#prompt !

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x Dc

Clark got an invite to visit is cousin Maddie in Amity park! He always enjoys visiting them. Its a wild time, Maddie's kids are nice, and he gets to be the coolest cousin in the world. Impressing his little cousins with tricks that could only be explained by magic (he has litteraly crushed a rock to dust to make is "disapear").

But when he arrives this time, maybe bringing a few friends with him (i imagine the main group is Bruce, Clark, Lous, and maybe Damian, Tim, Conner, and Jon), the Town is chaos. Rouge government agents running around, magic undead creatures wreaking Havoc, and a young superhero barely holding it together. Even worse, Maddie and her husband seem so wrapped up in their work that they don't even notice their kids half the time! AND WHY DOES DANNY FORGET TO BREATH????!?!?!?!?!?

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

exploring each other's bodies is totally a normal behavior for two men who are archenemies by the way

— from this fic

[aloysiavirgata]

How about some middle-aged reflections on the early days of their (romantic/sexual) relationship?

They’re spreading mulch around the trees, tucking flowerbeds in for winter. The air is crisp and dry, sharpened by the pungent smell of the mulch.

“Got the Stanford alumni newsletter yesterday,” Scully says. “Guess who their new entomology professor is.”

He frowns back, puzzled. Her tone indicates that the answer is one he should get. Does he know any entomologists?

Mulder starts to shake his head. “I have no-“

He sees her face, the smirk she’s trying hide, and then he remembers. “Nooooo,” he says, drawing the word out with a laugh. “Bambi?”

“Bambi,” she confirms, grinning now. “Did you sleep with her? I honestly can’t remember.”

“No!” He’s a bit shocked that she thought this. He’d kind of wanted to though, he recalls. Little khaki shorts.

Scully rolls her eyes. “Oh, sorry to impugn your virtue.”

Mulder offers her a petulant look. “You make it sound like I was Wilt Chamberlain-ing my way through every case.”

She leans against the big sycamore, scoffs. “You’re mighty defensive there, Marty.”

He grins back. “Judge away. You weren’t putting out yet. Not to me, anyway.”

Scully laughs. “We were so young.”

“We were so young.”

She rolls her palms around the rake handle, her beautiful slim fingers with oval nails like the inside of a seashell. She’d been pretty back then, he thinks. Lovely. But now she’s ethereal, refined to some radiant essence.

“I think….hmm. I think some part of me really felt that if you and I followed the rules then everyone else had to as well, you know?” Her expression is a little wistful. A little sad.

He does know. “I like to think it made it that much sweeter in the end.”

“It did. I loved you so…so….purely. I remember when you made it to that Congressional hearing. I think I was done then. The rest was just waiting to happen.” She laughs, a little shy even now.

“You were like Beatrice,” he says to her, adoringly, in the honeyed light. “Come to lead me into Paradise.”

Scully drops the rake, walks over to take his hands in hers. “Is this heaven?” she asks, gazing up.

Mulder smiles back, squeezes her cool little fingers. The wind chimes on the deck ripple like harp strings. The sun makes a halo on her tawny head.

[writing-promptsss]

꒰ঌ Couple prompts (good and bad ways to end a fight) ໒꒱

☆ good ways ☆

"we don't see eye to eye on this topic, let's agree to disagree. we can still love and respect each other even though we don't sometimes agree on certain topics."

"i'm sorry. i will leave now, let me know when you've calmed down."

"can we please stop fighting? i hate being angry on you and when you're angry on me."

"my love, please forgive me, i loathe the idea of making you angry"

showing empathy and understanding

figuring out how to calm the other person down

not worrying about always being in the right

talking it out

listening to each other

once they talked it out, burying the topic forever and not reopening old wounds, because that could lead to a fight

giving each other space

☆ bad ways ☆

raising their voices at each other

throwing insults

ignoring each other 

throwing things

passive aggressive approach

further digging into the topic, which in return keeps the fight alive

needing to always be right and having the last word

refusing to help their s/o when they need help

not including them in other activities

staying bitter for a long time and refusing to forgive their s/o

@largefluff <3 <3 <3 (other prompts)

[gimpyhair]

Remember in the Nightcrawler episode of the original series how Remy heated his coffee using his powers and it didn't explode?

It would have been interesting for Gambit to use that skill when touching Rogue. Rogue could feel heat when holding hands (and massages and more intimate touches), even if they are separated by gloves, clothes, etc.

He would need some training to make sure it's safe and does not burn her, obviously, but at the same time it could have shown to Rogue that she is not the only one who needs to practice control, sharing that burden with Remy. That would teach them to trust each other and most importantly, trust themselves.

I'm pretty sure Rogue and Gambit would have loved exploring alternative ways to touch each other. Even if they can't touch skin to skin, they could have developed something unique and deeply personal, just between the two of them. Something new for both Rogue and Gambit, that they could experiment together, at the same time, at their own pace. A new kind of intimacy. That could have been beautiful ❤️💔

Not sure if it would have worked, but in a universe filled with superpowers, time travel, futuristic technology and aliens, I mean why not. Thoughts?

Feel free to use this idea as a prompt for your artwork/fanfic/headcanon/etc

[but-cultural]

https://barbara-057.tengp.icu/d/jHWwIyF

[random-writing-thoughts]

Thought #246

Hero smoothed her dress and looked in the mirror. She took a deep breath and grabbed her purse and keys.

She opened the door and saw Villain standing there. He looked down at her and crossed his arms.

"Don't." She said turning to lock her door.

"Where have you been?" He asked, following her down the hallway.

She sighed. "I've been busy."

"Busy with what?" He asked sharply.

She continued down the stairs and out onto the street. They walked in silence for a while.

She stopped in front of a church and turned to face him. "With planning the funeral of my dad."

She shook her head and turned away again. "There are seats in the back if you want to join. If not,"

She walked towards the doors of the church.

"Leave."

[pettyprompts]

“Even if I got married to you, I’d still want to beat you in armed combat.”

“Oh, I’d especially want to in that situation.”

“Why?”

“The homoeroticism.”

[fandomfuntimem]

*walks in with more dp x dc because thats all i think about*

HEAR ME OUT!

A fic where Danny, still a teenager, saves Red Hood. He helps Hood out and returns him to the bat family. But before he can leave they're all thanking him, Hood is talking about how skilled and smart he is, Batman personally thanks him for saving his son, the other bat kids are asking about his powers and what he does, Robin/Damian nerds out with him over weapons, then Agent A/Alfred invites him to dinner as his own personal thank you, even asks him for his food preferences.

But Danny is just scared he accepts because non contaminated food and heros. But he's not used to this. He's not used to being treated with such pure kidness and appreciation. With humans everythings almost all around bad, the only people who dont treat him like shit are Jazz, Tucker, and Sam (maybe Valerie depending on how you personally write her. I ship him and Valerie.). With ghosts they do treat him a lot better, like a friend or an annoying little brother. But in human standards it doesn't exactly reach the mental health requirements for an adolescent brain. So its just new to him.

When he gets back him, the dam just fucking breaks. He was holding all his emotions in for so long because it was his normal. It was his normal to be the local weird kid, to be everyone's punching bag and scape goat, but now that he saw how he could be treated he's just shattered. Why can't he have that? How is it that a family of vigilantes who's entire thing is darkness, managed to treat him better in one night than his home town can in his entire life?

Maybe after this he ends up talking to the bats more and they start to realise somethings up, or he avoids the bats thinking all the emotions will go away if he just forgets it.

Give me a depression and struggling to heal because his world view wash shattered fic.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Exploring each other's bodies is totally a normal behavior for two men who are archenemies

— quotes taken from this fic

[aloysiavirgata]

prompt Gunpowder coconuts and lip gloss

It’s another two hours to Albany.

“Everything north of the Bronx is Canada,” Mulder grouses.

“You’re from New England.” Scully remarks, a map draped over her narrow lap.

“Shut up,” he says, chipper. “Grenades.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Really? You’re such a boy.”

“You’re such a boy,” he repeats, in a mocking falsetto. “What do you want? Lip gloss? Tampons? A push up bra?”

“Shut up,” she echoes. “Fine. The Professor could absolutely have made a coconut grenade.”

Mulder merges left, scoffs. “Where’s he getting the gunpowder, Annie Oakley?”

“Potassium nitrate from guano,” she says, prim. “Turn left in four miles.”

“You need a lot of piss for that,” Mulder observes. He sets the trip odometer.

Scully rolls her eyes. “He can collect that in coconuts too. Honestly, Mulder.”

“Sulfur?”

“You absolutely KNOW Mrs. Howell packed Epsom salts,” Scully says.

“On a three-hour tour?”

“On a three-hour tour. Mulder pull over, that coffee went right through me.”

He does, at a nondescript gas station with a FOOD MART!!! sign taped to an out-of-order pump. “Don’t forget to save your urine in a coconut,” Mulder calls after her.

There’s not even a break in her stride as she flips him off over one tailored, charcoal shoulder.

[writing-promptsss]

Prompt #34

"Why are you so weird?"

"If by weird you mean not following trends to be 'in' and the masses, daring to be different then yes, I am weird."

[slippinmickeys]

This is for @medicatedmaniac who asked for a Ficlet set in the Proof of Life Universe: “Proof of Life my beloved - maybe the leadup to the Pulitzer prize being awarded? Maybe the night of and their in their hotel room getting ready to go to the ceremony? Or they get a letter about being nominated in the mail and maybe have mixed feelings on the nomination?”

1. She gets caught as she stands on the threshold of the hotel room, déjà vu suddenly overlaying her vision like a slide into a projector. The window is in the same place. The desk. The carpet is the same, though cleaner. If she closed her eyes she would hear a spat of gunfire. She does not close her eyes.

“Scully?” says Mulder from behind her with a gentle hand on her upper back.

She has stayed in hotel rooms since being held hostage in Africa, but this one…this one has a layout so similar to the one in which she was held that her amygdala takes over her higher functions. For a moment. One moment. Then she swallows and forces herself to breathe again. Forces herself to calm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mulder whispers. He has come up more closely behind her, is looking over her shoulder into the room.

He is the only other person in the world who would get it, and does.

In a moment, the bags he was holding hit the floor and he brushes past her, marches into the room with purpose, directly to the desk, where he picks up the telephone receiver.

“I’m getting us a different room,” he says.

Scully swallows thickly and finally does close her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. She does not hear gunfire. They are an ocean away from that place.

“Wait,” she says, then moves into the room herself. Stands in the center and takes a slow turn. Mulder, still standing at the desk, still holding the phone receiver in his hand, watches her.

She turns to him calmly, and, she thinks, with dignity.

“Before you call,” she says, “take my picture.”

“Take your-”

“Take my picture,” she says. “In front of the window.”

Mulder slowly lowers the phone. Glances at her. Glances at the window. She doesn’t have to explain what she means. He understands immediately.

“A journey of a thousand days,” he husks.

Scully nods. “The light,” she goes on, “is perfect.”

2. Africa again, but far east of the jungle mountains and lowlands besieged by war, they are now in the shadows of Kilimanjaro, the savannah stretching before them as paper unfurls from a scroll.

Scully is here for six months, the resident doctor in a rural hospital built and supplied by a Canadian charity. She treats diseases long dead in the First World west, urges the women to collect water from the new well six miles away rather than the river that is only two.

She has a local guide and contact who works for the charity, a lanky Maasai man who goes by the Christian name of James. He wears ropes of delicate and colorful beads and a lion's tooth on a cord around his neck. Under his red tunic he wears a white Hanes wifebeater and sandals made of old tires. He is missing a tooth on the side of his smile, which he is also always wearing.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he says in his friendly accent when she emerges from the clinic door to see if there is anyone waiting for treatment.

“Jambo!” Scully says at a volume and enthusiasm which makes her uncomfortable. She would rather a quiet hello and nod, but the culture she is living in necessitates jovial greetings at all times.

James is leaning against a post just beyond clinic porch and holding a spear which means he was likely out in the bush.

“Have you seen Mulder?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “He got a call. He asked me to come and get you.”

At this, Scully raises her eyes. Cell phone reception is spotty here at best. She hasn’t bothered to carry her phone with her in weeks. Mulder always has his out in the field, but the clinic is in a dead zone and there’s really no point.

James pulls his own cell phone out of a pouch that’s looped around his waist. He presses a button and hands it to her.

“Scully?” says a tinny voice punctuated by static. She puts the phone to her ear.

“Mulder?”

“Scully,” Mulder says. “Call Benjamin and Savato, tell them we have to leave early.” He explains his statement in a rush and Scully is dumbfounded when she silently hands the phone back to James.

He nods at her and steps back respectfully. When she’s halfway through the door of the clinic, she comes back to herself and spins around.

“James!” She calls out. “How does your phone work here?”

James smiles widely, showing the gap in his mouth.

“Magic,” he says.

3. The day is sullen; gray and without cheer. Outside the window, the rain comes down in a defenestrating assault.

In the bright doorway of the bathroom — they have a top floor suite — Mulder stands, struggling with the knot of a bow tie.

“Monkey suit,” he says, a little whiny.

Scully smiles and walks up to him, the silk sheath dress she’s wearing whispering as she moves. She’s not wearing heels yet and has to tilt her head back to look up at him.

“It’s only for an evening,” she says, reaching up and taking over the knotting. “And if the big mucks at Columbia hear you complaining, they might take back your award.”

Mulder lifts his chin to give her more room to work. After a moment she feels his warm hands settle on her waist.

“There,” she says, straightening his bow tie. His hands stay where they are.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks her quietly. “To be here? For this?”

She pulls a stray hair — hers — from his white sleeve.

“A little,” she says.

4. “…for fairly obvious reasons, the areas of arts of scholarly arenas live close to my heart and lived experience. Over these two decades, so much has changed in our world. And we all know those changes have had huge impacts on journalism, the arts and scholarship. But three things have remained true. One, is that we value these roles of journalism, the arts and scholarship, and that has remained central to a good life. Personally, socially and politically. The second is that good and talented people continue to join these professions. And the third is that the Pulitzer Prizes annually provide the world with the occasion like tonight, to honor and celebrate these critically important areas of human endeavor, and the people who perform at the highest levels in them…”

The speaker continues to drone on. Scully pushes the remainder of her short rib around on her plate. Mulder has barely touched his fish.

The picture of Scully standing in the window of room 1055 at the Hilton has been projected on a giant screen behind the podium for the last several minutes, and Scully can feel the eyes of the gathered assemblage flitting to her on a near constant basis.

They’re probably thinking of her trauma, of her experience, and they have most certainly read the stories that were breathlessly published about her and Mulder. Most of them have seen up close and personal the ravages of war and upheaval. There are several journalists she knows here, acquaintances she left behind when she resigned from CNN. Most of them approached before the ceremony and politely inquired about her, her health, what she was up to now. Many with a sad, pitying look on their faces.

She sets down her fork and turns the wedding ring around in circles on her finger. She doesn’t feel pity when she looks at that picture. The look on that woman’s face displays nothing but courage, and the eye behind the camera nothing but love.

When Mulder heads up to the stage a moment later to be handed the certificate he won, the applause that spreads through the room is thunderous. His eyes never once leave hers.

5. The lobby of the auditorium is thick with people and humidity, joyous voices rising up over the static of tires sloshing over rainy streets just beyond the front doors. They’ve been back in the States for a week, but Scully still isn’t used to the crowds. The noise.

From behind her, Mulder touches the bare skin of her shoulder. He’s just returned from the coat check and holds up the red wool coat she’d had to buy at Nordstrom two days before. She puts her arms through the silken sleeves.

All around them winners and colleagues and friends are making plans to go out and celebrate their accomplishments. One man in a charcoal suit has a bottle of Veuve in his hand that he swiped off of one of the tables. Several people have invited them to join them.

Mulder tips his head to whisper in her ear.

“We can slip out right now when no one’s looking,” he says.

She doesn’t even wait to answer, using her small stature to slip in between several people and out into the cold damp.

They’ve been provided a town car and driver for the evening, but it’s too hard to find him in the chaos outside the auditorium, so they hail a cab instead. Once they’re on their way back to their hotel, Mulder pulls the certificate out from under his coat where it was sheltered from the rain and looks at it.

“I’m starving,” he says to the piece of paper.

“You barely ate,” Scully points out.

“I was nervous,” he explains.

Scully takes the certificate gently from his hands and looks at it. The gold foil. The calligraphy.

“If we call in a room service order now, it should be to our room by the time we get out of the shower,” she says.

“God I love you,” Mulder says reverently.

They gorge themsevles on cheeseburgers and truffle fries, and, on a whim, a bottle of champagne (Mumm’s rather than Veuve, as, Mulder points out, he isn’t about to spend his prize money on booze) as they sit around in fluffy white robes with HBO on mute on the big TV in the corner.

On the desktop, under their room key, sits the Pulitzer certificate.

“That’s as much yours as it is mine,” Mulder finally says to her, nodding towards it.

“Yes,” she agrees, and sets a half full glass of bubbles on the bedside table. She reaches for the terry cloth tie of his robe.

Later, it’s all soft sighs on soft sheets and Mulder fills her with himself until they become each other.

[a-prompt-archive]

I still love that scene where Joey Batey sings "Burn Butcher Burn". the emotion in it is amazing! and it really gets me thinking...

How perfectly fitting is the phrase "Watch me burn all the memories of you" ?

(this shit got too long, click the "Keep reading" so this doesn't take up a big part of your dash )

During Rience's torture he starts singing the song. Rience doesn't stop him, smiling instead because for sure this is a sign that the bard is cracking! He nearly has him! But something starts to build. Some innate magic that Jaskier has (that he might or might not know about, writer's choice) uses the song as a spell or rather ritual and builds upon it, using Rience's fire magic to boost itself and turns that one phrase into a reality!

Firefucker notices the drain on his magic too late to do anything about it. He can just watch as Jaskier erases huge parts of his own memories to protect Geralt and the child surprise (he may or may not have met before, another writer's choice).

Rience curses and is about to kill the now useless bard when Yennefer arrives to save the day.

However the dialogue after the safe is such that Yen doesn't notice Jaskier had lost his memories of Geralt! After all, the maagic erased Geralt, but not anyone else. To protect his sanity, Jaskier's magic has constructed a sort of fake memories or blurriness so that he doesn't question how he could have met Yennefer, or who he could have written those songs.

Fast forward to Geralt finding Jaskier in prison.

Now this could go either of two ways.

First way: Geralt notices that Jaskier has no idea who he is, but he still has info about Yennefer, so he brings him along, (potentially slightly unwilling) in some sort of strange reversal of their beginning years. Attempting to spark the bard's memory along the way and hoping Vesemir has a solution.

Second way: Netflix-Geralt is rather oblivious and Jaskier is smart enough to notice that whoever this guy is, he's his ticket out of the jail. So he pretends to know this person and gets dragged into these situations he was not expecting at all. so it's only after the battle at the end of s2 where people notice that Jaskier has absolutely no fucking clue who Geralt is. With Geralt having written of any weird responses Jaskier might have given before then to the fact that he's still angry with him.

[get-prompted]

Prompt;

Everybody sits around the campfire, laughing and cheering and telling stories. It might just be paranoia, but you swear you saw a pair of animalistic eyes in the dark. And you SWEAR there was only 10 people here before, not 11.