#reverse prompt ask

[jennyandvastraflint]

Divorce of convenience is speaking to me, I gotta say. For anyone you want but Jenny and Vastra ARE married and COULD get divorced (for convenience sake), just saying.

Too hot to cuddle sounds very cute as well though :)

So, like, if either of these inspire anything - I'd be very excited to read it!

Okay okay! I'm gonna give you the second prompt first as I wrote this for Jenny and Vastra! I did the first one as well and wanted to challenge myself (and treat you), so that'll be the surprise at the end! Both are under the cut because it'd be too long a post otherwise XD

Too hot to cuddle - Jenny/Vastra

Jenny was drawn to the greenhouse by Vastra's disgruntled hisses, and when she found her sprawled upon a warm rock in the sun, Jenny knew she would have to resign herself to cuddles despite the heat as soon as Vastra's eyes found her. "Jennyyyy," Vastra made, her eyes barely opened, her chest heaving and sinking with each breath she took. "It's alright, m'ducks," Jenny said as she began unbuttoning her dress. Really, she ought to get some light summer dresses for Vastra's greenhouse and its oppressive heat. Instead, she soon stood only in drawers and a petticoat in front of Vastra, ready to join her. One upside of having a Silurian wife, she thought, was the blessed coolness of her scales most of the time. Jenny sat next to Vastra who hadn't moved, and she just wanted to wrap her arms around Vastra when she was shoved away. Vastra continued sighing as though she were the unluckiest creature in the world, and Jenny frowned. "What was that for? I just wanted to give you cuddles," Jenny huffed, crossing her arms. If anyone had a right to complain here, it was Jenny. After all, beads of sweat were already forming in her neck. "It's too hot for cuddles," Vastra groaned, spreading her arms wide to soak up the heat of the rock instead. "You're impossible," Jenny said with an eyeroll. "I am not!" Vastra was even too sleepy to sound truly offended, and her eyelids were still half-closed. "I want to touch you but it's too warm…" "We could just get out of the greenhouse then," Jenny suggested. "But it is too cold outside, my love!" Jenny slid off the rock with a shrug. "Then I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to help you, darling…" "Staaaay," Vastra demanded with a whine, and she reached out to grasp Jenny's hand with hers. "Mmmh, I like holding your hand." "Daft lizard," Jenny muttered as she sat back down, now holding only Vastra's hand. "You enjoy being complicated, don't you, m'ducks." Vastra smiled proudly. "Always, my dear."

I hope you enjoyed this!! And now for the second one...

Divorce of Convenience - ???/???

"Well. This is a first," Mels said, waving around a brochure advertising a new restaurant at the edge of the universe. The Doctor pushed her yellow half-moon specs up her nose and frowned. "What's that, love?" Mels leaned back in the armchair she had asked the TARDIS to materialise specifically for her, and she gave the Black woman a toothy grin. "This restaurant's offering a special deal to newly divorced couples." The Doctor frowned. "Newly divorced? As in, the couple coming in together?" "Yup. There's something quite… Alluring about it, don't you think? Getting benefits for breaking up?" "Waste of time if you ask me… And an attempt at commercialising everything you can possibly experience." She turned her attention back to the chronon blaster her… lovely companion Mels had overheated on their last little adventure. The wires had completely fused with the power source, and the Doctor wondered again why she had ever let Mels board her TARDIS. She was dangerous and like fire. Well, the Doctor had always liked playing with fire and could never leave her hands off danger. Despite being more reserved this time round, as a precaution most of all, her behaviour could border on reckless at times, as her recent skirmishes with one Mels Zucker proved. "They even have desserts," Mels lured, something that certainly would have worked on less careful regenerations of the Doctor. She, however, remained unmoved, in part to tease Mels. The Doctor's lips curled into a grin when Mels let out a groan. "They even have Sontaran cheesecake with cheese out of 98% organic Sontaran milk!" As though that was something that would convince her to change her mind. The Doctor blanched at the mere thought of Sontaran cheesecake and its ingredients. "What's the other two percent?" "Or Pting popsicles," Mels continued. "Silurian egg soufflé? Mondas sherbet, or perhaps some Ood chocolate. One of them is something I just made up." "I don't know, love. Putting aside the fact none of that sounds edible, you're forgetting the crucial factor that we aren't divorced. Or married, for that matter." A challenging grin appeared on Mels's face, and she looked the Doctor up and down. Immediately, she arched her back and fixed her blue overcoat. Even if the Doctor thought Mels a wonderfully complicated woman who shared a similarly horrible upbringing, they were both much too damaged from that to be suited for any sort of relationship. "We are in the future, you know," Mels said, and the Doctor nearly choked on her laugh. "We're WHAT???" "Married. You and I. In our future." The Doctor raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mels over the rims of her glasses. "And how would you know that?" "I looked it up." The Doctor was about to start giving Mels a lecture about the damage she could have caused to the timelines with her careless behaviour when Mels slid out the chair and, hips swaggering, approached the Doctor. Distracted, the Doctor missed her opportunity to take a step back, and Mels held her hands and placed kisses to her knuckles before the Doctor could prevent it. She felt her resolve melting, the anger dissipating in a beat of her hearts. "Come on, honey. Let's have some fun crashing a party. And we can get dessert as well." With an eyeroll, the Doctor pressed a sloppy kiss to the corner of Mels' mouth. She pushed past her and keyed something into the TARDIS console. "Hey, what are you doing??" Mels complained, perhaps taking the Doctor's behaviour as rejection of the idea rather than an admittance of defeat. "Ah, hun… I'm finding us the nearest divorce lawyer."

I hope, hope hope I did them justice! It was my first time writing Mels, and only my second time writing Fugitive, I think! I couldn't for the life of me think of any circumstances under which Jenny and Vastra would have a divorce of convenience, so I thought I'd pick characters you adored, and these two do seem more the type! (I was first thinking about doing TwelveRiver or ThirteenRiver or FugitiveRiver, but I thought, why not make it Mels, despite me having very little experience writing her, and it's been a while since I've seen the episode(s?) she's in! Thank you so much for these prompts, they were great fun to write!!

[asha-mage]

MDZS AU where Jiang Cheng realizes that Lan Sizhui is the Wen orphan that Wei Wuxian took care off during the Burial Mounds arc, decides that's close enough to qualify him as Nephew, declares that no Nephew of His (much less a surrogate son of Wei Wuxian's) is going to be raised in the Cloud Recedes, and immediately launches into a custody battle with Lan Wangji.

But since neither Jiang Cheng or Lan Wangji can acknowledge that Sizuhi has any connection to Wei Wuxian, both begin steadfastly and stubbornly insisting that he is a Cultivator of peerless potential and skill and he belongs in their sect thank you very much, and would clearly be very unhappy in the other's. This confuses the hell out of the already mystified Cultivation world, who had barely adjusted yet to gossiping about Sizhui being Wangji's illegitimate child by mysterious love affair.

(Eventually the common consensus in the rumor mills is that both JC and LW where in love with Sizhui's mother and both believe themselves to be Sizhui's real father.)

(LW couldn't care less what gossips say, but JC has to bite his tongue till it bleeds to avoid telling anyone the truth in a fit of anger.)

(It was Nie Huaisang who put that rumor out in the first place, partly to troll JC, partly because, in a way, it's a little true.)

[sleepyssnail]

As a reverse of the reverse transmigration MQF AU… an AU where med student SY transmigrates as a Qian Cao disciple.

He was willing to suspend his disbelief a little as a reader, but actually living in PIDW. WTF?!

Yue Qingyuan: Mu-Shidi, your new disciple seems a bit...strange...when it comes to the medical treatment of his peers. Mu Qingfang: Oh, he's just like that. Yue Qingyuan: He also said that Shen-Shidi suffers from a...seizure disorder? I thought he had qi deviations? Mu Qingfang: Yes, it's something Qian Cao is looking into.

[meanwhile]

Shen Yuan: Why the hell would you need to know how to treat FROSTBITE in your RECTUM??? Shang Qinghua: It's just a hypothetical— Shen Yuan: NEVERMIND! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!

[jesuistrestriste]

power bottom sub art 😵‍💫😵‍💫 getting him so desperate he becomes almost assertive- in his own Art way- and starts giving demands/requests (oh my god, you have to go faster, please give me more) brrrrrr

oooh he’s such a big baby when he gets desperate:/

when the strap is five+ inches deep inside him, bumping the right places while you fist his leaky cock, he’s grabbing hopelessly at your wrists and your upper arms and your thighs on either side of him like he’s gonna die if you stop

tips his head back like a proper slut when your thumb slides over his tip, and he groans deep in his chest. he writhes. and then he lifts his head to look dazedly up to your eyes..

“oh my fuck— fuck, fuh-uck—! fuck me faster, oh my god, i’m close,” he’s moaning out, bucking his hips in time with your thrusts, “if you go faster, im gonna come—“

and who could deny him when he’s like that?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

ORV is about enduring the horrors in real time.

(for @everyonesfavoritebastard)

[deepwaterwritingprompts]

Text: Our islands float in a dark sea, which extends into infinity below us. We tell stories of whirlpools that swallowed whole cities, now lost but intact in the vast and bottomless deep.

[whetstonefires]

A LA MEME. MDZS, Really nice guy who hates only you, hate at first sight?

It was totally inappropriate for a corpse to be popular.

But there it was: the Ghost General was more well-liked every day. He seemed to spend all his time wandering around rescuing maidens from monsters and lifting wagons off of old men. In a few years he'd be a hero of the people.

Even the cultivation world didn't expect harm from him anymore. Most of Jin Ling's peers addressed the corpse as qianbei; Jin Ling didn't, but he seemed to get on with him well enough.

Jiang Cheng hadn't actually said out loud, when he saw Wen Qionglin parting ways with Sect Leader Jin with an exchange of polite salutes, he killed your father, but he'd looked it. Jin Ling, fluent in Jiang Cheng's expressions, sighed.

"It was an accident," he said. "And he's apologized. And, you know, uncle, he was held prisoner by Jin Sect almost my entire life, you can't say he hasn't paid for it. And..."

And they had killed his whole family. And his older sister.

Jiang Cheng looked away. "Huh."

When Jiang Cheng had made his first, clumsy attempt at mending a little of the gruesome breach between himself and Wei Wuxian, the Ghost General had been there, glaring daggers at him from behind the Yiling Laozu.

It had been more disconcerting than it should have been, and Jiang Cheng had stumbled, interrupted himself, and fallen silent enough times that eventually Wei Wuxian had taken pity on him, reached out, patted him on the arm one time, said, "Good talk, Jiang Cheng," and extricated them both from the situation.

Freed from the burden of conversation, he'd returned Wen Qionglin's glare, and lost. Corpses didn't need to blink.

He didn't want the bastard to like him. Which was just as well since it was out of the question. Jiang Cheng had never for a second in his life liked Wen Qionglin; from the first time he'd laid eyes on him when they were youths he'd interpreted him as a pathetic, burdensome coward, and despised him for it.

Owing the man his life had made it worse--he hadn't even wanted to be saved, and it was Wei Wuxian's stupid horrible charm and habit of interfering where he wasn't wanted that had done it, and like hell had he owed anything, when that person's family had murdered his. (I owe him nothing, he'd told himself once, because Wen Qionglin had been the reason he lost Wei Wuxian.)

Another time, he found himself in both their company and drew apart, letting the Yiling Patriarch and the Ghost General play at being mentors to the youth. Neither of you lived to see twenty-five, he wanted to shout. What do you think you have to teach them?

Even Jin Ling...it made him furious. Furious to glance over and see a corpse's stiff face conveying softness.

Furious to look past the crowd and see Lan Wangji's eyes falling on Wen Qionglin with an unmistakable resentment. And to know that it wasn't the stiff propriety of the Lan Wangji of their youths, objecting to the heresy of that fierce corpse's existence; that it was the look of a petty, jealous man resenting the way Wei Wuxian knocked his shoulder together with the Ghost General's and laughed.

"Where do you get off hating Wen Ning?" he asked the next time he found himself alone with Lan Wangji. It was a stupid thing to ask, but if he let himself think about how they were threshing through the underbrush looking for Wei Wuxian, about the last time they had looked for Wei Wuxian together...

Lan Wangji ignored him.

Jiang Cheng snorted. "Okay. So maybe you don't hate him. But he likes you! He's so deferential it makes me want to puke."

Lan Wangji favored him with the merest hint of a sneer, just enough to show he was listening to Jiang Cheng talk.

"You're disgusting," said Jiang Cheng. "Do you really think he shouldn't have anyone but you in his life? That he's your property?"

Lan Wangji's stride broke. It was a triumph, in a way--Jiang Cheng had never thrown him so badly in all the years they'd known each other.

"Each man judges others by his own heart," said Lan Wangji, thick with contempt, and then he was walking ahead with pointed rapidity, determined to separate from Jiang Cheng, until staying together would have meant chasing after him, and Jiang Cheng turned and went the other way, muttering blackly.

In the end, fittingly, neither of them caught up in time to be of use. Wen Ning, with his homing sense for Wei Wuxian, had shown up out of who the fuck knew where and bailed him out.

Jiang Cheng stumbled upon the haunted spring just in time to see a sodden, bedraggled Wei Wuxian launch himself away from his pet Wen's supportive arm and fling himself against the upright form of Hanguang-jun, which bent around him with a reverent murmur.

Jiang Cheng was already turning away in disgust to head back home, hating that he'd let himself be dragged into this, when he heard Lan Wangji say with careful, solemn deliberation: "Thank you, Wen Qionglin. For taking care of him."

Jiang Cheng glanced back against his will to see the Ghost General saluting deeply, wide-eyed, infinitely humble, his murmur that it was nothing special, Hanguang-jun, nearly drowned out by Wei Wuxian's delighted shouting about how good his Lan Zhan was and how much Wen Ning deserved to be appreciated.

Jiang Cheng walked away.

Wen Qionglin wasn't rude to him. Not in any way you could point at. And he knew full well he'd be making an ass of himself if he tried to pick a verbal fight.

After all, they had killed Wen Qionglin's older sister.

The whole cultivation world had done it, but only Jiang Cheng had done it after Wen Qionglin saved his life. He'd told himself he owed no debt for that, and perhaps he hadn't, but the fact remained: of the two of them, one had been brave and virtuous and earned the loyalty of Wei Wuxian.

And one of them had been pathetic, a coward, a burden.

Jiang Cheng could never look at the man without seeing the look in his dead eyes across the length of Suibian.

Jiang Cheng had never been good at lying to himself, especially if the lie was meant to be comforting. He always tried it anyway. Comforting lies used to sound so true, in Wei Wuxian's mouth; he should never have gotten into the habit of relying on that. To letting that person think Jiang Cheng was someone who needed to be swaddled in falsehoods to give him the strength to bear up under his own duties.

Wen Qionglin was a kind, gentle, courageous dead body, shy and courteous and increasingly appreciated for his virtues, in this strange new world created in the wake of Jin Guanyao's disgrace. And whenever his eyes fell on Jiang Cheng they were cold, hard, flat, contemptuous.

Every time he looked at him Jiang Cheng could nearly hear him thinking, like a cold wind against the back of his neck: I should have left you in that heap of corpses with the rest of your family.

What are you worth, Jiang Wanyin, that so many should be spent in saving you? That Wei Wuxian would drag us all into the shadow of death to make you whole, only for you to turn your face aside when it was me lying there, and let him die for us without lifting a finger?

Selfish, whining coward. If only I had left you there to die.

If only, Jiang Cheng imagined spitting back, anger hot and bracing in his throat. If only! I never asked for any of it! How dare you expect me to repay you!

But Wen Qionglin never spoke any of the words out loud. He only looked, cold dead flat black eyes. A frozen river. Sometimes Jiang Cheng thought that if he lashed out hard enough he would break a hole in the ice, and be devoured whole.

[daedalusdavinci]

24. superbat. this motherfucker JUST got to bed if any of u assholes wake him UP

24. Protecting your lover’s sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you. thinking about.... jlas superbat. i may not have followed this prompt to the letter but its very long so you get what you get at this point

It was just one of those days- one of those nights- one of those weeks- where one problem shifted right into the next without break, and they all found themselves running more ragged than usual. In the tower, heroes everywhere seemed sluggish and exhausted, running low on sleep and worn out from the last battle. Diana had tipped onto a couch and hadn't gotten back up again, and Wally had nearly passed out in the cafeteria, starting awake and drifting off again in the middle of a burger. After being pried away from the monitors, J'onn had gone straight to his room to sleep, and there were countless others who had followed his example.

Bruce was too stubborn. Clark was reasonably sure he'd been awake longer than anyone, but Clark could still see him typing away, doing god even knew what.

"I'll sleep when I finish," he said, before Clark had even said anything.

"I wasn't going to tell you to sleep," Clark said, taking that as his cue to approach.

"Yes, you were."

"I know better." Clark set a hand on the back of Bruce's chair, glancing briefly over the monitors. Logs, security feed, news reports- all of it a huge mess of information to sort through. Someone had to do it, but that someone didn't need to be Bruce.

Bruce looked tired. His shoulders sagged and his fingers hesitated, slow on the keys. He'd been drooping all day, attacking everything with the energy of a man on his very last leg. He'd sustained too many injuries during the fight. He'd been slow, and sloppy. He needed to sleep, but he'd never let Clark talk him into it if Clark let on that that was what he was doing.

"Can you do all this from anywhere?" Clark asked.

Bruce blinked slowly. "Not from anywhere."

"But from another computer."

"Yes. I have others."

"A laptop?"

"Yes." Bruce was eyeing him with suspicion, now, leaning back in his chair.

"Then you're doing it from there," Clark decided. "You can burn your retinas to your heart's content- I won't stop you. But I need company."

For a long moment, Bruce looked at him. Clark could practically hear the gears turning as he thought it over, taking longer to consider it than he usually would in his exhaustion. Then, finally, his gaze softened. He sighed, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. "Just don't watch one of your stupid cooking shows while I work."

"They're not stupid," Clark protested.

"Whatever." Bruce waved a hand, pushing himself up out of the chair. He hit a few more buttons, and the monitors condensed into the smallest screen, allowing Bruce to pull it off of its docking station. "Lead the way."

The tower had grown quiet and still with sleeping heroes. With his hearing, Clark could hear Booster and Ted's laughter from the cafeteria, but everywhere else had turned muffled and heavy with the air of sleep. People murmured back and forth to avoid waking up sleeping heroes in the commons, and most of the sleeping quarters were occupied. Somewhere, Wally got ready to portal home, while somewhere else, Oliver snored loudly. No one passed them on their way to Clark's room.

It was easy to get stuck on the fringes of his senses, listening to everything instead of whatever was closest. The need to keep an ear out for danger hadn't quite abided yet, and it left Clark feeling unmoored and anxious. Normally, it was a nuisance, but maybe this time it'd keep him awake long enough that Bruce would sleep first.

It was almost too easy to pile on his couch with Bruce. Normally, any attempt at getting Bruce to accept even a mediocrum of comfort resulted in a fight, but he sat without prompting, eyes never leaving his tablet. He didn't complain when Clark flopped down with a heap of blankets, even when Clark twisted to lean against the arm, swinging his legs across Bruce's lap. Somehow, they settled in like that; Bruce, on his tablet, and Clark, half-watching some nature show that was interesting enough, but not so interesting that it offended Bruce's sensibilities.

As the narrator droned on, Clark struggled to narrow in his focus. The lights from the TV flickered colors across the dark room, and it felt so quiet, surrounded by the suffocating vacuum of space. If he strained hard enough, he knew he could hear Earth, but he tried not to. He could feel each individual fiber of each blanket, and each snore in the building. The tap of Bruce's finger against the screen of his tablet felt obscenely loud. The constant shifting of his attention and the overwhelming amount of stimulus was exhausting, and he could feel himself sagging under it, so worn out that it was hard to hear the words coming from the TV. He rubbed his face, running through grounding exercises in his head to no avail. He wasn't sleeping, at least.

Bruce's hand came to rest on his knee. The pressure of it was enough to shock Clark out of his thoughts, but light, and gentle. Bruce hadn't looked up from his tablet, but his thumb tracked back and forth absently.

Slowly, Clark relaxed back into the couch again. His eyes fixed on the TV, but without really registering the pictures. He couldn't feel every fiber in the blankets, or hear every snore, but he was suddenly hyper-aware of that weight on his knee- a single point of focus that he locked on helplessly. It wasn't constant- every now and again, Bruce lifted his hand to tap the screen- but it always returned. Somehow, that caught Clark's attention more, leaving him waiting, expectant, caught on every detail of Bruce. The bracing warmth of Bruce's legs under his own, the vaguely ticklish stroke of his thumb, his breathing, steady and slow. Out of habit more than anything, he found Bruce's heartbeat, listening to the low thump of it until it felt like his own had slowed in turn. The familiarity of it was soothing, safe, protected, the reliability of the Batman unexpectedly grounding after so long.

His head slipped off his hand, and he started, eyes opening. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.

"Seems like I'm not the only one trying to stay up," Bruce commented.

"I'm not," Clark said. Although, maybe he was. He frowned through the haze of exhaustion, trying to focus on the TV.

"The life and death of a sea star are just that riveting," Bruce said, teasing under the deadpan.

"Shut up," Clark muttered, and shifted again, re-propping up his elbow on the arm of the couch.

It was difficult to understand how Bruce stayed awake. Without the cowl, the bags under his eyes were dark and deep, his expression something beyond exhausted. And yet, even now, wrapped up in blankets and secluded in the quiet comfort of Clark's room, listening to the soothing drone of a documentary, he tapped at that stupid tablet. Clark was beginning to doubt his ability to outlast him. The restless discomfort that had kept him awake earlier- his ace in the hole against Bruce's stubbornness- was fading into a sleepy warmth all too quickly.

And then, Bruce started to hum.

Clark could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he'd heard Bruce sing. Diana had once told him that Bruce had a voice so beautiful it could make a villain weep, but Clark had only ever heard it rarely, and never meant for him. It was a quiet lullaby, murmured to a baby that wouldn't stop crying as Clark searched for the mother, or a hum, pressed against Robin's hair in the aftermath of fear toxin. It had always felt like something he wasn't meant to hear. Now, through the ridiculous fog of exhaustion, Clark thought of sirens, calling soothingly to sailors from a distance.

Bruce's humming was soft and low, just under his breath. The tune was impossible to place, but haunting, and mournful. The sound of it seemed to vibrate through Clark, blanketing his senses until all he could focus on was just Bruce. Bruce was warm. He was safe, and close, and so confusingly present, as reliable as the tide. Time seemed to turn fluid, listening to that soft song, and Clark's eyes closed without his permission, just listening.

When Clark next opened his eyes, it was dark. The TV was off, Bruce's tablet forgotten somewhere in the tangle of blankets. His neck should've ached from the arm of the couch, but his head was on the cushions, propped up by a pillow. How Bruce had pulled that off without waking him, he had no idea.

Bruce was a warm weight against his chest, breathing slow. Judging by the awkward positioning, Clark doubted he'd meant to fall asleep, knees still jammed under Clark's own and cape still on. One of his hands was tucked against Clark's side, his face hidden between his own shoulder and Clark's sternum. It was... sweet, really. To have Bruce feel comfortable enough to sleep was a unique privilege, and one rarely afforded.

Clark hadn't outlasted him, in the end. But Bruce was sleeping, and as Clark let his eyes drift shut again, he allowed himself to consider it a win.

[vasito-de-leche]

so remember when we were all wondering what's with the r1999 character profile page?

the "an arcanist's work displayed in the 19xx"

and with their length x width dimensions

and how our chosen character in our home page retreats to being a painting in the background

anyways...in one of the new game infos in the loading pages (which has a very short window of reading time so it was hard to catch), it was said that:

there was a strange phenomenon of people turning into paintings that they can't find the cause of

based on what we have so far i am not liking what bluepoch could be implying in that loading page 🥹

For those who don't know or haven't seen it yet, they're talking about the following loading screen (ty to Tale's lore server for providing these!)

I just assume that these details are part of the whole artistic theme within the game, like how each Chapter is named after a real book, all the references to artistic movements and so on and so forth. As well as Vertin's role as the Timekeeper─she's meant to record and keep evidence from different eras, which sounds to me like a job for an art collector, conservator or restorator! So it makes sense to me that the people she saves are seen as art pieces.

Besides, the suitcase/Wilderness is a very vague, mysterious place. It's a literal pocket dimension that just seems to do its own thing and follow its own rules. I'm willing to casually accept that, sometimes, people turn into paintings for no apparent reason because it's a LITERAL pocket dimension that pulls people from time and space.

If I think reaaally hard ... Maybe you're implying that the people within the suitcase are doomed to become paintings eventually, because they're in the wrong era?

But that makes no sense, because there's hundreds of other survivors within the Foundation, Manus Vindictae and Apeiron so far who survive just fine─and Chapter 05 revealed why some places are immune to the "Storm."

Any potential arguments to support this theory don't hold up from my perspective, either. For example, the idea that the arcanists Vertin pulls from the spinning wheel in the middle of the lake are different from people who survive the "Storm" through different means (siding with either the Foundation or Manus, or by being in Apeiron, these are the only examples we have so far), and therefore they don't count, so they could be affected in different ways. This doesn't hold up, because Vertin pulled Sonetto, someone from the same era as her, into the suitcase through the spinning wheel. Whereas Regulus, who comes from an entirely different era, was just pushed inside. And yet, both of these characters turn into paintings anyway when you select them on the main screen.

So I don't think I understand the "implication" you're talking about and why you wouldn't like it? But please, feel free to elaborate on a different ask/reblog/reply, etc etc! I'd love to know!

[deadgirlwalking91]

Girlthoughts Lute prompt: After having been together for a little while, Lute has noticed Adam has been ducking her on certain days. Curious as to why, she follows him, finding out he's been secretly going to the gym really late. While his forms bad, he's able to pull much higher weight than her, and she gets an eye full of his body midworkout which she's never seen before, muscles and veins bulging in all the right spots.

Hey Anon,

Sorry it’s taken so long, but here you go ❤️ full fic can be found at the link below.

Stakeout

'She craned her neck to see the barbell, and almost let out a gasp at the amount of weight that he’d loaded it with. It was far beyond anything that she could ever dream of lifting; in fact, it had to be at least three times heavier than her record—which she considered to be pretty impressive.

Adam moved away from the bench and stood behind the weights, wiping his hands on his pants before bending at the knees and gripping the bar. Lute’s eyes flickered to his meaty forearms straight away, his muscles rippling and veins bulging beneath his olive skin. No amount of willpower could have stopped the shaky sigh that left her lips; for she’d only ever seen his arms tense like that in one very, very specific scenario before.

One that involved him gripping his headboard as she lay beneath him, feeling the weight of his body on top of hers.

“Oh, holy shit, Adam,” she murmured to herself, momentarily forgetting that she was supposed to be hidden. Suddenly, she felt warm. So warm and very flustered.'

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hello I really like your works and idk if you have done something like this before but could you do some Hero comforting Villian after they lost their memory?

Tears welled out the hero’s face as they put their arms up. A sad attempt at keeping themselves alive.

“Please,” they whispered. “If you must. Then make it quick.”

Ever since the villain had started attacking them, there had been a flame in their eyes. It was so violent, so unsettling, it made the hero shiver in fear, and right now, this blaze developed into a blazing fire.

“Shut up,” the villain hissed. They could do it. They could end the hero’s life quickly right here, right now — straddling their hips, weapon in hand. A human that had turned into a monster.

“I love you,” the hero said.

A crush that had turned into a nightmare.

“Stop—” the villain punched them “saying—” and again “—that.” and for the final time.

The hero knew what pain was, knew it better than anyone else in the city. The hero knew what loss was. And yet, what exactly was this?

They felt the fear and humiliation drowning them in a thick liquid of blood and innards as desperation and grief mixed together a poisonous pill for them to swallow. They let out a wet cough.

Face pulsing, body covered in blood — they were ready to give up. What did it matter? What did it matter if the only person worth living a life with had turned against them? Had lost all their memories and wanted to kill them now?

“I love you,” the hero repeated, wheezing. Because that was all there was left. Despite being nearly dead, they loved the villain.

The fight had been anything but short and the villain had always been the stronger one out of the both of them. Long story short. The hero was bleeding out quickly.

“I don’t even know who you are,” the villain spat. “But I know I have to kill you.”

They’d met when the hero had saved them unintentionally during a mission. The villain had been imprisoned and the hero had just decided to break that door open. Lots of bickering. But also the first time the hero had developed a crush on someone.

“You’re hesitant.”

“I am not.” The villain grabbed a knife, pushing it into the hero’s skin, provoking to cut their aorta.

“Your hand is shaking. Your hands always shake when you panic,” the hero said. They closed their eyes and imagined what it would feel like if the love of their life would cut their throat.

“What?”

“You like canned soup,” the hero said. Another tear streamed down their face. Exhaustion. “You wake up at 4:30 each morning. You hate running. You hate the news. You hate television and you hate hotdogs.”

The villain stared at them, restraining themselves. Deft hands were holding their weapons. But their eyes showed a penchant that was familiar to the hero.

“You love snakes. You like fog. You love tea and you love poems,” the hero whispered. “And I love you. Truly. Dearly. Completely.”

They laughed tiredly. “I’ve never told you before but…it’s true.”

“You’re a target I need to kill,” the villain said. “You’re nothing more to me.”

And the hero laughed again. They reached out a hand and their fingertips brushed the villain’s cheek, smeared a bit of blood over it.

“Oh, my silly villain,” they said. “Who did this to you?”

Their thumb brushed over the villain’s skin lovingly, slowly.

“Let me help you. Please.” The villain took their time, staring at the hero with an expression that indicated yearning. Contrary to the hero’s expectations, they didn’t push away their hand. They let it stay.

They closed their eyes, pained.

“Like I said, I don’t know who you are,” they said. Eventually they stood up, eyes going over the hero’s wounds.

They threw a burner phone to their feet, looking at the hero.

“Call yourself an ambulance.”

And with that, they vanished.

[hourcat]

pierre/charles and "Hot Single Parent and babysitter/nanny"

18. Hot Single Parent and babysitter/nanny

It's embarrassing, Charles thinks as he waits at the stoplight around the corner from his street, that he's on his way home now and not, you know, two and a half hours later than what he'd told the babysitter. He hadn’t even been out for more than an hour in the first place, including driving to the restaurant—

It’s the last time he lets Carlos set him up on a fucking date, so help him. You should stop using those single dad apps, he’d insisted while they were standing in line to pay for their cafeteria lunches, I know a guy.

And sure, Charles had been a little skeptical, especially because Carlos isn’t exactly known for his judgment around the office, but it’s been ages since he’s been out for real—Hervé is his life from the moment he wakes up to the moment he goes to sleep, and it’s been that way since he was born. There’d been no time for dating, or really anything that wasn’t his son.

But Carlos had been insistent that Charles would like this guy. He is fun, he’d promised, and Charles, because he’s terrible at saying no, had agreed.

Of course, that agreement had hinged upon his life-saving babysitter, Pierre, being available.

I'm going out tomorrow night, he'd texted after pulling into the preschool parking lot, are you around to watch Hervé for the night? Pierre, of course, because he is the most reliable babysitter Charles has ever known, is free—so it’d been set, and Charles had gone out after giving Pierre the usual walkthrough of the house even though they’ve done this plenty of times before. Pierre had smiled at him easily, nodded, promised that Hervé is in good hands (something Charles knows without even having to hear it from Pierre himself) and Charles had said I’ll be home by 11, you can use my card to buy whatever you like.

“Don’t worry, Charles,” Pierre had murmured, resting a comforting hand on his bicep. The warmth of his palm had seeped right through Charles’ dress shirt. “Go out and have fun.” His smile had gotten wider, then, and it’d only struck Charles there, moments before he was about to go out on his first date in over three years, that Pierre is handsome. Really, just—handsome is a tasteful way of putting it, which he’d begged himself to stick to because, again, date.

So Charles left. Drove to the restaurant that Carlos had texted him the address to.

And, half an hour in, he’d left. Max was—Charles is going to kill his coworker for this, making him think that it would be a good time. There’s no spark and Charles knew it the moment they’d sat down, but he’d tried to at least stick it out because, maybe he’s just rusty after all this time.

No. There’s no two ways around it, it is simply a bad date. Charles doesn’t even feel bad for excusing himself to the bathroom and then bolting because talking to drying paint would be more interesting than whatever had been happening between them.

He only remembers that he hadn’t actually told Pierre he was on his way home until now, though—five minutes away from his house, at the world’s longest red light. He grabs his phone to shoot off a quick omw back message only to realize, to his chagrin, that it’d died somewhere between the restaurant and here. Stupid Google Maps.

The light finally turns green, and Charles tries his damnedest not to speed the rest of the way back. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t have a romantic life right now. Hervé is the only thing that matters to him, really—he’s sure spending time making faces at his son and giggling with him over wooden puzzles would be a thousand times more interesting than whatever obnoxious commentary Max was trying to give about…shit, Charles doesn’t even remember. He’ll pay Pierre for the whole night anyway, because it’s only right, but…he just wants to be home. The sight of his driveway is a bigger relief than he could’ve possibly imagined. He all but tumbles out of the driver’s seat, locking his car haphazardly and practically skipping up his front steps to knock, once, on the door.

Wait, he realizes flatly, this is my house. He’s about to open the door himself when it swings backwards and…

There’s Pierre. The look on his face goes from at ease to surprised in a moment, and he shifts on his feet to balance Hervé on his hip, keeping him snugly held against him. “Charles,” he says, eyebrows high on his forehead. “I thought you were—on a date?” He steps aside and Charles enters his own house, entirely enchanted by the sight before him.

“Papa!” Hervé exclaims, reaching one arm out to grab for him. He doesn’t loosen his hold on Pierre, though. “Me ‘n Pear pizza!!” His face is so bright with joy, laughter twinkling in his eyes, and a lump forms in Charles’ throat at the sight of it: his whole world, babbling delightedly as the babysitter…is beaming his full attention right at him, both arms now keeping him carefully tucked close.

“Yeah, big man,” Pierre murmurs, and then turns to Charles, “I ordered pizza and thought you were, um, the guy.” He laughs softly, then shrugs. “It should be here any minute, now, so you two can—if you haven’t already eaten, I—”

“No,” Charles interrupts hastily, waving a hand. Pierre’s mouth closes, protest stopped. For a moment, he can only stare: Hervé with his cheek smushed on Pierre’s shoulder, Pierre’s hold so casual yet careful as they stand in the hall. His son is good with people, Charles knows, but this is different. The fondness rolling off of the babysitter in waves is different than anything Charles has ever felt before, even when he quirks his brows at the extended silence. Oh. “No, um, you should—you should stay for dinner, Pierre. It’s.” Why is he nervous? This is his babysitter he’s talking to, not some—some date he’s meeting for the first time. “I came back early, you should at least eat with us.”

Pierre’s eyes, already warm with affection for Hervé, light up even more at the invitation. “Are you sure?”

Charles is. “Yes, yes, of course.” He tilts his head towards the kitchenette. “I’ll pay you for the whole night, but you should at least stay for dinner. I—” he coughs. “I think Hervé would love that.”

“Pear, Pear!” Hervé exclaims in agreement. It only takes a few moments before Pierre is smiling hugely, nodding along. Charles feels like a whole ton has been lifted off his shoulders. He’s not entirely sure why.

[sassydefendorflower]

for the reverse tropes - I would love to see some bat related nursing home au, that just sounds amazing lol

"If you steal my favorite checkers game one more time, Hood, I will personally make sure the staff finds your switchblades."

Dick "Nightwing" Grayson leaned back in the most comfortable armchair in the common room of the Batmania Nursing Home in Gotham City. Across the table sat Jason Todd, often referred to as Red Hood, since - according to his own fairy tales - he used to be a feared gangster, back before the second hip replacement and the accident on the ice skating rink.

"As if. Nobody's afraid of you, twinkletoes. Just because you used to do gymnastics... doesn't mean jackshit now." Jason pointed the cane leaning next to Dick's chair, an elegant thing made from mahogany, it's handle shaped like a bird about to take flight.

"Gentleman, let's try to get along, yes? Anyone up for a game of chess?" Barbara Gordon's white hair was bound back into a stern up-do, the young nurse wheeling her towards the table barely visible in the presence of Batmania's very own Oracle. Rumor had it that there was nothing Barbara didn't know - and so far that had held true.

"I don't think we have time for chess today, Babs."

"Why? Are you scared, Grayson?"

"No, today is Thursday."

"Ah, you're right." Barbara smiled, all three of them having come into the common room for a reason after all. Jason had even put down his book (some brick by David Graeber), another weapon surely hidden somewhere on his body, in anticipation of what was to come.

Because on Thursdays all three of them welcomed their favorite visitor.

Young Timothy Drake, almost twenty by now. He'd started coming around some years ago, as an afterschool project his parents signed him up to, and now he visited once a week just to see his three favorite old-timers.

And it was quite obvious why they enjoyed his presence so much.

He talked to them.

Better yet, he told them stories.

"Okay, so last time I was here, Red Hood had just returned from the dead to lay claim on Gotham and take revenge on Batman, yes?"

"Finally someone appreciates how badass I am."

"You're not, Todd."

Dick grinned, leaning forward as if to hear Tim better, even though his hearing hadn't left him yet. Jason flipped him off, not daring to loudly interrupt again out of fear that Tim would stop his story.

"Well, the Red Hood is certainly trying to appear daunting in this particular story."

"And where am I in this, Tim?"

"Oh, Oracle is busy in her tower. Have I never told you about the Birds of Prey?"

Timothy Drake was smiling, the rapt attention of his audience invigorating. Barbara shook her head, and he took her hand, ready to guide her into the favorite part of this majestic and heroic universe he had created specifically for them:

Batman. Nightwing. Red Hood. Robin. And, of course, Oracle.

A story just for them.

~

I hope you enjoyed that :D It was certainly fun to come up with!!!! And thank you so much!! <3 <3 <3

(send me a Reverse Trope Writing Prompt with a fandom and a set of characters and I'll write something small for you)

[dotssu3]

ok but the other way around

[night-triumphantt]

it’s Kiyazan anniversary!! Well, it is an hour before midnight so technically it’s tomorrow BUT that matters not the entire world must know now, immediately, ab the reason @cashweasel and I have moved to the goofy pool

[blu3haw4]

for the made up fanfic title: "let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away"

The first thing that comes to mind is something angsty, which isn't really my thing so... bear with me for a sec.

I feel like it could be a little three-acts type of fic

Im thinking maybe canon? Canon fix it perhaps?

Clarke's Pov with everything going wrong; First act, delinquents dying, the ark failing, the grounders attacking and Clarke in the middle of it trying to hold everything together (as usual)

Second act, she does make a deal with the grounders, either with Lexa or Anya first and everything is still very stressful, they need to accommodate to trikru culture, they have to prove they're useful to trikru if not to the entire coalition, they need to make plans for the ark's landing and a maintened peace afterwards.

Maybe there's no mount wheater, or maybe there is but Lexa never betrays Clarke. Maybe they don't kill them all and their plan goes through just fine or maybe act three is about Clarke processing all the things she's done, Mount wheater included.

And Act three 'let it wash away' Clarke goes to Polis, Lexa and all skykru become heroes, they finally defeated their century long enemy, the grounders' nightmare. It wouldn't all be rainbows and unicorns of course. Polits suck but are necessary, this time though Clarke and Lexa would face them together. The would finally get together and Lexa would show Clarke all the beautiful things about earth, about their culture and their people. Clarke would get the chance to remember all the fun things she got to do in the ark (they would definitely play chest very often) and enjoy earth truly for the very first time. Lexa would bright her days just as much as Clarke would brighten Lexa's. She would change too, of course. Aside from the polits and changing her mind with Clarke's ideas, she would be lighter, she would let go, be freer, she would want to enjoy life as she keeps on showing Clarke that is possible. She'd sort of rediscover life's beauty while showing it all to Clarke.

And they would be happy, they'd help each other cope with all the bad thing and share all the good ones. They'll love each other for all eternity and they would make each other stronger in every way.