#all for the game word prompt

[hailsatanacab]

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

#dpxdc #danny phantom crossover #danny phantom x batman #hoooolllyyy mackeral #it was hubris thinking i could keep anything to five sentences really wasn't it? #fucking played myself with that didn't i??? #anyway here's even more words on this i hope you enjoy!! #some things that didn't make it in: #duke doesn't come to see danny because he's too bright when he's in his ghost form and it gives him a migraine - he still plays the game #though and is second closest! #damian is there he's just biding his time. it's become a tradition for damian to try and stab danny whenever he turns up #he hasn't managed it yet but danny keeps encouraging him to try again! you'll get me next time champ! #it infuriates damian to no end - no he's not doing it because he's having fun he legitimately wants to kill him shut up! #danny loves cass so much and when they do all get together they always sit together - it often ends up with cass curling up around danny #ellie turns up every now and then! she's like an honourary wayne at this point #she's always down for any pranks and shenanigans #thank you for the prompt!! it was very fun. as you can see i got rather carried away haha #thank you i hope you enjoyed it!!! #my writing #cab writes

[jamiesfootball]

some word(s) for you (so you have options): lie, slow, green, night

Thank yoooooooou. I took all the options : )

Lie

Soon as he was given the all-clear, Jamie checked himself out of the hospital. The doctors fussed at him about concussion protocol, but it was nothing Jamie hadn’t heard before, and once he’d repeated it back to them and assured them that he had someone back at the house who could look after him, they were mollified. Jamie called himself an Uber and went home. It wasn't a lie, technically. They didn’t need to know it was more the other way around. Wasn’t his first concussion but it wasn’t his dad’s either. Jamie stiffened as James tilted his face up into the kitchen light. His old man let out a low whistle. “Damn, Barnett really has it in for you, lad.” He sounded impressed. “Recorded the match. The second you got carted off, Obisanya lost the ball in a challenge. Nearly bottled it once he got it back, but the scoundrel pulled through in injury time.” He leaned in like they were conspiring together. “Injury time you earned them, by the way.” Jamie didn’t comment.

Slow

Slowly, Jamie relaxed. Jan took the cue and applied more pressure. He pushed his thumbs into the base of his skull, drawing circles as he worked his way upwards. The hair in the back was shorn short so it was fairly easy to clean. He scrubbed everything back and forth, up and down, until the bristles were squeaky and smooth under his fingers. He cupped his hand under the water. "Head down."

Green

Jamie huffed. "Not gonna need more coffee at this rate." He scrubbed a hand over his face - and then buried his face in both his hands, rubbing at the circles under his eyes. "Sorry." "For what?" "For this. When I called him last night, I didn't think he'd show up." Roy froze. He squeezed the mug of tea in his hands, let the warmth ground him. He counted backwards from ten, forwards to ten counting all the things he could spy outside that were green (all of them), and then backwards from ten again for good measure.

Night

At night the pain came for him. He woke with his leg on fire. The days did not let him heal; the nights were for prolonging the agony. Each moment as fresh as the first. Ceaseless. Unending. A fire that would not let him die. Dani learned to be grateful that in this place, the fire was only a metaphor.

#these are from *gestures* all over #word game wednesday #writing snippet #jamie tartt #dani rojas #roy kent #jan maas #uh one of them whump prompt sequels #gift fic #fic: oh god you're gonna get it (you have not been given love) #fic: the vacant house behind our home

[fiadorable]

For the three word prompt thing, Una and Chris, #6 or #23 please!

#6 for Pikeuna: Be gentle, please. Number One checks on Pike after the events of "All Those Who Wander".

As captain, Chris' quarters had the most and best viewports on the ship, and he kept them open as much as possible. "It's why we're up here, isn't it," he'd said one night, fingers trailing shivery patterns up her spine as they lay tangled in his sheets. "To be among the stars."

Tonight, every viewport was shuttered.

Number One stepped far enough into Chris' quarters for the doors to close behind her, and then stopped. The lights were off, the main section of the room lit only by an aging fire crackling in the fireplace. A glint of light reflecting off a squat glass bottle on the coffee table caught her eye, drawing her gaze to the couch. As her eyes adjusted, the lumpy form occupying it gradually took shape as a supine Chris.

"Captain?" she asked, squinting.

"What do you need, Number One?" Chris' voice was rough and papery, and punctuated with the sharp clink of a glass being set on the floor.

Number One clasped her hands behind her back. "Permission to enter?"

His silence siphoned the air from the room, her lungs, had her pulse pounding in her ears and her palms sweating. Her thoughts spun back to the dizzying, tense moment on the bridge earlier when his shuttle wasn't at their rendezvous point. She'd sent a scout shuttle down to the surface to report in, the minutes without contact ticking by like a cord winding tighter and tighter around her chest.

"Granted," Chris finally rasped.

Number One unclenched her jaw and let her arms fall to her sides. She approached the couch with soft, deliberate steps. There was a little space on the cushion near his feet. She sat, resting a hand on his blanket-covered knee.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Do you?"

Number One shook her head. "No, I would very much like to not talk for a while."

Chris shifted from his back to his side, pushing her toward the edge of the cushion with his foot. "C'mere."

She rose and resettled in the curve created by his upper body. Her palm skimmed his arm, followed the arc of his shoulder down to the warm dampness on his cheek.

Lifting his hand, he traced the full curve of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. His palm cradled her cheek.

Number One covered his hand with hers. She kissed his wrist, and then helped him stand, leading him toward the sleeping alcove. Here, the viewports above his bed were open, blanketing the room in a dim silver. Stars crawled past as the ship towed its precious, broken cargo.

When her shins knocked the foot of his bed frame, she turned, hands rising to press against his chest.

Chris' arms encircled her waist, tugged her body close to his until their foreheads were touching and their breath mingled between them like a fog.

He was here. He was alive. His heart beat a furtive tattoo beneath her palms.

Here. Alive. Heart beating.

Gasping, her, when his hands rucked up her uniform and undershirt in one move, trailing fire across her skin.

Groaning, him, when she dragged her fingernails through the thicket of silver hair at the nape of his neck.

"Please," she whispered, nosing his face upward. Pressing her lips to his, hard. No, that felt wrong. He tensed. Number One softened the kiss. Gentle, her feathery kiss to his upper lip said. I'll be gentle.

Chris melted into her embrace. She guided him down to the bed, then removed her boots. The viewport controls were on his side of the bed. She walked over, touched her fingertips to the prompt that would lower the shades.

From the bed, Chris looked up at her with glassy, questioning eyes before darkness reclaimed the room. Number One crawled into the bed, cradled his body with her own. "It's why we're up here together, isn't it? To be among each other when the stars are too bright."

One hundred thousand apologies for the late response to your prompt, @lindsaybob. This one needed to steep in my WIP pile for a few months. 😅

just like lindsay, you, too, can try your luck and send me a prompt and a pairing

#star trek strange new worlds #pikeuna #pike x una #fiadorable writes #christopher pike #una chin riley #number one #all those who wander #prompt game: three words #prompt: lindsaybob

[athenagranted]

seven sentence sunday

thank u for the tags @housewifebuck & @shitouttabuck 🥰

from a writing prompt that cam sent me: 33 - ("I love you.")

Things could be better, though. They could be better in a lot of ways, which is why he finds himself sprawled upside down on the hard, cold tile floor of Evan Buckley’s loft, staring up at the ceiling with his feet propped up on one of the armchairs and fingers loosely wrapped around a near-empty beer bottle, listening to Buck ramble on and on about how Atlantic puffins mate for life. It’s not the most comfortable position to be in, but it was either this or sitting on the gray, admittedly nice couch that Buck chose with Natalia and didn’t have the heart to get rid of once she left — “It felt like me, Eddie. I might’ve chosen it with her, but it really, really feels like me” — that the bitter, less charitable part of Eddie doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. “They come back, y’know?” Buck slurs from where he’s lying in a similar position on the ground. Eddie nods, mumbling out something that he hopes sounds like agreement but comes sounding more like a whine. Buck doesn’t take any notice, segueing into a rant about how puffins keep in contact during the months that they’re not together, and Eddie, drunk as he is, still smiles because it’s hard to feel lonely surrounded by the comforting warmth of Evan Buckley’s booming voice echoing across the loft. 

no pressure tagging @captain-hen @basiltonpitch @diazblunt @likegoldintheair and anyone else who would like to do this ❤

#i actually wrote all of this + more today....600 words in one day is more than i've written in months. thank u for the prompt cam ily #buddie #911 #rae writes #rae.txt #tag games

[blorbologist]

37 feeblemind vax and your choice

37. Feeblemind

You blast the mind of a creature that you can see within range, attempting to shatter its intellect and personality. The target takes 4d6 psychic damage and must make an Intelligence saving throw.

On a failed save, the creature's Intelligence and Charisma scores become 1. The creature can't cast spells, activate magic items, understand language, or communicate in any intelligible way. The creature can, however, identify its friends, follow them, and even protect them.

[Oh y’all are gonna hate me for this]

It’s been a while since Keyleth has felt like a natural disaster. Do asteroid impacts count? Because she makes the ground buckle and splinter so hard she hopes that damn moon feels it.

She shouldn’t take any pleasure in it. This is work. But this is also saving the world, this is what she was born to do - this is what she hasn’t gotten to do, in a long while, and it feels good to let loose and roar with the fury of the world itself. 

As an Earth Elemental, most of her understanding of the world comes down to vibrations - she feels more than hears the metal screaming in protest as its foundations are ruined. Instinctively, she can see the movements of all the very, very squishy people around her, though it takes a moment to differentiate the Ruby Vanguard from her people. Best of all, the boulders of bulk make pain only a slight sandpaper scrape -

Keyleth can’t see Ludinus turn to look at her. Intuit it, from the heavy unease that quiets her thoughts. Birds stop singing when a predator is about - it’s a lot like that, being looked at by a wizard. 

It’s familiar, is what she means, and she knows how to react to it. 

She can’t. Is the problem.

She can’t, because she - 

She can’t.

He did something. Something - something terrible, something just as familiar. With his mouth - words. Couldn’t hear it, not with the roaring end of the world. But he did and this is - she knows but she doesn’t and it’s terrifying.

She sees familiar faces. Another mage, a pretty mage, a safe mage. A dragon, and the mere memory makes her earth arch into scared spines. Too many teeth, too many, and with no order to them, just predator and scared and furious and she feels the same and she -

This shouldn’t hurt. But this thing is prying her apart, stone by stone and sending grit flying and it’s worse than blood because it’s part of her, and she’s smaller with each strike until she’s - she’s not. 

She’s not, and that’s shocking, to be herself again, and she’s not - she can get a lot more hacked off her like this, she realizes, as the blade smiles with mud that looks red under the moon and the woman lifts it.

Move. Move. She can move - but it’s a stumble back on her elbows, and that’s not what should move, it’s her mouth. Move in the right way, she knows the sounds she needs to make, so why can she only scream - 

(It is better, that she knows what’s coming? Even like this, even when she knows nothing, nothing of what she should. She knows the darkness. She met it in foam and beachrocks, once. It’s not that bad. It might even be better than this terror, this everything wrong, because he might be there.)

(If she were a dragon, at least she could tear them apart. The dragon tore apart her friends. At least she knows what a dragon is - primeval, the fear for great reptiles that dig you out of your nest to eat you even as you wake.)

(All this time before it comes and she can’t - she can’t - she can’t use it for anything but trying, and trying, and not -)

She isn’t scared of birds. Maybe she should be, in the same way scales and teeth send her heart running. 

Her world is black feathers. Feathers are downy nests and hair and comfort. A dark night, many dark nights, where she sheds her skin and finds his warm. Wings beat, heavy, and her heart tries to slow to match them. 

Feathers mean him mean her world is whole, even when she isn’t.

She hadn’t - they shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.

He is.

There’s something on his lips. It should mean the world to her, she knows. It should mean she’s safe. 

She can move. They haven’t robbed her of this. She could reach out and touch him.

Frozen not by terrors beyond her, but by confusion, by her own confusion. Her own fear, that she doesn’t know who he is, even when she should, she should, better than her own - it’s on her mind every night, every night, and she can’t think it now and can’t say it to him and the shame mingles with the fear with the easing in her tense muscles and she can’t.

Can’t. 

And then she couldn’t if she wants to, because he’s gone, and she doesn’t understand. 

Not sure she wants to - maybe, maybe like this, it hurts less.

[Send me a spell and I'll write a ficlet/snippet to go with it!]

#tldr Ludinus cast Feeblemind instead of Power Word Stun on Keyleth. because we KNOW he has that fuckin spell #so. it isnt directly Vax getting Feebleminded. and it's all hurt no comfort. but. :D #critical role #campaign 3 #vox machina #cr3e51 #vaxleth #keyleth #vax'ildan #ludinus da'leth #cr fanfic #critical role fanfiction #ask game #fic prompt #spell ask game #my writing

[zorilleerrant]

Hi, just saw the word prompt thing? I don't know if you're still doing them or taking them, but if you are, would you mind something with either 25: Hair or 27: Sick with Bruce and/or Jason? Thank you so much! Love your writing ❤️❤️❤️

(absolutely still taking them! see this is the problem with reblogging everything in a row instead of in a queue because that post is like three hours old or something)

"I'm not sick," Jason says, once the coughing fit is over, trying to shove himself away from Bruce without stumbling over. If he falls while Bruce is watching, Bruce will know he's lying, and then he's done for. The thought only occurs to him when he's already leaning against Bruce's shoulder.

"I know you're not, Champ," Bruce says, and it's ridiculous hearing that tone of voice when he's full on Batman mode, the cowl on with smudges of greasepaint all across his eyelids, wrapping the cape around him like when he was small. It doesn't work. The cape back then was soft, quilted one patch at a time by Alfred's careful hand, and warm enough to keep at least the chill of Gotham's winds howling over rooftops at bay. Now it's the thinnest nanofiber metamaterial Jason's ever seen, soft as silk but not half as warm.

It's a nice night. He's only cold because he has the flu, but Jason always wears a mask, so why is that his fucking problem? Nothing's supposed to be able to get through the filters. Not even whatever has Bruce so wary, using dad voice even through his gas mask. "I'm fine. There's just a problem with the filters." Is there a problem with the filters? He was coughing earlier, and something smelled deep maroon and ominous. The people shuffling around the building - no one left inside, but not so far removed yet - are coughing, too. Speaking in strange voices, like they don't know what they're saying themselves. Their faces screw up when they try to talk.

"Jaylad? Are you with me?" Bruce says, pulling Jason's full weight against his chest, as if they're not in front of a crowd right now, cameras pointed at them from all sides. Jason barely refrains from shoving him away, feeling like a little kid trying not to get hugged at school again, and aware that most of the reason he's not pushing is that he doesn't have the energy, and he needs something to balance his weight on anyhow. "How much of that stuff did you breathe in? Here, list off your siblings, will you? I don't know who's behind this new toxin, but we'll find them."

"No one's behind it," Jason says, completely ignoring Bruce's instruction, and fuck him for trying to give it, anyway, Jason is fine. "Look around at the fucking building, B, it was a science fair. It was an accident. No one was behind - okay, actually, that's a lie, Black Mask is behind it, but it's not exactly like you can throw him off a roof over it, so." Jason can throw him off a roof. Maybe. Once he gets a good night's sleep, at least. Oh, fuck, sleep sounds good, right about now. If only Bruce would hurry up and get him to the Batmobile. Of course, if he says that, Batman's going to worry. Like an asshole.

"Black Mask?" Bruce says, in horror, finally moving them in the direction of the car, finally moving Jason out of the way of paramedics that he's absolutely certain would demand to take his temperature and then the jig would be up. "What the hell does he have to do with any of it? How long has he been running this plot?" Oh, sure, once you bring Roman up, Bruce is all invested again. Couldn't have just listened when Jason said the sprinkler systems needed to be double checked. 'Oh we just checked them last week' last week before the last villain siphoned toxins through them again, yeah. Some detective.

"Well, it's not about to help to fight crime at him, B, I assure you, all of his horrifying chemicals are perfectly legal," Jason says, climbing into the chair and reclining it so he can lie down and never get up again. He almost can't hear himself over the roar of the Batmobile's engine. "Some idiot posts a video about how you can hack the blush, soak it in alcohol and precipitate out the metallic component. You know the new bronze and silver ones? Yeah. Well, if you're not careful, you know. I was checking to see if it's made of Nth metal. Some precocious teens beat me to it, I guess."

"That can't possibly be legal," Bruce says, taking a curve a little bit slower than Jason would've expected him to, even on the drive home, even while they're having a totally civil conversation and Jason hasn't yet resorted to trying to bite him. "There are all sorts of regulations on strange metals. We voted on a referendum last week! And you're telling me he's doing this through his company? To, what, entice kids to accidentally cobble together bombs?"

"He doesn't fucking care about the kids, Bruce. I don't even know if he knows - like the advertising isn't even aiming at them, it's aiming at, fuck, celebrities and influencers and shit, he probably doesn't even know it can do this or he'd be selling the shit to Wall," Jason says, tiredly, words that would be mumbled through his hands if his helmet weren't beaming them straight to Bruce's earpiece. "He just found a way to pawn off his trash to the rest of his company, and told them to come up with profits. And they did! Like you always say, crime doesn't fucking pay, eh?"

"Okay. I very much do not want Amanda Waller to get her hands on this. You really think that's his long term plan?" Jason shuts his eyes, not that Bruce can tell under the mask. Because, like, did he fucking say that? Bruce never listens when Jason tries to explain in completely straightforward English - or any other fucking thing - what is going on in Gotham. He missed the limited edition pretzels, too. Asshole. A warm gust of wind blows across his face and Jason realizes that, at some point while he wasn't responding, Bruce pulled his helmet off. Undoing all the latches silently and everything. He's saying something soothing.

Jason ignores him. Wiggles his mouth a little; it's always easier talking when you don't have to aim directly at the mic. He's used to it enough it's reflexive by this point, but it still makes his jaw sore. "Yo, you know the mayor's get kickbacks, even the new one - I mean, I didn't ask him personally, so his kickback may be, like, his own head - there's no such thing as a regulation with no loopholes in Gotham." And then the kids try to mix it up and test out cool new properties, two projects get too close to each other, someone's baking soda volcano sets of a chain reaction or whatever happened in there. The sprinklers took a beat too long to set themselves in motion, Jason knows that part for sure.

"Jay, kiddo, you sound like you swallowed an entire sheep worth of steel wool," Bruce says, in that grudging way where he's trying to show emotion the way Leslie taught him to, but he sucks at it, because Alfie's British and never made proper expressions when he was a kid. Only the thing is he's turned the car to whisper mode and Jason can barely feel the rumble of the engines now, and Bruce's hand is stroking through his hair, and he could probably fall asleep, moving car or no. "Let's get you some of Alfred's soup."

"Yeah," Jason says, even though Bruce is right for once in his life, and Jason's voice does sound a thousand times more like sandpaper now that his voice modulator is gone. "Alfred is the one that misses me, sure thing old man." Actually, who Jason really needs to talk to is Lucius. Maybe over the phone, so as not to get him sick. Because if one thing will piss Roman off it's a fucking hostile takeover. Plus then they can hoard the metal to, whatever, build a Batspaceship or who knows what, like that part matters.

Bruce's hand stills, fingertips still cool against Jason's skull, and they just breathe like that for a few moments, in sync and slow, their heart rates slowing to rest, just the way he used to after a panic attack, even though Jason's pretty sure neither of them are panicking, unless Bruce cares a lot more than he assumed about a flu he's pretty sure he's mostly over anyway. Bruce squeezes his neck a little too hard, and hesitates before he opens the door. "Alfred does miss you."

#look i said something #my writing #batman #fanfic #jason todd #prompt game link in replies #this might be a little more Batdad than you were looking for but I see the word 'sick' and hey that's what happens #thank you for this ask I think this is the first time someone's sent a writing prompt for any of the ask games I collect #(btw all old ones are still open if anyone can find them but you'll definitely have to remind me of what they are) #(also I may have to learn to do shorter responses. I can write microfiction real good I swear)

[fourteenthz]

Greetings and farewell for the fic meme hehehe

sophie!! sorry for taking so long with this one!! my weekends are always a mess lol but tysm for the ask heh <3

contrary to popular belief, I do write ancients fluff too ?? it’s easier to write drama and the title DOES suggest otherwise but this fic is just like multiple times that azemet are disgustingly sappy and head over heels for one another. I have a hard time picking snippets so I cut a bit of one of the parts but still,,,,,, here, take 2k words of speculation about convocation customs and azemet.

wip roundup :)

A selfish thought, really, one that is interrupted as white robes of his colleagues approaches him by touching his shoulder and quickly entering his personal space. Emet-Selch, as a reflex, only sighs and lets the smile fall off his lips as the previous Fandaniel passes by him with a smile and waves at him as he walks down the staircase and then towards the door. Lucky him, having fulfilled his duty with so much confidence, he thinks. These thoughts are immediately voiced as another white-robbed soul approaches him.

“Never seen him this happy,” There's a soft voice speaking by his side, and he doesn't have to look up to recognize whose cheerful voice this was from. Emet's eyes fall back to the lower floor as the previous Fandaniel hugs the newer one, one last time, before walking out of the capitol by each other's side. Probably one last farewell, from one mentor to his pupil. It seemed bittersweet in Hermes' eyes, and Emet-Selch still can't understand why. “Are you still unsure?” That same voice insists.

He is. There's no way young Elidibus will understand any of his worries, or anyone else for the matter of fact — having witnessed whatever happened in Elpis, because neither does he — but he still shakes his head as he looks back at this young colleague of his. He almost seems excited at the celebration, blue eyes shining under the golden reflections around them, and it almost eases Emet-Selch's own heart.

Elidibus nods back at him, knowledgeable of his answer, and then sheepishly looks back at his hands, as if he's about to ask for something. Having picked up part of his mannerisms, Emet could even tell who this was about — as the younger's eyes seemed to get brighter and his mouth opened and closed quickly before he could figure out what to say, unlike the emissary who takes charge at their meeting every moon or so.

But then, the sound of the capital's door opening catches them off guard, only to be stopped by another hand by Emet-Selch's shoulder — and by the by, he hoped they'd stop with this habit sooner — he dares to hope, before Loghrif smirk is now on his vision, covering anything behind her by the wall her body makes linked with Mitron in some kind of hug they always seem to be tangled on. In front of the entire Convocation and without any necessity to do so. It always uncomfortably makes Emet-Selch's face twist, as he convinces himself how unprofessional he feels about all this in a vain attempt to not envision himself doing just the same.

“I'm always glad to know your efforts were wasteful, Emet-Selch.” She speaks, leaning her head above Mitron's and smiling wider. “It's always good to celebrate together, you included, believe it or not.”

Emet sighs, his hands finding his hair to push it backward in an exasperated manner, slightly pulling his mask off and scratching his temples.

“It's not a necessity. I thought we could've moved past it.” He shrugged, finally looking back at the younger of the four of them still standing close by his side. “Be that as it may, some enjoy it, so there's no need to terminate this tradition.” He nods at him, knowing that this white robbed soul loved those as much as his dearest friends does, and how that topic was exactly the one he would touch if they were not interrupted by the pair by their side

Elidibus quickly looks back at the floor, probably embarrassed for a second before he laughs it off. “We share this logic.” He speaks more formally now that they are in the presence of others. “Fortunately, Altima does a great job putting this up so quickly.”

Loghrif laughs again, her hands finding Elidibus and ruffling his hair before speaking something back with a hint of tease at Emet-Selch, following this habit of hers. However, as soon as her hands go in front of him, Emet-Selch’s eyes widen instantly as he hears a familiar laugh echoing through the halls. It's not as loud as Loghrif, but the tone of it makes his attention shift immediately from the pair to the crowd that extends through the building. It wasn't loud enough for him to catch it well, but he knew he was right in recognizing her even if he was deafening for an instant — and in this instant now, he was a little too impatient to look at it carefully. It compels him to look for her soul, rather than the mess of white hair like he usually does, and he finds her in a second.

Standing on the left side of the main hallways, already surrounded by another's soul he didn't care to recognize at the moment, he finally focused back on his vision and found her face already looking up at him. By some miracle, she was already using her mask without him having to warn her about it, but the angle of her head, followed by a tilting to the side, and the smile growing wider shows him that he had already been spotted by her before he could do so. He was outsmarted, as she loved to say, and he stood there frozen for a second before the group by her side excused themselves away, and she nodded back at them, eyes quickly returning to him.

The world doesn't stop, as much as it feels like it does, but Azem doesn’t move from her place either. She crosses her arms, looking up at him, smiles turning into a teasing smirk as she watches him, knowing at how his mind uncomfortably goes through a million thoughts. The world doesn't stop because in her gaze Azem instantly seems to pull him to a different universe, away from the people around him, where there can be just the both of them. He grounds himself by putting his hand above Elidibus' shoulder, only to go after that feeling by himself.

“I trust you don't mind me leaving if you excuse me,” he says, not realizing he just cut off Mitron's mid sentence before walking off from between both women and going directly downwards the stairs. He doesn't notice how the pair looks back at Elidibus confused, and neither how amused the younger one looks before he's far away into pulling himself between the crowd and towards her.

He can hear her laugh again, and he isn't sure how, but he does, as he jogs his way and then, suddenly, feels a damn hand on his shoulder again. He had to hold a curse back before he stared at the owner of such a firm grasp over him.

“Do you have a moment?” He doesn't, but Lahabrea is the one asking, so he feels obliged to stop on his tracks.

“Working in the middle of our celebration, Lahabrea?” He asks back, his voice slightly sarcastic, masking how he truly feels like excusing himself from this conversation.

“You mind?” Now, at this exact instant, he really does.

“Not in the slightest,” he lies, checking one last time as he notices her soul moving away from her previous spot. He sighs in defeat and indulges in the conversation for a moment.

“I have been meaning to talk to you about... my particular work, back in Elpis.” He started, somewhat unsure on how to explain, which seemed strange considering he was doing so in such a crowded place. “Not today nor here, but if you're free sometime this week, I'd like to take your time.”

Emet-Selch was free this week about ten minutes ago, not so much anymore, but he'd have to deal with it himself. He would do it, of course, because with how anxious Lahabrea seemed about this, it was important. Before he nods in agreement, he starts again.

“Just, I would ask for your discretion about it — especially with her. She probably knows more than I'm willing to share, things I would rather if you didn't know.” Lahabrea confesses, almost amused, but nothing visible about it on his face. Makes Emet-Selch confused for a moment until his eyes go past him, “speaking of which.”

And then, a warm hand not only touching but holding onto his shoulder, with a gentle and still firm grasp, squeezes him above his robe.

“Gentleman,” it's sarcastic and still sweet with the soft tone that's somewhat unlike how this familiar voice usually carries. It still warms his entire self. “Would you mind if I stealth him for a moment, Speaker.”

Lahabrea chuckles out a scoff, tapping Emet-Selch's arms before nodding. “Sometime this week, yes?”

“With how pressing it seems, I'll return to you tomorrow.” He speaks, trying to mask any excitement. How embarrassing.

“Of course,” Lahabrea speaks back, not buying his acts at all, and nodding back at Azem. “See you.”

He's out of sight in an instant, and just when he sighs and starts with “Are you making a habit of this? Interrupting others-” her arm is linked with his and pulling him away through the crowd. He spills a curse or two through the way, though Azem only chuckles in response to it.

Emet-Selch lets himself be taken away, pulled by Azem running like a child until she enters one of the smaller rooms by the side of the great halls and lets go of his hands. He lets himself fall back and close the door behind him, leaning back at it while watching as she turns around back at him and smiles, a few fulms away from him now, the distance finally closing by her own body slowly going towards him.

“Impressive how much enjoyment you take in being so...” He speaks, trying to sound as he did seconds ago until she finally gets to him, pulling her body the closest she can get while resting both hands by the side of his mask — to which his hands quickly find her wrists, holding her gaze. “reckless.” He finishes his sentences.

Holding her arm in place  doesn't stop her hands from pulling his mask out, he realizes. Azem’s left hand is holding it by his shoulder now while the other rests by the side of his face, her thumb caressing his cheeks and his eyes as soon as he lets his eyelids fall shut. It stops on his temple, and his eyes open up to her smile a lot closer to his.

“You do seem to enjoy it as well, so why wouldn't I?” She whispers quietly, and Emet just hums in back for a moment, noticing how her hand keeps playing with his mask and poking his shoulder non stop. This, he realizes, this he doesn't mind.

“Point taken.” It's clearly enough an end of conversation for her to nod back just quickly before leaving a light peck over his lips.

And then another down his jaw, close to his neck, before grinning back her way up to rest their foreheads together when he groans in annoyance. Azem laughs, nudging the tip of her nose by his chin so her mask could fall back — and though she still kept holding his, her black one falls on the floor — which causes Emet-Selch to sigh and take his free hand and hold her chin so she could stare back at him. She looks like a child, cheeky smile over her lips and mischievous reflecting into her eyes. How done he is, for anyone else now except for her — for this smile, this glimpse over her eyes and that burning soul. His hold tighter slightly, and her smile grows wider while he pulls her lips to his.

“I'm afraid you have forgotten your obligations as an amaurotine, dearest.” He whispers above her lips, and Azem brushes hers above his.

“Bold words for someone not following the protocols either,” she giggles, his hold eases slightly to hold her jaw now.

“It was against my will.” His voice is unreadable for anyone, except for her. Azem could clearly hear the stiffness he forces out, formality out of nowhere, and his eyes fixated on her own — self-control at its finest. Effortlessly tough, contrasting with the way his other hand found her waist.

“And since when do you, Emet-Selch, allow yourself to be coerced like this?” She asks back, and he almost rolls his eyes because — clearly, by the smile above her lips and the way her eyes shine with proudness where his eyes fell over — Azem knew the answer and the reasons why those exceptions were made in the first place, and for who.

“I'm not boosting your ego.” He answers, sounding annoyingly charming.

“Aw, come now!” She laughs, pulling her weight down while her hands hang around his neck now. Emet groans by surprise, and she brings their faces closer. “I deserve that much. A welcome back gift, even — seeing you didn't prepare anything else to greet me with.”

He huffs now, pulling her closer while he exchanges their places so he can cage her against the door — hand still on her face while his right one supported his weight on the door so he wouldn't crush her, not that she ever minded, he knew. “Now, aren't we ungrateful,” he scoffs quietly, trying still to push back the smile that creeps over his lips. “I let myself be dragged by the convocation hallways, away from serious matters that should be discussed. You take my mask off, mock my title while doing so, and here I still am. Being so patient with you.”

“You did allow it yourself, Emet-Selch.” She speaks his name quieter and a lot slower back at him.

The truth is out and, just then, Emet realizes that if he dared to talk back to her now he would end up boosting her ego, after all, there’s just so much he can try to mask; not that she bought any of it.

With the frown gracing his features now, Azem realizes he's running low on banter. He doesn't speak back, but his eyes fall back over her lips, and his hand caresses her cheekbone before his thumb falls from her chin to rest above her throat — his hold is a lot softer now, just as his eyes. Still, the certainty was visible. There's not a discussion to be won, but he still lost, and when this happens, he finds very little patience to do anything else.

So, to put him out of his misery, Azem pulls both hands down his hair and rests them above his chest. “Hades,” she calls softly. He doesn't hum as a reply, nor does his eyes leave her lips, but his grip tightens and loses it in response. “Take me home, will you?”

He doesn't answer either, but now anyone who'd seen could see his prompt reply — how the dark clouds engulfed both of them until there was not a single trace they'd been there save for the dark mask forgotten on the floor.

#again. remember I don't proofread until I'm done with it and i'll only be done with this one once I convince myself to not make #the last farewell be on the final days LMFAO I'm really trying to go only good vibes on this one chief... the angst in some other parts are #just harmless. I'm trying to give emet-selch the fluff he deserves for a bit but MAN this prompt is just so fitting for azem and sundering #angst needs you know... also this part was written like few months ago before the tales of dawn and pandae so sorry if something feels off #anyway. giggles at them. everyday thinking about emet being obsessed with azem is permanently damaging my brain but that wont stop me. #again TYSM FOR SENDING THIS ONE!! sorry for all typos + 2k words thrown at u etc etc hehe hope this makes sense !! #ask game #my writing #kelly says #wol posting #edit: also wow like they are REALLY on each other on this one you guys... it's not near suggestive but they are like ON each other a lot by #the end... idk I just thought it deserved a heads up?? I'm usually lowkey on the fics I post lol this is one is NOT one of them :) #aethergazing

[stardustedknuckles]

Oh noooo, all these Fluff Prompts are way too cute, how am I expected to choose- maybe 1 and 7 together? Beauyasha of course :3

"You look really good in my clothes" and "I could just stare all day"/"creep."

I decided to stay in the canon timeline because I don't do enough of that. post-canon, Yasha and Beau join Fjord and Jester on their ship the way the gods intended and it's always a bit tricky, starting a new chapter of an adventure, but some wonderful things remain constant. Few hundred words.

It was nearly evening when Beau slipped away from the general vicinity of everyone belowdecks, and the sun was in a full and splendid set when Yasha came to find her. Her boots approaching on the wood were soft but deliberate over the sound of the water around them, and something in Beau warmed at the quiet request implied. She didn't turn from the view or the cold breeze stinging at her exposed skin, just patted the ledge beside her and dangled her feet as Yasha made her way up to join her - but not before a rustle and the smell of home as her girlfriend's coat settled on Beau's own shoulders with the sort of warmth that surprised her with the knowledge she had been cold at all. Beau gathered the front in one hand and shivered gratefully as Yasha's leg pressed against hers, and when one great arm rested over her shoulders she abandoned all pretense of stoicism and melted against her side with a long exhale.

"Hey, babe. You feel like contemplating your whole life too?"

"My whole life? Whoof, that's a lot for one sunset." Yasha squeezed her gently. "I mostly wanted to contemplate you, if that's okay."

Beau peeled her eyes from the peach-bottomed clouds over the fading horizon and roved them over Yasha now instead. The cacophony of color around them made pink and purple shimmers of the silver in her hair, violet eye shot bright orange with fading sun and the shadows around her small smile hazy with the last rays of light. "Shit," Beau remarked. "I think you're onto something. I'd definitely rather think about my hot and amazing girlfriend. Sold."

Yasha smiled wider. "I can say I do recommend it." Her lips brushed Beau's forehead, and between the heat of her body and the smell of the too-large coat, the thing Beau had felt wobbling inside of her - the dam bending that had prompted her to seek out solitude - gave a decisive lurch. Beau blinked hard against her blurring vision, but Yasha's face was six inches from her own and her perception doubled when it was about her. "Baby?" Her free hand lifted to Beau's face, fingers calloused and almost reverent where they alighted on her chin and cupped her cheek. "Are you okay?"

Beau lifted a hand to her eyes, exceedingly careful not to nudge Yasha away as she wiped the first tears on the pad of her thumb and sniffed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm actually maybe better than I've ever been?" Yasha's concern faded but didn't vanish completely, a kind of understanding filtering in that brought a fresh ache rippling through her stomach. "It's just weird, I guess. Kinda fucked up, like I'm not really used to feeling this good. I guess I'm just…processing. Life after the Nein, missing people like Veth and Caduceus, you know, who like me too for once…it's still all new." More tears gathered, but Yasha was prepared this time and curled a gentle knuckle to catch them.

"Were you hiding up here? Did I ruin it?"

Beau managed a soggy chuckle and tilted her hand into Yasha's palm with a sniff. "You didn't ruin anything, Yash. I'm glad you're here."

"Okay, good," Yasha breathed. "Because this is a really bad hiding spot."

As though to emphasize her point, a voice came from six feet behind them both. "Grub's up soon!" Marius called. "And we got bacon too."

"No," Beau corrected over her shoulder. "People who have killed something get bacon. If you're good you can have some cinnamon in your oatmeal."

"Oh come on," Marius grumbled. Then, voice growing closer, "Everything alright? You sound -"

"Fine," Yasha said flatly over Beau's head. "She sounds wonderful. Just we're, you know. Enjoying the sunset and the fresh air. Alone, together. We'll be down for dinner, uh." She glanced at Beau. "When we get there."

Beau could hear Marius's lifted hands in his voice as it receded. "Okay, yep. No problem. See you…whenever."

Yasha's gaze stayed focused on his direction for another moment, and then she met Beau's and they both cracked a small smile. "Fucking Marius," said Beau.

"Useless," Yasha agreed. Her thumb stroked Beau's chin. "You look really good in my coat, by the way."

Being held like this, complimented and wanted so plainly - it was still so new to Beau, fresh every time. Only the knowledge that wanting was itself a rebellion of sorts for Yasha, a kind of trust, kept her from a reflexive shrinking from the intensity of her quiet and simple affection - or you know. From crying again.

A hundred deflective innuendos perched at the tip of her tongue, but all she said was, "oh yeah?"

Yasha nodded. "I could just stare. Allllll day."

"Creep."

The delighted chuckle Beau got in response put the sunset to shame, and she was already tilting her chin when Yasha leaned in to press that smile to her own.

"Feel better?" she asked, after. Her fingertips scratched lightly over the fuzz of Beau's undercut, making her a puddle in a new kind of way. "Or, um. Worse? You said you felt really good, but…"

"Better," Beau confirmed. She squeezed Yasha's knee and smiled. "I might go to the crow's nest next time though, heads up. Not hiding from you, but for Marius's sake, y'know, maybe where he can't ask stupid questions."

Yasha nodded seriously. "That's very kind of you."

"Kindest in the realm, remember?"

"Remember? I always knew."

They stepped together off the wide railing of the ship, Yasha's hands reaching to adjust the coat around Beau's shoulders but making no move to reclaim it.

"You know," Beau said, "I almost believe that."

"That you're the kindest person in Exandria?"

"That you had my number from the word go."

"Oh that. I certainly had something. I mean look at you, baby. You've always been incredible."

Beau stuck her arms through the sleeves of Yasha's coat and gave an obliging twirl, gratified and a little stricken by the way Yasha was watching her with open adoration when she stopped with her arms still out. "Don't got a mirror handy. Feel free to tell me how incredible I look."

The sun was well blow the water now, the shadows digging in deeper around Yasha's expression but only serving to make her softer around the eyes. "You look like someone who wants a piggyback ride to dinner, yes?"

Beau lifted her arms higher. "You fucking know it, baby."

They were both giggling when Beau leaped up on her girlfriend's offered back, and as one they headed towards the open galley door and the food and friends waiting below.

#beauyasha #prompt game #flash fic #this started out as extreme hurt/comfort involving five levels of exhaustion #I got 300 words in and was like shit I'm over complicating this #look I'm at the part in c2 where beau is okay with them all being codependent #and they're talking about how they want to travel around and beau likes being a foot soldier #and yasha wants to be where her family is #and I just think that makes better sense as an immediate post-canon m9 life

[a-lonely-dunedain]

12 for Margim & Celeair

12. "help me"

Margim's old habits die hard as it turns out (I think I could've done better with this one, but my brain is deep fried and crispy so Words and Descriptions Do Not Go. I plan to shove all these little prompt fics into an Ao3 fic once I'm done with all of them, so I'll probably clean this one up/flesh it out a bit then.)

There were no casualties for us in the last skirmish with the Dragon-Clan raiders, but still some injuries, and that’s where my work began.

I’ve spent the last few hours in the infirmary with the other two healers patching everyone up. Exhausting but rewarding work, and far less grim for once. There was healing to be done, but no mourning. By the time we were done, no one was in poor enough shape that they would need to stay the night here, so one by one all of our charges were eventually sent home to rest, as were the other two healers. Except for me of course, I offered to stay behind and clean up so they could go to their families. Gathering up bloody rags and discarded vials, making careful notes of what salves and politics had been used so that we could resupply before we ran out, and anything else that needed to be set right. 

Margim often stops by to help me with this, but I have not seen her yet. I imagine she’s celebrating the victory with Elain and her other friends, or has already gone home to rest and is waiting for me there. She looked tired when she returned with the other warriors.

Just then, I hear the door slowly open and soft footsteps approach. It sounds like someone is trying to be quiet, not necessarily trying to hide their presence, but trying not to draw attention to it at least. I look up from what I was doing and see that it’s just Margim. I smile at her "oh, hello Mar!"

“Can you… help me with this?” she asks quietly, although I'm not sure what 'this' is exactly.

“Hm? With wh…” I start to ask, but as she approaches I see the answer and my words seem useless. She moves her cloak aside to reveal a large black stain on her garment, her blood, slowly oozing from a wound on her side.

“You’re hurt!” I exclaim, gently taking her arm and guiding her over to a nearby cot.

“I noticed.” She responds dryly as she sits down, removing her cloak.

“How… How did this happen?” I ask, examining the wound. There is some panic in my voice, although I try to hide it.

“One of the cursed Draig managed to land a blow.” she says bitterly “Only after I caved his skull in, but his dagger found its mark anyway.” This is from the skirmish then, but… that was many hours ago. 

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” I ask in equal parts confusion and worry.

“There were-” she winces as I remove her garment from the cut, I whisper an apology. I’m being as gentle as I can, but the blood has clotted to her clothes and there’s not a way I can do this that won’t sting at least a little. “-There were others more hurt. I would rather not take your attention away from them.”

“There was plenty to go around,” I take a nearby bowl of clean water and carefully start to clean the cut with a cloth, “and I would rather have tended to this sooner… What if it was-”

“If it was more serious I would have had no choice but to come earlier. But the cut was not deep, it could wait.” her tone is strangely defensive.

My brow furrows. Maybe the cut was not deep, but it was still in a place where any injury would be cause for great concern. She’s still bleeding, and ideally, she would not be.

“-really, it hardly even hurt!” she insists

My frown only deepens, it clearly hurts a great deal. Margim sees that I’m not buying the act and lets out a defeated sigh. “...I’m not a very good liar, am I?”

“Not to me, no.” 

I’m nearly done dressing the cut. Luckily she was right that it was not deep, there’s little else I need to do to it, but I am still troubled by the fact that she waited hours before letting anyone see to it. It was not severe this time, but the concerning thought of her trying to hide a more serious injury –and the damage that could be done by that– is still in the forefront of my mind.

“So… why did you hide it then?” I ask quietly.

Margim’s averts her gaze “I… did not wish for the others to see.”

There would have been no shame in it, letting the others know she was hurt, for the other warriors were even bragging about their own wounds when I saw to them. The Caru-Lûth consider scars earned in defense of their land to be a badge of honor, as proof of what they endured for the sake of love and loyalty. The numerous battle-scars Margim already bears were part of the reason they so eagerly accepted her among their ranks, as they seemed visible proof of her strength and devotion. I know Margim would not see the scars from her time in Mordor that way, but whether or not she agreed with their assessment did not change the fact that they respected her for them.

None of them, least of all those who had fought alongside her, would ever think of her as weak for something like this.

“I do not think they would have thought any less of you for it.” I try to assure.

“That’s not what I was afraid of… I… do not know what I was afraid of.” she mutters haltingly, barely loud enough for me to hear. She seems to be looking away at something that isn’t there. “...It's a force of habit, I suppose.”

Ah, that makes more sense then. It was not a fear of shame that caused her to hide the wound, but an instinct carried over from Mordor, where showing any physical weakness would only paint a target on her back.

“You have nothing to fear here.” I say gently as I finish with the bandages, although I do not know if my words will do much to help. It’s not an easy thing for her to unlearn, not when it was fear that kept her alive for so long.

“I know it… but sometimes I think my heart does not believe it. We are not always on the same page.” she mutters slowly

“I understand. Well, a little bit, at least. If there is anything I can do to help, please, let me know.”

“You have already helped a great deal, there is nothing more I would ask of you.” she sighs “I think I would just like to go home and sleep.” she pauses, a somewhat regretful expression on her face "and... I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this."

"It's not a bother to me at all! I'm just glad I you're alright now."

#this ends. very abruptly #as I said brain not do words today. will fix later #I realize I've been doing Celeair's PoV for all the last prompts with them #I think that's bc he's currently Unable to narrate in Bitter Ash and Stubborn Flowers so it's like exclusively Margim PoV there #still I'm gonna try to make Margim the narrator with the next one #idk why but I can only seem to write about these two in first person #3rd pov is easy for everyone else but Margim and Celeair are just more talkative I guess #really idk what's been up with my brain sense yesterday but it's been like #me: ok let's get these last three asks done! #my brain: no (: #me: why not? #my brain: I don't wanna words. if you make me describe one more thing I'm going to bite you #well ok then! #methinks I should wait a bit before trying to get the last two done #lotro #lotro oc #Margim #Celeair #ask games

[girlfriendline]

thoughts on... certain players not using pride tape? you don't have to answer this at all if you don't want to, please feel free to ignore! i'm not looking for each player to be an activist, but to opt out of something the majority of the team is participating in (when you already got out of the major pressure of wearing a jersey!) seems like a statement to me! but it is ultimately some tape, and there's already such a smokescreen over decision-making in these last-minute abandoned pride nights. i'm not sure how to feel about it.

i mean, on a base level i'm just really disappointed in the decisions made last night, even if i had a feeling it was coming after the previous fuck ups around the league. it just opened a door to an option that's all too easy to take suddenly.

as for the players not using pride tape, we don't even know who did and didn't (as viewers at home i mean, idk if anyone was there that took note) but we know there was a number of them just from the warm up clips in the pre-show that didn't. considering some of them also didn't use it last year when the jerseys were worn, i'll be honest, i don't think it means much of anything in either direction. and that's not me letting certain players off the hook because i don't want to think badly of them, it's just. at the end of the day. them using a bit of rainbow tape does not mean they support anything lmao. it would have been nice, sure, for them all to do it, but it would have also been nice if they hadn't made the decision to overturn the jerseys - wherever it came from. whether it was one or multiple players, or someone from management, i don't think we'll ever be told tbh.

tl;dr - hockey is still very much homophobic, and i don't believe for a second there's a valid excuse for pulling the jerseys at the last minute, but i also don't think inspecting who did and didn't use tape is going to get anybody anywhere.

edited to include things i said in the tags bc i think actually it's important:

i would have loved for them all to use the pride tape, would have loved for them all to follow merrill and use it in game, but i think you'll drive yourself mad trying to work out who - if any of them - prompted this decision based on a bit of tape

and if you're struggling with the possibility that one of the guys refused to wear the warmups, that's entirely valid, and i'll be fucked off if it comes out too, but the reality is the expectations are on the floor and there's so much work still to be done to change that

#anon #i've got a lot more thoughts on this honestly but i'm scrambled and nothing's making it into words very well so. this is all i've got #as i said. would have loved for them all to use the pride tape. would have loved for them all to follow merrill and use it in game! #but i think you'll drive yourself mad trying to work out who - if any of them - prompted this decision based on a bit of tape #if you're struggling to deal with the possibility of one of the guys refusing to wear the warmups that's valid - #bc i'll be rat ass pissed at them too if it comes out #but the reality is the expectations are on the floor and there's SO much work still to be done to change that

[milflewis]

charles/seb + "no, it's okay. it's okay. it's going to be fine" (i know you dont vibe w them generally, sry)

“You’re leaving.”

“Ah, Charles, hello,” Sebastian grins at him, pushing his hair back behind his ears, curls nearly at his shoulders. Charles’ fingers itch and he shoves them in his pockets, planting his feet.

“You’re leaving,” Charles says again because there are no other words in his head, Sebastian Vettel is retiring at the end of this year, Sebastian Vettel is leaving. Seb is retiring and he didn’t tell Charles. Sebastian squints at him for a moment, smile faltering before his eyes go all liquid and quiet, mouth curving down at the edges.

“Charles,” he says in the way that he does like he’s trying to say something else and he thinks that Charles understands but he never feels like he does and Seb is leaving —

“Charles,” Sebastian laughs, and reaches out a hand, cupping his elbow, thumb tucked into the soft skin there. “I will still be here, yes? We will still call and write. I’m sorry, I thought you knew that. I didn’t realise I had to say it.”

He swallows, looking down at his feet where his runners are double knotted before meeting Charles’s eyes, something nervous flickering across his face. “I had hoped, ah, I mean I was hoping to ask you if you would like, if you had the time of course, I understand that you are very busy, but if you wanted that you would come to see me sometime? In Switzerland?”

Oh. Charles watches a curl come loose from Sebastian’s headband. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Sebastian is smiling again, face slowly scrunching up and Charles grins back, ducking his head, fingers digging into his palms, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah, I would, I would like that very much.”

#hopefully i schedule this right so you have it when you get up. before u go to uni lol #ok so. not the original words you gave me but hope you like it !! #tried to go all soft n fluffy with them. sorry about the slight angst at the beginning #sigh. i will always write sebchal for u babe. i am too soft it true but i will #sebchal #five sentence prompt fic ask game #one! braincell bestie #niamh.asks

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

14 for the writing asks!

14. Write and share the first sentence of a new fic. Just that.

Mercymorn the First, second saint to serve the King Undying, and the single last competent person left within or without all Nine Houses, had allotted herself a lovely five minutes and fifteen seconds in her, frankly chaotic, schedule to tear out all thirty three of Augustine’s hateful vertebrae.

Send me writing asks!

#lol yes this is for your prompt #run on sentences ftw ig #tlt #the locked tomb #all the bendy punctuations #a string of words #ask games #*writer’s cap*

[pastafossa]

Hi pasta!

Good luck with the storm and also fingers crossed your fiberglass nightmare ends soon <3

I wanted to start writing some matt x reader one shots, but I’m kinda new to writing. Do you have any tips on how to start and actually finish anything?

Ty! I know the room will be worth it in the end because it desperately needed some insulation, but damnnn this is just a nightmare that I'd like to be over LOL.

I can give some tips on starting and finishing, absolutely!

Remember that there's no real pressure with fanfic - it's either for fun or something you can use to hone your skills. This means that either way, it's ok if it's not perfect. You win just by writing, learning something new, or enjoying yourself, so try to remember that if the anxiety monster grabs hold and wants you to give up.

There will be a point while you're writing where you'll likely think what you're writing sucks and should be burned. This happens with every art form, whether it's painting or writing or wood carving. Just shove the screaming voice in a box and tell yourself you can fix it in editing (truth).

Tropes are fun for a reason, so my advice is to start small and pick a beloved trope you can do a fun little drabble on where there's an obvious endpoint. Think Matt having the sniffles and needing care, or him and reader trying to bake Christmas cookies (flirtations and smut optional). These have the benefits of having a clear end which can help when you're worried about finishing. The cookies get baked, or Matt starts feeling better, so there's always this neat little finish line you can direct yourself towards.

You can also grab something from a prompt list! It can be a kiss prompt list, or a hurt/comfort one, smut, fluff, etc. Things with action generally work nicely for one-shots; quotes can be a little harder, but don't be afraid to look at those if you want to try!

If you can't figure out how to start, consider trying this: skip a lot of the initial stuff. If they're baking cookies, you can jump right into, say, Matt coming home to Reader who's already got the ingredients out and ready to mix, and the oven turned on. It'll be made pretty clear in the scene and via dialogue what's happening, so you don't need to include grocery shopping and deciding and finding the recipe, etc etc. This way you can jump right to the fun stuff.

Don't worry about wordcount. When you're new to something, it's alright if it's short, although you might end up going longer!. If you were playing a game and starting at a low level, smacking at a dragon with 50k hitpoints doesn't make a whole lot of sense. You start with rats you can easily shank in 3 hits as you level up. If you have a clear end point (boom, cookies), and a topic you know you can kill, then all you have to focus on is getting there.

When you're writing, just try to write. Let it all flow, get the words out, run with your story idea. I know some people argue about editing as they go, but in my experience, this doesn't work. Editing as you go slows you down, it makes you second guess yourself, and you begin to doubt what you're writing. You're way more likely to stop writing. What you want is word vomit, because absolutely everything can be fixed in editing. This is what I do for TRT and one shots, and it's served me well. Spelling errors? Ignore them. Clumsy sentences? Fix them later. Get your idea out while the muse is hot and save editing for the next day after everything is done.

I hope these tips help! The biggest thing is honestly to just jump. When I first started writing fic as a preteen, my stuff was about the quality level you'd expect, but that's just because I was new to it, and I'd never have gotten to where I am if I'd stopped. Just takes some learning and leveling up. <3

#ask response #writing tips #writing is like leveling in a game #you start at level one and you stab rats 50k times #and eventually you can stab a dragon #but you gotta stab the rats first #so don't be afraid to pull your writing knife out and shank every gd one you see #TRY ALL THE TROPES #try all the genres! #try prompts and short scenes and moods #whatever you think might interest you #figure out what *you* like to write and what you're naturally drawn to #fanfic is the absolute best place to cut your teeth on writing to see if you like doing it #so go for it and word vomit your ideas onto a page #and then read it over a few times for editing and see what happens #maybe it looks like a rat #but that's ok cause i can assure you rats become spiders become bears become lions become ogres become dragons #or you may decide you like sudoku or animal crossing better #and that's ok too

[gingerbreadmonsters]

ginger, cracking an eyelid and thinking about opening requests for a little bit? its more likely than you think 👀👀

#redacted asmr #i never say it in as many words but my askbox is almost always open 🥳🥳 #to be honest i am rubbish at actually filling reqs so its probably not a good idea #im so fucking picky about what to write and the kinds of things that appeal to me #plus like....... most reqs that come in tend to be for things that im either not great at and/or dont particularly vibe with yk #its nobodys fault that writing david feels like pulling teeth its just the way it is you get me #hence why in my pinned it makes it clear that i take Suggestions rather than Requests #thing is i could do reqs or we could do like another ask game or smth #yeah another issue w me and reqs is that my little goblin brain just CANNOT stay on track and it fucks me up Every Time 😭😭 #the prompt will be like 'uhhhh elliott sunshine beach day fluff uwu' and i will get 100 words in and #think 'wait what if they were actually dead/imprisoned/doomed the whole time that would be so fun' and then thats all i can write #i mean i started what was SUPPOSED to be DAMN crew cute halloween fluffy stuff and all of a sudden they're all dead so #not a great track record on my part #i cant stand a close plan there has to be room for improvisation #which is awkward when someone has asked for smth specific 🫣🫣 #ginger rambles #oh also anon is off bc i am not putting up with any more ridiculous horseplay in my inbox no sir #fuck around in my askbox and..... actually don't find out bc surprise! i deleted it already sorry who are you again

[sollucets]

dunno how many of the micro prompts you wanted to do but if ur still doing them, 24 and/or 28? 👀

24 + 28 (tender + something about them)

ren, um. so. hi! 💜 i understand i have a brand, that my content is generally soft, and that you innocently and in most circumstances correctly assumed that sending me the word tender would result in more soft. um. this is... not that? it’s not that. if you want me to make another response to this prompt or have another character you'd like please by all means let me know & i will write you the nicest cotton candy fluff i've ever made

cw: regulus (yandere behavior, mild dehumanizing language)

💜

He thinks about their body in a way he is certain no one else has ever had the chance to, from the inside and outside all at once. He thinks about it like it is his, and it is -- each breath and blink and heartbeat sustained with his magic and his will and his everything. It is his, and yet it is theirs, different in nearly every way from his own.

He is made of magic, whole and entire, even on Elegy, and magic can be kind but it can be cruel, can bite with sharp teeth and swirl in maelstroms and envelop entire worlds should it care to. He's seen it, felt it, hidden from it. The world should be glad that his cares are so directed, that his attention lingers only on them. His duty, his love, his priceless, breakable burden.

The spaces between their bones are where they are the tenderest. The spots that he fills in, the places where their meeting is more him and less them but still both, joined by choice and by force and by love and touch and thought and every single breath. There is soft, living flesh there, at the join of their elbow and the slope of their neck. He has it too, flesh and bone and muscle and blood, but it isn't real, not like they are.

They are different from him, and he should hate it. If his end goal, his moral obligation, is to erase all parts of them that are not him, that are not held in him, then he should want to remove these soft places where they could be hurt. But there is something about them that makes him love it. Everything about them makes him love it. There is nothing about his precious wreckage that he does not love.

He thinks, just maybe, that he knows what the something is. The first moment he'd felt them, the very thing that twined into his soul: a scream. A cry in the dark. A desperate call for someone, anyone, to see them. To understand them. To be with them. To love them. It hadn't changed in that long cold time he'd been gone. That scream has beckoned him since the moment he first heard it, an unending background to the twining, crashing waves of their souls, his first and dearest indication that his work is not finished, that he has yet to know them entire. Someday that scream will go quiet, and they will be complete.

Until that day, he will nestle into their tenderest places and work and watch and wait. They have all the time in the world now. He is in them and they are in him, different or not, and he will never let them leave again.

#ask games #rowan's prompts #softredrobin #redacted asmr #redacted regulus #i dont know what HAPPENED #i mean. okay i do #i didn't know how to answer this prompt since i'd already done 'something about them' in elliott's (and i have another 28 in my inbox) #and for all that my content usually is tender i was a bit stumped on how to put that word itself into the narrative you know #and i kept using 'tender' to describe different things #and it occurred to me that the usual purpose of tender when not about emotion #is about meat #and then my hand slipped #my fic tag

[steelycunt]

did not forget about the last two prompts btw...still doing them 2morrow at the latest...sorry >:-)

#hello sorry i am the worst...tried to do one 2day but words are not coming to me right now...but i still want to do them!! and i will!! #i dont know why whenever i do prompt games i get so stressed and panicked that im taking too long. like why do i impose these #stupid arbitrary deadlines on myself...because i know you're all nice i know none of you are going to be like wow :-/ hurry the fuck up or #dont bother...but in my brain....ough...in my brain...well she's got other ideas...and i am taking too long and everythings awful...but #that is not what this is meant to be! im doing this for fun! so it is fine...we're all good...we're all good :-)