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2026 3SF is on its way!
Dust off those prompts! This year's Three Sentence Ficathon schedule will be as follows:
First post opens: Saturday, January 17th Closing to new prompts: Sunday, February 15th
As always, fills can be posted year-round.
Get ready to prompt and fill like mad! You can also add any fills from past years to the AO3 3SF Collection! We can't wait to see what you all come up with this year.
Info post HERE.
Mod contact post HERE.
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Love's Not Time's Fool
@three-sentence-ficathon + @janeuary-month day 31: dearest | AO3
Anne was no longer girlish, no, but she held the beauty of a woman grown into herself, restored to every hope and happiness that she once thought she might never enjoy, and its marks were such that would never fade with the waning of youth—a brightness of eye, a color of vigor and health, a bloom of both skin and glance.
So altered, he had called her, and yet this was the greatest and happiest alteration, a bloom of life and happiness that even in their first years had been absent, for neither had yet learned what could be lost and what could be gained, and what happiness could be found in gaining that which was thought forever lost.
How much happier she could have been, how much restored, and so much sooner, had he admitted to himself his own heart and ceased to trifle with hers!
“Damned foolish,” Wentworth murmured under his breath.
Anne spoke a wordless question, the tones of her voice dearer and more familiar than the roll of waves upon the shore, and he answered with a press of his lips against her hand, warmed by the sun. Anne, his dearest Anne, more constant than the tide, happy and his.
3SF prompt: Any, any, Exactly The Same As Canon Except That One Character Who Should Never Have A Gun Has A Gun
"……," said Hawkeye, and on anyone else Ed would've jumped to questioning how that was even a possible thing to express aloud, but generally speaking he liked having no additional metal in him than was strictly necessary and/or already present, so. Nope.
Apparently it was also audible to Mustang despite still being neck-deep digging for some file in his desk drawer. "Something wrong, Lieutenant?"
"It appears I have somehow been reduced to possessing only one gun."
The folder-shuffling sounds screeched to a halt. "…one? As in, singular?"
Hawkeye did not look nor sound aggrieved, but the impression came across quite clearly anyway. "That is generally what the word means, yes. Edward."
"Wasn't me," Ed replied in a totally dignified way that did not resemble a yelp.
Hawkeye nodded with a gratifying lack of disagreement, expression already settling into a near-perfect copy of Mustang's Evil Scheming Face. "Could I temporarily interest you in some side business?"
Bury Me Here, Under the Sweet Grass
Timeless | AO3 | @three-sentence-ficathon
The cars on the street doubled before Flynn, the streetlights smearing into bars of blinding light. He couldn’t have read a street sign even if he stood a foot away from it. But he didn’t need signs; he knew the roads implicitly—had followed them every night in his mind for four years, wondering from what angle the Rittenhouse agents had approached the house, from where he should have positioned himself to take them down before they could enter, if only he could have known. After he had stolen the Mothership from Mason Industries, he had read, over and over again, in the documents he had seized with it, the many ways in which traveling into one’s own timeline wrecked the body, in order to convince himself that the ease of simply jumping back to that night and shooting the Rittenhouse agents dead before they could open the door was not worth it, that he was nothing to his family if he was dead or permanently incapacitated, that Rittenhouse would never face justice if he ruined himself before he ever caught them. That was not to say that there were many reports of the effects of traveling into one’s own timeline—Mason had quickly learned that the cost of testing did not outweigh the gain of knowledge—but rather that the few reports that existed left no detail undocumented. But as he looked through the window—aching, trembling, burning, with a ringing in his ears that nearly split his skull—at Lorena, at Iris, he knew that whatever pains and torments lay before him in the next hours—it couldn’t be any longer than that—were worth the sight of his wife and daughter alive and happy, ignorant of every sin he had set himself to to try to bring them back. This would be what he would remember, he told himself as he stumbled through the dune grass, each step agony, as he endured the next hours. Not the bodies that had seared his eyelids every night for four years, but Lorena and Iris, alive, at last. For that, he would endure any torment.
Tomorrow, Now, and Years and Years Ago
Riddle-master trilogy | AO3 | @three-sentence-ficathon
Winds buffeted Morgon’s back, running racing fingers through the plain and pulling forth hours and years and memories, carving the grass, the stone, his heart. There, the towers that rose and fell; there, the hands and voices that built them; there, Astrin’s house; there, the lines of armies; there, the tower where all ended and all began; there, the High One’s hand upon his shoulder and the murmur of his voice in Morgon’s ear. Centuries dwelt in a single stone, years in a blade of grass, past and present and future bound in earth. In the wind he heard the harp strings of the High One, plucking at the clouds, the grass. All dwelt here, still, in the bending grass and the voice of the wind and the white stones of the cairn and the harpist beneath and the harpist above.
Here, in the music of the winds, he heard still the notes fall from hands unbroken, and the voice of the one who pulled the winds from the stars and the stars from the winds, and set both stars and doom upon Morgon’s brow. Here still he saw a harpist walk beneath the wind, drawing down twilight with a stroke of his hand, until his mind slipped free of memory and returned.
“Where were you?” Raederle murmured into the skin of his shoulder, as she always did, though the answer rarely changed.
“At the beginning,” Morgon said, “and at the end.”
“And was he there?” Her voice slipped over his skin, drawing him back into himself.
“He was.”
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