#anyway thanks again for the fun prompt

[lotus-pear]

horrendously late entry for @luneariann’s dtiys!! congrats on one million ely i’m so proud of you <3

[pricklenettle]

inspired by this post, Danny’s lost in the ghost zone and comes across pariah dark’s keep. I had to draw it and had The most fun with the spooky green ghost zone

[benevolenterrancy]

hi!! I think your art is *so cool* o(≧∇≦o)

do you think you could draw more moshang? either post canon or that au you did last time?? (baby mobei has my heart and all I own)

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) oh! how about return to childhood—moshang flavor?

don't question this king, shang qinghua, he knows what he's about

[hailsatanacab]

I'll ask after that secret number 8!

I only remembered secret number 8 because I saw your wip here! I'd started this one based on the same prompt, then lost said prompt and stopped working on it 😅

Instead of a snippet, I'm just dropping it all here - maybe that way I'll feel inspired to finish it?

———

It’s a full house for dinner tonight and, really, that should have tipped him off.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, smiling softly as he watches over everyone’s antics. Damian is regaling Dick with everything they saw at the zoo that day (Danny had been so happy to see Delilah the purpleback gorilla again, and her new little additions to the troupe, too!) and how well they are implementing the grant the Wayne Foundation had gifted them. Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke are all engaged in a thumb-war tournament which Danny has no interest in participating in. It just wouldn’t be fair on them.

Danny loves that look. The one where Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he thinks none of the kids can see him. It oozes love and it makes Danny’s heart, his core, ache. 

It’s been a little over a year since Alfred found him on the street and managed to wrangle him back to the manor to stay—even after the whole biting thing when he realised how rich they were. 

A little over a year here and Danny’s starting to feel like family.

Starting to feel like he might, just maybe, like to make it official.

“Danny,” Bruce says, drawing everyone’s attention. Danny starts at his name, but Bruce’s voice is warm and calm, and his shoulders lose their tension almost immediately. “Danny, I have something I would like to tell you.”

“Uhhh…” is all Danny can croak out, eyes flicking back and forth between Bruce and the rest of them. Smooth. Looking good, Danny.

Except… they’re all happy. All smiles, all relaxed body language, all radiating calm and love and acceptance. Well, not Damian—his face is as thunderous as it always is—which at least means it’s nothing too out of the ordinary.

“Danny, first of all, I just want to impress upon you that this is in no way something you have to do. You are under no obligation to join us and, no matter what, you shall always be welcome with us in the manor.”

Wait, what? Danny squints at Bruce, trying to parse exactly what he’s saying… Is he—is this them asking to adopt him? Do they want to make it official, too? 

It’s been a little over a year and of course Danny has imagined calling Bruce ‘Dad’. Of course he’s imagined being part of the family, of course he wants to make it official!

He can’t help the beaming grin or the bright and bubbling “Yes!” already waiting on his lips. All Bruce has to do is ask, all Danny needs to hear is—

“I’m Batman.”

The smile freezes on Danny’s face.

His lungs stop working, his heart stops working, he stops working, he just—

“And I’m Nightwing,” Dick smiles, breaking the awkward silence. 

Danny’s eyes snap to him, and then down to Tim when he admits to being Red Robin. Duke is Signal, Steph is Spoiler. Damian begrudgingly tells him he’s Robin, but Danny can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“I’m Black Bat.” Cass cocks her head, almost looking concerned. It always felt like she understood him the most. Whenever he was feeling low, too in his memories, or stewing after a nightmare, she was always there, ready to card her fingers through his hair and never mention his tears. It makes his heart ache to think of it now. “It’s okay, Danny.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but how—how can it be okay? How? 

Danny’s spent a little over a year with them. A little over a year with Batman. 

Batman, who works with the Justice League, who works with…

A little over a year. 

Just under 16 months since he escaped.

“Danny? Are you alright?” Bruce asks

Finally, his lungs kickstart and suck in a shuddering breath, only for everyone to drop their smiles.

Didn’t take them long, did it? Now that their ruse is up, there’s no kindness in their eyes, they’re just… cold, calculating. Evaluating. 

“Why?” Danny gasps, his fingers tingling, his heart in his throat.

Just under 16 months since he—has he escaped? Or was this just another one of their experiments?

"I... I trusted you, why—" Danny chokes back a sob, gritting his teeth as his shoulders shake. Why? Why would they do this? "I was happy here, with you. I thought... Weren't you happy?"

"Danny..." Bruce is looking at him, eyes narrow and eyebrows pinched, in some cruel facsimile of confused concern and all Danny can think is how much of an actor he is. How well he can play the part of a doting father. How much he made him want that.

"I don't understand, why..." 

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, I can imagine that it comes as a shock. We shouldn't have lied to you, Danny, but—"

"Stop it!" Danny slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up on wobbly legs. Even standing, he feels so small. Smaller than Bruce, than all of his adopted siblings. They crowd above him when they all stand, too. "Just stop it! Why are you doing this, why are you still pretending? Stop it!"

It was easier, with Danny's biological parents. The knowledge that they'd do anything to get him on a lab table, to open him up and see what makes him tick, to rip him apart molecule by molecule, had always been there. He knew they hated ghosts. He knew they hated Phantom. He knew they hated him. It was easier because it was something he'd known all his life. When he died, when he became a ghost, he knew what to expect from them. It hurt, of course it did.

But it was easier than this.

"Danny, I'm going to need you to take a deep breath. You're having a panic attack and you need to breathe."

"Breathe?" Danny laughs, the sound harsh and choking, too high pitched in his hysteria. "You're joking, right? Or is this just more of the—the experiment?"

"Danny, please, we don't know what you're talking about, you—"

"You don't know? You're Batman! You work with the Justice League, you work with—" His words choke off as his stomach churns, bile rising in his throat. His whole body itches, screaming at him to leave, he can't go back, he can't, he can't, he can't!

Bruce takes a hesitant step forward and Danny scrambles back, his feet catching on the chair behind him and sending him careening to the floor. Where are the agents? Why aren't they swarming in, ready to apprehend him, strap him back on the table, carve him from the inside out.

"Please, Danny, calm down. We don't—"

Danny stops listening. His back hits the wall and he pulls his knees into his chest, his shoulders dipping down as he begins to sob. His heart throbs inside his throat, too painful to swallow around. Tears fall hot and heavy on his face.

Sure, he could run. He could phase out through the wall and he could be out of Gotham in a couple of hours. He's escaped the GIW once, he can do it again.

But that was before Batman knew who he was. Before he had the World's Greatest Detective on his tail.

Before he... 

He really thought this would be different, you know?

He wanted to make it official.

"Why did... Why were you so nice to me? Why did you make me like you? I really—I really liked you. I-I thought we could be a family."

"Danny, we are a—"

"Don't lie to me!" Danny snaps, but the force of his anger leeches all the fight from him, and suddenly all that's left is a bone-weary tiredness. There’s a lump in his throat that hurts. There’s a line down his chest that burns. "I don't care. I don't care anymore, I don't. Just... don't make me go back there. Please." 

Is it futile? He thought he knew how the GIW operated by now, the depths that they would go to achieve their results, but this... this was a whole new level of pain that Danny thought he had left behind him in Amity.

"We're not going to make you go anywhere, Danny, you're safe here, I promise."

"Safe? Safe? You must have—" he takes a deep breath, tries to stop the quivering of his voice. It’s all starting to make sense, now.  "The reason you're telling me who you are is because you must have told them everything already. I know the Justice League—I know you're working with them, which means the ex-experiment is over now, and they're coming to take me back. And I can't go back."

"Danny—"

"I can’t!” Danny glares at Bruce with all the rage he can, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m not going back!"

"That's right, you're not going back, Danny. I won't let that happen." Bruce crouches down in front of Danny, his hands open and raised as if he's trying to say he's not a threat. "I don't know who you're talking about, and I'm sorry about that, but I can promise you that you’re not going back there. We will keep you safe."

Danny pulls himself closer, tucks himself further into the wall, eyes flickering all across the room waiting for that tell-tale flash of white as the agents start to swarm.

He should take his chances now and run, he should go, he needs to go!

The rest of them, his brothers and sisters of a little over a year, are spread out, giving him and Bruce some space. The same concern colours all of their faces. Why are they still pretending?

Steph is chewing on her thumb. 

Danny liked Steph and her brash confidence, her jokes. She's been promising to paint his nails for months now, they've just never found the time. He was going to go for green and black, or maybe a galaxy theme, depending on what she felt comfortable doing.

He likes them all.

"You were supposed to be my family." His mouth turns down at the corners and his voice shakes like a child. "You were supposed to—why? Why would you—I don't understand why you would make me like you..."

"This isn't an experiment, Danny," Bruce's voice is steady, soothing. "I promise."

"But you work with them and—"

"Who do I work with?"

"The Justice League."

"Yes, I do, but we—"

"And the Justice League works with them. The GIW." Danny trembles with the name, clutching tightly onto his hoodie. "I'm not going back there, Bruce."

Danny doesn't miss Bruce's look over his shoulder, nor Tim's nod in return. Tim turns slightly to the side to hide his movements, but Danny bets he has his phone in his hand, probably letting them know they can take him now. Guess this is it, then. They'll be here soon, and he'll be gone.

"Kill me."

"Danny? What do—"

"If you ever had any kindness for me, if you ever cared, kill me. Please, Bruce. I can't do it again."

"Danny..."

"End me now. Take my core out and break it, please, before they get here."

[thedeadthree]

-ˋˏ .·:·. ⊱ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐛𝐲 @pavus — day one: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

— 𝐈𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑 . 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀 . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐒. 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒.

— 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (mutuals can opt in/out via 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 <3):

@loriane-elmuerto, @carrionsflower, @auricfog, @girliefailure, @sunsofdawn

@risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @lilywatt, @full---ofstarlight, @grapecaseschoices

@tommyarashikage, @shadowsofrose, @shadowglens, @weisshaupts, @queennymeria

@deadrlngers, @d-esmond, @courtana, @gothimp, @wlwaerith

@unholymilf, @aezyrraeshh, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @shellibisshe, @florbelles

@celticwoman, @neonshrike, @cloudofbutterflies92, @adelaidedrubman, @carlosoliveiraa

@pinkfey, @spookyrares, @yharnams, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood

@theelderhazelnut, @leviiackrman, @ellierenae, @anoras, @lavampira

@dialdrunk, @full---ofstarlight, @imogenkol

[the-broken-pen]

hi I saw your recent post I hope your moving went smoothly!

I have a loose prompt, if you wanted/had time/had WiFi to write: an interrogation room meet-cute between villain and non-field agent hero

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them the hero realized they were in the wrong room. A very wrong room.

They blinked. The villain blinked, taking them in.

“You look lost.”

“That’s rude,” they responded before they had the chance to think about it. “I work here.”

“Do you now,” the villain said, and the hero grew abruptly aware of their jacket stamped with the Agency logo, their gloves marking their designation as a touch based hero. It was a miracle they didn’t turn red with the embarrassment of it.

They tried the doorknob behind their back. It rattled, but didn’t open, and internally they started screaming. Just a little bit.

“They don’t open from the inside,” the villain said helpfully. “Security risk, or something like that.”

“I know that,” the hero snapped, and the villain raised an eyebrow. “Sorry.”

The apology blurted out before they could stop it.

“Did you just ‘apologize’ to me?” The villain looked at them incredulously.

“Uh,” they managed. “Funny question.”

“Funny—“ the villain cut themself off. “It’s not a question, I literally just heard you apologize.”

“Maybe you should get your hearing checked out,” they offered, and winced, because apparently every sane part of their brain had fled to France and left them with a singular suicidal brain cell.

The villain’s mouth was slightly open, as if they weren’t entirely sure what was happening. The hero shared the same sentiment.

The villain glanced at the camera, then back to the hero.

“You’re not a field agent,” they said, as if it was dawning on them.

“You don’t know that,” the hero said defensively.

“You’re holding a file.”

“Field agents are capable of holding files,” the hero replied. “Kind of rude of you to assume they can’t.”

The whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of the villain’s mouth.

“Sorry,” the villain said, and it was just barely mocking.

The hero rocked on their heels a bit, drumming their fingers on the file in their hands.

“They’re taking a while to get you out,” the villain observed.

“Yeah, Bob’s on duty.”

“Oh, so Bob doesn’t do his job?”

The hero jerked. “I did not say that.”

“It was kind of implied, though,” the villain said earnestly.

The hero had interacted with villains before: ending interviews for files, the odd informant. Never held a conversation though, and certainly not for this long.

This was why they didn’t do field work.

“What, no response?”

The hero smiled, sickeningly sweet. “I’m compiling commentary to add to your file.”

“So you admit to not being a field agent.”

“Continually makes assumptions, poor listening comprehension…”

“Not a very long list,” they pointed out.

The hero felt their smile sharpen. “The rest involves curse words.”

The villain barked a laugh, and the hero jerked slightly in surprise.

The villain regarded them like they were deciding something, as if they could see something within the hero that they themself couldn’t.

It had been a long time, longer than the hero would like to admit, since someone, anyone, had looked at them like that.

Like they mattered at all.

“I like you,” the villain said finally, slowly, like they weren’t entirely sure those were the words that were going to come out.

“You also like crime.”

“And you know how dedicated I am to that,” the villain said pointedly, a glint in their eye.

“How sweet,” the hero managed after a moment. “This is exactly why I became a hero. To be compared to felonies.”

The villain just smirked. They peered down at the handcuffed hands, then looked up at the hero. They weren’t sure when they had moved away from the door, closer to the villain, but somehow it had happened.

There was something warm to this; it sat in the hero’s chest, light and airy.

“I’ll text you when I get out. Say, next week?”

“You’re going to jail,” the hero reminded, mouth dry.

The villain grinned. “Right,” they drawled, amusement splashed across their face. “Jail. Which is where I am going. And where I shall stay. Absolutely.”

Something clicked, and the hero didn’t have to look under the table to know the villain had slipped their cuffs.

Despite their best efforts, their eyes flicked downwards, like they could see the now empty cuffs below the table. The villain grinned further, as if in challenge.

Are you going to tattle?

The hero swallowed.

“I’m really not supposed to be in here.”

“I’ve gathered,” the villain said. “You work the desk all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Personal choice, or…”

“I like it,” the hero said defensively. “It’s just puzzles, and I’m good at those.”

“Puzzles?”

“Putting things together,” they said vaguely. “Routes and evidence and all that.”

The villain’s brow furrowed, as if they were mulling something over. Their gaze returned to the hero, and it was searing.

“You’re the one who found me, aren’t you.”

“Oh,” the hero said, blushing. “That’s-I’m not—“

The villain leaned forward. “Am I in that file?”

The hero tucked it behind their back.

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“No,” the hero said with emphasis. The villain laughed.

“You’re bad at this,” they said, but it was fond.

“Thanks, I try,” the hero said. They were waiting for the villain to stand up, but they seemed content to just sit there and watch.

“Mhm,” the villain agreed, and for some reason, the hero flushed even further.

The villain’s gaze snapped to the door, and they tilted their head as if listening to something.

“They’ll be here in a minute,” they said. The hero blinked. “To get you out,” the villain prompted.

“Right,” the hero said. They had forgotten they couldn’t leave, but the villain didn’t need to know that. They had a feeling they knew anyways.

“I’ll call you,” the villain reminded.

“You don’t have my number,” the hero protested.

The villain gave them a look. “You’re cute. Do you like pizza? We could do pizza.”

“We could never speak again.”

“Funny, I’ve never heard of that restaurant.”

“You—”

“Oh look, they’re here!” The villain said cheerfully.

The door swung open, and someone the hero vaguely recognized stepped in.

In the next second, the hero was in the hallway.

“Oh, and love,” the villain called, and the hero cursed themself for blushing. “Don’t be jealous of the other felonies. You’ll always be my favorite crime.”

The hero ducked their face behind the file, but they couldn’t stop the pleased smile that crept from the corners of their mouth.

[yujeong]

back again because another prompt came to me: I love the idea of vegas making pete confront his "nonpersonhood" by either fucking in front of a mirror, or vegas making pete verbalize every little thing he wants vegas to do. very much forcing pete to be present and say what he wants and needs. (in a healthy way)

Hello anon! My sincere apologies for not having answered this in so long, but I didn't have the proper brainworms for it. Also, apologies for answering the second one you sent me first, but I got inspired for this prompt today, so I decided to work on it. Hope you enjoy ❤️ CW: Bondage, Handjob ----------------------------------------------------------------------- There's a man in the mirror. Pete doesn't recognize him. He's tied up—wrists bound by rope, legs spread out on the large bed he and Vegas sleep in every night. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is hanging open. His chest is heaving. He's completely naked; his cock is leaking precum on his stomach. The man in the mirror looks aroused, but uncomfortable. Lost. Out of his depth. But why? He's been in this situation plenty of times before. The position, the anticipation, the ache, it all feels familiar, and yet... "Pete." Vegas is standing next to the bed, his voice syrupy sweet. Pete turns to look at him. A good distraction; he tries to reach him, to lean closer for a kiss. Vegas grabs his face before he does. "No," he says, his smile replaced by a frown. "Not until you look." There's a man in the mirror. Pete doesn't know who he is. His breathing has grown heavier. He looks flustered; his bangs are glued on his forehead, sweat travels down his neck. He barely moves as he's stuck there, staring at someone who seems familiar, but isn't. He shouldn't be. "Look at you," Vegas whispers in Pete's ear. Pete can't understand what he means, but a shiver travels down his spine regardless. And then Vegas licks Pete's earlobe and it feels like a punch to the gut. His body reacts on its own, his voice too. It sounds like a moan, but Pete is too out of it to hear. His eyes are stuck on the man in the mirror, on the horror crossing his expression, on the realization that renders him breathless and aching. He probably started crying at some point, because Vegas is suddenly shushing him and caressing his hair and kissing him everywhere. It feels horrible. Pete hasn't felt this good in ages. Vegas doesn't waste any more time after that. He uses his hand to make Pete come and it feels exhilarating and like Pete is going to die, but he doesn't. A scream escapes his lips when the orgasm comes. It surprises him; it's never happened before. He calms down eventually. Vegas is there to take care of him, to remind him. He was staring at his reflection the entire time.

[shrinkthisviolet]

3 for rf!Morgan (srry I’m obsessed with her)

Maybe rf!Morgan + Jesse or whoever else you think would fit best?

(Lovin the AU flashpoint timeline changes where everyone else forgets Morgan

Ngl I thought I was gonna have to pass on this one, but then I started writing, and I’m proud of the result tbh! Timeline-wise, this hops around during s2, and should be relatively easy to follow (but feel free to ask about anything confusing!). There are some minor canon divergences, but see the bottom of the fic for details about that

By the nature of things, these two aren’t close friends (because Morgan & Jesse aren’t really close friends in any version of the AU before they meet irl), but they do trust each other. Or at least…one of them does 👀:

You never did tell me who you are.

Morgan tensed at Jesse’s words. What do you mean? I’ve been totally honest with you.

I’m not so sure you have. Jesse frowned. I mean…for one thing, you say your name is Morgan, but you won’t tell me your last name. You sound just like me, so it has to be Wells, but—

My last name isn’t important.

…yeah, you react like that whenever I ask you. Proving my point exactly.

Morgan scoffed. Anyone ever tell you to butt out, Chambers?

Wells, she wanted to say, but she knew it would give her away.

I don’t tend to listen. Jesse almost sounded like she was teasing. Look, I’m just curious, okay?

Well, don’t be. One day, you’ll meet me…and you’ll understand my secrecy.

I guess so. But why can’t you tell me now? We’re friends, aren’t we? Whatever it is…it won’t change how I feel about you.

Morgan gritted her teeth, red lightning flickering in her eyes. I just can’t.

---

Why are the others afraid of you?

Morgan groaned. What are you talking about?

Team Flash, Jesse snapped, uncharacteristically irritated. Why are they afraid of you?

Morgan almost laughed. Are they really? That’s rich.

They’re heroes!

The offense in Jesse’s voice was adorably naïve. Are you sure about that? You hardly know them.

They saved me. They’re going to defeat Zoom.

No, they’re not.

Yes, they are! Jesse’s fervor went quiet, injected with uncertainty…and fear. They have to.

…ah. Jesse Wells had a weak spot, it seemed. Maybe you’re right. Maybe they’ll do for you what they couldn’t for me.

…what’s that supposed to—?

Goodnight, Jesse.

Morgan was always a clever girl, D—Thawne had always said so.

So it was no surprise that she’d figured out how to close the telepathy link.

---

Who the hell is the Reverse Flash?!

Morgan tensed. Don’t worry about it.

They’re saying it’s you. Morgan could almost hear Jesse’s tears. Morgan? What’s going—

No. This wasn’t a conversation to be had remotely.

---

“Oh my God.”

Morgan froze. That voice…it was—

“It is you,” Jesse Chambers Wells breathed, her voice trembling. “You’re…you’re the—”

“—Reverse Flash.” Morgan smirked, turning to face her���poor Jesse looked terrified, but Morgan couldn’t muster much sympathy. She’d told Jesse to butt out, to not put so much stock in what Team Flash had said…Jesse just hadn’t listened. “That’s what they’re calling me, right?”

“It’s what you are.” Jesse clenched her fists, her eyes narrowed. “You’re…you’re a monster. You’re the monster who killed Barry’s mom, who framed his dad, who—”

“I’m his successor,” Morgan corrected, rolling her eyes, “and even that’s not exactly true. But Team Flash was never one for accuracy, or fact-checking. Do you know they never actually asked me what happened that—?”

“You killed your own father!” Jesse scowled. “Why the hell should I trust anything you say?”

Morgan shrugged. “You’re the one who said nothing would change how you felt about me. Why should I trust anything you say?”

“How dare you! How…” from this far away, Morgan couldn’t see the tears in Jesse’s eyes, but she could hear them—Jesse was too expressive. That would get her into trouble one day. “You’re on Zoom’s side too, I bet.”

“Don’t insult me,” Morgan snarled. “Who do you think has been keeping him at bay all this time—him and his lackeys? Who do you think rescued Caitlin?”

Jesse froze.

“She left that out, I bet,” Morgan sneered. “Poor, sweet Caitlin. She’s so afraid to use the power she has that she kept herself a hapless prisoner. If I hadn’t broken her stupid necklace, distracted Zoom…she’d still be trapped, possibly dead. You’re welcome.”

“That necklace was the only thing keeping her from turning into—!”

“No, it wasn’t.” Morgan rolled her eyes. “It’s not like she has some alternate personality inside her. They’re just ice powers. Caitlin’s paranoia is unfounded and childish…and the sooner she embraces her power, the better off she’ll be.”

“Speaking from experience?” Jesse sneered.

Red lightning flickered in Morgan’s eyes. “Careful, Jesse. Don’t you know never to test a speedster?”

Gold lightning flickered in Jesse’s eyes, surprising Morgan. “I think I’ll manage just fine, thanks.”

Morgan shrugged. “Why not? One less ally for Team Flash is no great loss for me.”

Jesse rushed at her, all flashy punches and fury…and Morgan—faster, smarter, more experienced, deadlier—knocked her on her back in five seconds flat.

It was easier than fighting most novices. Jesse trembled like a dead leaf whenever she so much as aimed a punch.

Morgan yawned theatrically. “How dull. You didn’t even have the sense to wait until you had actual training. Your form is sloppy, you’re reckless…and so terrified too—who let you out of your nest, little bird?”

Jesse glared her down, still trembling. Perhaps she’d been doing that the whole time, but it was much more obvious after the fight. “I’ll beat you,” she snapped anyway, and Morgan could admit, she admired the little bird’s courage. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll beat you.”

“To impress Barry?” Morgan guessed, smirking when Jesse flinched. “Let me guess, he’s not terribly fond of you now that you’ve gotten speed.”

“That’s not his fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Morgan tilted her head. “You’re not me. Why should he judge you because of things I did?”

Jesse gritted her teeth. “So you admit you’re a monster?”

“I never denied that. I said I wasn’t Eobard Thawne, which is true. And that you shouldn’t be so quick to trust Team Flash…which is also true.”

Jesse shook her head. “They’re right about you.”

Morgan sighed. “How disappointing. And here I hoped you were smart enough to see through them.”

“I’m smart enough to see through you.”

Now Morgan did laugh, though it was hollow and brittle. “If you say so, little bird.”

“I’ll come back,” Jesse snapped, “and I’ll take you down.”

“I’m sure you will,” Morgan replied, dispassionate.

As Jesse scoffed, shook her head, and made a quick escape, Morgan sighed, unable to hide how truly disappointed she was. When Jesse had spoken kindly to her at first, for just a short while, she’d thought—

Well, never mind what she’d thought. She was wrong.

Jesse had chosen her side…and that made them enemies.

(No matter how much that broke Morgan’s heart.)

Brief rundown of the changes/misc notes:

Caitlin's KF powers, per this prompt fill, first manifested post-s1 in this AU. She grew afraid of them and suppressed them during s2, until Morgan intentionally broke her suppression necklace while rescuing her from Zoom. She doesn't have a split personality, just ice powers

Due to prior experience with Morgan, and believing she committed patricide unprompted, the Team (mainly Barry) is wary of Morgan, and initally wary of Jesse. Barry is the most so–he doesn't hate Jesse per se, but he's distant towards her, unable to distinguish between her and Morgan initially. Jesse getting speed right when Barry's warming up to her doesn't help matters

Morgan has not formally taken the Reverse Flash mantle yet. And this prompt fill shows that she isn't even the one to take it—it's thrust upon her by Team Flash. Makes for an angsty parallel between her and Thawne—tho ofc Morgan hasn't done anything that terrible yet and is in fact challenging Zoom on at least a few occasions (and continuing to fight metas). So unlike Thawne, she's trying to make better choices. Unfortunately, as the red lightning proves...she's driven by anger more than she's willing to admit. She won't even fully admit to how heartbroken she is to lose a potential friend in Jesse

I tried to hint at Jesse's Zoom-related trauma here—she went after RF!Morgan in a fit of recklessness, but her speedster-related trauma kicks in halfway through...and of course, when they fight, Morgan takes notice. But Jesse's never one to leave a job half-finished...even when she should

Morgan ofc is going by "Morgan Thawne" at this point in time, though it doesn't come up in this fic. It's not necessarily a surname she's proud to take—taking it on is driven more by shame (and a lingering feeling of belonging to Thawne even when he's dead). Not that she'll admit that just yet

prompt list!

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@arrthurpendragon @ocappreciationtag @raith-way @vexic929 @ironverseocs

@thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce @starstruckpurpledragon @angst-is-love-angst-is-life

@miss-eli-starfleet

[keeps-ache]

drawin prompt: video killed the radio star but theyre both obj heads (im going to draw it too!)

oh, welcome to the studio! you must be new here-

[transparent version below]

thanks for the prompt !! send me the link when you post yours !! :D

[pallases]

english prof just left LOADS of feedback on my essay omg this is so exciting

[writesology]

it's now official!! ridoace week will be happening from september 23rd to september 30th!

please post on tumblr if possible! if you post more on other platforms like instagram, ao3, or twitter, try to post a link and tag it appropriately!

even though i'm also looking at creating an ao3 collection, i don't know how well that will work so i'll be sticking to tumblr for now

all works will be reblogged at the end of the week by @ridoaceweek, so please go follow that blog too! hope y'all have fun with this <33

[honeydots]

If I can ask another one ‘you’re not alone. i’m staying right here.’ and Xanlow

"You're not alone. I'm staying right here." 1.4k, xanlow from this ask game

Xander had a business trip that was taking him across the country, way up by the northern sea and among the black rocks, freezing winds, and terrible storms. It’s meant to last months, and Inigo’s bendable when it comes to location, so—he decided to go along with.

This afternoon, Inigo’s sitting on one of the rocky beaches, solidly far from the cold ocean. The air is nice and salty, he’s got a thick blanket to sit on, and he’s only been rained on a tiny bit. He has a much wider view of the sea from the apartment they’re renting, but he was getting lonely inside. So now he’s lonely outside.

Xander’s at work right now, much deeper into the still-unfamiliar city that’s strikingly more gray than Windmire’s black. And Inigo, just a short while ago, got back from a dance class he found nearby. He’d like to say he’s going to a rehearsal tonight, but… Well, he’s between jobs.

He doesn’t really have connections in this part of Nohr. It was a struggle to get them for a while in Windmire, and he made the poor assumption that because he already went through that once, he wouldn’t again. Inigo’s been beating himself up for not asking around more to see if there were any friends-of-friends around here when he had the chance. Anxiety and freelancing unfortunately do not go hand-in-hand.

He hasn’t been completely jobless, but he’s certainly not busy at the moment. It’s harder to get a shoe in for contracts and auditions when he’s relatively unknown. And even if he’s been socializing in his classes to try and make some meaningful connections, so is everyone else, and Inigo is really great at flubbing things up.

Xander keeps telling him not to feel guilty—it’s always a possibility to be without work for a while with a job like this, and Xander makes more than enough to keep them afloat. But it’s hard to help it. Inigo was hoping he’d have gotten into a groove by now, yet he very much hasn’t, and it’s hard not to feel guilty using Xander’s money for his own things.

Not that moping by the sea is improving his situation whatsoever. But it’s pretty, it smells nice. And if nothing else is lovely in this gray city, at least the gray ocean has a charm. He doesn’t get to see it often.

Inigo’s outside longer than he realizes, because he gets a text from Xander asking where he is. He’s probably home, then—whoops. He tells him he’s by the ocean side, and asks if he should come back, but Xander doesn’t reply. So Inigo stays put, sitting quietly on his blanket, until he hears footsteps from behind.

Expectedly, it’s Xander. “You found me,” Inigo says lightly, scooting over a bit to make room. Xander sits down next to him, still in his stuffy work clothes, and he kisses Inigo’s temple lightly.

“You weren’t too hard to spot.” Which is fair, since Inigo’s like, the only person out here. It’s cold today—and Xander’s nice and warm, so Inigo certainly doesn’t mind the company. He leans into him, eyes still on the ocean, loneliness drifting away for a while.

“How was work?” Inigo asks. He’s still surprised it’s gotten so late. He’s not usually the sit-still-and -close-your-mouth type, but he’s feeling awfully sluggish today. So perhaps that’s why.

Xander sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Work.”

“Ah, yeah. At least you’re done now.” Xander’s work clothes are also gray, sometimes black, and sometimes Inigo gets him to wear a colorful tie. But he’ll always have a shock of blond that keeps him standing out. Inigo’s just the opposite, hair gray and dull, but he likes to wear blues and greens and whites. Sometimes purple, too, because his mother likes it most.

Xander puts his arm not quite around Inigo, but sets it down behind him so it crosses over his back. “How did your class go?”

Inigo shrugs. “Good, it was good. Pretty fun today, we worked on new stuff.” He inhales, then slumps. “I, uh. I’m kind of sort of making some friends?” It’s hard to be a socialite when the one tactic he had is completely off the board, now. Getting married kind of kills the flirting game. Not that he always got the best results with that, anyway.

Xander hums. He leans into Laslow, too. “I’m glad it’s coming along.”

“Ah, that’s a good term for it.”

A cold and slightly wet wind comes by, and they both shiver. Even if you can’t see the sun in Nohr, the nights are still colder than the days, and the evening is rolling in without a second thought. It was already chilly, but it’s getting chilly chilly.

“What are you doing out here?” Xander asks, and Inigo chews on his cheek. There’s why is he out here, and why has been out here for so long, which are two different questions with two different answers.

And despite what he asked, Xander’s probably looking for the latter. “I… Just got lost thinking, for a while,” he says. He looks down at his knees, covered by soft blue sweats and not doing a great job at keeping the cold out. “Wishing I’d get a call back, or something.”

Xander does put his arm around Inigo now, rubbing his arm gently. It warms him up a bit, and Inigo goes on. “There's this terrible feel of… Isolation, that I've got. Like—if you and I weren’t doing this together, what would I be doing? Living in a hovel and eating stale bread, workless as I’ve been?” He huffs, and cuddles into himself. “I hate having nothing to do.”

Xander scowls, in a very cute way that involves his lips scrunching a bit as his eyebrows lower. “You aren’t alone, there’s no point in giving what-ifs attention,” he says. “I’m here, I don’t mind. Take your time.”

“I know, I know,” Inigo says with a pout. “And I’d rather you here than not. It’s just—boring. And depressing. And you work for entirely too long, I get lonely.” That being, Xander works a respectable nine-to-five which he’ll only sometimes come back late from, since Inigo pesters him immensely otherwise.

Xander gives a small and considerate looking grin. "Maybe I'll try harder to beat the traffic next time," he says, which is nice. “Do you have plans for tomorrow yet?”

Inigo’s classes are every other day with a three-day weekend, so when a fraction of his time isn’t taken up by that, he’s sort of left open ended. Not that Xander doesn't work tomorrow, though, so he can't count on his company until later.

“I might go to the gym?” Inigo says, since he’d much rather be ready than not if he does end up getting a proper contract. “And, uh—if we need anything, I could go shopping, too.” Xander thinks for a moment, and so does Inigo—and then he completely hangs his head. “I feel like—like, I’m all washed up. Don’t I sound washed up? Am I still young enough to say I’m not old enough for this? ”

And Xander does not seem to appreciate the comment. “You aren’t washed up,” he says firmly, then frowns. “You were doing fine in Windmire.”

“But I feel like I am, and that makes all the difference.” Inigo throws out an arm, like he’s presenting himself. “Look at me. Sitting dramatically by an ocean, on a dark cloudy day, getting rained on—”

“Is it raining?” Xander says, interrupting Inigo’s self-deprecating rant and glancing up to the sky.

Inigo lets it go pretty seamlessly. “Oh, it has been. Only a little.”

Xander looks similarly unamused. “We’re going back inside,” he decides, and starts standing, leaving Inigo quite cold and alone.

“What? Nooo,” he says, since he was slightly enjoying the miserable feel. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

Xander extends a hand to Inigo. “You’ll get yourself sick.”

Inigo just looks at his hand for a moment. And then he frowns, and takes it, and as he’s pulled to his feet he grumbles, “I won’t get sick.”

“You will,” Xander says, meaning Laslow didn’t mumble his grumble enough. “And then you’ll sulk around the apartment feeling useless all day.”

Laslow snatches up his blanket from the rocks. “I do that anyway.”

They start walking back together. Xander looks pretty cold in just his button up, so maybe it’s better they do. It’ll only be getting colder, after all.

And Inigo guesses—even if he’s feeling guilty and washed up, and even if he’s antsy all day and anxious all night—

It’s pretty nice to have somebody who’ll take care of you, too.

[reiverreturns]

[sending you multiple asks if the inspiration hits for any of them <3] 37 + rooster

liv i am SO SORRY it's taking me an age to fill these prompts but i will finish them eventually! thank you for sending them!!! Send me a prompt and some characters/ships for a ficlet or drabble

Rooster + Rosy

“Mav, you’ve gotta stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Bradley jabs his fork across the table, accusing. “Like that.”

Maverick only smiles, a gentle thing, all lines around his eyes and a humble crease of the jaw. He pulls his hands off the sticky table with a noise like ripping velcro and holds them up. “Sorry kid. I just… it’s been a long time since we’ve done this.”

Bradley shovels more eggs into his mouth and doesn’t say anything. The diner’s been here for longer than the two of them have been alive, and probably longer still. The Coca-Cola sign above the door has bleached pink from years in the sun but the menu’s still the same, the coffee is still the wrong side of bitter, the chairs are still unbearably loud when scraped across the floor and the music still stutters after every other song.

It's been a long time. Doesn't feel like it.

“Last time we came here I think I was still picking you up from baseball practice,” Maverick says with a nod. “Yeah. I’d wait outside and you'd jump into the backseat like a cannonball. Cheeks all rosy from the sun, hat turned backwards. Always thought you were gonna hit your shins on the door since you were growing like a weed. Assumed you’d misjudge it once, but you never did. Then we’d come here, we'd eat, and I’d take you home.”

Maverick's eyes have gone misty and the past swills unpleasantly in Bradley’s gut, as it always does. He understands now what those days were. Maverick buying him time - time away from sickness and strange people in Bradley’s house. From conversations he wasn’t ready to have. Time to feel like a normal kid with sunburn on his nose and scrapes on his knees. Like a kid not on the precipice of losing everything. 

Maverick isn’t looking at Bradley anymore. His gaze has turned to the street, eyes quietly watching passers by. The smile has weathered. 

“We can come more often if you quit the trips down memory lane,” Bradley offers. He reaches over and stabs a waffle Mav’s been picking at for the last five minutes, because if he’s going to have to endure Mav's recollections of his teenage years, he’s sure as hell going to remind the old man he’s gotta be quicker on the trigger if he doesn’t want his food stolen. 

Maverick’s face brightens, more luminous than anything in this faded old place. “Yeah?” And falls when he looks at his plate. “Oh come on. Seriously? Remind me to order double next time.”

The things that put colour in Bradley’s cheeks are different now. Less found on the baseball pitch, more in the skirts of a blue and cloudless sky. The sympathetic looks from strangers that once had him flushed with indignance have turned into a pitch and swell of heat across his chest when he’s at the piano, riding the waves of a chorus he's orchestrated. Compliments oftentimes have him burning under the tan. Going hard at the gym with company, because no matter how hard he tries, he's never been able to fully let the thrill of competition go.

He eats slowly in front of Maverick as the old man rolls his eyes and traces a crack in his coffee cup.

Bradley’s in no rush. Their time, for all it has cost them both, is finally free.

[starkerscoop]

Courting an Omega, Tony Stark-Style has over 1,000 kudos???? I’m in shock but so, so happy. I only just noticed. Thank you to everyone who enjoyed my fic ☺ This is my first time reaching that number! 

[hailsatanacab]

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 331

Adjective: Old-Fashioned

Noun: Posy

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Old-Fashioned: in or according to styles or types no longer current or common, or not modern; (of a person or their views) favoring traditional and usually restrictive styles, ideas, or customs

Posy: a small bunch of flowers; (archaic) a short motto or line of verse inscribed inside a ring