I Wish I Had That Modicum Of Organization But Instead Sleepy Me Just Writes They Do The Thing And Then

I wish I had that modicum of organization but instead sleepy me just writes “they do the thing” and then I have to forage through the notes app on my phone to see if I wrote down what “the thing” was

As I'm writing, I tend to leave the phrase "words for now" at the end of where I left off, along with brackets that tell me what to do next, what's going on, etc.

Currently, those brackets say [The emotions, so sadge, so tense, woa]. Take from that what you will

wgshdwgd im sorry if youre not accepting snippet reqs </333

but could i req you write abt a villain who *everyone* is genuinely terrified of. and then the hero just politely tells them to shut the fuck up. like, villain could be monologuing or smth and hero would cut them off saying that they would really appreciate it if villain could finish up in the next hour or so because they dont want to miss bargain day at the supermarket.

uwah im sorry if i broke any rules </33 stay safe its a crazy world out there <333

"-Could you please just shut up?"

There was a moment of absolute, horrified silence. One man promptly fainted. Nobody seemed to breathe for a few seconds.

The villain turned, slowly, towards the protagonist.

They were on their knees on the floor, surrounded by armed guards ready to execute the various staff still in their building. Their expression was one of exhausted long-suffering, one hand pinching the bridge of their nose as if to stave off a headache.

"Excuse me?" the villain asked, oh so softly.

"Will you please stop talking?" The protagonist dropped their hand, levelling the villain with a look. "Like, if you're going to slaughter the lot of us, just do it, don't make us listen to the spiel first. It's been forty five minutes."

"Are you so eager to die?"

"No. But if I'm going to die, I think I'd like to get it over with. Otherwise, I'd like to just go about my day. I need to buy food before the shop closes and takeaway costs a fortune. I mean, bloody hell. Forty five minutes. Do you really think anyone here is listening?"

The villain stared.

"Like, not to be rude," the protagonist said. "But they're all scared out their minds. They are not processing the finer points of your monologue. It's just so unnecessary."

"I could cut out your tongue and feed it to you."

"You don't have anything better to do?"

"I could cut out their tongues," the villain swept a hand around the room, "and feed them to you. That sorts out dinner, doesn't it?"

"I mean, I'm vegan, and not a cannibal, but I appreciate you're more concerned with being menacing than actually addressing the issue."

The villain stared some more.

The protagonist stared back.

"The data I need is still downloading," the villain said, after a long moment. "If I let you leave, someone will do something stupid like try and call the police."

"Sure, sure. But the monologue."

"You don't enjoy the sound of my voice?"

"I wouldn't take it too personally. It's been a week. Bit overstimulated, to be honest. Anyone's voice right now feels a bit like a cheese grater on my nerve endings."

"A bit like a cheese grater."

"No offense."

The villain blinked at them, slow and somewhat incredulous. "A cheese grater."

The protagonist shrugged.

"I'm assuming you didn't miss who I am in the last forty five minutes," the villain said.

"No."

"And yet."

"It's not that you're not terrifying," the protagonist said. "I just - forty five minutes. Humans aren't set up to be this stressed for forty minutes. My head is killing me. Processing all this - if you don't kill us - is going to be hard enough without having to fit in all the life admin I'm not currently getting done."

"Come here."

"...what?"

The villain crooked a finger to beckon the protagonist forward.

The protagonist swallowed, eyeing the villain warily, but didn't make them ask again. With a glance at the armed henchmen, they shuffled forwards to the spot the villain had gestured at the villain's feet.

"You know," the villain said, "it's been a very long time since anyone has talked back to me."

"Sorry. I'm really not trying to be rude."

"No," the villain mused, head tilting with something alarmingly like curiosity as the protagonist came to a stop. "You're really not, are you? Turn."

"...turn?"

The villain gestured again, to indicate that the protagonist should face away from them.

"...You can't just give me all the orders at once? I get this is more dramatic, but I probably wouldn't be trying your patience as much if-"

The villain seized the nape of the protagonist's neck, like scruffing a kitten, making their breath catch.

Everyone watched for the inevitable torment. The neck snap. The punishment.

The villain's fingers dug into the knots of tension in the protagonist's neck, power sparking up the touch.

The protagonist sagged. "Holy shit," they breathed.

"Better?" the villain murmured.

"Um. I mean - yes - but -"

"Good," the villain purred. They glanced up to the henchmen. "Shoot everyone else."

"What? Wait - no -"

The sound was deafening.

Then the silence was, once again, absolute.

"You didn't have to do that," the protagonist whispered. "I didn't mean - if I offended you -"

"Oh, you didn't, don't worry. That's why you're still alive.Tell me about yourself."

The villain's grip stayed unrelenting on the back of the protagonist's neck, holding them securely in place.

"T-tell-?"

"We still have ten minutes," the villain said, in a tone of great patience, "before the download completes. Tell me about yourself. I shouldn't be the one doing all the talking, after all. It's very rude of me, isn't it?"

Hesitantly, the protagonist talked, watching the blood pool on the floor. What else was there to do?

The computer finally gave a quiet beep to indicate that the download was complete.

"Good," the villain said. "Very good." They gave the protagonist's neck another gentle enough squeeze. "Now. Let's go grocery shopping," the villain said cheerfully. "Up you get. Dinner's on me."

If anyone needs me I’ll be shrieking in the middle of the woods and kicking my feet like a schoolgirl

Honestly the pipeline of “reading the-modern-typewriter snippets at midnight on the floor of my bathroom at age eleven so I wouldn’t get caught” to “being a tumblr writer myself” is a wild one.

One line tag

I thank the lovely @clairelsonao3 for the tag (your lines are excellent. Poor pile of pigs 😔)

And because I can never follow the rules (one line you’re proud of, and one line that makes little sense out of context) here you go!

Good lines:

“ A super event means we can’t intervene,” and officer had told her once. “The city doesn’t have protocols for a government worker dying at the hands of a super. How would you even prosecute that?”

The normal way, she had wanted to say. They’re just people under those suits.

“I think we know each other as much as anyone like us ever can.”

She sucked in a breath, and they were both bleeding out on the rooftop, their rooftop, emotions raw and aching like a skinned knee.

“I hate you,” she said, just to slap a band aid over that age old hurt. “Don’t forget that.”

His smirk said he knew what she was doing.

“How could I ever, Sunshine?”

And here are my lines that are kind of crack:

“They like me,” he corrected, “Because they like you, and you fight me.” He tipped his head. “That, and I have a pretty face.”

She rolled her head onto her shoulder, eyeing him and his admittedly too pretty face. “I don’t think they would like us solely because we fight each other.”

He nodded. “You’re right. They also think we’re in love.”

She choked on a breath, coughing as she shot upright.

“No, I thought I'd introduce him to the family. Look, Mom! I found a demon in a creepy old cave, and I made a deal with him! Can we keep him?”

“You think I want your cover blown? That would be so much trouble to deal with. I might even have to kill someone. Which is fun in the moment, but then you have all the mess to deal with, and I always end up staining my shoes—”

Tagging without any pressure like a very bad shower head, @jay-avian @imaginativemind29new and @clairelsonao3 because I want more of your writing :)

There was blood on the hero’s hands. The hero had felt blood before, on themself, on their knuckles, on their clothes. This time it hurt. It was cold, and it cracked every time the hero moved their fingers, and yet they couldn’t look away.

If they looked away they would have to look at—they couldn’t look.

The hero stared at their hands. They were cold, too.

Footsteps, the hush of clothing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” hands skated along the Hero’s chin, tilting it up. “Hey, can you look at me, please?”

They blinked.

“There you are,” the villain murmured, hands gentle as they smoothed the hero’s jaw. “Love, can you—“

“I need to buy eggs.” The hero’s lips were numb.

The villain paused. “Eggs?”

“I’m out,” they stared at the villains face. It was safe, and it was familiar, and they were staring back at them with worry. “They’re my roommate’s favorite.”

The villain knelt, then, eyes briefly dropping to the hero’s hands before training back on their face.

“You’re in shock.”

“My mailman keeps putting my mail in my neighbors’ mailbox. It’s never the same neighbor either, so I think it’s on purpose—“

The villain looked pained. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The hero had words, and then they didn’t. It was their fault, wasn’t it? They hadn’t—their mind slipped off it like water, and their chest eased.

“I failed my geometry test,” they whispered, and their tongue hurt.

The villains hands shifted to the hero’s forearms. Gentle, so gentle. Like the hero would break if they weren’t.

“Can you stand up for me, please?”

“It’s cold.”

The villains face rippled.

“The city is in the middle of a heatwave,” they said softly.

The hero drifted, and found the sun. It looked warm. So warm.

“I’m cold.”

“I know, love.”

They drifted back. It felt like sinking.

“They’re cold, too.”

The villain tensed. They looked over. The hero didn’t.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the villain repeated.

“They stopped breathing,” the hero whispered, and the words cut their lungs on the way out, shredding their tongue.

The villain’s face dropped.

“Let me help you,” the begged. “Please.”

“I tried so hard,” the hero’s voice broke. “And I did compressions and their ribs broke but they—“ their voice left, their mind slid.

The villain’s hands gripped their face, guiding it to look at them.

“You did everything you could.”

Their voice was firm.

There was no room for argument.

“They didn’t deserve to die,” the hero sobbed, broken wretched sobs that ached on the way out.

“Love,” the villain breathed, and then they were sobbing into the villain’s chest like a child. Their hand rubbed soothing circles on the hero’s back. “I know. I know.”

“They were just a kid—“

“I know,” the villain said softly.

The hero shattered, and they looked, and it hurt and it hurt and it—their mind slipped.

They blinked, and the villain was wrapping a blanket around them on a too soft couch.

“Where?”

The villain’s head snapped up, and the tension bled from their face.

“You passed out.”

“Oh.”

The memories came like sludge. They stung.

“It hurts,” they breathed.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay.” The hero took the mug of tea they were handed. “Breathe.”

The hero did.

They watched the villain. There was a plant in the corner of the apartment. It made the hero smile. So mundane, so soft. So gentle, their villain.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

And this time, the hero almost believed them.

Later, when the tea was cold and they had pressed themselves against the villain’s side, the villain kissed the top of their head and murmured “Stay.”

Bundled in blankets and the villain’s arms, the hero did.

The horde of feral children who grew up reading modern typewriter is uniting and soon we shall be unstoppable

Feral children—feral writer pipeline

Honestly the pipeline of “reading the-modern-typewriter snippets at midnight on the floor of my bathroom at age eleven so I wouldn’t get caught” to “being a tumblr writer myself” is a wild one.