Call me Quill

I explicitly forbid ANYONE from feeding my fics to AI generators to create their own content, even if it’s only using pieces to create a beginning or an ending.

I work really hard on my writing, and it’s incredibly disrespectful for other writers to disregard that and use AI to generate their own content or to try to “finish” someone’s fic for them because they’re upset it hasn’t been updated recently.

Writing can be frustrating and really hard. I say this as someone who hasn’t written something new in months (maybe a year?). Give your favorite writers some kudos and encouragement instead of whining that you’re going to use AI to finish their fics for them.

Bold.

Bold of you to assume I know who that is

@quillsareswords within a second:

(mandatory team building)

Links to the full slideshows, updated as I post them!

Part 1: Bruce’s Full Slideshow:

Part 2: Dick’s Full Slideshow:

Part 3: Tim’s Full Slideshow:

Part 4: Jason’s Full Slideshow: 

(they forced him to be there so he’s making it everyone’s problem):

Part 5: Cass’s Full Slideshow:

Part 6: Stephanie’s Full Slideshow:

Part 7: Damian’s Full Slideshow:

Duke:

Barbara:

Alfred (unexpected addition, mostly about Tim):

dick loves it, Damian does not <3

Happy Halloween bb!!

WARNINGS: mildly suggestive ok so maybe a little more than mildly suggestive

MASTER LIST in BIO

Dick's been teasing him for forty-five minutes. It isn't even verbal. Damian doesn't know how he's doing it, but every single goddamn side glance has a different one-liner behind it and it's driving him up the wall.

You pull it off well.

Too well.

It's the confliction that's drilling him into the floor.

Because on one hand, you look good. It fits you so well, perfectly, he might even say. His girlfriend is strolling around his home in a skin-tight uniform. He's feeling things.

But here's the problem. It's too perfect. Suspiciously so, he might even say. All of the false armor plates are in the right spots, the mask is flawless, even the escrima sticks look a little too realistic. To put it plainly: you look like his brother. The one he's closest to, at that. And thinking about the way that suit hugs your body makes him feel wrong when you're wearing that emblem.

Even that's bothering him. For different reasons, thankfully.

It almost feels traitorous. You're wearing his brother's crest. Not his. You might have a sticker of his emblem on your car's bumper, you might still smell like his cologne, you might be staying the night in his room after, and you might be on your way back to him with his drink in your hand—but you're wearing his brother's crest tonight.

You smile at him, all familiarity and warmth, but he can't get past that mask. "Here, it's on your tab," you tell him, holding out his second drink of the night. A sly grin. You hold up your own. "So's this one."

He rolls his eyes. Naturally. Like he'd let you pay for a drink in his house. "Thanks."

Dick glances at him again. All smugness and laughing in his face. If Jason shows up, he's a goner.

He clears his throat, turning his back on his brother to face you. "So, where'd this come from?"

Your eyes sparkle with no white lenses in the black frame. "Oh, this old thing? Just had it lying around."

He cocks an eyebrow. "My brother's suit was just lying around somewhere in your house?" He peers at you over the rim of his glass.

He's expecting a witty remark. He's expecting you to play along, toss him some sly, smart reply alluding to an affair. Not, "Yep. He must've left it there after we banged."

He almost chokes on his bourbon.