a fortnight of horrors
A FORTNIGHT OF HORRORS is a two-week fan event that will rise this upcoming winter, from january 7th, 2024 until january 20th, 2024.
this will be a full two weeks of daily horror-themed prompts designed to inspire you to create art that is horrifying, intense, erotic, insane, & everything in between.
stay tuned... 🔪 🩸
(Open, Moderated)
Recent works
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Matt’s grin is beaming. “I can always count on you, Foggy.”
“What can I say?” Foggy says, a smile in his own voice. Matt’s hand comes up to cradle his blood-slick jaw. “I’ll serve anyone.” Matt leans in, nosing into a kiss. It has to taste like copper, but he doesn’t seem to care, kissing down to his lips, smiling the whole way. “And I mean anyone.”
“And to anyone,” Matt adds, and Foggy snorts a laugh just as Matt guides him into a proper kiss, soft and slow, the strangest and sweetest moment they could possibly be having right now.
for a fortnight of horrors, day fourteen: free space and “try and scare me.”
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When Din approaches, R2-D2 trills, beeping rapidly; Luke has been trying to teach him Binary, but Din’s been dragging on it, a bit.
He does manage to make out Luke’s name in the chirruping chatter the droid is spitting at him, along with the words star and ship and eat, which— doesn’t quite make sense.
“Alright, Artoo, where’d he go?” Din asks, hoping for a simple answer.
R2 backs up, then turns around, facing the starboard door.
Din stares at it.
Then, he says, “No, he didn’t.”
R2 chirps at him. Din knows enough to understand the simple words, Yes, he did.
Panic laces through Din. There’s no air out there; if Luke got sucked out, R2 should’ve woken him— the ship should have stopped him—
There’s a hard bang at the door, then, and Din takes two massive steps backwards.
for a fortnight of horrors, day thirteen: sci-fi horror, abominations, and “there’s something there.”
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The second Trent’s in the door, he drops everything in his hands to the floor.
Ted’s apartment is covered in plastic.
Everywhere he looks is just— plastic. Plastic sheets covering the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the furniture. Everything is coated in it, a protective layer over his home, keeping it safe from the absolute splattering mess of blood that seems to have been sprayed absolutely everywhere, across the plastic in his parlor, stretching as far as his kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom.
For a moment, Trent just stares.
Then, he whirls, slamming Ted’s front door shut behind himself, locking it with trembling hands.
The rough bang of the door striking the frame catches Ted’s attention, and the buzzing comes to an abrupt stop, immersing Trent in a sudden silence.
There’s not just blood everywhere, and not just plastic, and not just confusion.
There is also, in the middle of it all, Ted.
for a fortnight of horrors, day twelve: blood and guts, gore, and “is that blood on your face?”
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“Stay behind me. I’m going to check it out, alright?”
“Stay behind you?” Viago echoes. “Anton. I am a vampire. I do not need to stay behind you.”
Anton knows this is technically true, in the same way that he knows Viago is technically much older than him, and stronger-in-a-different-way than him. He still feels this protective urge over him, this desire to guard him, this— this need to keep him safe, because he loves him, which was the whole point of this camping trip, to— to show Viago the place he loves most, and sit him down under the stars, and tell him he’s in love with him.
If that means he has to fight off some random creature in the woods first, it’s worth it. Viago is worth every second of every day.
for a fortnight of horrors, day eleven: found footage and “don’t look back!”
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“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Stede says, voice still impossibly clear, even through the chaos that swirls around them, an unending storm. “I should’ve said. If not on the Revenge, then— when we came here, I should’ve told you.”
“Told us what?” Ed demands over the rain. Izzy’s just staring, brows furrowed, bewildered.
Stede hesitates, then unties his blouse. The wet fabric clings tight to his skin, nearly sheer with how soaked-through it’s become; he tosses it up the sand, next to Izzy, before he’s bending to pull off his shoes, too, and then his trousers, and then his stockings, his pants, everything, everything, until he’s standing there, bewilderingly nude, soaked in the rain, dripping with it, waves tossing and crashing behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to them.
Then, he changes.
for a fortnight of horrors, day ten: monsters, mythos, and “you’re the only thing worth living for.”
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