#last ficlet prompt for this round

[cricketnationrise]

Took me forever to send you this because I couldn't decide which Beyoncé lyrics to send (if the ones I picked aren't inspiring, feel free to request different ones, there's so many to pick from!) so I hope i'm not too late 🙃 this is so fun, thank you for organizing this fest!

9:26pm, the brownstone, Alex Claremont-Diaz, "Private show with the music blasting / He like to call me Peaches when we get this nasty", rated E 😈

My Ao3 username is Calou 😊

fitting that you were right under the wire in submitting because it took me almost five months to get to this prompt. i hope its worth the wait!

a big thank you to everyone who submitted and to everyone who's been reading and commenting along the way. i love doing the ficlet fests, the prompts are always a delight and let me get out of any writing funk i find myself in. yall rock.

as a parting gift for Ficlet Fest 500, please enjoy exactly 1000 words of straight gay up filth, as requested in the GC.

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

9:26pm, the brownstone

Alex’s brain falls out of his head when Henry comes downstairs. He apparently took Pez’s dress code seriously for once; he’s dressed to fucking impress. (Alex is so far past impressed he’s having heart palpitations.) Henry looks good in everything, from a full suit to sweatpants, but when he lets himself relax, lets himself lean into being one hundred percent himself, he ascends to a whole other level.

His white shorts are going to be the death of Alex. They’re short, showing off strong calves and stacked, polo-playing thighs, and just this side of respectably opaque. But if there’s a strong enough backlight, anyone who isn’t intimately familiar with Henry’s particular topography, will be. The shorts would be enough to cause Alex a factory reset, but then he notices the shirt. It’s halfway unbuttoned, straining to accommodate Henry’s wide shoulders, and short enough in the torso that he’s baring midriff. And it’s one of Alex’s shirts. The novelty ice cream cone print has never looked so fucking good. 

Alex can see the tops of Henry’s hipbones—they’re mouth-wateringly obscene. Henry shouldn’t be allowed out of the house like this; he’s a danger to everyone around him. Drivers will run their cars off the road, pedestrians will walk into poles, et fucking cetera. Really, Alex has a fucking duty toward public safety to tackle Henry onto their couch and take him apart with his teeth. 

So he does.

Henry makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and a whimper and Alex wants to lick it out of his mouth. He captures Henry’s lips in a kiss as they land, barely letting him breathe, let alone put up a token protest because he feels like they should be social. Henry groans and melts into the cushions, letting Alex do whatever he wants. The trust Henry puts in him is heady, and Alex spirals that much higher when Henry throws his arms around Alex’s neck to keep him in place. His own hands are busy mapping every bit of exposed skin on Henry’s chest, slipping beneath Alex’s own fucking shirt to reach the scant inches that are still hidden below fabric. Alex takes advantage of Henry’s gasp of pleasure when Alex scratches lightly at his bicep to slip his tongue inside Henry’s mouth.

Both of them are already breathing hard, the sound of spit and panting filling the air. Alex manages to stop kissing Henry’s mouth, but only to nip down his throat, pausing at the pulse point to bite down. Henry always complains about having to be careful of covering the marks Alex leaves, but he never actually asks Alex to stop. (They were thirty minutes late to meet Nora for brunch last month when Alex caught Henry pressing down on a hickey in the bathroom and Alex had to bend him over the sink about it.) Henry’s moan at the graze of Alex’s teeth against his neck is a siren song; the way he tips his head to the side to give Alex more room, a gift from the gods. 

Henry pushes at his head, directing Alex with a pleading whine. Alex is only too happy to oblige, nipping and licking and sucking down Henry’s sternum, fingers fumbling to open the shirt. He spends a few minutes teasing Henry, alternating kisses with quick bites across his soft belly. Alex noses along his waistband, inhaling the scent of sweat and something uniquely Henry. Alex’s hands tighten on Henry’s thighs involuntarily when Henry’s fingers find a home in his hair and pull tight. Alex can’t wait another minute to get Henry’s cock in his mouth.

Alex liberates his curls from Henry’s hands and rearranges them so that Henry is sort of upright and Alex kneels on the floor between his legs. Alex means to dive in at once, but he has to take a second to fully absorb the fucking daydream of a man in front of him. Henry’s eyes have darkened, pupils blown wide and clouded with arousal. He’s sagging into the couch, relying on the furniture to keep him sitting up, seemingly unable to count on his muscles to do the job. Henry’s flushed from his cheeks to his hips, his hairline starting to darken with sweat. Alex’s gaze keeps snagging on the hickey he left—one fine day he’ll give into the desire to leave a whole goddamn collar of them.

Henry shifts, drawing Alex’s attention to his erection, straining against the white fabric of his shorts. Alex can’t help but to give him a firm stroke to his bulge, delighting in the strangled gasp it pulls from Henry. He can feel Henry twitch beneath his palm, can feel Henry’s racing pulse through the fabric, and then he’s moving—undoing Henry’s fly and pulling down his shorts and briefs in one fell swoop.

Henry actually shouts when Alex takes him to the root in one long smooth motion—he’s never been more glad for his lack of gag reflex. He stays there for a moment, breathing through his nose, the tip of Henry’s cock right at the back of his mouth. He looks up at Henry through his eyelashes. Henry’s practically shaking with the effort of holding himself still. How unnecessarily gentlemanly. Alex pries Henry’s hands out of the couch cushion and back into his hair before moving his own hands to Henry’s hips. He blinks twice, their nonverbal green signal, just to really drive the point home. With a mumbled curse, Henry starts thrusting and Alex closes his eyes, groaning every time Henry’s cock dips into his throat.

Alex’s jaw aches from the stretch, and his own cock is leaking and pressing uncomfortably against his zipper, but he couldn’t care less. He’s got Henry filling his mouth, surrounded by his hands and thighs and noises and taste—

They’re definitely going to be late to Pez’s party, if they even make it out of the house. Alex couldn’t give less of a fuck if they don’t; there’ll be other parties.

[lauronk]

sorry it took so long 🙈

[jaggededges123]

i’m almost at 300 works on ao3. fucking,,, what???

[oneforthemunny]

summerween |modern!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: eddie is itching to decorate for halloween. the only problem is, it's still summertime.

still on my fall shit, and still on my fluff shit. very fluffy and sweet for these two (i love them). short little fall ficlet. all fluff. language, that's really it. just fluff.

“It’s not even August.” You stare him down from your place behind the counter, arms crossed your white tank top, adding emphasis to your statement. It was hot, late July hot, too hot for Halloween decorations. 

“Getting started early this year, sweetheart.” Eddie grinned, flashing a dazzling smile that had your chest swelling, cheeks tingling with warm rushes of emotion. “Never too early to get started.” 

“This feels like too early.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Despite your protests and snide comments of how many weeks away October was, you still helped Eddie clean. Vacuum and mop, wipe down everything the way you always did before decorating. 

“Kids aren’t even back in school, and you want to decorate?” You lifted a brow, cringing at the thud of the totes collecting a cloud of dust in the air from the dusty storage unit they’d been homed in since last November. 

“Yeah, c’mon, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.” Eddie trilled dramatically, tearing the lid off the first box. A plethora of black and orange and purple figurines poked out, a waxy, plasticky scent following from the stored heat. 

“Besides, everyone’s started putting stuff out. I keep seeing it on Instagram, people are finding all this cool shit. I wanna get what we have out, and then I was thinking we could go shopping tonight. Or tomorrow, just dependin’ on when we get done.” Eddie rambled excitedly, pulling out the tangled garland, eyes meeting yours with a sickly sweet pleading gaze. 

You rolled your eyes, snatching the garland in dramatic irritation, sitting down on the couch to unravel it. “We’re putting all of this out today? What if I had other plans today?” You challenged, lifting a brow. You didn’t have any, of course, Eddie had already asked you that yesterday when he’d planned this.

“I’ll help you do them, baby. I promise. We don’t have to go shopping tomorrow if you don’t want to.” Eddie hummed sweetly, brown eyes rounding in the most adorable way towards you. “I just thought we’d go to Fort Wayne tomorrow. Take you shopping over there.” 

Your lips pursed, too stubborn to relent so easily, but melting under his affection the way you always did. “There will be a million fuckin’ kids there tomorrow, Ed, school starts back in a week.” 

“We can go first thing in the morning.” Eddie countered, proudly setting a plush ghost pillow next to the others. “Before it gets insane. I’ll wake up early for you.” He winked playfully. 

Your lips rolled, fighting back a grin, chin ducking towards the garland. “Yeah, right.” You muttered. “You’ll sleep ‘til noon.” 

“Nope. I’ll set twenty five alarms if I have to.” Eddie declared, unwrapping the glass figure carefully, wadding the paper back up. “You have my full consent to dump cold water on me if I don’t wake up after the third snooze. That’s what Wayne always did, and it always worked.” 

You snorted lightly, facade breaking and a grin taking over your scowl. “Cold water? Like in a Disney Channel movie?” You lifted a brow, a snarky tease still in your tone. 

Eddie grinned, dimples creasing deeply. “Yeah, I was a heavy sleeper. ‘Specially after I hit puberty, ya know? I think it was my seventh or eighth grade summer, I started playing Neverwinter Nights and would stay up all night. Then when school started, I didn’t stop, and I’d stay up the whole night and Wayne would be so pissed at me in the morning.” He shook his head lightly. 

“One morning I wouldn’t get up, and I thought he’d finally just left me, was letting me stay home, and he came back, like, five minutes later with this popcorn bowl of ice water and dumped it on me.” Eddie snorted in laughter. 

You barked out a laugh, an edge to your giggle that had Eddie blushing, his own laughter bubbling thick in his chest. “So that’s how he got you to get up?” 

“Worked like a charm.” Eddie nodded, a half grin pulling at his lips. 

“Good to know.” You lifted your brow, lips curled in a devious little grin. Eddie’s knees weakened at the sight. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time you sleep through my cousin’s gender reveal.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes lightly. “Baby, that was- c’mon, even you agreed that it was insane that they had it at ten in the morning. Who has a party that early?” 

“Parents, Eddie.” You huffed. “Adults.” 

“Alright.” Eddie shook his head, trying to diffuse a fight he could sense was looming. “Hey, look, I forgot you got this.” He pulled the bright pink ceramic ghost out of the tub. 

“Oh, I forgot about that.” Your face lit up, pulling the final knot loose of the garland’s chords. “Put her on the shelf- no, on the other side, Eddie.” You clicked your tongue in annoyance, nodding harshly towards the empty shelf on the TV stand. 

Eddie flicked on the switch, the dim bulb fluttering to life before sticking it on the shelf, proudly. Normally, he thought pink decor- especially Halloween- killed the vibe. It was supposed to be scary and dark and gloomy and moody, not pastel. Until he met you. Then pastel pinks, oranges, purples, all made their way into his dark and gorey decor. Happy, cute ghosts with his grim reapers and skulls. 

“Did you get this at Target?” Eddie pushed the ghost so it was center, spine straightening as he stood. 

“Mm, I think so.” You hummed, hooking your foot on the edge of the tote, sliding it closer to you. “Maybe Home Goods.” 

“I think they have that huge Home Goods in Fort Wayne, don’t they? We could go there tomorrow. Look for more.” Eddie slid beside you, throwing a hand over your waist, squeezing your hip gently just to feel you squirm. His lips pressed to your jaw, soft and pillowy, leaving a burning heat of excitement in their wake. 

“Fine,” You relented, melting into his affection, letting him pull you into him victoriously. “But I want to go to Anthropologie too. I want to see if they have those cute witch glasses I saw.” 

“Yeah, we can do that. We’ll hit the mall first then Home Goods.” Eddie muttered, nose nuzzling against your cheek. 

“I think they’d be so cute on the bar cart, don’t you?” You hummed, nodding towards the tiny gold bar cart in the corner of the kitchen. 

A new edition to the apartment. Eddie had searched high and low, finally found the one you wanted on Facebook Market and drove all the way to Muncie to get it. You had been so excited when he showed it to you, beaming in a way that was rare but felt exhilarating to be the reason for it. Right now, it was donning a tequila theme, one you saw on Pinterest and had to match. 

“Yeah that would be. You know, Gareth used to date this girl, Ayesha, and she always got this wine called Witches Brew. It had a cool lookin’ label on it, that would be cool to add to it too.” Eddie tucked his chin down to look at you. 

“Ooh, that would be cool.” Your eyes lit up, just enough to have Eddie’s chest swelling with pride. “Isn’t there a Total Wine near the exit? We can stop and look there.” 

“Sounds like a date to me, baby.” Eddie squeezed you closer to his chest, fingers barely brushing your sides so you squirmed. He paused for a moment. “Are you sure you’re ok with me putting this up? I-I can wait if you really don’t want me to, I just, I’m just excited ya know-” 

“-I know.” You turned, shifting in his arms to look at him. “It’s fine.” You sighed dramatically, a teasing in your tone. 

“At least if we get it up now, we can see what we need to add. Get it before it sells out.” You muttered, spinning the tiny fake spell book in your hands. Eddie grinned, eyes shining with excitement. 

“But,” You lifted a finger, face dropping back to something serious. “Not outside yet. Only inside.” You pointed your nail at him threateningly. “Don’t want the neighbors to think we’re total freaks.” Eddie snorted, arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer to his chest so you were chest to chest, nearly nose to nose. “Please, a little late for that, babe.” Eddie snorted loudly. “They already know we're total freaks, what do you mean? They’ve definitely heard us being total freaks before- oof!” You cut him off, smacking him with a bat shaped pillow.

[cillyscribbles]

initially started a ficlet, drew this to accompany it, then took 3 months to finish said ficlet. joys upon joys! ☺️

When the little ones suggested she get the best of her old dancing wardrobe and throw together the costume of a fortune teller, Cassandra had initially thought it’d be a fun spin on her usual Halloween get-up – which was, admittedly, not much more than buying a sack’s worth of candy and putting on a witch hat whenever the doorbell was rung.

In spite of feeling a little breezy in the cold October evening and swiftly abandoned by her gaggle of sworn companions, she turned out to be quite popular among the neighborhood kids. Few could – or would – resist the show she made of looking mysteriously about an old, overturned glass bowl. She was slow and deliberate in her choice of candy to present to them, and did so with an air of utmost importance, delighting in the way they would accept it as carefully as one might a glass dish.

As the sky darkened and the evening went on, the littler ones began to be drawn back inside, and she had less and less cause for her playful routine. Still, for a while, she remained, exchanging candy with some and thanking others for their compliments of her costume. Finally, once she’d received a couple comments about being too old for this from a few of those sorts of people, she figured she’d fish the last of the candy out of her bag at last and go back inside; evidently, the folks who thought they were too good for playing a little dress-up were beginning their portion of the night.

Just as she tied her bag closed, though, she lifted her head – and just there, on the edge of the pavement as though they’d risen right out of the asphalt in the street, stood two – grown adults, from what she could tell, and watched her point-blank. And as soon as she locked eyes with one of the figures, they smiled identically uneven smiles and made their way to her bench, as though her acknowledgement had been all they’d been waiting for.

As they stepped under the light of the streetlamps, Cassandra found their smiles weren’t the only thing identical about them; in fact, she found it hard to differentiate between the two at all, with only perhaps half an inch of difference in height. They were dark cats, though spotted, with their fur clipped short and rounded at points. Entirely orderly, and, as far as she could see, woefully underdressed for the occasion.

It did not impede the apparent enthusiasm she could read out in their faces. They seemed, for a reason she couldn’t be certain of, delighted.

“Do you seek the future or fortune?” A quiet, fairly low voice came from them – one of them, Cassandra realized, was a queen, and so it took her a further moment to register that she was asking a question.

She cleared her throat – and, half-to prompt them again, asked – “Beg pardon?”

“When you look into the glass, do you watch for the broad strokes of a future?” the queen asked again, and the one next to her imitated the snapping beak of a bird with two fingers.

“Or do you pick at the thread of only a single person’s path?” He was a tom, if she was to go by the voice, but both of them were a proper enigma.

She cleared her throat again – it stung, this time – and fidgeted with the bowl and the bag, trying discreetly to get a better look at them without meeting their still-peering eyes.

“Oh, I’m not sure which way I’m supposed to do it,” she admitted – they seemed odd enough for her to wonder. It would’ve been just her luck to meet a pair of genuine fortune tellers the one day in her life she was out masquerading as one. Sheepishly, she explained – “This is just a costume, I don’t really...”

“There is no wrong way to do it,” the queen interrupted, and glanced with some restrained excitement from Cassandra to the tom, whom Cassandra thought would’ve been strange to assume was anyone other than her brother.

“No such thing as a wrong way,” he seconded – and they sounded alike, too, in an uncanny, complimentary harmony.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and looked down at the bowl she held on her legs. The bowl, which was indeed only that, did not offer any crystal ball-worthy advice for the situation. She wondered what was behind the question; what was the difference – what did it even mean?

“I suppose I’d focus,” she guessed, carefully, and looked up at them. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

The queen only smiled wider, and, as her brother nodded his head in that strange manner people did where they may have been better off just shaking it, she said, “Oh, no, not at all.”

“On the contrary,” the tom agreed, and Cassandra hummed in what she hoped was polite listening. They certainly took it as such, and the tom gestured with fluidity as strange as the rest of them as he explained: “To crystalize meaningfully the path of a chosen individual is grueling work.”

“You must blow away the fog of uncertainty... and pick out a reflection from the puddles it leaves behind.” The queen was nodding, now, but at least she had something to nod about, Cassandra thought. The queen brushed her hand against the tom’s with some intent and added, thoughtfully – “It is thankless.”

“Agonizing,” the tom said, and they twined their hands together without so much as looking at each other.

Cassandra chuckled – she’d expected most of the things that happened throughout the evening, but this was quickly and unequivocally taking the cake. Still, she looked at them, gazing down at her with smiles brighter than the lamplight, and felt just a little embarrassed at her whip-stitched costume and her faded bowl. “Perhaps I should go with a theme I’m better-versed in, next year.”

“No, no, it wasn’t our aim to heckle you,” the queen said quickly, and glanced at her brother, whose expression had been suddenly tinged by worry at her words.

“We don’t mean to upset. We only so rarely get to discuss this.”

“Few will listen for even the time you have,” she said to Cassandra, who, at her appreciative tone and gentle expression, felt less soothed and moreso a little touched. Suddenly, though, the queen’s expression shifted – she looked as though she had remembered something, and touched the tom’s arm with some insistence. “But we have trapped you.”

“Yes, we will go along, leave you to a lovely evening,” he agreed, covering her hand with his own before they both let go as though coordinated. As she turned, though, he stayed her decisively with a hand against her stomach, and his smile widened at her curious expression; it seemed the first time, to Cassandra, that they were not so eerily in sync. “Would you consider reading my sister’s fortune, beforehand? Since you prefer it.”

Before Cassandra could remind them that she didn’t really prefer anything of the sort, and was indeed woefully inexperienced in the field they seemed so well-versed in, the queen all but gasped in quiet joy and scratched at her own chest with short-trimmed claws.

“I’d be ever so delighted to have it read; when was the last time?” She looked at the tom for confirmation. Cassandra had, without too much surprise, apparently assumed correctly in the two being siblings. “We were nine...”

“We were nine.” The tom smiled at her, very fondly, and here his expression was quickly mirrored again. Cassandra hated to disappoint them, truly, and they seemed quite sweet, but there was not much she could offer them.

“I can make something up, if you like,” she said, a little helplessly, and tapped at the sides of the bowl idly with the tips of her claws. She stopped when the sound made them both scowl, even as they refrained from saying anything about it and fixed more pleasant expressions back onto their faces before she could react. She chuckled to herself, glanced down again; she wasn’t even doing anything yet, and apparently she was already doing it wrong. “Again, I don’t know the technicalities of this.”

To her surprise, the queen nodded eagerly, and took a step closer to the bench – just one small, restless step, followed immediately by her brother. “Yes, that is, of course, a way to do it as well.”

“No false manner of doing it, none,” he assured her, and she wondered if they did any horoscope writing in their free time. Then she felt a little mean about it. “It is through unconscious association.”

“The things your mind sees before the eyes do,” the queen said, a little dreamily, and Cassandra nodded along. No, they had to have been writing horoscopes in their free time. “You don’t have to be clairvoyant.”

Something in her expression made Cassandra feel a little too perceived. She shifted to meet the tom’s eyes instead, only to find there, predictably, exactly the same sharpness to the sensation as he seconded his sister – “Simply observant.”

Everlasting – she hoped thought-reading wasn’t a part of their repertoire. She would’ve been terribly embarrassed if they were to learn from her that they sounded like the folks that wrote horoscopes.

To be fair, clairvoyant or not, bills needed paid.

“All right, well,” she said, finally, and, with one last burst of fiddling with the bowl, she lifted it from her lap and put it on the bench beside herself, looking up at where they stood expectantly. “You could show me how to do it? And then I could try myself.”

They shifted quick, and looked between each other. Cassandra tried not to crack a smile at the clear mortification that passed between them, albeit she wasn’t sure why that was.

The queen turned first, nodding as seriously as though they’d broken some untouchable rule of etiquette. “Ah – that would be most polite.”

“Yes, we overlooked our manners again,” he said, a little as though he was already used to it and so did not overthink it; he urged his sister forward gently, touching at her back. “Tantomile would read your palm.”

Tantomile, Cassandra thought. Before she could think anything else – anything other than That’s a really nice name, or, Wow, I’ve never heard that one before, Tantomile saved them both the embarrassment with the quickness of someone more than used to it – “It is my favourite. Coricopat’s is cards.”

“And dice,” Coricopat added. The name – fit him, she supposed. He looked like a Coricopat. Perhaps because neither of them looked like anyone else. Except each other, Cassandra noted. Naturally.

”And dice,” Tantomile conceded, and gestured lightly to the space beside Cassandra. “If I may sit beside you?”

“Right, yes.” She was moving out of the way before Tantomile had finished her sentence, her smile quirking up sideways as Tantomile lifted her tail to sit down. Cassandra glanced at Coricopat, and, surely enough, found his tail raised carefully as well, even as he stood still. She hummed, “I feel like you’re better suited for this spot anyway.”

”She is,” Coricopat said for her, and, when Tantomile raised her head, they looked wordlessly between themselves for a reason Cassandra could only begin to guess. They broke their gaze together, but Coricopat’s was the first to return to Cassandra, along with his smile. His sister, with no time to waste, took Cassandra by the hand. “But this is the night to play pretend. We can hardly pretend to be that which we truly are.”

”It would be silly,” Tantomile agreed, and, after casting just one exploratory glance at Cassandra’s palm, chuckled herself. Albeit Cassandra would never have known what for, Tantomile did not seem bothered by her confusion. She only idly patted her on the wrist and she glanced up for a moment before focusing on her palm again. “See – you’re a natural, Cassandra.”

She traced gently the lines in Cassandra’s skin, and Coricopat watched closely, and they treated her as carefully as they might a statue of glass. As Cassandra laughed, the wind carried away some of her inhibition – and, among other things, even the quiet, prodding thought that she had never told them her name.

[desertfangs]

Record and Play - Armand/Daniel - 1564

This is just a short little ficlet for the @vamptember prompt "Tape Recorder."

Daniel set the tape recorder on the table. Armand stared at it warily like it might jump up and bite him. But soon curiosity got the better of him and he snatched it off the table.

It was small, the size of a deck of cards and half the width, a hundred times smaller than the one Daniel had used in the 1970s when he’d interviewed Louis. Hell, this one didn’t even technically have a tape. It was all digital. He would have to plug it into a computer to extract the files when this was finished.

Armand turned it over in his pale hands. He pressed the buttons on its side: record, play, rewind, fast forward, stop. He studied the tiny little digital screen, a black and white read out that would provide a time stamp for the audio. A tiny red light on the black recorder’s corner would illuminate to indicate when it was recording. 

“It’s small,” Armand said. 

“Neat, isn’t it? Imagine just having that in your pocket! It can hold up to thirty hours of audio,” Daniel gushed. He and Benji had gone to Techland a week ago, a store in the East Village, where Daniel had spent hours talking to one of the workers about different recording options. He was amazed how much technology had progressed since he was lugging around his large tape recorder and microphones. 

Armand continued to study the tiny machine, his head bent over it, his long russet curls falling into his face. Tension gathered in the air and Daniel worried he was going to bolt now that they were actually here, equipment literally in hand. 

Armand had not dressed for the occasion. He wore an oversized sweatshirt—one of Daniel’s, a green one with an illustration of a trilobite fossil on the front—and jeans. Casual clothes. Daniel wasn’t sure what that meant, if anything. He’d expected Armand to wear a suit or finery, but then, why? This wasn’t a video recording. And his outfit did mirror Daniel’s clothes: a purple sweatshirt, gray t-shirt, and jeans. 

After letting Armand fiddle with the recorder for a bit, Daniel held out his hand. Armand hesitated, then placed it in his outstretched palm. Daniel put it back in the center of the small round table and plugged in the microphone he’d purchased to go with it.

Once he was sure the set up was good, he looked up. 

Armand was staring at his ring-adorned hands that lay flat on the table in front of him. 

“Are you ready?” Daniel asked.

Armand did not move or speak. 

Daniel swallowed uneasily, but he didn’t want to push too hard. So he waited,  drumming his fingers on the table and looking aimlessly around the room. There wasn’t much to see.

They were sitting in one of Trinity Gate’s smaller sitting rooms. In it was the table with two chairs on either side, and a window that looked out into the courtyard garden. It was private, though that wasn’t really the point - they were alone now in this massive house. Everyone else was in France and soon they’d join them. He’d chosen this room because the small size, small window, and thick wallpaper would help the sound quality. 

Daniel waited, his nerves jangling. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. The idea had come up during a hard conversation they’d had last night about Armand’s book. But he’d agreed, hadn’t he? Daniel hadn’t forced his hand. 

Armand remained motionless. Infuriating how he could turn into a statue like that! It always driven Daniel past all reason when he went utterly still. 

“Do you—” He started.

“It’s not for them, Daniel.” 

Daniel blinked. “What isn’t?” 

“Our story,” Armand said. “It’s not for David, or even Sybelle or Benji. And it’s not for public consumption, anymore than it already has been. That's why I left it where I did.”

Pain and frustration twisted inside him. He could still remember the way Armand’s dismissal of him in his book had felt like a knife right through his stomach, how he thought he’d never stop bleeding from that particular wound. Armand, his maker, the person he’d given up his entire life for, had reduced to him a few bitter paragraphs. 

It wasn’t the worst thing Armand had ever done to him but it had stung—no, more than stung; it had cut him open and torn out his heart. Daniel had been freshly restored to his own faculties and eager to reconnect with him, only to read that he was hardly an afterthought, and not a fond one at that. 

Daniel bit back a retort and took a breath. “You weren’t shy about discussing your past with Marius,” Daniel said, trying to keep his voice even, lest this explode into another fight. 

“More time had passed.” Armand turned away, looking out the window. “With you, the wounds were still raw.” 

Daniel looked down, a lump forming in his throat. The last time they’d seen each other before Armand dictated his story to David Talbot, they’d fought viciously and carelessly, venting their spleens and marinating in the bile. They’d been cruel to each other, maybe crueler than they’d ever been, and then Daniel, having hit his limit, walked out the door.

Not forever. He never intended that. But once he was gone, he kept going, and didn’t look back. It was fair enough for Armand to assume he was done with him when he’d yelled exactly that before slamming the door so hard it had cracked.

It had been mean of him and he’d wanted it to hurt Armand at the time. 

He just hadn’t known what would happen next. That not long after Armand would go into the sun, without so much as a thought to how Daniel would endure the centuries without him. 

Daniel ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands. Hot shame washed over him, along with regret and frustration. Armand glanced over at him and then reached across the table, taking his hand. 

He squeezed, his hand cool against Daniel’s blood-warmed skin. Such a small, simple gesture. The touch tingled up his arm and his shoulders relaxed.

Armand let go and gestured to the recorder. “Do you wish to begin?” 

Daniel swallowed and nodded. He reached over and hit the little record button on the device. 

“So, tell me about the night we met,” Daniel said. 

Armand straightened in his seat. He looked up into Daniel’s eyes which he held as he spoke: 

“I heard a familiar voice from down the street as I approached the little house. I walked past it nightly, you understand, and checked on it.” 

“On Lestat, you mean,” Daniel corrected.

Armand waved a dismissive hand. “Louis’ voice was grainy and I knew that he wasn’t there. I couldn’t sense his presence. But of course it was strange to hear his voice coming from the house. I went to investigate and I found the most curious thing: a mortal boy, desperate and feverish, with recordings of his voice.” 

“Desperate and feverish?” Daniel asked, amused.

Armand cut his eyes at him. “No commentary, beloved. This is my story.” 

Daniel held his hands up in supplication. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.” 

Armand nodded sagely, but Daniel caught the ghost of a smile on his lips. “The tapes surprised me. I wondered why Louis had allowed his voice to be captured in such a way. But then I saw this beautiful creature pacing in the house, tall with soft blond hair and intense eyes. He had a frenetic energy and was walking from window to window as if hoping someone would appear. I knew at once Louis had probably been drawn to the boy’s beauty. Though I still didn’t understand why he’d spoken with such candor. So I remained outside and listened.”

“How long were you there?” Daniel asked. 

Armand considered. “Long enough to learn that boy was there for Lestat, who still lay sleeping. Not long enough to decide if the boy should live or die. That was why I had to hold him until I could examine his belongings and learn more about him.” 

Daniel, of course, remembered being knocked unconscious and locked in the cellar for three days. How delirious and desperate he’d felt when he’d seen Armand again, how full of awe and desire! Those days were a blur now, but he remembered the strange cocktail of emotions that would become his life for the next few years: terror, curiosity, and burning desire. 

“And? What did you find?” 

Armand smiled wryly. “That he was a harmless fool in pursuit of danger. But he was beseeching and bold and I found that fascinating.”

“Yeah?” Daniel sat forward.

“For all he knew of our kind, the boy’s excitement at seeing me was equal to his fear, and I was intrigued.” 

“Intrigued, huh?” 

Armand paused, tilting his head as if in thought, eyes burning into Daniel with such intensity he could feel the heat of it.

After a moment, Daniel asked, “Are you going to call me ‘the boy’ the entire time?” 

“If you wish for me to continue, you must let me tell it how I see fit,” Armand said. 

Daniel smiled at him. “Sorry, boss. Go on.” 

Armand scooted his chair closer to the table and continued his story. 

[palfriendpatine66]

Anakin likes to work out naked (don't try this at home kids) and Obi-Wan comes home early one day to watch

Send me a nsfw prompt and I’ll write a 5 sentence ficlet

The unexpected perk that came with having an unfortunately messy, would be if finances allowed for it gym bro for a last minute roommate was the, essentially, soft core porn that now took place in Obi-Wan’s own home.

He had never meant to ogle the younger, very fit, very tanned undergraduate who had worked his way into Obi-Wan’s formerly organized, busy life.

It was just hard to ignore the sight of sweaty toned muscles sprawled all over the living room in various states of undress, especially when he’d already spent hours pouring over research documents only to be distracted by strings of soft groans and grunts from just outside of his office. It was too easy to give his eyes a break and allow them to wander over whatever absurd stretch had his roommate folded in half, cursing as he reached for he toes, with the globes of his perfectly rounded ass perfectly visibly from Obi-Wan’s little study desk.

But Obi-Wan had come home early last Tuesday to accidentally discover that an oblivious, ear bud wearing Anakin apparently preferred to do his Pilates in the nude, and even though he’d spent the week jerking himself off to the memory and then sternly telling himself off for it, he found himself easing the front door open at exactly 4:13 pm once more, unable to resist finding out if it was a weekly occurrence.

[phos-phorus]

Ok here’s the promised Simi ficlet

You can actually read this as platonic and romantic so I hope you guys like it.

I greatly appreciate any feedback and maybe even some prompts or requests if y’all want me to write more specific ficlets.

Anyway here’s Kimi being a gentle sweetheart and wiping away our golden puppy’s tears

Please ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes or dm me if they are too annoying lmao

In 2010, Vettel’s rise was meteoric. His sheer talent and the prowess of the Red Bull Racing team created a formidable combination. The first championship was a dream come true. Yet, even then, whispers of criticism began to surface. Some questioned whether his success was due to the car rather than his skill. The phrase “a champion built by engineers” started making rounds in the press.

By 2011, the whispers had grown louder. Journalists began to dissect every aspect of Vettel’s driving. “Does Vettel really have the racing intelligence of a true champion?” one headline questioned. Every maneuver, every decision on the track was analyzed with a fine-tooth comb. If he won, it was expected. If he faltered, it was headline news.

The 2012 season was perhaps the most grueling. The competition was fiercer, and Vettel’s dominance was no longer a given. Media outlets latched onto any sign of vulnerability. “Is the pressure getting to Vettel?” they asked after a rare mistake at the Malaysian Grand Prix. The relentless questions about his mental fortitude began to chip away at his once unshakeable confidence.

By 2013, despite securing his fourth championship, Vettel was exhausted. The constant barrage from journalists was relentless. At every press conference, the questions were sharper, the critiques more pointed. “Does Vettel’s dominance signal a lack of real competition in F1?” and “Is Vettel ruining the sport’s unpredictability?” were common refrains. It wasn’t just about his driving anymore; it was about his very presence in the sport.

In private, the toll was evident. Vettel, once full of vigor and passion, found himself questioning his own abilities. The joy of racing was being overshadowed by the fear of making mistakes that would be ruthlessly dissected. His team noticed the change, often finding him deep in thought, a shadow of the exuberant driver they once knew.

One particularly grueling press conference after the 2013 Japanese Grand Prix became a turning point. Despite securing yet another victory, the press conference that followed was anything but celebratory.

The room was filled with journalists, eager to ask their questions. However, this time, the tone was more aggressive and personal. One after another, they peppered Sebastian with questions that implied his success was hollow. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable tension, and it wasn’t long before the questioning turned hostile.

“Sebastian, do you think your success is more about Adrian Newey’s car than your driving skills? Do you think you’ve had an unfair advantage with the car?” one reporter asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

“How do you respond to claims that your championships are less valuable than those of past legends because you never had real competition?” another chimed in, eyes narrowing.

His voice, usually steady and confident, wavered. “I have always given my best, on and off the track,” he said, his frustration palpable. “I respect the history of this sport and the champions who came before me. If you think my achievements are less because of the car I drive, then you underestimate the effort it takes to win consistently. This isn’t just about me; it’s about the entire team. We work hard for every single victory.”

The questions were thinly veiled accusations, each one more cutting than the last.

Vettel’s usual composed demeanor began to crack

���Do you think your dominance is ruining the sport’s excitement?”

“Isn’t it true that without the best car, you wouldn’t even be a contender?”

The relentless barrage of accusations and doubts hammered at Vettel’s psyche. He tried to maintain his composure, but the weight of the criticism was overwhelming. His answers became shorter, his voice strained. The room seemed to close in on him, the once supportive walls now echoing with doubt and disdain.

Finally, a particularly harsh question broke him. “Sebastian, do you think you’ll ever be as respected as drivers like Schumacher or Senna, given that your success is seen as less earned?”

Vettel’s eyes glossed over with a mix of frustration and hurt. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the words caught in his throat. “I… I think that’s enough for today,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. “Excuse me.”

He stood up abruptly, leaving the room in a hushed silence. The journalists, momentarily stunned, watched as he walked out, his shoulders slumped under the weight of their words.

Sebastian sank onto a bench, his head in his hands. The tears came unbidden, hot and silent, as he fought to keep his sobs from escaping. The weight of the season, the constant scrutiny, and the relentless pressure finally broke through his defenses. He felt small, overwhelmed, and terribly alone.

“Seb?”

The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it cut through the fog of Sebastian’s misery. He looked up to see Kimi standing a few feet away, his expression as unreadable as ever. Kimi had always been an enigma, a man of few words, but there was something in his eyes now—a depth of understanding that Sebastian hadn’t expected.

“Are you okay?” Kimi’s voice was gentle, devoid of the usual sarcasm and aloofness.

Sebastian tried to muster a response, but the words caught in his throat. He shook his head, his shoulders trembling with the effort to hold back his tears. Kimi’s presence was both comforting and disconcerting; the Finnish driver had never been one for emotional displays, and Sebastian didn’t know what to expect.

Kimi took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right beside Sebastian. Without a word, he sat down on the bench, his arm reaching out to rest gently on Sebastian’s back. The gesture was simple, but it carried a world of meaning. It was an offer of solace, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this moment of vulnerability.

After a moment of silence Sebastian lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. “I can’t do this anymore, Kimi. They keep tearing me down. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

Kimi pulled him into a hug, strong and reassuring. “Listen to me, Seb. You are an incredible driver. You’ve proven it time and again. The media… they don’t understand. They don’t see the hard work, the dedication. They only see the results, and they twist them to fit their narrative.”

Sebastian shuddered, hot tears slowly rolling down his cheeks and Kimi leaned back just enough to be able to look into Seb’s glassy eyes and wipe away the tears while he spoke, his voice a soothing murmur in the quiet room.

“You’ve achieved so much. Four World Championships, countless won races. Don’t let them take that away from you. Remember why you started racing. The love for the sport, the thrill of the race. That’s what matters.”

As Kimi held him, he reached up to stroke a stray curl out of Sebastian’s face, the gesture so gentle and innocent that it broke through Sebastian’s defenses. A sob escaped his lips, and he buried his face in Kimi’s chest, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. Kimi continued to whisper soothing words, his hands stroking Sebastian’s back in a steady, comforting rhythm.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of Sebastian’s muffled sobs and Kimi’s calming whispers. Sebastian clung to Kimi, drawing strength from the Fins unwavering support. He felt the knots of tension slowly begin to unwind, replaced by a sense of warmth and security.

“You are a champion, Seb, my champion” Kimi continued, his voice steady and reassuring. “Don’t let their words define you. You define yourself by your actions, by your passion.”

Sebastian nodded against Kimi’s chest, the tears still flowing but the anguish beginning to ebb.

For a long time, they sat there in silence, the noise of the outside world fading into the background. Kimi’s arms remained a steady anchor, his silent support speaking volumes. When Sebastian finally lifted his head, he saw a small, understanding smile on Kimi’s face.

“Thank you, Kimi,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Kimi’s embrace tightening around Sebastian. “You don’t have to do anything without me. We’re in this together. And no matter what happens, I’ll always have your back.”

[theladyragnell]

ooo, how about alex/thom for #29 visiting their home for the first time?

(If you are reading this and wondering why I didn't do the obvious and send them to hill country, that's because I got the same prompt twice for this round and already did that! Once again please kindly ignore the epic backstory fic implied by this ficlet.)

Roger had avoided the City of the Gods. He’d called it stuffy and hidebound and sanctimonious and staid, and Alex had believed him. He had no Gift of his own, no opinion on the place where most of Tortall’s mages trained. From Delia, from the other women who came to court from there, he’d had the idea of pampered cloisters where women and men without martial talents learned how to administer their fiefs.

When Thom of Trebond had arrived at court, with his gaudy clothes and his incessant words and his clear uselessness at anything but magic, he’d done little to disprove any of that. The City of the Gods was where people went to become decorative and, according to Roger, to stagnate magically. Alex had never expected to go there and have his vague suppositions either proved or disproved. He hadn’t wanted to.

Alex stared for a long time at the city walls of forbidding grey stone and tried to ignore the feeling of saturated magic prickling across his skin and how familiar it was. Thom, reluctant as he’d been the whole journey, seemed just as disinclined to ride the last few steps through the city gates.

“We have to do it sometime,” Thom eventually said. “If nothing else, our king commands it.”

They were, the both of them, too good at pretending not to care, not to be hurt. After the first week of travel, of the two of them reeling and snarling like wolves, they’d stopped prodding at each other and just let each other pretend. “As my liege commands, of course.” A truth, but a bitter one. Alex put his heels to his horse’s sides, and expected Thom to follow.

There were few people in the streets. Priestesses traveling in gossiping knots, or sterner and older ones shepherding along lines of girls in plain dresses. Men in Mithran robes, or scholars’ robes, or mages’ robes. Acolytes in plain clothes, their allegiances only visible from the badges they wore. All of them stared at two young lords on horseback.

“You aren’t wearing your robes,” Alex realized aloud when they’d passed a mage of about fifty, a plump and smug master of the Gift whose eyes Thom had avoided.

Thom’s edgy laugh was as abrasive as everything else that came out of his mouth. “It might shock you to learn, Tirragen, that I’m not terribly popular with the other mages here. My hair is distinctive enough. Add that to my age and my robes of mastery? Best to pretend at anonymity. If I’m even a master at all anymore.”

Thom’s Gift was one of the wounds Alex had learned the hard way not to press at. When he had, Thom had pinned him against a wall, and the very air seemed to be rusty violet, and then it was all gone, and neither of them had breathed right for the rest of the day. “Doesn’t matter to me,” Alex said eventually, and Thom snorted, but didn’t speak again.

The Mithran temple where Thom had trained was austere to the point of ugliness, and where Alex had expected pampered younger sons unsuited for being warriors, he found quiet men with pinched expressions. They were, on the whole, pale and delicate, as though kept away from the sun, and the older ones steered clear of Thom in the halls, seeming not to see him, as a novice brought them to the master they were there to see.

Alex had, in those last terrible weeks before the coronation, been vaguely aware of a Master Si-Cham, short and lively and kind, trying to bring Thom back from the brink. He’d expected, as much as he expected anything, the priest replacing him to be a similar sort of person. Instead, they were greeted by a sharp-featured man with the look of the haMinch, businesslike and unkind, who treated Thom with open dislike and Alex with suspicion mixed with a dose of pity as Thom explained in cold technical terms what had been done to them both.

“We’ll see what can be done,” the priest said at last. “In the meantime, Master Thom, you know where the guest quarters are.”

If it bothered Thom to be a guest where he’d once lived, he didn’t say it. He said something insincere and honeyed instead, and took the dismissal with as much grace as he took anything. There was no one waiting for them outside, but the priest was right. Thom knew the way, and brought them through the dim and dismal halls of Tortall’s biggest temple to the god of the sun until they found an out-of-the-way hallway where the sconces were barely lit. The quarters were little more than a room each with a washstand, and Thom abandoned Alex and put a thick stone wall between them as soon as he could.

Alex looked out the window at the kitchen garden crawling with novices hard at work and thought of the palace in Corus, how cold and strange it had seemed, how regimented after his childhood in Tirragen. How Wyldon of Cavall, his page-sponsor, had with grim duty told him that page training was about learning to endure, and that enduring was a privilege if it served a realm that Alex’s grandfather hadn’t been a part of. How mistrustful and mistrusted he’d been, until Gary had extended a hand, and then Francis, and Raoul, and at last Jon.

And then they’d all reached out to Alan too, years later, no matter how surly and prickly he’d been. Looking down at the boys in the garden, all of their eyes on their separate tasks, Alex didn’t think many of them reached out. Roger had always said, half-laughing, that mages were a selfish lot, that they would never help another one along if they might be competition later.

Thom spoke more, and more fondly, of the City of the Gods than he did of Trebond. Maybe he didn’t trust Alex with Trebond. Alex hoped that was it, and that it wasn’t that this cheerless place was what he thought of as home, the way Alex sometimes guiltily thought of Corus first, and clear-skied Tirragen after.

Alex wouldn’t ask. Thom wouldn’t want him to. Neither of them wanted questions from each other, just an end to their duties and thus to the reminder of what they’d done. If the home Thom knew best wasn’t what Alex had thought it would be, that didn’t matter.

Still, he watched the novices from the window, looking for signs of friendliness or care, until Thom knocked on the door to show him the way to dinner.

[ladylynse]

A DP ficlet for @schwoopsiedoodles. The prompt was technically 'New Years' but, uh, that was more of a starting point than a focal point with this one.

Phantasmagoria [FFN | AO3]: At first blush, the new year seemed like it would start off normally enough, but Danny should really know better than to expect normal by now. Still, this was not what people usually meant when they talked about a new year yielding infinite possibilities.

-|-

“Happy New Year, little brother,” Jazz said as she wrapped Danny in a hug. Fireworks burst on the TV, some celebration they’d switched to just before midnight, but Jazz clearly didn’t think that was loud enough to cover her next words because she lowered her voice before adding, “We made it through another Christmas, and we made it through last year, so we’ll make it through this one, too.”

“Happy New Year, you two!” Maddie said as she joined them and turned the affair into a group hug, and then Jack was on the other side, wrapping them all in a bear hug, and Danny—

Danny was being squeezed too tightly from every side now, and he was getting hot enough and feeling trapped enough that not phasing out of everyone’s grip was more of an active decision than what should be the tangible default of remaining in place. Jazz’s hair was tickling his nose, but better the smell of her shampoo than the scent of ectoplasm from his parents’ HAZMAT suits that lingered despite the intense decontamination and washing protocols. He should say something, maybe force out a laugh or joke about Jazz not breaking into song like usual, but—

But maybe that was it.

Maybe that’s what was bugging him, why he wasn’t as happy as he should be even though he knew, objectively, that Jazz was right, that everything was as good as it ever was these days.

Jazz wasn’t singing Auld Lang Syne.

It shouldn’t bother him. It’s not like she had to sing it. She just always had; it was practically as much of a family tradition as the annual Christmas argument. She liked the song—she had for as long as he could remember—and Maddie would join in once she started. So would Jack, even though he couldn’t sing any better than he could aim.

So why skip it this year?

There was something niggling at the back of Danny’s mind, a sort of awareness that came slowly, creeping over his skin and making it crawl in the process.

He didn’t feel hot any longer, but the feeling of being trapped definitely hadn’t gone away.

Maybe that was a good thing.

That meant that whoever was doing this to him didn’t know he’d realized something was off.

This didn’t feel like the Ghost Writer. Even if he’d mercifully decided to weave his stories into reality without rhyme, Danny doubted he’d give up the background narration entirely. He liked being in control of the narrative too much.

Danny wasn’t ruling out this being a dream, though, or some other happy simulation designed to keep him under, to keep him from questioning it. Things hadn’t worked out last time when he’d been dreaming of his friends, so if this was round two of ‘keep Phantom out of things by keeping him asleep’, shifting the narrative to his family might make a sick sort of sense. It would make more sense than an attempted reality rewrite from someone like Desiree—or someone armed with something like the Reality Gauntlet.

This was too personal for that kind of thing.

“Uh, Dad?” Danny finally tried. “You can let go now.”

“I’ll never let you go,” came the response, but it wasn’t Jack’s voice, it was Sam’s, and he was smelling her shampoo now, not Jazz’s, and Tucker was sandwiching Danny between him and Sam, and—

Shouldn’t he feel sick after a transition like that? After a lack of transition like that? This was a dream, but if Nocturn or whoever it was was trying to keep him down, wouldn’t they at least make him a little dizzy? It all might have felt seamless, a shift occurring between one blink and the next, but the whiplash between what is and what was—

“Dude,” said Tucker as he released Danny and stepped back, letting Danny see that not only was he no longer in his living room but he was also no longer in his house. They were in Sam’s room, and it was decorated the same as always; nothing seemed out of place at a glance.

Then again, if this was a dream, and he thought he knew how everything looked, would anything feel out of place when he was the one imagining it in the place it was now?

This was making his head hurt.

It just didn’t hurt enough to wake him up and snap him out of this, which was annoying.

Tucker was biting his lip, but his words burst out of him a split second later. “I know this is kinda a stupid question considering everything, but are you okay?”

He really wasn’t, but fine, Danny could play along. That was easier now that Sam had let him go at Tucker’s words, which had the unnerving effect of lessening his feeling of being trapped even though he knew he was still very much trapped.

But if the shock of the transition wasn’t enough to snap him out of it, and the shock of realizing what was going on wasn’t enough, what would be?

“I’m fine,” Danny said, and Sam promptly punched Tucker in the arm, who yelped.

“What was that for?”

“Asking a stupid question,” she ground out, “that made Danny feel like he had to lie to us and say he’s fine when he’s not.” Her gaze flicked to him. “What Tucker means is that it’s okay that you’re not okay yet, but we’re going to be here for you for as long as you need us.”

Wait.

What?

Tucker blew out his breath in something that wasn’t exasperation or a sigh but something else, something closer to…regret? Jazz would do that sometimes—she said it helped her to centre herself and get her thoughts in order—but had he ever heard Tucker do it?

“Sorry,” Tuck said. “I didn’t mean are you okay okay, because obviously this being a new year doesn’t mean what happened a couple weeks ago didn’t happen. I meant it more as a sort of ‘are you okay because you suddenly seem less okay than you were ten seconds ago’ and I wanted to know if it was something I did. Or Sam!” Tucker’s eyes flicked to Sam as he quickly added, “Please don’t hit me again. That really hurts.”

Coldness pooled in Danny’s stomach again, spreading outward and freezing his lungs. It was harder than it should be to repeat, “A couple weeks ago?”

Tucker’s laugh was a little too high not to be full of nerves. “Or, like, last week, with the funerals. And Vlad.” Sam’s foot shot towards Tucker’s leg, but he was already dancing back in anticipation. “He asked!”

“What about Vlad?” Danny pressed.

Sam stopped her attack on Tucker and frowned. “What do you mean, what about Vlad?”

“See?” Tucker flung out an arm towards Danny. “That’s why I asked if he was okay!”

Sam scowled at him, but it melted away when she turned back to Danny. “Okay, I get that it probably doesn’t feel worse than what he was always trying to do, but the paperwork’s that much closer to being official now, and I just…. I don’t want to lose you. We don’t want to lose you. And if we can’t figure out some way around this….”

“We will,” said Dani’s voice from behind him.

Danny jumped before spinning to face her, the what? spilling from his lips before he could think twice about it. Danielle was in her human form but in a black T-shirt and shorts he didn’t recognize, and—

And that wasn’t all he didn’t recognize.

A far cry from Sam’s bedroom, this place was basically a white box, sharp clean lines and maybe twice the size of his bedroom back home. Not small, but not necessarily big, considering it didn’t have windows or a visible door or, well, anything.

Anything, he realized as he looked around again, except some poorly hidden cameras.

Crud.

Maybe he didn’t have to recognize this place to know where he was.

Danielle was ignoring the cameras, apparently. She must’ve seen them—Vlad had trained her and he wasn’t incompetent in that, Danny was pretty sure—but she wasn’t looking at them. “We’ll get out of here,” she said. Repeated, presumably. “I can’t tell you how, obviously, but we will.”

Danny walked over to the nearest wall, turned his hand intangible, and promptly failed to stick it through the wall.

He wasn’t surprised, considering he’d dreamed himself up what must be some luxury cell courtesy of the Guys in White, but it was really disappointing to confirm that he was aware that he was dreaming but couldn’t control it.

(This had to be a dream. Nothing except dream made sense.)

“If you keep doing that, they’re going to separate us.”

“No,” Danny said with an assurance that better suited Jazz than him as he studied the wall for what seemed to be nonexistent flaws, “they wouldn’t have risked putting us together if they didn’t want something.”

“Yeah, and giving it to them would be bad. Got that. Hence the whole ‘not telling you how we’ll get out of here’ thing.”

“Except even that tells them something.” He turned back to Dani. “It tells them you have a plan.”

“Or it tells them I want them to think I have a plan.”

“Which is still technically a plan. It’s just a poorer plan.”

“Like you’re an expert on plans.” Danny snorted, conceding her point, so Danielle continued, “All that really matters is they’re guessing. Which they are. Because they don’t know us. Not well enough, anyway. It’s going to be their downfall.”

“I hope you’re right,” he murmured.

“Of course I’m right. I’m me. Besides, I’m not spending my entire birthday locked in here.”

Danny didn’t bother to verbalize the look he sent her; even someone as dense as the GiW agents he’d run into in Amity Park would be able to interpret his confusion.

Dani rolled her eyes at him. “Fine, my chosen birthday. New year, new me. Everyone else can have resolutions. I want cake.”

Danny grinned. “Cake would—”

Alarms swallowed the rest of his words.

He jolted awake, fumbling without opening his eyes for the whatever-it-was that was making that racket so he could make it stop, and it took a precious few seconds to blink awake and remember and scramble to make sure there were no remnants of any ghostly tampering.

Nothing, as far as he could tell.

No helmet, no dust, no goo, nothing new or out of place. He was still in bed, but he was awake. The beeping had stopped by now, so maybe he had imagined it? Maybe it had simply been the last bit of a dream before it had woken him up?

Danny crawled out from under the covers so he could take a peek out the window, and he winced at the glowing green eyes of his reflection before blinking them back to blue. He really had been on edge if his powers were this close to the surface. Maybe he should head downstairs for some water and—

There was someone sitting on the roof across the street.

They were looking in his direction.

They’d probably been looking in his direction the whole time.

That wasn’t as bad as it could be, considering the things that could be explained away because this was the Fenton household, except that Danny knew the silhouette of that particular someone.

It would explain the beeping, too, though he’d never realized it was that loud.

Against his better judgement, Danny opened his bedroom window. It wasn’t particularly cold out—Jazz probably had her bedroom window cracked right now—so it wasn’t like he had to break through a seal of ice to get it open. The main reason he kept his window shut was to discourage ghosts from popping in on him, and that only worked with the polite ones. Still, mild weather or not, he hadn’t been woken by his ghost sense.

“Valerie?”

She heard him, or maybe she just saw the window opening, but either way, she called up her sled and slid almost silently through the air until she was less than three feet from him. Her visor wasn’t shielding her face, and her arms were crossed, which he was hoping to take as a good thing and not a bad thing. “How long?”

“How long what?” Even as he asked it, he realized what she must mean. Oops. She’d heard him after all. “Sorry. From the beginning. Like, the beginning beginning, not just since Technus gave you your new suit.”

Something in her expression tightened. “Please just be straight with me.”

“What? I am!”

“No, I mean—” She broke off with a frustrated growl. “Look. If you answer my questions, we can leave the past in the past. Start fresh. New chapters and all that. But if you insist on playing dumb, I have no reason to trust you—or give you the benefit of the doubt. So how long?”

“I don’t—”

“How long, Phantom?”

Oh.

“Could you, um, be a little more specific than that?”

He was waiting for the dream to shift on him again.

It didn’t.

As Valerie’s frown deepened, he realized that maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe he really had woken up. “Please?” It never hurt to be polite. In theory.

“How long has this been going on?”

She was still watching him, but there was a catch in her voice that hadn’t been there before, and it seemed real enough.

Of course, everything else had seemed real, too.

If this were a dream, his response wouldn’t matter. His response might even shift him somewhere else entirely. If this were really Valerie, though? This Valerie looked lost and was doing a poor job of hiding it behind a show of familiar anger. This Valerie—

“And how long,” she croaked, her composure crumpling entirely as her voice cracked, “is this going to keep going on?”

Wait.

“I don’t want to do this again.”

The dream—not-dream, whatever this was—did not conveniently remove him from the conversation.

“Don’t want to do what again?” he asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“I can’t keep jumping through possibilities.” The words were soft, more of a reluctant admission than anything else. “If this is you, stop it. It’s cruel even if you don’t think it is, and you always insist that you’re the good guy anyway. If it’s not you….” She swallowed. “Help me. Please. Even if you’re not my friend, be my ally. I— Our truce doesn’t have to end when this is over.”

She sounded like she meant it.

Maybe he should hope this wasn’t a dream after all, if only so he didn’t have to worry about having Valerie on his back all the time.

Then again.

If this wasn’t a dream, she’d be spitting distance from his secret even if she thought Phantom—in a feat of spectacular stupidity—was currently overshadowing Danny while under the same roof as the people who hunted him down at every opportunity.

If she were being honest about what might be an indefinite truce, though, that might not be a bad thing.

Danny wouldn’t say this in Sam’s hearing, but Valerie was a better shot than her, and having Val back him up from time to time would be beneficial in more ways than him not having to worry about her taking a shot at him.

“Indefinite truce if we get out of this alive?” he asked, offering her his hand.

She didn’t look amused at his choice of words, but she swallowed whatever scathing insult she’d wanted to spit at him and shook his hand instead.

“Great,” he said. “Meet me on the roof? I should really change for this.”

That earned him an eyeroll, but she grumbled, “Fine.”

He really did change before following her, first out of his PJs and into clothes and then transforming into Phantom, but she was waiting for him on the Ops Centre without a blaster, so that was a win.

“Thanks,” he said, even though he hadn’t really thought she’d fire at him right after being the one to call a truce. “And—please don’t shoot the questioner—can you elaborate on the whole ‘can’t keep jumping through possibilities’ thing?”

She sighed and sat down, hugging her knees and looking out at the horizon instead of at him. “It means exactly what it sounds like. Sometimes it takes longer for the shift to happen, but whenever it does, I’m somewhere else, in a new situation, and most of them aren’t pleasant.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Case in point, finding you where I found you, because I don’t have to be a genius to figure out what’s going on there.”

Danny winced, and not just because his parents were proof that geniuses could be astoundingly blind when they weren’t looking for something. He didn’t want to get into what Valerie thought now, though. They had more important things to talk about. “I’ve been doing the same thing. The shifting between situations like it’s a dream thing.”

“If you’re going through the same thing, then which of us is dreaming?”

If Nocturn or someone like him was involved, it wasn’t necessarily one or the other. They could both be dreaming.

Or this could be something else entirely and neither of them were dreaming, since Danny wasn’t sure why Nocturn would want them both to be aware that they were dreaming when that meant they’d be actively trying to snap out of it.

Still, better that they were dreaming than some something horrendously damaging and somehow unforeseen had happened to the timeline and they were dropping through alternate realities like they were tissue paper faster than Clockwork could sort it out.

“Beats me,” Danny said, offering Valerie a grin in the hopes that it would cheer her up. He held out a hand, and she took it and let him pull her up. “Let’s find out.”

(see more fics | check out the awesome fanart for this fic)

[capim-tinybang]

2024 Cap-IM Tiny Reverse Bang Amnesty Week!

Round 6 has wrapped up with our two final fanwork prompts for the 2024 Cap-IM Tiny Reverse Bang. Thank you to all our wonderful creators for sending in their artworks and to our speedy fanwork-fillers, who have already created some lovely accompanying fanworks inspired by this year's TRB submissions.

We would now like to announce our Amnesty Week!

From now until the end of September 6th, anybody can create fic, fanvids or podfics for the artwork prompts that were revealed in the six rounds of the 2024 TRB. If you started a ficlet, or missed a week and didn't get round to posting, now is the time! Maybe a prompt has grown on you, or a Cap-IM Bingo card has provided the perfect complement to kickstart a fic! Challenge yourself to some last minute drabbles and earn your badges!

All fanwork fills will be included in our final Tiny Reverse Bang roundup.

Rules and information on how to participate and post can be found here!

To see the existing fills for the prompts, check out our AO3 Collection. You can browse and leave feedback on all the fanwork prompts in our 2024 TRB Submissions Collection on AO3 or follow the link to each fanwork below:

Round 1 - Nomad | Winghead

Round 2 - Oath | Invincible

Round 3 - Silver | Serum

Round 4 - Extremis | Armor

Round 5 - Commander | Gold

Round 6 - Timely | Shellhead

Feel inspired?

Write fic of at least 100 words for any 2024 TRB fanwork prompt (note that you can also be inspired by several for one fill!), or create podfics or fanvids as fills - there are no minimum requirements for these formats. You have until the very end of September 6th (any timezone) to earn a badge for every prompt you write for!

[raina-at]

Bitter

I'm putting the tags here because of the content warning.

Thank you for the prompt @calaisreno

Tagging @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @jrow @thetimemoves @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely and anyone else who wants to play.

Content warning: This ficlet contains something that could reasonably be interpreted as a suicide attempt. This gets dark, though it has a hopeful ending. Please proceed with caution.

John is drunk.

John is so far past drunk.

There’s not a word in his vocabulary for how far past drunk he is. And if it was, he certainly wouldn’t know it now.

He’s sitting in the dark on the floor in 221B, leaning against his chair. All around him, shards of glass litter the room. First he threw the whisky glass when it slipped out of his fingers. Then he threw the bottle when it was empty. Then he threw the vases with flowers left over from Sherlock’s funeral.

There’s a shard of glass cutting into his calf. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t feel much anymore, which is a blessing, really, because everything hurts. His chest burns with the alcohol and the tears that just won’t fall. The bitterness burns down his throat all the way down to his stomach, which is rebelling from too much alcohol and too little food. 

He doesn’t remember when he last ate. Or drank something other than whisky. He’s been back at 221B for hours, and he’s lost any sense of time.

He just wants to pass out in this ruined flat, his ruined life. Maybe he’ll choke on his own vomit during the night.

What a fitting end for the most useless person on the planet. 

Why can he never save anyone he cares about? His father, dead at forty, unable or unwilling to stop drinking and smoking and driving while drunk, which was what got him in the end. His mother, ovarian cancer, dead at fifty. All the hospital visits and experimental treatments and doctors he dragged her to and then she died when he was on his second tour. Heart attack. From the chemo, they said. The chemo he talked her into. She hadn’t wanted another round. He’d convinced her. And then she died, and he wasn’t there. Harry never forgave him. He lost her to the bottle not long after. 

And now Sherlock. Died before his very eyes, and John, useless, worthless John Watson, was unable to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and takes another swig from the almost empty whisky bottle. 

Maybe he should stop drinking.

But he can still feel it. The pain. It permeates every cell of his body, right down to the very marrow of his bones. It never stops, not when he’s awake, at least. It’s like a scream that’s trapped in his body, cutting him up from the inside. The sound he couldn’t make when Sherlock jumped. 

He takes another sip. “And fuck you very much, too,” he whispers, then throws the bottle directly at Sherlock’s chair. 

The anger is almost as bad as the pain. It burns up and down his throat, bitter and hot and destructive. How could you do this to me? How could you leave me? How could you make me watch, make me complicit in your death? 

It doesn’t matter. There’s no answer. There will never be an answer.

He puts a palm to the floor, tries to stand up. The glass cuts into his skin. It feels good, this actual physical pain. He slips and falls down as he tries to get up, too dizzy to move.

He’s dimly aware that this is bad. It’s really bad. He can’t get up, he can’t see straight. He can’t really speak anymore. 

He takes out his mobile with shaky fingers, hits speed dial 3, drops the phone onto the floor.

It rings, rings, rings.

Someone picks up.

“John?”

He tries to answer and can’t.

The last thing he’s aware of is the door opening and Mrs Hudson’s scream.

*-*

Hands on him. Emergency lights. Someone is yelling his name. He thinks it’s Lestrade. 

He vomits all over the ambulance. 

A quiet voice asks someone whether there was a note.

Fuck, John thinks, and passes out again.

*-*

They wake him several times over the next few hours. He remembers almost nothing, just anonymous faces asking his name, what year it is, and who’s Prime Minister. They prod him and shine lights into his eyes.

He falls asleep again, dimly aware that he fucked up, but too exhausted to care.

*-*

The next time he wakes up, he must have been asleep for some time, because the clock on the wall and the light coming in from outside say it’s early evening.

He’s in a small, white hospital room. It’s very quiet.

Sherlock Holmes is sitting next to his bed. His clothes are dishevelled, he hasn’t shaved or bathed in several days, his face is pale as death and his eyes are red from crying.

John swallows and winces. His parched throat hurts infernally, he has a monster headache, his hands are bandaged and he feels like a car ran him over, then backed up and took another pass. 

So he’s clearly alive.

But he must have lost his mind, somehow. Happens. Psychotic break. He’s heard of it.

Sherlock looks terrible. Not only physically, but for the first time since John has known him, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do next. He looks lost. 

“Funny,” he rasps, his voice shot to shit from alcohol and vomiting. “I thought I’d imagine you like you were, you know, all put together. Maybe you look like shit because I feel like shit.”

Sherlock looks up and stares at him, wordlessly. He looks devastated. He blinks a few times, and John realises he’s crying.

“Why are you crying, exactly?” John asks, the slight slur to his words reminding him that the alcohol is still making its way out of his system. “I’m the one who’s gone round the bend, after all.”

Sherlock gently stands up and takes a plastic cup with a straw from the nightstand. “The doctor said you need to hydrate,” he says, and his voice sounds no better than John’s, rough and unsteady. 

He holds the straw to John’s mouth and John drinks greedily, grateful for the stale water that runs down his parched throat like the sweetest nectar. “For an illusion, you’re surprisingly helpful,” John says after he’s emptied the cup.

Sherlock puts the cup down on the nightstand and hovers on the side of John’s bed. He hesitates briefly, then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to John’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, breath hitching with a muffled sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters again and again, hands coming to rest on John’s shoulders. 

John blinks as slowly, very slowly, realisation dawns. 

Oh god.

“You-” he chokes out, throat closing up with an unnameable tangle of emotions, griefangerjoyragerelief all mingled together. “You-”

“I know, I’m sorry, there’s so much I need to tell you, I’m just so glad you’re alive,” Sherlock babbles, his lips still pressed to John’s forehead.

Anger rears its head out of the tangle and flows bitterly up John’s throat. “Get. Out,” he grates out between clenched teeth. “Get. The fuck. Out.”

Sherlock moves back. Removes his hands from John’s shoulders. He takes a step back from the bed, and he looks so - human, so - fuck, alive -

“Wait,” John chokes out, feeling the tears finally come, finally release out of his chest, that ugly ball of angerguiltgriefpain starting to soften, “Wait -”

Sherlock’s back in an instant, and John doesn’t know exactly how it’s happening, but he’s got his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock is sobbing into his shoulder and he’s sobbing into Sherlock’s chest, and they’re a mess of limbs and snot and muttered, broken words that make no sense. Sherlock climbs into bed with him, shoes and all. He’s filthy and he stinks and he’s a sniffling mess, but John wraps his arms around him and breathes in the rank smell of his hair. Slowly, his breathing calms. Sherlock rearranges them so John’s head is resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock carefully pulls John’s arm over his chest so as to not disturb the IV line. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” John mutters into Sherlock’s chest, exhausted and still half-drunk and nearly delirious with relief.

“I know,” Sherlock mutters into John’s hair. “I have a lot of making up to do.”

“That too,” John slurs, already half asleep again. 

Sherlock’s fingers card through his hair, soothing and gentle. “Go to sleep, John. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Swear.”

John nods against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s heart is beating right beneath his ear. He can feel his ribcage move as he breathes in and out. Alive, alive, alive.

John falls asleep to that sound, knowing that things won’t be fine right away, but they will be eventually. 

Sherlock Holmes lives. Now John Watson can as well. 

Sorry this got so dark, you guys. I promise a fluff bomb tomorrow.

[infinite-orangepeel]

(kinda based on the last ask) okay but now i’m thinking about steve inviting eddie to his gym and he only agrees because steve working out while making those little whines and pants?? obviously he’s going, but nope he made a mistake because now he has to pretend to work out (gross) and be publicly flustered by steve…

recently turned this gym partner steddie ficlet into a fully fledged 6.5k ao3 fic. feel free to check out the added filth here <333 mwah and thank you again to anon for the prompt that inspired it !

read pt.2 here !

read pt. 3 here !

your mind !! giving you a round of applause for this one !

okay so steve shows up in the tiniest gym shorts he owns and a white crop top bc he gets really sweaty—which eddie quickly finds he’s extremely turned on by. and ofc steve’s kinda oblivious to the real reason why eddie asked him if they could workout together. so he just takes eddie around the gym and shows him how to use the cardio machines, free weights, bench press etc. not batting an eyelash at the obvious hard-on eddie’s now sporting beneath his own shorts bc he’s too distracted by trying to get a good workout in.

and the thing is, steve’s been a member at this gym for quite some time now and he’s well known around town (ex-jock/popular kid and what have you). so a bunch of his old teammates/acquaintances from high school stop by to chat with him as he leads eddie through their workout.

which only adds fuel to the fire—for a multitude of reasons—bc some of the guys are a little too handsy with steve as they make small talk. they’ll smack his ass, making it jiggle obscenely in those extra-small shorts, or they’ll reach over to teasingly twist one of his perky pink nipples through his fitted t-shirt. it’s all the stereotypical, jock-y, borderline homoerotic locker room, bullshit eddie used to pay witness to after gym class in school. the type of shit he used to roll his eyes at and ignore to the best of his ability.

but now, with steve harrington right in front of him, letting out all these breathy little moans and sighs as he exercises, getting fondled like a piece of meat by whoever can get their hands on him—eddie can’t quite ignore it. he quickly becomes a mixed bag of emotions, as steve reps out more bicep curls and socializes; jealous, confused, and unbearably horny.

bc god does steve look appetizing. he’s dripping sweat, smells deliciously musky, his veins are swollen from the exertion, his tits are all too visible through his dampened shirt, and the outline of his cock is readily on display in those shorts. the head of it almost peeking out from the hem every time he moves too quickly. and his ass looks so plump and round, eddie wants to sink his teeth into it asap.

but worst (best) of all are the sweet cries of effort he’s continually making. it’s a dangerous fucking game for eddie to be next to him right now. he can hardly take it, so he tries to palm himself just a little bit over the pants, as steve pushes his body to finish the set. he’s moaning so high in his throat to get the weight up the rest of the way and eddie knows if he just closed his eyes, he could easily imagine those pretty noises in a very different context. but if he allowed himself to do that, he’d also probably cum on the spot, so he grits his teeth and tries to avoid looking at steve for the time being.

and later on, when they go back to the locker room to get changed and shower off, eddie thinks he’s in the clear. he breathes a sigh of relief and can’t wait to get home so he can jerk off to the thought of steve’s gorgeous little sounds.

but when he goes to enter one of the gym shower stalls and starts to rinse off, he finds himself forcibly pressed up against the tile wall.

“y’know,” steve whispers hotly in his ear, licking the shell of it and nibbling on the lobe, “i’ve heard sex burns a decent amount of calories and since you were doing a lot more staring than lifting today, i’d say that might be a good way for you to make up for it.”

[keepblr-writing-challenge]

RULES:

be respectful towards other's writing

anyone can participate, you do not need to inform me! simply write what you want, mention the prompt and tag me on that post / reblog the prompt with your writing. (If you choose to post it on ao3, just put the link on a tumblr post, and do the same.)

please give your works a title. this isn't necessary for wips, but ficlets and fics do require a title.

add trigger warnings where appropriate

there will be about 3 featured works each round. if you feel that my pick of works is biased, you may find somewhere else to participate.

ask to be added to my taglist here. you will be tagged for all three challenges.

feel free to use the ask box for your questions.

i will be tracking #keepblrweekly

I will post prompts thrice a week; Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays.

WIP WEDNESDAYS: post the last five sentences of any kotlc wip of yours. go crazy! just because you haven't finished writing the story does not mean it shouldn't be appreciated. provide context, or don't, it's your choice. these do not get featured works, as the whole point of them is that they are wips.

FICLET FRIDAYS: write a ficlet using a word i choose as a prompt. the word can be mentioned as many or as few times as you wish, as long as it's used once. The word limit (and it has one 😔) is 500. I will link some featured works (with permission from the author.) You may choose not to abide by the word limit, or post late, but your work will not be considered for featured works.

SHIP SUNDAY: i will give you two tropes as prompts. your job is to write a fic using one or both of those tropes in a fic, with any ship of your choice. minimum length for this is 1k, but there is no maximum. you can choose to make these as long as you want, but if the fully completed work is not uploaded somewhere i can access within 7 days of the prompt being posted, it can't qualify for featured. however, if you originally posted a oneshot and later decided to go back to it, and expand more, feel free to do so. it's still your work-- i have no rights over it.

I will always ask for your permission before featuring your work, if I fail to do so, do not hesitate to remind me. My timezone is GMT+8, so I will post depending on my schedule. I will always wait 24 hours after the prompt is posted before considering featured works. This is open for everyone; you need not sign up, or inform me whether or not you're participating.

If you have any questions or queries about this, feel free to ask.

Have fun and happy writing!!!

[rebornofstars]

SEPFEMBER DAY 9: MIDNA + SWORD

"You need to hold it higher than that," she complained.

Link looked askance in her direction. She pulled a face at him.

"I know, I know, that old ghost man taught you the moves of the hero and everything," she said, "but seriously. You need to hold the sword higher. Anything can slip over your guard right now."

"We're in peaceful lands," Link pointed out. She stuck out her tongue. "And what—"

"Shut up," she said pre-emptively. "I know. How would I know how to swordfight, right?"

She scowled down at her cursed arms. The wrong size and the wrong shape and the wrong texture and—there would be no way she could swing a sword like this—GET ME OUT OF THIS SKIN IT DOESN'T FIT IT ISN'T REAL—

She curled her fingers into fists defensively. "I could kick your ass if I wanted to."

"I didn't say you couldn't," Link replied. He looked vaguely curious.

The worst part was that he really hadn't.

.

SOMEHOW I AM NOW POSTING THESE ON USA TIME. THIS IS NOT INTENTIONAL I HAVE JUST BEEN VERY BUSY. I will claw my way back into Aussie time as soon as I can.

From yesterday's day 8, I want to introduce you all to this gorgeous ficlet about fi by @kittrrrr.

From day 7, this beautiful spirit tracks zelda artwork by @twidash-ftw-blysse!

And last but certainly not least, this stunning urbosa piece by the wonderful @zarvasace.

I want to give you all a very sincere and heartfelt round of applause - to everyone who has made something for this celebration so far, to everyone making or planning to make something, and especially to everyone attempting to hit most or all of the thirty prompts! Daily challenges like these are so difficult, and I am insanely impressed and awed by everything I've seen in the #sepfember tag. You guys are just incredible.

I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW!

[calunalilly]

2ND EDIT: Thanks so much for the asks so far! Have crossed out the prompts that are covered so far, and added a couple more that I've been thinking of :D Keep them coming! Hope you're all enjoying them so far <3

Well, hello! Sooooo.... you all know by now how obsessed I am with Last Tango in Halifax by now, right? How Caroline and Gillian are in LOVE, right?!?

Well... for Femslash February, I'm opening up ficlet prompts. Anything and everything (mostly), you prompt it, and I'll do my best to write something for it for our two lovely ladies 😂😂

Thought it might be easiest to come up with a prompt list, so either feel free to choose one of these or come up with one of your own. I AM READY ✍️✍️✍️ also feel free to reblog, although if by some miracle I become overwhelmed I may have to close it before the end of Feb. Anyway, THE PROMPTS!! Just send me an ask 🥰😘

1. Prompters choice (you tell me!)

2. Hand holding

3. Lipstick

4. Sharing clothes

5. Bath/shower time

6. You come back here right now...

7. Prank

8. Kissing in the rain

9. Let me take care of you

10. Nightmare

11. Sex dream

12. Miscommunication

13. One more word on this and I'll kill you

14. This reminded me of you...

15. Pep talk

16. Go to sleep!!

17. If you do that one more time...

18. Slow dance

19. Where did you get that from??

20. Bad flirting

21. Let's pretend

22. Locked out

23. Broken down car

24. Cooking

25. Someone has a cold...

26. Sleeping in

27. Movie night

28. Jealousy

29. Tea and biscuits

30. Clothing malfunction

31. Unfortunately that is the love of my life...

32. Batteries not included

33. Headache

34. Shopping

35. Household chores

36. I've got a secret...

37. The dog ate it

38. There's an app for that

39. I saw it in your eyes

40. Let's got for a walk

41. Strip poker

42. Thunderstorm

43. Embarrassing moment

44. Board games

45. Did you just wink at me?!

Got more suggestions? Hit me! Want to combine any? Go for it! Want to see something where they're going round IKEA arguing about flatpack furniture? JUST ASK. I'm excited!!