hello hello! I'm JustNerdy (or Alex if you like to use people names) and this is where I post my writing – both fanfiction and original work – as well as other things. I thought with the New Year I would post an updated introduction, especially since I have been inactive for most of the year.
Always looking for other writers to follow! Whether you write fanfiction, original fiction, nonfiction, poetry, plan to publish or not, extremely interested in seeing your work and process!
I'm also planning to start grad school in the fall, so I would love to follow other writers who are balancing school and their personal projects!
I tend to oscillate between writing predominately fanfiction or original work. I am currently in my original work era. My writing focuses on woman-led stories that fall into contemporary (Come Back Home), modern fantasy (Daisy Chains or Heiress of the Night), or dystopian fiction (After the Fall).
Things that I usually explore in my writing:
Familial relationships (especially between siblings)
Individual interest and communal responsibility
Queer relationships
Consequences of love
Generational grief
I write a lot of prompt fills which you can find here. My inbox is always open if you want to drop a prompt!
Very brief summaries of my main WIPs:
After the Fall (New! no tag yet): After the collapse of the Taunto Empire, people across the empire now live in the aftermath of war, trying to make sense of the so-called new era. Athestia, a young woman who lives in the lower rungs of Taunto’s capital city, has spent most of her life as an orphan desperately trying to keep her family together. Now, she navigates a new order, fracturing communities, and familial tension while trying to keep her wits and heart about her.
Come Back Home (tag): It's been eight years since Edith Brown left her hometown. Now, after a distressing phone call, she returns to find out just what is going on. Forced to confront the town and family she left behind, Edith struggles to stay afloat amidst old friendships, familial responsibilities, and a budding romance.
Heiress of the Night (tag): Evangeline Clark has dedicated her life to the Hunt as the heir apparent to the Clark line - one of the oldest Families in New York City. As threats to her family close in on them from enemies and allies, Evangeline tries to navigate growing political tension to keep those she loves safe. However, when she finds herself drawn to an irritating but amusing vampire, things become increasingly complicated for everyone involved.
Daisy Chains (tag): When Mara Verity is taken to the Fae Court after unintentionally befriending Caerwyn, the Court’s Prince, she must learn to survive an unfamiliar world, possessive attraction, and fae politics as she tries to find allies to aid her escape. Enter Isolde, formerly human and current queen, and Saoirse, the royal guard assigned to Mara with secrets of her own.
If you're interested in the fanfiction side of things, more below the cut!
I've been reading and writing fanfiction for well over a decade, but only in the past two years or so have I actually posted my own fanfiction.
Fandoms I've written for: 9-1-1 on ABC, The Last of Us (HBO and video game), Justice League/Unlimited, Game of Thrones
I am in a lot more fandoms than what I write for, so this isn't like a definitive list or anything. I try to keep this blog strictly about writing, however, the occasional fandom post slips through. But, if you're ever like man, I wonder if she would write something for [fandom], ask box is open, or just dm me~
Most of my fics can be found on AO3 under the same username!
wc: 663
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial could have been worse
notes: not attached to anything
He’s checking over his papers, grimacing at his newly minted ID, while stragglers mill about, low conversations about the debrief filtering through the artificially lit comms room.
Mastorid. Lovely.
“It could be worse,” a voice says from behind him as a pale green arm drapes across his shoulders. Vira gives him a little shake, grin widening when Fritz looks at him, his four eyes slanting in amusement. “You could be going to Nexus with those sorry bastards,” he continues, jerking his head towards a surly group of five, huddled together, with one emphatically jabbing his finger towards a stack of papers.
Fritz huffs out a breath, squirming out from underneath Vira’s arm, and shoves his orders into his chest. “I’d choose Nexus over this,” he says, looking away from Vira, towards the entrance and wonders if he can catch up to Berina to plead his case.
There’s a rustle of papers and then a small oh that has Fritz gritting his teeth.
“Do you think they know?” Vira asks slowly, probably re-reading the pages.
Fritz scoffs. “We’re fighting a war — I doubt they give a shit.”
Vira takes his arm and pulls him close. “Well, it certainly explains why he’s been glaring at you moodily from the corner,” he says, speaking damn near into his ear. “Do you feel the back of your head burning?”
Rolling his eyes, Fritz glances up towards the ceiling, towards the thick metal trim, and spots him in the reflection. He can’t tell if he’s glaring, all blob-like and warped, but even his image radiates that familiar pissed off energy that he seems to have been born with.
“Barely a spark,” he says under his breath, sharing a grin with Vira who busts out laughing, bumping his head against Fritz’s, several of his cueraars spilling over his shoulders.
Fritz shouldn’t, it would just add fuel to the fire, but he looks behind him anyways and meets Desmond’s gaze head on, raising an eyebrow at the other man. He’s not happy about this either, but stars above, could he not even try to be professional?
Desmond’s scowl deepens and Fritz watches as his eyes drop from Fritz’s face to Vira’s hand wrapped around his upper arm then back to his face.
It’s petty, but Fritz can’t help the smug satisfaction that curls his lips, pressing just a tad bit deeper into Vira’s side. Red creeps onto Desmond’s cheeks, tan skin becoming ruddy, before he lifts his chin with a sneer, leaving the comms room with quick strides.
“That wasn’t nice,” Vira says, offering another grin as he lets go of Fritz’s arm. “Keep it up and I’m going to end up in an accident.”
“I’ll remember you fondly.”
Vira laughs and Fritz looks back at him, a small smile on his face, offering a shrug. “I guess it won’t be too bad. A honeypot on a resort planet? Worse things things to do.”
Now it’s Vira arching an eye ridge at him, cocking his head to the side, with a kind of you-aren’t-fooling-me kind of feel. “For sure,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest, exposed skin bright against the black tac-suit, “Besides, I’m sure the whole lover angle won’t be a problem, right?”
Fritz doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “Cute,” he says, stepping away from Vira, glancing back at the doorway that Desmond practically fled through. “Might go for a trying to save a failing relationship angle. What’s Berina always say? Use what you know?”
He’s not bitter.
Not at all.
Vira sighs and nudges him. “Sorry, that was dick-y to say. Are you going to be okay?”
Fritz shrugs, taking his papers back, and tucks them safely under his arm. “It’s just another mission.”
wc: 1000
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial two truths one lie
notes: attached to HOTN
“I’ll pay you back,” Evangeline promises, stabbing her fork into a pile of scrambled eggs, ignoring the whisps of steam as she shovels a good bit into her mouth. She winces as the eggs burn her mouth, but her grumbling stomach wins out and she chews as quickly as possible before swallowing. When she reaches for her juice, she looks up and meets Anthony’s gaze, who looks back at her with faint amusement. “Sorry.”
He huffs out a laugh, slouching against the upholstered bench, and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I can do.” One hand loosely holds his own glass, ice gently tapping against the glass as he rotates it in small circles, and she looks down at his empty side of the table.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she asks, scooting her plate towards the middle. It feels weird to be the only one eating and the fact he paid for the food is making guilt creep up her stomach.
Anthony offers a small smile and pushes her plate back with the tips of his fingers. “I’m fine, really. It’s not like I need food,” he reminds her. When she doesn’t pull the plate back to her, he nudges it again. “Please, eat.”
Evangeline bites at the inside of her cheek, glancing around the sparsely filled diner, and takes the plate with a sigh. “You can eat food, though, right?” she asks as she picks up a piece of toast. “Or can you not? There’s conflicting information in the archives.”
He motions with his hand, kind of shrugging, and straightens up. “It depends on the vampire,” he answers, watching as she takes a bite. “Some can, some can’t, and some won’t.”
“And you?”
“I can. I don’t do it very often, but I get. . .a craving every once in a while.”
She hums, plucking a piece of bacon off the plate, and her head tilts in consideration. “You know, I don’t know all that much about you,” she states, raising an eyebrow at him. “Considering your position.”
“Coming from the woman who just told me her name —” he glances down at his watch “—four hours ago.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a bigwig vampire lord,” she teases with a grin, wiping her fingers clean with a napkin. “Should I call you Lord DuPont?”
The flat, unamused look on his face makes her laugh and she takes another sip of her drink.
“I’ll have you know I voted no on that,” he says dryly, “I thought it was pretentious.”
“Really? What did you want?”
“Councilman would’ve been fine.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Still a bit pretentious.”
“Not as much. Besides, you all co-opted it didn’t you?”
“To be fair, I think it’s kind of dying out. Only my Safta uses it and only on special occasions.”
The mention of her grandmother causes a barely noticeable reaction, a quick press of his lips, the flex of his fingers on his glass, but she curses herself all the same. Dammit. She eats some more eggs as if that would keep her from putting her foot back in her mouth.
“Anyway,” Evangeline says, trying to keep her breezy tone. She doesn’t want to ruin the fun. “Do you like games?”
Anthony raises an eyebrow at her, face relaxing, before propping his elbows onto the table. “Depends on the game.”
“Well we’ve established that I don’t know much about you,” she says with a wry grin, “And you don’t know much about me. Let’s make a game out of it. Two truths and a lie.”
“And what would stop you from telling all lies?” Anthony asks, leaning forward.
She rolls her eyes. “I should be asking you that,” she tells him, “After all, you’re the one that can hear heartbeats. But if it makes you feel better —” she holds up one hand and crosses her heart with the other “— there. Happy?”
Anthony’s lips quirk up and he looks her up and down. “Lucky for you, the sounds of your digestion are currently drowning out that heartbeat of yours. Plus, I’m not a cheater.”
Her mouth drop open just a bit — stupid embarrassment warming her face at the idea he can hear all the gurgling and god knows what else going on — and she winces. “Sorry,” she apologizes, and her face heats up even more when he laughs.
He shrugs and holds out his hands, palms up. “It’s all body noises, Evangeline, no big deal. You get used to after awhile. And you don’t need to keep apologizing.”
Anthony makes a sound, like he’s considering his options, as he settles back in his seat. “I’ll go first,” he offers and counts them off, “One: I met Napoleon Bonaparte just before the Battle of Waterloo. Two: I have an original copy of the First Folio. Three: I’ve pet a tiger.”
Now it’s Evangeline who sits forward, staring Anthony down, as she thinks over the choices. He’s old enough, she thinks to herself, and, unbelievably, the tiger sounds too mundane to be a lie. “It has to be two,” she says finally, “There’s no fucking way you have an original copy.” Back in undergrad, she had the chance to see one at the Folger’s Library and that shit was kept under lock and key. No way some dude in New York just has a copy.
When Anthony’s response is only a widening grin, she curses and takes another drink. “Seriously?” she asks incredulously, looking at him with wide eyes.
“Yes,” he answers with a grin, smug satisfaction rolling off him. “In my private collection. I was in Balkans towards the end of Napoleon’s campaign. The tiger had belonged to an old acquaintance of mine.” Anthony holds out a hand. “Your turn.”
How the hell is she supposed to keep up with that? “Um,” she says, thinking it over, “Hm. Okay, one: I did my first solo hunt when I was fourteen. Two: I went to Greece for a summer back in college. Three: I have a favor from the Fae Queen.”
Anthony studies her for one long moment, a furrow in his brow, before he tilts his head. “Three. She hasn’t given favors in decades.”
Man, they’re both shit at this. “Decade and a half,” she replies, victoriously taking a bite out of another piece of bacon. She gestures in his direction with it. “I was thirteen my first hunt.”
His eyebrows raise at that. “Really? Thirteen?” he asks, “That is. . .surprising. Jocasta doesn’t seem like the type to start them young.”
Evangeline shrugs, surprised at the casual use of Safta’s name, and pushes her plate away. “Needs must and all that.”
Happy May 1st everyone, as promised, the prompt list is here! The prompts were chosen through first a prompt jar that got a total of 23 responses that gave us 220 prompts, 118 of which were text prompts and 102 were dialogue prompts. From there 70 of each type were chosen and put in for the prompt voting form. The top 31 of each type made it onto the list, one of each for each day.
Rules:
Works can be in any medium. Fanfictions, original works, podfics, recs, whatever you please, go for it!
Prompts should be responded to in a form of fluff
You don't have to create for all the days to participate in the event
Works only need to include one of the daily prompts or an alternate
Prompts can be used after the event has ended. The AO3 collection will stay open indefinitely and as long as you tag us we will reblog. (although it might take longer than it would during the event)
No AI generated content of any kind.
(regarding completionists)
To be a completionest you must fill all 31 days before August 3rd
The completionest form should open on August 4th and be open until August 11th
(regarding reblogging)
When posting to tumblr please use the tags:
#Fluffy-July 2025 or #Fluffy July 2025
The relevant day's tag (e.g. #Fluffyjulyday1, Fluffyjulyday2...)
Nsfw (if relevant) or any possible triggers
You can also tag the blog: @fluffyjuly
Below the cut are a text version of the prompts!
MAIN PROMPTS:
Day 1 - Anniversary | “May I have this dance?”
Day 2 - Nursing Back to Health | “I thought you were asleep”
Day 3 - Scars | “I really mean it”
Day 4 - Fireworks | “Hop in! Let’s go for a ride!”
Day 5 - Stargazing | “Mind if I join you?”
Day 6 - Love Letters | “Come here and kiss me”
Day 7 - Cotton Candy | “Did you just steal my food?”
Day 8 - Flowers | “You may be an idiot, but you’re MY idiot”
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial the price of peace
notes: not attached to anything
“You need to come back.”
Polina looks up from her mug, leaning back into the rocking chair, and raises an eyebrow at the woman across from her. “And we were having such a good time,” she sighs, pushing her foot against the porch, letting the gentle motion soothe her flash of irritation. She looks over her shoulder, through the screen door, to where early morning light reveals an empty living room. Polina takes another sip of her coffee, wishing she hadn’t wasted a pot for a conversation quickly heading south, and turns back to Chris. “You’ve got some nerve.”
It’s a testament to the times that Chris doesn’t flush, doesn’t even look particularly guilty, as she shifts in her seat, elbows pressed against the ends of the arm rests. “We need you —”
“Who you need is dead,” Polina interrupts her, setting her mug down beside her, “Remember? It’s been what? Six years?”
Chris gives her a flat look, lips pressed together in a thin line, before she scoffs, looking away. “Yeah, I guess that’s what they call it these days.” She shakes her head, blonde hair brushing the edge of her collar, and sucks her teeth. “Give me a break, Di, seriously.”
Her hands fist around the smooth wood of the chair. “Don’t call me that,” she says, voice deceptively light as she forces her hands to relax. “I can’t help you, Chris.”
By the tight clench in her jaw and terse hum, Chris isn’t thrilled with her answer. She sits back in her chair, one long leg crossing over the over, and motions with one hand. “Who knew civilian life would treat you so good,” Chris says, eyes roving over the porch and the front of the house, “Do they know?”
“As much as they need to.”
“So none then, I take it.”
“What a strange line of questioning, Chris. It’s not really helping your case.”
“I just think it’s funny that you’re playing house while everything is at risk of falling apart,” Chris replies, the bitter edge of her words making Polina’s hackles rise. “All that work, all that blood, and here you are drinking a goddamn cup of coffee in the middle of nowhere acting like a housewife.”
Polina laughs, anger simmering in her stomach, and the urge to throw that goddamn cup of coffee in Chris’s face makes her fingers itch. “What do you know about blood?” she asks, stopping her chair, one hand balled into a fist. “I did all that I could. Any debt I owed, I paid in full, so who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“A coward,” Chris throws back, a scowl twisting her lips. “Never thought I’d see the day Dia —”
Her hand smacks down on the table beside her, rattling the glass top and her mug, loud enough to startle Chris. “Don’t call me that,” she bites out, “My name is Polina. And it’s time for you to go.”
Chris glares at her, damn near baring her teeth, and braces her hands against the arm rests. “I’m not some initiate you get to dismiss, Polina.”
“This my home. You came here uninvited and unannounced and now you’ve showed your ass. You —”
There’s a creak, the familiar buckle of old floors, that perks her ears, stopping Polina in her tracks. She grits her teeth, cursing herself, and looks back over her shoulder to see Marissa at the bottom of the stairs, making her way to the door.
Shit.
Still dressed in her pajamas, hair pulled up into a very lose bun, Marissa pushes the screen door open just enough to slip about halfway through. There’s a furrow in her brow as she glances between Polina and Chris. “Morning. A bit early for guests, isn’t?” she asks, looking Chris up and down. “Who’s this, Poli?”
“An old colleague,” Polina answers with a kind of smile. “But we’re just about done here, so she’ll be on her way.”
An arched eyebrow. “I see,” Marissa says, still looking down at Chris, who shifts in her seat. “If there’s a next time ma’am, I would prefer that you call ahead or come at a more hospitable time. Preferably both.”
Marissa reaches out with one hand, pushing some of Polina’s hair back over her shoulder, “Come inside when you’re done. I’ll get breakfast started.”
God she loves her.
“I will.”
The screen door swings shuts with a noticeable clack when Marissa slips back into the house, disappearing into the kitchen.
Polina lets out a heavy breath and looks back at Chris with a razor sharp smile. “Get the fuck off my porch.”
Chris is clenching her jaw so tight she’d probably be able to crack a rock, but she pushes herself out of the chair and brushes off the imaginary dirt from her suit with ease. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she says as she straightens out her jacket, “But I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”
Polina watches, and doesn’t bother to reply, she may just be a spectator now, but she still hears well-enough. There isn’t much that she doesn’t know about.
They don’t need her.
Chris looks at her. “I know what you gave in order to get this,” she continues, fishing for something in her pocket, “I won’t deny that.” She pulls a card out and holds it out to Polina. “But to keep it, you’re gonna need to give up a little more.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Polina replies, looking at the card.
“I’m not stupid enough do that. It’s just — a warning.”
She plucks the damn card out of her hand, having a feeling that Chris won’t leave until she takes it, and shoves it into her pocket. “Goodbye, Chris.”
wc: 632
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial left unsaid
notes: attached to After the Fall.
Athestia sits on a well-worn bench in the alter hall, fingers pressing into the soft wood, leaving an a few inches between her and the frail old man. She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of sweet citrus and rose, and lifts her hands to her face, pressing her fingertips into her brow before letting them fall back into her lap with a slow exhale.
“May Their light guide us all,” Athestia says lowly, keeping her eyes on the numerous candles at the alter, illuminating the otherwise dark room into a warm glow. There are others, closer to the alter, some with their heads bent while others tilt up to the dark ceiling. Quiet murmurs tease her ears, but she lets them have their privacy.
A rasping breath escapes the old man. “May They guide us to victory,” he responds, tired, as he lays one gloved hand on her knee.
Interesting.
She stretches her neck, taking the opportunity to look over her shoulder, eyes roving over the second story balcony. Two shadowed figures overlook the hall, nearly concealed, if not for the sliver of candlelight revealing thick golden bands on their wrists.
“Ever watchful, are they not?” she asks as she turns back around, letting one of her own hands lay atop of his.
“Especially in these trying times.”
Athestia feels the slight turn of his hand, lifting hers just enough to make space, before resting her palm against his curled fingers.
“Have you been keeping to your prayers?”
“Far too many to count,” he replies as his thumb traces the left side of her pointer finger through the curve to the outside of her thumb before tapping twice. “They come as quickly as they go.” His thumb returns to the center.
She taps her pointer finger once. “I’m sure the Matron commends your piety.”
“I am blessed in many ways. How have you been keeping? I heard you were hurt,” he says, his ring finger pressing into the valley between her pinkie and ring.
Athestia smiles, letting her fingers briefly clasp his hand before opening them again, and taps twice. “Nothing serious. Barely a day.”
The old man hums. “The Patron must be watching over you. Be thankful for your luck.”
“I’ll make sure to pay my respects,” she says, pulling her hand down to lay her fingers in his gloved palm. She presses down three fingers before withdrawing, folding her hands in her lap.
There’s rustling, the old man adjusting in his seat with a quiet groan, and Athestia watches out the corner of her eye as he slips a well worn book out of his coat. The cover is faded, words rubbed away over the many years, but she could never forget that familiar purple, rich and deep, and a sharp pang startles her heart. She had sold mother’s several years ago and a part of her regrets that every day.
“Feeling nostalgic?” Athestia asks, turning her gaze back to the front. Children are laying out additional candles, replacing those nearly spent, and she wonders where they came from.
“Reflective,” he answers, leafing through the pages. “I find the Old Words still bring me great comfort.” He reaches out with his hand once again and smooth paper touches the back of her hand as he squeezes gently. “I wish you safe keeping.”
She turns her hand over, letting the paper fall into her palm, before returning the gesture. “Thank you.”
Athestia stands from the bench, slipping her hands into her coat pockets, paper falling into fabric, before she lays that same hand onto his shoulder. “I wish you well.” She slips into the aisle, glancing once more up to the balcony, before walking out of the alter hall and into the cold night.
wc: 1000
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial forced to choose
notes: a prequel scene to Come Back Home. teen!Edith
warnings: allusions to child abuse/child sexual abuse (below the cut), off-page violence, complacent parent
Her hands hurt, knuckles swollen and bloody, and she forces them to uncurl, stretching her fingers out until the skin splits, stinging. Edith should get some ice or some frozen peas or whatever to try to get ahead of the swelling, but she doesn’t, taking some sort of satisfaction from the radiating throb, the purpling bruises.
Instead, she watches Mama, standing there at the end of the driveway, dimly illuminated by a dull street light, as the car peels out, Edith only catching vague shouts from Da — Michael. Logically, she knows it was probably for the best that Mama woke up and stopped her before she got carried away, but looking at her now — in her pajamas, barefoot, and crying — Edith wishes she just stayed in bed.
Fuck, she hopes none of the kids woke up.
Edith sighs, closing her eyes as a night breeze goes by, cooling the sweat on her skin before she stands, wincing at the pain in her side, and makes her way to Mama.
The grass is damp, tickling the bottom of her feet, and she squints down at the ground, trying to avoid the stray rock or toy, before she’s a step or two behind Mama. There’s a slight tremble, hiccupping sobs of air, and Edith desperately wants to comfort her.
“If you ever let him back in this house, I’ll kill him.”
The words tear out her throat, rough and ragged, and it smarts a bit when Mama flinches, the line of her back stiffening, already shaking her head as she turns around. When she faces Edith, her bloodshot eyes are wet and pleading.
“He’s still your daddy, Edi,” Mama says, wiping at her tear-stained face, “I don’t know what the hell that all was, but —”
Edith cuts her off. She’s not going to play dumb this time.
“He was in the twins’ bedroom,” Edith says, voice hard. She crosses her arms over her chest and lets the sore pain ground her. “He was standing above Penny’s bed in the dark with their damn door nearly closed. Did you even know he was home?”
Mama’s face goes pale, lips pursing to hold back the denials that are surely coming, and shakes her head vehemently, as if it would dispel the accusation Edith just laid out.
“Edi, baby, I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but he wouldn’t do that.”
Edith scoffs, biting down on her lip hard enough to hurt, before a bitter laugh escapes. Unbelievable. “Don’t lie to me,” she demands, wanting to grab Mama by her shoulders and shake her until she sees sense, “You damn well know what I’m saying. You know the kind of man that he is, Mama, you do.”
“No, he would never — he wasn’t like that with Mason and Marty. Edi, you’re just confused. You don’t know what you saw,” Mama begs her, reaching out to grab Edith’s arm.
Edith jerks away from her, nails scrapping against her skin, and swallows the acid crawling up her throat. “No, of course, he wouldn’t,” the words drip off her tongue, sour, and she wants to scream, “He said it himself right? He’d never hurt his own flesh and blood. Ain’t that right, Mama? ‘Cause he’s their father.”
He’s one sorry bastard, but he knows how to spin his words.
Fresh tears spill over Mama’s cheeks, but denial still lingers in her eyes. She’ll be best friends with the bottle tonight and won’t remember a damn thing.
“I don’t care if you believe me because that’s not the point. I’m telling you now if I ever see his face in the house again, I’ll fucking kill him.”
“This is his home too, Edi —”
Edith throws her hands up. “No, it’s not! It was Mamaw’s house and now, it’s ours. She’d be rolling her grave if she knew you were letting him shack up here!”
Mama recoils, face crumbling, and Edith is a little surprised that she isn’t meeting the palm of Mama’s hand, but maybe that means it’s finally sinking in.
Exhaling a heavy breath, Edith rubs at her face before letting her hands fall to her sides. “I’m not saying this to hurt you, Mama. But I need you to understand. It’s us or him. If you choose him, choose to protect him over us, you are going to put me in a position where I have to choose you or the others. And I’m going to choose them.”
When Mama looks away from her, Edith bites at her lip, eyes burning, disbelief forming a pit in her stomach. She sucks at her teeth and nods her head. “Okay, well, I —”
“Did he ever touch you?” Mama asks, staring at the tree line a ways off.
Edith sucks in a sharp breath, humiliation creeping up her neck, and shakes her head. “Not the way you’re thinking” she replies, hands fisting at her sides to stop their shaking, “He’s never — it’s never gone that far. But there’s little things. The way he looks at me.”
“Do you think he’s ever — do you think Penny’s hurt?”
Edith looks back over her shoulder to the house, windows dark, still and quiet. “I don’t think so,” she says quietly, “I think he was just testing the water.”
There’s a broken sob, a pained whimper, that makes Edith’s gaze return to Mama, still turned away from her. “Mama —”
“Don’t tell them anything,” Mama says, voice muffled behind her hands. “You two argued, he left, and that’s it.” When she turns her head, hands falling away, her eyes drop down to look at Edith’s hands. “You need some ice,” she says, walking back towards the house. “You’re a mess.”
I am Kholoud Al-Hanawi From Gaza 🇵🇸, the wife of Dr. Ahmad, a surgeon who risked his life in the war to save others. But today, he stands helpless—unable to save his own children. Our home is gone, reduced to rubble, and now we live in a tattered tent, barely shielding us from the burning sun and freezing nights. We have lost everything… but the worst pain is watching our children suffer.
Our precious babies, Yazan (9 years old) and Zeina (2 years old), are battling a cruel disease—Plaque Ichthyosis Psoriasis 🩸. Their delicate skin cracks, bleeds, and burns every single day. Every movement is agony. Every night is filled with their cries of pain. No child should suffer like this.
Tonight, Yazan looked at me with tear-filled eyes and whispered:
“Mama… will I be like this forever?” 😢
I swallowed my pain and forced a smile. How do I tell him that the medicine he desperately needs is beyond our reach? $500 every 3 days—that’s what it costs to ease their pain. But how can we afford it when we barely have food to survive?
Then came his next question… the one that shattered me completely:
“Mama… will I die if we don’t get the medicine?” 💔
No mother should ever have to hear these words from her child. No child should have to live in constant agony, wondering if they will survive. I am begging… if you hear me, if you feel our pain, please help us before it’s too late. 🙏💔
Your donation means life to us 🥹🙏
Donation Link
salam
It is with a heavy heart that I reach out to you to share with you the urgent plight of my child… Chadia Daoud needs your support fo
wc: 1000
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial one day more
notes: not attached to anything --- lowkey came out of nowhere lol
warnings: descriptions of torture
If Jori was an optimist, he’d think it was water dripping down the side of his face.
If Jori was stronger, he’d find the will to lift his head, to embrace the few minutes of sunshine as it filtered in through the window to his left — let its meager warmth knock the chill off his bones as a momentary respite.
If Jori was braver, he would’ve bitten down on that little pill the moment he’d been made. Would’ve taken that knife across his throat when he still had free hands and a slack guard. Would’ve enticed those imperial bastards’ anger to a fever pitch until they put a round in his head.
If Jori was smarter, he wouldn’t even be here.
He sighs, adjusting in his seat with a futile effort to ease the ache between his shoulders, gritting his teeth through the sharp burn that radiates through his torso and down his legs.
They’re a lot more patient than their previous actions had suggested. However many days it’s been since they locked him up, it’s a hell of a lot longer than he first hoped. Jori never thought that dying could take so long.
His tongue swipes along the back of his teeth, all miraculously still intact, sandpaper dry and stinging as is moves across the many abrasions left behind. He doesn’t even have spit to swallow and his thirst has become an annoying insistence in the back of his skull along with the headache.
That’s the entire point, of course. He even used it on the rare occasion. Though, perhaps, not as extreme as this.
Pain, exhaustion, total misery — wear them down until they’re desperate to talk, to do anything to alleviate their suffering.
He laughs, or tries to at least as it dissolves into rough coughing, and can’t help the smile that stretches across cracked lips, a warm wet now trailing down his chin.
Stupid bastards.
The last time Jori employed this measure — some captain from an outer-territory shithole — it took three days for him to talk. All teary eyed and snotty as he stumbled his way through explaining the security details of the nearby garrison. Jori had been ecstatic at the information, the first true opportunity to strike against imperial forces, and planned for an easy victory.
A ten-man team went in.
None came out.
He shot that poor captain and had him dumped in the town square.
Wonderful. They have him reminiscing.
Another breathy laugh escapes, so loud to his own ears, he barely hears the groan of the iron door swinging open.
“Oh, good,” a voice says, smooth and soft. The light tap of boots find their way inside. Something itches at the back of his head. “They’re always close when they start to do that.” The rustle of fabric, heavy, like a cloak. “Tell Bishop I have it from here.”
“Sir.” The door swings shut once more, clanging, but there’s no click, no sturdy snap of the lock.
He tilts his chin up, laughter dying, and waits.
“Don’t stop on my account,” they say, stepping closer to Jori until he can see the tips of their boots. They’re much dirtier than he thought the imperial guard would allow. “Laughter is not a sound I hear much these days.”
Jori doesn’t think he can speak even if he wanted to.
A moment passes. “Ah, I’ve forgotten my manners.” The black fabric — yes, a cloak — slouches down their form until it’s a loose bundle in their hands. He watches, warily, as they place it in his lap, covering him from his lower belly to his feet, still warm. The hands disappear.
The snap of a buckle. Fingers grazing his jaw, a gentle hold to tilt his head up. “Tell me about the sea caverns on the Garrold coast.”
He jerks in his seat, binds biting at his hands, and looks up, blinking to clear his vision.
Venrick stares down at him with undisguised concern, smooth-faced and short-haired, and Jori doesn’t know when, but he must have died.
The impossible man holds up a water canister, lid twisted off, and lets it hover just in front of Jori’s lips. “Maybe this will help,” he says, tone slick as oil, despite the thumb lightly stroking the line of his jaw, despite the encouraging smile on his face.
He presses the lip of the canister to Jori’s mouth and tips cool water inside.
Jori should probably spit it out, tear himself away from the weak hold, but the second that liquid runs over his parched tongue, he’s ravenous, gulping down the water before it is taken away, ignoring how his stomach cramps.
Venrick tsks, pulling the canister away after a few seconds, hand moving from Jori’s jaw to his hair, gripping the dirty strands just enough to keep Jori from following.
“Enough of that,” he says, “I’d hate for you to get sick all over my nice shoes.”
Panting, Jori glares at him, even though his stomach is, in fact, turning. It would serve him right, his vomit all over his ill-fitted uniform, splattered on his old ratty boots.
Something in his look pleases Venrick who lets go of his hair to wipe Jori’s mouth with the back of his hand.
“I think you’re just about ready,” Venrick says, letting his hands drop down to his sides. “One more day and you’ll serve your usefulness.”
Jori exhales, lets himself look at the last glimpses of sun, and smiles. He forces the words out, ignoring how they tear at his throat. “One more sunrise,” he croaks, “a whole lifetime.”
Venrick laughs, the sound sinking into his bones with warm familiarity, and Jori closes his eyes. “So it is.” A hand passes down his neck, resting at his collarbone. “One that you won’t forget.”
Yelling out into the writeblr void because I haven't been active on here in over a year and my dash is super empty, so if you're a writeblr please reblog this ♡
I especially love horror, mysteries, and really anything about queer characters!
My primary project is a southern gothic horror about a girl returning to hometown after more than a decade, which you read more about on my intro post.
