#flootzavut

[flootdraws]

You: October 31st! Halloween!

Me, an intellectual: Ruinmas.

AKA, here, have some celebratory art. Can you believe it's the second Ruiniversary? Madness.

Reasons for all the included images under the cut.

Madeleine:

fox, the calling (ruin)

rockrose & thistle, the rockrose and the thistle (horror)

bracken & blossom, blossoms (ruin)

forget me nots, Elsa's song (love run)

(standing) stones, the horror and the wild (horror)

magpies, Madeleine's favourite corvid per Instagram, two for joy

dress inspired by the black chiffon one she wore in Dexys

Joey:

bracken & blossom, blossoms (ruin)

sage, Elsa's song (love run)

crow, Marbles (horror)

(standing) stones, the horror and the wild (horror)

dear heart/deer hart, Joey's name for the fandom (horror)

outfit inspired by the love run bath photoshoot

[flufftober]

Hi! I wondered, do y'all have a tag for posts with prompts in them? Or failing that a tag to find old prompt lists? I find prompt lists hugely helpful for giving me a kick up the butt, but short of scrolling back for years, I don't know how to get at your old tag lists easily! (And/or the prompt lists you've reblogged.)

Hey there 😊 sorry for the late reply, I kinda stepped away from social media during the holidays to be with family and friends 🩵

We do have a Masterpost with all of our challenges/old prompt lists. As for outside lists we reblog, we usually use the tag #fluff boost - or #fluffboost, since I always forget which one to use, so both tags now exist 😂

I hope those lists will help you... but also know that we have something planned for springtime once again 😉

[redgoldblue]

18/F/𓆌 for the prompt meme and I should totally have remembered what they were ... I wanna say the only one bed dialogue, contentment, and... a stranger's bed?

Fandom wise, we have quite a number in common; ones where we seem to share ships include Leverage, MASH, White Collar and Gomens, BUT ALSO I know what writer's block is like so if it inspires you to someone else that's completely fine, go where the muse leads you!

so. this took forever despite being pretty short because i a) started two different white collar versions of it, b) decided neither of them worked, c) but they did prompt me into actually finishing my White Collar 5+1 WIP, d) decided to write it as Leverage instead, got almost all the way through that, unwisely writing it just in this inbox, then e) forgot i was doing that, closed my browser, lost it all and had to f) rewrite it. why tumblr doesn't save ask replies as drafts is. well, it's tumblr. it's been. a journey. i love them though, and it did work on the writer's block.

꒰ 18 ꒱ “it’s just one night- surely sharing a bed for that long won’t kill us.”

꒰ F ꒱ contentment

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ a stranger's bed at dawn

"It's only one night," Parker says.

Hardison jumps. He'd thought he and Eliot were alone in this creepy ol' house. It's Parker, it's been almost ten years, he should really just expect her to be wherever's best placed to give him a heart attack.

Eliot rolls his eyes. "She's been there ten minutes, man."

"We've only been standing here ten minutes."

"Eleven," Parker intones creepily. She's doing it on purpose now.

Hardison turns so he can actually see her, instead of just Eliot and the probably haunted mattress they've been contemplating.

"It's just one night. Surely it won't kill us," she says, in full-on horror movie narrator tones.

"You're the one who doesn't like touching people," Hardison points out. It's mostly what he was worried about - eight nights of ten, she doesn't handle even sleeping on a king mattress with just Hardison, let alone in this bed with Hardison and Eliot.

She abruptly drops the spookiness, shrugging bouncily. "Eliot will be there too. Maybe it'll be different."

Eliot blinks at her. "You realise that's more people."

"Yeah," she says, and blinks right back. It's like watching two cats fight for dominance. "Different."

The problem is, if they do this, then Hardison has to face being in a bed with Eliot too. Not that he can't control himself or any bullshit like that, but he can't tell where the man's boundaries are at any given time. One minute he's hugging Hardison and tagging along on their dates, the next he's growling any time Hardison gets near him and aggressively dating random civilians. And it's only gotten worse since Nate and Sophie left.

The point is, between Parker's issues and Eliot's issues and the ghosts that are probably gonna be rolling around with them, he has a feeling all three of them sharing a bed is going to turn out to be some kind of nightmare. For him, specifically.

"Then he went 'aaahhhhhh!' and fell backwards over the couch. I had to pick him up."

Eliot's lying flat on his back with arms folded between his head and the pillow, hair loose over his wrists and forearms. He's grinning up at Parker, biceps flexing distractingly in a white singlet. Parker's sitting cross-legged between them but twisted to face Eliot, punctuating her storytelling with expansive arm gestures. She's wearing a sports bra that exposes all the lean strength of her scapulas and shoulders with every movement, because it's a hot summer's night in a house with no AC, and because the Lord is testing Alec Hardison.

Hardison's not paying attention to any of that right now, preoccupied with the fact that they've been maligning him for the last half hour. "It was a very big rat," he protests. "Coming straight at me. You didn't see the malice in those beady little red eyes."

Parker curls her hands next to her cheeks, turns back to Hardison with widened eyes, and makes an honestly pretty convincing rat chitter.

Eliot full-on laughs at that, arms shaking.

Hardison harrumphs, channelling his best grumpy Eliot. "Well, I'm glad y'all are bonding over my misfortune."

"What, your misfortune to be born with a deathly fear of cute little rodents?" Eliot asks.

"Parker's cute," Hardison retorts staunchly. "The real thing is not."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but his only argument is, "You know Parker and the rats share a mutual love."

Parker collapses onto her back between them, sending a shock wave through the mattress, and sighs dreamily, staring at the ceiling, "Vents...."

There's some kind of three-way joke coalescing in Hardison's head that could go either way too crude or way too genuine. Instead, what he says is, "The lover of my lover's love is not a close enough relationship, my dude."

Eliot twists his eyebrows into some kind of slightly constipated smirk - maybe he got at what Hardison was thinking about anyway - and muses, "The lover of my lover is my enemy?"

"Now I never said that."

Parker's contribution is, "I don't think I like 'lover'."

"Okay. Love?"

She squints one eye closed in consideration, then lets her face relax. "Yeah."

Hardison can roll with that. "The lover of my love is probably my friend. The lover of my love might be my lover."

Eliot doesn't touch that, just stares at Hardison a second too long before he pulls one hand out from under his head and taps Parker on the shoulder. "How'd he react to you hauling him up?"

Rolling her head to face him, she says, "I mean, then the rat came back. So, badly."

Eliot rolls into Parker's side as he laughs, and Parker's smile is one of her sweeter evil grins as she slides a hand under his shoulders to pat at his hair, and Hardison completely forgets to be mad.

They're in the middle of something here, but if they can figure it out it's gonna be a shining end. In the meantime, he gets to be in a too-small mattress with both his loves laughing, and under those kind of circumstances, it doesn't much matter what they're laughing at. He'll take everything of this he can get.

writing prompts!

[dickwheelie]

ficlet based on a suggestion on the Discord server about Aziraphale loving Crowley’s eyes. thanks to everyone who was chatting about this, especially @flootzavut and @yalejosie y’all are the reason I end up writing stuff at 9pm on a Sunday lmao <3

____________

Aziraphale stared at himself in the mirror.

Well, not at himself, precisely. If he wanted to stare at himself, Aziraphale would have to go down the hall and into the bedroom where Crowley lay sleeping, rightly exhausted after the ordeal of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. For Crowley was wearing Aziraphale’s face, and in turn, Aziraphale was wearing Crowley’s.

To be precise, then: Aziraphale, not without a little shame, was staring at Crowley’s face in the mirror. He was, so he told himself, trying to emulate all of Crowley’s little quirks and expressions in order to fool the rest of Hell. He had to be sure that there would be no mistaking him for an interloper during the trial.

He really needn’t have bothered; after only a good hour or so of practice, he was mimicking Crowley flawlessly. Watching the same corporation for six millennia, it seemed, was quite enough time to know their every move by rote.

Still, it sent a spike of forbidden Pride (not that he’d ever shied away from a bit of sin now and again) through Aziraphale to know that he knew his demon so well. Probably better than he knew himself, really, but that was a puzzle for another time.

Now that his disguise was all sorted out, he really ought to be getting some rest. He could miracle up a good book and an armchair for himself in the den, and perhaps some tea would be in order as well. Yes, that sounded lovely. He’d do that any moment now.

Aziraphale kept staring at Crowley’s face.

The thing of it was, it was easy to emulate Crowley’s expressions, because his eyes were so often hidden behind his sunglasses. The eyes were the windows to the soul, after all, and Crowley’s soul was well-hidden. He’d told Aziraphale once, on a very late and drunken night, that he never took off his glasses in Hell anymore.

“Too . . . open,” he’d slurred, brandishing a nearly-empty bottle. His sunglasses were on the other side of the room at the time, and Aziraphale could see every microexpression in those big, serpentine eyes of his. “Th’ demonssss, they might b’ able t’ ssssssee th’, y’know,” he gestured vaguely at the space between the two of them with the bottle, “th’ ‘rrangement. Might notissssse sssssss’mthin’ wasssss . . . up.” Then he hiccupped.

“Who else d’you show them to?” Aziraphale had asked, quite a few sheets to the wind himself. “B’sides me.”

Crowley shook his head, not even pausing to think. “No one,” he’d said, rather cogently, and then downed the rest of the bottle.

Aziraphale had been too drunk at the time to press the matter, but he remembered that exchange very clearly. He knew by now that Crowley only took off his glasses in the privacy of the bookshop. Aziraphale doubted he even took them off in his own flat; he hadn’t tonight, at the very least, because Aziraphale was still wearing them from when they’d swapped bodies.

He could just barely make out the yellow of Crowley’s eyes behind the opaque lenses. Such a lovely color, more golden than yellow, really. He’d been struck by them since Eden, having never seen anyone, human or angel, with eyes of that color, or pupils of that shape. At the time, he’d assumed all demons had similar eyes, but of course he had been wrong. Only Crowley, unique as he was, had eyes like that.

Aziraphale smiled to himself in memory. So elegant, those eyes; the way they seemed to know Aziraphale almost immediately, narrowed at first with suspicion only for a moment, and then widening, opening like the flowers of the Garden, with realization, with approval. Nothing like the stares of the other angels that Aziraphale was used to. There had been no judgment in those eyes, not then and not ever, in six millennia.

And now he saw those eyes so rarely. Spare, precious moments in the bookshop, maybe a glimpse in the Bentley if he was lucky, but nothing more than that. And when he did see them, they were often glamoured, pupils made rounder, yellow sclera shrunken down to be easily mistaken for human eyes. How Aziraphale wanted to see them, the entirety of them, un-obfuscated and un-altered, like they had been in Eden. Like they had been the night they decided to be godfathers. Like they had been at the airbase, as the world was threatening to fall apart around them, and Crowley had performed a miracle that would save them, because Aziraphale had asked him to.

Deep down, Azirapale knew he didn’t need to take the sunglasses off. He’d practiced plenty. He knew Crowley’s every movement, every glance, what he looked like when he was upset, when he was angry, when he was euphoric.

He knew his demon. Sin be damned, he was Proud of that fact.

And he missed his demon’s lovely eyes.

Aziraphale took off the glasses, placing them carefully on the washroom counter, not wanting to break them; they looked and probably were obscenely expensive. He stared at Crowley’s eyes in the mirror. There they were: wide and golden, like honey, like coins, a thin black pupil in the center of each, so simple and elegant and—yes, Aziraphale decided, and divine. In the low light of the washroom (Crowley’s flat took lighting more as a suggestion than a necessity), they looked like twin jewels. No, wait, Aziraphale thought suddenly—they looked like two stars. A binary system.

He smiled without meaning to, and because it wasn’t a Crowley-smile, it looked strange on his face. Too soft, with not enough edges, perhaps. But it put crinkles at the corners of Crowley’s eyes, and that was a sight to behold.

Someday, Aziraphale thought to the reflection, I will tell you. Be patient, my dear, that’s all I ask. Just a little while longer, and when all of this is over, when I am finally able to open my silly old mouth and say it aloud, I will tell you how much I love you. You, and your magnificent eyes.

[shriekthemighty]

flootzavut replied to your chat: Me, at myself: You are a grown ass adult, there is...

Have you found “the amazing devil” yet?

that shit is part of what inspired the post, lol. i’ve had the horror and the wild stuck in my head for a full day and i am LOVING it.

[alleyesonthehindenburg]

in case anyone’s wondering where our lovely flootzavut has gone, zir account has been abruptly terminated. ze’s trying to get in touch with support but in the meantime we are to be deprived of our daily floot fix

[justiceforrenfri]

flootzavut

replied to your

post

:

I feel like I'm way too old (I'm an 80s born...

I was born in 78 and same fwiw

I’m feeling extra seen today because sometimes I feel like I’m too old for fandoms and shouldn’t be here? I’m really happy rn and this helps me feel valid about it. Thank you <3 <3 <3

[the-queer-and-beloved]

I user queer because it's who I am. I'm here, I'm queer, get over it. (I have to laugh when people say it's a young person thing. I'm 40. I roll my eyes when people complain it doesn't tell them my gender ID or who I'm attracted to: folks, that's a feature, not a bug.) It's my identity, and no one gets to take it from me. Keep up the good work!

Hey! You’re awesome and it’s wonderful to see people who have been loud and proud for years. Thank you. 

-Kiwi 🥝

We’re Here, We’re Queer