#flash fiction prompt

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ seven word prompts for seven sentence fics 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “really? i never knew that about you.”

²⁾ “come on, don’t pretend for my sake.”

³⁾ “looks like they left in a hurry.”

⁴⁾ “who’s calling you this late at night?”

⁵⁾ “seriously, were you dropped as a baby?!”

⁶⁾ “i could eat a horse.” “please don’t.”

⁷⁾ “ice cream? at three in the morning?”

⁸⁾ “get your ass here, right fucking now!”

⁹⁾ “i really did care about you, y’know.”

¹⁰⁾ “you’re not going home, you need stitches!”

¹¹⁾ “we need to get you warm, fast.”

¹²⁾ “how long have we been driving for?”

¹³⁾ “[name]- “ “don’t start. [boss]’s already deafened me.”¹⁾

¹⁴⁾ “what’s a single bed between three friends?”

¹⁵⁾ “why are you in just a towel?!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m your bodyguard, not your damn friend.”

¹⁷⁾ “swallow your pride.” “i’d rather swallow concrete.”

¹⁸⁾ “you look really good in my money.”

¹⁹⁾ “i said i’d help. didn’t say how.”

²⁰⁾ “come, sit. i made you some dinner.”

²¹⁾ “hide! they’re coming your way, and fast!”

²²⁾ “i knew you had feelings for them.”

²³⁾ “you’re exhausted, pet. let me mind you.”

²⁴⁾ “[name]’s in the hospital. it’s not good.”

²⁵⁾ “but you promised it’d all be okay!”

²⁶⁾ “their cover’s been blown- get them out!”

²⁷⁾ “who’d buying you flowers that isn’t me?”

²⁸⁾ “i was stupid enough to believe you.”

²⁹⁾ “isn’t paying for dinner a date thing?”

³⁰⁾ “for you, i’d do anything.” “i know.”

[flame-343]

PROMPT

What if clockwork had HUGE beef with the flash family? They slow down time or travel back and forward in time and it just ruins all his hard work. At the beginning, it was ok but after five years? No, just no. Now the justice league has to summon Danny to make political connections, but after the summoning Danny is just gob smacked and asked flash to sign something, when asked why Danny just says "you and your entire family pissed off the controller of time and timelines. He isn't allowed to kill you guys because ghost writer won't allow him, so he has been planning your lives after you die, he has a HUGE grudge with you guys, you're like celebrities". And flash? He has a new love for being alive and absolute terror for when he dies

[ammarettu]

Writing prompt: Curse breaking, true hate's kiss.

It's been two weeks since that horrible wretch of a mage falsely seduced him. Wandering hands on his chest and muttered words of adoration had distracted him from that distinct crackle and the faint scent of ozone.

He should have known better.

Should have seen it, or sensed it. He knows mages. Knows what they're capable of, their temperaments and egos. It wasn't until she was uttering about how he needed to learn to be humble, not to try and worm his way into everyone's good graces. Had to accept that people - no one - wanted him, that he noticed what she was.

So, instead of getting laid, he'd gotten cursed.

At least, mercifully, she'd told him the means to breaking the curse, which left him unable to speak, sing, or write.

True hate's kiss. Kiss someone who well and truely hates him. Perfect.

Which is how he now finds himself trudging through the overgrown wilderness, chasing rumors of a white-haired Witcher despite promising on the top of that fucking mountain that he would never bother him again.

He's still angry. Still hurt. His heart aches with every step closer, feels flayed open like bass being salted for dinner - and now he's hungry on top of it all!

He knows Geralt is going to be angry, annoyed at having to see him again even after the six months that have passed, but it can't be helped.

Jaskier's boots are caked in mud, the soles worn thin - he's pretty sure he's more blister than man at this point, despite his feet being used to years of walking, he's spent quite a bit of time in one place recently. He's gone soft rather quickly, it seems. (That tends to happen when you drink yourself stupid almost every night.)

He's close now.

He can see the smoke of a fire rising from above the trees, just past a village that told him the White Wolf had been staying nearby for the past several weeks, slaying mosntsers, refusing coin and only coming into town to sell the parts.

The woods here are dense, he'd curse at the branches smacking him in the face if he could, nature can eat his entire ass, thank you very much.

So maybe he's in a bit of a bad mood. Usually, the dense foliage, verdant and towering, letting through faint rays of sun that glitter on the moss and stones of the ground would inspire him to compose. Today he can only feel anger, because if he lets himself feel anything else he'll remember how heartbroken he is and start weeping like a small child.

So he's angry.

Angry at the branches. Angry at the Witcher.

Geralt hears him approach, of course he does. He's a Witcher, and an extra special one at that. The thought irks something in him that wants to taunt, "Ooh, so special, such a special boy," but again, that would be childish. And he can't talk.

When he reaches the clearing Geralt is there, sitting on a log facing away from him, hunched over as though trying to make himself smaller. Jaskier is half expecting him to growl or threaten him. Instead, he gets a quiet, "Bard?"

It's a question, and Geralt doesn't even bother to look at him or use his name. It makes Jaskier seethe.

He rounds the log the Witcher is sitting on, stands glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. Geralt keeps his eyes locked on the fire. Doesn't lift his gaze. It would hurt, would break his heart if there was anything of it left to break. He hates that Geralt hates him so much he can't even bear to look at him, or say his name.

He might as well get this over with. Might as well bite the rapier, so to speak, and get out of Geralt's hair before the Witcher decides to tear him a new set of holes.

He steps forward, into Geralt's space, winds his fingers into that glorious white hair, which is looking and feeling worse for wear - all of Geralt is, really. He's dirty, unshaven, looks ragged and worn and disheveled. He ignores that observation and yanks back on his silver locks until his head is tilted the way he wants it to be, leans down, and kisses him.

Jaskier normally isn't the type to kiss people who don't want it. Consent is important and he'll cut the balls off anyone who says otherwise, but this is important. Geralt won't forgive him, but he already hates the bard so there really isn't much lost there.

Then, hands are on his waist tugging him closer and a tongue is in his mouth and - Geralt is kissing him back. He's confused as all hell but not complaining, he's not an idiot!

Well, not that kind anyways.

When they break apart Geralt is looking up at him with furrowed brows, confused. Not angry.

"Mm, not... that I don't... why?"

Jaskier rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak - nothing. No sound. All that effort wasted. Geralt doesn't even hate him enough to break a fucking curse.

"Jaskier?"

He shakes his head, fighting back tears, unsure how to explain to a man who hates him but doesn't hate him enough why he's just assaulted him.

Jaskier flops onto the log next to Geralt and gestures vaguely, makes a talking motion with his hand, then an X with his arms.

"Can't talk?"

At least Geralt is smart, most Witchers are, in Jaskier's experience. They solve murders, chase monsters. They have to be good at reading between the lines, but only if those lines aren't emotions.

"Mm," Geralt looks him over, pulls his pendant from his neck and holds it up to Jaskier, "Magic. Curse?" Jaskier nods. Geralt swallows, "The cure is... a kiss?"

Jaskier nods again, sighs.

"From... what? Usually it's true love." He sounds oddly hopeful. Fidgets in a way that Jaskier has never seen. Jaskier shakes his head, ponders how to explain this absolute clusterfuck.

If Geralt didn't work there's only one other option anyways.

Valdo Marx.

((Now with part 2 ))

[zylev-blog]

Excerpt from a fic I’m thinking about writing. Danny is the god of space, Clockwork is the god of time, with Danny being his biological son. Danny can see through time, but it’s limited, so Clockwork still sends him out to fix time

———-

“Barry Allen.”

Barry turned, completely unprepared for the being that stood in front of him. Brilliant white hair that moved without a breeze, light blue skin with the smattering of freckles across his face, vivid, neon green eyes, sharp, pointed ears, and brilliant white teeth that had fangs. The being wore royal blue robes that covered from his neck to his feet, and were free of any logo. On the beings shoulders sat a cape of a vivid black, darker than any fabric Barry had ever seen before. On the inside of the cape were stars and galaxies, along with planets that moved around the cape. Barry didn’t know if the cape was a projection of the galaxy or if it was it’s own seperate galaxy housed inside a cape.

“You have messed with the fabric of time.” The being continued.

The man was around Barry’s age, perhaps early to mid twenties. He stood several inches taller than Barry, who stood at 6”1.

“I—“ He found his mouth as dry as cotton. The being, whoever he was, radiated power unlike anything Barry had ever seen before in his life.

Barry was terrified.

“I’m sorry.” Barry said lamely.

The being tilted his head just slightly, looking at Barry as if he were an animal. “Everything is as it should be, Barry Allen,” The being continued, “However, the fabric of time will become unraveled if we do not correct your anomaly before it solidifies.”

Barry had no idea what the fuck that meant. The confusion must have shown on his face, as the being continued to speak.

“Time is like a river,” the being said, “if you throw a pebble in the stream it will change the surface of the water until the ripples dissipate. We are riding the current, but the ripples through time are becoming more unstable.”

“How do we fix it?” Barry asked.

“Simple. I reset the timeline to the original course.”

Barry frowned. “My mother would go back to being dead though, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed. He knew he didn’t have his metahuman abilities and would likely be killed by this alien if he challenged the man, but he did it anyways. “No.”

Much to Barry’s surprise, the being smiled. “I knew you were going to say that.”

It seemed as if the being was messing with him now. Barry didn’t know what to think of that.

“I don’t want to lose my mom.” Barry said, sadness creeping into his voice.

“Your life has been altered by another being who should not be altering the time stream.” The being responded.

Wait, what?

“I will spare your mother if you assist me in catching this man.”

“Yes!” He agreed immediately. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just save my mom.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Barry Allen.” The being warned. The being turned to leave, but was stopped by Barry.

“Wait. How do I contact you? And what do I call you?” Barry asked.

“I will contact you when the timeline resets.” The being said, pulling a medallion in the shape of a gear out of thin air and handing it to Barry. “Call me Phantom.”

“What’s this for?” Barry questioned.

“Place it around your moms neck. It will save her from being wrote out of existence.” Phantom replied, then dissappeared into a bright beam of light.

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

I'm also posting it on Ao3. It's over 1000 words, so feel free to go here to read it!

cw: implied drug use, implied suicide attempt, implied torture

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There had been a number of times where Mycroft Holmes had been made very aware that he did, in fact, have a heart beating in his chest after all.

The first was when a small, red-faced infant had been brought home. As Mycroft looked down at the crying, screaming thing, he didn't expect the sudden jolt in his chest. A stab of sudden overwhelming emotion. What was equally unexpected was that when he stroked his new baby brother's face and told him to quieten, that everything was going to be okay, that he would always be protected by his big brother, the infant had listened. William Sherlock Scott Holmes simply looked at his older brother, and Mycroft felt that deeply. 

The second time was sheer pain at finding his younger brother in a drug den, surrounded by needles, barely breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd found him in a place like this. But on this occasion, it felt different. Mycroft knew that this time, Sherlock had not meant to survive the encounter. Scooping up the younger man in his arms, his heart ached at how thin the boy was, at how little life remained in him. He took him straight to the nearest hospital, where they whisked him away, leaving Mycroft with his aching heart to sit and wait. It wasn't until many days later that Sherlock opened his eyes to see the concerned expressions of his family around him. In his heart, Mycroft knew that this wouldn't be the last time his brother would be in this situation. The pain was indescribable. 

The third time was seeing Sherlock chained up in a filthy cell in Serbia. His brother had spent two years moving around the globe, destroying pockets of Moriarty's empire single-handedly. That the criminal mastermind hadn't targeted Sherlock's family should have hurt, but strangely it didn't. Knowing that Sherlock had people he cared about enough to keep them safe meant that he valued at least some people in his life to prevent their suffering. It was a pity that John Watson didn't know the lengths to which Sherlock would go to protect him. It might have saved his heart some of the ache he was currently feeling. But seeing Sherlock beaten, tortured, at the edge of his sanity. Anger filled his heart this time. That someone could do this to his baby brother. Infiltration successful, Sherlock finally cut down from his bonds, too weak to stand, bleeding and barely conscious. Mycroft hardened his heart and made sure no one who had laid a hand on his brother was left to tell the tale. 

The fourth time was the hardest to bear. To know that Sherlock had once again sacrificed his life for a love that would never be acknowledged. By now, Mycroft was angry at John Watson. He had Sherlock's undying love but was so blindingly stupid not to realise that fact. So here they were, in a prison cell, Sherlock about to be sent away on a one-way mission to the place he had been rescued from not long before. All so that John Watson could be happy. And there was nothing Mycroft could do. His heart ached at how easily Sherlock would throw his life away for someone who merely considered him a friend. But nothing Mycroft could say would make Sherlock change his mind; he refused to tell John the truth, and that was that. The relief when Moriarty appeared on the screen, the phone call that followed, the pardon that he had hoped for arriving almost too late. His heart skipped with happiness only to sink again when he realised his brother had fallen back on old habits. No one who had seen that list could think otherwise. Sherlock had not meant to land in Serbia alive. Telling John Watson to look after his brother was the hardest thing he had ever done, but at that point, Mycroft knew he had to let go. His heart couldn't take any more. One day, Sherlock would succeed, and his heart would break. 

The fifth was a surprise. As Mycroft stood blinking at his brother, who was sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street bouncing a three-year-old Rosie Watson on his knee, his heart gave the biggest lurch he'd ever felt. He felt for the chair he knew must be there and sank into it like his strings had been cut. 

"Best man?" His brother rolled his eyes and set Rosie on the floor, watching as she toddled off into the living room.

"Yes."

"But..."

"But what? You've been there every day, meddling, since I was born. For once, and once only, I'm asking you to be there. With me." Mycroft's heartfelt three sizes bigger; a lump appeared in his throat, and his eyes started to fill. Choking down the emotion, Mycroft coughed and turned away. 

"Don't tell me it broke him too. You two are ridiculous." John laughed as he walked into the kitchen. So a few weeks later, Mycroft stood next to his brother as he married his best friend, finally. 

If the fifth was a surprise, nothing shook Mycroft more than the sixth. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor as he watched Sherlock waltz with his new husband, besotted expressions on their faces. It happened when the other best man approached. 

"So, normally, I guess I would be asking the maid of honour to dance. But seeing as that would either be you or me in this case, would you do me the honour of this dance?" Gregory Lestrade held out his hand for Mycroft, and at once, something like a bolt hit him straight in the heart. 

"I'd be delighted, Gregory." He accepted the proffered hand, and they waltzed onto the dancefloor. As they moved in time to the music, Mycroft felt his heart change. He continued to feel its presence long after the dance, the night, the week. Mycroft spent the rest of his life knowing full well he had a heart. It was a joyful feeling most of the time, and, on occasion, it ached. It got larger as their families grew and settled. And he never once said again that caring was not an advantage. Because he had learned that it most definitely was. 

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @dapetty @calaisreno

If you'd like to be tagged when I post a new story, let me know!

[nuttynutcycle]

"Professor,” the student thrust up their hand, “Why can’t we utilize the heroes as makeshift police? It worked in Europe.”

 “Europe has a different political and geographical space,” the professor scribbled on the whiteboard. “And better pay for its teachers. Who can tell me anything about Venetian law enforcement?”

Several hands waved in the crowded lecture hall. The professor pointed at random.

“Venice utilizes water-based heroes. They use the canals and ocean to have an advantage over lawbreakers and are held in line through their enforcement collars.”

The student sounded like they were reading out of a textbook. “Excellent answer. Now,” the professor clapped their hands, “Could that work here?”

The same student beamed at the compliment. “Absolutely not. We have no cities based on canals or built on evenly distributed rivers to give water-based heroes an advantage. And sir,” the student continued, stifling a laugh. “Can you imagine trying to put a bracelet on an American hero? The government would never make it past congress.”

Chuckles half-heartedly rippled across the auditorium. Many students pretended they were listening or taking notes while Instagram reflected in their glasses.

“Wrong.”

The professor frowned at the interruption. “In this class, we raise our hand and explain our reasoning.” He turned toward the owner of the voice, a boy in a denim jacket in the back of the room. “Care to elaborate?”

 “They already have them.”

The professor pushed his glasses up his nose, a trickle of curiosity rising against his better judgment. He reached over to his computer and paused the lecture recording. “Do you have evidence to support this theory?”

The boy looked up from his computer and shrugged. “Does anyone here think our illustrious government would let a group of highly powerful individuals run around untethered?”

The auditorium quieted. A few hands raised in a sea of hundreds, before slowly lowering. 

The professor had to admit, that was a good point. Still... “Most heroes don’t comprehend the notion of modesty. Trust me, there’s nowhere to hide a bracelet that the cameras wouldn’t see.”

“What about MagniBoy?” One student asked. “That costume covers everything except-“

“Unfortunately for MagniBoy,” The professor interrupted before the lecture became decidedly less PG. “There was an incident last year. We now know for sure that there is absolutely no possible place for a bracelet.”

Several students nodded, some in disgust and others with smiles.

“It’s not on their bodies.” The boy in the denim spoke again. “American heroes are controlled as soon as they join a force, but they just don’t realize it.”

This was quickly verging into Reddit board theories. The professor felt a headache coming on. “Let’s not get off track- “

“Where is it then?” Another student asked.

“Did they swallow it?”

“Why wouldn’t anyone say anything about it?”

The professor sat down in his chair and prepared for the ride. If the class wanted to waste precious exam review time with theories, their loss.

“Twenty years ago, the government started investigating bracelets and mood alteration. Two years later they stopped due to public protests.” The boy smiled bitterly. “We love our heroes, and we love our rights even more. Three years after that, our heroes were injected with a tracker ‘for safety’.”

“Those trackers were removed when a hero retired.” The professor interrupted with a gentle smile. “If what you’re saying is true, retirees would notice a significant difference in mood.” Several students nodded in agreement.

The boy looked at him in near pity. “Sir, do you know what the original bracelets were made of?”

The professor remembered. His back straightened.

“Nanotech.” The boy savoured the word, savoured his captive audience. “Bit backwards, isn’t it? They found that heroes were more likely to have more health defects with the experimental tech, so they changed it to computerized ones. But,” he tapped his chin, “What if our generous government decided to inject their puppets with this same nanotechnology. What would happen?” The boy tilted his head innocently. “On a completely different note, how many heroes die from radiation poisoning? Illness? Cancer?”

The auditorium was silent.

“There used to be hero-turned-vigilantes or villains. Where did they all go?” The boy was picking up speed. 

No one was on Instagram anymore; all eyes were on him. 

“And isn’t it interesting that fifteen years ago, the cases of heroes breaking the law dropped by 80%? As did the destruction of vital buildings?”

“Oh,” another student whispered.

“They have thousands of powered people, sacrificing their lives without realizing it. Heroes sign away their personality, their life, their future.” The boy choked on a laugh. “When was the last time a hero made it to 60?”

“Young man,” the professor found his voice, “That’s enough.”

The boy’s gaze sharpened on the professor. “Sir, you were a hero before teaching. What do you think?”

[p-and-p-admin]

31 Days of Flash Fiction : Prompt 19

“Touch her, and you’ll learn exactly what is worse than death.”

Write your fic and submit it to the 31 Days of Flash Fiction 2024 Collection on AO3.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/.../31DaysofSSHGFlashFiction2024

That's it. No sign-up needed. No prompt claims. No reason to wait.

[mimisempai]

Our oath

Summary

What was supposed to be just a romantic flight takes on a whole new meaning as Aziraphale and Crowley gaze up at the world from the starry sky.

Notes

I didn't plan them to take me there, but I don't regret it...

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial - #FFF242 Soaring Above

On Ao3

Rating G -  755 words

He spread his wings, made a few movements with them to make sure they were working properly, then took a deep breath and said, "Let's go."

He flew up into the sky, and as he soared higher, he saw the bookshop, the busy Whickber Street, and then the city lights grew smaller and smaller. Then he flew past some clouds until there was night and stars all around him, and he stopped to look at the Earth, now barely bigger than a small marble.

So small in this great universe, so beautiful and fragile. 

But oh, so precious.

He felt, as he always had when it came to the little planet, this deep, strong, raw love that drove him to protect it and its inhabitants from all dangers and whatever else his and Crowley's ex-sides might think of doing, because for Heaven and Hell, Earth means nothing or just a means to an end.

At that thought, he feels anger growing deep inside him. The same anger he is filled with every time he thinks about how Heaven regards its own creation. He feels it growing inside him, intense, burning, uncontrollable.

"Angel?"

Then it immediately stopped.

Just that word, uttered in a soft voice, overcame the rage that overcame him, and the gentle pressure on his hand was enough to make it subside, leaving only the love for this planet and the fierce will to protect it, no matter the cost.

Then a caress on his hand removed the last vestiges of anger and he turned his eyes to the demon at his side. Crowley, in whose eyes he read understanding and the same fervor as his own.

This planet, so precious to them, for it was what brought them together in the first place. Before their shared love, it was the will to save the Earth and its people that made them overcome all the obstacles that fate had placed between them.

Once he's calmed down, he can also see the concern in the demon's eyes and blames himself for being the one who put it there.

Crowley asked him gently, "Are you all right, Angel?"

Aziraphale, without letting go of his hand, moved closer to him, his wings fluttering gently, then replied, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this flight in the sky to turn into a drama."

Crowley gently stroked his cheek and shook his head before saying, "Don't be sorry. I know how you feel. We won't let anything happen to them."

"How do you understand me so well?"

The demon winked at him and replied playfully, "Thousands of years of practice," then his expression turned serious again as his eyes focused on the planet far below their feet and he said quietly, "This is our home. So we will protect it. Together."

He wrapped his arm around the angel's waist, and Aziraphale rested his head on his shoulder, repeating softly, "Together."

They stayed like that for a few minutes, embracing in the starry sky, looking down on this world and its inhabitants that they loved so much.

Then Aziraphale slid his hand down the demon's arm and intertwined their fingers, saying softly, "Come on, let's go home."

Crowley smiled at him, nodded, and together they flapped their wings before diving toward the Earth.

They both felt their hearts racing as they approached the Earth. Crowley gripped Aziraphale's hand a little tighter as they flew over Tadfield, and a little later, Aziraphale's hand tightened around Crowley's as they passed over Whickber Street, where their family and the heart of their home lay.

They finally landed on the roof of the bookshop, still holding hands.

Aziraphale pushed back a lock of red hair that had fallen across Crowley's forehead during their flight and said quietly, "How about dinner at the Ritz to end the evening on a high note?"

The demon simply asked, "By land or by air?"

The angel immediately replied, "By land, among them."

Crowley planted a light kiss on Aziraphale's lips and nodded before saying quietly, "Let's go, Angel."

Some time later, they entered the Ritz and a butler escorted them to their usual table.

After their champagne glasses were filled, Crowley raised his to the angel and said softly, "Cheers, to the world."

Aziraphale clinked his glass against the demon's and replied, "To our world."

They said nothing more, they didn't need to as the same burning will to cherish and protect this world was shining in their eyes.

Their oath.

To the world.

To their world.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2) 

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

[antlersatmidnight]

Eat my heart out and gorge yourself on my flesh

[same-pic-of-rickroll-everyday]

Hello I am now taking prompts for flash fanfiction-fanfics less than 200 words.

I accept prompts from ANY FANDOM!!!!😱😱😱😱

Here is a list of guarantees for my writing.

✅High quality

✅good grammar

✅Stricy adherence to canon

✅Consistent characterization 

I look forward to taking my writing✍️. journey 🚗 to the next level with you all💯

[chloessleepystories]

For your fic requests, how about this?

You give the briefest of knocks as you sweep through the door. “Miss Watson, they wanted me to tell you you won’t be – Emma!”

You had told yourself not to call her Emma but it just slipped out in your surprise, for, whatever you had expected to see, it wasn’t this: the movie star is half naked, lounging on a white settee with three black men who seem twice her size.

“Oh, come in, come in, shut the door,” she waves, unfazed. “You know how it is, I just needed some stress relief. What were you going to say?”

 “You – they –” You swallow and try again. “They decided you wouldn’t be needed on set today after all,” you squeak out.

“Oh, I know that, silly, I already got that memo. Obviously!” She runs her right hand lovingly over the sculpted chest of one of the men, while another comes up behind her and starts massaging her shoulders. “Fuuuck … I get so horny making movies! You know what I mean?” The big strong hands move from her shoulders to cupping her breasts, and teasing her nipples, from behind. Emma Watson moans.

“And isn’t it funny how I never seem to have any trouble finding people to help me out with that?”

The man to her right plucks her fingers from his chest, and sucks them into his mouth. She squirms as his tongue dances between her digits, and draws the third man, on her left, in for a deep kiss.

You just watch, powerless, enthralled, kneading the bulge in your trousers with the hand that’s not clutching your cell phone.

After a few moments, she breaks the kiss, and looks toward you, seeming a bit dazed. When she can focus, she cocks her head. “You’re still here …” she murmurs. “Well, listen, you can go tell them that you delivered your message, or …”

The man behind her stops mauling her tits, and snakes one arm down her belly to cup her pantied crotch possessively. It’s remarkable how thoroughly all three of them are completely ignoring you.

“Or, listen, do you want to sit down over there and watch? I mean … it seems like you want to, and … fuck yeah, keep doing that … I’ve got to confess, though it sounds dreadful, I find the only thing that turns me on more than having three big black dicks at the same time … is having a little white dick watching me. Isn’t that simply terrible?”

She doesn’t seem chagrined, however, as you gingerly sink onto a sofa. If anything, it is turning her on confessing her kinks. And there’s something about hearing these slutty words in her elegant accent, it seems to be turning you on even more. You set your phone down beside you on the couch, but as one of the men begins to nibble at her neck, she spots it.

“Oh! You’ve got your mobile with you! Were you going to ask me for a picture?? Oh, you were, weren’t you … Oh I’ve got a perfectly wicked idea. Do I dare?”

She leans back, and gropes two of the black cocks, while fixing you with a stare. “Take my picture. Do it. God, that’s turning me on!” You fumble with your phone, as she directs the man behind her. “Fuck, you’re driving my pussy wild, stick those thick fingers inside me already.”

She moans as you click, and click again. “All right, boys, I need those cocks out, fill my hands with your meat. You, keep playing with my cunt. I’m drenched!”

You keep clicking away, since she never tells you to stop. In fact, she poses for your camera again and again, as your manhood throbs in your pants.

“God, what is it about having a camera pointed at me,” she mutters. “It’s always just really added something … Go ahead, make me pose, make me perform for your camera, I want to be a black cock slut …”

You wonder if you dare to take your own cock out and stroke it at the show, but without permission, you don’t dare. You don’t want to do anything that might make you wake up from this dream! So you take photo after photo of the men dropping their underwear, of their strong hands stripping Emma Watson naked, as they finger and rub and tongue that famous, sought-after pussy, as she massages their impossibly hard, huge dicks in her little white hands. “Fuck, I wonder if I can take all three at once,” she whispers in awe. “What do you think?” she asks you, hefting the weight and girth of his dark shaft.

She gets on her knees, as the cocks surround her. She still wants to make sure you’re getting good angles, though, so she’s careful none get in her light. She’s a natural. “I like all kinds of wands,” she whispers, sounding a little drunk, or cock drunk … “but I think I’ve been touched by the Dark Mark! Because these are the kind I like best!!” She giggles and takes as much of one in her little red-ringed mouth.

She sinks down on a thick black erection while stroking another and sucking on a third. As she slams down on the cock beneath her, harder and harder, balancing herself on his chest with both hands as the other two stroke and watch, she looks up at you again through sweaty bangs.

“The beauty of it is,” she says in a sly tone, “no one will ever believe you. Do you know how many thousands of fake sex photos there are out there of me? Hundreds of thousands! And some of those fakes are really good! I rub my slutty cunt to them all the time … and they give me … ogod … ideas … fffuckk!!”

Her first screaming orgasm makes you get your cock out. Fuck it. You keep taking pictures as best you can while fisting your dick.

“I don’t know what it is, but … shit yes, more, take me from behind … seeing all those pictures of me fucking and sucking … well it’s just been driving me wild! For years! So now I can’t stop having orgies, because it looks so fucking fun!! Yes, yes, cum on my tits, that’s nasty …”

Emma Watson takes all three hard cocks surprisingly deeply in all her holes for at least another half an hour, during which you cum twice, and take hundreds of pictures. You never see her again …

But every day you scroll through the pictures from that afternoon, and replay the day in your mind. Every day you spill loads of cum thinking of Emma Watson. One of your favorite photos is the very first one you took – you even use it as your phone’s wallpaper. It’s the cleanest of the bunch, since most of the rest are filthy… And, just as she predicted, no one ever believes you that it’s a real photo. They just shake their heads at what a perv you are …

But you don’t care. You know it really happened.

Funny, that was supposed to be the quick one! I just can't do short, apparently lol ...

[flashfictionfridayofficial]

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[#FFF271 Tantrum Entrance]

Who is having the tantrum? Why? What caused them to enter in such a manner? All those emotions building up and up and up until they explode! We want to read all about them, so get writing! Go, go, go!

.

.

.

The Collective <3

[effloradox]

“I thought we were meeting after lunch?” You briefly look up from your homework to see Haruhi standing uncertainly in front of you. You blink at her before looking over to the clock hanging about the library door. You'd been so invested in your maths assignment that an hour had passed by without you noticing.

“I guess I lost track of time. I’m not that hungry anyway.” You use a foot to push the seat opposite you away from the table, gesturing for your friend to sit down.

“You should go eat. I can keep your seat.”

“I actually brought lunch today.” You push yourself back from the table to reach into your bag, grabbing the bento box from its spot and lifting it onto the table. Whilst eating is usually frowned upon in Ouran’s libraries, you’ve never known anyone to be actually reprimanded for it.

“What did you bring?”

“Sushi. I was craving it this morning but now I’m not too bothered about it.” You don’t miss the way Haruhi’s eyes dart towards the bento box, everyone knows how much she loves sushi. “You can have it if you want it.”

“What? No, I couldn’t eat your lunch.” She laughs nervously as you remove the lid, revealing the contents of the box to her.

“Here, give it a try and tell me what you think.” You push the sushi towards Haruhi without even considering the action, you mind completely occupied by the maths equation you’re trying to solve. You’re so invested in the equation that you completely miss the blush that flushes over Haruhi’s features.

[bs2sjh]

Blue, Pink and Orange

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Also on AO3

TW: referenced suicide attempt and drug use - nothing explicit or descriptive, though.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the colours that made his life hard to bear, that really made it obvious that something was missing. They lacked vibrancy; muted hues with no saturation, no brightness, no excitement.

He’d noticed the lack of colours at a young age. Things that excited those his age failed to bring even a smile to his face. Interests, hobbies, the latest music, movies, clothing styles. All had no effect. He had tried to act like they did, to mimic their responses and actions to certain stimuli. But it never quite worked, and they soon saw through his performance. He wasn’t very old at all when he was first called a ‘freak’ and cast out to the periphery.

He existed there for a while, sad that he was so different. That he couldn’t enjoy the same things that everyone else did. As he grew older, he decided to own his eccentricities, played on them, made them more obvious. Purposefully alienating people was far better than being cast out. At least it was his choice, or so he told himself.

He was sixteen when he first saw the colours himself. When he first experienced life in vivid technicolour. The effect was brief but long enough to make him realise that the colours were, in fact, there. He just needed a little chemical help to see them. Ten years of his life passed in a haze of euphoria intermingled with dullness. The highs made the lows almost unbearable and, more than once, he had attempted to end it all at the top, with bright light and vibrancy all around him. But he had never succeeded. He had always been ‘saved’ against his will. Forced to endure the desaturated tedium of the world.

Then, one day, as the colours were fading from the previous high, they brightened again—slightly, almost imperceptibly. The crime scene tape was vivid, bright blue and white. The lights flashed like argon over the houses and buildings. He stumbled through and saw everything the police seemed to have missed. Shouting his way across the tape, he yelled what he could see, and for a moment, the world was bright. They didn’t listen at first, and he spent the rest of his come down in a cell. But then they did.

A deal was struck. Crime scenes and contacts at New Scotland Yard in return for sobriety. He took a few days to think about this. Could be stand to only have excitement every now and again? He knew that the drugs were killing him. He’d already survived endocarditis, just, and wasn’t keen to go through that again. The looks of sadness that had replaced disappointment on his parents and brother’s faces were also hard to bear. So he accepted.

At first, the time between cases was almost impossible to endure. More than once, he had put on his coat to go out and score when his contact at NSY would call and ask for his help. Before too long, he was called more and more, the intervening dullness getting shorter and easier to cope with. The highs were not as bright, but they lasted longer. The colours stayed with him for several hours post case resolution. Life was okay. It was enough, he reasoned, as the memories of brightness haunted his sleeping hours.

Sherlock had reconciled himself to a life of half-colours, slightly muted with occasional flashes of brightness when in limped John Watson. At once, the colours sprang to life, and the green paint on the microscope slide seemed to glow. Turning once again to look at Mike Stamford’s unassuming friend, he knew.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The next twenty-four hours were a blinding sea of colour, all surrounding a sea of neon pink. As he stepped away from the ambulance, the bright orange of the shock blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock smiled.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt #256 - Muted Colours

@lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl

[pckwrites]

“Mama? Why can’t I go down into the valley, where the ruins are?” 

Mizha felt the brush stopping halfway through her tangled hair as her mother paused. Mizha could sense this was a topic she didn't want to discuss.

“Evil spirits lurk down there," she finally replied, her tone cautious. "Demons that have walked this world far longer than you or me.”

“But the other kids… Some of them play a game to see who can get the closest—“

“Mizha!” Her mother's voice was sharp as she gripped her daughter's shoulders. “Those children are fools. Promise me you will never go down there.”

Her mother’s eyes were stern and frightening. Mizha realized it would be better to keep quiet and nodded her head obediently.

As her mother resumed brushing Mizha's hair, her thoughts drifted back to earlier that day. It was a strange thing to see those ruins up close. Cryptic markings had decorated the walls and strange objects made of a peculiar stone littered the ground. Even the air felt different—alive, almost.

Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps evil spirits did wander those ancient halls.

[ginneke]

Instincts

(aka, what can be found in the heart, or somewhere like it).

A @flashfictionfridayofficial promptfic.

--

When I first had an inkling of this idea, it was meant to be Link POV of a missing scene from the start of ch3 of Seed of Song. Then Revali stole it, and this prompt got me to finally write it.

(This becomes infinitely funnier after @avenin was doodling sleep-deprived Revali + chick earlier this evening as well. Yes we were watching the same osprey livestream what of it.)

--

The fire crackles and spits, launching red-hot embers into empty space.

Eyes closed, Revali imagines himself back at his Flight Range—comfortably alone and resting, for a little while, just like this: listening to the lapping tongues of the fire and the murmurs of a distant wind...

Imagination only serves to illuminate the utter futility of his wish to be anywhere else. This place is nothing like the Flight Range. The air is much too stuffy; the barracks' stone walls are stifling, and the space doesn't breathe as a building ought. Even the faint whisper of a breeze through the open window does little to keep the suffocating closeness at bay.

The sounds are all wrong, as well: no companionable creak of a hammock-rope overhead; no faint, distant hum of Vah Medoh turning watchful circles through the sky above him.

Instead there's a faint, incessent scratching sound. It goes on for a long, long time.

No, this place is nothing at all like his Flight Range. He is caged in, confined, and is altogether much too warm. He desperately wants to be rid of it. Revali struggles to quash his roiling distaste for being forced into such close quarters with another person. He cannot entirely succeed. It's like standing near an improperly-stored Shock Arrow, an unpleasant prickling that sparks under his skin and turns the tips of his feathers to barbs, leaving him battling the urge to get as far away as he can—

As if sensing the turn of his thoughts, the hatchling startles awake.

Revali cracks open one eye and cranes his head to study it. It doesn't look to be hungry, nor in any kind of significant distress. It roots around in blind, listless confusion, still coming to terms with the world outside its eggshell.

This fragile helpless thing wouldn't have survived a day without a fellow Rito's care. Revali reminds himself it's for the best that he's here, and that its wellbeing hasn't been left to the clumsy, haphazard efforts of a Hylian... but even for him, this is unfamiliar territory. He's largely ignorant of what its care entails. The best he can hope for is to keep the hatchling alive until it can become somebody else's problem.

A disquietening thought, and one which stirs bleak memories better left forgotten.

Revali sighs, repositions the chick so that it is better covered by his folded wing, and closes his eyes once more, chasing the illusion of rest. It remains elusive.

And that damnable scratching won't cease. It nudges at the edge of his hearing, incessant: scrape, scratch, scrape.

Under normal circumstances, the scratch of a metal nib against paper would be a sound familiar enough to be comforting. Revali reaches for the comfort of pen and ink often enough. Today, though, it only makes him long for his diary and the chance to sort through his jumbled, tumultuous thoughts.

He cracks open an eye, affixing his ire on the faint silhouette sat just in front of the hearth. "Would it be so impossible for you to cease that racket?"

The scratch of Link's pen pauses mid-motion. His curious sense of industry doesn't bear the cadence of a letter. The sounds are too elongated for script. Revali finds that disconcerting; he has no idea what Link is up to. He doesn't entirely want to know; only the thought that Link might be reporting back on the root cause of their delay gives him any reason to wonder...

Link's downcast eyes glitter lowly in the light. Revali bristles, certain that it's just a ruse.

"What, pray tell, are you looking at?"

At least Link has the decency of looking somewhat abashed—or whatever is meant to pass for embarrassment on those dull, expressionless features. He puts the pen down in an unhurried motion, blows on the paper—scattering a fine layer of dust in the process—and stoppers up his ink. Only then does he lift his head properly.

"Nothing," he insists.

Once, the sound of Link speaking would have been a novelty — something he never expected to hear. The sporadic proof that he can, and always could, is more jarring than it ought to be. Revali doesn't know what to make of this newfound willingness to...

He's torn away from that thought by the chick, which jerks awake with a high-pitched squeak of distress. The sound hooks into Revali's chest, lodging behind his heart and tugging until he forgets all else. He lowers his head to the hapless infant, trying to determine what might be wrong...

In the corner of his vision, the fire flares. Revali notices it with vague detachment. It's immaterial: the thing that matters most is the chick and whatever is causing it distress. Is it warm enough? too warm? hungry? He doesn't know, and the lack of certainty confounds and frustrates him.

"Here," Link mumbles, passing across the remains of the duck he'd caught earlier.

At that point, it becomes easy to fall back into a rhythm of trying, and trying again, to coax the chick into whatever instincts are driving it. (Revali is more than a little perturbed by the evidence of his own instincts on display.) He doesn't remember what it was like to be an infant as young as this; he has no way of recalling how she managed. If only he could ask. Revali isn't coping at all. He can't even hunt for himself; there's no way he could be the sole provider and guardian of a chick. As galling and infuriating as his presence is, it cannot be denied that Link's insistence on staying has accomplished some good...

—

Revali jolts awake into a night that's almost silent. He listens out for any disturbance. Only the low hum of the Flight Range answers. The murmur of the wind cannot drive the sense of solitude away; it can't fill the hollowed-out void in his chest.