#springfre2019

It wasn’t like fili to miss their prearranged morning meetings: even in the midst of all the work in the garden springtime brought, they’d been able to see each other every day. But now Fili hadn’t met Kili for over a week, and a seed of doubt plants itself in Kili’s mind. 

Very late SpringFre prize for  @kaetien  by @brandywinebridge-twentymiles and myself. We’re sorry for the wait :,( but we really hope you like it :)  

“Your eyes are as blue as the sea.” Kíli said by way of greeting as he sat down next to Fíli in their usual spot by the water. They had been meeting up right after breakfast for the past few days. Fíli gathered that comparing his eyes to the sea must be a compliment. He vaguely remembered Balin’s lesson on the connection between the Elves and the sea. He would have been more flattered if he’d compared them to…

“Or sapphires, I can’t quite decide”. Sapphires.

Kíli presented him with another flower. Fíli had received about a dozen over the last week. He was not sure what to do with them. They wilted. They smelled strange. He could not keep them as they were so delicate they were only meant to be displayed for short periods of time. And then he had to throw them away. It was bizarre. He was still flattered though.

--- Enchanted by @alwaysfarawayeyes

On Paper

A britchell manip and drabble

-SpringFre prize for the wonderful @lazysaturdayonthebeach -

By @brandywinebridge-twentymiles and myself

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

Mitchell often thought that his relationship with Anders resembled the beginning of a certain type of old jokes. „A vampire and a god walk into a bar-“

Except that their relationship didn’t turn out to be a joke; it grew more serious than Mitchell could have ever fathomed. And incredibly, the line then took on an even more unforeseen twist - in which the vampire and a god vessel walked down the aisle.

Now their first anniversary was upon them and, once again, Mitchell was reminded that celebrating such occasions with a wholly un-romantic and pissing-on-traditions Anders was an interesting exercise all on its own.

Maybe that was why Anders had come up with the challenge. That they would only gift each other something they could make. He even incorporated Mitchell’s original suggestion that they stick to the traditional present for first anniversaries – paper.

Mitchell was quite proud of what he had assembled for Anders on the eve of their anniversary night, even though one of the items had been a bit of a cheat. Laid out on the glass-top table was a bouquet of paper roses, the old-fashioned kind one used to be able to shoot with an air rifle at town fairs. Mitchell had only been able to find them on eBay, but by then he had been too invested in the idea and doubtful he could make them himself.

Next to the bouquet lay a Yeats poem, one Mitchell had known since his long-gone youth: he’d painstakingly cut out words from magazines to assemble the verses on a fresh piece of paper.

And finally, the wall behind him held a banner which he had also put together. Dawn had looked one up for him on some online craft page and Mitchell had assembled a bit of string and cardstock, ornate letters spelling out “Happy Anniversary”.

He figured he could reuse it each year, provided that the future had more anniversaries in store for them.

His creations didn’t seem like much, put together, but Mitchell was quite happy with the result.

Which was why the homemade card that Anders had left on the table for him in turn felt a bit like an underwhelming effort. Anders was clearly a minimalist: the first page only held one marker-drawn smiley face, albeit with the addition of vampire fangs and one tiny drop of what Mitchell assumed was blood. He chuckled and shook his head as he opened the card, bracing himself for whatever succinct message Anders had deigned to leave for him inside.

The words, sparse and to the point, were pretty much what Mitchell had expected.

“Happy anniversary – here’s to one year of my husband not eating me!”

It was so Anders, cheeky and flippant. And yet Mitchell couldn’t help but feel a little miffed.

“So, what did you get me?” Anders proclaimed as he strode out of the bedroom and looked around, straightening his tie and sliding into his suit jacket. “Oooh, nice banner, Mitch, are you a pinterest mom now? And what’s that?” He picked up the roses and genuine wonder crept into his face. “Where did you get these? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

It was only when he looked to Mitchell for an answer that he spotted his husband’s less-than-enthusiastic expression. “What’s got you scowling? You didn’t like my card?”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “It’s definitely an original.”

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate some sappy shit with glitter on it,” Anders replied lightly and picked up the poem. “Besides, glitter was not the theme, anyway.”

“That’s a fucking blessing.” Mitchell kept his lips pursed like a petulant child the whole time Anders stood at the table, eyes flicking over the verses.

“That’s…  neat,” Anders said, somewhat taken aback, and there was a flicker of something strange his eyes. “I like it.” Then he took a long, knowing look at Mitchell. “So, you thought that card was all I got you, huh?”

Mitchell looked up and saw the twinkle in Anders’ eyes. “Maybe.”

“Well, it’s not.” Anders felt around inside his pocket and pulled out a set of photos, handing them to Mitchell. “I got you these, too.”

Mitchell thumbed through them, confusion rising with each second. They all showed Anders, sitting on a sofa with an arm draped around the top of the cushion next to him. Mitchell recognized the sofa and he realized that the shots must have been taken during Ty’s birthday celebration last year – Mitchell had been seated next to Anders on the couch and he could remember Dawn taking pictures at some point during that evening. He had probably forgotten to mention to her that vampires couldn’t be captured on camera, and it seemed she’d passed the prints to Anders after she’d realized that they had failed to depict the whole couple.

“Yeah, great, you’re photogenic,” Mitchell said levelly. “But I’m not sure how this is an anniversary present? I’m a vampire, I’m not even in these.”

Anders was undeterred though, grinning now. “I thought so too, at first. I almost tossed them, but then I realized that actually, you are in there, too.”

Mitchell gave him a dubious look. “Anders, you know that I-“

Anders shushed him and pulled the photos out of his hands, laying them out on the table. “Here,” he pointed at his own smiling face in the photo. He seemed to be looking up at someone next to him, someone who wasn’t there. “See that besotted expression in my face? That’s me staring at your handsome face.” He transferred his finger to another photo. “And here? That’s my arm around your shoulder and I’m probably pulling on one of your curls to annoy you.”

Mitchell could see where this was going, and he could also see that Anders was right. He scanned the rest of the photos and in each of them, there was evidence of Mitchell’s presence there, even if the man himself was invisible. There was Anders’ head tilting sideways when he must have been resting it on Mitchell’s shoulder; in another shot, Anders was leaning forward, likely whispering something lascivious into Mitchell’s ear. In two other pictures he was laughing, his eyes bright as he aimed them, invariably, at the seemingly empty space next to him.

Mitchell felt his bad mood melt in the face of this surprisingly touching display.

“Oh,” was all he managed. He cleared his throat and ventured: “I – I guess I see what you mean.”

“Of course you do, you toss head. Now, I suck at handmade stuff, I think we can both agree on that, so I cheated a bit on my final present too.” He pulled out something else from his inner suit pocket: two small green rectangles. “But technically, it’s paper as well, so I think I can get away with it…”

Mitchell took them and turned them over. They were tickets to see Hozier in a month’s time.

“A dark and brooding Irishman – I figured he’d be right up your alley,” Anders supplied.

“Anders, that’s too much,” Mitchell tried to protest. He stood up to face his husband of precisely one year. He had been acting moody just now, and felt sheepish. Anders hadn’t blown off the anniversary after all.

“You can make it up to me later,” Anders winked and pulled him closer. “Plus, I do know I’m not the easiest person to live with. I meant what I said in the card, you know – about you not eating me.”

Mitchell put his arms around Anders, his fingers skimming the short hair at the nape of Anders’ neck. “We’re the couple of the year, aren’t we? You’re annoying and I’m grumpy. And we suck at celebrating anniversaries.”

“We’ll figure them out eventually,” Anders shrugged. “In a few years, we’ll be pros at this.”

Anders’ casual assumption that there would be future anniversaries was somehow the best gift of all.

“Even if next year’s gift is supposed to be cotton?” Mitchell teased.

“Oh for fuck’s sake… Just so you know, I’m not sewing you anything.” Anders shook his head. “Who came up with that stupid list? Though god knows it would be a good opportunity to get you a few better shirts…”

“Oh, a god knows, huh? And which god would that be?” Mitchell inquired with feigned curiosity.

“The one whose clothes share closet space with yours atrocious ones.”

“Oh, that god,” Mitchell grinned. “You mean, my god.”

“Yes, you old sap. Your one and only witty and slightly annoying deity.”

Spring FRE 2019 - Prompts Masterlist

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We have a staggering list of 170 prompts, which for the sake of variety have been arranged in a random order for you. Thank you so much for prompting!

Please read Prompts FAQs carefully before submitting any responses or sending an ask, but let’s cover some basics here:

Please use this registration form for each of your responses!

You don’t need to sign up anywhere to fill a prompt.

You have until 20th of April, midnight GMT to submit your responses.

1 prompt response = 1 raffle ticket. The more prompts you fill the higher your chances of winning something!

When posting your prompt response please clearly mark which prizes you’re going for. You can choose from digital, physical or both.

Use the following tag if you like: #SpringFRE2019. You can also use it to check out all the new content being created :)

Alternatively, you can monitor the Workflowy List which will be updated at minimum once every 24 hours.

For anything going up on AO3 you can use the following Collection

Primary pairing should be Fili/Kili, Anders/Mitchell, DarkHawk or any fictional characters pairing portrayed by Dean or Aidan.

Please tag your trigger warnings, pairing and rating as appropriate!

Prompts under the cut!

I’ve written and posted the second prize I’ve created for the @gatheringfiki Spring Fre 2019! For @vennor this time. It’s a Britchell one-shot. Vennor requested hurt/comfort, but it has become more witty banter and hurt!Anders than actual hurt/comfort. I hope that’s okay!

You can find it on AO3, here.

@gatheringfiki Prompt 55: A Murder Of Crows
(I’d like to apologise for this; I’ve taken liberties with both the prompt and characterisation here. Quite honestly, I have absolutely no idea.)

Considering he’s lived with the god of poetry since the day he turned twenty-one, it’s kind of disappointing that Anders can’t come up with anything a little more profound than—


It’s so white.


Not the white of expensive sheets, pristine hotel silk topped with pearl-skinned beauties all hungry for his cock; nor the crystalline white of blow, towering piles of purest powder all his for the taking. It’s not electric white like the stars that cloud his eyes in a Grey Goose haze, or the perfect white of a coconut beach, milky moonlight turning his sun-starved feet ghostly under the foaming shallows. It’s not even snow-white, frozen; no Nordic homecoming for Anders’ hitchhiker. 

Instead, he decides as he walks—


and walks, and walks; how the hell did he get here, anyway?—


that this white is the white of a landscape of absence, more the lack of any other colour at all than a shade in its own right. There’s no end to the vast plain beneath his feet, flat and desolate as the page of an empty book, scattered with treeless roots and cracks that run deep as his flaws. 


He’d shield his eyes but it’s not exactly too bright. Now that he thinks about it, it’s not too anything. He doesn’t feel hot, cold, tired. Perhaps he’s beyond those so-very-human limitations now. There’s just a vague sense of curiosity as he looks from the dust-blown ripples on the ground to the towering white—

 
bone white this time, picked clean; the white of frightened eyes before the light behind them goes out—


cliffs that rise up at the edge of his vision.


Perhaps what’s most surprising of all is how unsurprising it is. Seeing that he seems to have retained his capability for rational thought, he reckons he should probably be shocked, scared – something more than indifferent, anyway. Even for someone with morals as dubious as Anders, the idea of death has always left him cold. Perhaps it’s the constant, schizophrenic reminder of his own mortality, but being confronted by it had a habit of turning him coward, happy to give others a nudge in the back and watch them fall under the wheels to save himself. 


Frankly he’s surprised that he’s even lived as long as he has. If it hadn’t been for Bragi’s silver tongue licking around all the wounds that Anders tore open with his own, he’s pretty sure Dawn would have cut his balls off years ago and let him bleed out on the crappy carpet of JPR. Come to think of it, he isn’t even completely certain that he is dead. Bragi is still with him, crackling away like radio static. Anders had always assumed—


hoped—


that kicking the bucket would at least have the benefit of some peace and fucking quiet. 

Gathering FiKi spring FRE prompt 4: “You're the words when I have nothing to say.”

Fandom: Being Human (UK)/The Almighty Johnsons

Pairing: Anders Johnson/John Mitchell

Rating: Lemon?

Warnings: Self-Doubt, uncertainty,  smut

Theme: Tangled Up In You by Staind

Request: N/A

Words: 841

Status: Fin

Notes: any prize would be fine. First Britchell fic. Urf.

Anders sighed,  slumping back onto his bed and running a hand over his face. Everything felt different now,  without Bragi in the back of his head, without the voice to twist and bend those around him,  to shape his life. He'd forgotten what it was like to not have that, forgotten how a quiet mind felt. He'd never discussed it with his brothers,  had hardly discussed it with Olaf, but being the vessel of the God of Poetry had always made him feel like he had someone, even when he was alone.

The feeling had been overwhelming at first,  but as he'd grown used to it, he had taken comfort in it, until he'd almost lost where he ended and Bragi began. At no point had he even considered he might lose it, had even been excited at the prospect of the presence strengthening when Axl found Frigg, but that wasn't what happened.

It felt like he was going to have to relearn everything about who he was again, though he supposed he wouldn't have to do so alone. Michele had seemed supportive when they parted ways, as well as Axl and Ty. He was still uncertain about Mike but they'd never really gotten on well anyway, even as kids. More importantly,  he had Mitchell.

The vampire had been an intriguing and enjoyable addition to his life from the moment they'd met, when Anders had shared an umbrella with the soaked through man, and one thing had led to another until Anders had taken him into his bed. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Michele he liked the challenge of not being able to Bragi someone into it, and the power had never worked on Mitchell - not really, anyway. He'd said he could feel the pull, but wasn't compulsed.  It had made the vampire laugh.

The bed dipped, and Anders glanced over, drawing his gaze along damp skin, “How're you feeling?”

The former vessel shrugged, and Mitchell’s brow rose. He was so used to Anders talking his ear off that quiet and subdued was a cause for concern. With another sigh, Anders looked back to the ceiling, “It's quiet. For years, I've had this voice in my head that wasn't mine,  talking, guiding, telling me what to say to get what I want, and now it's gone, and it's quiet. All that's left is me.”

Mitchell nodded, shifting to stretch out beside Anders, gently cupping his cheek, guiding his gaze back to his face, “Is that really such a bad thing?”

“Mitchell…”

Chuckling,  Mitchell kissed him softly,  drawing Anders closer, “Bragi was never important to me.  I know he was to you, and I accepted that he was part and parcel if I wanted to have you, but…” He shook his head, slowly moving his hand over Anders's chest, “I can't say I'm not a little relieved to have you now. Just you.”

With a shaky breath, Anders nodded, “I know, Mitchell, I just.” He cut himself off with a frustrated huff, struggling to find the words he needed. Before he could try again, however, Mitchell was kissing him again, fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt.  

“I get it,” he murmured, soothing a cool hand over warm skin, “It's different,  and big. But you're not alone, Anders. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.” Another kiss, as if to reassure Anders he meant what he'd said,  before he slumped into the bed more, pulling Anders closer and taking his hand, “If you want, I could try and drown that quiet.”

He toyed with Anders's fingers,  and the smaller man raised a brow, “And how exactly would you do that?”

The vampire smirked, pushing himself up and over Anders, a hungry look in his eyes that had him hardening quickly, squirming some and breath catching, “Oh.”

“Unless you don't want to,” he offered,  sincerity in his voice even as he ran a hand down to work open his lover's belt.  

“Oh, no. By all means.”

The kiss that followed was far more heated, Mitchell working him free of his clothes without so much as stopping for air, only pulling back to reach into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieve their lube.

He was right though. Once Mitchell started working him open, the silence in his head filled- white noise and thoughts of so good and more and even an unsuspected I love you filled his head, a few even managing to pass his lips, though the most dominant word was simply, “Mitchell.”

The words in his head only got louder as his lover took him, brought him to the edge and held him there until he sobbed out, “Mitchell, please,” before falling over the edge, Mitchell’s name a cry upon his lips.

He settled back into the mattress,  surprised when the other pulled away slowly, smiling down at him, “Better?”

With a soft contented hum, he reached for him, nuzzling in close, “You didn't finish.”

“It wasn't about me. It was about you.”

“Thank you, Mitchell.”