#ficlets for 500!!

[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)

[steventhusiast]

Steddie in Steve's bimmer..... what are they doing inside....? one wonders ... 🤔🧐👀😌

CW: suggestive content??

car scenes always makes me think of this scenario because it's so CRAMPED back there, so enjoy this silliness

-

"Ow!" Steve whisper yells in the darkness of the backseat of his car.

He feels Eddie's hands freeze where they're rubbing up and down the bare skin of each side of his waist. He's currently straddling Eddie, crouched over in order to kiss him stupid. But the kissing's stopped now too, Eddie squinting at him in concern through the dark.

They've currently got the car parked somewhere near the cliff's edge of Sattler's Quarry, and it's beyond late at night. The perfect public-but-private area for their late night drives (dates) around Hawkins.

"What?" Eddie whispers, and Steve breaks out into a fit of giggles.

"Um. Leg cramp." He admits, letting his head fall down to Eddie's bare shoulder as he continues to giggle despite the tightness in his thigh. Such a ridiculous situation.

"Oh, my poor baby." Eddie coos, a laugh hiding behind his words too as he lets one hand trail down Steve's side to rub at his right thigh.

"Other leg." Steve murmurs, sighing out as Eddie's other hand comes down to massage the muscle there through his jeans. At least this happened before all his clothes were off.

"Maybe trying to get it on in the back of your car wasn't my best idea." Eddie admits as he continues to press into his thigh with a gentle pressure.

"Mm. Maybe not." Steve agrees, and the giggles start up again.

"You gotta admit it's hot though." Eddie adds on, starting to giggle himself.

"It was hot until my thigh decided to try to kill me."

"Touché."

#steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #mywriting #500 follower celebration

[cricketnationrise]

1:23 am

The White House

David The Beagle

(my ao3 is Themundanemudperson)

DAVID MY BELOVED BLESS YOU FOR THIS PROMPT

I hope you like it!

want your own ficlet? my followers can request their own using these guidelines through Jan 31, 2024

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

1:23am, white house

David isn’t at home.

He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to still be asleep while he tries to figure out where he is. He knows His Henry took him somewhere because of the food laced with the hateful thing that makes him sleepy and the suitcases and his travel carrier. But it doesn’t smell like furniture polish and mothballs like when they go to Sandyham or Buckyham. (Perhaps most upsetting about those places is the lack of ham, despite the names. Or the fact that His Henry retreats into himself, left with nothing but a shell until they get home and David can burrow into His Henry’s chest again.) (But seriously, the dearth of ham is criminal.)

And obviously they aren’t at home because David knows home, with its stone and sprawling grounds and His Henry and ThankYouShaan and Aunty Bea and even Mr. Wobbles. There’s pockets of stuffiness at home, but His Henry’s room and the music room burst with laughter and kindness and something that David decides is family. (Sometimes His Henry’s Alex comes to visit and His Henry gets all happy and warm and smells like cinnamon and David gets thrice as many pets. David likes those days the best.)

So David doesn’t know where he is, but there is something comforting about the smells of this new place, despite the fact that this room is entirely decorated in shades of beige usually reserved for ThatOldHarpy’s twinsets. This new place doesn’t feel as old as home, but David can tell it's got its own long history. There’s a weight of tradition in the air that he recognizes. Maybe a historic hotel? He can smell laundry detergent and fabric softener and—

“David? You awake again?”

And David couldn’t ignore His Henry if he tried (and he doesn’t want to). His tail starts wagging and he opens his eyes to see His Henry crouched next to his travel bed.

“Good morning, sleepy!” His Henry coos, petting his head and rubbing that magic spot behind David’s ears that gets his back leg twitching in pleasure. “Should we get food?”

David’s up and by the door in a flash. Duh, they should get food. Now that he’s thinking about it properly, David is starving, can’t remember the last time he was fed, he’s going to waste away—

“Alright, stop whining, let's go to the kitchen. David, heel.”

David takes up his position on His Henry’s left and trots dutifully at his side down a couple unfamiliar hallways. The smell of cooking food grows stronger with each step and his tail wags harder. David doesn’t care where they are if it means he has a chance to steal some bacon.

They go through one more doorway and only David’s training keeps him calmly at His Henry’s side. His Henry’s Alex is here! And cooking bacon!

“Hello, love.”

His Henry’s Alex spins around from his position at the stove, a joyful smile taking over his face.

“Baby! You’re here—I thought you weren’t getting in until this afternoon!”

His Henry crosses the room, drawn inexorably into His Henry’s Alex’s orbit—just like anytime they’re in the same room. David ignores them smashing their faces together and their quiet conversation in favor of sniffing every corner of the kitchen. His Henry brought him here, which means that somewhere there is food for David—and he will find it. 

One full circuit of the room’s edge later and David is stumped. Maybe it’s stashed up high? His Henry will know, and he’s had more than enough time to say hello by now. David comes back over to where the humans’ legs are now tangled together and sits next to them, letting himself slump hard against them with a huff.

“Oh, sorry, David,” His Henry says. “Let me get you fed.”

His Henry’s Alex squats down to scratch at David’s chin while His Henry flutters around the kitchen pulling down dog food and a set of bowls.

“Hey, buddy! Sorry I distracted your dad for a bit there, I was just so glad to see him.” David pushes into His Henry’s Alex’s hands in agreement. He also misses His Henry when they can’t travel together. “I’m really glad he was able to bring you with him, little man. Don’t tell Henry, but I missed you even more than him.”

David pulls away to look up at His Henry’s Alex doubtfully. That statement would refute all previous evidence that David has collected. His Henry’s Alex tips his head back and laughs really hard.

“Oh my god, H—your dog is giving me the biggest bitch please face I’ve ever seen!”

“What were you telling him? He’s quite the discerning gentleman, so you must have been running your mouth.”

“But you like when I—”

“Save it for when we aren’t in a common space, dear.”

“Hen, it’s the middle of the night—”

“And yet I think you can wait twenty minutes for your depravity.”

His Henry puts food and water bowls in front of David and he promptly ignores His Henry and His Henry’s Alex fondly squabbling like children.

David still may not know precisely where he is, but His Henry is happy, His Henry’s Alex is here, and David has food, so specifics can wait.

#cricket writes #themundanemudperson #rwrb #DAVID THE BEAGLE #ficlet fest 500 #fun facts dogs probably see pink as beige

[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

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 4

Prompts: daydream snow rest

On AO3

"What's wrong, love?"

Dream glanced again at the table across the pub, off to Hob's right, and his expression soured a little further. "That student is. Daydreaming, of me."

Oh? Curious, Hob snuck a surreptitious look; there was a young person at the table in question with books and papers spread around them, doing schoolwork to all appearances, but apparently their focus was not so single-minded as it might appear.

He looked back to Dream. "No harm in that, is there? Unless." He frowned. "Are they imagining violence?"

"No. They perceive my form as pleasing, and they would imagine themselves my lover."

Ah. "Don't tell me you're offended that a lowly mortal dares dream of one such as you?" He was joking, mostly, poking at wounds far enough in the past that he could lend them a little levity, but also he couldn't be entirely sure that wasn't why Dream looked so broody.

But Dream shook his head, a spare movement to one side and back. "It is not...offense. These thoughts are private so far as they know, and it would be a poor thing indeed, to. Police, the fantasies of others."

"Then what is it, dove?"

"...I would not enjoy it, the way they dream of touching me. The things they wish to do with me. And it is...discomfiting, to be subjected to it."

That made sense, actually, though Hob couldn't say he'd ever thought of it before. "So is it, ah...discomfiting, when you catch wind of my daydreams?"

The corner of Dream's mouth tilted up. "No, Hob. Yours are welcome; yours are pleasing. I wish to share intimacy with you, and you are well acquainted with the many ways that I enjoy it."

"So mostly it's because they're a stranger, but having, ah. Extremely familiar thoughts about you?"

"...Yes."

"Can't you just, I don't know, cut it off? Take it away? Make them stop?"

Dream frowned. "It would be an egregious abuse of my duty, to banish a daydream simply because I mislike it." Unspoken was the implication that once upon a time he would not have hesitated, but he was trying to be better these days.

Hob nodded in sympathy. "Want to get out of here, then?"

Dream, surprisingly, again shook his head. "This is our tradition, Hob. I would not give it up simply because I am uncomfortable."

No matter how often they were seeing one another these days, June 7th they always met here at their table in the New Inn (every year, now!), a standing date in honor of their history. Hob was absurdly touched that Dream counted that the most important factor at the moment. He smiled, slow and warm, all the love he held for this marvelous creature before him curling soft in his chest. "Well." He reached to touch Dream's hand across the table between them, light and affectionate, curling their fingers together. He rested his chin in his other hand, elbow propped on the table, and gazed at Dream with half-lidded eyes. "I guess I'll just have to distract you, then."

Dream arched an eyebrow, his expression shifting into something that Hob would've labeled 'resignedly curious'. Probably thought Hob meant to out-sexy the stranger across the pub. Well, hah. Hob knew how to read a room, thank you very much, and he could tell that would not be the most effective approach right now.

He settled into his own mind, collecting himself to craft a proper daydream. Idle thoughts and fleeting images weren't enough; it had to be spun with focus for Dream to see it easily. So he focused—on the slender hand clasped in his, the crystal blue eyes watching him—and he imagined.

The day was warm out, a bit muggy, and the fans were struggling to make a difference, so...maybe something completely opposite, then. A nice cozy little cabin, tucked away in the mountains, snowed in and secluded. A cheery fire, burning bright in the hearth. A plush sofa, big enough and soft enough that he could snuggle back into the corner of it with his legs up along the length and Dream nestled in between them, back to chest. An anthology book in his hand, semi-forgotten, as Dream told him about how the stories within had been conceived and written and brought into being. A quiet evening resting in each other's company, Hob listening spellbound to Dream waxing rhapsodic about these aspects of his duty that he loved best.

Hob blinked, keeping the daydream active in the back of his mind as he focused on Dream before him again.

Dream was staring at him, eyes shining and red-rimmed, mouth curving up in a brilliant-if-slightly-watery smile. "Hob." He squeezed Hob's hand gently.

Hob squeezed in return. "Better?"

Miraculously, Dream's pending tears stayed put through a fluttering blink. "Yes. Thank you."

Hob smiled softly, brushed his thumb over the back of Dream's knuckles. "'Course, dove. Anytime."

And in the daydream, he threaded his fingers through Dream's hair to keep him close against his chest, bowed to press a tender kiss to the crown of Dream's head, basking in the warmth of the moment shared.

#Dreamling #Sandman #Fluffbruary 2023 #TJs Fluffbruary #TJs Fics #a proper ficlet this time #wordcount over 500 #may be projecting on Dream just a liiiiittle bit #Ace-adjacent

[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

[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

[bookshelf-dust]

Before the party ends, I thought I’d request another one!

🖋️ Angst to fluff with Eddie? Maybe he says something hurtful because he’s rambling about something that happened to him and reader keeps quiet ‘cause she doesn’t want him to know she’s upset about whatever he said ‘cause she does whatever he complained about. Even though Eddie’s not complaining about her. Then, he picks up on her weird behavior, and everything ends all fluffy.💜

slumber party shenanigans (ends 2/4)

eddie munson x gn!reader

a/n: hi, my sweet! thank you for being so supportive and for coming to my slumber party :))) i hope you enjoy this!! love you 3000

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

🖋️ want another blanket?—i will write you a little ficlet (under 1000 words) for the character of your choice. i would appreciate if you’d specify whether you want comfort/fluff/angst/whatever and i will try and come up with something for you!

"Your nephew's an asshole, you know that Wayne?"

The man in question chuckles, cigarette smoke clouding the air in front of him. "I've heard that many a time around here kiddo."

You hop down the stairs, hoping Eddie will let you leave without walking you out like always.

"Hey, did you just call me an asshole?"

You realize only the screen door is shut, and Eddie, putting his shoes on to go outside, heard your claims. Wayne laughs again at your being caught, and you shoot him a look. He raises his hands in surrender, moving to go back inside and stay away from whatever storm is brewing between the two of you.

You fumble with your keys, trying to unlock your car door, but Eddie bounds towards you, snatching them from your grip.

"Eddie, you dick, give me my keys. I want to go home."

"No. What's the matter with you all the sudden?" He crosses his arms, locking the tool to your escape under his hand.

"Nothing. Let me go home or I'll call Hopper and tell him you've kidnapped me."

Eddie has the nerve to laugh at you. Sincerely and heartily. It's a boyish sound. And it infuriates you.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wanna bet, Munson?" Eddie realizes that you aren't, in fact, joking, and that you totally would. The boy's already on thin ice with the chief, given his situation.

"Just tell me what I did. I don't want to argue with you," he says, almost pleading.

"Did you already forget the conversation we just had, dipshit?"

The boy ignores your incessant name calling, trying to figure out what he'd done to upset you so much that you're practically running away from him.

Fifteen minutes earlier, you'd been sitting on Eddie's bed, listening to him go on about his day. "We had to do this group project in O'Donnell's today, right?" He'd said.

"And we're all going around, supposed to be talking to each other about what we're currently reading or what we like to read. This one kid was saying how they love romance novels, or some shit like that."

Your stomach had dropped, knowing exactly where this was headed.

"And it just drove me crazy. Because I don't really think you get to call yourself a reader if that's the kind of stuff you read, you know? There's nothing to them! They're just for soccer moms to have someplace they can distract themselves from their failing marriages."

Outside currently, you get sick of looking at Eddie's thinking face and blurt it out.

"I read romance novels, Eddie!"

Eddie drops his arms, looking confused. "You do?"

"Yeah, I fucking do, and you saying that really hurt my feelings. Have you ever even read one, Eddie? How can you just assume they have no matter to them?"

The boy hands you back your keys, running his hands down his face.

"Oh my god, baby, I'm sorry."

"I just wish sometimes you'd think about this stuff, Eddie. I hadn't read much fantasy before you, and I don't know. It just hurt my feelings."

Eddie moves closer to you, taking your face in his hands. "I am so sorry, baby. I was being a dick, really I was. I see that now."

You nod, contemplating.

"Why didn't I know this? That you read romantic books?"

You shrug. "I mainly read them when I'm feeling lonely, but that was prominently before you. Guess I didn't feel like I had to tell you about my filling the void anymore."

Eddie's flattered, really, but he still feels bad. He really should've been more considerate.

"I really am sorry, Y/N."

"It's okay," you assure him. You understand where he's coming from.

"Anything I can do to make you feel better?" He asks, playing with your belt loops.

"Read one. I'll pick something out and bring it over later."

Eddie blushes, but he's intrigued. "You want me to read one of your romance novels in order to make it up to you?"

"And to whoever it was that you were bitching about."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Eddie kisses you, short and sweet. He's got lip balm on, and now so do you. "Now, how dirty are these books of yours?"

You roll your eyes, and try to pull away. You were going to let him figure that part out on his own.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x gender neutral reader #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson fic #eddie munson oneshot #bookshelf-dust's 500 follower celebration #bookshelf-dust's slumber party

[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

[steventhusiast]

goldie!!!! i forgot to send you a prompt! 🍾🥳🤸🏼‍♀️

hmmmmm how do we feel about steddie lazy morning because I don’t want to get out of bed right now lol

Steve's alarm going off prompts twin groans from the bed. There's sunlight sneaking in through the gaps in the curtains, leaving a strip of light going across the bed and illuminating the pair snuggled up there. Eddie's on his back, arms firmly holding Steve against him as Steve uses his bare chest like a pillow.

As they both groan and squint their eyes open, Eddie tightens his grip on Steve and tilts his head to press a kiss to his head.

"Wassappenin." Eddie murmurs into Steve's hair afterward, prompting Steve to properly open his eyes (or attempt to) and stretch in place.

"Ugh. Late alarm." He grumbles, going to sit up to turn off the blaring sound. Eddie doesn't let him get up, though, just tightens his arms around him and tugs him back to his chest.

"Don't leave me." Eddie whines, always going for dramatics.

"I don't wanna listen to this any longer, Eds." Steve replies, voice equally whiny.

Eddie finally lets go with a grumble, and Steve leans over to shut it off with another very deep breath. God, he's so sleepy, even though that alarm was their 'oh shit, you slept the morning away' alarm.

Good thing Steve remembered to set it once they settled in bed after their movie night.

"Breakfast?" Steve asks, feeling a little more awake now that he's moved a bit.

"No," Eddie complains, reaching out to grab at Steve and pull him back to him, "Stay."

Eddie's clearly still half asleep, and once he has Steve's back to his chest again, he rolls them onto the side and fully wraps himself around Steve. As if him clinging to him like a koala will stop Steve from needing to get up.

"Eddie." Steve giggles, and Eddie grunts into the back of his neck. Steve gives him a few seconds to hopefully wake up some more, but after fifteen seconds he feels Eddie's grip slacken slightly, and a sigh of a breath tickles his hair.

"Eddie." He says again, louder. A fond smile is on his face just being here when Eddie's so sleepy. He's so cute.

"I'll make you breakfast in bed if you let me go." Steve tries, and suddenly Eddie's rolling off of him to snuggle into the blankets instead of him.

Steve blinks at him, not aware he's awake enough to move that fast. But clearly, he is. Eddie blinks innocently at him, sleepiness still clinging to the corners of his eyes.

"Go on then."

#steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie drabble #steve harrington #eddie munson #500 follower celebration #cranberrymoons #sagey #mywriting

[scarabies-real]

I hope this Scarian prompt is good: Sleepy avian Grian chirping and cooing at Scar to hurry up/stop whatever he's doing and cuddle in their nest immediately it is very important. Grian needs cuddles to fall asleep and by god if he has to ruffle some feathers he's gonna do it

“Scar,” Grian whines one night as Scar works on his plans for a new build project. It’s late, Scar knows that, but he’s just got this itch in his brain that he can’t ignore. The creative juices are flowing and there’s no way he’s going to intentionally dam them up. Nothing could drag him away from this right now.

Scar doesn’t look back as he continues sketching, distracted with how to angle the windows on the east side to let in the maximum amount of light. “What is it?” He asks, yawning immediately after.

“Come to sleep,” Grian mumbles, exhaustion lacing his every word.

“Grian, I have to finish this, or I’ll kick myself in the morning,” Scar replies. He feels a little bad about it, truly, but he’s often on the reverse end with Grian’s late-night insomnia-induced building, so Grian should understand.

“But I’m tired.”

“Then go to sleep?”

Nothing but silence answers him. Scar thinks that maybe Grian has fallen asleep but falling asleep so quickly is unlike him.

He’s just a little bit concerned when he swivels his wheelchair around so he can check on him.

“Gri?”

Grian is pouting and grumbling under his breath, feathers ruffled in annoyance or maybe anger or maybe sickness or—Scar’s getting ahead of himself.

“Sunshine, what’s wrong?”

“You won’t come to bed,” Grian says as if it explains his general state of discontent.

Scar sighs and sets his pencil down. “I will in just a little bit, love.”

“But I want to sleep now.”

“Why don’t you then?”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

Oh?

Oh.

Oh, wow. It makes perfect sense now that he thinks about it. Scar knows avians are flock creatures that form strong bonds and he knows that Grian never used to sleep well until they got together. He just didn’t know Grian thought of him as part of his flock. Oh, he could cry. He loves this man so much.

“Grian, have you pavloved yourself to only sleep when with me?”

“Shut up!”

“Oh my gosh, you have!”

“If you’re just gonna make fun of me then don’t bother,” Grian huffs and buried his face in his arms, angling himself away so Scar can’t see his expression.

Scar abandons his papers and wheels over to the side of the bed, locking his brakes and lifting himself on the edge, just outside of the nest.

“No, no, I think it’s sweet! You can’t fall asleep without me?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Gri, honey, look at me?” Scar grabs his arms and removes them from his eyes, gently, so Grian can stop him if he wants. Grian is teary when he meets Scar’s gaze.

“Don’t cry, love, it’s okay,” Scar shushes, wiping tears from Grian’s eyes and smoothing his thumb over his cheekbones.

“It’s just—I can’t sleep without knowing you’re safe and—”

“—the best way to do that is to cuddle me?” Scar finishes for him, grinning once again. Grian blushes but doesn’t deny it.

“Guess I can’t argue with that. Come here, pretty bird,” Scar whispers and draws his mate into his arms. Grian latches on like a barnacle and flops a wing over the two of them; out like a light as soon as he feels Scar relax.

Scar falls asleep to the sound of gentle coos and chirps, blanketed in soft feathers, safe in the arms of his love.

Flock is nice, is his last nonsensical thought before sleep claims him too.

#burdened with knowledge #they’re in the walls th #drabble #hermitshipping #scarian #hermitcraft fanfic #trafficshipping #ficlet #wc: 500-1000 #quintuple drabble #sorry anon I lied about the double drabble #you get QUINTUPLE DRABBLE #THAT WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT #you activated my trap card: avian instincts #hope you like it!!

[cricketnationrise]

Hi I have a ficlet fest request 😊

6am

Paris

Henry

My AO3 handle is Nerdyfangirl76

Thank you ☺️

what's interesting to me is that Paris in the book is 5 paragraphs. that's it. and yet i'm obsessed with that moment of Alex and Henry eating baguettes and apricot tarts while Henry translates Le Monde. anyway! please enjoy this Henry POV of the moments before Alex wakes up that morning 💜🦗

want your own ficlet? followers can request their own using these guidelines through Jan 31, 2024.

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

Henry’s warm; that’s the first thing he notices.

Kensington Palace is always cold, no matter the season — history and tradition seem to cling to the air like a chilly fog.

But Henry’s warm and there’s something about the quality of the silence that suggests early morning. A time he’s more than familiar with. He takes stock of himself: exhausted but content, the hint of hangover hovering at the base of his skull, jaw muscles sore and languid at the same time. And—

A steady, slow breath on the back of his neck, an arm curled around his waist holding him close against a firm chest.

Alex.

It all comes rushing back: meeting at the café, the flirting, the two bottles of wine, the careful, fleeting touches while exploring the city, the decidedly less careful touches with hands and mouths as they explored each other more fully. Henry’s never felt so connected, so in tune with another man — none of his previous myriad of furtive, NDA-covered experiences can come close to comparing. Despite Alex’s relative inexperience, the taste of wine in his mouth as he licked into Henry’s, Henry felt so bloody light last night he can hardly breathe — even hours later — from the tenderness.

And Henry can’t stand not looking at Alex a second longer. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Henry turns over; he moves slowly, loath to dislodge the warm weight of Alex’s arm.

Christ.

Henry would believe that sunbeams were created for this very moment, that they had been honing their craft for milenia just to perfect the vision in front of him: 

Alex is glowing. Each messy curl is edged in gold, the sunshine practically beading where it clings to his hair. His dark skin — which is already distractingly caramel — appears burnished in the light, as if it has been painstakingly polished overnight, almost lit from within; a fire behind a half-drawn curtain, beckoning him home. Even the dust motes swirling in the air above him seem entranced by Alex; they swirl and drift lazily in the ray of light from the window, almost as if caught in Alex’s orbit, drawn inexorably toward him. 

Henry can certainly relate.

But they don’t do this, stay the night. Or — they haven’t before. But last night the haze of wine and Alex’s fingers in his hair, gripping the back of his head made Henry dizzy, his body loose and positively melting from the contact.

So he didn’t bring up returning to his own hotel room. Didn’t back away from Alex’s embrace as they panted together in the dark space between their mouths, coming down from their highs. Didn’t try to slip free from the tangled sheets once he heard Alex’s breaths even out as he drew closer and closer to dreamland. Didn’t tense up or pull away as he felt Alex reach out and delicately, gently, reverently trace the ridge of his spine, just let Alex map each bump with a burgeoning sense of wonder. Henry had just let his own eyes drift shut, basking in the closeness. Let himself, for once—

Hope.

Alex is smiling; that’s the next thing he notices.

#cricket writes #nerdyfangirl76 #ficlet fest 500 #rwrb #possibly excessive description of alex in sunlight #but also #no its not

[amrv-5]

so many good prompts, very difficult to choose…8 or 9? if u are so moved!

HELLO AL! Thank you so much for this prompt--such a delight to write, and a really nice warm soft note to end this little prompt series on!! You asked for 8 or 9, but I combined them 'cause they worked so nice together! Thanks again for the prompt :)

(8. lifting the other while hugging + 9. slow-dancing turning into a tight embrace from this prompt list)

Hawkeye laughed into BJ’s neck. His face was warm with wine. The record player crackled—you leave me breathless, Ella Fitzgerald sang softly—as BJ held him closer, a hand at his lower back, the other cupping Hawkeye’s right hand to his chest. They stepped together in time, moving in a slow circle. 

The lights were low. The lamp in the corner cast a muted gold glow over the living room, their shared bookstacks, the coffee table pushed against the wall, the worn couch and rolled-up rug. 

“What’s funny?” BJ asked quietly, lips moving against the crown of his head. 

Hawkeye shook his head. He draped an arm around BJ’s shoulders. He was warm all over. BJ felt good against him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hand rubbing gentle circles into his lower back. 

BJ slowed until their dance was reduced to a barely-perceptible shifting of weight. He tightened his hold on Hawkeye, and exhaled, breath tickling Hawkeye’s ear. 

Hawkeye hummed, relaxed, drunk on a solitary glass of wine and BJ. Everywhere they touched radiated warmth. The abundance of contact—BJ slipping his hand under the hem of his sweater to cup his hip—melted through him. He felt pliable, pleasantly liquid, and very loved. He always felt loved. BJ was good at that. But there were moments where it rose from a comfortable certainty to keen awareness.

He closed his eyes and tucked his face more firmly into BJ’s neck. The pretense of dancing had disappeared. They were just holding each other, unmoving, as the record played. BJ’s hand wandered warmly under the hem of his shirt. Hawkeye cupped the back of BJ’s head, and focused on breathing in time, so his chest pressed into BJ’s as BJ’s pressed into him. Liquid heat moved through him. He sighed shakily, trusting BJ to support his weight. 

“I’ve got you,” BJ whispered, fond, and lifted him bodily, leaning back. Hawkeye let it happen, laughing again, rubbing the back of BJ’s head to communicate his happiness, and to muss his hair. He was feeling possessive. 

BJ grinned at him up close. It was one of his shaky, emotional ones, closed mouth upturned under his mustache, a damp shine to his eyes. “Love you,” he said, earnest, eyebrows coming together like he wanted to make sure Hawkeye knew he really meant it. 

“I know,” Hawkeye reassured him, and kissed him, holding him in place by the jaw. BJ kept him off the ground, elevated a few inches, arms tight around his back. “I love you, too,” he added, and went in for another kiss. 

BJ slipped a hand down Hawkeye’s body, and tilted Hawkeye abruptly into a bridal carry. It was a very deft maneuver. Impressive. Seductive, too. 

“You’re a real gentleman,” Hawkeye said, settling comfortably into his arms. 

BJ kissed him—hard, and a little messy. “I’ll try my best to change your mind,” he said, already laughing at the line. 

Hawkeye laughed, too. “That’s bad,” he observed, glad, and let himself be carried to bed.

#THANKS AGAIN!!! really really loved these little ficlets I think it was #1. great practice for getting better at concision and #2. super great for my (sad) constrained writing time to get little prompt fills out that were really satisfying and comforting to write!!! #sub-500 short & sweet #beejhawk #hunnihawk #prompt fills #my fic