rthstewart | Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

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Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

This post is NOW CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS! PLEASE POST YOUR NEW PROMPTS HERE, IN POST 2! Do continue to fill prompts here but please put all new prompts in Post 2.

Welcome to the Three Sentence Ficathon!

Here's a Friending meme!

What is the 3 Sentence Ficathon?
This is an open exchange where you answer a prompt with a fic consisting of only three sentences. It's open to all fandoms and you can post and fill as many prompts as you like, as many times as you want.

What do I do first?
You can start 3SF by posting prompts! When posting a prompt please format it this way:

fandom, character(s), prompt word/sentence.

Only one prompt per comment please. So, for example,

Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, I don't like sand."

Open ended and anthropomorphic fills are popular too, such as:

Any, Any, "I don't like sand."

or

Earth geography, sand, "I don't like humans very much, either."

What happens after that?
You answer other posters' prompts in three sentences (or more if you can't stop yourself) and fill as many prompts as you want, as many times as you wish. If you see that a prompt you loved has already been filled, go ahead and fill it again! Multiple fills of the same prompt are allowed and even encouraged! (We get really fun stories going this way).

Can I still post if I need more than 3 sentences? Or should I just abuse grammar in ways the English language never contemplated?
Yes. Yes.

But I'm not a member of Dreamwidth
No problem. You can comment anonymously or through open ID

I'm really overwhelmed by all the prompts and how much there is and how fast it goes. I can't read 1,000 prompts and fills. It's too much.
I hear this a lot and it keeps a lot of people from participating. The 3SF is big and it moves fast, especially at first. I get overwhelmed, too, and I'm hosting the thing. With 2020 and 2021 sucking so badly you don't want something that's supposed to be fun cause you anxiety. I have a couple of suggestions for managing the 3SF volume.

First, really, you don't have to read every prompt and fill on every page. You can start at the last page of this and just go forward, or back a page or two. It's fine.
You can come and go as time and energy allow, you don't have to participate the whole time, and it drops off quite at bit after about 2 weeks and especially once we open a new post because this one is approaching 4,500 comments.
Even after the 3SF and new prompting end, people fill prompts all year long.
You can fill an already filled prompt and you can can leave a prompt that's already been prompted before. People do it all the time.

Always make sure you're looking at top-level comments only, not threaded. That helps a lot. Your screen should look like this.

But shouldn't I read everything to see if someone already prompted the same prompt I want to leave if someone already filled it?
No. Prompt as many times as you want, as much as you want. It doesn't matter if someone prompted the exact same prompt. Go ahead and prompt again!

I left a prompt and no one filled it. Can I prompt it again?
Absolutely!

Can I spread the word?
Yes, please. I generally fail at creating banners and embed codes but if you create one and make it really idiot-proof, I might be able to post and share it. Feel free to cross-post this entry. If you create your own banners or icons, let me know and I'll share!
Please share the 3SF with your followers, friends, and any channels and comms you are active on. I'll post on fandom calendar, Tumblr, and Twitter, but I don't have many connections in other spaces such as Discord.

Here's my attempt at a text box that might go horribly awry.

How long will it go?
The 3SF closes to new prompts on February 13, 2022. The entry stays open permanently and people post fills all year long. (There were a bunch of new posts to the 2021 3SF this week!)

Are there any rules about cross-posting?
Nope, you can post wherever you want, whenever you want. A lot of folks collected their responses together and posted them on AO3 under the 3 sentence fiction tag. 3SFs are a terrific prompt for remixes and could be helpful for Yuletide bears, too.

What about spoilers, content and archive warnings, triggers, pairings, ratings, tags, and squick?

I thought a lot about this. It boils down to reader beware. In my experience, this typically gets too big, moves too fast, and the stories are too short for content warnings and ratings to even apply. It is too big for me to moderate in this way. You should assume spoilers are fair game and that the initial poster and the responder have opted to use no content warnings or tags. This means AO3 content warnings for dubcon, violence, canon character death, underage, etc. COULD be present (and much more). I've found personally that I can skim and scroll by stuff that, from the prompt, I can tell isn't my favorite flavor of delicious cake. Use your best judgment, protect yourself, and be prepared to skip over things that aren't your thing. In this format, the obligation is on you, the reader, to protect yourself from triggering content.
Some posters do include warnings and spoiler tags or include spoiler space, but they don't have to do so.

Why is 3SF split among several posts? That seems confusing.
It is confusing and we always lose momentum once we have to move to a second post. The reason is because at 5,000 comments to a single post, DW installs a human test CAPTCHA, which is a pain for users. So, once this entry gets to the upper 4,000 comments, I open a new post. If you've been waiting until things slow down to participate, when we open a second post is often a good place to join.

If I have questions, what do I do?
I'm rthstewart everywhere, here, Twitter, Tumblr, gmail and AO3.

A special thank you to

conuly .
Last year, Conuly started logging all unfilled prompts.
This year's (2021) unfilled prompts are here.
Last year's (2020) unfilled prompts are here.

Conuly asks that you not reply, as they want to be able to edit and add more prompts to the list.

Here, have some icons and banners and let me know if you've created your own!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Kisame raises his fin over the foam, sea water splashing to the sides and against the shore where the human kneels.

"Do you want to touch?" He asks her, watching how coral colored eyes widen as to make sure she has his permission, before reaching for his limb.

Thin and curious fingers run down the length of his fin -and then back up- and she hisses out a curse when she cuts herself on his hide, bloody fingers shoved in her mouth; Kisame laughs.

I love this so so much! I'd love to read a K long fic about it. <3

"No," Eliot says, grabbing Hardison's arm and steering him away from the big brew kettle that dominated the back room - and, more importantly, making him drop the little plastic package in his hand with one strategic dig of fingers into nerves.

"Wait, wait, hear me out," Hardison protests, already twisting like he wants to go back, "other people have already made batches like this, right, but they've only tried using one ghost pepper--"

"No," Eliot says again, and shuts the door in Hardison's face.

Parker went in first, running straight up the wall towards her entry point on the roof; Hardison's initial suspicions of enchanted boots held out only until she pushed the last few steps off of thin air, instead.

Curiousity had to wait, though, because there was a vault to find and a very picky unlocking spell to mark out on its door, and Hardison definitely did his best work under pressure but the group of very large, very angry thugs that burst around the corner partway through was a bit much even for him. He raised his hands and dropped his chalk, muttering through gritted teeth at the third party member that Ford had saddled him with: "I don't know what it is you do, man, but now would definitely be the time."

Eliot made a disgruntled sound as he stepped towards the oncoming thugs, flexing his fists hard enough to make his leather gloves audibly creak; Hardison had only a split second to notice the simmering red glow of some power come up around Eliot's hands, the blue crackle of a Haste spell lash down his arms.

By the time the piece of chalk hit the ground, it was already over.

lolololol

this is just PERFECTLY them!!!

thank you!!!

Robin ruminates on it on their way back—names, and how she could have possibly remembered Chrom’s name before her own, why she suddenly remembered hers, what it all means. She remembers stabbing lightning into him and hearing his name like her own heartbeat—Chrom, Chrom, Chrom—but, no, it’s impossible, because he stands healthy and hale before her and claims they are strangers. That doesn’t feel true, but it doesn’t feel like a lie either, and Robin wonders if her thoughts are always this flighty and fickle. Perhaps she was named for a bird for a reason.

Robin’s taste for sweets slowly comes to light as she becomes accustomed to the rich food of the palace. Chrom watches her face alight with pleasure at the sight of their dessert, grimly remembering how hungry and lean she looked when they first met, how happy she was for simply a stomach full of greasy, gamey bear meat. Palace life has softened her figure, filling Chrom with pride that he can provide a comfortable life for Robin, especially as her appetite has only continued to grow with her condition.

“You can have mine, love,” he says, nudging his own slice of cake towards his pregnant, beloved wife. Robin looks caught between joy and refusal, opening her mouth to reject the gesture, and he meets it with a smile that turns her to bashful, glowing acceptance of his indulgent affection.

Robin looks at her husband, at their friends and comrades, at their assembled children who came so far to protect them, and she knows. It’s time for her to lay down her life and protect them with a smile on her face and conviction in her heart, striking Grima from this world forever, even if Chrom can’t accept her decision. It’s time to end this story for good.

I enjoyed that Benedick has some sense that something is wrong in Claudio's rejection of Hero even without the canon events happening.

This is incredibly interesting! I loved the last line especially, following to the logical conclusion of the flaws in only following logic.

It was a routine funeral service, but that was no excuse to be sloppy. Cuauhtli—age 56, heart attack—deserved better than that. So Acatl and Ichtaca were still standing vigil over him past midnight, though Acatl for his part had been up since dawn and his hands were starting to shake. He ignored it. He was fine.

And then came the next line of the funeral hymn, and he had to stop to hold back an entirely inappropriate yawn. High Priest of the Dead with Mictlan’s power coursing through his veins or not, he was inconveniently mortal.

Worse, Ichtaca had noticed. “I’m calling Palli to take over for us,” he said with a tone that suggested Acatl had no choice in the matter.

By now, Acatl knew better than to argue.

Thank you! Benedick has a lot of social intelligence and I have confidence that he'd be able to pick up on everything that's not quite right here. Mostly I just wanted to give these kids a happy ending!

“Sometimes I envy you,” Acamapichtli muttered.

Acatl nearly inhaled his mouthful of grilled duck. When he stopped wheezing—grateful that the noise of the banquet they were both stuck at had covered the noise, though it hadn’t stopped Quenami from raising an eyebrow at him—he asked, “Why?!”

There was an expansive gesture. “Your priests are sensible, hardworking people who do what they’re told and don’t stutter over their hymns, and as far as I know none of them are planning to unseat you. The new ones I’m dealing with...” Acamapichtli shook his head, an action that spoke volumes. “I have my doubts.”

Quenami was deep in conversation with a nobleman on his other side, so Acatl felt safe in lowering his voice and murmuring, “Well, if you can deal with him, you’re fine. How do you manage it, anyway?”

Acamapichtli made a face. “Largely by ignoring him. Obviously, that won’t work on my underlings.”

“Hm.” Acatl took another bite of duck. In a roundabout way, it seemed Acamapichtli was asking him for help. A shrewder politician would be thinking of advantages to be gained, but frankly having a decent clergy of Tlaloc went beyond mortal concerns. “Have patience, then. They’ll find their footing. And if you’re firm and fair, they ought to respect you.”

“Patience? Easy for you to say,” Acamapichtli grumbled. “They’re just so stupid. They can't even scheme competently.”

Acatl raised an eyebrow. “They can’t be worse than what we already deal with.”

He didn’t need to look towards the Revered Speaker’s gilded screen; Acamapichtli caught his meaning anyway.

The beast they’d come to kill was dead, but it still took Teomitl a moment to catch his breath. It had had a long, whippy, prehensile tail he’d only found out about when it had grabbed him and flung him to the ground, and even though the soil was fairly soft this time of year it still hurt. And there were gashes on his sword arm from its claws that he’d need to take care of.

Enough about him, though. Acatl was still pushing himself up from his knees, breathing hard. He’d been the one to take it down, his knives laying open its throat and practically searing it with underworld magic, but now he didn’t look good. Teomitl didn’t like the too-careful way he was moving. “Acatl-tzin?” he called.

“I’m fine,” Acatl huffed.

That meant he wasn’t. Teomitl all but lunged to his side, tugging his—gods, bloodstained—cloak away from where he was holding it bunched over his ribs. Acatl tried to bat his hands away, but he was stronger. And if Acatl was hiding it, it had to be bad. “Let me see!”

Finally, reluctantly, Acatl let go of the fabric, and Teomitl was able to see where all the blood was coming from. It made him feel a little sick.

“You call this fine?!” he snapped, hating how his voice cracked. But he couldn’t help it; the monster’s claws had ripped deep furrows through Acatl’s soft skin, exposing muscle that definitely should not be seeing outside air. His fingers didn’t shake as he snatched up his knife and started slicing his own cloak for bandages, but he suspected that was because he couldn’t really feel them very well at the moment. He’d seen Acatl bleed. He’d seen Acatl hurt. Storm Lord strike him, he’d seen Acatl hurt much worse than this! But...but still. Men died easily, and Acatl was too stubborn for his own good.

At least the man was sitting down now and taking shallow breaths, which made it easier. “It’s just,” he started, and stopped.

Teomitl glared at him. “It’s just something that means I am taking you to a healing priest, immediately. And don’t tell me it’s extravagance! You’re,”—the most important person in the world to me—“our High Priest for the Dead, Acatl-tzin!”

Acatl grimaced. “Fine. As long as you get your arm looked at as well.”

He supposed he didn’t have a choice. But if it got Acatl to sit still and accept medical attention, he didn’t have a problem agreeing.

“Well,” Teomitl said, “it could—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—be worse—sorry. But it could.”

Since they were both currently crammed in the same small cage in a cave north of Tlacopan, after a diplomatic endeavour that had turned into an investigation into an unorthodox cult and promptly gone very far south very quickly, Acatl couldn’t feel even a shred of Teomitl’s optimism. They’d only been able to hastily bandage their wounds, their weapons had been confiscated, and the cage wasn’t big enough for either of them to stand up straight, never mind fight. So he hunched further into the corner and asked incredulously, “How?!”

“...I’m not sure,” Teomitl muttered. “I don’t have your gift for pessimism. But I know it could.”

Grudgingly, he nodded. They could be dead or tortured or sacrificed to fuel a spell. So far, none of that had happened.

Yet.

Acatl couldn’t move.

Well, alright, he could; there was nothing technically preventing him from leaving the spot under the tree in his courtyard where he’d been eating dinner. His limbs were in good working order, and though he was certainly tired—it had been quite a big meal, thanks to all the good things Teomitl had brought over—it wasn’t to the point where he couldn’t drag himself to his mat. He could get up, go inside, wash his face, and ready himself for bed.

Except Teomitl had sat next to him, snuggled up close with the chill of the spring air as an excuse so transparent even Acatl could see through it, and had managed to actually fall asleep. So Acatl was trapped. Teomitl’s head was on his shoulder, hair gently tickling his neck, and he was afraid to move even to smooth it away. It was terribly soft.

I should do something. Anything. He should push him away, for starters. It was getting harder and harder to deny the ways of his own heart in recent months, and if Teomitl kept being pressed against him like this, warm and heavy and trusting, he was absolutely going to do something stupid. He risked lifting his free hand, intending to shake Teomitl’s shoulder.

“Mmm...” It was a breathy, barely audible noise. Acatl froze, afraid the man was waking up, but he only shifted closer and hummed something incoherent. As though he’d recognized Acatl even in sleep. As though he knew he was safe.

Safe. Hah. He let out a long sigh. It wasn’t so bad, really, no matter how his heart was pounding. Teomitl was just sleeping. He looked younger and softer like this, more vulnerable, and it pinched Acatl’s heart. When was the last time the man had rested like this? The way they were sitting, it had obviously been deliberate, but did that mean Teomitl’s feelings were anywhere near the same as his own? The thought filtered slowly through his mind. I want...

Still moving slowly and carefully, he stroked Teomitl’s cheek. The skin was soft here as it was everywhere else, with only a few patches of faint stubble he must have missed, and it sent Acatl’s heart up into his throat. Oh, he thought quietly, I love you.

There. He’d admitted it to himself, and the world hadn’t ended. Emboldened, he moved his attention to the thick hair currently flopping in Teomitl’s face, adorably undignified. He’d probably be furious if he knew I thought that, he mused wryly, but that didn’t stop him from gently brushing it back.

This time, Teomitl didn’t stir. In fact, the angle of his neck where he’d flopped bonelessly against Acatl’s shoulder was producing a faint but noticeable snore. It was...oddly restful, actually. Acatl was still trapped, but his heart rate was starting to slow down to normal, and the pine needles under him were soft. And between his cloak and Teomitl’s body, he was warm enough.

When his eyes started to slide closed, he didn’t fight it.

He’d sworn to serve and protect the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, the man he’d helped bring back to life and place upon the throne to which he had been appointed. He’d sworn to stand against his enemies, to keep the balance between worlds.

He’d sworn many things. They hang upon him like cobwebs now, easily brushed aside.

Regicide should be harder, he thinks idly. But Tizoc’s life has hung by a spider’s thread since he and the other High Priests brought him back, and to snap that thread is the work of a moment. He doesn’t need to wait for Teomitl’s ambition or Mihmatini’s prudence or Acamapichtli’s revenge. He only needs to reach out with his magic, cold and final as an icicle to the base of the neck, and finish the job he should have started years ago.

He feels it when it takes hold, the seismic shift in the foundations of the world. The boundaries will be weak for a while now. He’ll have to be vigilant.

Less vigilant than he’s been for a knife in the dark, a garrote at his throat. Less vigilant than he’s been for a terrible gap in the ranks of returning warriors, a space where Neutemoc or Teomitl should stand. Less vigilant than he’s been for ghosts walking the streets of his city.

As he performs the necessary rituals, he can’t help but smile.

Acatl has beautiful hands. He has beautiful everything, really—face, body, heart, smile, and gods those thighs—but if you held a knife to Teomitl’s throat and forced him to pick, he’d probably say he loves the man’s hands the most. They’re narrow and long-fingered and elegant, striped with scars from his bloodletting, and he’s amazingly good with them whether he’s holding a knife or...

Well. Other things. And as much as Teomitl would normally love to dwell on those other things, right now he can’t really afford the distraction because Acatl is teaching him to wrap tamales. “The extent of my culinary expertise,” he’d said with familiar dry self-deprecation, but since Teomitl’s own cooking skills start and end with grilling things on sticks he’s looking forward to learning something new.

Scoop the filling onto the wet maize husk. Fold it carefully—carefully. Acatl’s so gentle with it. Tie it with a thin strip of the same corn husk, just to make sure it stays in place. Teomitl can’t believe he doesn’t break it.

“Now you try,” he says, and smiles.

Teomitl looks down at his own hands and the stack of maize husks in front of him. It can’t be that hard. He was paying attention, even if his mind’s eye is still mostly full of long brown fingers instead of the maize husks they were holding.

But just in case he could use the luck, he steals a quick kiss anyway.

Walking out of the cool of his temple felt like entering a sauna. Acatl took a deep breath and instantly regretted it; the air felt and tasted like hot soup, and no sooner did it hit his nose than his sinuses all but clanged shut in self-defense. His heavy formal cloak was suffocating.

Ichtaca grunted instead of speaking. He grumbled something indistinct back. Unless you were actively channeling Mictlan’s power, it didn’t do a thing to dissipate the ovenlike heat. And of course it didn’t do a thing for the wet, clammy, disgusting feeling of sweat accumulating on your skin with nowhere to evaporate to. The thought of descending the temple steps in full noon sunlight made him want to cry, but he started walking anyway. One step at a time, he told himself. Think about anything else. Anything.

“Acatl-tzin!”

Oh no. Teomitl was at the base of the pyramid. Granted, he was often here at noon—since that terrible plague he’d made it a point to stop by, apparently in the belief that Acatl needed to eat something—but at the moment Acatl really didn’t have the energy to greet him. He nodded instead, hoping he wasn’t too badly wilted.

Instead of commenting on his appearance or the weather, Teomitl uttered the most beautiful sentence he’d heard all day: “I brought shaved ice for everyone!”

The High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli kneels before his ruler, head bowed. “I am here, my lord.”

Emperor Ahuitzotl sighs, offering a hand to help him to his feet. “Rise, Acatl. Let us show our enemies we stand united.”

Technically, the dozens of appropriately cowed and decimated lords about to walk into the celebration of the Great Temple’s rededication are no longer their enemies. Acatl’s all too aware how quickly that could change. His liege lord is right; in order for them to show their strength after the disastrous reign of Ahuitzotl’s predecessor, it will take more than a few thousand sacrifices. It will take unity. It will take resplendence.

It will take Acatl in full regalia seated next to the Emperor and Imperial Consort while the guests are welcomed in. Yes, the other High Priests will be there too, but Ahuitzotl has been extremely clear on who he wants at his left side. Who else will show that we alone keep the boundaries of the Fifth World intact? He’d asked, and the faith in his eyes still shakes Acatl to the core.

But there’s no time for introspection, because the banquet is starting. They march out of the antechamber together, Ahuitzotl glittering in gold and jewels and his High Priest for the Dead a skull-masked shadow behind him. They sit down. On Ahuitzotl’s other side, the Guardian of the Duality flashes her brother a brief smile. He nods back.

“Thank you,” the Emperor murmurs. He knows how much Acatl hates being on display for the nobility.

Acatl permits himself a small smile. “No need.” And then, because nobody is close enough to hear if he keeps his voice low, he adds, “I am ever at your disposal, my lord. Particularly if there’s anything else you require of me tonight.”

And Emperor Ahuitzotl—his Teomitl—grins. “Always.”

I don't know the fandom at all, but this is absolutely lovely. Some of my favourite parts:

snuggled up close with the chill of the spring air as an excuse so transparent even Acatl could see through it

if Teomitl kept being pressed against him like this, warm and heavy and trusting, he was absolutely going to do something stupid.

and it sent Acatl’s heart up into his throat. Oh, he thought quietly, I love you.

Really wonderful work!

“You,” Acatl breathed, “are a terrible influence.”

Teomitl grinned at him, unrepentant. “Me? But you were my beloved teacher. If I turned out so badly, isn’t it your fault?”

Since Teomitl was straddling his hips, one hand braced on the mat and the other wrapped around a fistful of Acatl’s loose hair, Acatl was at leisure to drag his nails down his lover’s spine just a little too sharply. As Teomitl shivered appreciatively, he smirked back up at him. “I can’t change a man’s essential nature. And if you had been anyone other than who you are, we wouldn’t be here. I assure you, I never would have thought of any of this on my own!”

“I seem to recall you having plenty of thoughts.” There was a wicked light in Teomitl’s eyes as he rolled his hips; Acatl shuddered in pleasure as he continued, “Unless you’re trying to say you’re innocent?”

He had been, once. Or well, not precisely innocent—you couldn’t be that, not as a priest for the Dead who saw the lowest and worst the world had to offer daily—but certainly chaste. Xochiquetzal Herself had tried to lure him to Her bed, and he hadn’t given in. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time and the sight of Teomitl stretching half-naked in the sun like a jaguar to conclude Xochipilli would have had better luck, but he hadn’t exactly planned to act on his desires.

But then there had been Teomitl. There had always been Teomitl, ready to peel back the layers of his delusions and self-deceptions to get at his raw and beating heart. I don’t love him? A lie. I don’t want him? A lie. I wouldn’t break the world and all my vows for him? A lie.

I wouldn’t crave him on my mat and in my heart, any way he’ll have me? The biggest lie of all. And once he’d stopped telling himself all that, Teomitl had been all too happy to encourage further honesty. Yes, Acatl could spend a few hours venting about his terrible colleagues. Yes, Acatl could openly discuss the possibility of treason. And yes, Acatl could absolutely do what they were doing now, which was to pull the married Master of the House of Darts down for a ferocious kiss and inform him, “Consider yourself my inspiration if it makes you feel better.”

Teomitl’s eyes were very dark and very hungry. “Oh, I’ll be glad to.”

In further evidence for Teomitl’s status as a bad influence, they were both late for their morning devotions to the gods and Acatl’s core muscles were all too happy to enumerate in detail all the ways in which they’d been ill-treated. It was still worth it.

Haha, thanks! Acatl is a coroner/priest/detective by trade and he's USUALLY observant but uhhhhh not when it comes to people Obviously Liking Him. "Sounds fake but okay" (teomitl, screeching internally: "WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO??")

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38087509/chapters/95141404 <--the rest of this year's fills

Oohh I love this! It all fits amazingly and I love how you wrote this

“That,” Quenami sniffed, “is because Acatl is a fool and a coward.”

He must have thought he was safe. They stood in the middle of a crowded palace courtyard, after all, and no up-and-coming young heir apparent to the Mexica Empire would dare to cause a scene in front of so many people. There would be far too many social and political repercussions, particularly with the Revered Speaker’s noted...instability. Quenami was one of the few people known to still reliably have the Emperor’s ear; it was common knowledge that he was, therefore, untouchable.

Teomitl had learned to consider the consequences of his actions. He had. Nothing was worth endangering the people he loved or losing their respect. Acatl would tell him to let the insult go.

Acatl wasn’t here right now, and the crack of his fist meeting Quenami’s face was far more satisfying than any moral high ground.

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Page 241 of 247

Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

Naruto, Kisame Hoshigaki/Konan

Re: Harry Potter/Queen, any Hogwarts students, Freddie Mercury dies the first year Harry is at Hogwa

no subject

I went a little D&D with this one? Also, more than three sentences, dang it.

no subject

Fire Emblem: Awakening, Chrom/Robin

Fire Emblem: Awakening, Chrom/Robin

Fire Emblem: Awakening, Chrom/Robin

no subject

Re: TOS: Spock, Seeing Oneself In Others

Obsidian & Blood, Ichtaca & Acatl

no subject

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl & Acamapichtli

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl & Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl & Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Re: Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Re: Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Re: I went a little D&D with this one? Also, more than three sentences, dang it.

Obsidian & Blood, Teomitl & Quenami