#day three: all prompts

[youarethedancingdean]

Day 3 of @steddie-week

Prompt: Discover, First Kiss, Kiss on my List - Hall & Oates

"So, quite the banger, Harrington," Eddie pointed out, which only had Steve chuckle. They were standing in the kitchen of the Harrington's house, both a bottle of beer in their hand. The party was more located in the living room with music and outside on the patio by the pool, they could still hear the going-ons, but it was much calmer in here.

"It's nothing compared to what I used to throw," Steve responded with a shrug. He didn't really know why he'd mentioned that, since the crowd was much more after his own taste these days. Even with the kids running around. "This is better, though," he therefore added and raised his bottle to toast Eddie. "To new friendships." He smiled when the other man clinked their bottles together.

"You know, I never expected us two to get along," Eddie said after their had a few sips of beer. "But I'm glad we are. You're much sweeter than I imagined." Steve blushed, at least he was pretty sure he did. He liked it when Eddie said nice things about him between their usual banter. "So are you," he replied softly and moved to lean against the counter right beside Eddie. Their shoulders were touching, something that happened a lot these days. Soon enough, no more words spoken, their eyes met and he noticed that Eddie was blushing, too.

Although Steve knew that Eddie was into guys, he highly doubted that he actually liked him. There was just no way. Sure, he'd wished for that since the metal head made him realize he was bisexual, but he also knew that there would just be no way. Why would an amazing guy like Eddie want to date anyone like him? Still, Steve couldn't help but glance at his lips, absentmindedly liking his own as he imagined what it would be like to kiss them. Probably breathtaking.

Eddie seemed to realize what was going on in Steve's mind or at least he moved even further into his space. "What are you doing?" he murmered, watching every small move Eddie made. Then it happened. He was kissed. By Eddie Munson. In his parents' kitchen. This couldn't be real, he had to be dreaming. "Dude," he exclaimed, gently pushing Eddie away by his shoulders, but not removing his hands after. "What're you doing?" he asked again.

Eddie's eyes widened and he quickly set his bottle on the counter, moving to leave. "Sorry, guess I got that wrong. I'm so sorry, I'll get out of your hair. Jesus H. Christ, I'm so sorry," he babbled anxiously as he looked around for his stuff and walked to the kitchen's doorway.

"Eddie, wait! It's... it's not... don't leave, okay?" Steve hurriedly pressed out, hoping it would stop Eddie from rushing out of the room. When he did stop but didn't turn around to face him again he added, "You- you didn't get it wrong, okay. I'm just surprised. I've liked you for months now, Robin is pretty sick of hearing about it. Didn't think you'd ever like me back."

Eddie turned around again eventually. "Don't fuck with me, Harrington. If you're pissed that's justified, but don't go on and be mean about it. It was an honest mistake," he begged, his eyes actually a bit watery. Now Steve's eyes widened. He didn't hesitate as he moved closer to Eddie again, the urge to console him unbearable. "I'm not fucking with you," he promised sincerely, cupping his cheek softly. "It's new for me. Liking guys, I mean. You made me realize that."

Eddie's blush deepened and Steve really enjoyed seeing that. "I don't know how this will turn out in the end, but if you do like me back for some god forsaken reason I wanna see where this goes. You wanna do that?" Eddie nodded enthusiastically. It was funny to have him speechless when Steve felt so confident in this just now. He'd always figured it would be the other way around, Eddie alwayd seemed so sure about everything. He supposed, he was wrong about that, too, then. "I'm gonna kiss you again, if you don't mind," Steve whispered with a smile and then leaned in, humming softly as their lips touched again. God, they were ever softer than they looked and kissing Eddie felt so much more real and mind-blowing than anything he could've imagined.

"Never thought I could cross kissing you off my bucket list," Eddie joked quietly after they separated and they both chuckled at that, only to kiss again seconds later.

[chalkrub]

putting my response to the palette challenge from oc-tober on da main blog because it accidentally became a full illustration. whoops. but this palette is like a brother to me and it fit mendel so well...what was i to do

[starry-bi-sky]

*points at bruce and danny in 'late at night when the nightingale sings'* THESE TWO MFERS MEAN SO MUCH TO MEEEE

no thoughts head empty just these two socially inept fools finding family in one another. like yes you go you funky little death omens stole that one from a comment on the fic, so if you see this you know who you are, discover that family isn't only tied in blood.

bUT onto less mushy stuff: these two being shenaniganizers; tomfools. Bruce realized that Danny didn't actually know he was Bruce Wayne and instead of going "oh actually im bruce wayne" he went; "hrm... how long can i keep this going until he realizes...."

like. i think they deserve to be the sillies. just utter goobers the both of them. like, danny makes the wittiest side comments, dry quips, under his breath towards Bruce while they're out in public (Danny covering his face with a face mask) and Bruce is trying not to laugh. Meanwhile if Bruce makes one sly comment about someone to Danny, Danny's gonna collapse with laughter.

Bruce plays straightman in most of their bits, he has the best fucking poker face. But also I firmly believe he does actually enjoy Danny's puns. Look me in the eyes- look me in the eyes. Try and tell me that a man that willingly agrees to call a car "the batmobile" even after his eight year old ward grows up (thus negating the need to go along with his antics) doesn't enjoy a good, well-placed pun. Look me in the eyes and try to tell me that. That's right you can't.

He's gonna spit out a well-placed pun in the driest, most boring Batman Voice Ever one day while he's getting ready for patrol, and Danny's gonna fucking die of laughter. He's gonna lose his mind. Bruce is going to have a half-dead sickly teenager laughing his lungs out in the chair. That's a new core memory right there, every time Danny thinks about that he's gonna start giggling.

just!!! these two making each other laugh! That's so important to me. So so much. I nEED Danny to get Bruce to smile and laugh and I need Bruce to make Danny do the same. Danny's all snark and sass and Bruce is all deadpan and dry quips. Do you all see my vision.

[drac0line1nn1t]

*Wade staring at himself in the mirror*

Wade: I'm so pretty.. *obviously doesn't believe it and is trying to convince himself*

*Wade frowns and reaches for his mask*

*Logan walks up behind him and gently grabs the arm reaching for his mask and Wade jumps around three feet in the air*

Wade: Marvel jesus peanut warn a gu-

*Logan reaches around his head with his other hand and puts his hand over Wade's mouth*

*Logan leans his head on Wade's shoulder looking in the mirror too*

Logan: *smiles* You're so pretty, bub.

[escyn]

Since @zukkathirst is asking for teasers gonna put this here gently (👀 hope y’all are saddled up). Id in alt as per usual.

[nouveaumoon]

Strahdtober 1-3: Barovia, Ismark, Ireena

[lost-in-fandoms]

¹⁷⁾ a carabiner heavy with keys❤️

hello friend, I want you to know that this prompt stumped me for quite a while, I just didn't know how to spin it? I started thinking about keys -> doors -> many doors, and I had a zookeeper AU in my brain, but also a college student x security guard AU kind of thing, but in the end I went for this. I did take some liberties on the carabiner part.

Max is being guided towards the last row of cells when they bring him in.

He's being held up by two guards, one more behind them carrying an extra torch, head hanging low like he's not fully aware, curls drooping in front of his face in a disheveled mess.

"Ah, yes," the warden says with a smirk, stepping over to open one of the closed doors, "our little thief!"

The cell is dark and damp, with a hole in the middle of the floor and a wooden slab against the wall as a bed, and even from where he's standing in the corridor, Max can feel how oppressive the small space is, air heavy and stale.

The guards throw the man in without much care, ignoring the way he slumps on the floor, unmoving, but the warden chuckles, coming closer to poke him with the tip of his boot.

"Not so smug now, are you?" he taunts.

Max forces himself not to react as he pokes the thief again, trying to keep his face as impassible as the other guards, watching as the guy tries to twist away, moaning pathetically.

"Who is he?" he asks, voice flat and uninterested. His fingers are tightly closed around the ring of keys the warden had passed him earlier, a copy of the one hanging from his belt.

"Just a rat, sneaking around the castle's treasury for far too long." The warden crouches down, grabbing the man's hair and pulling it back, revealing his bruised face. "The guys had a bit of fun, it seems."

The thief opens one swollen eye to look up at him, and for a second Max thinks his face is twisting in pain, but then realises he's smiling, all blood-stained teeth.

"Touching is 5 gold pieces, sweetheart," he rasps out, before spitting at the warden.

Max can't help but flinch when the guy's head hits the floor, but he steels himself for the kick he sees coming, forcing himself to not look away, even as the poor man coughs and gasps on the floor.

"Vermin," the warden grunts, hitting him again for good measure, before finally stepping away. "Hope you've had your taste of fresh air, because this is the last you're going to get."

The thief doesn't answer, curling up more tightly on the floor, his gasps the last thing Max hears before the door closes with a heavy thud.

--

Max walks down the corridor, trying to remind himself that he has every right to be here, and it would be more suspicious if he sneaked around, The keys jingle at his waist, and the sound itself is enough to make him feel vaguely nauseous, especially as he hears the sounds from inside the cells die down as he walks by, replaced by terrified silence.

Despite his intentions, his steps grow quieter as he walks deeper into the prison, approaching the last rows, and by the time he's in front of the thief's cell his breathing is almost inaudible too, the clinking of his keys the only sound announcing his presence.

He takes a breath before opening the door, checking the end of the corridor just in case someone decided to take a stroll down this way before the actual guards change. It's not illegal what he's doing, not yet at least, but technically he's not supposed to open this door, the meager food they've been throwing being passed through the hatch at the bottom.

The first click of the lock sounds too loud in the quiet corridor, but Max ignores the nerves twisting his stomach and keeps turning the key, pulling the door open as quietly as possible.

The first thing that hits him is the smell. The stale, damp air, now smells even worse, after days of a human being living in it, and he almost has to take a step back, feeling it like a punch in his chest. After that, he sees the thief, a shadow tucked away in one corner.

The sight is enough to make him forget about the smell as he rushes forward, tucking his keys in his pocket to make them less noisy, crouching down in front of him, relieved by the movement of his shoulders.

"Daniel," he whispers, reaching out to touch but worried he'll accidentally scare him, or worse, hurt him. "Daniel, come on, look at me."

"You're late."

Max feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest hearing Daniel's voice, even if dry and raspy, and he almost laughs with it, finally leaning all the way in to touch his shoulders, helping him sit up.

"I'm sorry," he says, even if he had no real way of getting their work done more quickly. "I have water for you, and a piggyback ride out."

Max is glad he prepared himself before walking in, because it takes all his self-control to not gasp when Daniel finally looks up. The bruises he had seen a few days earlier are now purple and green, the dried blood still caking his cheekbone now a flaky brown, his cheeks sunken and pale.

"Don't look at me like that, I haven't had my beauty sleep," Daniel jokes, voice cracking into a cough by the end of the sentence.

"I hate you," Max says, because saying I love you so much it felt like I was dying when I was watching them throw you in here feels a bit too much at the moment. What he does instead is take out the small flask of water from his pocket, helping Daniel drink, fingers almost tingling where he's touching his skin.

"You got them right?" Daniel asks as soon as he's done, looking slightly better than before.

Max nods, patting the pocket on his chest, under his cloak, where he had hidden the documents he had retrieved from where Daniel had stashed them away. Daniel getting beat up hadn't been in the plans though, and Max is eager to get him out of there as soon as possible.

"Come on, it's not long until the watch changes."

He helps Daniel stand up, then climb on his back, leaving his hands free, just in case.

"I'm going to give you so much food," he tells him, feeling how much lighter Daniel has become in just a few days.

"You better."

Max closes the door of the cell behind them, taking a moment to wrap the keys up in an handkerchief before putting them back in his pocket. He knows that there's no way to make it seem like he's not smuggling Daniel out, so he's not taking any chances of the damned keys betraying them when he's trying to be quiet. Then he takes a deep breath, makes sure Daniel is secure on his back, and starts making his way to safety.

[the-kipsabian]

@giftober 2024 | Day 24: "summer time"

[art--harridan]

[Image description: A digital painting of Colin and Mark from the film Meantime. The brothers are huddled together, staring blankly at the lit match that Mark is holding. Both of them have unlit cigarettes in their mouths. Colin's hood is up. The piece is comprised of mainly blues and greens - with Colin's clothing predominantly green and Mark's predominantly blue - except for their skin and the match, which is the brightest point of the piece. The piece is textured with grain areas and hatching. They sit in front of a light blue wall.]

Inktober - Day 19 (Ridge)

Film - Meantime (Mike Leigh, 1983)

[patron-saints]

fma rareship weekend: day 3, children

written for @fma-rareships's day 3! while intended to be an extension of the recognition 'verse, and therefore olivier x izumi, this one is also for sure olivier & al, and of course, al x mei!

~~~

“yeah,” al says into the phone, “no, all of the grandparents are here. yes, including olivier, she’s been here for three days. ostensibly, she’s here mostly to keep teacher from crying again, but personally, i think she might actually—oh, no, she heard me.” al covers the microphone with their hand and looks up at one of their newborn daughter’s many grandparents, who is valiantly trying to pretend she’s not tearing up.

“general,” al says, because even they have her permission to use her name now, sometimes it’s hard not to fall back on old habits, “did you think you weren’t—”

“i don’t like children,” she says, wiping her eye with the back of her knuckle.

this is amusing to al, given that yesterday, when she’d been holding zhiying for two uninterrupted hours, she’d audibly growled at anyone who tried to take her. so, they elect to ignore her statement for both their sakes. “you are her g—both mei and i consider you to be one of her grandparents. if… you want to be, that is.”

“alphonse,” olivier says, still pretending like she’s getting out of this, “i am your teacher’s wife.”

unafraid to interrupt her, al says, “are you going to tell me izumi and sig are anything other than…?” it’s a strong tactic. of course, al would rather tell her how much they love her. how she’s been a mentor to them in the last few years, how she inspires them, pushes them, and how they can’t imagine their daughter’s life without her in it. but that’s the kind of thing al knows they have to write in a letter, so she can cry about it in private and stoically thank them later.

olivier narrows her eyes. “of course not.”

“and?”

after staring at them for a while longer, olivier sighs. “no child of yours, no matter how cute, is going to ever call me ‘grandma.’”

al raises an eyebrow.

“but. it would be my honor to accept that role in zhiying’s life.” she pauses, and something like a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “thank you for asking.”

al is almost positive she's going to cry about this later.

[burning-academia-if]

You know, I don't think my inbox has been this busy ever before in my life-

[sisyphean-torment]

Kiss the Sun

Summary:

If Scar had a nickle for every time he got ejected into the vast emptiness of space, he would have more than one nickle.

For Hot Scarian Summer 2024 | Day 4: the countless stars of heaven's field

Prompts: wishing on a shooting star / in orbit / creation//destruction

@hot-scarian-summer-2024

[syrcus]

FFXIVwrite 2024 Prompt 5: Stamp

Non-WoL OC. Set during Shadowbringers, spoilers for 5.0 story. Either the beginning or middle of the Thancred/Denh ship depending on how hard you squint at it. 1562 words ao3 link

The arrival of the Warrior of Light is rarely a quiet affair.      The Rising Stones' main door slams, their voice bounces seemingly without end off the stone walls, amplifying itself. Denh ignores them. After all, she has a job to do, though it may drain and vex her. Whatever business brings Quoye Mhoros to Mor Dhona can remain their own, as far as she's concerned.

     She retains her focus with intent, channelling aether from the environment around her, into the pit of her heart, turning it over and allowing it to flow down through her arms and to the hand she holds. Her fingers tingle with the warmth of it, and perhaps a little with inactivity, but over the past weeks this particular aetheric manipulation has become a speciality of hers. How many days has she spent, lately, sitting in this chair immobile, doing naught but preserving the empty husks of the people she loves?

     Her gaze glides over her current charge, a knot gathering in her core.  Thancred was once one of her closest friends, almost more, and yet.  And yet, in recent years she has avoided him, treated him with pointed indifference whenever their paths were forced to cross.  She has been cold, she has been immovable, and now that he's gone it shames her.

     "Denh!" Even through the thick wooden door of Dawn's Respite, Quoye's distinctive holler is barely muffled. "Anyone seen Denh? Somebody point me at- Oh, is she? Should've known." And with that, the door bursts open, and the Warrior of Light through it. Denh's breath leaves her in a weary sigh. She doesn't look at them, or even otherwise acknowledge them; she keeps her eyes on Thancred, committing his face carefully to memory. Even the most minor change could bode ill for him, in this state.      Were his eyes always so sunken? she wonders. Is this a worrying sign, or did I simply fail to notice? Gods, when is the last time I truly looked at him? Nobody had expected this, of course. She could never have been expected to know, all those years she spent angry and hurt, how easily the people she loved could be taken from her. She'd thought she had more time.

     Quoye's footsteps echo against the walls, quick and excited, far too upbeat for a room like this. The candle on the dresser by Thancred's cot sputters, flickering in the disturbed air as the Warrior of Light draws to a stop beside her.

     "Hi Denh," they chirp, sounding altogether too pleased with themself. Quoye's energy is infuriating at the best of times, even moreso now. She sets Thancred's hand down atop his chest and turns to them.

     "What do you want, Quoye." What are her odds, she wonders, of successfully setting them on fire? She'd never let it show, of course, but she's considered the question more and more often of late: Hydaelyn's Blessing may protect them from primal influence, they may have bested some of the world's strongest in combat, but surely a fireball to the face would take down even this vaunted hero? Some hero, anyway. What good have they done for Thancred and Shtola and the twins?      Quoye grins impishly back at her and laughs, bright and clear, blissfully unaware of the resentment Denh holds for them. Too bright for a room filled with such stagnant misery.

     "I've got something for you," they reply, in quite possibly the most aggravating singsong tone Denh has ever heard, brandishing a sheet of carefully folded paper and wiggling it above her head. "I think you'll like it." She considers snatching it, but Quoye is considerably taller than she is and could easily pull it from arms reach - which, she realises, is likely exactly what they're hoping for. She squares her shoulders and fixes Quoye with a level gaze. She will not embarrass herself for their amusement.  They can give her the note or not, it makes little difference.

     "Then hand it over and be on your way." She keeps her tone brusque, matter-of-fact, and for added effect extends an open hand. The intent is clear; put it in my hand and get lost. Quoye blinks a couple of times, perhaps surprised she didn't rise to their bait. Her tail flicks with irritation. "Now, Quoye. As you can see, I am busy and I am tired."      Hearing herself speak, she sounds tired. More than she'd expected. When is the last time she held a conversation that wasn't just a brief exchange, updating Krile on the vital signs of her closest friends? Quoye visibly deflates, apparently realising, at last, that this is neither the time nor the place for such gleeful behaviour. What thoughts exist in that empty skull? Denh finds herself thinking.

     Quoye sighs, looking vaguely ashamed, and places the note on a nearby table. "Sorry. Wasn't thinking, see… Everyone's fine, Denh. I was just talking to 'em all and they're fine, so I didn't…" They speak quickly, rubbing awkwardly at the back of their neck as they do. They look around at the lifeless Scions, their ears a little more lowered than usual. "Anyway. You'll want to read that soonish, I've gotta get back and he didn't say as much but I reckon he was mayhaps hoping for a reply- Not to rush you!" They wince. "Slightly to rush you, 'cause like I say I can't loiter long. I'll be out front. Sorry."      And they leave as quickly as they came.

     Alone again, or as alone as one can be in a room filled with empty bodies, Denh regrounds herself. She tries to ignore the note on the table, retrains her focus on Thancred; poor Thancred, sickly and grey in the candlelight. She breathes in deep, closes her eyes, drawing the aether back around her ready for use as she has done so many times.  It's delicate work, sustaining someone's corporeal form without them inside it, with little margin for error, but in recent weeks it has become as natural to her as breathing.      Today, though, when she reopens her eyes, they float unbidden back to that note on the table, and the aether she's so carefully collected fizzles and dissipates.  She tries to draw it back, but the unknown hangs in her mind like a bad omen.  Quoye hadn't mentioned the sender by name; had she imagined it, or had their gaze lingered on Thancred when they'd said 'he' was hoping for a response?  She quickly shakes that thought free.  Hope helps nobody, she learned that one young.  Hope leads to disappointment, hope lets one down.      That settles it.  I have to read that hells-damned letter.

     "Sorry, Thancred," she says quietly, almost a whisper.  "I shan't be away long."      She leaves the room in a few determined paces, grabbing the note and stuffing it into her shirt for safekeeping on her way out.  She passes Krile in the main foyer, hurriedly asks her to take over aether-sustaining duty for a little while without giving any excuse for her own abandonment of it, and skitters off up the stairs.      The dormitory hallway has never felt so long, nor had she ever realised before just how far down it her own room lies.  Try as she might to keep it away, by the time she reaches her door a small, irritating hope has settled in her chest.      She locks the door behind herself, and only once that's done does she pull the paper from her shirt and really look at it.

It's folded neatly, carefully, though now slightly crumpled.  A small drop of wax seals it closed, pressed flat with what looks, from the imprint, to be a one gil coin.  She flips it over, and sees her own name handwritten across the front in spindly, vigorous cursive.  Her breath catches.  That is, without a doubt, Thancred's handwriting.      She sinks to the floor, picking free the wax seal absentmindedly.  What could possibly be so important for Thancred to write to her from across the void, and send the hero of the realm to deliver it?        Perhaps he can offer some insight on his, and the others', condition.

     She unfolds the letter.

          Denh, Truth be told, I am not wholly sure you will welcome this correspondence.  You were, if I recall, not entirely pleased with me when last we spoke.  Would you believe me if I were to tell you that it feels like a lifetime ago? In some ways, I suppose it has been.  I have had more time to think since my... "collapse" than one may imagine, and it is my - perhaps vain - hope that you might wish to become acquainted with the man I have found myself to be. I am deeply sorry.  For all I've had you endure. If you are not averse, I should very much like to hear back!  How are things at the Rising Stones?           Sincerely,           Thancred. p.s.  You may wish to employ a wax seal of your own, should you choose to reply.  Quoye showed an unnerving degree of interest in the contents of this letter when I asked them to deliver it.

     A lone droplet of water lands upon the page as she reads the last line, smudging the ink.  Another quickly follows it.  She blinks, brings a hand to her eyes, and is almost surprised to find that she's begun to cry.

[fictionadventurer]

NaPoWriMo #19: A poem recounting a historical event

To a Man Commenting Upon Lincoln's Homely Features

Abraham Lincoln knew quite well He had never been beauty-graced. When Douglas met him in debate And told him he was quite two-faced, Old Lincoln made a quick reply With his usual sense of fun: "If I'd another face to wear, Do you think I would wear this one?"

[novagale]

Inktober Day 3

Boots!

[thesilverfullcr]

gosh y'all really want haurche lives aus huh?