#writing about identity

[luxyena]

[writersbeware]

Stripping Away the Old

Some women keep their maiden name when they marry. The reasons are varied, but deeply personal. Meanwhile, some hyphenate the combination of last names, which is another way to hang onto the maiden name. Me, no. I hated my name because it identified me as a member of a dysfunctional family. A family in which I was ridiculed, harassed, tormented and belittled. As long as that name was mine, I…

[hairmetal666]

No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.

Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.

Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.

It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.

The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).

That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.

He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.

Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.

Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.

---

He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.

"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."

Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."

"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."

"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"

"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."

"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.

"How long you in detention for?"

"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "

"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"

"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"

They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.

The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.

---

He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.

It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.

He wishes he could tell Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.

They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.

Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.

He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--

He wants

---

Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.

He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.

Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.

It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.

Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.

He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"

"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."

Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"

In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.

"You should be safe here," Eddie says.

Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"

"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."

Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"

"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to."

"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"

"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."

"You're giving me too much credit, man."

"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."

His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."

Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"

Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"

"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."

He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"

Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.

"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.

Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.

He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.

Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."

"I have a character."

"What???"

"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"

"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"

Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."

Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"

He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."

"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.

"If you're lucky." Steve beams.

[kaibascorpse]

some of you people are so obsessed with having an acceptable group to ‘punch up’ at that you would rather pretend a marginalized group are Basically The Oppressors™ than listen to their valid criticisms about the fact that ‘punching up’ very rarely hits the intended target, and the majority of the actual damage of that act is suffered by fellow marginalized people in your own community. there is a significant difference between venting frustrations about privileged groups and just outright attacking anyone who (you assume) experiences that axis of privilege regardless of - and in many cases outright denying - their actual lived experiences. it goes far beyond just ‘venting frustrations’ when what you’re really doing is trying to find a moral justification to bully people you don’t like, and when your own desire for catharsis and moral superiority leads to ignoring the voices of the vulnerable people you hurt. you’re not ‘punching up’ - you just like punching people for the sake of punching.

[anneapocalypse]

So, just curious how many writers and creators will have to be forcibly outed by relentless harassment before we acknowledge that "This queer characters was written by a cishet person and that's why they're bad" is not good criticism.

[starry-bi-sky]

Incorrect Quotes for the Blood Blossom Au - DPXDC

Original Post Context Here but TL:DR - Vlad poisons (orphan) Danny with blood blossom. He runs off, finds Pre-Robin Battinson, Battinson saves his life. Danny is currently staying with him until the time being. Batdad all around, found family, woo!

————————

Bruce after giving Danny an antidote: poof. Just like that, the toxin’s gone

Blood Blossom, not gone just sedated: wrong! toxin’s right here you fucking brussel sprout

————————

Vlad at a gala while his godson is (allegedly) missing: Mister Wayne! A pleasure to meet you, I wanted to speak with you about hopefully setting up a deal between our brands—

Battinson, currently housing his (allegedly) missing godson: I don’t like you.

Vlad: —and it’d be a— i’m sorry?

Battinson, louder: I don’t. Like. You.

Vlad:

Bruce:

Vlad: If you could tell me what I did to offend you--

Battinson, with the intensity of a thousand suns: No.

————————

Danny: 🧿🧿

Bruce: 🧿🧿

Danny: 🧿🧿

Alfred, in the corner: Can you two socialize like normal people

————————

Danny: gun to your head, who would you rather kiss: riddler or the joker

Bruce:

Bruce: gun to my head?

Danny: gun to your head, yes.

Bruce, without missing a beat: pull the trigger

————————

Danny (is currently unaware Bruce = Bruce Wayne): hey Vlad's planning on poaching Mr. Wayne's company out from underneath his nose, would you be able to prevent Mr. Wayne from making any deals with him? Or just in general from being alone with him?

Bruce, realizing Danny doesn't know he's Bruce Wayne:

Bruce: ...yes.

————————

(Danny and Bruce are leaving Wayne Enterprises, Danny is wearing a face mask and obscuring most of his identity. There's a swarm of paparazzi at the doors)

Bruce:

Danny:

Danny: there's an open window on the first floor bathroom

Bruce, immediately turning on his heel: mh. mhm.

————————

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Bruce 🤝 Aunt Alicia: "Vlad Masters can go fuck himself" club

————————

Bonus! Because looking at it makes me giggle and I think it needs to be shared

POV: You're Alfred living with two of the most socially awkward people in Gotham. Now with biblically accurate heights!

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[ghostbsuter]

Sometimes.

Just sometimes.

Bruce, tired father of too many children, wished for a small break.

Just a tiny one.

He pinched his nose, cowl covering his head and expression and glared.

"I can't believe you snitched on me!" Billy batson, freshly revealed teen and sitting on his usual spot during meetings, hisses.

"If I have to get parented, so do you!" Danny fenton, also freshly revealed teenager, glared right back.

"Boys." Both their attention snapped to wonder woman, still tense and warry.

"Do you two have adult supervision, at least." Batman asks, feeling slightly more drained than before, he can feel Nightwing's stare at the back of his head, coming closer.

"Do the voices count?" Danny asks, to which Billy nodded. "Yeah, do they? Zeus has strong opinions, and many kids. He probably can parent, somewhat."

They shrugged both, like they hadn't just opened another whole can of questions.

"Wait!" Danny snapped his fingers, "what about clocky? He sends us on time missions, has his own lair, and lets us hang around. That counts? Right?"

The other teen nods in agreement.

(Knowing both are black haired and blue-eyed teens, he already knows Dick will never let him live this down. Deceived by children, for YEARS.)

(So much for being the greatest detective.)

(The text he sent to Alfred is between him and his butler dad.)

"Or—"

In the end, the two agreed reluctantly to stay around for a while. The Kents, the Allens, Diana, and the Waynes have opened up their homes to house them permanently.

Much their amusement, they declared, that to make no one jealous, they'd switch homes every other week or so.

That alone smelled like chaos.

Whatever, it was Diana's first week.

(And if the house of mysteries appeared in front of them sometimes, that's also between them and a very suffering John constantine.)

.・゜-: ✧ :-

A continuation

[future-crab]

It's been said before, it will be said again, but it's still worth saying: the fact that art centering on straight romance is allowed to just be bad, but art with queer romance in it always has to be indicative of A Serious Problem With the Way We Tell Queer Stories makes being a queer person making queer art deeply stressful

[genderqueerdykes]

honestly one of the funniest parts of the internet is total strangers actually, seriously try to un-diagnose you. like i have literally been diagnosed with schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder numerous times by multiple psychiatric professionals, but 1 guy on the internet decides he's suddenly a mental health professional who can assess a total stranger via their blog. how do you not see how funny that is, like my brother in christ you can't even see me

[heich0e]

"you know that's not how it works, right?"

atsumu and osamu's heads both snap up from where they're stooping over a paper schematic laid out before them, sitting cross-legged amidst a debris field of cardboard, styrofoam, and various wooden parts.

the sun streams in through the open window on the other side of the room, and little motes of dust that have been stirred up through the afternoon's excitement are caught in the light as they twist and spin through the air, fluttering slowly towards the ground. the breeze that slips in through the window is cool but refreshing, the smell of spring carried in on the edge of every wisp of air. you take a deep breath to savour it.

"whaddya mean?" atsumu asks, his brows—so much darker than the peroxide blonde of his hair, and the contrast even more stark since he's seated right in the sunlight that makes his hair practically glow—pinching together in the centre and expressing his confusion. osamu doesn't say anything, but his own expression is equally perplexed as he sits beside his noisy brother.

you laugh, taking a sip from your glass of water as you lean against the doorway.

"i said that's not how it works."

osamu's grey eyes flicker back down to the instruction manual in front of him, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he mulls over your comment.

you sigh, a little smile tugging at your lips. "samu, i'm not talking about the crib."

both brothers look up at you once more, now thoroughly confused by your interruption and wearing nearly identical expressions which convey that sentiment. you set your cup of cool water down on the chest of drawers just inside the doorway: an old wooden hand-me-down from their mother, who insisted you take it for the nursery and give it a second life in a new miya household. you pad into the room, approaching them both slowly as you carefully avoid the various pieces of disassembled crib that litter the floor, and crouch down to sit between them.

atsumu sees the way you struggle on your descent, still not quite used to the bump that has swollen at your waist and grows with every passing day, and he quickly reaches up to help you settle in between the two of them. you murmur quiet thanks, squeezing the blonde's hand with your own before you pull away.

once you've finally made yourself comfortable on the nursery floor, you huff. "what i meant was that's not how twins work."

you'd caught the tail end of the brothers' conversation as you passed by the doorway to the nursery—a casual but enthusiastic debate on whether or not you should be expecting one baby or two.

"yer gonna explain twins to us?" tsumu guffaws in the wake of your words, looking to his brother for solidarity in his indignation. samu's eyes instead flicker down to the bump of your stomach where your hand is resting.

"we're kinda the experts in the room y'know," osamu teases you, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. you roll your eyes.

"experts?" you parrot back incredulously. "says the guy who barely passed biology, and the one who's forgotten everything about high school other than volleyball scores and school lunch menus."

you point to atsumu and osamu respectively as you make your remarks.

"hey!" atsumu whines.

"i remember other stuff too," samu laughs a bit as he reaches up and ruffles the dark hair at the nape of his neck. you cock a brow as you lean in towards him.

"oh, yeah?" you challenge his assertion. "like what?"

"cute girls," osamu says as he turns his attention back to the assembly instructions on the floor before him, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. you resist the urge to swat at the back of his head.

behind you, since you've turned your body to face his brother, atsumu pitches forward and hooks his chin over your shoulder.

"so, what was that about anyway? the twin thing?" he asks, muttering in a way that tells you he's got a pout on his lips even if you can't see it.

you lean back into atsumu slightly, watching as osamu picks up a piece of crib and turns it over in his hands to survey it, comparing it to the complicated illustration in the instruction manual.

"even though you two look so much alike, you're fraternal," you say, tilting your head to peek up at him through your lashes. "and your mom's mom was a fraternal twin too."

atsumu hums. you've not told him anything he doesn't already know. "s'genetic!"

"it is," you agree, running a hand over your stomach absentmindedly. "but the gene that makes you more likely to have twins has to do with ovulation. which means it has to affect the mother—and i have no twins in my family."

atsumu sucks in a sharp little breath that you can't help but think sounds a bit disappointed. osamu pauses in his instruction surveillance.

"besides," you remark, peeling yourself up from against atsumu's chest, "we already heard the baby's heartbeat, and there was definitely only one in there."

osamu looks over at you, pointing the mystery piece of crib in your direction. "our ma said the same thing, and still ended up with the two of us. careful whatcha say."

"she says i hid my heartbeat 'til the second trimester!" atsumu agrees with his brother, supporting his argument in a distinctly proud way—a wide grin stretching across his face.

"troublesome from the very beginning, huh?" you tease him, and he reaches up to pinch your cheek playfully in response.

"what about identical twins then?" osamu asks. "they genetic too?"

"no," you shake your head, atsumu's fingers still lightly holding the fat of your cheek and making your words come out a little funny. "they'a fweeks o'naytchor."

atsumu laughs, letting his grip on your face go. "freaks of nature?"

you rub at your stinging cheek with your fingers, glaring at him resentfully. "there's no real reason why identical twins happen. they shouldn't happen, by all accounts. but for one reason or another the fertilized egg decides it's going to split and basically clone itself even though it's not supposed to. that's weird."

"so, who has identical twins?" osamu asks, reaching up and running his thumb over the red mark his brother left on your poor cheek.

you purse your lips as you consider his question. "well... anyone could, i guess. in theory. there's no real rhyme or reason to it."

atsumu and osamu's eyes lock over your shoulder, and you can't help but noticed the look they share between them. the one that makes you want to groan aloud.

the one that clearly reads of hope.

[luxyena]

[tech-obssessed-shark]

Idk if there is anyone out there who needs to hear this but:

If you’re having issues with your gender, sexuality, or just identity in general… it’s ok. It’s okay to discover yourself, it’s okay to change, and it’s ok to be comfortable with who you are now. Everyone goes on their own journey at some point, you should embrace yours. If you ever worry it’s “just a phase”, that is okay. You are allowed to try new things and experiment, you are allowed to realize if what you thought about yourself wasn’t true. You are allowed to grow and you’re allowed to change.

From, An AroAce Agender person who thought they were a Straight Girl, A Gay Transmasc, A Bisexual Genderfaun, An Asexual Biromantic Demiboy, and many more.

[rosemaze-reveries]

Hello! I found your blog and love the writing

Here’s sit with me while I tell you my favorite idea 💡

✨So the hunters (all if possible) come back to the manor after a long match of smelling sweat and blood upon walking towards their shred room with reader they catch a scent of their lovers perfume- mind going a mile a minute with the idea of their lover being in they arms and just melting from the stress of the day ✨

Thoughts 💭

ANON. anon...... this is the kind of scenario that makes me CRAZY uegh.. when their judgment's clouded by bloodlust but inhaling your scent brings them back to their senses >>> 🤒 let me be your lighthouse home etc etc. sign me UP.

for some blurbs, this turned into a broader "hunter comes straight to you after a rough match" without the perfume bit. kind of misunderstood the assignment but either way, here's this!

🌪️✂️👘🏳️🏴🦌🐍🪞🎻🔩🐟🕯️

🌪️ Ithaqua brings an air of gloom with him into your bedroom. Driven by nothing but a searing want for you, he skips over any pleasantries to tear off his mask and shove you onto the ground. A bed of wind tries to break your fall, but his impatience gets the better of him; he pins you to the floor with such force that he disrupts his own gale from cushioning your way down. Not that you care in the moment. You’ve been waiting to have him in your arms all day. He leaves a scattering of love bites and wet kisses up your neck.

✂️ Jack has one particular tune that he hums after his worst matches. Months of living together have left you all too familiar with it. His song begins from the foot of the staircase and steadily crisps itself to your ears as he draws nearer. Afraid of the state you might find him in, you rush outside to meet him at the top of the banister. He pauses with one foot on the next step. “Curious,” he says, greeting you with a cordial smile. “It’s not often a little mouse stands in my path—not on purpose.” His blouse is soaked a shade of reddish brown, and no amount of easy banter can hide the weariness in his eye. “Well, you’ve saved me the trouble. I was on my way to ravage you next.”

👘 Michiko drags her nails along the walls of the corridor, leaving a dull streak of blood behind. She doesn’t make a sound when she slips inside your room, practised in her delicate step; you don’t even feel the dip in the mattress before she has her shoulders arched over you. Eyeing you tenderly, she rolls a warm thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m home,” she murmurs. “Your sweet scent led the way again.” She realizes she left a smear of red on your skin, and her hand jerks away, startled by the reminder of what she had been doing just minutes ago.

🏳️ Bi’an’s arms wind around the small of your back, drawing you into his chest for a slow, tender embrace. It’s the first thing he does after returning to the manor: falling straight into your arms. As his lips trail down your forehead, peppering soft kisses in their path, you wrap your arms around his neck to bring him closer. A whisper escapes you about how out of the blue this is, and in response he brings a kiss to the corner of your eye, prompting them to flutter shut. “Let me have you, just for a little while…” Those sweet kisses he’s so good at descend your neck, growing rougher the lower he goes.

🏴 Wujiu’s arms wind around your stomach, pressing his chest flush against your back. He hasn’t uttered a word since returning from his match, aside from a tepid “Nothing worth mentioning” when asked about his day. This sudden affection takes you by surprise. You try to turn your head to face him but he catches your chin, steering your gaze back to the wall. “Don’t look at me.” Whatever is clouding his mind today is better left alone, you realize. You lay your hands on top of his, squeezing them, encouraging him to let your presence blot out everything on his mind. Warm breath fans your collarbone as he nuzzles into your neck, drinking in your scent.

🦌 Bane doesn’t like to discuss his matches. It makes no difference whether they are quick or slow, a win or a lose, they always weigh on him the same way. He sits on the edge of the bed lost in thought. You decide to break the tension first by greeting him with a hug from behind, your chin hooking over his shoulder. Bane isn’t big on physical affection. But after a while he cups a tender hand to your temple, palm taking up the entirety of your face, and presses you gently into him.

🐍 Yidhra might be the hunter most detached from the nightmares of the manor games. They provide nothing but leisure for her, and she’s never felt particularly passionate about them, win or lose. Her followers are the ones who give her the most trouble. When they resist her will, her consciousness splinters apart, some days leaving her too weak to herd them back again. These are typically the days she comes for you. You aren’t sure when she enters your room, but sometimes you catch glimpses of her tail in your peripheral, never to be seen when you’re looking on purpose. Her voice floats in the back of your mind: Mine, mine, mine, mine… There is nothing that binds you to her, yet you’re the only one who never resists her.

🪞 Mary barges into the room clumsily for someone of her poise. She struggles to prop herself against the door, muddy skirt stiff in awkward folds. “My mind is a mess,” she exclaims, voice clear but breathless at the same time. “Where are you? Come settle me.” The second she spots you, she sulks over to toss her arms around your neck, finding a seat in your lap. Clearly she isn’t concerned about observing her usual decorum today. Her dress is heavy and splotched with muck you don’t care to identify, but you don’t mind holding her as the burdens of the day ease off her shoulders.

🎻 Antonio’s fingers instinctively travel to the liquor cart by the window. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, but feeling around to find nothing but an empty platter gives him pause. One resigned cluck of his tongue later, you feel tendrils of hair coil around your waist and wrists. They pluck you up from your side of the bed and present you in front of him as if you’re nothing more than a doll. “Not a drop to console me?” he complains, knowing you’ve hidden his bottles again. Then his head tilts slightly, taking in your scent. You can practically see detention’s fiery glow return to his eyes. “No, perhaps you are right—there is something more intoxicating for me here.”

🔩 Percy - “Hm...” He’s scrutinizing you with such intensity that you wonder if something’s on your face. He leans over to take an exaggerated whiff of you, and your heart sinks in offense. You have half a mind to tell him you showered just that morning, so it’s probably not you — besides, he’s the one who’s been tangoing with carcasses all day — but Percy keeps a thoughtful look about him. “You smell full of life,” he muses. “That fragrance you wear, it was popular back in the day. Transports me to the city again.” He would know better than you; you just found this perfume in the trunk of a dusty old room. When he comes closer, clasping either hand around your face, you let him lose himself in the nostalgia. Moments like these are all you have to keep yourselves sane in the manor.

🐟 Grace’s mouth is pulled into a taut frown when she flings open the door. You can see a slight quiver in her lip if you squint. Her harpoon clatters on the ground and she drops onto your bed, braid falling out, face buried in a pillow. There’s little you can do except rub a soothing hand in circles on her back. When she peeks over her arm with a gentle plea in her eyes, you wonder if she’s asking for a deeper massage—but you don’t get the chance to ask before her hand latches onto your forearm, tugging you down to lie with her.

🕯️ Philippe settles for a glass of brandy and his bundle of sketches. He’s resting on the chaise by the foot of the bed, not his work desk where he’d usually be. Rather than drafting new ideas he’s simply thumbing through the old ones, mechanically, breaking from his cycle only for a sip of his glass. It’s like your lover’s been replaced by a puppet. You feel unnerved enough to intervene: stripping him first of his glass, his sketches, then his monocle, you tip him back onto the cushion. You expect him to complain about having to get back to work, but he doesn’t protest. Tonight is for him, you decide. As his dark hair sprawls out beneath him, you straddle his thighs, and his hand reaches up to cup your cheek. “I’m terribly jealous of this magic of yours,” he murmurs, faint lilt in his voice. “It’s always you who brings me back from the stars.”

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #116

Danny’s family accepts him after he revealed his identity. So much in fact that they took him on a trip to Gotham along with Jazz. There they learn the family secret, Maddie is niece to Batman and she grew up on the streets of Gotham fighting alongside him under the moniker ‘Sparrow’ to match her cousin Robin. Now they want Bruce to train Danny in the family business.

After a week of training and Bruce returns to the watchtower where a very nervous and terrified looking Constantine asks where the hell he was to get a protection mark from the Ghost King. Bruce isn’t looking forward to the talk he’s about to have with his extended family staying in the manor because he had absolutely no clue what Constantine was talking about.

[chaoswarfare]

dp x dc prompt #51

when damian was sent to investigate a‘brainwashing summer camp’ he was not pleased. The kid who shared his cabin room might make it more bearable though. Danny seems to hate this place just as much as he does.

Two days later after both of them are tied up in the store room for spying, maybe he should have come in with a better plan.

summer camp dead serious thing that nobody but my brain asked for.