#three sentences fic

[the-marron]

For the three sentence prompt: pumpkin

Thank you 😘 I apologise in advance. It's crack. I have no other associations with pumpkins.

"Come, come, give me the pumpkin, we will make it into a fine chariot and then you will get to meet the Guardian, and then it gets back to normal!" Kunlun exclaimed, pushing at Shen Wei's robes, trying to make him move faster, but it was hard to concentrate on anything when faced with someone as amazing as Kunlun, a mysterious stranger that appeared right in front of Shen Wei's hut and started to urge him to go and meet some 'Zhao Yunlan the Guardian' the moment he saw Shen Wei: no man could possibly be more fascinating than Kunlun, with his green robes, his twinkling eyes and a smile so warm it made Shen Wei blush.

"Can't I just stay here with you, you are company enough and... And this is a very good pumpkin, it would be a shame to waste it, it would taste great," Shen Wei replied, hoping for Kunlun to be seduced by the pumpkin sufficiently enough to indeed stay and share a meal, a conversation, or just stay forever.

Kunlun's expression turned a little helpless, but the shake of his head was rather fond than exasperated, even if he did mutter something about 'it going better when they were stuck in the Sleeping Beauty', whichever that was, but he sat down on the poor pumpkin and looked up at Shen Wei almost pleadingly, yet there was absolutely no need to meet the Guardian - Shen Wei would gladly stay stuck here with Kunlun for as long as he can.

[wandixx]

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed." 

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place. 

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

[strangerstilinski]

!! making steve cum just from licking and sucking at the skin at the very bottom of his tummy and his soft hairy thighs !!

he starts off with his normal pleas for you to ‘please. pretty please touch my cock, honey’ his grip is bruising where his hands are clinging tight to your own while you hold his hips. as he gets closer and closer to his peak his words devolve into these guttural sounds that you can hardly even make out, but make your tummy twist all the same. intelligible moans and gasps and the most intoxicating choked little grunts. he nearly doesn't think he'll survive past the sharp ache of arousal pooling in his balls while you leisurely suck pretty little hickies into his skin. but he does survive. eventually it crest over into something entirely all-consuming, and that's when he really breaks. he's got sweat dripping down the length of his neck and tickling at the base of his throat, his chest hair damp and shining with it. his leaking cock kicking up against his tummy with every biting kiss you leave to his skin. the sounds leaving his mouth have surpassed pornographic. garbled praises giving way to wanton moans. and when your mouth trails down to the space where his thigh meets his heavy balls, you give the gentlest of sucks to the soft skin and your nose just barely nudges the base of his cock and he's cumming with a cry. hips bucking and cock twitching as his spend shoots onto his freckled abdomen, the pearly liquid spilling out over the rapidly darkening red splotches from your mouth. and he cums so much, so hard, that a few drops manage to catch all the way up where his chest hair curls over his collarbones

[the-broken-pen]

Hey hey

Could you perhaps write a snippet where the building hero is in, gets bombed? Its bombed as an assassination attempt to get them, however the people in that building die and hero, succumbed to their injuries couldn't save everyone of them. At last they watched the last ambulance left without them, even as they called for help

Villians villa is just few kilometres away

Thankfu hero's legs aren't broken

They begin walking

The problem? Vil is way to composed and prim and perfect to let all of hero's blood get on their expensive carpets and fabrics. They could even be mad at the hero for reddening their porch if they hero stood their asking for bandages. What now? And the fight the two had yesterday that ended with "never see me again" and "don't ever talk to me"s.....vil was stopping hero from attending the event the building....

Will vil help them? They can just ask for bandages and leave.

What hero doesn't know: vil would literally destroy the world for hero, and there's no way in hell are they leaving hero on their doorstep.

(Anon you were cooking with this ask, thank you!)

The hero realized the building was going to explode a split second before it did, which wasn’t enough time to do anything other than brace.

They tensed, and there was a horrible screeching of metal and brick, followed by a deafening silence that covered them more completely than the rubble did.

The hero coughed once, weakly, pain rocketing through their chest, and shoved a piece of concrete off themself.

From somewhere else in the building, a soft, terrified wail began, broken around desperate sobs.

The hero coughed again, hand rising to their ribs. They didn’t have the energy to be surprised when their fingers came back coated in blood and dust. They grimaced at it, struggling to their feet–

And oh, god. That hurt.

The hero had a surgery once, the kind that resulted in bandages and a care regime and a set of stitches, and when they had woken up in the recovery unit, it had felt sort of like this. A moment of loopy half-awareness, and then a pain that had knocked the breath out of them, hands clenching into the sheets as a nurse tried to figure out if they needed more medication. 

This was worse. Their vision swam, and they blinked it back with a hiss.

Because someone, somewhere in the wreckage, was crying. And if one person was crying, it meant there was someone who survived. Which meant it was likely there were other survivors–ones too hurt to make any noise, ones knocked unconscious, ones still too shocked to do anything other than lay there–and it was the hero’s job to find them.

It took them far too long to locate the source of the crying. Longer to dig them out, vision going white as the person slammed into the hero’s chest in some facsimile of a terrified hug.

“You’re okay,” they managed, voice like gravel. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out, and you’re going to be just fine. Were you with anyone?”

And then again, and again, and again.

The hero panted, hands on their knees as their body fought them in an attempt to just collapse onto the concrete below. They just–they just needed a minute. Just one, maybe, and then they could–

This time, the hero wasn’t even aware of it before it happened.

The remains of the building shook, then disintegrated into itself in a plume of dust and rock. The hero shielded their eyes with one hand, blinking against the onslaught.

What little air they had managed to get stuttered out of their lungs in something close to a sob. They had done this enough times to know there wasn’t anyone in that building left alive. 

They sagged down against the nearest thing–more rubble, maybe? They didn’t know–and this time when they rested a hand on their side, there was a considerably larger amount of blood.

“That’s…not great,” they said, and their fingers blurred in front of them slightly. There was an ambulance right there. Just a couple feet away. They had already helped most of the survivors, so maybe it would be okay for the hero to–

A paramedic rounded the back of the ambulance, and the hero lifted a hand, reaching–

“Please, wait, I think–I think,” it hurt coming out of their mouth, “help. Please I need–” they trailed off as the paramedic took the step up into the ambulance.

And closed the door behind them.

The hero wasn’t even that surprised when the ambulance began to drive away.

“Help,” they finished weakly, then sucked a breath in through their nose.

They were supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Surviving, no, thriving in catastrophe. A pillar of light. The one with the plan. 

The kind of being that didn’t beg for help on the ground.

The hero wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to get themselves back to standing. It was as easy as that–one moment they were on the ground, gravel embedded in their knees, and the next they were up and shaking but they were up.

“If I stay here, I’ll die,” they murmured. They had hoped maybe the threat would keep their legs from buckling again. It didn’t.

They weren’t near any place that could be trusted. There wasn’t a safe clinic for heroes on this side of the city, and even if there was, the hero wouldn’t trust them. Couldn’t afford to.

But as for near…the hero swallowed the nausea as it rose in their throat. There was one place they could go. One person they could go to.

Four miles. They could do four. There was no other option.

Where the hero had had some blurry recollection, or at least, a good guess of how they got to standing, they had absolutely no clue how they made it onto the villain’s porch. They managed a blink, retching slightly as they stared at the villain’s wavering door, then had to freeze just to bite down the pain that had come from the gagging.

They tried to knock and ended up collapsing against the villain’s door, knees giving out entirely as their fingers scrabbled for purchase and left behind smeared bloody marks on the wood.

They weren’t entirely sure how that happened either, or how long it took the villain to answer the door. Just that it hurt—so, so much, it hurt so–and that they managed to shove themself back into some semblance of standing right before the villain pulled the door open.

The villain’s face did a sort of spasming thing as soon as they saw the hero, jaw dropping slightly in what the hero could only really read as shock.

There was a very considerable amount of blood on the door. They were cold.

“I–” the hero tried, but they weren’t really sure where they had been going with that sentence, and after yesterday and the screaming and the fight the villain probably didn’t want to see them at all, didn’t want to ever see their face again, so–their mind blanked. “I got blood on your door.”

They tried to gesture towards it, but that hurt, so their hand simply twitched slightly from where it hung by their side.

They glanced down at their feet, because they didn’t want to see what the villain’s face was doing, especially if what it was doing was anything resembling anger.

“Oh.” There was blood at the hero’s feet. “And on your porch, too, I guess.”

They looked up at the villain, but they were still staring at them, brow furrowed, hand clenching on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a very faint quiver of tears when they said it, and the hero knew better than to hope the villain didn’t catch it. 

Were they saying sorry for the porch or the door or yesterday–

“Holy shit,” the villain finally breathed, and it sounded like it had been punched out of them. The hero froze, panic rising in their chest.

“I’m sorry,” the hero blurted out, stammering. “I’m–I’m so sorry, I’ll go, just–could I maybe have some bandages? Just–just one, maybe, please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they said uselessly, head swimming. They couldn’t even remember what they were doing here. The villain was perfect in every sense of the word, stoic and proper and collected in a way the hero would never be; a marble statue brought to life. The idea of them letting the hero–the personification of a train wreck in motion–in to bleed all over the villain’s soft carpet and nice shoes and cause irreparable damage to their very expensive house was almost laughable. 

If they had had the breath to laugh.

More of the hero’s blood dripped onto the slats of the porch, and they stepped back. “I’m sorry–”

The villain reached for them, and the hero flinched, taking it for the dismissal it was–

The hero blinked, and it stuck for a moment too long as the world tilted, and when they pried their eyes open again the villain was staring at them with something the hero was too out of it with pain and possibly delirium to identify. Their gaze drifted back to the blood smeared on the door, and the villain’s grip tightened on the hero’s bicep–when had they grabbed the hero’s bicep?–until the hero’s gaze returned to theirs.

The villain said something, but there was a roaring that had started up in the hero’s ears. They seemed to take the uncomprehending blink the hero gave them in return for an answer anyways, and guided them down until they were both sitting on the cool wood. A tug, and the hero was resting against their own propped up knees, villain’s hand still firm on their arm.

“How much blood did you lose?”

It was like screaming underwater, the hero reasoned. Or through a mirror. But they heard it nonetheless, and that was their villain, and even in hatred and war they would always answer them.

“Was ‘supposed to be counting?” If they had any more energy–or maybe slightly more blood–in their body, the slur to their own words would have been concerning.

The villain’s lips pursed into a thin line, and the hero felt them begin to run an assessing hand over their injuries, cataloguing them, brow furrowing further with every second.

“M’sorry,” they managed, tongue thick. The villain didn’t pause.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your door,” they managed. The villain stopped them from raising their head from their knees. “And your–porch.”

“I don’t give a shit about either of those things,” the villain said, simply, easily. Like it was nothing. Like they didn’t feel the weight of it as they threw it into the air.

The villain sat back on their heels, clearly having learned what they wanted from the hero’s injuries.

When the hero didn’t immediately look at them, the villain grabbed their chin, gently turning it until the hero faced them.

“How far did you walk,” they said slowly, and the hero had never been more grateful for anything in their life.

“Four miles,” the hero said, and they couldn’t hear their own voice above the roaring, but the villain obviously could from the way their eyes darkened.

The hero wanted no part in making the villain angry again–I never want to see you again, do you hear me? If you ever try to talk to me again I will kill the both of us, I promise you that–, but when they attempted to push themselves up to leave, the only thing they managed was a piteous whine and a stab of pain so intense they forgot to breathe.

“Idiot,” the villain hissed. But oddly, the hero didn’t sense any anger coming from the villain.

They blinked–too long, again–and found themselves in the villain’s arms as they walked through the house. Their head lolled back onto the villain’s shoulder, and the villain glanced down as if–to make sure the hero was okay. That they were conscious, and breathing.

Oh.

Oh.

The villain wasn’t angry.

They were afraid. For the hero.

Which didn’t make any sense, because–

I never want to see you again–

“You’re mad at me,” the hero reasoned, and it came out half strangled and petulant. The villain looked down at them, and the hero caught the tiniest flinch in their jaw.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” the hero whispered, and the villain flinched.

“I wanted to stop this from happening.” The villain settled them onto a bathroom counter, lights flickering on as the hero leaned back against the mirror. Blood began to dry, sticky, between their fingers.

The hero’s mouth went dry, and it caught in their throat when they tried to swallow it.

“You could have just left me there.” Their voice only shook a little bit, but the villain’s head still snapped up from where they had been digging through a drawer.

“What?”

“On the porch,” the hero clarified, clearing their throat. The lump didn’t go away, and they had begun shaking at some point, and they couldn’t stop. “If you didn’t want to deal with me you could have just left me there–”

The villain’s face had darkened into something the hero almost didn’t recognize. 

“I would burn the world for you, and you think I would leave you to die on my porch?”

“You said you didn’t want this to happen.”

“No, that’s not–” the villain rubbed a hand over their brow, and the hero winced at the blood it left behind. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to keep you from going to that stupid event and getting hurt. I knew it was going to blow.”

“I would have gone anyway.”

The villain stilled. “I thought maybe if you never wanted to see me again, and you knew I was there…”

“I would,” the hero repeated. “Have gone anyway.”

The hero watched as the villain’s face rippled through a dozen emotions, settling onto something unidentifiable.

“Why?”

“Because you were there,” the hero said easily, shrugging one shoulder. Because when it came to the villain, it really was that easy. They could scream, and shout, and hold a knife to the hero’s throat, and the hero would still follow them into hell. That was their villain.

The villain looked like the hero had stabbed them, face draining of color. Their fingers went white around the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“What,” the villain’s voice was hoarse.

“I went because I was hoping you would be there,” the hero said honestly

“Stop,” the villain raised a hand between them, a shield, voice breaking. They sucked in a breath, then another, like they were trying to keep themself from breaking down onto the tile.

“You would have gone to the event no matter what, just to see me,” the villain said slowly, and the hero nodded

“Yes.”

“Even though I screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“And told you I hated you.”

“Villain, please–”

“Now you know,” the villain interrupted, voice incredibly soft. “Why I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero forgot to breathe for a moment, tongue going numb in their mouth. The villain couldn’t mean–

They blinked for a moment too long, and then the villain was standing between the hero’s knees, hand on their chest.

“You love me,” the hero said a moment later.

“Ruinously,” the villain agreed.

“So you–”

“I was trying to save your life,” the villain’s hands were gentle as they began to patch up the hero’s side. “And now I’m saving your life in a new and unanticipated way. But there is nothing you could ever do to stop me from saving your life.”

The hero’s heart clenched. 

“Really?”

The villain caught their chin, eyes boring into the hero’s. They brushed a piece of hair off the side of the hero’s face.

“Really.”

The hero sighed, and the villain caught them as they slumped.

“I thought you hated me,” the hero said, and they hated how raw they sounded. The villain made a choked little noise.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hero sniffed.

“Don’t do it again.”

The villain simply hummed, and smoothed the ends of a bandage down against the hero’s abdomen. The hero could feel their hands shaking.

You scared me.

A second later, their hands settled on either side of the hero’s head, and the villain rested their face into the hero’s hair. They pressed a kiss to the hero’s temple, tension easing from their shoulders.

I’m sorry.

The hero clutched the front of the villain’s shirt between their hands, drawing them closer. The villain went willingly, loose limbed with affection and the rapid draining of terror from their system.

“I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero had never believed anyone more.

[mrsoharaa]

Gojo Satoru, who has you sat upon the medical table of Shoko's lab while heavily making out with you. Squeezes his way in between the open space in between your legs, caresses the curves of your waist with one hand as the other clasp gently yet, intently, along the juncture of your jaw. Literally, stealing every hefty breath from you. Grumbled and muffled moans sputter against the softness of his perfectly glossed lips from your own, your own hands finally finding refuge through the snowy locks that settled upon his head.

So lost in the spiraling torrid sensation of your entangled tongues and lapping lips, you haven't even recognized the familiar presence shadowing just right outside of the door. Arms crossing over one another, within the sleeves of his robes, and a tiny, wicked grin spreading across his cheeks.

Who would've thought, that after these long, pretentious ten years of no contact...he would find his two (former) best friends, his ex lover (you), indulging shamelessly with one another.

[three-sentence-ficathon]

It Begins!

Three Sentence Ficathon 2025 is officially live! GO GO GO

There have been a few updates to rules we would appreciate everyone taking a look at so everyone is on the same page and then

Go absolutely wild, torture language, write and prompt things you never dreamed of and others you've been dreaming of for ages and everything inbetween.

Have fun!

[muirmarie]

three sentences meme: spones! (prompt... secret relationship? but anything you wanna write is ok!) thank you <3

"You're gonna get us caught," McCoy says, his voice husky as he pulls Spock further into the recesses of the closet. Spock's hands are drawn to McCoy as they always are—one hand cupping McCoy's cheek, his thumb sliding gently over McCoy's cheekbone, his other hand on McCoy's waist, the heat of his body through his shirts heady against Spock's palm.

"You did say you were unhappy with lying to Jim," Spock says, says it just to watch the irritated frown sweep across McCoy's face, even as McCoy's hands shift to Spock's back, pulling him in even closer. Spock steps forward easily—thinks McCoy would call it eagerly, even, but the doctor has a gift for exaggeration.

"Somehow I don't think the best way for him to find out is for him to walk in on us making out in a closet like a couple of teenagers—especially not while he's got two admirals and three ambassadors in tow," McCoy hisses. His gaze has dropped to Spock's mouth, though, and while Spock knows that—in this one instant—McCoy is correct, he is finding it difficult to focus on an escape plan or, as the sounds of footsteps in the distance grow louder—even an explanation that could somehow extricate themselves from this situation.

It's troubling, as well, that he cannot blame McCoy for this specific lapse in judgment, as it was, in fact, he who convinced the doctor that they could slip away from the gala without being missed. Not that McCoy needed much convincing, in fairness, but if he is truly upset—

"Leonard—" he says quietly, his gaze dragging back up to McCoy's eyes from where, at some point, it had slid down to his lips, "I apologize if—"

"Uh uh," McCoy says. "I'm going to cover your ears with my hands, and you're going to block my face, and Jim will probably still know it's us, but he'll get the others away."

"Doctor—" he says, doubt fairly dripping across his syllables, but then McCoy's palms are gentle against Spock's ears, pulling him forward, pulling him towards him.

Spock goes easily, his mouth opening warm against McCoy's.

(Kirk, later, insists Spock had gone eagerly, but he was clearly just as mistaken as McCoy.)

[wikiangela]

several sentence sunday

so this is another fic I started on my vacation (I started three, and had one idea I haven't started yet lol - and one is already posted) - also, the two weeks here might change bc I'm struggling with the timeline (which doesn't matter but also it does lol) but I'll figure it out haha

(I'm still writing all my other wips btw, and gonna get to all the asks, but the writing beans have been gone lately, and I've been too exhausted lol - and my brain is so all over the place with my wips, idk what I wanna get to more)

___

Evan knows he’s in love with Tommy about two weeks into their relationship.

(...)

They still barely know each other, but Evan knows. He can’t explain why, can’t explain how, he just knows. Tommy Kinard is it for him.

The moment he realizes it with utmost clarity is nothing special, really. He just spent the night at Tommy’s – not the first one, but it’s still new enough to fill him with nervous, giddy excitement, butterflies swirling in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt in years before Tommy. Everything about Tommy makes him feel like this. Tommy’s eye-crinkling, nose-scrunching adorable smile; Tommy’s eyes, always so fond when he looks at him; Tommy’s lips that taste so amazing Buck never wants to stop kissing him; Tommy’s big, big hands that feels so good in Buck’s, those strong arms and broad shoulders… – just everything about Tommy. At first Buck thought it’s the newness of this, of Tommy, of knowing about his bisexuality. But he’s also gotten so comfortable with Tommy in such a short time, and it doesn't even really feel new anymore, he knows it must be just him, must be Tommy making him feel like a giddy teen with a crush. Except the way this feels… Buck’s a grown man with tons of experience, and he knows how infatuation feels, how a simple crush and attraction feels, how real love feels. And he knows, deep down in his core, in his soul, in his heart, that this is real, that this is definitely more than a crush. This is what love feels like.

___

no pressure tags (lmk if you wanna be added or removed):

@dr-shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @ladydorian05 @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @rainbow-nerdss @pirrusstuff @bucks-daddy-issues @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazheartsbuckley @giddyupbuck @thewolvesof1998 @underwaterninja13 @your-catfish-friend @kinard-buckley @evansboyfriend @beyourownanchor6 @weewootruck @kirkaut @jewishbuckley @loveyouanyway @daffi-990 @lonelychicago @reformedplayerbibuck @spotsandsocks @bucked-it-up @theotherbuckley @drcloyd @bidisasterevankinard @tizniz @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @girlwonder-writes @perfectlysunny02 @dadbodbuck

[thursdaysyme]

another criminally wrong developmental milestone for the books, this time a fic said a 4yo couldn’t talk

[wingdingery]

Dick slips in through his window and frowns at the figure sitting upright on the bed, gun cradled in his lap—they didn’t have plans to meet up, as far as he knew, and unplanned meetups were never a good thing between the two of them. “What are you doing here?”

“Take a guess,” Deathstroke says, and takes the shot.

[emyn-arnens]

That Which They Defend

@three-sentence-ficathon | AO3

Faramir points to the maps of old and traces with his finger the old, bloated borders of the kingdom, sustained by a tithe of too much blood, Gondorian and foe alike, and he reads from history books of the excesses of the kings of old, grown rich from conquest and yet spreading their kingdom thinner than the gauzy silks of the south, always seeking for more, grasping at it even as it slipped from their fingers, so like to the vanity that brought the end of the Sea-kings of old. “It begins with borders,” he says, his eyes grey and grave as he regards Boromir. The eyes of the Sea-kings, the eyes of the conquerors. Yes, he and Faramir ought to know.

Faramir points to the recent census—the numbers so much smaller than that of Gondor at its height, their people culled by the long years of war. “Shall we ask our people to spill yet more blood—and upon fields far from home?” he asks of Boromir.

He leads Boromir through the treasury, pointing to the emptied coffers, so recently poured out upon the war in Umbar, and he lists the names of the fiefs and towns in debt to the crown, still struggling to heave off the weight of the years of war. “Shall we ask our people to give yet more, to empty their purses for the acquiring of lands they shall never see?” he asks.

He takes Boromir through the wing of the citadel given to the hostages of Harad, the princes that while their days in the court of Minas Tirith, forgetting the faces of their fathers and mothers, their brothers and their sisters, whittling away the edges of themselves that speak of Harad until they become something more Gondorian. “Shall we fill our halls with the princes of foreign lands?” he asks.

“Wars ought only to be waged to defend,” Faramir says, and Boromir understands: There is nothing to be defended but the hope of regaining past glory.

And when Aragorn announces his plans for war in the East, Boromir stands at his brother’s side and counsels peace.

[contentment-of-cats]

Chiss/Human hybrids

1: Chiss are diverged from their Human ancestry. The Chiss hate to admit that Humans are the root of their family tree.

2: Chiss DNA has differences from that of standard Humans, but the remains of the symbiont adapt to hybridization with near-human species. While viable pregnancies are unusual, they are not rare outside of the Ascendancy.

3: However, where there is a Chiss father, those are some big babies. Chiss babies weigh an average of 9 pounds at a full-term birth. This is small when the average Chiss woman is about 6'4" tall. Tell an average 5'6" Human woman that she's having a 9 pound baby and she's probably going to kill you.

4: Chiss women with Human partners get to deliver a average 7 pound baby. Also as far as male Human/female Chiss pairings - "Smaller works harder."

5: Chiss can tell a lot about Humans from infrared (it's called 'getting hot' for a reason) and scent. They can also see the standard Human Blaschko's lines - like tabby stripes - when most humans/near-humans can't. They like the stripes and think we're cute - like tookas.

6: A hybrid child will have the outward appearance of the Chiss parent, but the hair color/texture of the Human parent. The insult 'moactan teel' means 'light-haired' and is also a term for 'impure' ancestry. It also speaks to previous Chiss/Human pairings and thus Human DNA in the vaunted Chiss genome. Likewise, there is Chiss DNA in Human populations from the time of the Sith Wars.

7: A hybrid child will be taller than average for a Human, shorter than average for a Chiss.

8: One reason that the Ascendancy wants diaspora Chiss back in is because they have higher birthrates, but also they do not want Chiss straying to the inner systems. Diaspora Chiss populations are mostly in Wild Space or at the very edges of the Chaos - far out of the normal CEDF patrols. They have orders to bring back any moactan teel as well.

9: Hybrids show a stronger tendency - whether male or female - to have Sight and to have it last into adulthood. This leads to those with the talent for navigation into the Navigators' Guild. The guild will never assign an outlander Chiss or a Chiss hybrid to a Chiss vessel. Hybrids also have talents other than telepathy or navigation.

10: Hybrids are mostly smaller than average for Chiss, taller than average for Humans and have a more slender build. Their bones are lighter, and break more easily than Chiss bones. They are prone to detached retinas and ectopia lentis.

[cutestkilla]

Happy time-has-lost-all-meaning-because-my-kids-are-somehow-still-on-summer-vacation Sunday, and thanks for the tags today @blackberrysummerblog @rimeswithpurple @roomwithanopenfire @shrekgogurt @bookish-bogwitch and

@ivelovedhimthroughworse, I'm excited to read your shares! And also to everyone who keeps tagging me in week after week even though I haven't shared in months.

I've been working on Ch 6 of Hiding Out in the Open for a not insignificant chunk of time, but I've either been too busy doing that or just feeling like it's too rough to share. Until today. (So convenient that I feel like it’s ready to share since I’m posting it tomorrow for my dearest @artsyunderstudy's birthday ❤️😂.)

Please join me for our irregularly scheduled Baz spiral which I think might(?) technically be six sentences:

Snow’s kissing my neck now, working his way along my throat in a way that turns my insides to jelly. So naturally, it’s the perfect time for Father’s voice to join the cursed chorus of doubts in my head. Even though he seemed resigned when I called last week to break the news that actually I would be abandoning the hallowed halls of Oxford for the unwashed masses of the LSE in the autumn—thank you for that Daphne—he still managed to forward one brand new objection I can’t seem to completely set aside. “Your aunt tells me you’ve been…seeing someone” —(faithless hag)—“and while I certainly hope you have better judgement than to do this because of a”—he’d pointedly cleared his throat at this point—“romantic entanglement, it remains my duty as your father to warn you. You cannot pin your hopes and dreams on the fickle affections of a twenty-year-old boy”—(yes, ambiguously referring to a twenty-year-old boy who could also be me is the closest my father has ever come to acknowledging my sexuality)—“because while it may feel like it’s forever right now, believe me when I tell you that young love very rarely lasts. Basil—please don’t throw it all away over some silly summer fling that’ll be over before Samhain.”

Tags and hellos for all under the cut, and since Sunday is basically over please consider this a tag in for Wednesday when I may also miraculously share something (or not because I'm taking my kids to a fair).

@hushed-chorus @whatevertheweather @emeryhall @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @aristocratic-otter

@bookish-bogwitch @facewithoutheart @skeedelvee @thewholelemon @monbons

@fatalfangirl @whogaveyoupermission @captain-aralias @j-nipper-95 @iamamythologicalcreature

@raenestee @ileadacharmedlife @onepintobean @martsonmars @brilla-brilla-estrellita

@angelsfalling16 @best--dress @run-for-chamo-miles @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @ic3-que3n

@larkral @letraspal @messofthejess @moodandmist @mooncello

@nightimedreamersworld @orange-peony @palimpsessed @prettygoododds @noblecorgi

@stitchyqueer @technetiumai @that-disabled-princess @theearlgreymage @urban-sith

@valeffelees @youarenevertooold @cosmicalart @wellbelesbian @alexalexinii

@forabeatofadrum @supercutedinosaurs @theimpossibledemon

[aran-morinorea]

I hope it’s not too late to ask about Non-Euclidean Nan Elmoth? Because that sounds fascinating. Glorfindel being confused and in distress is a thing I like more than poor Glorfindel deserves.

It's never too late to ask about Non-Euclidean Nan Elmoth! (also my most recent call for requests is still open, I've decided, no matter how long ago that was) And I'm avoiding my classwork, so you get [checks notes] 250 words

--

The stranger waits patiently while Laurefindelë recovers his breath enough to say, “I - well - I’ve gotten lost. ...Somehow I think you could already tell as much.”

“Yes, I rather could,” the stranger says, his voice dripping condescension. “It’s getting late, and you look weary. Come into my home, traveler, let me offer you meat and drink.” 

Laurefindelë looks down at him, trying to get his brain to work. How late is it? Late afternoon, when he crossed the river, and that wasn’t so long ago. Was it? But - the starlight - Laurefindelë cannot tell if those are actually stars or pinpricks of sunlight, straining to get through the canopy.

How dangerous would it be to accept this person’s hospitality? Is it hospitality at all, or a trap? But if he were entirely hostile, surely he wouldn’t be offering, since he very obviously can lead Laurefindelë wherever he likes.

How dangerous would it be to refuse it? Whoever this person is, he does not seem likely to say, “Oh, that’s all right, if you go that way and take a left at the third sycamore you’ll be out of here on the other side in no time.” He seems more like a “Fine with me, if you want to walk in circles until you starve or get eaten by wild animals” kind of person, if not an “I was just being polite, but now you’re getting locked in my basement instead of given a seat at my dinner table” kind of person.

[peaches2217]

How about 90 and 85 for Mario and Luigi for the prompt challenge?

90: “Remember when we were little?” + 85: “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside.”

"Hey'ey'ey," Mario called from the kitchen before Luigi had so much as touched the doorknob, "it's cold outside! Take my jacket."

He had a second set of eyes, Luigi was convinced, embedded into the back of his head and cleverly camouflaged within his thicket of unruly curls. He scoffed affectionately. "Okay, Mamma."

"Was that supposed to be some kind of a burn? It's an honor to be like Mamma!" Mario stepped out of the kitchen to join his brother in the foyer as he spoke, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows and an apron stained with sauce still tied around his waist. He hardly even looked at Luigi as he nabbed his faded red jacket from the coat hanger, and, without another word, tossed it over the taller brother's shoulders.

Luigi could fit into Mario's clothes just fine, if not perfectly; they were both too short and too large, swallowing him whole despite barely even reaching his hips. It wasn't too cold tonight. He wouldn't protest. "Nah," he laughed, letting Mario guide his arms into the jacket's arm holes, "you're worse than Mamma."

"As if that's my fault," Mario teased right back, hands flecked with odd spices fumbling at the jacket's zipper. "Remember when we were little? You wore my jacket more than I did!"

"And you'd think at least one of us never grew up. Still treating your baby bro like a helpless lil' bambino all these years later, honestly."

Mario's head snapped up and his hands fell from the half-zipped jacket, and Luigi realized, looking into his widened eyes, that he thought he was being serious. Mario's hovering didn't come from a place of distrust or infantilization. That was just how he was. That was how he showed love.

Luigi's grin brightened as he zipped the rest of the way up. He wouldn't trade that quirk for the world. "Oh, quit looking guilty and get back to making dinner. We're both gonna wither away standing around here."

Mario's uncertainty melted away, and he grinned right back, reaching up to ruffle Luigi's hair. "I'll have your plate ready by the time you get back."

"You'd better!" With a quiet laugh and an exchange of Ti voglio benes, Luigi tugged the jacket's hood over his head and stepped out into the darkness of the evening.

[three-sentence-ficathon]

Final Week of 3SF!

Can you believe we're three weeks into Three Sentence Ficathon? And, for the first time, we're opening a FOURTH post, because you all have prompted and written SO MUCH this year. Incredible!

This is the last post of this year, and will remain open for prompts until Sunday, February 9th. Please continue to fill after we close to prompts (some folks have reported seeing fills on their prompts from last year and being delighted by it!).

So go forth and have a great final 3SF week!