#reverse prompt challenge

[loserdiaz]

trust me to take you home

buck/eddie | teen and up | 2.2k words

for @putijeansdiaz-ronordmann reverse prompt challenge!

"Listen," Eddie clears his throat. "Thank you for doing this. I—"

"Thank me after we get out of this alive." Buck leans forward, his face just a few inches away from Eddie's, he has a conspiratorial glint in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed— Eddie should get an award for how strong he's being right now, seriously. It takes everything in him not to close the gap between them and kiss Buck right then and there. 

He could do it, though, with the excuse of people watching. They need to keep the charade, right? 

When Pepa kept setting him up on awful, horrible dates, and Buck offered to pretend they were dating— well, how could Eddie ever refuse something like that? The chance to get a taste for what he's been aching and longing for since forever, even if it'll end up with his heart more broken than it already is. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time, alright? Eddie's never claimed to make smart, sound decisions. 

or: there's a wedding in texas, a meddling tía pepa and only one bed. somehow, it all works in the end.

read on ao3

[the-likesofus]

ring the bells

9-1-1 on Fox | Buddie | 5k words | Coffee Shop AU | alternative first meeting, fluff, getting together, first kiss, meet-cute

Written for @ronordmann's Reverse Prompt Challenge. Thank you so much Ro for inspiring me to try writing something out of my comfort zone with this fic <3

"Order for Evan!" 

If ever Buck was to die of happiness it would be in this moment. For hours he has been craving, yearning for some sort of hot, sugary drink. It started with a call to a chocolate factory and ended with an empty milk carton in the firehouse refrigerator and an apologetic look on Chimney's face. 

As soon as Buck got off his forty-eight-hour shift he had made a beeline for the nearest cafe. It was not his usual, he would typically stop at the coffee shop closer to his apartment on his way to work, but this place wasn't busy and Buck is desperate for a sugar hit.

It's because he's so desperate that Buck is taking the first mouthful as he's walking out of the store. 

He anticipates the smooth cream and sweet syrup, the spice of cinnamon to balance it all out but the mouthful slides over his tongue like hot, bitter tar and lands in the bottom of his stomach like a rock. 

"God–what the?" He sticks his tongue out and tries to rid his mouth of the taste. That is definitely not the coffee that he ordered. 

For a brief moment, Buck considers that maybe the universe just knew that he actually wanted black coffee but then decides that that's stupid and the universe is wrong this time because he definitely really wanted the drink he thought he ordered. 

So, against every ex-hospitality worker fiber of his being, he turns back to the counter and gets the attention of the barista that served him 'his' drink. 

"Hi there," he starts as brightly as he can for seven o’clock in the morning. "I'm so sorry to do this but I think you've given me the wrong drink. I ordered a caramel latte with cinnamon but this is, well, black."

"Oh!" The barista looks shocked for a second as he checks the order dockets on the counter in front of her. "I'm so sorry, I must have–."

"Given him mine." An unfamiliar voice sounds from next to Buck and when he turns he finds what is potentially the most beautiful man in all of the greater Los Angeles area. 

The barista nods. "Yes, I'm so sorry. I will remake them both right away."

The man eyes Buck's outstretched hand oddly before saying, "No need." He looks at Buck and Buck's sleep-deprived brain almost gets lost in the chocolate of his eyes. "Do you have any diseases I should know about?"

Buck stops short. "I'm–. What?" 

"Diseases." The man says—like that it is a normal thing to ask a stranger. "Are you contagious or anything? I'm in a rush."

"Ah, no. I don't think so."

"Good. I'll just take this one then." And then he reaches for the coffee that is not Buck's coffee but is in Buck's hand and Buck is too baffled to do anything but let him take it. The man disappears from the cafe and Buck is left standing at the counter with his arm still outstretched towards the barista who looks just as confused but shakes herself out of it faster than Buck does.

"I'll remake yours now." He says briskly. "Won't be a minute."

"Ah, yeah. Thanks." Buck mumbles dumbly and turns to see the man's retreating back disappear around the corner. 

The barista hands him a new cup a few moments later along with a five-dollar bill, obviously intending to refund him for the mistake, but he tucks it straight into her tip jar, thank you kindly, and then leaves, the bell ringing behind him as he goes.

Continue on AO3

[hoodie-buck]

for the reverse prompt challenge! thanks for putting this on @ronordmann 🩵

rated: e | words: 3.9k | read on ao3

summary:

“Hi baby.”

Buck melted into Eddie instantly at the endearment, Eddie opening his arms, pulling him in close. He smelled like his coconut shampoo, the one that was mixed with vanilla, Eddie letting the comforting scent envelope him.

He tugged Buck over the threshold with him, kicking the door closed. Bucks’ arms wrapped around his neck securely, Eddie keeping his on Buck’s waist.

Eddie ducked his head down a bit, placing it over where Buck’s heart laid, listening closely, counting the beats. It was something he’d started doing as of late, wanting, no—needing to know that Buck was alive, that his heart was still beating. After the lightning strike, Eddie hadn’t been able to hear it at all.

“I’m ok babe, promise.”

—or—

After the lightning strike, all Eddie wants to hear is the beat of Buck's heart. In fact, he'd like for it to drown everything else out.

tagging squad below, just lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3

tags: @heartbeatdiaz @redlightsandicedtea @confetti-cupcake @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @swiftiebuckleyhan @loveyourownsmiilee @justsmilestuffhappens @dorkydiaz @honestlydarkprincess @zainclaw @eddiescowboy @djdangerlove @bifirefighters @mr-and-mr-diaz @buddierights @crazyfangirlallert @monsterrae1 @wh0re-behavi0r @jacksadventuresinwriting @stanningsky @buckaroo118 @angelwiththeblue-box @spotsandsocks @elvensorceress @alyxmastershipper @buddiearemydads

[reverseprompts]

Reverse Prompt Challenge #22 - Knitting Comforts

photos and Collage by @dragonpressgraphics

Starting Date - February 20th, 2024**

Ending Date - May 20th, 2024  

** Because the previous challenge ended almost 2 weeks ago without me noticing, even though a prompt was already picked out, if you have an entry that was already posted between end of last challenge (Feb 6th) and the start of this one that fits this prompt, feel free to retroactively add it to the collection and tag the blog. **

Remember to tag us @reverseprompts if you post to tumblr to make sure we see your entry so we can reblog it and also make a Master List of all stories created for this picture.

Please also enter your creation in the AO3 collection (if you post via AO3) : Reverse_Prompt_Challenge

The Basic Rules are in this post and other important links and updates in this one -  if you have any questions, feel free to ask!

OPEN FANDOM!

OPEN SHIP (Or no ship at all!)

And Combining with other events are allowed as long as those events also allow it.

Updates:

You can create more than one entry for the same prompt if so inspired

You can also make art for the prompt - just make sure to say something along the lines of “Inspired by” (so folks don’t get confused when we reblog it!)

Reminder that if we don’t reblog your post within a week - please send us an ask, or come join the discord and poke us there. Tumblr isn’t always great at notifications! ALSO - Please remember to place somewhere in your tags/authors notes WHICH prompt you are filling. It makes it easier for me to make the masterlists later (especially Late Entry ones). Thank you!

[spotsandsocks]

The Answer I Needed

The Answer I Needed 2.4k Teen 5 plus 1 written for @putijeansdiaz-ronordmann reverse prompt challenge. Thanks Ro for inspiring me twice 🥰.

Fine times Eddie needs to know where Eddie is and one time Buck needs to find Eddie.

“Where are you?” 

The words come out hushed but urgent. He’s not panicking, that would be ridiculous he doesn’t panic but this is Christopher’s first birthday party in LA and he’s screwed it up so he's allowed to be a little concerned. He checks his watch, he’s running out of time.

“Hey, don’t worry I’m ju..” Buck’s voice breaks up on the other end of the line which settles Eddie’s nerves a little,  Buck always gets bad reception when he’s just  … 

There’s a knock on the door. 

Outside. 

Hit by a wave of relief Eddie heads over, maybe he should give Buck a key, it might come in handy one day. 

A tug on the door and he’s blinded by a beaming smile just before Buck breezes in, brandishing the birthday candles Eddie had forgotten to get and only realised were missing 20 minutes before Christopher’s party was due to begin.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it!”

“Hey,” his newest friend pulls an offended face “have I ever let you down?”

Eddie frowns, he’s not known Buck very long but he can’t think of anything right now, just the opposite really.

Buck looks smug. “Exactly. Seems to me I’m always saving your arse Diaz.”

Eddie swipes the candles from his hands.

“Yeah, yeah you're amazing” he says it casually, wraps some sarcasm round it for safety but he’s beginning to think Buck might have a point.

“Where are you?” 

The words are harsh, angry. He’s angry; seems like he’s always angry these days. He might as well pour some of that anger into Buck's answerphone.  

“Why won’t you pick up?! Damn it Buck.” He hangs up. It’s pointless Buck’s not answered his calls in weeks, why would tonight be any different?

Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so furious if Buck would just talk to him. If Buck wasn’t suing everyone, if Eddie… no if Christopher could see him. 

Eddie knows he’s particularly upset tonight because Buck broke a promise. Not to him, well maybe tangentially because of something about having his back, but that’s neither unexpected nor his real problem, after all when has anyone ever really been there for him. He was stupid to expect anything better from a man he’s only known a year or so.

So it’s not because he’s hurt, it’s not. He’s just in the fallout zone of his son’s disappointment. Experiencing collateral damage that’s all. It’s Christopher who's upset, Eddie’s only upset with Buck because Christopher is sad. Sad because weeks ago Buck had promised to help with his next science fair project and it’s due soon. Now, with no Buck to be found anywhere Eddie is going to tell Chris that his best friend can’t help this time and it will be just them working on the project. Chris would never say so but it's Buck that has the ideas and it’s Buck who makes it fun, ‘Dad’ just isn’t quite as good at that kind of thing as Buck is. 

Damn him. Eddie’s  still fuming about it when there’s a knock at the door and maybe he walks over quickly and maybe he’s half expecting to be met with blue eyes and an apologetic smile because Buck doesn’t do this to him… to Christopher but there’s no one there. He ignores the swoop of disappointment his empty porch brings, the bitterness that twists his stomach and leaves a sour taste in his mouth but then he spots it. His porch isn’t actually empty after all. There’s no Buck on his doorstep but there is something there. 

At his feet waiting to be discovered is a box, he crouches down to examine it and once he’s worked out what it is he doesn’t know if he’s more or less angry with Buck.

Either way it’s just what he needs so he picks it up and brings it inside.

Further investigation into the contents only confuse his feelings more. It’s obviously taken some time and thought to assemble. The box contains all kinds of things that could be used to create a science project, included with it is a handwritten list of ideas and a typed out set of links to websites and YouTube videos to help. 

Eddie stares at it. At least he won’t have to tell Chris Buck forgot about helping him.

Something pained and jagged inside him eases, just a fraction. He’s still mad, at so many things, but now he knows that although Buck might not be where he’s supposed to be wherever he is, he’s thinking of Christopher.  He’s still helping Eddie out. It’s not nearly enough but it does mean something. 

Carry on reading on AO3

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

I Have Spent All My Years In Believing You

Good Omens

Aziraphale/Crowley

for @reverseprompts #17

“Isn’t it just lovely?”

Crowley can feel Aziraphale beside him, wings vibrating with excitement, unnecessary heart beating a pitter-patter in his chest. Aziraphale is lovely, tartan waistcoat and all; Crowley doesn’t even have to turn to know his eyes are bright and his cheeks pink and his smile rivals any sun ever hung in the heavens. He’s like a renaissance painting, tartan notwithstanding. He would, however, rather face another apocalypse than actually tellAziraphale any of these things, so instead he just mumbles something incoherent about sand and water and lets Aziraphale go on beaming.

They’re on a secluded beach, waves crashing onto a stone outcrop across from where they stand. He’s not sure exactly where they are. Spain, maybe? They’ve been on this mad tour of Europe for months now, and Crowley tries not to pay attention when Aziraphale drives.* Pay attention to the road, that is. He pays plenty of attention to Aziraphale. His hands on the steering wheel, resting just where Crowley’s hands have been so many times over the years. The way his eyes dart from mirror to mirror and peer through the windscreen. His teeth, anxiously gnawing on his lower lip when he gets nervous.

Oh yes, he watches Aziraphale.

But all the Aziraphale-gazing means he has no idea where they’ve gotten to. He thinks they were in Spain when they woke up this morning. Not that it matters, in the scheme of things. Aziraphale is beside him, happily taking off his shoes and socks and—

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley burns, being called dear. Fire in his veins, pumping from his heart. He wants more.

“Are we going swimming?”

What he’d wanted to ask was, Are you taking off your clothes, but he wasn’t sure he could have said that without combusting. And though both sides are thoroughly terrified of them, he didn’t want Aziraphale to have to go through the paperwork of having to get a new body for him. Besides, he’s partial to this one; he’s had it for a very long time.

“Goodness no! It’s May, the water’s still far too cold for that. And don’t give me any of that ‘you’re an angel’ business, you know I like to keep up appearances. No, I just wanted to feel the sand between my toes! You should try it, you’ll see.” Aziraphale wriggles his toes into the sand for emphasis. For a fleeting moment Crowley wants to be the sand. “Go on, dear. I do think barefoot will be the best way to make the climb.”

“Climb?” He’s vaguely aware that he’s been speaking in questions for the past few minutes, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. He only beams up at Crowley from where he’s sitting on the sand, gesturing at something behind Crowley.

“You didn’t think I could just leave that alone, did you?” Aziraphale’s smile is transcendent; Crowley knows he’ll do whatever Aziraphale wants. Take off his shoes and socks. Fling himself into the sea. Weave seaweed friendship bracelets, whatever.

He turns to see a sprawling walkway of boulders and concrete slabs. “Couldn’t we just fly to the top?” he asks weakly, already knowing the answer.

“Oh no! It’s not about the view, it’s about the experience!” Aziraphale gives him a pleading look and tugs at the leg of his jeans, at which point Crowley decides this is absolutely his favorite pair of jeans and he’s never throwing them out. “Please, Crowley?”

Heaven, Aziraphale should not be allowed to just look at him like that.

He wants Aziraphale to look at him like that every day.

Mutely he sits in the sand, slipping out of his shoes and socks and rolling up the cuffs of his jeans. Aziraphale has done the same, and when it feels oddly exhilarating to see Aziraphale’s exposed ankles he reminds himself that this is the 21st century and Aziraphale is no blushing maiden. But it makes him realize, out of nowhere, that the angel is always completely covered in layer upon layer of clothing. How many times has Crowley even seen Aziraphale’s bare arms?

The thought makes him shiver.

Crowley isn’t sure why they need to scrabble up the rocks like lizards, to grip the sandy stone with fingers and toes and unsteadily leap across some of the larger gaps. But Aziraphale glows brighter with every passing moment, a sun rising to his zenith, so Crowley just follows along and listens to the angel’s stream of chatter about the sea and the clouds and the gulls and the fish and the waves. Oh, the waves.

At the top Crowley expects they’ll walk along the path, but Aziraphale takes his hand** and leads him to the edge, where they perch on a large slab of concrete, legs dangling into empty space. They’re so close Crowley can feel the heat from Aziraphale’s thigh almost touching his own.

“This is why we did it, you know. Yes, we did it for music and food and books and those pesky humans we can’t get enough of, but this is truly why we did it.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale, but the angel is gazing back so intently he has to look away before he loses all control and starts to blush. Or blubber. “We did it for beaches then?”

There’s a hand on his cheek, searing into his skin; Aziraphale turns Crowley’s face so they’re nose to nose. “We did it for us, you old snake,” Aziraphale says fondly, pulling Crowley’s sunglasses off. “For days like this. So I can kiss you in the sunlight.”

Crowley can’t blink, can’t look away. He almost panics before he remembers he only breathes because it's a habit.

“Did you—I thought I heard you say—I think there must be sand in my ears, angel, because I—” His head is spinning. Aziraphale said he wants to kiss Crowley. But he’s an angel. He’s so good. How could he—

“It’s quite alright, Crowley.” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s cheek gently before letting his hand fall to rest in his lap. “I don’t have to kiss you now, dear. Or ever, if you’d rather I didn’t. But I would like to. And I thought you should know.”

Crowley spent over six thousand years sweet-talking humans. He’d been so good at his job for two reasons: imagination and improvisation. Most demons didn’t have either of those, or if they did, had no idea how to use them. And if heaven had known the way to completely shut down Crowley’s talent was a few sentences from an angel, they’d have sent Aziraphale after him millenia ago.

The silence goes on a beat, and then two, and then a beat too long. He feels Aziraphale begin to droop beside him, a flower wilting for lack of care, and his own stomach begins to drop in reaction. Before he can think too hard he puts his own pale hand atop Aziraphale’s; the angel goes still, and Crowley gets the impression that he’s afraid if he moves Crowley will bolt like a frightened rabbit. Which is ridiculous. Crowley hasn’t been afraid for one microsecond of his existence.

Has he?

His brain goes into overdrive, running through six thousand years in a few seconds. It only takes that long to reach his conclusion: he has been afraid…but only of losing Aziraphale.***

“Angel,” Crowley says, his voice fragile, cracked.. But he looks at Aziraphale—his beautiful, golden Aziraphale—and he can’t find any more words. Perhaps, just this once, actions might be better.

Alright, he tells himself. You can do this. And of course he can. He’s Crowley. He just has to figure out how to do it without his face turning red, or his mouth tumbling out a load of rubbish.

And without any further thought he grips Aziraphale’s hand in his own and pulls the angel close. Just before their lips meet Aziraphale says, “Oh, my darling!” and then Crowley is launched into another universe.

Crowley has never been kissed before this moment. How often does a demon have opportunities for something so tender as kissing? But he’s quite certain that even if he’d had ten kisses a day since the dawn of creation nothing could ever measure up to kissing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s mouth is soft and warm, and he tastes like…like time, and patience, and sunlight. Before this moment Crowley didn’t know those things even had a taste, but now he knows they do, and those flavors are on his angel’s lips.

His angel. He feels it so strongly in this moment: the knowledge that Aziraphale is his, and that he is Aziraphale’s. They belong together. Not just because they saved the world together, or because of any Arrangement. Not even because of a long ago conversation in the Garden. No, they belong together because…

Crowley breaks the kiss, clawing at his chest. “What is this?” There’s a bit of a panic rising in him, but it’s nothing compared to the other thing. “It’s warm and bright and soft and I—”

Gentle hands still his frantic motion. “It’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale says softly. Earnest eyes look up into his own, and Crowley’s heart pounds in his chest. “That thing you feel. It’s…” He stops, and he gives Crowley the sweetest smile. “It’s love, dearest.”

“Demons can’t feel love.” The response is automatic, dry and bitter in his mouth.

“Rubbish,” Aziraphale says, firm but not unkind. “You are no ordinary demon.” Crowley makes a face. “No, don’t get defensive with me, I don’t want to hear a word of it. We’ve both known from the start that I’m not the everyday angel and you’re not the everyday demon. We’re different, and that’s why we—”

And then Crowley kisses Aziraphale again. He’s not exactly sure what point he’s proving, only that he’s got to be the one to prove it.

This kiss is less chaste. Crowley has been watching humans kiss for thousands of years so he knows how this works; he licks into Aziraphale’s mouth and is rewarded with a sound he’s never heard the angel make before, a sort of pleased moan. He does it again, and Aziraphale makes the same sound, only lower and more drawn out, and it makes his heart flutter in his chest. After a long moment he pulls away, panting, and buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

“Love you, angel,” he murmurs. The words are almost painful on his lips, but he knows he will say them again and again, anointing himself with the blessings of his angel.

Aziraphale runs clever fingers through his hair. “I know, dearest, I know. And I love you too. I have for, oh, a good long while. But don’t worry, it will be alright. I don’t think it will hurt too badly.”

Crowley chokes out a laugh. He doesn’t move; Aziraphale smells good, like old books^ and sweet apples, so Crowley just rests there, breathing in the calming scent of his friend. Of his… Well. Whatever they are to each other is far beyond any kind of human definition. Is there a word for someone who has been your everything for six thousand years and then suddenly tells you he loves you? It doesn’t matter, they’ll make it up as they go along.

They always do.

~~~~~

*The fact that he lets Aziraphale even sit behind the wheel of his Bentley, let alone drive it, says far more than it doesn’t about Crowley’s current feelings about the angel, but Aziraphale doesn’t bring it up…so neither does Crowley.

**which he has not been imaging for several thousand years. Absolutely not. A demon would never.

***or of the end of the world…which is the same thing, as far as Crowley is concerned.

^How does he smell like old books when they haven’t been to the bookshop in months? In so many ways, Aziraphale is a mystery.

~~~~~

The title is, of course, from Queen's Somebody to Love 💜

[seleswrites]

of the deep blue | Arthur & Mal Cobb | 251 words | find on AO3

He meets her by the edge of a cliff side. She doesn't turn, only asking a question that makes his heart drop.

Fandom: Inception Relationship: Arthur and Mal (platonic) Rating: Teen Tags: pre-inception/canon events, mild talk of suicide (one sentence, vague), mildly bittersweet (because of canon events) Wrote for both: @inceptgen 2022 and @reverseprompts challenge #17 (using the image of the ocean that's in the image) A/N: wrote this in a day asdfasdf

He meets her by the edge of a cliff side. Harsh salty wind rushes through his suit, flapping fabric against his frame. A wave crashes below them on the rocky surface. Overhead sea birds caw, distant, muffled. 

“What are you doing here, Mal?” Arthur asks, standing feet beside her. 

She does not turn to face him. She digs her hands deep into wool tan coat pockets, barely tilting half her body to overlook the cliff’s edge. “If I fell, would the rocks or the ocean kill me first?” 

Arthur snaps a hand to her elbow and drags her closer to his side. He ignores the drop of his heart, falling deep down below him. “Don’t. Please.” 

“I won’t.” It’s tiny and soft and out across the expanse of blue, miles out from where the two stand. And entirely unbelievable to the both of them.  

He tightens his grip, enough now to get Mal’s attention. She looks up at him; wide brown eyes hauntingly blank as she lifts an eyebrow in an unspoken question. They stare at each other. Wind whips around them, dies down as a chill forms over the two of them. His grip loosens, then drops, as he turns towards their parked cars off by the roadside of a narrow scenic pullover. 

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, making a small gesture towards their vehicles, “I’m sure Cobb and the kids are worried about you.” 

Mal lets Arthur lead her towards his rental. “... I bet they are.” 

[katwriteswitcherthings]

Fandom: The Witcher (The Witcher 3 specifically)

Relationship: Prince Adrien/Kiyan

Rating: M

Additional Tags: AU - Modern Witchers, Light Angst, Fluff, Slice of Life, Museums, Established Relationship, Getting Together, Assholes in Love, Murder Husbands, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned Past Torture, Soft Prince Adrien (The Witcher), Soft Kiyan (The Witcher), Vampire Prince Adrien

Summary:

Adrien loves to walk through art galleries and museums. Kiyan follows him loyally; his ever-present bodyguard. Adrien has a surprise for his most loyal companion.

A/N: Prompt #17 fill for @reverseprompts and The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #61.

This tried so hard to become smut, but alas, I ran out of time. I found this post after I had already written this, so it doesn't quite work for Adrien to be wearing (I don't think those shoes would click on hardwood floors), but I want him to be wearing it so badly and I thought you should know.

[pherryt]

Festival

 Written for the @reverseprompts​ 

Fandom: One Piece  Words: 2212 Rated: G Ship: Technically none (but hints of Zoro/Sanji - could be read that way or ignored)

Summary: Even on holiday, Sanji can't help being who he is.

The prompt:

photo by @magenta-llama-art​

[themanta]

I finished this little thing this morning.

[katwritestigerbunny]

The End of the World Tiger & Bunny Barnaby "Bunny" Brooks Jr. & Kaburagi T. Kotetsu For Reverse Prompts #18 Summary: Barnaby Brooks Jr.

Hero. Model. Icon.

A man adrift after everything he thought he knew was ripped away from him. A shattered husk trying desperately to keep the pieces together.

And then a villain comes along to give him a new perspective.

Stern Bild was a fascinating city, Barnaby had to admit as he wandered the small tidy streets of the Silver Stage. It had been raining all day, but that didn't stop most of the city dwellers from their routines. Barnaby had his umbrella pulled down low and was walking out of the way of most traffic, trying to avoid causing a scene.

He idly thought back to how Maverick had pushed and poked him into agreeing to his plan to be only known by his real name and real face... For his entire life story to be plastered all over HeroTV for ratings...

Barnaby sighed heavily.

Days like this always put him in a weird place mentally.

Read More at AO3 here.

[shame-is-a-wasted-emotion]

The Klaine Reverse Prompt Challenge 2023

Prompt 27:

AU Newspaper columnist Kurt Hummel has become a little jaded after being left at the altar by his fiance. His editor decides Kurt needs a break from covering New York city life, and sends him to the Northernmost town in America, Utqiagvik, Alaska, to cover their 4th of July celebration. Kurt isn't impressed with the small town, and the residents keep telling him to take his complaints to the Mayor. Blaine Anderson is the youngest Mayor ever elected in the town, and Kurt is vexed by his boyish good looks and overly enthusiastic demeanor. Of course, he is eventually worn down by Blaine’s debonair charm and infectious laugh. Slight age gap.

Prompt provided: @grlnxtdr30

Artist: @very-kurtious

Writer: @shame-is-a-wasted-emotion

Beta: @1908jmd

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/MM/M

Fandoms:

GleeKlaine-FandomGlee Klaine

Relationships:

Blaine Anderson/Kurt HummelPam Anderson/Blaine Anderson's FatherRachel Berry/Finn Hudson

Characters:

Blaine AndersonBlaine Anderson's ParentsBlaine Anderson's FatherCooper AndersonPam AndersonBlaine Anderson's FamilyKurt HummelKurt Hummel's MotherBurt HummelFinn HudsonRachel BerryDavid KarofskySebastian SmytheOther Character Tags to Be AddedIsabelle WrightOriginal Characters

Words:3714/?

Chapters: 3/?

Genre: thriller, science fiction, romance

Summary:

Kurt woke up gasping for air, drenched profusely in his sweat. In an unknown bed. In an unknown world. Where time froze.

He lost his clothes. He lost his money. He lost his fiance. He lost New York.

The only thing he owned: A countdown for his life.

His only mission: Not to die and save the world.

Written for @klaine reverse prompt bang 2023 by @the-lima-bean

Kuddos and comments are most welcomed😊

Stay tuned for subsequent chapters

[hoodie-buck]

seven sentence sunday

thanks to all my loves for the tags @loveyourownsmiilee @imsupposedtobewritting @jacksadventuresinwriting @mansikkaomenabanaani 💓💙

more from the fic that everyone threatens me about whenever i post snippets 😌

—

“Hey Bobby.”

“Buck, how are you?”

How was he? What a fucking loaded question that was.

“Uh, fine. What’s up Cap?”

It was a nickname Buck had come to call Bobby over time, Buck being one of the few allowed to do so.

“Listen kid, I don’t know if you’ve heard…. about Eddie that is.”

Eddie.

Buck’s arms instantly coated with goosebumps, the chill in the air having nothing to do with it.

“What um, what about him?”

tagging: @fearlessdiaz @confetti-cupcake @justsmilestuffhappens @prettyboyandthekid @eddiessluttytanktop @prettyboybuckley @blaidddrwg1982 @panicatthediaz @onward--upward

[reverseprompts]

Reverse Prompt Challenge #20 - Fireworks!!

photo by @dragonpressgraphics

Starting Date -July 2nd, 2023

Ending Date - October 29th, 2023  

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[spotsandsocks]

@ronordmann Buddie 911 reverse prompt challenge round 3. Now complete.

Fairy Tale AU Chapt 5/5 Completed 27.8k Rated M Read on AO3 (from the start)

Chapt 2 Chapt 3 Chapt 4 Chapt 5

Once upon a time, that’s how it starts isn’t it.

Once upon a time, it’s how his sister started all the stories she read to him when he was little; a prince, a princess, a wizard, challenges to overcome true love and a happily ever after.

Well he’s a prince and he’s been waiting for his happily ever after, he’s been waiting for it for a long time now. He thought he’d found it in brown eyes that turned gold and a warm smile that made him feel seen like no one else ever had, but that was lost. Turns out you don’t get a happily ever after when you’ve been cursed, not even if you're a prince.

Eddie was the seventh child of a seventh child and that means magic. He was born on a night with a new moon, when the sky was illuminated by the stars and the rainbow colours of raw magic. The magic glowed and wove a pattern into the inky blackness, high above the cottage where his mother laboured to bring him into the world.

He took his first breath and his parents felt the magic gather around him and settle into his skin, his eyes turned gold then settled back to brown.

He grew as children do and he was four when the second prince was born and he was eleven when the first prince died, leaving behind a sister, heir to the throne and a brother, the younger prince, the one with a curse in his blood.

Of course Eddie doesn’t know anything about that yet, he’s just a child, but he won’t be forever and one day he’ll learn what was done to his prince, the man who will become his friend, the man he’ll love and lose when even all his magic isn’t enough to break a curse.

But that’s not now, that’s later.

His parents always said they hadn’t known what would happen. They’d gone to the fair folk with a sick child to ask for help. Their son and heir was dying and they needed a cure. All they did, they said, was ask for help, but there is always a price to pay for help from the fae.

A bargain was struck for a healthy child and the price agreed was something of equal value. 

The queen hadn’t known, that’s what she said, again and again, she hadn’t known that there was already a life growing inside her, their third child. 

The fae knew; it smiled before vanishing, sharp teeth flashing, eyes lingering on the queen’s stomach. That was when she understood what the price would be and she knew too that there was no purpose in becoming attached to something you’d already lost.

Nine moons passed and payment was due.

The creature that arrived to collect the fee was clearly not of this world, Its hair, midnight blue trailed down its back, skin the colour of moss glowed softly from within. There was no mistaking what they were or what they had come for. It was very beautiful, mesmerising and bewitching but in much the same way that a fire is beautiful and with the same risk.

The King and Queen accepted the inevitable and stood aside but his sister and the older prince said no, they stood together and tried to keep him safe, tried to keep him theirs.

The princess picked him up and held him close, lips pressed to his brow. Her love for him was new but already so strong. His brother stood before them both, young but brave and determined to keep the ones he loved safe, unsure what he could do but willing to try.

Their actions provoked laugher, bright and brittle it rattled round the hall. The fae found itself  amused by the futile gesture of the young ones before it and being capricious in nature it changed its mind on what it wanted and the ripples of that decision were sent into the world. 

The children shivered as a melodious voice, laced with cruel, mocking humour rang out.

“Such courage, such  love, such a thing should have a reward so you may have him a while longer but you will remember the promise, who he really belongs to. When the moon is new you will not forget that he is already ours.”

So the children were given time and although it was not the intention they were also given a chance at changing his fate.

“25 years I think.” it said, amused, it could wait, 25 years after all was only a moment to the fae for whom time moved so differently but it was enough to cause trouble in the human world.  

The princess and the oldest prince exchanged a glance, they were just children but they knew their brother had been given both a gift and a curse.  

The beautiful face smiled but no glimmer of kindness could be found in it. The parting words left them cold.

“You love him now, think how much harder it will be to say goodbye then.”

The princess closed her eyes to hide her tears. 

The king said nothing throughout it all, remaining silent on his throne, unable to look any of his children in the eye. He had made a bargain and although the price was high, the heir was worth it.

That was until the accident;because when the younger prince was just seven years old he lost his beloved brother anyway. 

A fall from a horse; no magic, no curse. Just bad luck. 

So in the end the kingdom was destined to lose both its princes anyway.

Except  there’s that one chance, a gift of time; time to find someone who could help.

Chapt 2

Tagging some lovely people who’ve interacted with the snippets I’ve posted along the way @imsupposedtobewritting @jacksadventuresinwriting @elvensorceress @megslovesbooks @loveyourownsmiilee @ekstasisandangst @fleurdebeton @idealuk @barzy90 @evangeline118 @lyrem12-blog @blackberry-l @hetrez @rogerzsteven @blaidddrwg1982

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

A Little Hope and a Dash of Magic

Lyra’s on her knees in front of the bench–their bench–at the botanic gardens, contemplating the lawn in front of her and deciding how best to dig several deep, envelope-sized holes. Her scholars would be horrified. She looks away from the grass and finds herself staring instead into the big, unblinking eyes of her daemon. They consider each other without speaking; anyone looking on would likely imagine the two locked in silent conversation, but instead Lyra’s head echoes with painful silence. She’s the first to look away.

“It can’t work, Pan,” she says, hands on her hips. “It would take magic, and we ent got any. And I don’t think even magic can reach…” She doesn’t finish. She can’t say it, can barely even think it. She knows if she does she’ll cry, and she can’t do that.

Not today.

“Witches have magic,” Pan starts, but Lyra is quick to interrupt.

“We ent witches, Pan, and you know it. No cloud pine branch will let us fly, and we both get older just as we should.” It hurts a little, getting older. Another thing she doesn’t like to think.

“We’re like witches,” Pan mumbles, but he doesn’t push. Because neither of them likes to think about that.

Lyra can’t remember who first had the idea. They’d been in her little room, looking at the basket of letters she’s been writing to Will for so long. Letters with his address inked on the envelopes in ever neatening script; her handwriting has greatly improved in the years since they’d said goodbye. Since she’d felt his warm breath on her cheek. Since she’d started crying herself to sleep at night.

She can’t remember who had the idea, but they’d both agreed to try. Because seeing the letters there in her room, piling up day after day, broke her heart in ways she didn’t understand.

“Why do we even write the letters?” Lyra bursts out, burying her face in her hands. “We know he’ll never see them. Every stroke of the pen is like another piece of glass across our hearts, and still we write.” She reaches out and extracts a letter from its inexpertly tied bundle, tears the envelope apart, and reads from the paper that had once been carefully tucked inside.

Will, It’s snowing today, the kind of big, fluffy flakes that feel like feathers when they land on your bare skin, soft and icy and yet somehow burning at the same time. How can snow feel both cold and hot all at once? It’s cold, so cold, but it burns too. I like things like that, thinking about the mysteries of the world. But these beautiful ideas always bring me back to the one mystery that will always break my heart: how can you be so close that I can feel your love wrapped around me, like a warm blanket or the smell of warm bread just coming out of the oven, but also so far away that I’ll never, ever feel your hand in mine again? Please tell me how to solve this mystery, dearest, because I’m afraid it’s making me cry again. Yours always, Lyra

Pan crawls closer, belly low, placing a tentative paw on Lyra’s knee.

“Oh Pan,” she says, and there’s a quaver in her voice. “It hurts so much. It hurts almost as much as it did when–” When you were torn away from me. When I left you behind. When I broke us apart. All things she feels, but she cannot say, lest she rend her soul into even smaller pieces.

“I know,” he says, and with those two small words, those two breaths of air from her daemon, the pain is a little less. Dropping the letter into the grass she buries both hands in Pan’s soft, thick fur. She feels his jolt of surprise, but then his eyes drift closed in contentment.

It’s good to build bridges sometimes, instead of knocking them down. 

“Alright,” Lyra says, pulling away from Pan. He doesn’t pull back, though, but stays with one paw resting on her knee. She flashes him a small smile as thanks for the shared strength, then goes on. “Alright. The letters. We’ll try. And we’ll both believe as hard as we can. That worked all the time when we were kids, it can’t hurt anything now.”

Pan’s rubbing his cheek against her knee now, and she’s remembering him as a kitten. She’d been so small, only three or four, and he’d been a kitten a lot then because he loved the way she laughed when he purred. Any time she was sad he’d leap into her arms and change into a tiny kitten mid-leap, purring madly. Then, once she was laughing, Pan would pounce on invisible things to make her laugh even more.

Digging her hands into the rich, grassy ground in front of her, Lyra says absently, “You did that when you was a kitten, Pan. That cheek rubbing thing. Were a kitten, I mean.” She corrects herself with a small smile, thinking of how much she’s changed since her days running wild in Jordan College. Pulling herself back to the present, to earth and envelopes and expanding hope, she says, “Too bad you can’t purr anymore, I liked that.” Then, realizing what she’d said, she looks up in alarm. “Not that–”

But there’s understanding in Pan’s eyes. “I miss a lot about being able to change,” he says. “I miss making myself big to protect you, or being a tiny moth to whisper in your ear and hide in your hair. I miss flying. And I miss doing things just to be silly, just to see your joy. But it’s good to be settled. To be truly us.”

“Yes,” Lyra says, and for the first time in months she knows she doesn’t have to say anything more. For the first time in… well, for the first time in a very long time, there is no space between them.

“Let me help,” Pan says, breaking the moment. “My paws are clever, I can dig as well as you.”

Lyra grins. “Race you.”

So they start on opposite ends of the space, digging a line of holes until they meet in the middle, laughing and a little bit breathless. It feels so good to laugh with Pan, feels so much like the time before, that for the first time she begins to let herself believe.

They sit and wait for hours that feel like days. Lyra tells Pan it feels like years, but he tells her to quit being so melodramatic. Lyra gasps in mock horror and tells him that she’s never been melodramatic, not ever, and that he should find a job telling stories to children. Pan just huffs, but it’s a fond huff.

Lyra’s hope grows with every breath.

When the sun is at the right place in the sky, when the clock in the tower chimes the proper hour, Lyra moves automatically to sit on the bench and then she reaches for Pan. And he’s there, right there, reaching back for her. “Do you feel them?” It’s the same thing she asks every year, on every visit, and every year she gets the same answer, but she can’t help but ask.

“I–”

Pan leaps down from the bench, agitation clear throughout his body. His ears twitch, his nose quests the air. “She’s here. Kirjava. But she wants–” He flops to the ground in agitation. “Lyra, it’s not like I can ask her to repeat her thoughts! It’s not communication so much as–” But he must see something horrible on Lyra’s face, because he stops, jumps onto her lap, and nuzzles the underside of her jaw. “She’s there. I can feel her. And she wants us to wait.” He worries at her sleeve with his paws, carefully keeping his claws from catching on the material. “It’s never been like this. Never so real. Maybe–”

Lyra finishes the thought for him, her voice a breathy whisper. “Maybe we are magic.”

When it happens, Lyra thinks she must be dreaming. Must be painting her want in the air in front of them. But then there’s a tiny gasp from Pan, so maybe it truly is real.

“Pan, are those–”

“Paper flowers, yes. Do you think our letters–”

“Must have done. And is that–”

“Of course it’s Will’s handwriting. We know it like we know our own. Don’t be silly, Lyra.”

She flushes, because she is being silly; who else would be responding to her letters? Lyra kneels on the ground again, this time taking no heed of the state of her dress or the dirt under her fingernails. She runs a fingertip along the edge of one delicate petal, full of wonder.

Will did this. She and Pan had the inkling, but Will is the magic one. He knows how to turn invisible and how to wake a girl from a magic sleep. He’s the one who always knows what to say, and when it’s best to just be silent and wait. She turns to Pan, ready to let all these thoughts spill out of her…but before even one sound escapes she sees in his eyes that he already knows. So she just blinks her eyes, hard, to keep the tears from spilling out, and goes back to the flower.

“I’m almost afraid to pick it,” she breathes. “But I’ll never make sense of it all without plucking the petals.” So though it feels like breaking a spell, she wraps her fingers around the base of the stem and neatly tears it, as close to the ground as she can manage.

Nothing happens.

Lyra lets out a shaky breath. “I almost expected magic sparkles or something silly,” she admits. Pan nuzzles at her knee again. He did too, then.

It takes less time than she’d expected to arrange the plucked petals into something she can understand; it’s almost like the flower wants to be easy to read. Pure silliness, of course. But the entire day seems to be made of nonsense, so one more thing isn’t too much to believe.

And then she’s reading Will’s words for the first time in… oh, another uncountable length of time. Too long. But she can still hear his voice in her head as she reads.

Lyra, You clever girl. How did you even think to do this? Kirjava is sure it was Pan’s idea, but I’m betting you both thought of it at the same time. The two of you do that a lot. Or you did when we were all together, anyway. I haven’t read all your letters, of course–that will take days, or even weeks, you’ve been writing for a very long time–but I’ve read enough to miss you even more. Honestly, it only took seeing your handwriting on the petals–you’ve improved, but of course I knew it was you. Who else would be mad and brilliant enough to mail letters to another world by burying them in the dirt? Only my Lyra. For now I’ll only answer one letter: it was the first to bloom and though it looked like a lily before I picked it, the words pierced my heart like the thorns of a rose. I too think about the mysteries of the world–not just my world but all the worlds. I talk with Mary sometimes, about everything we saw, about the world of the dead and your world with the giant armored bears and angels and witches and what it’s like to have our daemons when everyone else around us keeps theirs tucked safely inside their bodies. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: I don’t have many answers, but it’s good to keep asking questions. That’s what science–your philosophy, remember?–is about, really, asking more and more questions even if you don’t get exactly the answers you’re looking for. I may never get to hold your hand again, Lyra. But because you’ve found another mystery I can hear your voice in my head. I can see your handwriting on these paper flowers. And I can hope. Right beside you now, Will p.s. Kirjava can feel you. Or, she can feel Pan, but I think it’s the same thing. I don’t have much practice with daemons, you know.

“Oh,” Lyra says. She should say something more, something witty or important, but all she can think is Will wrote these words. Will is right here.

Every visit…it’s not that she ever doubted; Will is the most steady and trustworthy person Lyra has ever met. But it’s one thing to believe Will is sitting here, only tiny particles–and a whole universe–separating them, and another entirely to know.

She feels Pan’s rough tongue on her cheek and that’s when she realizes she’s crying. Why is she crying when she’s so happy? She scrubs at her eyes, trying to find a calm center; it’s difficult with her racing heart pounding in her ears, drowning out everything else. And then Pan licks the end of her nose, a deliberate and silly thing he used to do to make her laugh; she knows he’s trying to trick her out of her shock but it works and the laughter is good for both of them. Cleansing.

“Oh, Pan.” Lyra has her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in his fur, and her heart is full to bursting. “We did it. It’s impossible, but we must have at least a little magic. Or Will does.”

“Or all of us together. How many things only worked because it was all of us together?”

And this feels right. The magic wouldn’t work without all of them together, gathered in space so thin Pan could feel Kirjava. “Just like–”

“Yes.”

When she’s calm again she pulls the paper and pen and ink out of her bag, the things she’d brought with her just in case. I’m here, she writes. I miss you, she adds. After a moment’s hesitation she writes one more thing.

How do we break all the way through?

**

written for prompt #15–letters unsent–for @reverseprompts

prompt art by the amazing and talented @dragonpressgraphics