Eiiri's Prompt Foundry

Your source for monthly themed prompt-challenges meant for both writers and visual artists. Sideblog to @icannotreadcursive

[thepromptfoundry]

Welcome to the Prompt Foundry!

This month's prompt list is: Jazzy July Next month's prompt list is: AU-gust

Turns out I enjoy making prompt lists, and I'm pretty good at it, too, so I've started this blog to centralize that for everyone's convenience.

I plan to have themed prompt lists up monthly, with prompts for each day. They will be tagged "prompt list" and the current one will be linked in this pinned post each month.

My prompts are meant to be usable for both writers and visual artists and welcome both original work and fanwork (unless otherwise specified by a given theme). If you do some other kind of art—music, fiber art, soapmaking, dance—and can see a way to use these prompts as well, you are more than welcome to do so!

I encourage you, dear fellow creatives, to have a go at any prompts that strike your fancy, without worrying about committing to the whole month if that's more than you can manage right now. Goodness knows I won't be able to fill all my own prompts. Skip days, start late, do prompts from August in January, whatever works for you. I want this to be fun!

If you post your prompt responses, please tag me @thepromptfoundry and I'll reblog your work here!

Got a question? Check the FAQ!

Want more inspiration? Check the Past Prompts Masterpost!

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 21: Improvization

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

112 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet set in the world of my Hellspawn fic series.

~

Among the things Alastor did genuinely like about children was how expressively delighted they were by tricks and skills and little things he took entirely for granted. It did good things for his ego.

The twins were not quite three, sitting atop the upright piano in the hotel lobby, giggling themselves sick as Alastor played a nursery rhyme on a loop, adding different improvised embellishments to the tune each time. There was clearly something about the familiar, recognizable melody being played with unpredictable differences that was absolutely tickling their little brains, and truth be told—as he grinned up at the girls overcome with euphonic mirth—he was rather enjoying the exercise as well.

[ramblingsofanangel]

A Drabble for @thepromptfoundry’s Pride 2 Disability Boogaloo: Mobility Aids🦯🦄

(By @thanathecreator)

Albert’s fingers tabbed against the wooden textures around him. Taking one careful step at a time. He wasn’t really sure where he was going, he was still getting used to having his own body to occupy. And with the lack of eyesight made everything become guess work. Keeping his ears peeled for every sound happening around him. Feeling thankful that Gemma had gifted him those grippy socks that they gave out in the hospital; he probably would’ve cracked his head open going down the stairs without them.

He could hear someone breathing inside of the kitchen, but no moving of silverware or chewing. Making him tap his pointy nails on the wooden stair railing to his left. “Rowan?” Albert calls out, grabbing the stairs railing tightly. “Yeah, I’m here” his brother responded. His voice echoed softly from the kitchen. Albert figured it would be either his brother or his uncle; more likely Rowan since it was the weekend. His hands twitched, positioned right above where his heart was. “Where’s Uncle Hank?” He asked, his feet making contact with the living room floor. “He’s at work, it’s already 10” Rowan replied - the sound of dishes moving catching Albert’s ears.

Crap, did he sleep in? That would probably explain why he didn’t hear any birdsong when he woke up. “Anyways, I got something for you” Albert heard a crinkling noise, kinda like tinfoil or wrapping paper. Albert tilted his head to the side like a curious dog, his long white hair falling out to the right. Hiding most of his face. “Well- it’s more like something that I commissioned” Rowan slid something across the kitchen table, a signal for Albert to sit down. Extending his hand out to touch whatever it was. The tips of his fingers making contact with something smooth and cool.

Almost silky to the touch. Digging his nails in and ripped off the outer layer with a swift jerk of his hand. The ripping sound echoes through the quiet kitchen. Albert felt cardboard underneath, his nails tearing off the tape that was keeping the long box closed. Packaging peanuts popping out once it was opened. He dipped his fingers into the packaging peanuts - curling them up to feel something skinny. A polished texture brushes against his skin.

“What is this?” Albert asked, his eyebrows furrowed down in confusion and curiosity. He couldn’t really tell what the object was, nor what it was made with. “It’s a cane. I commissioned some beavers to carve you a cane” Rowan explains flatly. Even with the flatness of his brother’s tone - Albert knows that Rowan put a lot of effort into this. He knew that the cane wasn’t the full surprise. Albert’s hands traveled across the cane. Going towards him before his hand made contact with a more defined shapes. His fingers tracing a horse head-like shape where the handle of the cane is supposed to be. His nails tapping on an extension of something on where the horse’s forehead should be.

“Is this…?” Albert gasps silently. “Yeah. I had the handle carved out to be a unicorn” Rowan confirmed. A unicorn; Albert’s kintype. His kintype. Albert’s heart swelled, his hands shaking with excitement. The tip of the cane tapped on the kitchen floor, Albert lifting himself up slowly with it. Curling his fingers tightly around the head of the cane. Taking a slow step forward, placing the cane in front of him. Putting most of his body weight into it. A smile spreading across his pale face.

(By @girlpix)

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 20: Sounds of the City

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

349 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

Every city had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, its own unending background melody. New Orleans had the trundle of the street cars, the occasional bellow of warning horns on the river or the railroad tracks, the clop of horse hooves growing scarcer each year as the rumble and roar of combustion engines took their place, street vendors and street walkers both hawking their wares with varying amounts of French sprinkled into the patter, mothers yelling children’s full names and children’s feet skidding to a stop in gravel, dogs barking from the porches of shotgun houses, bells tolling in the churches for funerals and weddings alike, the wail of sirens as feckless police made a show of doing their jobs, the joyous ruckus of street parties and parades for every holiday you could name and quite a few more.

The Pentagram had screams. Screams of pain, fear, anger, despair. It had gunshots, squealing tires, glass breaking, shouting matches on the street or behind paper-thin doors, drug dealers and street walkers and salesmen of inescapably dubious reputation vying for the attention of passers by, inhuman snarling and chirruping interspersed with swear words, gagging and retching down every other alleyway, the gasping and groaning of tortured souls regaining consciousness after experiences that should have killed them were they still mortal.

One thing they had in common—other than the hookers—was music. Live or recorded, spilling from bars and dance halls, played on street corners in the hope of scrounging a few pennies from the unreliable kindness of others, sung drunkenly late at night, cried in grief over lives ripped away that could never be brought back, turned to any time spoken words failed in the emotion of the moment, and, in both places all the more after Alastor set himself up in the city, on the air in silent hiding perceptible only as a static prickle where the power thrummed particularly strong, ready to leap to life for anyone with the equipment at hand to spin electromagnetic waves into physical, turning light far past the invisible end of red to audible sound.

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 19: Rent Party

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

525 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

One of Mimzy’s friends had asked a favor, one that started with “Hey, you play piano, don’t you?”

The answer, of course, was yes, and Alastor was more than happy to show off his talents and earn a favor owed in turn at the same time. 

That’s how he’d wound up here, seated at a mostly-in-tune upright crammed into the corner of a second floor flat at the edge of the French Quarter, fingers dancing up and down the keys while neighbors and cousins and friends of the host cut a rug on the well-worn floor where they’d shoved all the furniture aside to make room. 

Even with the rearranging, things were tight. Stuffed into the corner with Alastor and the piano were a bassist, a clarinetist, and a lightskin girl with the voice of a whole praise choir. The dancers kept knocking shoulders and elbows and one fella had taken a booted heel to the ribs when another gent had swung his ladyfriend into a dip without enough care. The few guests not dancing had sucked themselves up against the walls best they could to keep out of the way—there were three girls stacked up in one chair to save space, laughing over their illicit glasses of giggle juice, and one particularly enterprising cool cat had draped himself across the top of a bookshelf to join the conversation going on between the couple who’d fitted themselves into the gap between the bookshelf, the shoved-aside sofa, and the wall. 

To be sure, if a fire marshal had walked in, someone would have gotten a fine and they all would have been subjected to a lecture likely containing the words “Triangle Shirtwaist Factory” before being sent home, but as things stood, the only so-called authority figure around was the dirty cop who’d helped bring in the booze, so no one was over worried about getting in trouble. 

And a packed house meant good money. There was a modest cover at the door, being collected by the tenant’s doe-eyed little sister, and a chicory can at the corner of the piano where guests were obligated to drop a few coins if they wanted to request a song, and welcome to drop a few if they liked a song. 

At the end of the night, once whatever guests hadn’t passed out in a convenient corner (or atop a questionable bit of furniture) had shuffled on home, all the cash would be counted, the tenant would take enough to cover his rent, whatever he’d spent on the party, and maybe a round or two of groceries, then the rest would be divided amongst the musicians who made the party worth coming to in the first place. 

They might not make much—though, given the crowd and the one fellow who kept thinking of songs to request, maybe they would—but as far as Alastor figured, every dime counted. He had plans, you see, and buying a building to convert into a radio station was going to take quite a chunk of change, but he’d rather bide his time saving up than find himself needing to throw rent parties of his own. 

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 18: Patent Leather Shoes

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

187 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

For most of his twenties, Alastor’s favorite shoes, the ones he wore to interviews and out dancing, were a pair of patent leather oxfords with a cap toe and a little brass star hidden under the arch of the heel.  That star was a pain to clean but there was something about knowing it was there that brought a little extra spring to his step.  He took pride in knowing how to polish those shoes up to a mirror shine himself, but he also took pride in having the funds to pay for a shoeshine if the fancy struck him.

One of the first things Alastor bought for himself once he’d gotten his feet under him in Hell was a pair of new shoes—ones that fit his new, oddly semi-digitigrade hooved feet properly and gave him at least some grip on tiled floors.  They were cap toe oxfords, two-tone, red and black, shiny patent leather with a hoofprint pattern hidden on the soles.  If pressed, he’d admit he thought it was funny, and it gave a little extra spring to his step to know they were there.

[uptownlowdown]

lindy hop at a rent party from the all-black film, boy! what a girl! (1947) directed by arthur h. leonard.

rent parties were social events where tenants hired musicians and charged admission as a way to pay their rent. originating in harlem, new york city, it gave black americans a way to have fun, eat a good meal, and escape the hardships and discrimination of the time.

source: alexandremccormack

[thepromptfoundry]

Tomorrow’s Jazzy July prompt is “rent party” so here’s some inspiration!

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 17: Tap Dance

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

160 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

It had taken an offhand reference to a century-old cultural touchstone and a youthfully curious “Who?” to set them down a rabbit hole of activity for the afternoon.

It had taken a snap of Alastor’s fingers to outfit them all with tap shoes—himself included, of course—and banish the carpet runner from the main staircase.

Now he and the kids were tippity-tap click-clacking their way up and down the stairs in the acrobatic freewheeling style of the Nicholas brothers, or as close to it as they could manage, given that three of them were under the age of ten and had not dedicated decades to honing their dance skills just yet.

The jukebox was pumping out a techno-swing remix of Puttin’ On The Ritz, the kids were gigging, Sasha doing a turn under Alastor’s arm, Lucia catching Elio as he came sliding down the banister.  Toe taps and heel clicks, shuffles and ball-changes all blending into a joyous percussion of movement.

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 16: Music in the Rain

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

174 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

A summer storm had rolled in and Alastor was home alone. He’d been left on charge of dinner, but that was largely a formality—the gumbo he’d helped his mother get started before she left could sit for hours on the stove, doing nothing but getting better as time passed, needing nothing more than the occasional stir, and Alastor was now tall enough to do that without climbing on a chair so it wasn’t much work.

He’d sat himself on the back porch, no shirt or socks, just his knee breaches—even with the rain it was too hot for anything more and far too humid—crosslegged on the uneven floorboards, coaxing a tune from the slightly squashed secondhand harmonica he’d recently spent all his pocket money on.  The waves of windblown rain on the tin roof added rolling percussion to his improvised little song, punctuated by the kettledrum rolls of thunder and bright symbol-crashes of the broken-bottle windchimes dancing at the corner of the eves, fracturing each lightning flash into green-amber-cobalt dazzles against the whitewashed wall.

[thepromptfoundry]

hello! i’m sorry if this has already been asked but is it okay to combine prompts? like for au-gust, is it okay to use Pirates and Sailors + Merfolk in one fic? thank you for answering in advance and thank you for maintaining this blog!! the monthly prompts have been very fun ☺️🫶

Hey! Yes, absolutely!

You’re free to combine days from the same list, whether they’re back-to-back or not. You can also combine prompts from multiple lists—either past lists from here at the Foundry, or events from other sources.

There really aren’t any rules here about how to respond to prompts. They’re meant to inspire your creativity, so whatever you’re inspired to create is welcome! As long as you’re not out of line with the “don’t be a jerk” type rules outlined in the FAQ and I can tell what list or lists to tag your work with when it’s shared here, were all good.

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 15: Busking

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

212 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

They just moved to the city. A rented room. A job as a laundress and a paper route before school because, yes, Alâstor, you do still have to go to school, education opens doors, cher. Just enough money for rent and food. Lunch at the big whitewashed stone church every Sunday. 

And this. 

Not on any of the best street corners in the French Quarter where the weekend revelers were as loose with their purse strings as with their morals, but along a good enough strip of street near where the well-to-do but not too-wealthy-to-walk holiday makers came up from the riverboats. Straw hat upturned at his feet, strumming on a banjo he absolutely had not stolen from a former neighbor, inventing or changing lyrics on the spot to make light fun of the passers by or compliment the ladies in their extravagant hats and hobble skirts so they stopped to listen, giggling behind lace-gloved hands. 

He never came home with all that much any given night, but it wasn’t nothing, and it added up. Added to Mamma’s piecework. Paid for new clothes when all his trousers were suddenly too short, new soles on trusty old shoes. Glasses. The deposit on a whole apartment. 

A radio kit. 

The beginning of a calling. 

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 14: Self-Taught Artist

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

219 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet.

~

It wasn’t that Alastor had never had lessons—he’d spent about a year’s worth of Monday afternoons under the tutelage of the preacher’s wife, learning to read music and play piano—but the circumstances of his life had been such that he had mostly been left to figure things out on his own, by trial and error as much as by ear. 

He was very good at it, and had, over his lifetime and afterwards, built up quite a commendable skillset. Though he had read quite a lot, the nature of being mostly self-taught was that there were many things he knew how to do, techniques he knew how to use, that most likely had names—statistically speaking, quite probably names in French—but that he did not know names for, save perhaps for those monikers he had assigned them himself. 

This could make discussing music with other musicians somewhat fraught. 

This was a contributing factor to his preferring to work alone when it came to music, or with someone like Angel, equally lacking in formal training. 

This made Charlie’s unbridled enthusiasm for the idea of him being “a fellow music lover” particularly exhausting. After all, she had all the formal education the royal coffers could buy, and he’d be damn again before admitting to her—and by extension, her father—that he didn’t know. 

[thepromptfoundry]

We’ve had a lot of folks join us here at the Prompt Foundry recently in the lead up to AU-gust, so I’d like to welcome everyone!

Be sure to check the FAQ and don’t hesitate to send in an ask if you can’t find an answer there or if you just have something to share.

I look forward to seeing whatever you all create, and I’m glad to have you here!

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 13: Cards, Dice, and Dominoes

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

317 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet, set in the world of of my Hellspawn kidfic series.

~

There was no denying they were a card game family. That was largely, but not entirely, attributable to Husk. 

Many a quiet evening turned into a round or three of poker or blackjack or BS played amongst some assortment or another of the hotel’s residents. A little winner board had gone up behind the bar—to no one’s surprise, Husk had racked up the most wins, but Alastor had recently been displaced from second place by Sasha, a fact she was very smug about. 

The next day, Elio marched determinedly up to the bar where Husk and Alastor were comparing calendars over a bottle of rye, clambered up to perch himself on a stool, and smacked a pack of cards on the bartop. “Want win.”

“Yeah?” Husk picked up the pack, getting the cards out to shuffle. “Whatcha wanna play, bud?”

“He didn’t say he wants to play,” Alastor pointed out with a canny grin, “he wants to win.” Conspiratorially, Alastor leaned down to stage-whisper to Elio, “To which end, mo garçon, I would recommend challenging someone other than two out of the three most proficient card players in the hotel.”

Elio frowned thoughtfully, little ears tipping back, then held a demanding hand out to Husk, gesturing with another for him to give the cards back. 

Husk did as requested, Elio glared at the scoreboard for a long moment, hopped down off his stool, and strode away across the lobby, hollering for Charlie. 

Once he was gone, Husk’s gaze slid back over to Alastor with a smirk. “Two of the three, huh?”

“Oh, hush, Husker,” he huffed. 

“Formally conceded your spot to Sasha, then?”

“Only temporarily. She and I have a rematch scheduled for Saturday. On which note—” he tapped at Husk’s planner with his own pen “—how does your Friday morning look?”

“Depends on when the delivery for the bar gets here.”

“We can work around that.”

[acryinthewrite]

July 12, 2026

524 words of original work written for @thepromptfoundry's Jazzy July and @tropevarietyhour's July theme, The Lies We Tell.

Day 12 Prompts: Quartet and “Every Memory I Had With You…”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All Sid can think is, we were supposed to be a team.

The four of us, we were supposed to keep each other safe.

It hurts to look at the flames and know that her sister has caused this destruction. 

It hurts to think that maybe she could have done something to prevent this.

Part of the fire seems to reach out to her. She douses it with a wave of her hand, taking water from the buckets around her.

There isn’t enough water for her to put out all of the fire at once, especially considering that it has to be Sid’s water to counter her sister’s fire. Instead, she’s focusing on not letting the flames reach any further than they already have. 

Someone is walking up behind her. She can sense the water that they’re carrying, so it must be either August or Jack. One of her siblings, so there’s no need to turn around.

“You need rest.”

Oh, good. It’s Jack. She doesn’t have to be as strong, not like she would for August. 

“I need to keep the fire from spreading.”

Jack sets down the /yoke/ with the buckets of water on each end. “We can keep watch. And it’s dying down anyway.”

Sid shakes her head. “No. It isn’t getting any smaller. I’m only able to keep it the same size.”

“Hey.” Jack puts their hand on her shoulder. “You need to rest. It won’t get much larger in a few minutes. Me and August can take care of it.”

She almost falls into their hold. She wants to rest. She wants to lie down and sleep and never have to think again. She wants to forget that their sister is capable of burning down people’s homes with no remorse. She wants to rewrite every memory and make everything better. 

But she can’t. She has to put out this fire. 

She shakes Jack’s hand off her shoulder. 

“No. Only the water I control can put out her fire. You know that, Jack.”

Jack looks tired, with dark circles around their eyes that they would usually will away. “Yes, I know that. I also know that everything this fire can consume in the few minutes you will allow yourself to rest is already beyond saving.”

She shakes her head. There is nothing beyond saving.

“Sid.” Jack puts their hands on her shoulders and turns her to face them. “You need to rest. The only thing the fire can burn right now is grass. You lie down, and me or August will wake you if it gets too close to something else.”

Sid stares into Jack’s eyes. They look so tired. And sad. Sid wonders if they’ve allowed their tears to fall yet. She certainly hasn’t.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Jack asks.

“Yes, okay,” she replies. “I’ll go lie down. And one of you will wake me up if I’m needed.”

“Yes, we will.” There’s a sense of relief on Jack’s face. Not a smile, exactly, but something close.

Sid finds a soft patch of ground and lies down and tries not to think of her sister as she used to know her. 

[obitez]

Wrote another short pre-Kingdon fic for @thepromptfoundry Jazzy July Event, Day 11: Beads and Fringe

It was probably one of the worst days in Frank’s life, and that was saying a lot considering well… everything. 

But the day that Tanner had to be brought into the ED, the ED that he worked in? Yeah, it was one of the worst days of Frank’s life. 

And well, Tanner hadn’t been brought in for anything that bad really, at least not compared to the kinds of things Frank saw on a daily basis. But it was still his son, his five year old, in his first month of Kindergarten, son. 

Really, Tanner’s school kind of overreacted when Tanner fell on the playground and said “My foot hurts too much to even stand on.” But the school nurse was new, like Nurse Emma levels new, and had barely been working in the role for a month, and Tanner’s playground fall from the monkey bars had been her worst injury so far. 

In the end, Tanner hadn’t broken his ankle like the school nurse had feared, he had only twisted it, it could barely be called a sprain. 

That didn’t mean that Frank was any less freaked out until they had confirmed it though. 

And God bless Mel, if it hadn’t been for her, Frank thought, he didn’t know how he would have survived that day. She was the one who took on Tanner’s case, and though the boy was usually scared of doctors and nurses when he was in the role of a patient, even those that he knew, but Tanner had been calm and cooperative the entire time that Mel was looking him over. 

Mel had been great with Tanner, she always was with nervous patients, especially kids. It should have been no wonder that she would be with Tanner as well, but still, Frank could only look at her with silent awe the entire time that she was looking Tanner over. 

Three days after Tanner had his brief visit in the Pitt, he came running up to Frank with another pony bead bracelet he had made. 

“What’s this? Another bracelet?” Frank asked as he took the yellow and pink beaded bracelet in his hand. 

“Yeah,” Tanner said as he gave Frank a large nod and even larger smile. “But it’s not for you Daddy.” 

“It’s not?” Frank asked. “Then who-” 

“It’s for Doctor Mel,” the boy said hurriedly, the words spilling out of his mouth. 

“Mel?” Frank said. 

“Yeah, to thank her for looking at my ankle on Tuesday. Can you give it to her? Please?” Tanner said, looking up at Frank with wide and begging eyes. Frank had no intention of saying no to this in the first place, but giving the bracelet to Mel? He definitely couldn’t say no to that. 

“Yeah, Tan. I’ll give it to Doctor Mel when I see her tomorrow,” Frank said. 

Tanner gave him another smile as he turned around and ran off back to where he had been playing in the living room before Frank had gotten home. 

Frank had an assignment now, it seemed. 

♥️ ♥️ ♥️ ♥️ ♥️ 

Frank had found Mel right before their shift started the next morning. She was in the breakroom, sipping at a mug of tea like she did almost every morning. Frank knocked on the door as he entered the room to catch her attention. 

She smiled at him as he walked inside. 

“Hey Mel,” he said. 

“Frank,” Mel greeted him. After nearly two months of properly working with each other, he had finally convinced her to call him by his first name instead of Doctor Langdon, and it sent a small trill up his spine every time he heard her say it. “How are you and Tanner doing now?” 

“We’re both doing good,” Frank said. “Or well, Tanner says his ankle still hurts, but that’s doing nothing to stop him running around the house no matter how many times we tell him to take it easy.” 

Mel gave him a smile as she listened to him talk about Tanner. “That’s good, that he’s feeling better,” she said. 

Frank nodded, as he put his hand into his pocket and toyed with the bracelet Tanner gave him last night. He took it out of his pocket and held it up. 

“Actually,” Frank said. “Tanner made this for you, made me promise that I would give this to you, as a way of saying thanks for the other day.” 

Mel’s eyes widened as she took in the pink and yellow bracelet in Frank’s hand. “For me?” she asked. 

“Yeah, for you.” 

“It’s like… those that you always wear.” 

Frank gave her a gentle smile. “Yeah, it’s like all the other bracelets Tanner made for me.” 

Mel set her mug on the counter as she reached a hand out to take the bracelet from Frank. She slid it onto her right wrist, and it fit nearly perfectly. 

“It fits,” Mel said. She turned back to Frank. “You have to tell him thank you for me.” 

“I will,” Frank said.

Also on Ao3

[eiirisworkshop]

Day 12: Quartet

For @thepromptfoundry’s Jazzy July

108 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet, set in the world of of my Hellspawn kidfic series.

~

“What?” Sasha demanded, crossing her arms at Cherri, who had burst out laughing, Angel, who hadn’t quite managed not to cringe, and Alastor, who had managed to maintain his usual expression but whose ears had flicked back momentarily. 

“The word you’re looking for is quartet, sweetheart,” Alastor said patiently. “Your band with your little friends is a quartet. Foursome generally means something else.”

“Oh.” Sasha cocked her head curiously. “What’s it mean then?”

“That’s what ya call it when four people all have sex together,” Angel explained. 

“Oh. Ew,” Sasha said mildly. “No, we are definitely a quartet.”

“Yeah, I’d figure so,” Angel said while Cherri laughed harder.