Long and Short Stories @longandshortstories - Tumblr Blog

Meet Me In The Middle

A/N: Was supposed to be for flash fiction friday but due to personal reasons I missed the cut off.

Characters: Corvel (oc) and Mortimer (oc).

Summary: Two people meet on a Twin Peaks Forum in 1998, become closer and finally meet for the first time.

#original writing #original characters #Corvel Devereaux (oc)#Mortimer Palmer (oc)#Flash fiction #Short Fiction #Romance #90s nostalgia #queer fiction

#writeblr #my ocs #ocs #My ocs #oc: corvel devereaux #oc: mortimer palmer #oc art #no ai

Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

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Corvel smelled dinner before they even opened the door. Their hand paused on the doorknob. The rich wine smell, the mushrooms and onions. The heaviness of sauteed beef. Enough garlic to kill a vampire at thirty paces. They breathed in deep before putting the key in, turning it and stepping in.

“Hi, I’m here,” they called out, putting their shoes to the side and slipping on their house slippers.

“Kitchen!” Katya, their mother, shouted.

Corvel trailed through their childhood home, the pale yellow light falling over the fading wallpaper of little cornflowers and pine trees.

Katya was brushing syrup over baklava she must have just pulled out of the oven since Corvel could hear the slight sizzle as the syrup dripped over the hot pastry. On the stove a pot of egg noodles were just coming to boil. The warm yeasty smell of pampushky made Corvel’s mouth water.

“Once the timer goes off you can pull them out of the oven,” Katya said, focused on her work. “I was off today so I went a little overboard cooking. Figured you could use a break from the pot noodles and day old pizza.”

Corvel winced. “I wouldn’t say it’s that bad.” But at Katya’s flat blue eyed stare they followed it up with, “I am grateful though. Thank you, mother.”

She snorted. “Set the table, Corvel.”

Chastened, they did so, putting the dishes out and carefully using the forks to guard the spoons from the knives.

The pampushky was set out, along with sides of rice and a simple salad. Katya made Corvel sit before taking their plate and filling it with a large portion of beef stroganoff. She sat across from them. “Go on, try it.”

Corvel took a bite laden with beef and noodles, dripping in rich savory sauce. Katya was right, currently Corvel was surviving on ramen, eggs and apples stolen from the cafeteria. The taste was so overwhelming that for a moment they closed their eyes. It was delicious.

“Good?” Katya asked with a small smirk. “I’m glad.” She took a bite of her own meal. She tore off a piece of the bread, handing it to Corvel before taking one for herself. It was warm from the oven. The garlic cut through the buttery taste of the stroganoff.

Katya quizzed them on their classes, on Sloan. “And Mortimer Palmer?”

Corvel paused. “He’s fine.” They set their fork aside, their plate empty. A disconcerting flutter in their stomach that had nothing to do with the food. “He’s working with a guest researcher from Cambridge right now, with a rare printing of the Canterbury Tales.”

Katya hummed. “Does he need to travel? Has he been to England before? I knew Felix when he was young and his wife was Welsh.”

Corvel blinked. “I didn’t know that,” they admitted. Mortimer rarely mentioned his family outside of his father. Which Corvel understood; they rarely spoke about Katya or their aunt.

Katya nodded. “Yes. He never told you? That’s a shame, wonderful woman.”

Corvel wanted to get a peek into a part of Mortimer’s life he rarely opened the door on. But he wasn’t ready to share it yet and Corvel wasn’t willing to push. Katya continued. “She died shortly after he was born.” Katya shook her head. “Terrible. And then what happened to his eldest.”

Corvel could not quite cover their expression of surprise quickly enough and Katya caught it. “Has Mortimer not told you? About his brother?”

“No. I didn’t know,” they admitted. But they bit off the question that should have followed up that statement. If Katya wanted to play this way, Corvel would make her work for it.

She stared them down. “That’s worrisome.” She reached out, placed a hand on their arm. “I worry about you, Corvel. You know that line “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Corvel dug deep and managed to smile. “It’s alright, Katya. I’m alright, you know.”

Katya tilted her head, gaze wolfish. “You know I love you, Corvel.”

“I know Katya. I love you too.”

She smiled and stood. “Okay then, how about some baklava then?”

Corvel’s favorite dessert stuck like grit in their throat.

----

Mortimer had waited up for them, sitting at the kitchen table, coffee going cold in front of him as he read. His reading glasses were on his head, resolutely unhelpful. Corvel snorted and kissed the back of his head.

“Hey welcome back, my love,” he said and blinked, tearing himself out of the book. “How did it go?”

Corvel sighed and went to pull out a beer. “You know. Katya. Food was good.” They sat next to Mortimer, head on his shoulder. “Can we talk?” They held his hand. His hands were always so nice and soft.

He looked over at them, eyebrows furrowed. “Of course.”

“Katya told me about your mother and her death. That she was Welsh. And that you have a brother?” Corvel said all in one quick breath.

Mortimer sucked in. Corvel had wounded him. His hand tightened around theirs. “How does she know?” He asked, voice hushed.

Corvel shrugged. “No idea. Same way she gets any of her information.”

Mortimer sighed. “My mother’s name was Carys. She died from an infection in the days after I was born.” He paused. “I don’t remember her and she wasn’t spoken of. But Orville. He’s currently at Lethe Center for Behavior. Felix had him sent when he was twelve and I was two. I barely remember him. Felix used to encourage me to make drawings and letters but I have no idea if he ever sent them.”

Corvel touched his jaw, turning him toward them. “That’s horrible my heart, I’m sorry.”

Mortimer kissed their fingers. “Why did she tell you?” He whispered.

“To warn me off of you. She doesn’t like you. Or she doesn’t like Felix, I don’t know why.” Corvel smiled. “Maybe because when I’m with you I don’t have to listen to her.”

Mortimer pressed close. “I love you,” he offered.

Corvel smiled and took it. “I love you too.”

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #flash fiction friday #my ocs #oc: Mortimer Palmer #oc: Corvel Devereaux #oc: Katya Devereaux #oc: Felix Palmer

Blood on Silk 1/12/2026

Antoine Saint-Just was being hypnotized with blood. The steady drip drip drip made his eyes heavy. But he could not sleep, not with the noise outside or the brightly flickering firelight. His neck also prickled, feeling the weight of many eyes, the smell of sweat and wine closing him in. It was even stronger than the smell of blood. So he watched the blood from Maxime's face collect in a puddle and slowly drip off the table to the floor. His hands clenched on his thighs. As it was Antoine could not reach out to comfort him, would not even now, risk exposing them to even more mockery.

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #fanfic #antoine saint just #maximilien robespierre #saintspierre #excerpt from WIP

One 1/11/2026

Eleonore Duplay met Maximilien Robespierre when she was twenty-two years old. It had been a hot day and later there were gunshots and shouting in the street. She’d stayed up with her mother, waiting for her father to come home. If he hadn’t come home, she’d been preparing to go out to find him, no matter the condition. However he’d hurried into the yard, a stranger trailing behind him. Maurice Duplay shut the gate behind him and then towards the house.

“Mama, the kettle,” Eleonore said just as father reached the door. Her mother moved the kettle off the fire to start on making coffee.

“I own several apartments, monsieur. You can stay here for tonight, the top room is vacant.”

“Ah, merci.”

The door opened. Her father framed is wood, the stranger behind him, bedraggled by a long day. Eleonore lit another candle to see more clearly. The light caught pale green eyes and a pale freckled face. Maurice led him further into the house, closer to his wife and daughter.

“My eldest daughter Eleonore, and my wife Francoise. Dearest, please meet Monsieur Robespierre.”

Both women dropped a shallow curtsy and Francoise tutted. “Oh you poor man. I have coffee. Come sit,” she ordered. Robespierre muttered a thank you. Eleonore studied him with an artists eye. His profile flattened, make his face look shallow and his cheekbones look high. Maurice met her gaze and they stepped aside.

“He was trapped at the club, during the shooting. I helped him out. He can stay for the night,” he told her. “Can you go see to the room?”

“Yes papa,” she said and left, glancing over her shoulder to the slumped form in front of the fire.

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #eleonore duplay #maximilien robespierre

Love's Labour

@flashfictionfridayofficial

WC: 358

Fandom: French History RPF

(Dont you love it when you both love the same man and start to fall for each other but the center of your ménage à trois is sort of an idiot?)

Eleonore Duplay and Antoine Saint-Just were always united in their goal of protecting Maximilien Robespierre. Eleonore was able to protect his domestic peace, the Minerva of the apartment. She was able to firmly guide him like a shepherdess, into the dining room to eat, to his room to rest, away from guests who would upset him. Then she could hand him to Antoine who would be able to protect him at the National Convention and the Committee of Public Safety. The one who could use his words and his reputation with the army to hold the Republic together with Maxime, like parents who would protect their children.

Was it not in part inevitable their mutual work would result in mutual regard?

Could Eleonore be faulted for noticing the length and grace of Antoine’s fingers, as he wrote or played the flute? The softness of his eyes, which was such a contrast to he firmness of his words and the coldness of the manner? Could Antoine have it held against him to see the strength of Eleonore’s arms as she assisted her mother with the household, her stern marshaling of her siblings and father’s workmen? The true ring of her cheer in the evening when Maximilien could be convinced to read from Candide as opposed to The Social Contract and made the three of them laugh till they could not stand.

For his part Maximilien was not aware of the subtle walls they had encircle him with, the careful guarding of his person and soul. However even he could not miss the blushing looks between his dear friend and the daughter of his generous landlord. Some quiet part of him, perhaps two quiet parts that he did not touch, as they were so tender and swollen as to bruise and Maxime could not allow a distraction at the current junction. So he knew when it came to it, he would stand back and allow them the happiness they could find, even if he couldn’t. If it hadn’t been for Georges Couthon Maxime might have never noticed that their mutual regard was also very much directed at him as well.

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #eleonore duplay #fanfic #flash fiction friday #maximilien robespierre #antoine saint just #saintspierre

The Last Vow 1/6/2026

Salai and Eleonore laying on the ground. Salai had a bottle of mead next to his elbow, Eleonore had a bottle of strong red wine. They were both staring up at the ceiling, a projection of stars above them. Rather than being static it moved in a gentle spiral, stars appearing and disappearing. Eleonore took a sip of her wine, a red drop spilling over her cheek and into her dark brown hair.

“I’ve been thinking, about what we should do.”

Salai grunted, eyes hazy.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do for Maxime,” she whispered. It was first time she’d used his private name since she’d been in this place. The first time she’d used it with Salai.

“I think I want to bring him back. In this one,” she muttered and waved a hand at the stars over head. It collapsed limply back to her chest.

Salai rolled his eyes over to her, where she was still staring up at the sky. The not-real sky. Tears followed the same path the wine had, dripping back into her hair.

“What do you mean, bring back?”

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #eleonore duplay #salai #my ocs #ocs

Kiss Under Red Moons 1/5/2026

Finn leaned forward, hands interlaced. He tilted his head to study the painting in front of him. It was competently done, no, expertly done. It featured two figures on a hazy bridge, the lighting done in the silver light of the moon. The bridge over the river was the only solid looking object, everything else hazy as though it was wrapped in a funeral shroud of the thinnest cloth. The men were out of focus, the metaphorical lens of the viewing camera was smeared in petroleum oil. They were pressed close and while Finn couldn’t make out the details, he knew one of them must have been Eleonore’s lost love. She stood beside the painting, one hand clasped over the other.

“Well?” She prompted him after a bit.

Finn looked up at her. “And this is the start, isn’t it?”

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #my ocs #eleonore duplay #salai #ocs

Letters Never Sent 1/3/2026

Maestro

This is something Ene suggested, speaking my thoughts out loud and the device she gave me writes it for me. I can only imagine how useful something like this would have been for you. She does say that at some point she will show me how to write. Something you never got around to, maestro...

I am stuck here with an annoying french wench named Eleonore. She was on about helping to kill a king and the man she failed to marry was beheaded with his lover? She isn't without talent. She paints well, but all the same subject. If that was her man, then I truly do not know what she pines for. As for me, I cannot paint at all.

It would please you, I suppose, to know you are well thought of. People know your name, your works. Not your inventions but your paintings. The ones that were finished anyway. I'm sorry, that sounded bitter. I am trying to speak nicely to you, maestro. Hardly matters however, with your death. Still.

(A long silence ensues.)

I was given a choice when I died. Ene came to me and told me I could still make a difference. She told me I could live forever, here in this strange place with these strange people. I knew it was what you would have done. But now that i am here I find myself resenting it. Why do I continue to try to honor you? You never even taught me to write! Perhaps that is my issue with Eleonore. She reminds me of our agreement, Leonardo. What is the purpose of holding true to a dead man?

#writing #writeblr #my ocs #writing challenge #Salai #leonardo da vinci

After the Resurrection 1/2/2026

In the end, the choice was never a choice. Eleonore had so much left to, so much she had failed to accomplish. The power to change that was something she could not pass up.

The place that Finn guided her to was unlike any space she'd been to before. There's nothing natural about it. The lighting is flat and omnipresent, the walls soaring up towards a ceiling she could not even see. The atmosphere was comfortable, neither hot nor cold. Regardless she felt unnerved by the location. Eleonore sometimes expected to get lost in the flat whiteness, as though it was a blizzard and never find her way back out.

"It's to give you some drive," Finn said, when Eleonore remarked on her uneasiness. "You wanna get out of here, right? Then come up with something and we can all get out into the great out there." He waved his hand, burdened with silver rings and dotted with faded black ink, at some unseen beyond.

Eleonore raised her eyebrow. "That seems exploitative."

Finn barked a laugh. "You'd be entirely correct lass." He brought her a cup of tea and Eleonore was left to think about making things.

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #eleonore duplay #my ocs

Lines 1/1/2026

A/N: This is Eleonore Duplay - lived during the French Revolution of 1789 and Gian Giacomo known as Salai - who lived and worked with Leonardo da Vinci. After being offered a choice at the moment of their respective deaths, they have come to a strange in between realm under the guardianship of a Irishman name Finn O'Reilly and Ene. Tasked with creating "things" in the words of Ene, they now try to spend their time trying not to kill one another.

“This is stupid,” Salai hissed. He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like you.”

Eleonore ignored him. She’d had younger siblings all her life, including one little brother who was very much like Salai. She instead focused on her painting, the scene coming to her in a vivid wash of color. Two figures in a cave. Or not them, but their shadows, the light streaming in from the mouth of the cave.

“That’s not what the shadows would look like,” Salai interrupted her concentration again. “You’re making it too intense for the strength of the light. There aren’t any lines like that in life, you know.” He sniffed in superiority.

Eleonore’s brush stopped for a moment as she gritted her teeth together.

“I know. But art isn’t real life, is it?” she asked, her tone as mild as milk.

Salai, this loathsome brat she’d been saddled with, scoffed. “It isn’t. But it should be an accurate reflection, shouldn’t it?”

Eleonore looked at him, an eyebrow raising in surprise. That was the first hint he’d shown of something other than shallow enjoyment of anything. His relaxed posture on the chaise lounge, flipping through a magazine and eating the new dessert that Finn had brought back for them to try—layers of thin pastry and honey, topped with nuts. She watched as a sticky string of honey dripped off the fork.

Salai’s cultivated nonchalance regarding their new position made her want to hit him. She’d never struck her siblings in life, even when they deliberately tried to bother her. Her even temper had been one of the things she and her father had shared. One of the things that made Maximilien value her company.

She took a slow breath and set down her brush.

“Do you mean that art should reflect the life an artist perceives? Or do you mean that art should be real life?”

Salai took another bite of his dessert, sucking the fork free of honey. His eyes rolled as he thought. “I think that art should be a reflection of what the artist sees. Or maybe what they also want to see.” He frowned. “But it should look like real life. And there are no lines in real life.”

“But then how do we show more than just that one moment? How do we show who a person is, what they want? Art can’t just look like real life,” Eleonore said, thinking about David’s La Mort de Marat. “And lines are a part of life too.” She pointed at the door. “What do you call the boundary between a wall and the edge of a door?”

“The subject should tell the story,” Salai snapped at her. “What does a woman know of art anyway?”

Eleonore snorted. “You clearly weren’t paying attention to when El introduced us. I was trained as an artist in life.”

Salai stared at her. Ate another bite of the dessert. “Were you any good? Have any patrons?”

“No,” she returned with a distasteful curl of her lip. “But I would imagine that you wouldn’t understand the concept of working for oneself.”

Salai sat up. “And what do you mean by that?”

Eleonore raised an eyebrow. “Nothing. Only that you are remembered for being an eternal apprentice.” She turned from him.

“Well, at least I’m not remembered for being unsuccessful in marrying a man,” Salai snapped before storming out the door, which slammed behind him.

#writing #writeblr #eleonore duplay #salai #gian giacomo #my ocs

FFF 319 Long Road Home

A/N: Scenes from the Moon Ganymede in the year 3010. This is a scene from my work "A Fiction Agreed Upon" which is about a bunch of historical figures resurrected in the year three thousand by a mad scientist. After several years living on the low they are caught by the Terran Federation and exiled. They settle on the "reclaimed" moon of Ganymede which is owned by a tech company that also uses it as a breeding ground for extinct fauna and flora.

WC: 423

"You know you are one of the most ostentatious braggarts I've ever met, and if you know anything about my family that should terrify you." Richard Plantagenet's voice was muffled, from where he was lying down under the newly built wooden skeleton of the foundation of Leonardo's house. He'd insisted on having the foundation generally nailed out before pouring the concrete because he needed to be able to walk it first. The holographic kit he'd brought from Earth - a gift from Mags - had been helpful so Leonardo it would fit his vision, but he worked best in tactile.

"Oh? Well thank you Richard!" He said, brain catching up with what the former King of England had told him. "And may I say you are the biggest stick-in-the-mud I've ever met and I had to work in the same room as Michelangelo?" He grinned down as Richard sneered up at him.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Leonardo turned sharply on his heel to see that Maximilien had returned to the site from the market, his face flushed from the sunny walk back. Even with the further distance from the moon of Ganymede to sun, the afternoons during the summers could be intense. Even covered in a large straw hat, Leonardo could see where his lover's skin had become pinked in the sun, the provincial freckles standing out even more than usual. He set down his bags down the ground. "I thought we were working hard to get this finished before the height of summer? To spare my, what was it, delicate constitution from sleeping in the shed?" Maximilien's tone was so dry that Leonardo longed for wine.

"Your constitution is delicate, beloved," Leonardo said and smiled. "Richard and I were denigrating one another. I am a braggart and fiend. He is a stickler and a bore."

"Pardon me, I only said braggart. The Italian lies," Richard said, patting his hands on his thighs to clear them of splinters. "Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to me," he muttered under his breath.

Maximilien rolled his eyes and picked the bag up to hand it to Leonardo. "Of course. Come on, you fools. I will make drinks and we can all insult one another some more." The three of them - disgraced King of England, underachieving Italian inventor and French builder of failed governments all stepped into the shade of a humble temporary shelter built of strong and ugly aluminum steel. Home right now was not beautiful or luxurious. But it could be made to be so.

#writing #writing challenge #flash fiction Friday #writeblr #ocs

The Adventure Begins by Lola Nixx

Two Truths and a Lie

@flashfictionfridayofficial

WC - 993

A/N: Please meet Marion - up and coming politician, Lex - inventor and artist, and Armel - firebrand ex stunt man. These three pop up a lot as my go to triad. I knew I would need to use them for today's prompt. (Also if the seem…strangely familiar to some other characters I write a lot, well. I draw from what I like and know. Shrugs)

"My turn!" Mai said and took a sip of her wine. She looked into a the fire as she thought. Lex's sketching became a pleasant background noise, the bottle of wine they had already finished off glowing dimly where it had rolled to edge of the rug. The snow was building outside and it was a perfect night for them to relax indoors, in the warmth. Armel had removed his prosthetic leg and was laid out akimbo while Lex was seated cross legged next to him. Mai had a pillow propped against the front of the couch to lean on. "Alright. I ran away from home at fifteen. I taught myself law by borrowing my best friend's text books. I raised rabbits as a child."

Armel raised his hand. "I'm calling you out, Mai. I know you must haven taken law studies in Dubridge. I thought that was where you met Doctor Sana."

Mai shrugged then with a smirk shook her head. "Clover really did lend me his books so I could study while I was working. I've technically never taken a professionally taught law class."

Armel's expression softened. "That's incredible, Mai."

Lex shifted on the rug, stretching out like a cat, feet pointed towards the fire. "You raised doves when you were a child. Not rabbits," he said. His tone was fond. "You told me last winter when we were waking through the park. It's why you disagree with the anti pigeon spikes on signs and buildings."

Mairon flushed and took another sip of wine. "You're right and I should remember that you'd never forget anything." Feeling daring, she laid closer to him, stretching out on her side so she could see his face in profile. "Your turn."

Lex sighed and tilted his face to look up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes in thought. "I've written a play and had it performed. I proposed the monument that's at the capital but Mualtino sniped it out from under me. I've never been sky diving."

Armel laughed. "Mai you first. I think I know!" Lex shushed him and Armel stuck his tongue out at him.

Mai rolled onto her back. The skylight above was gradually getting covered in snow fall, the light coming through soft and blue tinted. "I think the lie is the sky diving. You already know how to pilot a bi-plane, I feel like you must have jumped out of one at one point?"

Lex shook his head. "I want to go sky diving but I haven't ever had the time to get away from work to go."

"He's published plays but Starling and Toorue haven't done anything with them yet. I tell him he really needs to try shopping them around to more than one acting company," Armel said. Lex leaned over and kissed him fondly. Mai's stomach tightened in a sort of twist of desire and shyness.

"You always do tell me, smart ass. Just wait though, eventually they'll get tired of me bothering them or Starling will run out of steam on his own writing." Lex set aside his sketch book. "Alright, your turn."

Armel went quiet, staring into the fire. "This is hard," he complained. "I feel like the two of you already know everything about me."

"I'm sure you still have some secrets. According to Clover you are closed book," Mairon said.

Armel snorted. "Yeah he would think that. Okay. My first girlfriend is the one who pierced my ears. I prefer blue to red." He paused for a long moment and glanced at Lex. "I have a crush on someone who I'm not with currently."

Mairon froze. Lex laughed lowly. "I know the answer to this one, too," he said and looked at Mai. "So I guess you'll need to figure it out." She bit her lip and sat up so she could see both of them more clearly, trying to read it from the slight tilt of Armel's mouth and the way Lex's eyes had gone half lidded.

"I know you pierced your ears yourself. She was with you, but you held the needle," she said. Her heartbeat seemed loud in her ears. "And I know you like red more than blue. You always call my hair your favorite color."

"Yes. It is," Armel said. He was staring at her so intently it felt like Mairon was being speared on his gaze.

"So I guess the other truth is that you like someone other than Lex," she said. Armel nodded and she had to brace herself when he reached over and touched her cheek, gently cupping it in his hand. His warmth felt like a band on her cooler skin. Her gaze darted over to Lex, but the artist merely looked content, eyes soft and fond. His hand found hers and held it tightly.

"Me?"

"You, Mai. For a while."

"For the both of us," Lex added. Mairon felt the world spinning on it's axis, shifting into a whole new universe of possibilities. She leaned leaned in and found herself supported by both men. Their shoulder's braced against one another, their temples and foreheads pushing together. A stable shape emerged. Mairon breathed out. She felt Lex and Armel breath in.

"Last one," she said, quietly. "I prefer cats to dogs. I wanted to be a writer as a child. I've developed feelings for two people already in a relationship."

Armel choked. "I know the answer."

"Me too," said Lex.

Mai looked up, into Armel's amber eyes. "I've always preferred dogs," she whispered.

#writing #writing challenge #writeblr #ocs #flash fiction friday #I'm sure we'll see more of these three #Bonus if you can figure out who they are based on

Things Left Unsaid

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Things Left Unsaid.

A/N More original fiction. Tom is the MC from my first novel To Steal From Lions and Clyde is his something or other. Tom is an anthropomorphic cat and Clyde is an anthro dog. Cool? Cool.

It was in the cups of tea left at Tomoholdo's side when he became absorbed in his playing, eyes going unfocused on and losing hours to the smooth keys of the piano. It was how he never seemed to run out of catnip cigarettes or how his scarf was always washed and dried before he could even realize that it was needed. It was how Clyde didn't say it.

Was there a reason to? They already lived together. They were raising Aydan and Sammi together. They had the farm and his mammam to take care of. Did Clyde really need to say the words to make the rest of it real?

It wouldn't hurt, Tom thought, his long tail flicking in annoyance. But then again, he hadn't said it out to the dog, either. It never seemed to be the right time. And while he was confident that Clyde wouldn't have bothered to stick around a cat as useless as Tom if he didn't have measure of affection for him, he wasn't absolutely sure. Okay, yes they'd had that one brief kiss the night of the murder but Tom wasn't willing to discount the idea of mortal danger impacting the heat of the moment.

The cat was disturbed by the arrival of Clyde, Sammi and mammam back from market, bursting into the small farmhouse much stamping of snow covered paws on the rug and a shocking burst of cold air from the door. Clyde was mid bark of laughter at something that Callas had said, his mother still smirking at her own rotten sense of humor. She scooped Sammi up, the puppy whining and barking.

"Time to get warm! You know what that means!"

"No! No bath!" Sammi reached for Tom as if expecting his help. "Uncle!"

"Listen to Callas. She'll put you in one way or another." Tom shook his head in pity. "She is a cruel queen." He hissed when Callas playfully swiped at his ear. "Hey!"

"Don't turn them on me yet, Tom! Bath awaits!" She sang out, ignoring Sammi's protests.

Clyde was still shaking the snow out of his fur and leaned on Tom's shoulder to steady himself, raking a brush over his feet to clear them of the ice that formed under his pads. "I don't know why he behaves like that. He likes bathes," he said. Tom snickered.

"He likes to have attention more and thinks it's funny to muse mammam's fur backwards by protesting. I did the same, as a kitten."

"That explains a lot," Clyde said, fangs sharp and white when he grinned at Tom's hiss.

Tom dumped the dog off his shoulder, letting him stagger into the wall. "I was going to make you a hot drink, but now I think you can get it yourself," he said, flicking his tail, ears flat.

Clyde whined unattractively. "Have a heart!"

I have too much of one for you, Tom thought and set the kettle on the stove. Maybe one of these days one of them would finally say it out loud. But for now, this would do.

#flash fiction friday #writing #writing challenge #writeblr #OCs #anthro #Anthro fiction

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Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. It’s designed to make people want to write, especially if they’re feeling blocked. Everyone and everything is welcome!

We always do our very best to keep the prompt’s genre open, entertaining, positive and encouraging.

Write between 100-1000 words. It can be any genre, in any text format and 18+ is fine by us, just please tag accordingly.

Use this Friday’s theme in your text. Any way you see fit.

Post on your tumblr blog and remember to tag us at @flashfictionfridayofficial!! So we’ll see it, read it and reblog it!!

Deadline is 24 hours after the prompt has been issued (12 pm CET).

And then, next Friday, we’ll mention your work in a showcase post on our main blog before our next prompt drops.

Please post your entries as regular posts, not screenshots — or provide the text as a regular post as well. Let’s keep everything as accessible as possible!

We ask you to tag your works with any appropriate content warnings and let the reader know what they’ll find before they get the chance to read your work!

If you have a question, check out our FAQ page! If your question isn’t on there, don’t hesitate to ask!

You don’t need to ask for permission or need to get added to a list to join in. Just write, have fun and don’t forget to tag us!

We do not condone fiction, asks or comments that glorify: direct hostility, unconstructive critique, LGBTQIA+ hate, slurs, racism and/or general no-no behaviors.

If you want to be closer to the epicenter, you can come chat on our open discord: https://discord.gg/rUWCE8a

✨ We also introduced our very own Wishing Well, a place for you to whisper your prompt suggestions into. And we’ll listen! Check everything about it out HERE.

✨All your amazing works from last week can be found HERE.

Go check them out and consider supporting your fellow FFF writers with some likes and reblogs!

✨ And now, the new prompt!

[#FFF290 Midnight Distractions]

It's midnight! And you're getting distracted. What is so distracting that it keeps you from sleep? Who are you spending this night with? Will you ever find to sleep or is it a never ending night? A magical ritual, a party, a heist? We want to know so get distracted by this prompt and write, write, write!

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The Collective <3

A Bolt From The Blue

@flashfictionfridayofficial

The thing that struck Eleonore the most about Saint-Just was not his height, which was impressive, or his voice, which was like a melodic horn to call the patriots to rise. It was not his gentle curl of his wet-oak-bark hair or the way his whole frame would bend toward Maximillien. It was not the million particles of Antoine Saint-Just.

Quite simply, it was his eyes. The blue was a common kind. A cornflower blue. It wasn't a royal blue. It was kind of blue that Cornelia's mother would have bought in bolts of fabric to make dresses that would be recycled into bedclothes. But something about the color, the shape, and the intention in his eyes made Cornelia's heart burst into stars when they spoke.

Cornelia would never reveal this. Eleonore Duplay—the Romanesque wife-in-waiting of 398 Rue Saint-Honoré—could not possibly reveal that she was struck down by Antoine Saint-Just's eyes. The shame of it was that she was not the only one.

She rested her chin in her hand and smiled. The tea at Eleonore's elbow was going cold, but she was too charmed to hurry through drinking it. Across from her, Saint-Just was doing everything but strutting like a rooster with a hen. Maximilien's eyes were half-lidded, blinking like a cat in a sunbeam. One arm over his chest, his elbow on his wrist, fingers tapping over his lips while he tried to hide his smile.

They were flirting in front of her, doing a slow, formal dance that involved Eleonore but only tangentially. She could have been an elegantly carved statue for all that she was needed in that room. But then Antoine Saint-Just looked at her and smiled with his eyes. Eleonore felt what Maximillen was feeling, that she was the most intelligent and beautiful thing in the room. She averted her eyes but found that Maximilien was also looking at her. He lifted his chin and lowered his hand. His head twisted so he was guiding her to Saint-Just. Offering him to Eleonore.

Eleonore looked at those eyes. Those eyes like flowers and sky and liberty. And like a bolt from the blue, she was struck down.

FIN.

#flash fiction friday #french revolution #eleonore duplay #antoine saint just #maximilien robespierre #Eleonore/Antoine #historical fiction #Romance #MFM #frenchrev polycule

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