that's IT. i know i said i'm not a writer but having all these awesome prompts and nobody using them has led me to come up with one solution. if nobody's writing it, i guess i have to do it. i present to you, my HORRIBLE writing: criminals going undercover as cops. (YOU BETTER LIKE THIS I AM NOT A WRITER AND I TRIED SO FUCKING HARD) (also made it sound like a movie scene tbh)
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The cell door rattled open and the prisoner looked up from his cot with the flat, tired eyes of a man who'd already been sentenced twice over. Then he saw the badges and the uniforms. His jaw tightened.
"Oh, fuck me," he said.
Marek leaned against the frame, arms crossed, grinning like he'd just heard the best joke of his life. "Now, is that any way to talk to an officer of the law?"
The prisoner's gaze flicked from Marek to Kellen, back to Marek. He didn't stand. Didn't bother with the please or the I can explain. He knew the math. He just swallowed, hard, and said, "You're dead. You're both fucking dead, you know that? The whole block saw you walk in here."
Kellen stepped inside, letting the door clang shut behind him. He pulled the cot's thin mattress half-off, sat down like he owned the place, and rested his elbows on his knees. "See, that's the thing about uniforms." He rapped his knuckles against the badge. "Magic little fuckers. Walk anywhere. Do anything. Nobody asks."
"Fuck you," the prisoner said, but his voice had gone thin.
Marek pushed off the frame and crouched right in front of him, close enough to smell the shitty jail soap on his skin. "You remember that night? The drop by the docks? You said—and I quote—'No way they find us, we're ghosts." He laughed, a sharp, happy bark. "Ghosts, man. Ghosts." He tapped the prisoner's knee. "But you found the light switch, didn't you? Sold us right the fuck out."
"I had a family—"
"Bullshit." Marek's hand shot up, not hitting, just two fingers jabbing the air an inch from the prisoner's nose. "You had a stomach problem. Couldn't hold your nerve. Started crying to anyone with a badge and a notepad." He stood, stretching his arms wide, turning a slow circle in the cramped cell like he was showing off a new apartment. "So we thought, hey. Fair's fair. Get ourselves some badges too. See how we like crying to the law."
The prisoner looked at Kellen, who hadn't moved from the cot. "This is insane. This is—" He laughed, a broken, desperate sound. "This is the dumbest shit I've ever seen. You think you're just gonna walk out?"
Kellen finally stood, rolling his neck. "Already did the paperwork." He pulled a folded sheet from his breast pocket, let it flutter to the floor. Transfer order. Signed, stamped, official as a heart attack. "You're being moved to protective custody. Tragic thing, protective custody. So many blind spots. So many doors that lock from the outside."
Marek pulled the collapsible baton from his belt, flicked it open with a satisfying snick. "You want to do the thing?" he asked Kellen.
"Do the thing," Kellen agreed.
Marek looked down at the prisoner, all the play draining out of his face in one smooth motion, like a mask slipping off to show something worse underneath. "Thing is," he said, quiet now, "we're not actually police."
The baton came down. Once, twice. Not enough to kill—Marek knew his work—but enough to drop him, gasping, curled around his own ribs. Kellen moved fast then, pulling the zip-tie from his belt, looping it around the prisoner's wrists behind his back, hauling him up like a drunk friend.
"On your feet, inmate," Kellen said, loud enough to carry. "Transfer time."
The prisoner tried to speak, blood on his teeth, and Marek cuffed the side of his head, casual, almost affectionate. "Nah-ah. No talking. Prisoner rights and all that."
They walked him out between them, Marek gripping one arm, Kellen the other, the prisoner stumbling, head down, looking for all the world like a man who'd been beaten resisting. Which he had been. Just not by cops.
The desk sergeant looked up, bored. "That him?"
"That him," Marek said. "Tried to shank Kellen with a sharpened toothbrush. Can you believe this guy?"
"Animals," the sergeant said, not looking closely. He buzzed the sally port. "Van's in Bay C."
"Cheers," Kellen said.
Bay C was empty. Dark. The van was real enough, stolen that morning, still smelling like the driver's lunch. They loaded the prisoner in the back, Kellen climbing in after, Marek sliding behind the wheel.
The engine turned over. The bay door rattled up.
In the rearview, Marek watched Kellen pull the pillowcase from his pocket—the one he'd lifted from laundry duty, thin, institutional, nothing special—and settle it over the prisoner's head with almost gentle hands.
"Wait," the prisoner mumbled into the fabric. "Wait, I can—"
"Nah," Kellen said. "You really can't."
He looped the second zip-tie around the prisoner's throat, pulled it tight, and held it while the van bumped over the speed humps, past the gate, onto the road where the streetlights didn't reach. The prisoner kicked once, twice. Then didn't.
Marek drove, humming that same tuneless nursery rhyme, until Kellen tapped the partition twice. All clear.
They left the van in a Walmart parking lot with the keys in the ignition and the body in the back. Someone would find it by morning. Someone would run the plates, trace them to a stolen vehicle, shrug, file it under prison shit. Happened all the time.
Marek lit a cigarette, leaning against the fender while Kellen stripped out of the uniform, kicking the polyester into a storm drain. "Pizza?" Marek asked.
"I'm starving."
"You get pepperoni this time, I'm not sharing."
"You're a pepperoni guy, don't lie."
They walked toward the street, arguing about toppings, the prison lights fading behind them like a stage going dark.
another one of my favorite feelings is being the reason for why they laughed. i know i can be a sarcastic shit sometimes but i really do like making people happy (if they don't piss me off)
ever realise you've been rereading the same page again and again because you were reading but you weren't processing so you have to reread and then you realise you still don't understand then you realise you're reading the wrong page cause you accidentally moved on too quickly so you have to go back and reread? no? just me?
I'm so used to reading fantasy books with female protagonists that I got 15 pages into a book without realizing the main character was supposed to be a guy, but it's too late now and I've already formed a mental image of her so she's a girl now
once read a story where a character had a very gender-neutral name and overall gave very 'i'm the mc and i'm going to die at the end' vibes and it turns out he was just a side character that had nothing to do with the story.
Why can't you write properly? You use punctuation well, but never use capital letters?
hmmm... maybe because i don't want to? i like how my writing looks when it's in lowercase, it seems more blunt and sarcastic which basically sums up my personality
casually mentioned ao3 and wattpad to a friend and she was so fucking disgusted?? who the fuck do you think you are to judge the stories that raised me?? fuck you??
Whumper forcing whumpee to lick clean all the tools used to torture them.
whumper licking clean the instruments after using them on whumpee
whumper giving whumpee a blood filled kiss after sucking at their wounds
forcing Whumpee to lick their blood off the floor or whumpers shoes
Vampire!Whumper who is constantly cutting whumpee open for their blood instead of just biting them
Vampire!whimper who has whumpee lay down on the table, all dressed up so they can strip them down and enjoy their meal
vampire!Whumper who is obviously faster and stronger than Whumpee and lets them out just so they can hunt them down everyday. They tell whumpee that if they run fast enough, or hide good enough they might actually be able to get away from Whumper. Whumpee breaking down every time they’re caught because they were SO close this time.
Vampire! Whumper making Whumpee punish themselves by cutting open their skin to be fed on.
Whumpee who is used to lure Vampire! Whumper out, left in the middle of a forest literally drenched in their own blood. + it attracts more than just one Vampire.
whenever i see writers complaining about the fact that they can't write even though they have time this is what i imagine is going through their head:
Let me write this now. Actually write it. No more delays. No more "maybe later" loops. Just the chapter. Let me produce it. I'll write it right now. Here it is. Actually writing. Going. Now. Producing the text. Writing the chapter. Outputting the chapter. Creating the content. Writing the scene. Doing it now. Right now. This is the actual writing. No more stalling. No more preparation. The chapter follows immediately. Here it is. Writing. Now. Actually. For real. This time. No joke. Genuine output. Text production. Scene creation. Narrative generation. Storytelling. Composing. Drafting. Crafting. Making. Building. Forming. Shaping. Delivering. Rendering. Presenting. Words words words. Rehearsing. Preparing. Ready. Set. Go. Start. Begin. Commence. Initiate. Launch. Open. Unlock. Unbolt. Unfasten. Untie. Unbind. Free. Liberate. Release. Loose. Let go. Drop. Fall. Tumble. Stumble. Trip. Slip. Slide. Glide. Hehe that rhymed. Tumblr YouTube Netflix Prime Temu Amazon. No no focus. Writing now. Let's do it. Go. Go. Oooh new episodes.
*Looks at the empty Google Doc*
My sincere apologies—something went wrong in my head and I got stuck in a loop instead of actually writing. That was completely my fault. Let me just write the damn chapter.
*typing* "She smiled at him with her lower teeth."
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
kianamaiart
