#prompt

[questions-about-blorbos]

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[frutigerfischl]

You have to be specific tho because if not you end up reading a great fanfic and then the most diabolical tag like "misuse of a mosquito" pops up 💔💔

[five-rivers]

Soft body horror prompt: insects don't necessarily undergo metamorphosis. Some change more gradually, shedding their exoskeleton many times until they reach their final adult form (dragonflies, for example, are aquatic with gills as young). Apply this to ghosts :)

Thank you for thoughts. :)

.

There is something under the hazmat suit.

Of course there is. You're under the hazmat suit. It's what you're wearing - it's what you always wear, when you're a ghost.

There have always been things under the hazmat suit. You were wearing things underneath it when you died, in the portal. A t-shirt. Your jeans. Socks. That thin tank top that made you somehow feel more secure. Underwear. Socks. Not shoes. You're not the kind of lunatic who wears two pairs of shoes at the same time. The hazmat suit's boots are fine.

There's something under them.

You have always been under the hazmat suit, but the hazmat suit is also you. You know this. You died in it. They say the man makes the clothes. Or is it the other way around? You've never been great at remembering these things.

It's still you, under there. That's all that will ever be there. Except when you've been stabbed. Or shot. Or harpooned. That happened once. Then, there are other things lodged under your skin.

There is something under your skin, now. You can feel it moving. Sliding along the underside of plasticky hazmat. Bending the small, fine hairs along the backs of your arms. It is you. Of course it is. That's all it's ever been. But it's unfamiliar. New.

You are in the privacy of your own room. The door is closed, the lights dimmed, the curtains, drawn. You have a chair wedged under the doorknob. It's something you've been told not to do, and you're not even sure if it will work. Sometimes, your parents are human wrecking balls, and even if they weren't, there's the weaponry to consider. Even so, this is probably the best you're going to do.

You know you've been worrying your sister, lately, but that's not your fault.

You lie heavy on your bed and the air lies lightly on your human skin and clothing that isn't also you. Part of you feels like there should be more layers, and you know exactly what part that is.

You change.

Light ripples lightning-bright across your body, turning one kind of skin into another.

You raise gloved hands over your head and start to tug on the fingers, loosening them. You think that if you were more serious about this, you would start somewhere else and let your hands fall to your chest, still covered.

There are other ways to do this. There is a zipper.

You sit up, not entirely willing, and reach for the collar of the suit. You find the zipper and pull it down, down, down, until it catches on the sticker Sam stuck on there the second time you died for the first time.

Your life is strange.

You pull the sticker free and then pull the zipper the rest of the way down. Then, you pull away the suit, peeling it off your chest.

What's underneath is your t-shirt.

You knew this.

But it feels... You run gloved fingers over its surface. Something has changed. It is... It feels thinned. Worn. Like a husk of what it once was.

You wriggle, suddenly eager to get this over with. But when the suit slips off your elbows, you pause.

There should be skin there. Not hazmat-skin or cloth-skin, but pale, tan, flesh-skin. Tinted with ectoplasm and death, but still skin.

And there is some skin there, transparent and husk-like. But, there, peaking out in patches from a paper thin layer, is something else.

It looks, at first glance, like the hazmat. Woven. Black. Shiny.

But there are differences. Pinprick lights shine from the black threads, brighter even than his aura, gathered in tantalizing patterns. You pull your hands out of the sleeved, and therefore, the gloves. Most of the husk-skin on your fingers is gone, leaving a silvery material that is both like and unlike your gloves.

You reach out to a piece of loose skin and pull it back, slowly. It crinkles, slightly. It comes off in a long strip, up to your elbow, revealing even more of the strange, sparkling fabric. But then it stops, the skin there still, for a lack of a better word, alive, deep, connected.

You can't stop yourself, after that. You peel off as much skin as you can. It isn't everything. But it is something.

You flex your hands. They move easily, comfortably, under the new fabric. Where the fabric intersects skin, there is a slight, uncomfortable pinch.

This is a new surface. Underneath is you. A new you. But still you. Like always.

But it isn't done yet. It is too thin, too fragile. It would tear in a fight.

It is not yet time to shed your old self, the snakeskin-exoskeleton-husk of your first hazmat suit. You are still young. You are not ready.

You put your arms into the sleeves and zip up the suit, patting the sticker lovingly back into place. Then, you return to your human flesh. You inhale, exhale.

What will you be, you wonder, when you are ready?

[gingerly-writing]

Prompt #3526

“I’m sorry that you found out this way,” Supervillain murmured. “I have tried to keep it from you. I know my affections will be unwanted, and as such-”

“Wait. Unwanted?”

[glitter-stained]

Prompt: meta fic that follows Jason's ao3 where we see the summaries word counts dates and tags on his fic as well as the first and last author note. It spans all the way from jaybin to rebirth red hood with gaps when he dies. You can see the style grow better and the themes darker, especially after he comes back with angry themes, that slowly shift to sad, depressing stuff, going from "batman's a+ parenting" revenge stories to shorter hurt no comfort stuff where red hood dies in the end. That found family fic about a street orphan being adopted by batman stops updating abruptly before being marked discontinued years later. Jason's author notes, no matter the periode, are the classic incredible ao3 lore.

I also like to believe there's a time period where he sends Bruce the nastiest batjoke porn he finds under the pretense of case files

[mcfuckenlovenit]

this is just so adorable, I love it and shall cherish it!

DP x DC

Of which Poison Ivy is the first one out of the Gotham Rogues who met the Fenton family and promptly adopts them all.

What? They might be human...ish mad inventors and whatnot, but they use those trash electronics that other people have thrown away illegally that's lying around the area. They actually recycle and their inventions are wonderful to her plants!

And if anything happens to these humans, she'll kill every human but herself! Or whatever the saying goes.

This goes double to her fellow Rogues.

Squint eyes.

You're not going to abduct Danny aren't you, Scarecrow? Bane, no kidnapping my new brother Jack. Harley, you can borrow Jazz but no adopting her. She's mine. Yes Selina, we can have girl's night out with Maddie-

Bats??? Hissssssss. No, go away. Danny might be a Wayne-classic-lookalike but no kidnapping him for Brucie. Shoo.

[the-fyre-flie]

Some more Bruce Wayne Figure Skater AU cuz I can't get it out of my head... also Clark Kent Hockey Player lolol

When Bruce is like 17 or so, he finally hits the Playboy growth spurt and becomes increasingly popular among fans. He's a tall guy with a pretty face, slim figure, and more money than he could ever think what to do with. Of course, he had a ravenous fan base. They call themselves 'Bachelorettes' since Bruce is the #1 bachelor in Gotham even at his age. He goes out of his way to flirt with the more popular amongst his fans as well as female skaters in his age bracket, simply to fuel the fire of fandom, lol.

He was in men's singles for skating, duh, he's a broody young man who despises genuinely getting close to someone, but by the time he's nearing his retirement (20-23) he starts doing doubles with the most talented female skater in Gotham. He puts on this whole act of being super close to her, practically dating her, and it boosts his popularity in the scene a lot. The rumor mill is on fire with headlines, "BRUCE WAYNE IN A REALATIONSHIP WITH HIS SKATING PARTNER!?".

The only issue is... Bruce shares a rink with the hockey team. And Gothams team very frequently plays against Metropolis' team... and the Metropolis hockey team captain is a big beefy guy named Clark Kent with dorky glasses and a single curl of hair alway out of place under his helmet, and oh god Bruce thinks he's cute...

Bruce, struggling to put on his skate guards without looking: ....

Clark, who's very aware that he's being stared at: ....

Bruce: >////<

Clark: o////o

(They both find each other intimidating but also cute, so they're at a stalemate, lol)

[slippinmickeys]

A couple of months ago on Discord, several people were super kind and supportive when I threw out a couple of questions about releasing fic. They encouraged me to post the fics set in the Funfetti Universe (SO GLAD I named it that, womp womp) as its own story on AO3 and @calimanc asked for a prompt: Thanksgiving play at school with Mulder complaining about history being whitewashed while Scully is recording and being like "shut up and watch your son." Something happens with Addams Family Values vibes.

I knew I'd have a minute to write today, so I loaded the old prompts onto AO3 last night, and sat down today and cranked this one out.

Thanksgiving Pageant

It was cute. He had to admit it was cute. The little black outfit with an old white handkerchief looped over his son’s little shoulders. 

Scully had sat at their kitchen table with Elmer’s glue and construction paper, doing her best not to swear as she held together two gummy pieces of black paper that would serve as the headband of William’s Pilgrim hat in the school’s Fall Show. William, oblivious to his mother’s consternation, rehearsed his lines with halting earnestness. 

“We were so thankful to learn how to grow food in this land,” the boy said. 

“In this new land,” Scully corrected him. “‘We were so thankful to learn how to grow food in this new land.’”

“Can you do the part before mine, mama?”

“Sure,” Scully agreed, flitting her eyes to Mulder, who was very much trying to keep his mouth shut. Her look communicated quite clearly that he’d fucking better.  

“‘The Wampanoag showed us how to take care of the land and plant crops like corn and beans,’” Scully recited, part of her glad that it was another kid who had to pronounce ‘Wampanoag.’ 

“We were so thankful to learn how to grow food in this new land,” William finished, beaming at his success. 

“Good job, bud,” Mulder said, turning to his son, his hands dripping dishwater everywhere. “Gonna end the show with a bang.”

“Can I be done?” William asked. 

“You may,” Scully said, and William darted up the stairs without another word, no doubt to the LEGO table Mulder had set up for him. His bedroom door closed with a resounding snick. 

“I can’t believe they’re still doing Thanksgiving pageants,” Mulder said, shaking his head. “It’s such whitewashing bullshit.”

“We can address Colonial violence with him when he’s older, Mulder,” Scully sighed, clearly not in the mood to be having this conversation. “In the meantime, can you grab me a binder clip off of your desk before this capotain becomes a permanent part of my thumb?”

Mulder put the last pan in the rack by the sink and dried off his hands, then swung into his office for the requested binder clip, a piece of equipment he was pretty sure he’d liberated from the FBI supply cabinet when he’d moved from the basement to the fourth floor. 

He set it on the tabletop next to her and leaned down to drop a kiss onto the end of her nose. 

She attached the clip to the hat she was making and looked at her sticky fingers with distaste.

“It’s a kindergarten play, Mulder,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “What would you have them say?” 

Mulder lowered himself across from her and leaned forward, elbows on the table. Upstairs they could hear the distant, muted sounds of William humming happily to himself. 

“He goes last, right?” Mulder said. 

Scully nodded. 

“How about something like ‘What you just watched was a sanitized and oversimplified whitewashing of history. While this story is comforting and well-intentioned, it obscures the colonial violence, cultural erasure, and exploitation Indigenous people endured as European settlers expanded their presence in North America.’”

His wife stood up and gave him a deadpan look. “It’s perfect. Age-appropriate. He definitely wouldn’t stumble over any of those words. No notes.”

She moved to the sink and began washing the gunk off of her fingers. 

“I think so too,” Mulder agreed breezily. He thought but didn’t say that it would be a great touch if William pointed at his classmates dressed as the Wompanoag and highlighted the fact that they’d all be dead of smallpox within five years. That would teach ‘em.  

XxX

Scully held up a small digital camera trying to get the entire stage to show up in the viewfinder. Satisfied by her framing, she lowered the little device into her lap. 

“By filming this, you’re perpetuating-” Mulder started.

“Stop,” Scully interrupted. “What I’m perpetuating is my mother’s tolerance of what she considers our weird choices. She will watch it 33 times and show it to all her neighbors. It is what it is, Mulder.”

The elementary auditorium was chocked full of parents and bored older siblings, coats strung across a line of seats to save them. It was very warm. 

“It smells like feet in here,” Mulder said. 

“It kind of does, yeah,” Scully agreed. 

“We should have sat on the edge. We could have snuck out right after William’s class did its thing.”

“His teacher already hates us, we’re going to be conspicuously present and smiling,” Scully said without looking at him. “Before, during and after the show.”

The school was K-5, which meant they’d have to endure five more Thanksgiving-themed song-and-dance routines. Mulder couldn’t help but twist around in his seat and locate the nearest exit.

“Relax, Mulder,” Scully said, noticing his nudgyness. “There’ll be lemonade and cookies after. You can have as many as you want.”

“I don’t think elevating my blood sugar is going to make up for losing 45 minutes of my life to this-”

“Shhh,” she shushed him quiet. The lights of the auditorium had begun to lower. 

Shortly thereafter, the kindergarten class shuffled out on stage, stumbling into each other and missing their marks. Several waved to their parents in the audience, loudly, and one little Pilgrim began to wail and had to be escorted off the stage. 

After a song in which the music teacher was the only one who knew and sang all the words, William and several classmates took a big step forward and held hands. William was on the far right and would be the last to speak. He waved at Mulder, who couldn’t help but laugh as he waved back. 

The Indian on the far left had to be prompted to speak, but it flowed fairly well after that. 

“We didn’t know much about this land, but the native people taught us.”

“We learned new ways to live and we tried to work together.”

“We wanted to say thank you for all the help we received.”

“So we invited the Wamp. The–how does it go again, Ms. Wendy?”

Beside him, arm holding the camera as steadily as she could, Scully quietly chuckled. It was almost William’s turn. 

He stepped forward with a big smile and Mulder, having heard the phrase maybe fifty times, was ready for We were so thankful to learn how to grow food in this new land. So it was something of a surprise when William said: 

“What you just watched was a sanitized and oversimplified whitewashing of history.” 

The auditorium went deadly silent. 

“Oh my God,” Scully hissed. 

William, unphased, continued, “While this story is comforting and well-intentioned, it obscures the colonial violence, cultural erasure, and exploitation Indigenous people endured as European settlers expanded their presence in North America.”

Mulder was both astonished and impressed. His son had not only gone full Wednesday Addams, but he’d repeated–word for word–the exact words Mulder knew for a fact the boy couldn’t have overheard. 

William then turned toward the stage and pointed at the cluster of his classmates who’d been dressed as the Wampanoag.

“Oh no,” Mulder said, reaching out to grab Scully’s arm. 

“What-” she began.

“In five years,” William announced loudly, somewhat gleefully. “You will all be dead of smallpox!”

Several audience members gasped, even more laughed, and two little Wampanoag started crying. The stage descended into chaos. 

Beside him, Scully slowly lowered her camera and turned to Mulder with a horrified look on her face. 

“Tell me you got all that on tape,” Mulder said. 

“Oh my God, Mulder.”

“You still want to stay for cookies and lemonade?”

[memepocalypse]

Will you?

"Will you love me?"

"Will you hate me?"

"Will you forgive me?"

"Will you go back?"

"Will you come?"

"Will you believe?"

"Will you ever be who you were before?"

"Will you give up?"

"Will you stop?"

"Will you start again?"

"Will you shut up?"

"Will you talk to me?"

"Will you stop being ridiculous?"

"Will you fight for me?"

"Will you fight against me?"

"Will you fight with me?"

"Will you go away?"

"Will you come here?"

"Will you live?"

"Will you die?"

"Will you hope?"

"Will you surrender?"

"Will you stay with me?"

"Will you help me?"

"Will you stay for dinner?"

"Will you trust me?"

"Will you promise me it's all going to be okay?"

"Will you have faith?"

"Will you turn away and never look back?"

"Will you stay here, just for a moment, just for a breath, pretend it's all okay?"

[questions-about-blorbos]

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[fiction-tastic]

A scenario in which Gi-hun starts to have a panic attack because he's back in this goddamn place, none of his plans have worked and more and more people are dying in front of his eyes and oh god it's happening all over again...he's dissociating and hyperventilating and "Young-il" kisses him in order to bring him back to his senses

Gi-hun's like: *surprised pikachu face*

In-ho's like: Well, glad that worked (wink wink)

Then Gi-hun slowly breaks down in tears, lets all of his pain pour out while In-ho holds him in his arms, comforts him, strokes his hair and back

And Gi-hun just feels the safest he's ever been in this man's arms (lmao) and allows himself to be soothed and sweeped away by Young-il's warmth and loving presence

[silcsolverr]

Oh my god I need a 457 fic with this. NOW

"You don't love me. You're just obsessed with me"

"Isn't that the same thing my dear?"

"You hold me against my will because you don't see me as an equal. Do you really think you can love a *pet* the same way you love a *partner*? Do you think it feels the same? It's almost sad you know, that you will never know what true love feels like because the only thing you know how to do is take by force,"

[five-rivers]

Danny being molded by clockwork? Maybe into LBM (loss of autonomy, opposable thumbs,etc)?

Clockwork stops you before you can run.

Stops you literally, freezing your body in time. But not, for some reason, your mind. You can feel yourself. You can feel the tingle of ectoplasm on your skin and the slight stirring of wind caused by Clockwork flying around you in ever tightening circles.

"This is for the best," he says. And then, he touches your wrist, and you go limp, almost boneless, in that your ghost form is so good at. So, maybe he hadn't frozen you in time, but done something else to keep you from moving.

He gathers you up and carries you. You expect, almost, to be placed on a table. You are not. He carries you to a couch - you didn't know he had a couch - and arranges you on his-- Is it a lap, if it is made of a coiled ghostly tail?

That is what he starts with, too, pressing your legs together into a sinuous, tapering tail.

This is when you find that you aren't entirely paralyzed. Not exactly. Your tail lashes, back and forth. Not under your control, but also not... not under your control. Its movement is dictated by something more like... instinct. Its lashing calms and it curls up next to Clockwork's.

Traitor.

Clockwork strokes your back, smoothing you down further. And, against your will, you do relax. It feels weirdly comfortable, and you feel yourself... softening. Like clay.

He takes your left hand and folds in your thumb. Then, he presses, and the digit sinks into your palm with little resistance. It is... fascinating. Even if you could look away, you would still stare as Clockwork molds your remaining fingers into something more like paws, complete with small, blunt claws. Then, he moves up your arm. You cannot, quite, tell what he is doing, there, but the way your muscles and tendons lay feels different, afterwards. He frees your other arm and does the same there, making you symmetrical.

You cannot see what he does to your shoulders and spine, but you can feel it, and it feels good, like those bones are finally slotting into place.

He turns you over. Your ribcage is, apparently, too large, too deep. Some of your organs are the wrong shape, or just... Wrong. Smoothed away so their mass could be repurposed elsewhere.

Most of your body can move, now. It is just your head and neck that are still outside of your control. You could run.

You don't.

Clockwork is very gentle when he sculpts your neck, dipping his fingers into your throat. You can feel it when the complexity of your voicebox is reformatted in its entirety.

He moved up to your ears, ruffling your hair as he does so. He tugs them, upwards, into points, then paints them with a soft layer of fur.

You purr with your new voice, and when Clockwork's hands move to your face, you nuzzle into them.

Clockwork chuckles, and arranges your features with gentle orbits of his thumbs. Your nose is pinched small. So is your mouth, but your teeth are stretched into fangs and your tongue lengthened, and you can feel seams that would let your jaw open much wider than it currently is. Your jaw is rounded, softened. So are your cheeks. Your eyes, on the other hand, are widened, made huge enough that you squint blearily at the dim light in Clockwork's lair.

But there is one final change. Clockwork gathers you up again - made harder by you being able to move and wriggle, and easier by your cooperation - and squeezes. You purr as you are compressed, your whole essence concentrated into something that Clockwork can hold in the crook of one arm.

"There," said Clockwork, apparently pleased. "Everything is as it is meant to be."

You find that the meaning of the words, of any words, is... slipping. Fading. Not all the way, you don't think. But enough that you would have to focus hard to understand completely. And you don't want to. It's enough to hear the tone.

You lean into Clockwork as he starts petting you, stroking you from head to tail. He says something else, the words making a soothing rumble in his chest.

You think-- You think that this, this sense of comfort, of contentment, is the way things are supposed to be.

And then, for a while, you don't think much of anything at all.

[gingerly-writing]

Prompt #3527

"You need to change sides," the villain said, "before they leave you behind with a hero killer."

"You are a hero killer."

"No, I'm a superhero killer. Class A only. Killing a Class D like you is like killing a puppy: it's an asshole move." They crouched down next to the stranded hero, cocked their head. "But if I recruit you...that's close enough to adopting a puppy to count as my yearly good deed. What do you say?"

[duckie-deer-prompts]

Duckie Deer Prompt #40

Lucifer: Wait...you know how to drive a car??

Alastor: ...you don't??

-------

AKA a thought that I had about Alastor living in the 1930's and needing to either make a quick get away from a crime scene or potentially needing to hide his latest victim's cars. (He may also like to be a lil shit ™️ and mess with demon's cars down in Hell.)

Meanwhile, Lucifer has always been able to fly or teleport. Not to mention how he's almost exclusively been in his house for years, not wanting to interact with sinners.