#indigo writes

[indigo--montoya]

tagatha

(Inspired by this post)

"Are you sure you don't want us to try to kill him?" Hester asks. "It would be so much fun." 

"And respectful," Anadil says. "Very respectful." 

"Do you honestly think he'd be able to beat you?" 

Hester shrugs. "If he can't defend himself he can't protect you." 

"He deserves to die," Anadil adds, fiddling with her bracelet. 

Agatha raises an eyebrow, calling a dancing flame to her hand. "You know I can protect myself. And I don't want him to die." 

"He still deserves to. You deserve better." 

"Enough!" Agatha leans back in her chair, motioning toward the door. "Reaper and I have work to do." 

For a moment, no one moves. 

"Is it more poetry?" Dot whispers loudly. "Can I stay? I can help." 

Agatha's glower intensifies. Her fingers twitch, making the flame leap higher. 

"Whatever," Hester mutters, finally getting to her feet. "Come on, let's go find Sophie." In the doorway, she scowls at Agatha over her shoulder. "When you need him dead, you know where to find us." 

Agatha waits till Hester and Anadil are solidly out the door, then grabs Dot's arm before she can leave. "You can come back if you bring flowers and whatever. Nice, sunny ones." 

Dot brightens, nodding, and slips out the door. 

[indigoideas]

After it's over and Talon's escaped with the Claw, Penny wants nothing more than to take a hot shower and collapse in her bed for the next twelve hours before spending all day training, and then all the next day, and the next, and the next. Everything goes according to plan until she wakes up the next morning (at six am sharp) to a note on her bedside table. A phone number, the words Call me, Pretty Penny! and a doodle of Talon winking. 

That note fuels her furious training for the next three days as she refuses to so much as consider calling the number. She would need to get a burner phone, which wouldn't take long, but she's not spending any unnecessary time or money on him! 

Although, HQ does have some spare burner phones. It always does. No one would even notice if she borrowed one, let alone care, and it would only take a few minutes. She wouldn't even need to do any tinkering to make it untraceable. 

But she's not going to! Calling the number would be stupid, and pointless, and ridiculous, and– and– she needs to know how he got into her room. That's the only reason she slips a burner phone into her pocket the next time she gets a chance and goes for a late-night walk outside of HQ with it. It's the only reason she takes out the note that hasn't left her person since she found it almost a week before and inputs the number neatly printed on it. It's the only reason she hits call. 

"Hello?" 

For a moment after she hears his voice, she's giddy with happiness. She's heard Doctor Claw can be cruel to those closest to him, but it sounds like Talon is fine. Relief bubbles up inside her, causing her to smile. "Talon!" 

"Penny!" He sounds almost as happy as she feels. "Hang on a second, let me go somewhere a bit quieter." There are footsteps, the clang of a door, and there's suddenly far less background noise. "Sorry about that. There's some construction going on right now, so I wanted to find somewhere where we'd be able to hear each other." 

"How did you get into my room?" 

"Oh. I climbed down from the roof and came in the window. Uh, is that all you wanted to talk about?" 

"Does Claw know where we live?" 

"No!" He sounds almost indignant. "He wanted me to find out where Gadget lives so we could blow it up, but I pretended it was off the grid and untraceable. I fight you professionally, but bringing your personal life into it is foul play." 

"Oh. Yeah, I, uh… thank you." She hadn't expected… any of that. 

Alright then. Time for the next big question. Penny's grip on the burner phone tightens. "Talon, are you okay?" 

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" He sounds confused, and it puts her at ease. 

"I've just… heard things, about Claw, so I… I wanted to check. I'm glad you're okay." 

"Aww, were you worried about me, Pretty Penny?" He's smug now. "That's sweet. You don't need to worry, though. I can take care of myself." 

[the-indigo-writes]

the traitors.

i. memories are flowers that grew in my ribs

and bloomed and bloomed and bloomed

until one year they started sprouting thorns

and every time i think of  

my old neighbor's garden

and the buds of magnolias and the scent of basil

and the smile of a woman whose face was carved by 

the gentle fingers of age

i am stabbed with the realization that her garden is gone

ii. memories are crystal lakes that gleamed in my chest 

and flowed and flowed and flowed

until one year they grew murky with decay

and every time i think of

the park near the neighborhood pond

and the rusty swings and the plastic purple slide

and the call of ducks whose beaks were full of

sacrificial slices of bread

i am bogged down with the realization that the ducks are gone

iii. memories are a girl that lived in my heart

who loved and loved and loved 

until one year she grew quiet with the weight of the world

and every time i think of

the sandbox girls who did not know how to hate 

and the lost teeth and four-square wars

and the giggles of scrape-kneed heroes whose eyes were

light with perpetual sun

i am silenced with the realizaion that girlhood is gone

and the memories which built a basement of loving strength

are traitors to my ramshackle home. 

[wongyuseokie]

I realised that I don't have a fic written for the following members and I need a push hehe💕

[the-indigo-writes]

(trigger warnings for death, blood, scars, and mentioned emotional and implied physical abuse.)

From the far-up window, Seraphina Summers gazed at the purple twilight and its blazing red horizon. It was unsettling to her; not the fires and the horrors of the probable end of the world, but the fact that she felt justified in letting it happen.

All the other supers were dead. It had come down to the valiant Summers family, all of them the best and the bravest at what they did. When Scott and Melissa had met, they were the most beloved and powerful supers of their day. But they had witnessed how age decayed the value of heroes, and when the public tossed someone away, they could never bring themselves to be triumphant again. So to avoid such a fate, the two agreed to craft a fake love story and begin the most legendary super family, and create a neverending legacy. Their children would be just as gifted, just as powerful, and just as willing to pass their talent to the next generation. And for Savvy, Soren, and Sterling, the plan had worked... but Seraphina held nothing supernatural in her blood, and she had no desire to bring children into such a fucked-up way of life.

Not that any of it mattered now. The battle was just beginning, and they all knew how it would end.

The elevator doors slid open behind Seraphina. Savvy stumbled out, clutching the women's father. Scott groaned as blood trickled from his forehead. A glowing alien blade protruded from his calf.

"It's true," Savvy gasped. "Their defenses are arranged completely unpredictably. They change every two hours. Access to their base is nearly impossible, and information is inaccessible due to the scrambled signal."

Seraphina did not turn. She wasn't hearing anything she didn't already know. "Find any remaining medical personnel for the old man. I'll gather everyone. It's time for last-ditch efforts."

"Look at me, Sera."

Silence. She didn't move. The fire burned green with foreign fervor.

A defeated sigh. "This is Summer Violet calling for any medical personnel. Report to the observation deck for multiple injuries..."

*~*

The six Summers huddled around unnervingly clean chairs and sofas. Scott and Soren were both heavily bandaged. The invasion had begun two days ago, and every scouting mission had been a failure. The alien enemy was gaining ground quickly. The city had been evacuated, but not without considerable losses.

"So, we draw a grave conclusion," Seraphina decided. "There is no infiltrating or breaking the ranks of enemy armies, and there is no information to be gleaned about their base, their leaders, their intentions, anything. They're a complete mystery to us, and they're kicking our asses."

"There's no way to get more outside help?" Melissa asked desperately. "No contact with teams from neighboring counties?"

"All forms of efficient communication are blocked," Soren said.

Sterling shook his head and took his mother's hand. "We need to face it," he said, softly but firmly. "There are no alternatives. We need to bring out everything we have. We need to make sacrifices."

Savvy shook her head feverishly. "Not every solution has been exhausted yet. We should-"

"Stop trying to find a way around it," Seraphina cut in. "We are at that point, friends. We have nothing else to do."

Scott sighed deeply and brokenly. "Oh, my dears. I've failed."

Tears gathered in everyone's eyes. "You are not a failure," Sterling reassured. His chest shook.

Savvy reached for Soren's shoulder. Her brother stared at the floor. "Damn this stupid world," he muttered. "Why does everyone hate it so?"

Seraphina stood watching silently. Melissa Summers looked at her youngest child. "I am so sorry."

You should be, Seraphina thought. She chose her words carefully. "I am sorry too. And I wish you could have been saved."

Scott looked away in shame.

"We had no reason to believe you," Soren argued. "We felt we shouldn't have wasted..."

"No," Sterling cut in. "No, we have to let go of our pride. Seraphina, we were wrong. We were stupidly, fatally wrong to think you would lie about something this big. We should have listened to your warning. And we are sorry enough to pay for it."

Sadness scratched at Seraphina's heart. Of her siblings, Sterling was always the nicest. They were the closest in age, and when they realized that Sera would never be what they wanted her to, Sterling refused to treat her much differently. But he was not free of all guilt.

Seraphina nodded mournfully. "Either way," she said, "It ends today."

Savvy whimpered. No doubt she was thinking about her spouse and children, and that Soren was doing the same. They had been the first to evacuate; the family needed a failsafe, after all.

"A few more tears and a few more words," Scott announced, "then we meet our fates."

*~*

Five of the six Summers floated above Eternal Sun Tower. Though each of them had slightly different gifts- speed to Melissa, pure strength to Soren, future sight to Sterling, and so on- they all had the same energy coursing through their veins, a bright streak of other-worldliness that burned destiny into their bones. And it was said that, when the force of such energy was combined. sheer force unknown to man could be displayed and erase anything in its path. Including those who wielded it.

Seraphina traced the scar on her arm where a special Super-doctor had cut her open, only to reveal that she possessed no such energy. And she remembered the years that followed; the insistence that she was still their family, followed by the teasing, the pushing, the dismissal, the drunken rages. She was a map of every bit of abuse thrown her way, and she crafted a ruthless leader from the path it had created.

The once-purple sky now grew black and empty, only to be punctuated by pure white glow, so bright and searing that it felt illegal to witness.

Seraphina watched only for a moment before turning to the self-driving car. She got in, entered the coordinates, and calmly settled in for the ride.

A scream of agony rose from the enemy hoards. Surely they were dying in unspeakable pain. Their base, their technology, their entire army, it would all be nothing very soon. And so would the legendary Summer Supers.

Seraphina exhaled as all her pain shattered into glorious sacrifice.

You were born without powers, which made you the black sheep of your superhero family. Eventually, you became the director of an agency that deals with superheroes (a la Nick Fury), and now you are the boss of the family that shunned and picked on you.

[readypanda]

Being a fan of stories that revolve around robots or AI in the 21st century is so weird now. Like how do I tell people I'm the biggest fictional robot appreciator and the biggest real life robot hater

[cubedmango]

they do this the entire way home

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

[indigo--montoya]

"It's not stupid!" Riz clutches his hat to his head, ducking away from Fabian's hand.

Fabian turns as Riz moves through his space, snaring him in his arms. "It's pretty damn stupid, The Ball. Take it off."

Riz glares up at him, still clutching his hat. "No. What is it really? You never cared about my hat before."

The tips of Fabian's ears turn red. "Well- it's just- you see-"

"What?"

"You- why do you even want to wear a hat anyway? You have great hair."

"That's what this is about?" Riz raises an eyebrow. "You've been stealing my hats because you want people to see my hair?"

"I haven't been stealing, I've just been- relocating them. As one does."

"'Relocating them' to where, Fabian? I'm almost out of hats."

"Good!"

"Not good! I'm a professional, I have a look-"

"You look like you walked straight out of the last century, that's your look. Your hair is hot, The Ball, I don't understand why you don't want anyone to see it."

"...My hair is what."

Fabian drops him.

Prompt #396

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just take off that stupid hat!”

[indigo--montoya]

I'd like to request drunk partners meme for the WIP Wednesday game please.

I ended up not writing any more but I think it's finished so here

---

"Fiiiiiig," Fabian slurs, leaning towards her and landing on her shoulder. "I have a secret." 

Fig stares back at him, eyes blown wide. "What is it?" 

"You gotta promise you won't tell anybody. Especially Riz." 

"I can't." Fig pouts. "I've gotta tell Ayda. I tell her everything." 

Fabian considers this for a moment, slumping further. "Well. As long as you only tell Ayda." 

Fig nods. "Only Ayda. Cause she's perfect and smart and beautiful and she won't tell anybody either." 

"Okay." Fabian pushes himself up, solemnly looking Fig in the eyes. "I have a crush on Riz," he says. "Like a really big one. I think maybe I'm in love with him." 

Fig nods solemnly. "AYDA! FABIAN LIKES RIZ!!" 

"Shhh! You gotta tell her quiet!" Fabian whispers, louder than regular talking. 

"Sorry," Fig whispers back, just as loud. "Ayda! Fabian likes Riz!" 

"Really?" Ayda says from directly across the table. "I had no idea." 

"That was good," Adaine says next to her. "You've gotten a lot better at sarcasm." 

Ayda doesn't smile, but she tilts her chin up. "Thank you." 

Fabian stares at Riz forlornly. "The Ball, why are you all the way over there?" 

"Where else should I be?" 

"Right here. Next to me." 

"Maybe you should be here next to me." 

"It's so far away though." 

Riz sighs, taking pity on his boyfriend, and slips underneath the table. There's barely time for Fabian to gasp in horror before he reappears, climbing into the seat next to him. 

"The Ball!" Fabian says, delighted. "You're here!" He reaches for Riz, pulling him halfway into his lap. "I love you." 

"Hey!" Fig cries. "You said it was a secret!" 

"It's my secret so I can tell him." 

"Fine." Fig narrows her eyes. "Riz, how did you get over here? I need to get over there." 

"I crawled under the table," Riz says. "But you should really get out and– oh, never mind." 

After bumping into the table legs twice and swearing loudly and creatively for half a minute, Fig finally wriggles up in between Adaine and Ayda. She glances between them, eyes huge. "Hey, Fabian? Can I tell Adaine too? I didn't say it before cause we're not dating, but she's also perfect and I wanna tell her." 

Behind Fig's back, Ayda and Adaine exchange glances. Fabian squints at Fig. "Fine. She can't tell Riz though." 

"She won't!" 

"Fig?" Ayda says before she can yell about Fabian liking Riz again. "If you want to date Adaine as well I'd be happy to have a talk about it. She's one of my best friends and very attractive and Jawbone said dating more than one person is perfectly normal as long as you all know and consent. However, you will need to be sober." 

Adaine, who has been turning steadily more pink as Ayda talks, speaks up. "I mean, I'd certainly be willing to date one or both of you. I don't know that I'd want it to be romantic, but a queerplatonic relationship would be lovely." 

Fig looks between the two of them, eyes growing impossibly huger. "I can have… two girlfriends?" 

"I don't see why not." Ayda looks at Adaine. "Especially if I can as well." 

"Yeah!" Adaine pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "I mean, let's talk about this when we're all sober, but yeah, that sounds great." 

Fig smiles extremely wide and passes out. 

[indigoideas]

Resumé

Cw: implied torture, starvation, and dehydration.

Edit: I forgot to say, the poem is Resumé by Dorothy Parker.

The hero repeats the poem in their head like a mantra, over and over again, just as they have for the past weeks, months, years. The villain stands next to them, waiting, watching. Razors pain you. 

The glass of still, clear water sits in front of them, mocking in its closeness, in how unreachable the water still is. Rivers are damp. 

Sunlight, too-bright after so long in the dark, falls from the small window onto the polished wooden table, making it shine. Acids stain you. 

Next to the glass, the plate of simple bread and cheese waits. The bread smells amazing, still warm from the oven. If the hero wasn't so dehydrated, their mouth would be watering. And drugs cause cramp. 

"Eat," the villain says, gesturing to the food on the table. Their face is blank, carefully neutral. Guns aren't lawful. 

The hero reaches out slowly, their arms stiff after so long bound. Their fingers slip on the cool glass, too weak to hold on. Nooses give. 

The villain helps them raise the glass to their lips, holding it there as they take unbearably tiny sips. They try to gulp it down, though they know it would make them sick, but the villain draws the cup away until they calm down. Gas smells awful. 

Even something as plain as bread turns their empty stomach if they eat more than a crumb at a time. The villain waits patiently for them to finish, staying next to them, helping them. You might as well live. 

And they do. 

[the-indigo-writes]

as soon as the characters realize you're writing about them, they steal coherent thoughts from your brain to prevent you from injuring them

Why is writing a book so hard? Wrong answers only

[the-indigo-writes]

July Was a Dream

I had a summer

where the sun smoked a cigarette and it ruffled my hair and told me

that I was doing a great job

and I spent an afternoon with two near strangers,

but they were not strangers,

because our laughter was the same;

and I had never felt so stupid as when

we sat in the movie theater with matching flannels and scratchy giggles

and we drove around with music as thunderous as the sea

as if pain would not touch its withered fingers to our faces

and this is family, I think;

this is family.

[siplick]

Late night letter

[lust4lore]

MDNI

cw: overstim, fingering, dumbification, mild dacryphilia, slight mention of drugs towards the end

rafe cameron loves it when you go all dumb on him. that sweet spot after your second or third orgasm when your babbling nears incoherent, broken whimpers and whines falling from your mouth as your pretty eyes grow starry and dazed. the point of overstimulation where your mind goes fuzzy and you can’t distinct whether you want him to stop or keep going, so the only intelligible words coming out of you are ‘rafe’ and ‘please’

oh, he’s so mean about it, too. all mocking pouts and teasing coos against the shell of your ear ‘thought this was what you wanted, sweetheart, hm?’ ‘what was that, baby? couldn’t hear you, you’re gonna need to speak up’

over and over, he’ll curl his fingers up against that spot that has you crying out and clawing at his back, thumb brushing your clit every so often as your shaky thighs close around his wrist. you’re not getting away that easy, though, and of course he parts them once more with a strong hand before clicking his tongue in disapproval.

it’s just something about seeing you like this that sets him off on a power trip— the feel of your wet cunt fluttering around his fingers, pink lips parted and glistening while your eyes roll back into your head. god, don’t get him started on the tear tracks that run down your flushed cheeks. the sight of you begging— no, crying for him has him harder than he’s been in his life.

he’d never admit it, but it’s better any line he could’ve done, satisfies him more than any high he’s been on. it may seem the other way around, but you have rafe cameron wrapped around your finger.

[the-indigo-writes]

They had left the place gratefully, ready to part with such a turbulent and harmful chapter of their life. Though the memories of the spiky words and baseless arguments from those who claimed to be family would cling to them like a perpetual fog, they could leave behind the physical reminders and try to start something new.

It wasn't easy to be living alone in such times, but they managed to find a kind employer who paid well enough for them to afford a place to stay and food to stave off their hunger. Once things had settled down they found that, nourished by safety and contentment, a seed of ambition had finally begun to blossom within them. So in the darkest and richest pockets of night, they allowed their journey- a life once so pained and stifled which had grown into something joyful and free- to flow from mind to quill to blissfully vast parchment.

They created wild images of who they had become, emotions displayed in abstract spirals and faces and carefully patterned bursts. They had never seen art like it; a bouquet of stories and feelings! They signed it with their true name, not the one they had left with the false faces and pressures to hide. They had become exactly who they were meant to be.

But their perfect joy and creation did not last. They did not know how, but someone who lived nearby came to know of who they had left behind. Of who they were running from. The disgust of one man gave birth to a mob of similarly poisoned minds. The anger of blind evil came knocking at their door, then the knocking turned to the pounding of wood and breaking of glass.

"We know what you are," he snarled, and the flames were thrown into their home, landing upon scattered papers on the floor.

They watched, helpless to stop the consumption of everything they had become. Smoke and cruel laughter made a home in their lungs as they watched their art, their one last love letter to the world and their place in it, blacken and curl under the weight of hatred.

---------

Xe was bored at the family gathering. Mostly xe was terrified to be in a conversation with some certain people, and had escaped to the eternally dusty basement of the old matriarch's home. Xe had heard countless times about the move overseas, how many of these mildew-smelling objects were actually relics of the past that collectors would be itching to get their hands on.

It wasn't that interesting, really. How could any of these stories mean anything to xyr?

Xe picked up a leather-bound journal. The cover felt worn and well-loved in xyr hands. Xe slowly opened it to reveal the first page, yellowed and smelling of age and wilted flowers. It read, "Property of-" the name was cut off and angrily scribbled out. Xe raised xyr eyebrow. Maybe something was of interest to xyr...

And then half an hour flew by among the weathered pages. Xe saw so much of xyrself in the words, carefully carved to detail deep pain. Xyr ancestor had felt the same isolation and carried the same guilt. Xe gasped when xe came across the most powerful paragraph:

I shall put aside my own shame in favor of the truth within me. Mother had always described souls as little gardens that must be tended. I know now that what she would view as weeds are the most beautiful wildflowers I harbour, and I have a deep desire to tend them instead of uproot them in favour of the world's artificial colours. I will find a place to keep my lovely garden, and I shall happily water them as the person I know myself to be.

Written beneath the declaration was an indulgent cursive scrawl. Xe whispered to the stale darkness:

"Amaranth."

Amaranth gasped. So it was finally here.

They had never known why they lived on in legacy after their home and art had been burned. Their false name had died without triumph on the lips of their family, who had decided to cease talking of them. That was just fine by Amaranth; they would rather be forgotten completely than be remembered as a lie and a disgrace.

But they had forgotten about the journal they had kept in their frustrated youth. They had hoped it would not survive, but a generation or two after their death, the relic had been packed up with all the rest and shipped off to a new continent. It had been left to rot among all the other clutter of disintegrating tales.

Amaranth was so thrilled to see that their story had landed not in the hands of the same misunderstanding and disgust that had killed them; instead, they had found their way to a kindred spirit.

"Amaranth," xe murmured once more, feeling the weight and cadence of the word on xyr tongue. It had such a lovely sound, and such an incredible story behind it.

Xe decided xe had found something of value in that basement: a name for xyrself. It was a bold little flower, and an honor to the past. Xe took the aged journal and xyr newfound comfort and left the basement.

And above, the first Amaranth started to feel their edges blur. They exhaled in gratitude. The limbo between deaths was comfortably empty and numb, but the curiosity of the true end had been gnawing at them for hundreds of years. It felt so freeing to leave the world behind knowing that they had, even in their struggles and sorrow, been a gift to one of their descendants. Their last wish was that the new Amaranth carry their story not as a burden, but as an inspiration, and as a reminder that xe would never be alone.

You die two deaths - your physical death and your true death when your name is spoken for the last time. You, a mild-mannered introvert, have been stuck in limbo for centuries waiting for your true death, and finally found out why.