wow, look at the size of that . . . book!: a comment ficathon

[evewithanapple.livejournal.com]

You know what's awesome? BOOKS. You know what's even awesomer? WRITING FIC ABOUT BOOKS. And yet, you know what's sadly lacking in fandom? Well . . .

To wit: have a book you like? Want to prompt for it? Leave it here! See a prompt you like for a book you love? WRITE THAT SHIT! Who knows, maybe you'll find fellow fans you didn't know existed.

The Super Important And Srs Rules

1. Art and fanmixes are also acceptable fills!
2. If adaptations exist of your chosen book and you'd like to blend adaptation!canon with book!canon, feel free to do so. (I.e. referencing scenes added by the adaptation. So long as the focus is the book characters.)
3. Warn for any potential triggers or squicks in your fills. Also, please put the title and rating in the subject line.
4. Prompt like so: Canon -> character/pairing -. prompt. (i.e. Tortall, Daine/Numair, don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by)
5. Don't bash anyone else's prompts or pairings
6. Try to fill as well as prompt! If you haven't got creative juices flowing,t hat's totally okay, but having people work both ways keeps the fest alive and well.
7. Have fun!

LET'S GET SOME PROMOTION UP IN HERE:

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Comments

[corleones.livejournal.com]

The Basic Eight, Flan/Natasha, just look into her false coloured eyes.

[aphrodite-mine.livejournal.com]

Squeeing over this prompt but ahhh I am so busy right now!

The Basic Eight, Flan/Natasha, MA (adult material)

[rosehiptea.livejournal.com]

[I had to reach way back into my memory for The Basic Eight but I hope you like this.]

Flan keeps her hands to herself, just stares into Natasha's eyes, wondering if they have an end. Her mind is full to the brim with cheesy lines.

"Take me, Natasha," she wants to cry out, and Natasha would, exuberantly, but Flan would never ask for that, or would she?

Natasha is always just one place off, the eyes just slightly the wrong color, the skin just a bit too smooth, the voice just too high-pitched to be right.

But all it adds up to for Flan is a pounding heart and desire. And Natasha knows, knows without the lines, and reaches out.

"Strip," she demands with a laugh.

Flan struggles out of her clothes, breaking buttons, snapping elastic, until she and her awkward body are thrown across the rumpled bedclothes and she looks up at Natasha, shining and perfect, above her.

"Say it," Natasha taunts.

"I want you," Flan tries, but Natasha only shakes her head.

"No, say it," she insists. In case Flan thinks she's only teasing, Natasha reaches down and tweaks her nipple, which hurts a bit and makes Flan ache.

"Don't stop," she says.

"That's not what I need to hear."

"Fuck me," says Flan firmly, sounding entirely unlike herself and entirely too much like Natasha. And that's all Natasha needs to hear -- soon her fingers are sliding into the warmth between Flan's legs. No kissing, no foreplay, no prelminaries, just her hand thrusting, Flan moaning and throwing her legs wide apart.

"You're so damn hot, Flan," Natasha says.

And she is, so hot she's at the edge just from those fingers, just from the thoughts and the words and then her eyes are screwed shut and Natasha's palm brushes her clit and she's coming, her back arched and her hips off the bed.

Can Natasha feel it, the way she pulses, the way the excitment rushes through her, finally knowing why they call it a climax.

"You're the best," the say simultaneously, and Flan falls asleep in the wet bedclothes and refuses to open her eyes again.