#siken prompt game

[magicinavalon]

hi, mia!

ik we haven't talked before, but i saw you reblogged the siken ask game! 🙈🙈🙈

if you're up for it, prompt 5? monsters are always hungry, darling.

hi fyre!! its nice to meet you. thank you for the ask this was so much fun to write! <3

Merlin can’t recall when it started; this deep, aching pull in his gut. Perhaps, it has always been there. In lingering touches of calloused fingers and quickly stolen glances. In the space between the door and Arthur’s bed at night, just after the last candle is dampened. 

Merlin knows what it’s like to starve, has survived starvation himself in the ruthless country winters of Ealdor. But Arthur steps into the room, keen eyes always searching for Merlin’s own and Merlin is right back in his flour sack bed, a knot so tight in his gut that it threatens to swallow him whole and devour the entire world with it.

How long can someone starve before they lose themselves to it? Farmer Klint had been a perfectly reasonable man, always kind and considerate, but his crop had burned one summer and the winter turned him into someone else. He’d nearly killed a man for a chunk of bread.

If Klint was a monster then, Merlin hates to think what he is now, standing in the graveyard of his loved ones that Camelot has become; all the more desperate to see this through.

Klint died that winter.

Merlin is sure he won’t survive Arthur Pendragon either.

He’s learned these past few years of the many ways a person can die while their heart still beats.

It starts with an impossible choice. The kind that has no happy resolution regardless of the option chosen. It starts with the sacrifice of a friend.

First one, then another. And another.

The innocence Merlin once held has been weathered away over the years, until only the barest of his bones remain, poking out fluorescent white through the emaciated skin of his soul.

Every day, his eyes get closer to bearing the same desperate edge as Klint’s did. As a monster with nothing to lose.

He understands now that monsters don’t exist, they are made; and they are always hungry.

#siken prompt game #mia writes #ficlet #merlin #merthur #fyre tag #ask mia #answered #open ended

[writteninverses]

hiya ! for the prompt game how about 12 and any pairing of yr choice go crazy <33

hi!! this prompt is so AAHHH i love this quote so so much im so glad you sent it!!

12. you were drinking sangria and i was throwing oranges at you.

The Spanish sun is shining bright over their heads. Raging sun rays heading directly to their backs, tanning them in the process. They are trying to find a bar at 4:45pm.

"I told you we should have stayed at the pool, or even the hotel. Now I am feeling how my balls are basically going to melt." Sirius says, using his hand to wipe off the sweat in his forehead.

"Stop being so dramatic, you are the one that is craving some tapas at this godforsaken hour." Remus keeps walking and he finds a free table in a terrace.

They are in a quick 3 day trip in the South of Spain, since Sirius found cheap tickets and he said that it was a total bargain and they had to go because Remus when was the last time we travelled together. Remus thinks that seeing Sirius getting burnt is rewarding for how much he pestered him to do this trip, so he takes comfort in that. Karma, that's what people say.

"Can't we just get some sangrías from the supermarket and sit down in a bench? It’s too fucking hot and I’m beyond tired and I can't keep walking around like a cock with no destination." Sirius rests his chin on Remus' shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist.

"Yeah, alright, we can do that." Remus pats the hands hanging on his belly.

Sirius gets some sangría in plastic bottles and Remus buys oranges because he wants something to snack. They are in a small town visiting for the day, so they find a little waterfall that exudes the cleanest water they have seen in a long time.

They sit down on the rocks, the water flow caressing their feet and Sirius takes a sip from his sangría.

"This is heavenly." And he looks at Remus.

Remus peels one of the oranges and eats one of the segments, "It feels like paradise." And he looks at Sirius.

"Aw, look at you getting all flushed because you love me soooo much and you are sooo glad we are in this trip." Sirius mocks and Remus throws oranges segments at him.

"Shut up, you wanker."

"I love you too, Remus."

Remus sighs, "I love you too."

"Did you just sigh?" Sirius gasps putting a hand on his own chest.

Remus laughs and he feels content, at peace. He's found what he was looking for.

#r/s #my fic #marauders #wolfstar #siken prompt game #i may not have described my own silly town… #the moment i saw sangria i was like OH SPAIN THE HOMELAND

[queenangst]

19 i take off my hands and i give them to you + percabeth perhaps?

19. i take off my hands and i give them to you + percabeth | read on ao3

"...Percy?"

She didn't loosen her grip on her dagger. Not that she'd ever hurt him, but he still might.

"Hey," Annabeth said, to get his attention. "You with me?"

Percy had his back to her. He was still and silent save for his breathing. Then his shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him; he turned a soft cheek towards her, blinking rapidly.

That was enough—Annabeth sheathed her dagger and stepped closer.

"I was just thinking," he told her, then tried to offer a smile. "Sorry."

He hadn't let go of Riptide yet, still holding tight with white knuckles and those callused palms that came with years of holding a sword. They only took a month to form. Annabeth, at seven, had found her skin peeling where she'd gripped her hammer, then her new dagger, hard.

She slipped her hand in his blazer pocket and found the pen cap, then took his wrist to guide him. The sword winked out and back until Percy was left with just the pen.

They'd been on a date. He'd dug through the back of his closet to find a slightly-too-small suit to squeeze into, and had given up on a tie, but he looked handsome when he opened the door to meet her. Not anywhere upscale by any means, but a little nicer than pizza on the sidewalk or diner burgers, to celebrate the new job.

"I'm sorry," Percy muttered. "I just got mad. It's supposed to be over."

She tugged on his hand; reflexively, he finally put Riptide away, and laced his fingers with hers.

"It's over."

The remains of the two dracanae stuck to their shoes. Annabeth stepped over the dust.

"Not this fight, the—" he struggled wordlessly for a second, then, "the fighting."

Two wars, countless prophecies, and quests, and monsters. Annabeth hungered for that kind of adventure at twelve; at twenty-two she knew why Percy was angry, because she felt tired, too. There were internships, and the semester, and dates to worry about now.

Ordinary things. Mortal things.

"Yeah," she said, and squeezed his hand. The calluses might still fade. "Let's go. You got room for dessert?"

#siken fic prompts #asks #ask games #pjo #percabeth #my fanfic

[dykefever]

would you do number 20 with r/s for the prompt game? love your writing, love richard siken, this game is truly the best of both worlds.

hehe thank you!! this is all time classic line i love it <3

20. you’re in a car with a beautiful boy and you're trying not to tell him that you love him.

"No - no - oh god, the brakes, slow down!" Remus winces, slapping his hand over the steering wheel and pulling it to the side to avoid a rubbish bin stranded on the side of the road.

Sirius scoffs. "Moony, if I went any slower we'd be walking." He tosses his hair and straightens his shoulders, one hand reaching towards the gear stick. "Now remind me, do I go up or down if I want to go faster?"

Remus removes his hand and exhales slowly. "Fucking christ," he mutters and glances at Sirius attempting a relaxed position behind the wheel. His shoulders, set firm and high, and the two wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, dispute the casualness he's attempting. Remus smothers a smile behind his palm.

They're on a rock-strewn back road of his postage stamp Welsh town, acres of green hills and the far-off perch of a house all that surrounds them. It's summer and the sun streaks through the windshield and lights up the car, sets Remus on fire with how Sirius looks sun-drenched and flushed, the sleeves of his Sex Pistols t-shirt rolled up over his biceps, a glinting silver hoop dangling from his left lobe.

Remus thinks about putting his mouth to that earring often.

He glances out the windshield and says, "You want to go up a gear."

"Right, yes," Sirius mutters. A pause. "How do I do that again?"

"We're going to die," Remus replies but slips his hand over Sirius's on the gear stick, slots his fingers in the gaps of Sirius’s fingers, skin to skin. His cheeks burn.

"Don't be so dramatic," retorts Sirius. He sounds strained.

Remus clears his throat and nods. "Alright. So, accelerate a little bit, not too much. Yeah - then clutch, yep.” He moves their hands to the side and up, slotting it into the next gear. "Good," he murmurs as they reach a steady thirty kilometers an hour.

He clears his throat again, swallows, and removes his hand. Wipes it on his shorts. His hands are sweaty.

"Look at me!" Sirius grins, reaching a hand off the wheel to smack Remus's chest. He grips the fabric of his shirt, lingers, and the moment stretches out - the graze of his pinkie finger against Remus's bony chest - chewing gum sticky.

"Look at you," he mumbles.

Sirius places his hand back on the wheel. "You're a good teacher, you know."

"I'm not sure about that," he huffs, picking at the dry flake of skin on his first knuckle. He sticks the piece in his mouth as it peels away.

"You are," Sirius says. "Look, I'll even go up another gear!" He revs the car fast and hard, jerking them forward but he's too slow with the clutch and gear movement and the car chokes to a stop in the middle of the dusty road.

Faintly, the radio plays I am an Antichrist/Don't know what I want but I know how to get it.

Remus almost scoffs. His thighs are sticky with sweat against the leather seat.

"Oops," Sirius says, and coughs on a laugh. And Remus presses his mouth to the back of his palm and laughs into it and then they're both cackling in his mum's stalled electric blue Ford Granada in the middle of the road, summer sun beating at their necks.

"It's - " A gasp, he can't stop laughing, "- It's all part of the process."

Sirius whines, head tipping. "I don't like this process anymore."

Remus shakes his head, laughter slipping away. He presses the crown of his head against the seat, grins at Sirius who grins back, eyes crinkling. He looks so sweet when he smiles. It's disarming. That someone that beautiful can be that sweet too, can look at Remus like that. He wants to kiss the corner of his eye where the skin bunches, whisper I love you to that spot.

He won't. He'll never. He settles for smiling at Sirius, their heads tilted back, hay and sheep shit wafting through the rolled down windows. The radio playing, a grass stain smeared on Remus’s knee from when they had been wrestling earlier out the back of his house. Warm limbs; each breath pushing their sweat-slick brass-and-china-chests into one another. It makes Remus hot to think about it.

He looks out the windscreen. "Do you remember how to start the car?"

"Uh." Sirius hums. "No. I don't think I do."

#siken line of all time even !! #i only have one more!! after this!!! and it’s r/j i am gonna have FUN with that :-) #drabbles #writing prompt game

[pancakehouse]

hello bab!! absolutely obsessed with this prompt game idea xx im giving you a choice between 12 and 19--take your pick xox

send me a richard siken line and i'll write a mini fic inspired by it

hi omg HELLO ridi!! isn't it insane! prob the worst idea anyone's ever had im so excited about it!!!!!

ahhh god okay i went with:

19. i take off my hands and i give them to you. (oh also, vaguely nsfw? like not at all but also sorta, to be safe!)

“Did you know I’m left-handed?” 

The question startles Remus. At first, he’s sure he’s misheard, muffled as the words are, spoken into the small dip of skin where his collarbone meets the bony juncture of his shoulder. It was never a spot Remus thought was particularly notable or interesting, at least not until the day Sirius Black decided to attach his lips there, and make it so. 

Remus' breath hitches. “Hm?” he murmurs. His hand tightens in Sirius’ hair, fingers scraping scalp, and he tugs lightly until Sirius lifts his head. “What?” 

Night sky leaks through the curtains, and Sirius’ eyes are shining, lips parted and cherry red. There’s always something that sits heavy in Remus’ stomach on the nights they do this, like holding your breath underwater, or the slow tick of a broken clock. Something that’s over, inevitably, just as soon as they're brave enough to admit it. 

“I said-” And Sirius is grinning, because surely he’s only thinking of the bulge in Remus’ trousers, and how they can be as loud as they want now, here, in their flat, and is not - like Remus - thinking of all the ways he’d break himself apart, limb from limb from limb, if it might drag this thing out a little bit longer. “I said…” Sirius leans in, presses a kiss under Remus’ jaw, “-did you know-” another kiss to his throat, one to his chest, “that I-” cold fingers, skirting under his waistband, “...am left handed.” Sirius finishes with a poke and a loud, wet smack just above his belly-button. He snickers into it, warm breath tickling the hairs there. 

“Yes, Pads,” Remus huffs, stomach trembling, his voice horribly shaky. “Seeing as I shared a dorm with you for seven years, and classes for just as long…yes, Sirius, I had noticed sometime in there that you were left-handed.” 

There’s a moment, still and quiet. The sheets are warm, and balmy summer air drifts through the open window. A bird perches on the sill, claws scratching into chipped white paint and grass that’s sprung up between the cracks. They look at each other - him and Sirius, not him and bird - and the heavy feeling in Remus’ stomach feels sort of nice. Like a weighted blanket.

Eventually, Sirius nods. Slowly. “Well, good,” he says. His mouth quirks in the corner. “Good, because I’ve noticed things about you, too.” 

Remus’ hands find themselves back in Sirius’ hair.

Have you? he wants to ask. What kinds of things?

And then: because there are so many things i’ve noticed about you. i noticed that you went for a run in the rain yesterday and your legs were hurting after and your hair looks lovely when it’s damp. and last week at the park your hands smelled like orange slices and sometimes you smile when i walk into the room and also sometimes you don’t. 

…have you noticed how i always smile? when i see you. but maybe it’s not obvious. maybe you don’t think it’s obvious, just like you don’t think i know you write with your left hand and have a scar across the middle knuckle from Prongs and maybe you don’t realise i kiss it every time i have the chance and maybe you don't notice how the smell of oranges in summer always makes me sneeze. have you noticed that? what else is there to see?

“Alright,” he says instead. Because it’s their flat and it’s his bedroom and Sirius’ knees are around his hips, and maybe he doesn’t feel like being brave enough to acknowledge anything else right now. 

“Alright?” Sirius laughs. “You’ll allow it?” 

“Sure.” Remus cups his cheek, grins slowly, hesitantly, into their next kiss. Do you feel this? he wants to ask. My hands, these hands, these lips…they’re all yours. Do you have any use for them? “Yeah, alright, I’ll allow it.”

#FINALLY a sort of chance to write my fwb post hogwarts pining moment!!! what a thrill they are SO tragic and sweet! #thank you babe for sending this!! kissing you!!!! #sooo wild sitting down to write bc i can laugh on here and say 'god im so slow at writing. haha. just a little quirk about me ;-P' #but to experience it in action...whew. rlly such a spectacle. so much drama for like 300 words its a bit unnecessary if u ask me #my writing #also you n brynn are so in sync shes also sent in 12 so that one will be next xoxoxo <3 #ridi tag #wolfstar #mads’ drabs #<- HA sorry so sorry that’s incredible

[rollercoasterwords]

For the Siken game:

6. I was finding myself sleepless and he was running out of lullabies.

I think this is so the Black brothers. (Regulus realizing that Sirius is giving up on him, and even tho he wants to, still not being capable to be better for Sirius...y'know, the usual)

(this could also work for Jegulus but...Black brothers supremacy😌)

here u go!! it's ummmmm hurt no comfort canon-compliant angst lol read on at ur own risk <3

i was finding myself sleepless and he was running out of lullabies

this prompt list

1971

"sirius," he whispers, and the lump under the covers shifts. regulus hovers in the doorway with an entire hive of bees buzzing beneath his skin, panic thump-thump-thumping in his chest like a heart. he glances back at the dark hallway behind him, imagines he can see a figure moving in the shadows.

"sirius."

a groan, and the lump finally moves, dark mop of hair poking out as his older brother squints towards the open bedroom door.

"what is it, reggie?" he mumbles, sleep-slurred and barely intelligible.

regulus shifts from foot to foot, cheeks heating, eyes prickling. he's ten years old--too old to be sneaking across the hall to his brother's room in the middle of the night. but sirius is going to hogwarts soon, which means he already has a wand, which means--which means maybe--

"i had a bad dream," regulus whispers, too embarrassed to say anything more. but with sirius, he doesn't have to--the older boy sits up, understanding immediately. he doesn't sigh, doesn't laugh, doesn't curl his lip in disgust. instead, he slides out of bed and tiptoes across the floor, whispering,

"okay, come on."

regulus sniffles, drenched by simultaneous waves of shame and relief, and follows his brother back across the hallway to his own room.

in a few minutes, walburga will wake, alerted by kreacher that the boys are out of bed. she'll thunderstorm down the hallway, silk robe flaring like bat's wings, hissing that they should both know better. when she walks into regulus's room to discover his bedsheets set aflame, she'll whirl on sirius with the fire reflected in her eyes, wrath and fury and sleep-deprived rage. but she won't see what's burning--the dark stain, the wet bed. she won't sink her nails into reggie's shoulder, and curl her lip in disgust, and shout that he isn't a baby, so it's time to stop acting like one. she won't be angry with reggie at all. he'll sink into the corner, and her eyes will stay fixed on sirius.

she won't look at regulus once.

1973

"sirius," he mumbles, because he thinks he might be in shock, because sirius said he'd never talk to him again after their last fight (two days ago, outside the astronomy tower, at 4 pm). but here's his big brother, in front of him, crouching down and gripping his shoulders and wide-eyed with worry, like he actually cares.

"are you hurt?" sirius asks, frantic, "reg? are you hurt?"

"ow," regulus winces, belatedly. like the pain didn't exist until sirius was there to care about it. he feels it suddenly, all at once--a sharp shock through his ankle, sprawled out in dry grass.

"come on," sirius huffs, dragging one of regulus's arms over his shoulder to help him stand, "let's get you to the hospital wing."

"i'm fine," regulus mutters, because he still remembers their fight--still remembers every nasty thing sirius said. every nasty thing he said back. they're not supposed to be talking, and regulus certainly isn't supposed to need sirius's help to stand up and limp towards the hospital wing. it feels like admitting to something. it feels like giving in.

sirius rolls his eyes.

"what were you thinking, practicing by yourself?" he tuts, though there's no venom to the reprimand. "you're only supposed to be on the pitch if you've got at least one other person with you. you'll never make the slytherin team if you break your ankles learning to fly."

"i know how to fly."

"right."

"you came out to the pitch alone."

"james is meeting me."

"right."

they're inside now. regulus pushes his brother away, leans against the wall instead. sirius gives him a look, exasperated, shoving a hand through his hair.

"reg--"

"go on, i don't need your help," regulus mutters, sour and pinched, "wouldn't want you to be late for james."

he begins to limp down the corridor, gritting his teeth against the pain. for a moment, there's only silence.

then regulus hears his brother's footsteps, walking away.

1975

"sirius," regulus hisses, poking his head out of the bathroom. sirius turns, swaying slightly--somehow he's gotten into the champagne. he always does this at the christmas parties now, even though he knows their mother tells regulus to keep an eye on him, even though he knows that it'll get both of them in trouble. if you're going to drown yourself in champagne, regulus wants to scream, at least do it where no one will see.

at least don't take me down with you.

"thought you weren't talking to me," sirius says, raising a sarcastic brow. he's got his dress robes rumpled, collar unbuttoned. walburga made him cut off his hair in preparation for their annual christmas gala, and he's been pouting about it ever since. as if he's a child, and not the bloody heir to one of the most ancient families in great britain.

regulus hates him.

he really does.

"sirius," he says, again, and his brother must hear something in his voice--desperation? fear? panic?--because he finally moves closer, slipping through the bathroom door and letting it shut behind him.

"oh," sirius says, looking down at regulus's robes. and then he starts laughing, wheezing so hard he can barely breathe, bending over and wrapping his arms around his stomach.

the stain is massive, all down the front of the robes--some stupid magical punch that one of the lestranges brought, an elderly woman who simply insisted he try it, and then lucius malfoy came over and started asking questions about his cousin, and regulus was trying to talk to them both at once, and--

and if walburga sees the mess he's made, she'll never forgive him for embarrassing her in front of their guests. she can't see him like this--she can't.

regulus is meant to be the good son.

he's not sure what's happening on his face, but whatever it is makes sirius stop laughing. regulus stares at his older brother, helplessly, and sirius stares back. after a moment, he says,

"you really need to stop caring so much about what she thinks, reggie."

"she's our mother."

"you do have other dress robes."

"she'll notice if i change."

his voice buckles at the end, cracking. sirius doesn't comment on it. instead, he starts unbuttoning his robes.

"what are y--"

"come on," sirius says, casually, "we'll switch." their robes are exactly the same, ordered special from madam malkin's specifically for this gala. slytherin-green.

regulus swallows the lump in his throat.

"okay," he says, quietly.

two days later, sirius leaves.

he never comes back.

1977

"please," says the muggle, "please, i have money, just don't hurt me."

he's crying. it's disconcerting. he's a grown man, hair greying at the temples. grown men shouldn't cry.

like putting down a dog, regulus reminds himself. the words are in voldemort's voice: clear and strong and sure. what they're doing is important. together, they can build a better world--a safer world, for all wizards. regulus believes that.

he thinks he believes it.

like putting down a dog.

"please," the man begs.

"c'mon, black," crouch sneers. his muggle is already limp in the grass. "what're you waiting for?"

that night, regulus traces the mark on his arm, fresh and stinging. over and over again, fingertip following the line of skull to snake.

sirius, he thinks, even as he tells himself not to think it, sirius, i think i might have fucked up.

1979

the water is so cold it burns.

"go!" regulus screams, with all the air left in his lungs, "go, kreacher--go! destroy it! that's an order--go!"

a crack, and he's alone. alone but not alone, hands clawing at his skin, arms wrapping around his waist, his legs, his shoulders. regulus fights, gasping for air, casting every wordless spell he can think of.

it's not enough.

it's never enough.

sirius, he thinks, sirius, i really fucked up this time. i really fucked up this time, sirius, i really--

he looks up, automatically, but he can't see the stars--can't see anything but dark, and stone, and then water, and dark, and hands. so many hands.

not like this, regulus thinks, please, please, not like this.

not alone. not so cold. not in the dark, with so many hands. he just wants to see the stars one more time. just one more time, and then he'll go--just once more, please, just once. just not like this.

not alone.

he opens his mouth to say sirius--

#siken prompts #tw death #gonna just keep working my way thru these slowly as i have time/inspiration!!

[maybebabyplease]

poetry flash fic game

ok since ao3’s down (and could be down for awhile, apparently), i wanna get some tumblr shorts going! i’ve listed out some poetry quotes i love below, so if you send me a ship (or a character – some of these really suit a character study imo) and a number i’ll write a little something! some of these quotes are from fav poems of mine, and some are just lines i thought would make good prompts :)

I am not cruel, just truthful – / The eye of a little god, four cornered. (Mirror, Sylvia Plath)

The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays. ([The dark collects…], Ben Lerner)

And this is the end, / the car running out of road (Aristotle, Billy Collins)

Being unwise enough to have married her / I never knew when she was not acting. (Acting, R.S. Thomas)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart (i carry your heart with me, e.e. cummings)

We talk so much of light, please / let me speak on behalf / of the good dark. (How Dark the Beginning, Maggie Smith)

The art of losing isn’t hard to master (One Art, Elizabeth Bishop)

Did you mean “this could go on forever” in a good way?  ([The dark collects…], Ben Lerner)

All day I tried to distinguish / need from desire. (Elms, Louise Glück)

I picture a figure in the act of reading, / shoes on a desk, head tilted into the wind of a book (Books, Billy Collins)

Pleasure / as a means, / and then a / means again / with no ends / in sight. (Peanut Butter, Eileen Myles)

But who is that on the other side of you? (The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot)

Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly / flames everywhere. (Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken)

The moon is / predictably exquisite, as is the view of the moon through the word. ([The predictability of these rooms], Ben Lerner)

There is nothing more pathetic than caution / when headlong might save a life, / even, possibly, your own. (Moments, Mary Oliver)

To avoid the slow accrual of infatuation / Curdling into love / You just have to duck (Autocorrect, Noah Eli Gordon)

#can you guess who my favorite poets are #i assume you can #come play with me! #i love an opportunity for a little short fic #also pls tell me your favorite poets #i would like this info as well #mads number 13 is for youuuuuuuu #this was inspired by mads' siken game! #poetry flash fic game #ask game

[atlantablack]

Atlantaaa beloved 💜👀 will you please write number 10 for the siken fic prompt game?

10. i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything. from the richard siken ask meme

This is part of the same fic/verse as my smile, your ghost

I could decide for a bit if I want this to be what I shared for this prompt and then I remembered I love torturing people emotionally so here we are <3

October 29th & 30th, 1983 - Elm Street - Buckley Residence

Robin dreams of ice cream over the weekend. Two nights in a row, the sweet chilly slide of chocolate chip and cookie dough and pistachio all slipping down her throat. The dream is a kaleidoscope of swirling blues and reds, an ever persistent ice cream truck jingle playing in the background.

It should be a happy dream, she’s sure of that. It’s just her never-ending desire for school to be out, for summer to be closer than it is. It should be happy. Should be sticky heat and the blue blue blue of the pool. Instead she wakes up both nights with her heart a frantic drum, stomach threatening to rebel.

Both times there’s a word caught on the back of her tongue, some magical key that will unlock the universe if she could only hold onto the shape of it for just a few seconds longer.

She doesn’t manage it though. Spends Sunday desperately, achingly sad. A grief that settles so far under her skin that she cries herself to sleep because she knows, she knows, she knows something is wrong.

Sunday night she dreams of a carousel on the beach, cotton candy clouds and a girl who spins her ‘round and ‘round, curls dancing on the wind. When she wakes up the grief has vanished and she tucks it away, resolves to not think about whatever strangeness took over her body.

She thinks of the girl though, her fingers wrapped tight around Robin’s. Thinks of spinning around and around on a beach. It had felt like a memory, something she should be able to remember if she would only try just a little bit harder.

But of course, there’s nothing there to remember, and so instead she’s stuck with nostalgia for something that will never happen

November 3rd, 1983 - Hawkins High School

The first semester of sophomore year, during second period, Robin sits behind Steve Harrington because she’s unlucky like that. Really, she’d chosen a seat, and then for whatever reason, he’d chosen the seat in front of her. She’d thought about moving, but by the time she’d decided, all the other seats were taken.

It’s not as bad as it could be, she knows this. He doesn’t talk to her, and really, she thinks that’s the bare minimum she could ask of him. To be honest, she’s not entirely convinced he knows she exists, despite sitting her sitting right behind him. Which suits her fine, but also leaves her with a bitter aftertaste.

Or, at least, she thinks he doesn’t know she exists, until he turns around two minutes before class starts, and says, “Hi.”

She blinks, looks behind herself only to find an empty desk. He’s still staring expectantly at her when she turns back around, and the moment feels twisted, like it got compressed and is struggling to shake itself back out. Steve Harrington is talking to her.

“Hi… ,” she says back, unable to help the way her eyes narrow or her mouth twists the word into an insult.

His face, well it, it’s weird, the way his mouth collapses in on itself, his eyes somewhere far away and yet, somehow, still completely focused on her. Weird, in the most unnerving way.

He sweeps a hand through his hair but doesn’t say anything else, and it takes her another minute, but the connection finally slips into place. She knows what this must be. She knows and her stomach turns over and she wants to throw up all over his stupid button-up shirt.

“I’m really not interested,” she says, trying so hard to sound casual and not like she’s one second away from panic. “Sorry.” She’s not.

He blinks, eyes going wide. He leans back a bit and then leans forward again. “No, I— I mean, that’s not why I said hi. I just wanted to… say hello, since I’ve been sitting in front of you all semester and haven’t and I—” He shrugs. “Well, I should have.”

She can’t stop staring, mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You wanted to say hi?”

He shrugs again, nearly disguising the way his shoulders had hiked up to his ears for a second. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll just…” he trails off miserably, gives her another strange look, and then just, turns back around. His shoulders cave in as he plants his elbows on the desk.

He doesn’t look up from his book the entire class and is the first one out the door when the bell rings. Robin, inexplicably, watches his vanishing back, looks back at his desk, and thinks, I wonder what kind of ice cream he likes.

This is not when she realizes that something weird is going on, but it should have been.

----

It isn’t until fifteen minutes into her next class that she remembers Steve and Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers (of all freaking people) are friends now. The thought itches, twisting into freezing barbed wire, and her feet are itching with the urge to go hunt Steve down. To demand some kind of explanation.

But what does she even want an explanation for? (And why does her throat hurt and why does she feel like crying and WHY can’t she stop thinking about fucking ice cream.)

#atlanta writes #ask meme #platonic stobin #platonic with a capital p #robin buckley #time travel #mia tag #fic: ghost

[enashinonome]

Hello aya! 10 and 30 for the ask game 🌸

hello noemi 🫧 thank you for sending!! your new theme is soo pretty by the way!

10. do you have a creed?

vaguely, yes. one that isn’t strict but flexible and forgiving. to gain something from everything i do, which is fun and joy most of the time, to never withhold love from others despite any fears, to embrace being easily moved, to trust that i have the strength to persevere through anything, to have the awareness to see and celebrate the divine wherever i may find it, to express gratitude always, to live in every day instead of passing through it…and fuck it we ball, of course. i’m sure there’s more, but these are the things that i feel come up most in my daily life. it’s hard to be gentle when i have only ever raised myself to be sharp because i thought it’d be safer, more impressive, what have you; i feel like i stopped only now because i realized i want to be loving and loved. and i can’t have that if i’m withholding my love!

that reminds me of something i wrote in my notebook for my creative writing class in school. it was a freewrite—with the prompt being “what color do you feel like today?”—and in it i’d misspelled withhold with only one H. then i kind of ran with it: “i play with fire (not red) and it thrills and scares me. everything scares me. and i love too much. i just withold it. misspelling withhold is kind of clever. i hold my wits instead of others’ hands. i think it makes me stronger, holding things close to the chest.” that kind of thinking has been so ingrained in me since i was young, but now i’m trying to correct that. and i think that is what my creed means to me.

30. pick one of your favorite quotes.

OH this is TORTURE how could i ever pick just one??? when asked questions like these i immediately forget everything i’ve ever read that struck me so hard that it moved me to contemplate myself and my heart as well as uncap a highlighter.

you don’t know this, but i got out my well-loved copy of on earth we’re briefly gorgeous just for you, noe. thank god i used those little sticky tabs to mark my favorite quotes from it.

“is that what art is? to be touched thinking what we feel is ours, when, in the end, it was someone else, in longing, who finds us?” this was my yearbook quote in middle school, actually! god, middle school…i don’t think on earth is something you’d find a middle schooler reading, but i’m so glad i read it then. i could talk about that book for hours. i put sticky tabs on many other quotes, but that one means the most to me.

i also think about that one richard siken tweet all the time, the one where someone asks him, “mister siken, what do i do when i’m always the one that loves more?” to which he responds, “congratulate yourself.” god. that changed the way i perceived my own love. before, i saw it as useless if not expressed, appreciated, reciprocated in full. but now i know it’s something beautiful that i’m grateful to carry, even if it means intense suffering sometimes. most times i walk out of situations being glad that i loved.

well, anyways. i also pulled out my copy of war of the foxes for this. with the way i talk about him so much, you’d think siken is my favorite poet, but he’s not. he was just formative in my poetry-reading journey. this line from ‘self-portrait against red wallpaper’: “shame comes from vanity. / shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, / but you think you’re better than we are.” FUCKKK god. just kill me, why don’t you. and if that didn’t make me keel over before, right after that: “what would a better me paint? there is no / new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same / me, the whole time.”

and this from ‘the stag and the quiver’: “this is the testimony / of the deer: solitude, the long corridors, love from a distance.” FUCK MY LIFE!!!!!! i could get into my love of deer for this one but we’d be here for eons. so i will stop there.

an honorable mention to everything mary oliver has ever written. i love her spiritual awareness. in my theology class, when we were talking about sacraments, my teacher linked ‘the summer day’ in her slides, as well as pat schneider’s ‘the patience of ordinary things’, which made me very happy because the day before i told her it was a poem that fit with what we were learning very nicely. and she agreed and liked it enough to include it in her slideshow! i melted. thank you mary oliver, thank you pat schneider, thank you to everyone who has written something that i told myself i could never forget. and my apologies for forgetting.

#NUMBER ONE YAPPER OVER HERE ! #noemi seriously thank you for enabling me like this lol 🤍 #notes 💌

[pearlll09]

#2 for the siken mini fic game :)

Yeah okay so! Wolfie! Idk if this is entirely close to the prompt but it was what decided to come out! You said “tell me we’ll never get used to it” and I said, series finale angst. Yippee!

“Merlin—”

Arthur was sushed immediately, soft fingers pressed against his lips as Merlin peeked out behind their cover to see if the bandits had left yet. He waited until the moment was over, what felt like a long stretch of time but was actually just a few moments before Merlin pulled his hand back off of Arthur.

“You should have told me.”

The statement hung heavily in the air as Merlin sat down on his haunches, determined to look anywhere but at Arthur. He picked at a leaf near his boot, gently tugging it out from under his sole, before simply saying, “We should keep moving.”

“Merlin, you can’t keep pushing this off,” he complained even as Merlin pulled him off of the ground and slung his arm around his shoulders, helping Arthur walk once more as his free arm was quick to clutch at his side. It was clear what he was doing—he didn’t have to look at Arthur when they were moving.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked instead, trying to get any kind of conversation going by approaching the topic from a different angle.

He huffed, as if the comment amused him in some twisted way. “And what was I supposed to say?”

“I would have taken anything, honestly.”

“Would you have? Or would you have locked me in the dungeon as soon as you found out, maybe burned me on the pyre?”

“I could never—” he began, but a coughing fit bubbled up inside his chest, bringing a burning pain as it only aggravated the wound more, letting the broken sword dig in deeper.

“I could never be too sure,” Merlin muttered as he slowly sat Arthur back down on another log, trying to let him catch his breath again and still clinging to his hand afterward. “There were so many reasons not to say.”

Arthur let his eyes fall closed as he breathed heavily, subconsciously leaning more of his weight into Merlin as they sat there for a quiet moment. “Is this really what destiny brings us? Is there not a happy ending for those who have tried their hardest to make the world a better place?”

“Sometimes our hardest isn’t enough,” Merlin said quietly, voice shaking. Arthur found the energy to peek over at him and found silent tears streaming down his face, ones he was quick to wipe away when he noticed Arthur looking. For the moment their eyes had locked again, however, Arthur could see all he needed to hear, all his greatest fears answered. It seemed the cycle was doomed to repeat, a life cut too short while the other half was left alone and with nothing. It was the last thing he wanted to confirm, but it was the only answer he knew he’d hear—heartbreak, agony, despair. Something they’ll never get used to, no matter how long the prophecy continues on for, no matter how long the cycle continues.

Merlin still hadn’t come to terms with it, that it was this first cycle’s turn to end. Arthur, however, knew he wasn’t going to make it out of this, no matter how much Merlin tried. So he leaned in closer and rested his head on Merlin’s shoulder, holding his hand as tight as he could as he tried to apologize for a million past mistakes and a million more yet to come.

#merlin #merthur #my fic #ficlet #ask game #asks #hazelands #no doubt for the angst here but is series finale anything ever angst free

[soloorganaas]

SIKEN #7 👀👀👀👀

omg this is from a fic prompt game i reblogged ageeesss ago bc i was like oh yeah i'll get a few prompts and write some quick fics that was the devil speaking. i have never completed a fic prompt game in its entirety in my life. i always end up burning out after like three

anyway

the prompt was "there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, and a bottle of pills" for wolfstar which im now having an idea for so ty for bringing it up

wip ask game

#asks #lez tag

[nirikeehan]

Thank you @rowanisawriter!! I'm swapping this to a new post so I can answer it properly without a small character limit

Full WIP list and game rules here!

So I don't know what you think the deny means 😅 Pls enlighten me, I'm dying to know

But I shoved these prompts together last Friday night and I guess I had some vision for them then that was meant to be a bit smutty. My working titles often just truncate the prompts I've been given so the full prompts are:

which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and a gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. (Richard Siken)

"I’d rather deny my feelings than have to explain them."

smut emoji prompt of a moon and bubbles, hence my insane interpretation "moonlight bubble bath"

I actually wrote one line that I only vaguely remember jotting down:

He follows her, by moonlight, to the mountain lake. 

Where was I going with this??? I'm barely aware. This happens sometimes, idk. Was I going to have Cullen follow Thalia and then creepily watch her bathe??? Maybe?????? Following some battle, so they're both sorta shell shocked and inarticulate?

I think I want them to end up naked together in a lake fed by hot springs. Potentially. Will they bang? Who knows.

Thanks for asking lol

#wip meme #writing nonsense #i think this clears up any remaining illusion that i ever know what the fuck i am writing at any given time

[magicalmischel]

mischel!!! <3<3<3

thanks for joining the siken cult game <3

how about prompt 9? you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

Thanks! <33 But be prepared for pain, fyre 👀 <333

It was more, wasn't it?

Not destiny. Not exactly friendship, or love. It was just more. So much more than that. Like his entire being -- body and soul -- was connected to Arthur.

And it was gone.

Merlin sat on the shore of the lake, Arthur's lifeless body in his arms, his fingers slowly carding through his blonde hair. He was staring at nothing -- eyes unfocused -- as the gentle ripples moved across the water, as every breath he drew was accompanied by dead silence.

Tears stained his face.

Because he'd discovered something he didn't even have a name for -- and it was lying dead in his arms.

#ask #writing game

[dykefever]

our prompt game prayers have been answered!! SO much violence about to be committed..and that being said…13 please xx for um well. well let’s see xx how about uhhh r/s xx

prayers answered with the best possible ask game in existence everyone cheer!!!!! you might have thought this was going to be nice i still made it violent <3

13. i said kiss me here and here and here and you did.

It’s a knocked-out teeth kind of night. It’s the half empty bottle of vodka sitting by the bed and the fresh and puckered wound at Remus’s ribs. The curtains shift and a streak of yellow-orange light slips across their bed. Sirius shifts, knee brushing against Remus’s calf, wiry hairs catching, warm and warm and warm. He pulls away quickly with a quiet, sharp exhale. Remus turns his face into the pillow that smells like the both of them, biting the inside of his lip, face hot.

A war, two boys, and a bed. 

His bones ache from the full moon last week and Sirius stumbled in drunk half an hour ago, cigarettes and sweat on his skin. Remus wonders if he took anything. He wonders if he fucked anyone else. He wonders if he wants anyone else. He wonders if and if and if until it bleeds him dry and he wonders if Sirius thinks he’s the spy late at night like Remus thinks of him.

It’s the kind of violence that creeps up on you. There’s the war and then there’s this, in their shabby home, in their creaky bed; betrayal and the sharp edge of a knife.

“Sirius,” he murmurs, on his side, half his face pressed into the pillow.

“Mm,” Sirius replies after a beat.

“Sirius,” he says again. Sirius rolls over, slowly. His hair is too long and falling into his eyes and his cheekbones too sharp. He hasn’t been eating much. He’s so beautiful it hurts. Remus places a hand on the cliff-face angle of his shoulder. “Will you kiss me?”

Sirius blinks, slow and sleepy. He nods. “Of course,” he whispers, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, “Course, Moony.”

And he does.

And he does.

And he does.

siken prompt game

#laura writes #drabbles #writing prompt game #ridi tag #feel like im warming up n stretching my fingers flexing my brain #out of practice here we go!!

[spoiledleaff]

for the ask game (if you haven't answered these ones already :'0) <3

🍌 in your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic ?

🍑 if you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be ? how would it work ?

ahh! thank you so much for indulging me, my darling! 💚💚 and you're good! these are alllll new questions, hehe!

🍌 — 'in your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?'

✿ — haha! i feel like almost all of my fics have some kind of silly little jab at someone, haha! i think my favorite jab is at terzo in one of my mushy may entries :>

“Oh? And whatever shall I receive in return for tapping into my childhood poetry lessons?” Terzo smirks, those painted nails dipping back down between his folds to cup the base of his clit in between the space of his forefinger and middle. “There is quite a bit of untapped trauma, amore mio. It best be something nice.”

haha! i do love teasing terzo! he's my favorite papa, for sure! and he was frontman when i initially started to listen to ghost :) sooo, naturally i gotta make fun of him, haha!

🍑 — 'if you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? how would it work?'

✿ — i won't lie... i still have no idea what this prompt is asking, haha! maybe my brain's just a little bit fried from apartment hunting, haha! so, i'm gonna interpret this as an inspiration sort of ask? i'm so sorry! :'D but, the inspiration behind my writing style is actually from reading a lot of poetry, haha! one of my favorite collections is 'crush' from richard siken. i always have a copy of it in my bag! :D but, one of the lines that struck me the most while reading is,

"Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine. / I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time."

this line just... sticks with me for some reason, haha! i love siken's poetry dearly, and i heavily credit his style of poetry specifically from this collection for helping me develop a good part of my own writing style, as well as for providing me a window into this kind of romance. especially when writing the ghouls, and even for my sleep token wips, this kind of style of real and gritty poetry helps set the scene, if you will, when i write my own attempts at romance, haha! i hope this... is kind of related to the prompt? haha!

#ask games! #ooc leaf #leaf loving his husband

[rollercoasterwords]

hiya hiya hello !! no. 19 for the siken prompt game please <3

hello hello hello i love this one!!

19. i take off my hands and i give them to you.

from this prompt list!

ok u are going 2 have 2 bear with me for this the idea JUST popped into my head but it is a rarepair emmeline/alice:

hate doesn't heal, but it calcifies. that's the one thing emmeline's learned, after fifteen years of hospital visits. she can walk through the door to the janus thickey ward time after time after time and still feel the vitriol like an old break. like a bone healed wrong. something that aches when it rains.

"hello, alice," she whispers, and alice stares at the ceiling, eyes as cloudless and blank as a summer day. emmeline lifts a hand, smooths a lock of hair from her face. alice blinks, and emmeline closes her eyes and tries to remember the spilled-water sound of alice's voice, of her accent, of the way she'd say hello.

"oh! healer vance--we weren't expecting you today."

emmeline sighs. opens her eyes. turns to face the nurse.

"sorry," she says, with an easy smile, "i've had a new development in my research. something i wanted to try."

"oh, is that so?" the nurse smiles encouragingly, moving towards the door, "shall i fetch mr. longbottom, then? he's just in a routine checkup, but we can always reschedule..."

and there it is--the old, familiar ache of hate. it still surprises emmeline, her body's determination to cling to bitterness.

"no--that's alright. alice and i will be fine here for now."

the nurse nods, smiles, moves towards the door.

"well, you just let me know if you need anything. i'll be right down the hall."

emmeline nods, and turns back to alice as she listens to the door shut. once they're alone, she releases a breath.

"well then, love," she whispers, lifting a hand once more to stroke gently over the soft contours of alice's face, "let's get started, shall we?"

the magic is complex, precise, finicky--the sort of thing that requires immense concentration, unwavering control. emmeline has been studying and practicing mind-healing for years, and even so she finds her hands trembling, fingers cramping where they're locked around her wand. but she doesn't stop.

she never stops.

one day, it will finally work. one day, the years spent toiling over research will finally pay off, and she'll press her wand to alice's temple and whisper the magic words and watch the light bleed back into her eyes. and she'll throw her arms around alice and cry until she can't breathe and alice will hug her back and stroke her hair and say in that fond, bemused way of hers,

what's all the fuss about, then?

but not today.

today, like every other day, emmeline casts until her hands shake, until she can no longer hold her wand steady. she drops her arms into her lap, and alice stares out the window, giving no indication that she's even aware of emmeline's presence at all. emmeline tries very hard not to feel like a stupid girl in a blue dress, holding a bouquet of baby's breath and forcing her face to hold a smile as she watches alice fall to earth through the church doors like a shooting star, like a snowstorm, like the most perfect breath of a spring breeze. she tries not to feel invisible and foolish, a girl watching the only thing she's ever loved walk down the aisle in a veil, smiling so hard her teeth might crack, proclaiming her love until death do us part.

it would take more than death, for emmeline. if alice could only have seen her, there's not a force in the universe that would have wrenched them apart. emmeline would crawl out of any grave the world could dig and right back into alice's arms; she would pour the blood back into her wounds and stitch herself shut and love alice forever, in death and in life, in sickness and in health and in war.

but alice never looked.

alice never saw.

emmeline died a slow death in a blue dress, and alice kissed frank longbottom and took his last name.

and look where it got her--dragged into a war. dragged into a mother. dragged into a prophecy and then back out, dragged into the funerals of all their friends, dragged into the basement of a death eater's house, dragged into the crucio, crucio, crucio--

emmeline knows that she isn't being fair.

emmeline knows that she shouldn't hate frank, that what he took from her was never even hers to begin with, that the war was just as much alice's crusade as his. she knows that alice was never one to be dragged, that she was her own joan of arc, a martyr and a hero and teenage girl jumping headfirst into a battleground because she truly believed she could make a difference.

still, when the nurse asks,

"do you want me to fetch mr. longbottom, see if it works on him?"

emmeline shakes her head.

"no," she says, "that's enough for today. back to the drawing board, i'm afraid."

she leaves the janus thickey ward. she returns to her lab. she researches, she experiments, she adjusts her calculations. she returns to alice, time after time after time, telling herself every day that this time something will change. this time something will be different.

at night, she goes to bed with aching hands.

#canon compliant again bc that is just who i am #no idea where this came from but here it is i guess #apparently i just want to write abt being in love w married people tonight!! #but now i am getting sleepy and it is very late so i will retire to bed and finish the rest of the prompts in the morning <3 #having so much fun w this tho <3 #siken prompts