#500 words ficlet

[myulalie]

read on AO3 (credits: pearl and seashells by Dagmara Dombrovska, macro of red heart and string by freestocks on Unsplash, Internet Friends on Unsplash)

#malec #shadowhunters #autopromo #by pearl #magnus bane #alec lightwood #500 words ficlet

[howtokillavampire]

you know when you start writing a fanfic and you have a general idea of the length it's going to be, and then you start actually writing it and realize you have severely underestimated yourself and have once again bitten off more than you can chew

#it was supposed to be a 500 word ficlet and now im over 2k and only about halfway through it #i have severely underestimated myself once again #its a coldflash time travel au #what can i say #Im a suckwr for a good hero x villain trope #coldflash #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfic #fanfiction #fandom #drarry #superbat #hannigram #mattimir

[steddiehyperfixation]

not so tragic a thing after all (steddie ficlet)

Eddie has an essay due in two days. It’s a big one, the last one of the semester, of the year, the one that will make or break his grade and determine whether or not he finally gets to graduate high school. 

And he can't write it. 

As in, he's been sitting at his desk and staring at a blank piece of lined notebook paper for hours, bouncing his leg and tapping his fingers and twirling his pencil but not producing a single word. It's not that he doesn't understand the prompt or that he doesn't know what he's going to write about, because he does understand it and he does have ideas, he just can't write it. There's some block in his brain, something that keeps him stuck there and anxious, feeling each unproductive second slipping by like a physical thing brushing past him, but still unable to make himself write. 

Eddie's always struggled with essays. Out of all the subjects, he has the lowest grade and the highest number of missing assignments in English Lit. Which is such counterintuitive bullshit because that's his favorite subject, and it's because it's his favorite subject that he's failed it every year. 

It's like this: If Eddie doesn't understand a math assignment, he doesn't care, he'll just scribble in some bullshit numbers or turn it in incomplete and take whatever grade he gets with an impassive shrug and zero damage to his self-esteem. He's just not a math guy, and that's fine. Same with science or history. But he is a words guy. Eddie is a storyteller, a writer, a lyricist; words are his weapons, his outlet, his safe space, his identity. He takes pride in his ability to artfully string his words together, and a shitty grade on a shitty essay is something he takes personally. He'd rather not turn in anything at all than turn in a collection of words he's not proud of. 

Right now the words aren't coming together just right in his head and so his hand refuses to move to write them. He tries to tell himself that it's okay if it's not quite right, that something written, even badly, is better than nothing written, and that he's only guaranteed to fail if he fails to turn this in. It doesn't have to be good, it just has to be done. He tries to force his hand to move, to write something, anything, but the signal isn't getting from his brain to his hand because his fingers continue to twirl his pencil between them rather than curl around it and press the lead to the paper like he wants them to. He just keeps sitting there and staring and fidgeting and not writing like he's been doing all day, all week, all month. 

Eddie berates himself for being so stuck, yells and shouts and curses at himself to get his shit together and just write. But he doesn't, won't, can't. The seconds keep pushing past him and the deadline inches closer and closer and his page remains blank and he's so goddamn frustrated he's on the verge of tears. 

There's a knock on the front door that makes Eddie jump and then a knock on his bedroom door that makes him shove his shamefully empty paper under a book and out of sight as Wayne pokes his head into the room to tell him, “Your boy’s at the door.” 

“For Christ’s sake, Wayne, he's not my boy.” Eddie rolls his eyes at his uncle. He drops his pencil and stands, grateful for the distraction. “Told you a million times, he's just a friend.” 

“Uh huh,” Wayne says, which isn't an argument but very much sounds like one, the way he drags out those syllables with a sort of deadpan disbelief. 

Eddie valiantly ignores him and pushes past him to open the front door for Steve. “Hey, Harrington. What're you doing here?” 

“Uh-” Steve shrugs, looking almost like he doesn't quite know what he's doing here himself. “Missed you, I guess? It's been a minute.” 

Eddie's been isolating himself the past couple weeks, canceling on Hellfire and band practices and hangouts, insisting he needs to focus on his essay. He didn't realize any of his friends had taken notice. 

“Oh, and I brought snacks!” Steve adds brightly, holding up the bag of chips in his hands like he just remembered it was there. “Thought you might need a break from your schoolwork.” 

“Oh.” Something warm blooms in Eddie's chest and tugs a smile from his lips as he moves aside to let Steve in. “That's sweet, thank you.” 

Steve returns the smile, stepping inside. “Anytime. So - how's the essay going?” 

“Uh, yeah, it's kind of not,” Eddie admits with a self-deprecating sigh, running frustrated fingers through his hair. He nods for Steve to follow as he heads back to his room and pulls the stupid blank page out from its hiding place to show off his failure. “Been at it for weeks and I still can't seem to get a single goddamn word down.” 

“Hm.” Steve frowns a little at the paper for a second, but his attention appears to be far more focused on the book the page had been shoved under: a well-worn copy of Romeo and Juliet. He smirks as he picks it up and reads the title aloud, teasing, “Didn't take you for a romantic, Munson.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It's what the essay's on.” He snatches the book back before Steve can start to flip through it and read anything he's written in the margins. “And it's not a romance, it's a tragedy - which is exactly what I was going to write about, actually, if I could just write it.” Eddie sits down heavily in his desk chair, glaring at the blank paper. “Was gonna argue that people tend to focus too much on the romance of it all, but they're missing the point entirely, and this tendency to over-romanticize the story completely overshadows and trivializes the actual themes of the play. It’s not about love, not really, or at least not in the ways people think. It’s-” 

His tangent stops short as he notices Steve beginning to rifle about his room - setting the bag of chips down on the nightstand, grabbing a pencil off the desk, scooping a random spiral notebook (his math notebook, as it happens) off the floor. Eddie turns sideways in his chair and looks at him strangely. “What are you doing?” 

Steve turns the notebook to a blank page and sits down on the edge of Eddie's bed, already starting to scribble words across the paper. “I'm taking notes,” he says, like it's obvious. “Don't let me interrupt you.” 

Eddie's eyes narrow. “Are you patronizing me?”

“No, no, of course not.” Steve's reassurance is quick and comes with a rapid shake of his head. He looks over at Eddie, expression earnest and genuine as he says, “I’m just interested in what you have to say. I wanna know what you think Romeo and Juliet is about. If it's not romance, what is it?”

Eddie regards him skeptically at first, answers in a measured tone and glances warily at the pencil continuously scratching ‘notes’ onto Steve's paper. But the more he speaks and the more Steve engages with such honest reactions of interest and encouragement, the more Eddie gives into the tide of thoughts in his head and lets them spill from his mouth with increasing enthusiasm: He describes the inherent tragedy of a life cut short which could've been prevented, rambles about the reality of being young and stupid and consumed by emotion, rants about the mortality rate of blind bigotry and prejudice, and waxes poetic about love itself being something tragic and dooming, occasionally grabbing the book and reading out lines of the actual poetry to illustrate his points. 

When Eddie's well of words on the subject eventually runs dry, Steve continues writing for just a few seconds longer before he glances up with a grin and stands to toss the notebook and pencil onto the desk next to Eddie. “There's your essay,” he announces. “Well, kind of. You might want to rearrange it a little-” 

“Steve,” Eddie cuts him off, staring at the open notebook covered in the scrawl of Steve's handwriting with wide-eyed disbelief. He looks back up at him. “You wrote my essay for me?” 

Steve shakes his head. “You wrote it. I mean, it's all your words exactly as you said them, all I did was transcribe it.” He shrugs. His tone and expression are still casual and light, but the hunch of his shoulders and the way he shoves his hands in his pockets now speaks to a sudden shyness as well. “You said you just couldn't get the words down, I know what that's like. I get that way too sometimes - just…stuck - where the thoughts and the intention are there but the action is just frozen. It helps to talk it through, but it also helps to kinda separate yourself from the task a little too. I thought if I could do that first step of getting the words on paper for you, it might make it easier for you to copy some of it down and then start to write it and reorganize it on your own, might get you past that block…” 

Eddie kind of really wants to kiss him right now, feeling young and stupid and consumed by emotion. He leaps to his feet and hugs Steve fiercely instead. “Thank you.”

Steve nearly stumbles from the force of the hug and lets out a startled laugh before returning the embrace. “Don’t even know if it worked yet. Thank me after you finish your essay.”

Eddie shakes his head against Steve's shoulder. “Thank you just for trying - just for being here, even. I’m sure there are much better ways you could've spent your Saturday than listening to me ramble about Shakespeare, but you stayed here anyways and made an effort to help me when you didn't have to. I appreciate it.” 

“Nothing else I’d rather do. I like listening to you talk; I like how passionate you are about your opinions, even if they are a bit cynical.” Steve pulls back with a smile, squeezing Eddie's shoulders for a second before dropping his hands. “It's gonna be a killer essay.” 

Eddie beams at him, the warmth in his expression a reflection of the glow that's unfurling in his chest again.  He plops back down at his desk and picks up his pencil, hovering it over his own blank paper as he looks over the words - his words - that Steve had written. He takes an anticipatory breath…and starts to write. 

Steve was right, restating the words once they've already been written down by someone else does depersonalize it enough to make Eddie finally able to write it and it does get him past that initial block. Soon he's able to move on from simply copying down the words and begins to add new ones and make edits. A laugh escapes him like a cheer, a short burst of something giddy with satisfaction and relief. He's writing, and writing and writing and writing, the words flowing from brain to pencil to paper perfectly and with ease, the way it should've been from the start. 

Steve hangs off to the side at first like he's trying to give Eddie space to work, but ends up slowly drifting closer. When Eddie cheers, Steve's hand goes to his shoulder again, giving it another squeeze, encouraging and proud. His hand then stays there, thumb idly rubbing across Eddie's shoulder blade as he watches the other write. Eddie feels like he's got electricity running through his veins.  

Somewhere within the next hour or so, three pages and two sheets of paper later, Eddie slams his pencil down and sighs with finality, “Done!” This earns him another shoulder-squeeze from Steve and a bright smile when Eddie looks up at him. “You are a fucking lifesaver, Harrington, I don't know what I would've done without you.” 

“Glad I could help,” Steve says, his smile turning sheepish and his hand finally dropping from Eddie's shoulder as he gives a modest shrug and adds, “I’m sure you would've managed on your own, though.” 

“I wouldn't have. I would've failed,” Eddie says seriously. “I was fighting an epic battle against my brain and I would've lost, would've doomed myself to yet another year of pointless high school existence, if you hadn't swooped in and saved me like a goddamn knight in shining armor.” He cracks a grin and stands to dip into a melodramatic bow. “I am forever indebted to you, my liege.”

Steve laughs, and it's a beautiful sound. “You're being dramatic.” 

“I’m allowed to be.” Eddie straightens and grabs his essay off the desk, holding it up and shaking the papers. “This is my golden ticket out of high school, man, you have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“Well then, we should celebrate.” 

“We can finally eat those chips you brought.” Eddie moves around him and reaches to grab the bag of chips on the nightstand, but Steve catches his hand. 

“Screw the chips,” Steve says. “This calls for a proper celebration. How about we go get dinner somewhere? My treat.” 

Eddie glances down at his hand in Steve's. “Are you asking me out, Romeo?” he asks as he looks back up, a teasing edge to his grin so he can play it off as a joke if he needs to. 

“Depends.” Steve rubs his thumb over the back of Eddie's hand, eyes flicking across the other's face almost nervously. “What would you say if I was?” 

Eddie’s smile softens and he finally curls his fingers around Steve's hand. “I'd say yes.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then yes,” Steve says, his face breaking into a bright and beautiful grin, “I am absolutely asking you out.” 

Another cheer of laughter bursts out of him, giddy now for an entirely different reason. “What are you waiting for then, big boy?” Eddie holds Steve’s hand tight, already starting to drag him from the room. “Where are you taking me?” 

Steve laughs as well and lets himself be pulled along for a second before taking the lead as they head for the front door. “You’ll see.” 

To Wayne sitting on the couch watching some game on the TV, Eddie shouts over his shoulder in passing, “Finished my essay, we’re going out to eat!”

Wayne nods in acknowledgement. His eyes flick to the boys’ joined hands, a knowing smugness in his expression as he mouths subtly to Eddie, ‘Your boy.’ 

Eddie just grins in response, and then he’s out the door. 

Steve takes him to a diner, Eddie’s favorite one, and it makes his chest warm again that Steve knows that. They grab a booth in the corner, hidden from prying eyes. Steve makes fun of Eddie for dipping his fries in his milkshake, Eddie makes fun of Steve for covering his directly in ketchup. It’s all talking and laughing and easy banter, same as it’s always been since they’ve been friends, except now Steve holds his hand and hooks their ankles together under the table and peppers smooth compliments into the conversation that have Eddie grinning and blushing like crazy. The famed Harrington charm is in full effect, moves and lines he’s sure Steve’s used hundreds of times on hundreds of girls, but now they’re just for him, woven so easily into the dynamic that already exists between them, and Eddie basks in it. 

It’s the best first date he could’ve asked for. 

Perfect gentleman that he is, Steve even insists on walking Eddie to the door when he takes him home. Steve kisses him on the porch then, soft and sweet and promising, and Eddie’s starting to think that maybe love isn’t so tragic a thing after all… 

Maybe he needs to rewrite his essay. 

#in which i project my own academic struggles onto 3x highschool senior eddie munson #the first 500 words of this is literally just me venting lmao #wrote this instead of an essay if you couldn't tell #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #ficlet #mine #(now also on ao3 under the user brokenfandoms)

[infiniteeight8]

Love your stories. Literal highlight of my days!!!

Prompt: “So what if you’re not my soulmate! I don’t care!”

Thanks so much! 😀

-

Stephen just stares when Tony pulls out the ring and asks the question. Tony’s nerves transmute into a terrible dread when the silence goes on and on and Stephen’s answer becomes clear. By the time he speaks, Tony is cold all over.

“Tony, I can’t,” Stephen says, quietly. He looks broken. Why does he look broken when Tony’s the one whose proposal just got turned down?

“Why not?” Tony asks desperately. “I love you. I know you love me. No one ever really made me believe they loved me before, but you did!”

Stephen closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he only looks more determined. “Because I’m not your soulmate,” he says.

Tony surges up off his bent knee and stuffs the ring back in his pocket. “So what if you’re not my soulmate?! I don’t care!” 

“You’ll care when you meet them,” Stephen says, looking up at him from his seat on the couch. “Tony, somewhere out there is someone who is perfect for you. Someone who will make you happy like I never could. You deserve that.”

“Perfect for me.” Tony snorts. He paces for a moment and then stops in front of Stephen, jaw set. “I have the most famous soulmark in the world, right? You’ve seen the fakers. Everyone knows what it looks like.”

“They won’t all be fakers—”

“Yes or no!” Tony snaps. “Everyone knows what it looks like, right?”

Stephen frowns. “Right. Yes.”

“Which means that my soulmate knows that I’m their match,” Tony says. “They know I’m their match and they decided they didn’t want me. They didn’t want me before Afghanistan, they didn’t want me after, and they don’t want me now. And if they ever change their mind? I don’t care!” Tony realizes he’s shouting and stops, takes a breath. “Nothing they could say could ever make up for the fact that they chose not to be here when I needed them most. Like hell I’m going to let fate stick me with someone like that. I want someone who chose to be with me. I want someone who decided to be with me because they like me, not because some,” he flails for a word for a moment, “some fucking birthmark said they should be.”

Stephen is staring up at him. Hope surges in Tony’s chest. He drops into a crouch and takes Stephen’s hands in his. “You’re right for me because you’re blank,” he insists. “You picked me. Even when everyone told you it was a bad bet, you picked me. That’s what I want. I want us to choose each other, over and over again.”

Stephen is flushed now. His eyes are shining and… yes, Tony thinks that might be a smile. “Give me my ring,” Stephen says.

Tony blinks. “What?”

“You offered me a ring,” Stephen says. “Give it to me.”

Laughing, Tony fishes the ring out of his pocket again. “Is that a yes?”

Stephen beams when Tony slides the band onto his finger. “That’s a yes,” he confirms, and pulls Tony into a kiss.

#IronStrange #ficlet #how did this become 500 words #I swear to god #it was 300 #I checked #like #four times #somehow it is 513

[iamamythologicalcreature]

COC Day 8 - "Sick"

Sorry this is late. I honestly forgot I'd doodled this tiny little text ficlet. Just some randomness that popped into my head with this @carryon-countdown prompt.

Simon POV:

“I’m not sick.”

I sigh as I eye a wall full of homeopathic teas. Surely there’s something here, out of like 500 different herbal blends, that will help Baz out. I pick one up and read the label (like that will help). “You’re malnourished,” I murmur into my mobile as I read, “which I could fix, but you don’t want to bite me.”

I can hear Baz roll his eyes. “I’m fine, Snow. And I don’t get sick, so you don’t have to cure me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Maybe this one? Is echinacea beneficial to stubborn blood-starved vampires? Maybe something with more iron in it. Maybe I should be stuffing supplements down his throat.

“I don’t get sick. I’m a dark creature of the night.”

I love how he uses that excuse like it isn’t at least partly responsible for his current condition. Prat. “You fainted.”

There’s a pause, then Baz mutters, “I took a strategic break from consciousness.”

I snort. I’m going to stuff him with iron supplements, then kiss him stupid. “You like green tea, right?”

Baz lets out a beleaguered sigh, which has a sort of honking cadence to it over the phone. “I’m not sick.” A pause. Then, “But I do like green tea.”

Right. Into the basket with that blend. “If I ‘took a break’ the way you did this morning, you’d have had me at Dr. Wellbelove’s within the hour.”

“That’s different.”

Red meat. I could do steak. I’m pretty decent at grilling. And if all else fails, Baz needs practice putting out fires, right? “Really not,” I say after a second. “I’m getting you protein powder, too.”

“That’s barbaric, Snow.”

“Oh, I’ll show you barbaric, Pitch,” I say with a smile. “But only if you drink your tea, and your protein shake, and top it all off with twice as many rodents as usual. And if you ask nicely.”

A pause. “I’m still not biting you.”

Was that hesitation? My altruistic desire to help Baz suddenly seems like a potential opportunity. I dump three flavours of protein powder into my basket, including one I know has the consistency of ground chalk. “Promises, promises, Baz.”

#coc 2023 #carry on countdown #sick #baz is sick #sort of #he denies all weakness #because he's baz #but simon will rescue him whether he wants to be rescued or not #because he's simon #ficlet #itty bitty ficcy #<500 words #snowbaz #baz pitch #simon snow #carry on #simon snow series #the simon snow trilogy #simon snow fanfiction #better late than never #Jodofic

[illuminatedferret]

Congratulations!

Ficlet please, prompt: Wager

Thanks! Uh... this prompt is... it's a little long. But I had an idea and I wanted to write it, so. RIP me. Enjoy!

With great disbelief and dread, the assorted collective of the Heavenly Court mutely watched the great wave of Blessings Lanterns rise across the sky. The mass swallowed up all of the paltry offerings their devoted believers had gathered upon this Shangyuan, one by one, before overtaking even the moon itself.

“It’s him!?”

“He’s still around!?”

“Wasn’t he done!?”

Like a dam bursting, all at once a cacophony of voices filled the air. An outsider would be able to distinguish no particular voice, but it was clear to anyone listening for even a moment that not a single person had a positive thing to say.

Crimson Fucking Rain was back!?

Already!?

They were dismayed for more than one reason. See, His Highness Xianle may be happy living sequestered away on Mount Taicang, but up in the heavens, there had been a great deal of speculation on both his relationship to the deadly red ghost king-

-and just how long the man would take to come back.

One might assume, all things considered, that the current, erm, non-liquid state of the economy in the heavens being what it was, the gods might think to curb their more excessive habits.

And sure, some of them, they did.

(Quite grudgingly.)

But one thing no Heavenly Official could resist was some good drama and bragging rights.

So of course, when someone suggested a bet on just when the Gambling Tyrant Hua Cheng would return, the idea was jumped on like binu upon General Xuan Zhen.

General Nan Yang didn’t participate, citing his honor, and neither did General Xuan Zhen, attributed to the great smackdown fight that started when General Nan Yang came across General Xuan Zhen in the process of placing a bet. But the sorts of numbers put down ran the full gamut. A thousand years was a popular one- if, some suspected, more wishful thinking than anything else. Some people bet he wouldn’t return at all, but they avoided saying as much around the Southern Generals- they seemed touchy about the prospects of their former prince’s love life.

Others said he’d take five hundred years. Eight hundred. Three hundred. One particularly clever (or so he thought) civil god said it would take four hundred and eighty-nine years.

But nobody-

Nobody expected this, right!?

A year!?

A single stinking year?? 

“At least no one won the bet,” one god eventually grumbled, and his words were picked up by a louder neighbor.

“Yeah, at least no one won the bet!” Truly, it was the only acceptable way to lose the bet- if everyone else did too.

“...Actually,” came a voice that every god in the heavens suddenly dreaded. Like clockwork, every head within the Court swiveled to gaze at the tired, reluctant, but also slightly entertained countenance of Ling Wen Zhen Jun. Even Generals Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen seemed surprised, in their respective corners of the room.

“Someone...?”

“Someone bet one year!?”

“Seriously!? Who!?”

Mutters and speculation rose up on all sides, only to fall mute again as Ling Wen turned to one of her tablemates.

“Congratulations, Your Highness,” she said. “You’ve won quite the pot. It seems you were right to place your confidence in Crimson Rain.”

“Of course he was gonna come back,” Quan Yizhen blinked. “He has to fix shixiong.”

#csilla nocturine #tgcf #quan yizhen #tian guan ci fu #heaven officials blessing #illuwrites #illuanswers #this is over 500 words......... i dont think this counts as a ficlet anymore

[cricketnationrise]

Congratulations 🎉 500 followers is amazing!! Lots of people out there with good taste 😉

My prompt:

2205

Catherine

Backyard of the Austin farmhouse

Into the Mystic

okay gonna be honest here. i have no idea what happened here. like, i really adore what i wrote, but i have NO EARTHLY IDEA where it came from or if it's even at all close to what you were aiming for. lots of catherine/arthur feels ahead and like, a little magical realism? i guess? anyway here's wonderwall...

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

10:05pm, texas farmhouse

It’s odd, really, that an ocean and half a continent away from their shared home, that Arthur’s spirit feels so strong here. Here, in Henry and Alex’s backyard, deep in the heart of Texas.

The boys—they’re still boys, no matter that they’re closer to forty than thirty—are inside, cleaning dishes, rinsing out bottles. Catherine can see them through the window above the sink, laughing and chatting easily before Alex flicks water in her son’s face. The affronted look on Henry’s face sends her right down memory lane, a slideshow of the dozens of times she and Arthur did the same thing playing in her mind.

It took a while, a shove from Bea, and a lot of therapy, but the memories no longer hurt her, no longer make her feel like her soul is being ripped away every time she thinks about her husband. Now, after everything, she can let the memories pass through like a draft through windchimes; she might get knocked around, but what sweet melodies they make.

A cool breeze makes Catherine pull the quilt Alex draped over her earlier closer around her shoulders and she looks out over the dark backyard. The only light is from the stars, the crescent moon, the dying embers, and the occasional lightning bug. Catherine inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of the earth, of burning wood, of the lingering scent of the beer that Alex knocked off the picnic table earlier. The sound of crickets chirping is accompanied by grass rustling in the breeze and the quiet pops of the fire. It’s peaceful here, in this place where there’s more sky than anything else—a sky big enough for dreams and memories alike.

Arthur would have loved it here. He would have been first in line to learn how to work the grill from Alex. He would have laughed easily at their son’s carefree antics. He would have been their biggest supporter in buying this place. Catherine knows that their siblings were confused, Alex’s parents were a little more understanding, but Arthur— Arthur would have seen the house for what it is: a sanctuary, a place to recharge, a place where they can truly be themselves, stripped of the pressures of both royalty and politics.

She knows that they chose Texas for Alex, but the feel of the place has more than a little to do with Henry; Catherine finds echoes of the cottage in Wales around every corner. The farmhouse is a monument to the love they have for each other and to their families. The house is so full of affection and care that one could almost taste them, almost trip over them on the way to the kettle. 

Another breeze sweeps through the yard and Catherine shivers, but not from the chill this time. She can feel something—someone—here with her now. She gets a whiff of Arthur’s cologne, a faint trace of pine and leather that always made her feel safe. She holds her breath, and she can faintly hear Arthur’s laugh, bright and full, over the sound of her heartbeat. Impossibly, she feels the weight of an arm across her shoulders, tucking her close into the faded imprint of a warm chest.

The back door opens and the boys’ chatter spills out along with the kitchen light. Their presence breaks the spell the night was weaving around her, but between more jokes and reminiscing, between dessert and a cup of decaf, Catherine feels ghostly fingers slip between her own, and hold tight.

#cricket writes #jroseley #ficlet fest 500 #rwrb #pov catherine #truly no clue #sometimes the words take over #like a fever dream #and then a ficlet appears #i hope you like it???

[jacenpetertodd]

I'm vibrating out of my skin about Dead Boy Detectives so if anyone wants to send me prompts (two characters and a situation/trope/AU/interesting word/etc) I'll write you a little ficlet while I'm at work tomorrow

#dead boy detectives #tossing this into the tag bc I want to make friends #ficlets will probably be 300-500 words just to set expectations #if any of my followers who haven't watched DBD want to participate send me one character from a different fandom and I'll write a crossover

[sarah-yyy]

me: i'm going to write some mindless smut, it's going to be QUICK, i'm going to be done in NO TIME my brain: or!! it can 95% misunderstandings, 5% feelings, -20% smut, and take you 3 months!!

#clowning myself as usual!! nothing new here!! #posting an excerpt so you guys can shame me into writing when this inevitably ends up taking >3 months #ANYWAY!!! some progress!!! #let's aim for like............500 words a day and maybe this could be done by the weekend 😭 #where is the sarah who had the creative energy to drop 3-5 ficlets every day in 2020 😭 give her back to me #writing with sarah #shenlai

[ditch-lily]

What's a fun work story involving Kim and P'Mod?

omg apparently you get a whole ficlet :) enjoy! I wrote this instead of making my dinner lol

--

Kim leans in close, lips grazing the mic.

"A knife."

He's not sure how the mic works, he's not used to this set up. This is only maybe his second proper interview. But his answer seems like it came across strong and clear.

The host is looking at him.

"...a knife?"

Well yeah. It's a deserted island.

"What would you use it for?" The host is trying to sound upbeat and chirpy.

Kim raises a brow. "For hunting." Maybe other things, who knows. He's good with a knife.

"Uhhh okay, very useful! What else would you bring? Remember it's a deserted island! Maybe your phone? A guitar?”

"A lighter. Fire's good. Useful." He explains it this time, this host seems to need that. Kim thinks maybe he's a bit dense.

"Ahhh. Okay sure, I get it! You're a survivalist! Do you watch any survivalist shows? Any tips?"

What? No he doesn't. Kim scowls. But fine, he can be chatty. P’Mod told him to be chatty. He leans close to the mic again. “My tip would be, make sure the knife you bring is a good one. Balanced, good for throwing. You might need it for multiple uses."

The host is a bit big eyed. He nods at Kim, a little shakily.

Okay, Kim nods back. This is working, he's being chatty. "Here." Kim reaches into his pocket and brings out his favorite switchblade. Snicks it out. "This one's good-  it's my favorite brand, and the tip is strong. Resists a lot of throwing. Keeps its point well."

There's an almost soundless noise from the host, a weird little rasp. He's nodding his head again, scooting his chair back, fast.

A movement catches his eye. P’Mod is waving frantically through the glass, hand viciously jerking through the air in a fast motion. Kim squints.

He doesn’t know what exactly she means. It looks like she's motioning…a throwing movement? Huh? Okay, he could throw it, maybe a demonstration would be good.

--

After, with the host wide eyed and saying, a little high pitched and nasally, oh don’t worry - the wall’s easily repaired and wow. That knife sure got in there deep, huh?

Well after that, and after P’Mod shaking their head, apologizing to the staff, she grabs Kim and drags him out of the room, down to the break room.

"Holy shit kid, what the fuck. You are so lucky that was radio."

She pinches her brow, sighing heavily, a little bit in shock. "New rule. And I can't believe I have to say this- but from now on? No knives on set.”

--

#sorry apparently the one night i'm not writing i'm like huh why don't i write another nearly 500 words lol #BUT YEAH #origin story of how a certain rule came to be :) #idolistic #kim ur a dumbass but ur our dumbass <3 #shubaka enjoy!!! sorry it took me a few days #my fic #ficlet

[myulalie]

read on AO3 (credits: pearl and seashells by Dagmara Dombrovska, macro of red heart and string by freestocks on Unsplash, Internet Friends on Dafont)

#malace #magnus bane #alec lightwood #jace wayland #shadowhunters #500 words ficlet #fluff #by pearl #autopromo

[minhxiao]

a drabble for prompt #25: a kiss on the forehead xiao/aether | rating: G | words: 719

Aether stirs the pot of black back perch stew, crushing in a few stems of violetgrass. 

“... and Brother Bosacius had drawn some marks along my face in black ink in a moment when I wasn’t aware…”

It’s a blissfully idle afternoon in his kitchen in the Serenitea Pot and Xiao is telling him a story of his time with his old comrades. Undisturbed sunlight spills in through the windows of his abode. Aether loves how Xiao’s voice always dips into something gentler when he talks about the other Yakshas, his brows soft and reminiscent as he casts his gaze into a long forgotten memory. He was much more uninhibited with his words, when they were alone like this.

“... I had only noticed some time after, when I happened to catch my reflection in the river― all to say, Brother Bosacius was truly… never a boring character…” 

Aether turns to look at him, stifling an amused smile as he tries to imagine someone daring to play such a childish prank on someone like Xiao. His eyes rove over his face, catching absentmindedly on the mark at the center of Xiao’s forehead. 

And perhaps it’s the story Xiao’s just willingly shared, or the unguarded look on his face, but Aether is suddenly filled with the urge to catch him unaware. Xiao is endlessly amusing to tease― Aether has a feeling he would’ve gotten along quite well with Bosacius. 

So he leans in when Xiao is mid-sentence and kisses him right at the mark above his brow. He lingers there for a few seconds, intentional and slow.

Xiao makes a quiet, astonished sound as he freezes. Then, the most remarkable thing happens. His body briefly glows with threads of dark Anemo before his wings manifest in a soft flutter of feathers behind him. A kind, startled wind stirs a small draft in the kitchen. 

Aether leans back slightly, blinking in surprise. That’s new. 

Xiao’s mouth is slightly parted, clearly caught off guard as his wings curl inward behind him.

His surprised expression fills Aether with such fondness that he tugs the adeptus closer by the waist, the stew already forgotten. 

“Did…” Xiao quickly attempts to recover, but Aether can tell by his distracted gaze that his mind is now clearly drawn to the present. “Was my story not interesting enough for you?” 

“On the contrary, I found the story quite endearing,” Aether pulls him close, taking a moment to admire the beauty that is Xiao’s face, “So… what exactly did he draw on your face?” 

“I, uh…” Xiao’s eyes stir as he looks up at him, flicking down once to Aether’s lips before shying away. “I can’t… seem to recall…” 

“Mm, I see,” Aether’s hands rise to wrap around the nape of Xiao’s neck. Then, he dips his mouth to graze his lips along Xiao’s temple before finding the pale purple mark on his forehead once more. “Was it here?” 

Xiao inhales softly, reaching to wrap a steady hand around Aether’s scarf. His eyes slip shut as his wings almost instinctively seem to flap once. This time, the excited draft nearly knocks the placemats off of his kitchen table. 

“Perhaps,” Xiao breathes as he almost imperceptibly tilts his face forward, as if wordlessly asking for more. 

“Still can’t remember?” Aether’s eyes brighten, his lips hovering over Xiao’s forehead. He stores this newfound knowledge carefully into his mind with a private smile. So he likes it when I kiss this mark…

“I… '' Xiao falls silent as Aether kisses him there again, and then down his temple, across his cheekbones. He explores the contours of Xiao’s skin with his lips until the adeptus’ face is pleasantly warm beneath his hands. He kisses him everywhere except his lips and bites back a smug smile when he feels Xiao’s wings flickering restlessly behind him.

Xiao tugs Aether closer by the scarf, his eyes molten. His voice is barely audible. “It… may have been lower.” 

“Lower?” Aether raises an innocent brow. “Where?”

Xiao pulls him down against his mouth with an impatient sigh. 

Aether’s not sure how long he stands in his kitchen, kissing him lazily against the counter, but he’s sure that he wouldn’t mind doing it forever― it’s only the sound of his perch stew boiling over on the stove that eventually pulls them apart.

#feel free to leave more requests! #this was for a twitter user but i may as well cross-post here #i'm soft at the idea that xiao can also ramble and talk a Lot but only with ae when they're alone #this one was fast because... xiaoae lol but i'm excited to get to the other two! #i had to actually restrain myself from writing them kissing for 500 more words.. #drabbles are great exercises in practicing being concise #ficlets #drabble #kiss prompts #xiaoaether #aexiao #xiaother #xiaoae

[sealorrica]

Bliss

(Act 3 Spoilers) Shadowheart x f!Tav cafe short

“How… How does it look?” Shadowheart asked, stepping into the doorframe with an embarrassed blush on her cheeks. Over her dark day clothes, she wore a crisp, new apron with frilly edges tied into a thick bow behind her waist. Tav had been working to convince her for over a month now that it would be useful at their work: a small hole-in-the-wall cafe in the middle of the city. They had opened only at the beginning of the year, but Shadowheart had managed to stain nearly every outfit she wore as she learned how to properly prepare their goods. Whether it was thick, powdery flour for cakes or the hot grounds of Chultan coffee beans, she had somehow managed to get it all over herself. ‘We didn’t spend our time baking and making drinks at the Cloister,’ she would say, obviously self-conscious about her current lack of skill. But she would brush herself off and get right back to it. Every time, her brows would furrow and she would frown in what looked like annoyance, but was actually deep focus. Tav couldn’t remember seeing anything more adorable. At least, not until now. Shadowheart was standing in the morning light, her face heating every second that Tav didn’t answer. Tav herself had been eating her breakfast before Shadowheart suddenly walked in, wearing that frilly thing. She raised a fist to her mouth to hide a mirthful smile, though the corners still peeked out, upturned. “Why not do a little spin? So I can see the back too.” Shadowheart scoffed. “I’ve already put this on. Don’t push your luck.” Tav sighed in feigned disappointment. She put her fork on her plate and stood up. Shadowheart followed with her eyes as Tav walked over to her, then held back from yelling an obscenity when Tav laid her hands on Shadowheart’s hips. Very sincerely, because she didn’t want to upset her wife, but also because she meant it, Tav said, “You look wonderful. You remind me every day why I’m the luckiest person to be your partner.” Tav moved her hands to Shadowheart’s head and captured her in a very gentle kiss. Shadowheart wanted to keep being embarrassed, to have a reason that wearing the apron was a stupid idea and she should have never done it, but she instead felt a few tears burning her eyes. It would have been easier if she were indignant, but how could she be when the person who had practically saved the world loved her so? The person who had been by her side through the most taxing trials of her life? Who had saved her and her parents after forty years of unremembered torment? There was no answer to this question, and so Shadowheart looped her arms around Tav’s neck and kissed her in return. They no longer adventured, their daily lives having became very mundane by comparison. But, they thought, this must be bliss.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #>500 words #post-game they open a cafe lol #based on a friend's idea #ficlet #cross posted on ao3

[ghosts-cyphera]

fellow writers and fic rebloggers, in your opinion, at what word count should one add a :read more: to their post?

#I personally cut off at absolute max 500 words for my stories #but I feel like my two new ficlets at 430 & 450 are already pushing it a little bit? #writing #fanfiction

[lucassinclaer]

BREAK FROM THE PACK

Jonathan tries to escape from a party. He's not used to people noticing.

NOTE: a stonathan sunday ficlet inspired by the prompt "why do you care?"

you can also read this on ao3 here

“Hey, Byers!” Jonathan turns around reluctantly. He’s just managed to disentangle himself from the masses, so close to a successful escape. But no. That would’ve been too much to ask. 

This never used to be a problem. First, he never used to show up at any party full stop and tonight’s reminded him of all the reasons why. Second, when he does show, no one’s ever noticed him slipping away before. 

“Wait up,” Steve Harrington says now, squeezing through the crowd to catch up with Jonathan, completely unaware that he’s breaking all the rules. He never seems to notice. That it’s not supposed to be like this. 

Jonathan tries not to let it show, just watches as Steve closes the distance between them and throws an arm around his shoulder. He smells very Steve-like with an added pinch of sweat and liquor. His cheeks are flushed pink. Definitely on the drunker side of things. “Where are you going?” 

“Home.” 

“Why?”  

Jonathan wonders if alcohol can have the magical effect of Bambi-fying a person’s features. When his father gets drunk, his face only grows more sunken. Not Steve. He’s beaming at Jonathan in that weird way that makes his stomach twist and he could swear his eyes are bigger somehow. And soft. 

“Why do you care?” It comes out crabbier than Jonathan intentioned. He really wants to get out of here and the weight of Steve is distracting and threatening to change his mind.  

Steve leans in closer, bringing their heads together as if they’re sharing a secret. Jonathan hasn’t drunk anything, but in his chest there’s a low fluttering. “Because,” he says, slowly, like he’s contemplating the question very seriously, “I just do.” 

The breath escapes Jonathan. The hum in his chest doesn’t go away, but the tension in his shoulders does, built up in the weighty little pause Steve built into his sentence. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“No seriously,” Steve insists and puts a little more of himself onto Jonathan’s side. He’s not heavy, just warm and close, getting rid of the last spaces between them. “Did something happen? I saw you with Tommy and Carol. They just talk a lot of shit, you know? They’re idiots.” 

Then why are you friends with them? Jonathan thinks and realizes then that he isn’t really. Not anymore. It’s just this kind of party. Everybody comes and it doesn’t mean anything. He hates it. 

“They are,” he agrees. “Just isn’t my crowd, I guess.” 

Steve moves to the side and Jonathan isn’t expecting it. They sway together as one and stumble over their own feet, halfway into the hedge that borders the little stone path leading to the gate. 

“Mh. Okay.” He turns and looks directly at Jonathan who idiotically forgot to avert his gaze in time. Another pause. Jonathan can smell his breath. It’s not great, but he doesn’t mind so much when it’s paired with brown eyes flicking up and down, catching him in place. “Do you wanna go somewhere else, then?” 

It takes a second or two for Jonathan’s brain to process. “With you?” 

Steve grins. “Yeah.” He frowns briefly. Sways again. “But I don’t think I should drive.” 

“No.” Jonathan looks back to the house and then into the darkness where Steve wants to take him. Only him. “Come on, I’ll drive.” 

#stonathan #stonathanweek #jonathan byers #steve harrington #stranger things #this is good writing practice especially for someone who always needs a prompt or a project to write ficlets #so this is amazing tyvm!! #only very lightly edited fic-posting is still nerve-wracking to me personally #*ficlets #also i went over 500 words BUT WHO'S COUNTING EXCEPT AO3 AND WORD?? #jonathansteve #emstuff #emfics

[actual-changeling]

It's not that she isn't scared.

She is. She is absolutely terrified, but she also knows what it is like to be terrified and alone, when fear paralyzes her and she is pushed to the center of the world and swallowed whole. No one comes to save her, no one steps between her and the hands clawing at her.

Well, no one did.

Gunshots echo in her ears, and while she isn't hurt, dizziness is a blurry layer in her vision, and she is pretty sure the seat belt left a nice straight bruise right across her chest. Unimportant, though, considering there's still a bunch of people shooting at them, and with her breaths coming too quickly and shallowly, it's hard to see through gaps in the doors and windows without feeling like she will topple over.

Distantly, she is processing what Joel is telling her, do what he says, stay quiet, crawl into a hole, don't come out, and it all makes enough sense to quietly nod along. Her side is pressed against the cold metal of the car, her knees hurt even though they shouldn't, and Joel is so close that the heat radiating off of him in waves is like sunshine on her skin. Ellie is scared, terrified, but he is right next to her, and somehow that makes her fear meaningless.

"Look at me."

Joel's words cut through the rushing noise in her ears, and her gaze locks onto his face, clinging to the oddly familiar shade of brown and concern that leaves her aching. Outside of Riley, no one has ever given a shit about her, not like this, not ever, yet he looks at her like she is worth something.

"They're not gonna hit you," he breathes, knuckles white around his rifle, and there are about a dozen reasons why he is lying, why that statement is nothing but a hopeful prayer directed at a god that has long stopped listening.

Ellie nods regardless, absently realizing amidst the shots and shattering metal that she might be scared, but it is not for herself, not anymore.

"You stay down, you stay low, you stay quiet," Joel continues, unblinking, and there is something in his eyes that leaves her breathless. Everything inside of her is screaming to stay next to him, to not move unless someone grabs her and tears her away from him, but he is asking her to get herself somewhere safe, and if that means he'll be able to focus better and not get shot, she can swallow her rising panic.

"Okay?"

"Okay," she responds, finally realizing what he actually meant.

It's not an unheard prayer or foolish hope; it's a promise.

They're not gonna hit you because he will not let them, and she might not believe in god or fate, but she does believe in him. As the world threatens to rip whatever is left of her life out of her, Joel steps in front of her and keeps her safe.

#alex writes tlou #the last of us #tlou #joel and ellie #ellie williams #joel miller #ficlet #tlou episode 4 #just a lil something before bed #idk if it's any good but my document said it's exactly 500 words which is fun #i should start doing drabbles just for like practice and cause it #is quite fun to limit myself to exactly 100 words #maybe it will finally teach me brevity (it will not nothing ever will)