ᝰ🚬 𝚉𝙰𝙲𝙷𝚁𝙿 .ᐟ RANDOM HIGH-STAKES, DISASTER-BASED ACTION PROMPTS CHANGE ANY PRONOUNS IF NECESSARY. SOME MATURE THEMES MAY BE PRESENT. SEND "REVERSE" TO SWITCH THE ROLES OF SENDER AND RECEIVER.
- SENDER forces RECEIVER to keep moving despite exhaustion.
- SENDER lifts RECEIVER over an obstacle they can't clear alone.
- OUR MUSES get separated briefly and panic sets in.
- OUR MUSES light a fire for warmth using scavenged materials.
- OUR MUSES wade through floodwater, gripping each other for balance.
- OUR MUSES emerge into daylight to see how much the world has changed.
- SENDER blocks RECEIVER from seeing something horrifying.
- OUR MUSES take turns standing watch through the night.
- OUR MUSES navigate by landmarks that no longer exist.
- SENDER covers RECEIVER'S mouth to keep them quiet.
- SENDER confesses fear to RECEIVER in a rare quiet moment.
- OUR MUSES shelter in a vehicle that may not hold.
- SENDER gives up their share of medicine for RECEIVER.
- SENDER promises RECEIVER they'll get through this together.
- OUR MUSES climb to higher ground as water rises.
- SENDER wakes RECEIVER just in time to avoid danger.
- SENDER helps RECEIVER wash ash or grime from their face.
- OUR MUSES mourn someone they couldn't save.
- SENDER collapses and RECEIVER helps them back up.
- OUR MUSES cling to each other as the ground shakes.
- OUR MUSES listen to emergency broadcasts on a dying radio.
- OUR MUSES sneak through an area crawling with danger.
- OUR MUSES share the last dry blanket between them.
- OUR MUSES shelter together as debris batters the structure around them.
- OUR MUSES argue quietly over whether to leave shelter or stay.
- SENDER gives RECEIVER the last flashlight battery.
- SENDER shares a memory with RECEIVER to distract from fear.
- SENDER gives RECEIVER their coat despite the cold.
- OUR MUSES break into an abandoned building looking for supplies.
- OUR MUSES follow a map they don't fully trust.
- SENDER scouts ahead while RECEIVER waits, terrified and alone.
- OUR MUSES hold onto each other in complete darkness.
- OUR MUSES move through ruins that were once familiar.
- OUR MUSES barricade a door as something pounds on the other side.
- SENDER cleans blood from RECEIVER'S hands, steady and careful.
- SENDER hands RECEIVER a weapon.
- OUR MUSES share whispered plans over a flickering flashlight.
- OUR MUSES hide in silence, listening for signs they've been found.
- OUR MUSES ration food between them, unsure when help will come.
- OUR MUSES wait out the storm in a cramped, unsafe space.
- SENDER teaches RECEIVER how to start a fire without matches.
- SENDER teaches RECEIVER how to use a weapon they've never used before.
- SENDER drags RECEIVER out of a wrecked vehicle.
- SENDER reassures RECEIVER during a panic attack.
- SENDER carries RECEIVER when they can no longer walk.
- OUR MUSES share a silent moment of relief after surviving something close.
- OUR MUSES watch the skyline burn or collapse from a distance.
- SENDER makes a hard call that puts them both at risk.
- SENDER helps RECEIVER breathe through shock.
- SENDER pulls glass from RECEIVER'S skin carefully.
- SENDER pulls RECEIVER into cover just as something explodes nearby.
- SENDER refuses to leave RECEIVER behind.
- OUR MUSES wait for rescue that may never come.
- SENDER struggles to pull RECEIVER back from a collapsing ledge.
- OUR MUSES wait out danger inches apart, barely breathing.
- SENDER tends to RECEIVER'S non-life-threatening wound.
continued from kieran's open starter (@carnivalheart)
kieran's grip on the brush tightened. he could feel the warmth of her through his shirt, the way her presence took up more room than her body actually occupied. his neck was doing that thing where the heat crept up from his collar, and he hated that she probably noticed. "inspiration and distraction aren't the same thing," he clarified, tone flat. he set the brush down before he did something stupid with it, like smear cadmium yellow across her cheek just to wipe that look off her face. his hand found the back of his neck instead, rubbing at the tension gathered there. "i'd love for you to help," he said, "but you'd have to sit still. which i'm guessing isn't your strong suit." he turned on his stool to face her fully, knees bumping against hers in the tight space. a mistake, probably, but he was tired of pretending the canvas held any interest when she was right there. "you're doing this on purpose," he accused, not pointed as a question. "pretty sure harassment of the artist violates some kind of code," he said, but his eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second before he caught himself.
jackpot. there is a smile on devon’s lips when kieran turns to her, mostly visible in the corner of her eyes, in the way she looks at him: a thin-veiled, simmering tenderness. she doesn’t miss a beat. here, under the warm light, hidden away from the world, her mind drifts to a familiar pattern of easiness and self-indulgence. one that allows herself to look: the slant of his eyebrows, the speckle of colors in his eyes, the shadows beneath it. his mouth. she is not as coy to hide it: it’s as much of a dare as it’s a statement. “a code we’re both guilty of breaking?” she presses the tip of her pencil to his chest, spinning it between her fingers, and both her hands snake their way up around his neck. they land softly, cool fingertips tracing the spot where he is tense and warm. “that is, if you’re talking about distractions.” a knee brushes against his legs, soft but pointedly, her pencil tapping a playful rhythm at the back of his neck. maybe it wasn’t the best idea to work together in the same confined space, but devon’s fond of this. this quiet intimacy.
she’s also very, very fond of tormenting him. “but you should file a report. this is serious business.” not exactly a whisper, it’s more of a hum, said close enough to be felt. she could kiss him right there, it’d be as easy as leaning in—instead, the corner of her lips tilt up, she brushes her nose against his and pulls herself back, a single hand falling down so they land on the middle of his chest. “or you’re correct and maybe—” she collects her little writing pad as she uses his weight as a support to hop back to the ground, making a show of looking at both the sofa and the door to pretend she’s leaving, “i should just go…?”
love my terrible wife who wants to kill me so so bad
i come home from work every day and narrowly dodge one of her many death traps . when we eat dinner ill smile and say “poison again ?” and she will shrug mischievously but we both know it is very much poison
there it is. river does her best to purse her lips and look disinterested, which isn't hard for someone who sports a resting bitch face more naturally than most. "i don't really know what there is to talk about, sawyer. we were having sex, now we're not having sex. i tolerated you, now i dislike you. i think it's pretty simple."
sawyer doesn’t have a temper. in a room full of people, they’re the one to charm their way into and out of an argument by cracking a joke, by dimple-smiling, by bending and warping words so that a potentially convoluted fight turns into light-hearted banter. it’s a useful tool, being the one who gets to set the rhythm. an instinct born out of people-pleasing tendencies tuned into an upbeat, sharpened version of it. so it doesn’t come off as a surprise when she laughs. she laughs—but it’s such a constricted, choked-out sound, that it borders on exasperation. the no-temper scraping at its limits.
“tolerate.” she repeats, tasting the word in her mouth like she suddenly owns it and just rendered its meaning to an expletive. somewhere in the streets, a dog barks. “you’re so right. like always,” they rasp, with every ounce of sarcasm they can muster up. “i’m so sorry for assuming that letting you meet my family or eating you out in the backseat of your car was anything beyond you—” she makes air quotes with her fingers, “—tolerating me.” maybe she is humiliating herself, but she doesn’t mind it. she needs this. “for believing we had something good going on. that it deserved a shot. that simple, huh?”
🍒 closed to : @carnivalheart 🍒 plot : here
marcus' place was like a home away from home for esme. so when she needed an escape after a particularly rough night, she didn't hesitate to climb the fire escape and climb on in his window. he's out of town anyway. it's not like he'd mind. only, once the light of day hit, she heard footsteps heading her way that woke her up almost instantly. with her eyes still closed, esme calls out from where she's curled up on the couch. " i thought you were still in london, you ass. "
giovanni stops dead in his tracks. for a solid ten seconds, he wonders if he’s still sleeping. a lucid dream induced by too many restless nights spent in term papers that somehow managed to lodge its way around the back of his head and into his subconscious. that would explain why romeo would be curled up next to a woman talking about london on his couch. why teacup sat beside her; orange blinking eyes staring at him with lazy defiance: yes, i let her stay. what you gonna do about it?
he just stands there, mouth slightly ajar as he takes in the scene and tries to come up with a reasonable, solid explanation. the door, the opened window, the—marcus. his neighbor, his brain helpfully provides. he remembers her now. remembers seeing her hanging around the building with the guy. of course: the fire escape. the fact she managed to climb all the way up while drunk (on something? she didn’t seem like the type—but then again, she didn’t seem like the type to break into someone else’s house) is what actually impresses him. truly a feat. no wonder his cats had found in her a kinship of sorts.
giovanni inhales deeply, resigned, and makes his way around to the kitchen to bring her a full glass of water. if she’s truly wasted, she’ll be nursing a hangover for the rest of her day; no need to make that worse. he sets the glass down on the coffee table, standing by the sofa across from her, and waits for the inevitable when he makes himself heard: “unfortunately, i have thirty-two essays to grade and no time for jet lags and sunday roasts.” a pause, and just to drive the point home: “you’re in the wrong apartment.”
clara nervously bounced her leg, the movement somewhat frantic and a key to her state of mind. she had always known that her husband was a son of a bitch - he was abusive, yes, but somehow this surprised her. she wasn't sure why when he'd done some of the things he'd done in the past. but clara thought that it had all been in an effort to control her like a puppet; to actually go to lengths to hire someone to kill her was surprising. it was even more surprising that the hired killer was... what was she exactly? a confidant? in danger too now, surely. "i can do that," her voice was all but a distant whisper as thoughts swirled along in her brain. "i... why are you helping me?" it was a question that clara had wanted to ask for as long as they'd known each other.
it is a fair question. a good question. alessandra is not a good woman. her moral compass has long been spinning and spiraling to accommodate her own desires. it started as a necessity—a craving for revenge, a need to reclaim control, to salvage agency. but it’s an excuse that can only last for so long once you start leaving a trail of bodies behind you; once you realize you continue not only because you’re good at it, but because you enjoy it. she doesn’t have a single answer to clara’s question. but it’s certainly not out of the goodness of her heart. “you shouldn’t worry about it, clara.” her dark eyes hover over the woman’s face. fragile, still vulnerable—a face that would be six feet under if that worthless scum of a husband decided to contact someone else.
she deserves a shred of the truth, doesn’t she? “i see myself in you. in a way,” she confesses. a long time ago. maybe not too long. time behaves strangely in her world. she’s lived plenty of them throughout the ones she took. something about this job simply clicked a few memories back together. a trigger of responsibility, of chafing guilt. she cannot atone for her sins, but doing this, choosing to, lifts a weight off her shoulder she wasn’t even aware was there. “and your husband,” she says, “is a flagged person of interest. he’s burned. already under investigation. contacting a third party to eliminate you would make sure he kept his and his associates’ hands clean. would paint a target on my back as well.” it didn’t require her to handle the matter heads-on. she could simply have rejected the job. but explaining that now would open a breach in the conversation she isn’t prepared for, and she can already feel the throb of a headache forming in the back of her eyes, so alessa simply pours them a glass of water, her gaze softening: “he can’t hurt you anymore. soon he will never be able to do that again.” she’d make sure of that.
closed starter for @lesbunss, based on this.
“i can smell you, love.” taerin’s voice is a haunting echo in the empty hall. a warning sign to the three bodies splayed out like meat puppets in her wake. “no need to be coy. i would have shared with you if your time wasn’t historically… less than spectacular.”
closed starter for @loveshard, based on this.
“last time this happened, it was a bloodbath, wasn’t it?” a treaty. the attempt of one. sebastian’s voice is casual, as usual carrying himself proudly—but he’s patently ignoring the elephant in the room. he feels their blood pulsing in his ear as if it’s his own, like a calling. “so here’s to us being on our best behavior tonight. will you behave?”