#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.

[slater-baby]

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Simon’s the type of guy to have your contact name in his phone as just “wife” — like an actual caveman.

No emojis, no capitals, no nothing. Just “wife.”

The first time the 141 happen to see it, they nearly laugh themselves into a stupor. It’s quite the image, imagining skull-faced Simon Riley plodding around the house, snarling the words “woman” and “wife” with all the testosterone and wolfish pride of some brutish working man.

But to Simon, it’s much simpler than that.

“Self-explanatory,” he’d explain, offended that they’d think of him so lowly, “She’s my wife. Mine. Ain’t nobody else’s. Anybody who’s got a problem wit’ me callin’ her the title I gave her can right well piss off.”

Though, that’s not to say the 141 are exactly wrong. In fact, you kind of like how pushy and red-blooded Simon can get sometimes…especially in between the sheets.

“C’mon, girl,” he grunts, slapping the fat of your ass hard enough to leave a red hand print on your skin, “Want me to be yours? Want this cock to be yours, huh?”

“Yes,” you mewl, grabbing bruising handfuls of the sheets.

“Then fucking prove it to me,” He growls, “C’mon, make yourself cum on my cock—fuckin’ prove that I’m yours,” he yanks you up with a hand in your hair, a snarl between his lips, “Faster, love, c’mon—I ain’t got all fuckin’ day.”

[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

[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.