sleeve, Villain dabbed a trail of snot from under the other's nose. A rush of humiliation went into Hero's head, mingling so hard with their exhaustion that for a moment, the whole world blinked black.
The other had said something.
Hero blinked.
"I said it's shame you're so pretty," Villain repeated, patting their head; hair matted with rain, hanging in heavy spikes. "You should have forgotten about saving this city and gotten a sugar daddy instead."
"Yeah," Hero mumbled, shifting on their aching feet, hand clasped tight in the other's grip. Fuck you too.
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depressedgaywriting · 6 months
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45
"Villain..." Hero whispered. "I'm engaged."
Villain took a step backwards, then let out a surprised bark of laughter. "Do they know?"
"Know?"
"That you're hopelessly in love with someone else, my dear."
Hero flushed. "I don't know what you're-"
Villain waved a hand through the air. "Don't play with me, Hero."
Hero stood up as tall as they could manage, folding their arms across their chest. "I'm not."
The other observed them quietly for a few seconds, deliberating, before stalking across the room towards them until they were less than a step away. Hero hoped they couldn't hear how fast their heart was beating. Even if the engagement wasn't exactly their choice, it was still wrong to do - whatever this was.
Villain's fingers came up to brush Hero's cheek as they tucked a loose strand of hair behind their ear. They leaned in slightly, their breath fanning over the top of Hero's ear. "Let's not be ridiculous, my dear."
Hero took a deep breath. "I-"
Villain rolled their eyes, muttered a quiet I guess we're doing this the hard way, and kissed them. They smirked internally when Hero kissed back, hands tangling in Villain's hair.
Villain only pulled away when they were both out of breath and panting. "So. Do they know?"
Hero shrugged, leaning their head on Villain's chest. "I've never met them."
The other laughed again, and Hero could drown in that sound. "Tell them."
"I can't- my parents-"
Villain stroked Hero's hair. "You're not a child, my dear. If you want me, you'll have to tell them." They shrugged. "That simple."
Hero took a deep breath before giving their response.
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vasito-de-leche · 2 months
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🖐🩹 imagine Pavia just... does not drink or smoke at all. He only carries around lollipops and drinks juice. NOBODY is able to say a SINGLE thing to him. And that's PRECISELY why he does it.
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that's so fucking funny I just had to draw a little something for it
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arealphrooblem · 7 months
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A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find
Synopsis: Civilian has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job.
CW: death threats, knives
There was only one thing worse than having a crush on your straight roommate: having a crush on your straight villain roommate. 
Actually worse than that were rent prices, which kept Civilian from running as far in the opposite direction as he could get after he gave his statement to the police. 
A statement that contained a big, gaping hole. 
Because it couldn’t be true, right? It had to be a coincidence. Lots of people had weird, star shaped birthmarks on their ribs. It was a huge leap of logic to assume that the villain who had just tried to rob the bank that morning had the exact same birthmark as Civilian’s roommate for the past two years. 
Or maybe he just imagined it. It had been a very traumatic day. Civilian went home after the police released him and had a massive panic attack in the shower for about forty five minutes and then pressed two weighted blankets on him in bed like a panini grill. 
Having a group of villains stride into your workplace, guns blazing, would do that to you. As would getting stuck in the crossfire between said villains and the Hero from behind a desk, praying a stray bullet or laser beam wouldn’t hit and kill you. 
It was only a coincidence that Civilian had seen the birthmark. Near the end of the fight, one of the villains had been thrown over the very desk Civilian cowered behind, hitting the wall hard enough that even Civilian winced in sympathy. 
He laid there for a moment, dazed, half his torso exposed from a rip in his clothes, that stupid, undeniable birthmark on full display. Civilian could only stare at it, head dizzy as if he also took blunt force trauma to it. The villain groaned and sat up. 
For one agonizingly long second their eyes met. Civilian felt like a kitten spotted by a hawk. This was it. His time was up. He’d be just another statistic on the news -- 
But the villain just put a finger on his lips -- a silent command for silence -- that Civilian could only nod helplessly at. Then the villain slipped away in the chaos and disappeared. 
And besides, it couldn’t be his roommate because his roommate was in Colorado, visiting some online friend of his and going mountain biking or whatever. 
Two days after the attack, Roommate burst through the front door, dumping his duffel bag onto the floor and stepping towards Civilian with a scary single minded determination. 
It took every ounce of control not to flinch when Roommate cupped his face, gaze roving over his features as if looking for injuries. 
Roommate himself looked untouched from the fight. It almost made Civilian second guess himself. But he hadn’t spent the last two days analyzing every detail his love-sick brain had filed away for the last two years to doubt himself now. 
That villain and his roommate were the same person. 
“I saw the news,” Roommate said. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt? I tried to change my flight but this was the soonest I could get in.”
The lie hurt. Obviously Roommate hadn’t been mountain biking in Colorado for the past few days so it begged the question: what else did he lie about? Was this concern just an elaborate play at innocence? But if his roommate was taking the time to craft this act of concern, then he must not think Civilian knew. 
And if Civilian valued his life, he’d have to keep it that way and force normalcy. 
“I’m fine,” he said, trying for a smile and coming up with a grimace. “I mean, I’m not fine. It was fucking scary, but I didn’t get hurt. So there’s that. Work’s given me a week off and then. . .”
Roommate scowled. “And then what? They can’t possibly think you’d be okay working there again after only a few days off? You should quit.”
“Quit?” Civilian’s eyebrows raised. “And we both get thrown out on our asses? We’re lucky enough to have this apartment as it is.”
“I have enough savings to get us through for a few weeks while you find another job,” Roommate insisted. 
“I thought you blew it all on Colorado,” Civilian joked weakly. 
And where the fuck did those savings come from? he wanted to ask. But he didn’t dare. 
“Not all of it. Seriously. You should think about it.”
Something gleamed in the roommate’s eyes, like a warning. Civilian swallowed thickly and nodded. 
“Okay. I’ll think about it. I just . . .I think I’m going to go lay down for a bit. It’s good to have you back. You’ll have to tell me all about it when I wake up again.”
Roommate’s face lit up with a smile and Civilian’s heart twisted in his chest. “I have so many good photos. It’s beautiful out there.You should come with me next time.”
“Yeah sure,” said Civilian thoughtlessly, thinking only of the dark safety of his room. 
“Get some rest.” Roommate nudged Civilian towards the hallway. “I’ll order us pizza.”
Civilian nodded and forced his steps to slow as he made his way to the bedroom. Once the door shut and the fan turned on, he buried his head under his pillows and tried to get his breathing under control. 
Faking normalcy was going to be harder than he thought. 
"Oh you're starting dinner already?"
Civilian jumped at the sound of his roommate's voice, the knife slipping and nearly cutting  into his fingertip. A quick glance over his shoulder showed his roommate leaning against the opposite counter, arms folded loosely over his chest. 
Just a casual chat. And yet it felt like a fist suddenly gripped Civilian's heart. Even after three days, it still felt like walking the knife’s edge every time they were in the same room together. 
"I, um, got bored," he said, thankful to be facing away so his terror wouldn't show as he fought it back down. "I didn't know you'd be home so soon."
"I took a half day at lunch. Did some shopping. I got you more of that tea. It seemed to help you sleep."
A hint of guilt colored his roommate's nonchalance. Or maybe Civilian just imagined it. 
"Thanks," Civilian said.
Focus. Focus on the potato. Cube the potato. Be the potato. 
Heart thudding in his ears, his concentration on chopping vegetables, Civilian didn't hear the movement until his roommate's head appeared over his shoulder. 
"What are you making?" he asked. 
Civilian swallowed down a lick of sudden hysteria. 
Get a fucking hold of yourself he thought. There is no reason why he'd be suspicious unless you're acting like a lunatic!
"Soup," he managed to croak. "The, uh, kind at the Italian restaurant you like."
A bribe. A hope. A way to remind himself that he knew his roommate, right? They've lived together for two years. 
And true to form, his roommate's eyes brightened. "Oh excellent! We haven't had that in ages."
"That's because chopping all these vegetables is a pain in the ass."
A thick tension rose and tightened between them. Civilian concentrated on chopping, trying to ignore the heat at his back as his roommate didn't step away, didn't leave. Just watched him. 
"You're using the wrong knife, you know," the roommate said softly. 
" . . .what?"
The roommate reached over Civilian's shoulder to the knife block on the counter and pulled one out. It was small and two fingers wide, short and wickedly sharp. Fear clenched Civilian's throat with icy hands. 
"You're using a butcher knife," his roommate murmured against Civilian's ear. A shiver fluttered down his neck. "That's for cutting meat. You need a paring knife for vegetables."
" . . .Oh." Was it just him or did the kitchen suddenly feel low on air? "I'll . . . remember that . . .for next time. . ."
"Why don't I take over? At least for the chopping."
Civilian tightened his grip on the knife, an instinctive gesture he had no control over. But even though Roommate had offered help in the kitchen many times, that same instinct screamed not to let him. Something felt different this time. 
"I got it," he said, forcing lightness in his tone. "You know you're hopeless in the kitchen."
"I'm good with knives, though." Civilian swallowed down another spike of cold terror. "It's the least I can do if you're making me my favorite."
The paring knife rested just inside Civilian's peripheral, deceptively harmless. 
"Why don't you put the gnocchi on to boil," he said. "I'm almost done here."
His roommate sighed, a rush of air against Civilian’s cheek. "You're always so stubborn," he said with sad fondness. 
The paring knife moved like a flash and suddenly it's cold steel pressed light as a kiss just under Civilian's jaw. 
His breath froze in his lungs. 
"Drop the knife, Civilian."
" . . .Roommate?" It wasn't difficult to pitch his voice high in uncertain fear. To pretend shock. "What are you doing?"
"I know that you know."
"Know what?" Civilian breathed and then cringed at how unbelievable it sounded even to his own ears. 
He only had room in his head for one secret,  it was hard to sound convincingly ignorant when every cell screamed at him to run away. 
"You've tried so valiantly to hide it, but I know you too well." Roommate's murmured against his ear.  "You're afraid."
Civilian dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. "You have a knife to my throat."
"And you are nowhere near as shocked about that as you should be." Roommate twisted the knife until the flat of the blade lay against Civilian's skin -- and then he dragged it, achingly slow, over Civilian's jawline to rest against raw bitten lips. 
A wave of dizziness gripped him, driven by fear mixed with the heady, dangerous edge of want, the desire Civilian struggled with for so many months wrapping its claws around his chest. 
"Be a good boy and drop the knife."
Breath came fast and heavy as he willed himself to relax his fingers, to release the knife. Not that he would have even thought of it as a weapon and not a kitchen tool until his roommate demonstrated it. But with one having danced so close to his pulse, letting go of his own felt like a death sentence. 
The second he dropped the knife, his roommate twisted a hand into the fabric of his shirt and hauled him across the kitchen to pin him against the fridge. The smiling tomato magnet they grabbed as a joke at a yard sale clattered to the floor and broke into pieces. The roommate  doesn't so much as flinch, their gaze like stone, the knife never wavering from Civilian's neck.
He swallows thickly against the panic, never more afraid in his life than in this moment. He never thought death would look like his favorite person in the world ready to slit his throat with a paring knife. 
And yet the desire still thrummed beneath it all, a twisted hunger being fed from such close contact, like his body forgot to stop yearning in light of what his mind knew. But the stone-cold glint in his roommate’s eyes twisted his face from comfortingly familiar into dangerously unrecognizable. 
Seeing it shattered something in Civilian just like that stupid magnet. His eyes prickled and stung; the roommate's face turned blurry. Humiliated, he darted his gaze to the window, focusing on the speck of green of the neighbor’s tree swaying in the breeze. 
And waited for death. 
Time stretched long and excruciating between each heartbeat. Then the coolness of the knife disappeared, replaced by warm fingers that nudged his gaze back to his roommate’s.
“Hey,” the roommate said softly. 
That granite hardness of his gaze had melted into soft concern. The exact kind of look he gave Civilian each time a migraine flared up. The reminder of that felt as dangerous as the knife. It couldn’t be real. 
“Hey, it’s okay.”
The words hit him like a slap to the face. 
“Don’t say that!” Civilian hissed. “I didn’t do anything and you’re going to kill me.”
He flinched from the hand that raised up, knocking his head painfully against the fridge. But Roommate only brushed a stray tear away with his calloused thumb. 
“You’re right,” he said pensively. “You didn’t do anything. And I’m not going to kill you.”
He turned and tossed the knife into the sink. Civilian did not feel any safer, however. He felt like a bug under the shadow of a boot,  even as Roommate smoothed his hands over Civilian’s chest in a display of casual affection he would have died for a week earlier. 
“Here is what I am going to do,” he continued. “I’m going to finish dinner. You’re going to compose yourself in a long hot shower and when you get out we are going to eat and have a discussion about the way things are going to be from now on. Is that alright?”
Civilian nodded, not trusting his voice. What other answer could he possibly give?
Part two here
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iminkandpaper · 1 month
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"Villain killed over twenty people in the last two days," Hero slammed the file down on the table. "He must be stopped."
Sidekick opened the file. Her hometown. Her knuckles turned white.
"Villain did this?"
"Yes. Over the weekend."
Hands in her hair, stroking, petting gently. His mouth against her ear, crooning softly that she's so beautiful, so lovely, such a pretty little thing all for him. She gasps. His hands run up the insides of her thighs.
Sidekick frowned. "Are you sure it was Villain?"
A vein bulged in Hero's forehead, and his pupils seemed to dilate. "Who else could it be? Villain is evil. He must be stopped."
I wouldn't call him evil, she didn't say.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. She let out a breath against his chest, inhaling the smell of his dusky cologne.
"I'm just... do we have any proof?" Sidekick rubbed her knucke against her palm, studying the photos carefully. "I somehow doubt this was Villain."
Hero gripped the edge of the table, manic. "Excuse me?"
His lips on hers.
"It couldn't have been."
Her hands tangled in his hair.
"And how would you know?"
Because I was with him the whole weekend, she didn't say.
Sidekick closed the files, shaking her head. "It just doesn't match his MO, that's all."
"Twenty five people," Hero snarled. He jabbed his finger into the file, denting it with his enhanced strength. The table creaked. "He went in there with his minions and set fire to three houses. Did you read the file, Sidekick, did you? Because if you did you wouldn't even be questioning me."
Sidekick leaned away from Hero, nodding slowly to appease him. "Okay. Okay, I believe you."
"Good." Hero backed off. He tried to smile, but it came off rather unsettling.
"Have you seen the crime scene yet?"
"No. I was waiting for you."
Sidekick nodded. "We should get to it. Stop him as soon as possible."
Hero shook hos head, turning on his laptop, muttering to himself about forgotten passwords which Sidekick dutifully repeated back to him.
"Who knows what he'll destroy next - maybe that little food truck on 6th next."
"Mm." She flicked through her texts absently, nit fully hearing him. She read the newest text with a faint smile. Then- "How do you know about the truck?"
"Pardon?"
"How do you know about the truck. The food truck. It's only there on Saturdays, and even then, Mary's schedule is..." Sidekick's eyes widened in realisation. "It was you."
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multifandom-disaster · 5 months
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In Tim robin days Tim Drake: *calls Dick Grayson* Hey, are you busy right now? Dick Grayson: A little bit. Why? Tim Drake: Oh, no worries. Nothing important. *5 hours later* Dick Grayson: You were in jail?! Why didn't you say anything?! Tim Drake: You were busy! Jason ver.
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whump-kia · 3 months
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i love you whump community. i love you whump enjoyers who like whump as kink. i love you whump enjoyers who process trauma through whump. i love you whump enjoyers who vent intrusive thoughts through whump. i love you whumpers who write fic. i love you whumpers who read fic. i love you whumpers who draw whump. i love you whumpers who use music in whump. i love you whumpers who aren't yet comfortable liking whump. i love you whumpers who love whump out and proud. i love you whumpers who don't know what whump is. i love you teen whumpers. i love you adult whumpers. i love you whumpers who write darkfic/dddne. i love you whumpers who write comfort-no-hurt. i love you whump community. i love you. i love you.
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honey-writes · 1 year
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I think the most heartbreaking thing is…writing does take practice. You’re probably not going to be at your best when you start out. The worst part about writing is that you’re going to be very shaky and probably pretty bad before you can get pretty good. Writing, like all forms of art, takes practice and discipline and willingness to try and keep going, no matter how difficult it may seem. And it can suck! We all know that! Creative ruts and writers block are tough but inevitable aspects of the process of writing. But just know that if you’re not satisfied with your work now, it only means that you’re going to be even better in the future. One day you’ll be able to look back at your work and go, “wow this kinda sucks, but that just means that I’ve gotten better now!” Writing takes time. You’re not gonna get good overnight. So keep going! Keep pushing! You only get better from here :)
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