A Request is what you want read. A Fill is the fictional realization of that request.
This meme is het, slash, femslash, and gen friendly.
We welcome all ratings.
Do I have to post anonymously? Well, it would be cool. Anonymity is cool. But we won't enforce it.
How long does this go on? The meme will last longer than the Cheese Festival itself. How long? Who knows! Hopefully a long time! But eventually, the meme probably will be closed after participation dwindles in order to avoid spam. We will put up warnings two weeks in advance if the meme is closing.
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SUBMITTING A REQUEST? READ THIS FIRST.
Make one Request per comment.
Requests must include a character or pairing AND a prompt. Prompt can be anything from a single word to a detailed scenario describing what you want.
Please use this basic format: Pairing. Prompt. An example would be this: Phoebe/Gerald. Studying in the treehouse.
To request a sexual scenario, you must be 18 years old.
You understand that if you request a sexual scenario, a Filler must Fill your request with a depiction of the involved parties as age 18 or older. If a Requester or a Filler submits anything with explicit underage sex, it will be screened and/or deleted.
FILLING A REQUEST? READ THIS FIRST.
To post a Fill, post it as a reply to the Request you are filling.
Please format your subject lines like so: FILL: Title Goes Here.
Explicit and potentially triggery content (non-con, suicide, gore, etc.) requires warnings and a rating at the beginning of your Fill. Readers, please tread with caution.
Fill too big for a single comment? Post in multiple comments and make sure all subsequent parts define themselves as PART 2, PART 3, etc. in the SUBJECT LINE. But you will probably not need to do this because Dreamwidth allows very large comments.
May I write a continuation or sequel to someone else's Fill? No.
After you have posted a Fill, respond to THE LIST (the first comment on this page) with a link. That way links to all completed Fills can be found in one place.
I messed up my comment! Can I delete it? No, only a mod can delete anonymous comments. You'll need to re-post your (fixed) comment yourself, then visit The Stoop to ask a mod to delete the messed-up comment.
I'm real proud of this shit I wrote. If I post anon now, can I "come out" as author later? Yes, your work is your work. If you want to re-post in your journal or elsewhere, you may do so at any time.
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Brainy/Helga. Helga is a writer who frequently brings her laptop to her local cafe, where Brainy happens to be a barista and serves the best coffee around.
Stella/Miles. Doctor Who Crossover. The Doctor teams up with Stella and Miles to finally cure the Green-Eyes of the sleeping sickness, which turns out to be an alien virus. Then an event inside the Tardis jumps them forward in time, resulting in them missing their son's entire childhood.
Pairing: Arnold/Helga Prompt: After being assigned a school project together, Arnold and Helga are at Helga's house working on it when Arnold, somehow, finds her shrines and stashes of poetry...
She never looks up. She’s always buried in a notebook, or her phone. She comes in followed by a burst of summer heat, or scattering autumn leaves. Sometimes with snowflakes caught in her hair. She hastily scrabbles to pull her sunglasses away from her eyes and shove them haphazardly onto her head, blonde hair sticking up at odd angles. With one hand she digs around in a crowded shoulder bag to retrieve a battered wallet. The notebook goes under the chin as she produces a few crumpled bills for her coffee- black, boiling hot. Then she sidles off to a table in a corner and slides a laptop out of the bag. She makes no sound but the clicking of keys as she pecks away. He always watches. When the steam stops streaming off the top of her cup, he quietly replaces it. Lost in her words, she never notices.
One day, it’s raining. She comes in, bell tinkling on the door, and runs a hand through her sodden hair. As she approaches the counter, he pours a cup and offers it to her soundlessly. This time, she looks up. Skeptically she examines the dark liquid, then a ghost of a smile streaks across her face. She pays, and then retreats to her corner booth. This time, the coffee does not cool.
One night, she comes in late. A freezing wind is whistling through the trees. She has deep pockets beneath her eyes and is clutching her laptop to her chest. A long scarf is tangled in her coat and she tugs at it, trying to loosen its choking hold on her throat. She orders her drink and he turns away, starting to wipe down the counters.
“Do I know you?”
He freezes. For a year she has been in his café every day. For a year she has not spoken a word. He turns slightly and glances over his shoulder. She is standing there, looking at him expectantly. He opens his mouth to speak, but his breath catches in his throat. He starts to cough, so shakes his head in reply. Her eyes narrow in suspicion, but she turns and goes to her table instead of further questioning. Her laptop is thrown unceremoniously on the tabletop and ignored as she nurses the coffee, trying to urge some warmth back into her frozen hands. Finally she opens the lid of the computer and begins to type away, but not with the usual urgency. He wanders past many times, sweeping, refilling sugar shakers, and trying to read snippets of the poem she is struggling over so much. A silence falls over the shop. Fewer keystrokes break the quiet . Later, he glances towards her table. One hand rests on her keyboard; the other is buried in her hair. Her eyes are closed and her forehead is lined with frustration. Her cup is empty. With a sudden burst of courage, he fills a paper cup with one of his most requested blends. Her hand has left her hair and is furiously rubbing her eyes. He adds a sprinkle of sugar to the top, then pops on a lid and strides towards her table.
As he sets the cup on the surface, he cranes his neck to read her screen. A long rhyming quatrain fills the page, needing just one line to finish the poem.
“Try ‘adore’,” he says quietly. Lowering the volume keeps away the raspy sound of his voice. She glances up at him, then back to her screen. With a few strokes she has written the final line, nods at its completion, then hurriedly snaps the lid shut.
“I don’t like it when people read my stuff,” she says gruffly, reaching for the cup.
“But it was beautiful,” he replies as she takes a long pull of the coffee. Her eyes widen, and she puts the cup down.
“That is … really good.”
He smiles. The next day she orders it, instead of black coffee.
This time she comes in, shaking apple blossom petals from her skirt. She gathers her drink and heads towards her table when one of the other customers rudely shoulders past her, jarring her arms. She drops her bag and her cup, liquid spreading quickly across the papers scattered across the floor.
“Excuse you, Neanderthal! Why don’t you watch where you’re swinging them gorilla arms!” she yells, stooping to gather up the dripping mess. He grabs a roll of towels and hurries to help clean up the spill. “Thanks, I’ve got this,” she says with an edge to her voice. He looks at her face. She seems near to tears.
“Hey, it’s my job,” he answers, blotting at the coffee puddle. When the floor is dry he helps her to her feet and hands her the sheaf of damp writing. She sends a glare his way, but only a half-hearted one. “Thanks,” she says grudgingly. She shoulders her bag and trudges out of the café, leaving soggy brown footprints.
He turns to go back behind the counter when something feels strange. One of the papers is stuck to his shoe. Balancing carefully on one foot he removes the coffee- stained poem that was attached. Much to his amusement, the poem is bordered on one side by a cascade of tiny hearts. He folds the paper and tucks it into the pocket on his barista’s apron.
As the day wends on, he scratches away with the nub of a pencil on the back of her poem. He writes about black coffee, and a boy who loved a girl who loved another boy. He writes about sugar and milk, and a barista who loves a grumpy poet and her old laptop. He writes about a thousand pairs of broken glasses, and a thousand days of broken hearts. All in rhyming quatrains.
The next day, he isn’t there. The barista who makes her coffee stumbles over it, his hands unsteady. Finally he hands her the cup and she goes to her table, puzzled. The paper sleeve that surrounds the cup feels different beneath her hand. She sets it on the table and examines it. A thin rim of white paper pokes up above the brown cardboard sleeve. Written in pencil on stained paper- it reads ‘To Helga’. She rips off the sleeve and reveals the folded poem within.
As she finishes the poem, a sound startles her. He pushes his way through the swinging double doors behind the counter, a huge box of cups in his hands. He turns and sees her in her booth, the paper held loosely in her fingers. She finally looks up at him, and smiles.
Helga/Arnold, an AU "Little Mermaid" retelling in any historical or modern time period. Arnold is the merman and Helga is the human who nearly drowns in a shipwreck. Any genre (light-hearted or more serious) is fine with me!
Arnold/Helga/Lila. Open-minded in their sexual pursuits, long-time partners Helga and Arnold decide they're willing to take a stranger into their bed just to try it out. But when Helga bumps into Lila, she becomes fixated on the idea of watching Arnold fuck Lila in particular.
OP here! This is PERFECT! Thank you!! I have to point out how much I adored the paragraph that ended with: All in rhyming quatrains. Hehehe, I might be very in love with your Brainy, I think. :D
PROMPT: Sid loves Stinky, who doesn't feel the same way; in fact, Stinky is actually straight and this devastates Sid completely when he sees him holding hands with Lila.
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fic_me_arnold) wrote2012-07-16 05:45 pm
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