#flash fic

[risingoftime]

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER ⟡ HOBIE BROWN

Hobie hadn’t realized that he butt-dialled your number while fantasizing about how it would feel to fuck you. In the midst of it all, he realizes that he might have an audience.

a/n: cause i can’t get him out of my head₊˚ෆˎˊ˗ 18+

part i | part ii

Hobie’s life had been in a constant state of unrest. If he wasn't fulfilling his duties as Spiderman, he was practicing and performing with his band Spider-Slayers. It had been a late night, and the only thing that brought him to peace was you. He found himself thinking about you more than he would like to admit. He had tried his best to keep his distance, knowing all too well what happens when people get entangled with him. But Hobie couldn't stop envisioning your sultry voice and soft lips. He wondered how your perfect frame would look bent over, pussy exposed all for him. Hobie was curious about how you would sound while getting fucked, if you moaned or whimpered when cumming and if he could make you do both. Shifting in his bed, Hobie became increasingly aware of his growing erection.

His dick throbbed at the thought of you and was already hard in his boxers. Hobie had never felt a desire as strong as he had for you. His hand releases his boner from the constricting fabric, already sensitive with need. Hobie wrapped his hand around his dick, pumping himself vigorously at the thought of fucking you. His precum acts as a lubricant while he imagines how your pussy would feel taking him in. Oh, the things that he would do. Hobie’s hips made languid movements, keeping pace with each thrust into his hand.

“Oh fucking hell, you feel so good.” His lips remained parted, letting out a breathy moan. Hobie visualized his cock deep inside you, your pussy taking it all too well and milking every last drop of Hobie’s cum. “Just like that,” he gasped. His toes began to curl from the image of your eyes rolling back and begging him not to stop. You're so beautiful it pains him to slow his palms from bobbing up and down his thick length.

Hobie’s hips begin to stutter, and his core tightens as he grows closer to orgasm. His free hand grips the sheets as Hobie’s body tenses at the tingling feeling that erupts. Opening his eyes slightly, Hobie watches as his dick jerks with each cum shot, soiling his boxers and rubbing the creamy white liquid against his skin. The noises from the friction between his hand and dick make wet slapping sounds. Hobie’s breath hitched as his body trembled at the mercy of the thought of cumming inside of you.

Once he could get ahold of himself, he washed his hands and cleaned the mess he had made. Hobie hadn’t realized how slowly time has passed when fantasizing about you. Looking around his room briefly, he could not locate his phone. He heard a lewd voice coming out from the sheets on his bed. Throwing the fabric around, Hobie found his phone had called your number by mistake. Your heavy sighs and whimpers ricochet through the phone speakers like a sweet melody to Hobie. It was evident what you were doing on the other side of the call. His dick was already pulsating and hardening. Unable to remain quiet for long, Hobie cleared his throat.

“Hello, love.”

navigation | masterlist

#hobie brown x black!reader #hobie x black!reader #time creation #drabble #flash fic #hobie brown fic #hobie brown #atsv hobie #hobie x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie my beloved #hobie spiderverse #spiderverse #hobie x you #my man my man my man #astv #astv fanfic #astv fic #astv x reader #spiderman astv #smut #shameless smut #hobie smut #x black!fem!reader #x black reader #x reader #astv hobie #hobie brown x you #fanfic #⟢CREATION OF TIME

[beedreamscape]

When you thought you were in a contemporary rivals-to-lovers romance with touches of medical drama, but then they pull away your funds and you cry in each other's arms but you got hopes this might be your underdog moment, your chance to overcome adversities but then the bodies won't rot and the bodies won't rot and the bodies won't rot and J—'s eyes turn honey turn amber turn gold...

And maybe you've done something right but... they still won't rot and maybe he's crazy but maybe you're raiding a graveyard for him and it's the most romantic thing you've done in a while because maybe this isn't cute anymore, this isn't cool anymore, and he makes them move and he makes them walk and maybe this is actually the start of an apocalypse movie and here's where the disease begins.

Yet somehow the problem is still money and youtube comments and goverment lackeys and evil CEOs and bureaucracy and conspiracies and you were supposed to save the fucking planet, and now you're surrounded by meat and now he can kill and kill and kill and now the skeleton army doesn't sound absurd and now blowing everything up doesn't sound so bad—

And now you think you're tired of seeing the world in 2 by 35 and you just wanna go home and do Cappuccino Tuesdays and Popcorn Saturdays and walks on the beach with C— and dim lit nights with A—... but the movie isn't over yet and this is not your story to tell.

#mercymorn the first #m— #not other set of characters has made me feel so experimental #thought about her pov and as always ended up longer than intended #ntn spoilers #flash fic #the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #writing

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Language of Wolves, a Fairy Tale

There is a wolf with the voice of a person up on the hill. Travelers were sent there, both the lucky and unlucky sorts, if they could not speak the common tongue. The wolf had mastered any language he had ever heard and the people of the valley were both reasonable and warry. Send the travelers to the wolf, they said, bound by hospitality, and ask him who taught him how to speak or else whose witches throat he tore out and stitched into his own.

Many unsuspecting pilgrims, soldiers, merchants, and wayward souls, found themselves on the doorstep of a creature wearing silks and smiling in fangs. He knew their local songs though, every bit of story, and they woke in the morning with their lives intact and bags un-stolen. So the wolf remained even as borders shifted and languages died, even as scholars arrived and the wolf refused all questions on the nature of its knowledge. A humble beast it said, wearing coats of finest red only as the lords allow it.

Monks whispered of a miracle, nuns gave a pilgrimage of fresh goats and blood to the wolf at his doorstep, holy wanderers said perhaps even wolves had souls–even wolves could be saved. Others, of course, only asked more questions. 

Finally, there came a tricky man. Aged and silver, unwed, a scholar and a soldier both, coming from afar and very close all at once. The Scholar Soldier came in the downpour and the night, shed his muddy boots on the poor beast’s rug, and spoke in guttural tongues. The wolf’s eyes narrowed, and he used the voice of every person to ask where the Scholar Soldier came from. And the man spoke in tongues until the wolf’s ears laid flat against his head.

Do you not recognize it? said the Scholar Soldier, how can you not? The Scholar Soldier threw back his head and let out a howl–for he had fought in fairy wars, on the side of beasts, and knew the language of the wolves from the very first. The wolf tore off his fine red coat, tore at his beautiful cravat, and wept upon his floor. Can you take it back? he cried, can you make me whole?

Not a gift, of course, but a curse. As a mother turns away from her cub, placing a thorn in his throat that made him able to practice every language in the world but his own. Thrown out. The Scholar Soldier took pity on the old wolf and took him as a groom. They could be happy, he said, even if they were speaking with words never their own.

#I am doing a hundred day microfiction challenge #fairy tales #flash fic #fantasy story #spilled ink #flash fiction #micro fiction

[grtmnick]

In a voice that probably held more desperation than Regina would have preferred to show, she asked, “Can we please not discuss this while we’re in the middle of the town’s square?”

“But what were those noises I heard from your room last night?” Henry earnestly requested of his mothers.

“You heard your mom kid,” Emma interjected, “Besides, we were just wrestling anyways.”

A look of absolute mortification twisted Regina’s face. She brought her coffee towards her lips, trying and failing to stifle an audible groan.

#drabble #swanqueen #emma x regina #emma swan x regina mills #emma swan #regina mills #once upon a time #ouat #flash fic #flash fan fic #flash fanfic #flash fan fiction #image from instagram

[the-modern-typewriter]

"I may not be brilliant like you," the hero said, with a quiet and steady viciousness. "But I work bloody hard. I get better."

The villain stared at them, still apparently trying to comprehend the fact that they had lost. "Maybe there's a prophecy or secret bloodline..."

"Nope." The hero squared their shoulders. "I'm as common as toast."

The villain's eyes narrowed. "Nobody ordinary can beat me. You're extraordinary. I'm going to prove it."

The hero scoffed and turned away, adrenaline and victory thrumming through them, as the other ordinary people took the villain away.

The villain yelled at their back until they were out of sight.

#hero and villain #heroes and villains #creative writing #villains #hero #fiction #story #writing #villains and heroes #flash fiction #flash fic

[terrestrialnoob]

Time and Information

She was walked through the halls of Bel Rev Prison by four guards down an unfamiliar passage. She was soon joined by a younger woman with blonde pigtails who was happily chatting to her escort until she saw her fellow prisoner.

“Oh my gosh! A new face!” She cheered in a heavy Brooklyn accent, “Better be careful or it’ll get blown to bits!”

The two were taken into separate rooms and there was a sudden jolt of horror at the chair in the center of the room. It looked far too familiar, straps and gaps for easy access to specific parts of the body – the soft, weak parts. It was similar to something she’d once made when she was younger, dumber, and too scared of the unknown – no, too scared of being wrong about the unknown to see what was right in front of her. She struggled against the guards, but one punched her in the gut and she was forcefully strapped down into the chair. She was warned not to move before there was a sharp pain at the back of her neck. She sat frozen as something was forced under her skin, she could feel it anchoring into bone. After that, she was unstrapped and furiously asked what they’d done to her. “They’ll explain it soon enough.”

She was lead out of the surgical room and into a large concrete room, with 2 metal crates. She spotted the girl from earlier standing next to one of the crates. She looked up at her from pulling on a red and black diamond patterned leotard over fishnet leggings. The girl waved and shouted, “You made it!”

She waved back to the blonde then one of the guards lead her to the other crate and opened it. Her eyes stared to tear at the sight of her old aqua jumpsuit. There were also her goggles, utility belt, respirator mask, and a handful of non-compacted weapons.

She followed the implicit instruction to change into her jumpsuit, and it felt like putting on her real skin on again. It had been so long, she was starting to see silver in her auburn hair that had grown so long her braid went all the way down to her back. But the suit fit, just like it always did.

“Awooga!” The girl cheered and shouted, “I’m not usually a MILF kinda gal, but you look tight.”

She almost laughed at getting catcalled by the other woman and even flexed her arm to show off her prison muscle. The two were soon lead to a new room and she saw three other non-guards in the room, all in their own colorful costume. A large man had on a bear-skin cloak over body armor while another seemed to be dressed up like an airline pilot. A humanoid tiger creature was also there, they were already wearing a sleeveless Chinese-style martial arts uniform.

“Boomer!” The girl shouted and waved at the airline pilot and he smiled and greeted her in turn.

“It’s good to see you Harley,” He said with an Australian accent, “who’s your friend?”

Before she could answer, a door slammed open. A woman entered; thick and sturdy who held herself like a pillar of The Acropolis, like if she fell, the whole of civilization would fall with her. At her side was a man dressed up in his own custom red, silver, and black body armor.

The woman stopped and glared at the prisoners like they were less than human and took time to memorize all their inhumanity before she spoke, “Ladies, gentlemen. For those who don’t know, I am Amanda Waller, head of Task Force X, an off the books strike team of convicts used as expendable agents working for the U.S. Government. You are now members of Task Force X. Succeed in your mission, and you’ll get time off your sentences. Any questions?”

“A few, ma’am,” She rose her hand.

Waller raised her eyebrow and nodded, but before she could ask, the man in the bear skin shouted, “The Bear fight for Mother Russia, not U.S. Pigs!” His accent was thick and he stomped his heavy boots up to Waller, towering over her in an attempt to intimidate. “I will not work for you.”

Waller glared up at him and waved at the door behind her, “Be warned, there’s a small explosive in your neck, and if you do any little thing I don’t like, your head will be blown clean off. Take one step out that door, and you’re dead.”

The Russian growled at her, then pushed past her. He took one confident step through the door - the explosion was bright but quiet, and eviscerated the man’s head in seconds.

Waller turned back to the others, “Did that answer any of your questions?”

“A few yes,” She smiled and gently rubbed her neck where the small lump was indicating which of her questions had been answered. Then she continued, much to the horror of the Australian. “Are the terms of this – arrangement negotiable?”

Waller answered before she even finished, “You can’t refuse.”

She nodded her head, “I assumed as much. But, there’s something I want more than time off my sentence.”

“Oh?” Waller gave her a scrutinizing look, the kind that a woman who’s always looking for a better deal has.

“It’s about my son. Last I saw him, he was being experimented on in a government lab. The thing I want is unredacted copies of the files. I want to know Every. Single. Thing. any research lab anywhere has ever done to my son. And his current location.” Her voice shifted from relatively polite to absolutely deadly; almost like she now blamed everything the government has ever done wrong on Waller as a representative. The man next to Waller seemed to flinch, but the two women didn’t break eye contact.

“Might be difficult, given that most of the facilities that would have that information were destroyed. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Waller stared her down, or at least tried to. There was silence, and for a moment several people in the room expected a head to explode. But then Waller said, “Do the mission, and I’ll see what I can get from the guys in white.”

The woman who stood up to The Acropolis smiled dangerously as she said, “I’m sure a woman of your standing and reach can get her hands into any government office.”

Waller smiled back, “You flatter me, Ms. Fenton.”

“Doctor Fenton,” She corrected, “One doesn’t lose their education simply because they’re imprisoned.”

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #danny phantom #suicide squad #fan fic #flash fic #maddie fenton

[lectorel]

Paulina steals Spectra's schtick: a monologue

Yeah, I know about your whole 'one bad day'. Ever consider that maybe the problem isn't human nature? Maybe it's just you.

'Cause I had my bad day, considered going evil, decided it was tacky, and got into psychology instead.

Not that I need to be a psychologist to see how you work.

Deep down, you know that you're an boring, pathetic little man who can only effect the world through violence. You have nothing else to offer - you're just an overgrown and undersocialized toddler throwing a temper tantrum over not getting what you want.

No one cares about who you were before you decided to become a career psycho, but I bet I can guess the basics - you were an ambitionless loser in a dead-end job, silently seething over the world's failure to give you the attention and respect you desired.

Not that you ever bothered to do anything worth either. 

Then one day you got hurt. A mugging, a gunshot, falling into a vat of acid like a b-grade goon in a Saturday morning cartoon, whatever. No one cared, because you'd never cared about anyone in your whole selfish life. 

That was the last straw, wasn't it? Realizing that you could have died and mattered to no one. Someone stronger than you might have taken it as a wake-up call to improve themselves. You just used it as an excuse to start killing.

You were always a clown, joker. The saddest, dullest, most pathetic clown in the whole damn circus, and that's all you'll ever be.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #paulina sanchez #monologue #flash fic

[wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart]

Writing exercise

I wanted to have some fun and do a little writing exercise, so I've written some short disjointed flashes of a perhaps larger fic, inspired by this prompt list.

I'll be posting one a day for the next fifteen days.

The Sith

"I have dreamed of your legs wrapped around my waist," the Sith whispered against his ear, sending a tingle down his spine in anticipation.

When a hot mouth sucked his earlobe in, biting none too gently, he gasped in pained pleasure, writhing against the strong body that held him trapped between it and the cold wall.

A moan escaped him at the sensation of a well-trimmed beard brushing the sensitive skin on his neck, but he refused to give in too easily and he managed to force out, "maybe if you ask really nicely I can make your dream come true."

"Oh, darling," came the purring reply, "you know our little game better than that, you'll be the one begging at the end."

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

#star wars #obikin #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #sith obi wan #jedi anakin #fanfiction #writing exercise #flash fic #fanfic #star wars fan fic #flash fiction #The Sith #for fun #writing #implied smut

[raichett]

a stolen moment

Drafted into a war they don't care about, Scar and Grian steal a moment in time.

Content warnings: background war (vaguely referenced with no details), inexcusable fluff with an angsty backdrop, established relationship, handholding.

This can also be found on AO3.

–

A STOLEN MOMENT

“I,” Scar declares dramatically, for all his voice is softened with the burr of impending sleep, “have very cold hands.”

“Cold hands,” Grian repeats, flatly, turning over in his own bunk to catch the glint of light reflecting off Scar’s open eyes in the opposite bunk. There are no windows in the barracks, but the emergency lighting is always on low.

They’re both whispering, voices barely louder than their breaths, and all around them the breathing and rustling and occasional snoring of their fellow drafted soldiers gives the room a constant nighttime soundscape. The war has taught them, quickly, how to sleep when they can, how to hurry up and wait, how to rest even when wired from listening to the bombardments or too-fresh from the battlefield. How to snatch anything and everything good they can while it lasts, for however long it lasts.

“Cold and empty,” Scar expands, mournfully. “You should warm them.”

Grian, rolling his eyes, extracts his hand from under his scratchy blanket, mourning himself the warmth he’d kindled there with his own body heat, and reaches out across the empty space between their narrow bunks. Scar’s hand takes his, grabbing and holding it in mid-air, and they mutually shuffle their grip until it’s comfortable and secure, hanging between their two top bunks and presenting a low ceiling hazard to their compatriots in the bottom bunks.

Scar grins at him, his eyes crinkling. Grian can barely see the movement of his lips in the low light, the shadows pooling at the side of Scar’s nose, the crease of his laugh lines, but he knows that look off by heart, could close his eyes and pull it up, superimpose it on the backs of his eyelids.

“Goodnight, Scar,” he says, already rubbing his cheek and nudging his nose into his pillow to settle in properly.

“Goodnight, Grian,” Scar whispers back, squeezing his hand briefly, not letting go.

After that, somewhere, some time, slipping in like a spy, sleep drags them both down, their grips loosening as their bodies relax. Their fingers are too entwined to unhook, though, and they hold hands until reveille.

#my writing #scarian #hermitshipping #grian #goodtimeswithscar #flash fic

[literallyjustanerd]

how about some codywan aftercare? Yk the softness as they calm down and just sorta look at each other smiling

This one got me feeling things. Thank you so much for the prompt, I really enjoyed writing this one! Hope you enjoy reading it, too.

The Galaxy Can Wait (Codywan fluff)

Word Count: 836

A quiet moment of reflection after a night spent together, in the space before they have to return to their duties.

It’s these moments that Obi-Wan cherishes the most. The after, the quiet. The languid, drifting calm once they’ve both been brought over the edge and into the abyss beyond, where time is stretched long and their world is made blissfully small. Small enough that its width and breadth are filled entirely by only their panting breaths and gentle, seeking hands. Small enough that the galaxy outside ceases to exist, or rather, that the entire galaxy is reworked, reshaped to fit wholly within one man. A smile coaxes Obi-Wan’s mouth upward, buoyed by a pooling warmth in his chest, as Cody presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Thank you,” Cody murmurs, lips dragging against sweat-slicked skin, speaking the words like a prayer. Always reverent, like Obi-Wan is a precious thing, something sacred. A hand slides up Obi-Wan’s bicep, and he shudders involuntarily, his skin oversensitive, nerves still raw. A soft wave of pleasure laps at his spine, meagre compared to the crashing tide that he had just ridden out. Cody’s touch continues upward, to brush locks of dampened hair behind Obi-Wan’s pinked ears. 

“Feel so good. Perfect.” He’s heavy, boneless, long since collapsed atop Obi-Wan’s chest to bask in his afterglow. Obi-Wan’s back arches, just to feel the weight over him, just to savour the feeling of being so completely surrounded. Enveloped. Safe. The Force is thrumming, purring at the edges of his consciousness, all sweet and syrupy and snug. And swaddled in it all, right at its core, is Cody.

Cody, who he can always feel in the Force like a lit flare on the horizon to guide a lost traveller home, like a brilliant, gleaming sunburst parting the clouds after a storm. Cody, who leads their men with a fierceness and dedication that leave Obi-Wan breathless with awe. Cody, who is always strong, always unshakeable, who has never once let his general nor his brothers down when they need him.

Cody, who right now, is thoroughly blissed-out, love drunk and downright giddy.

“You weren’t half-bad yourself, darling,” Obi-Wan quips, and Cody laughs, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in his throat.

This is why Obi-Wan holds these moments so dearly, keeps them so carefully folded away in the deepest vaults of his heart. It’s a privilege he does not take lightly, to be the one who gets to see Cody like this, stripped bare of his usual decorum, open and vulnerable and allowing himself to be truly cared for. Tenderly, Obi-Wan reaches out a hand, laying it against Cody’s cheek, the tips of his fingers grazing against the dark curls at his temple. Cody presses into the touch, turning his head to kiss the flat of Obi-Wan’s bony palm. He grins, broad and indulgent, creasing the scar at the corner of his eye. Obi-Wan can’t help grinning back, nor can he help the accompanying ache in his chest. He’s struck with a sudden certainty that nothing in the galaxy could make him break their gaze, not when it feels this pure, this holy.

“You have such a gorgeous smile, love,” he says, the words slipping free just as the thought floats to the surface. In any other moment, such a sentiment would have Cody rolling his eyes, masking his sheepishness with a quip about flattery not earning him any special treatment. Now, though, without his usual defences, the words reach him fully, and he revels in them, his eyes shining, flecks of molten gold in amongst the rich brown.

“Love you so much,” he sighs dreamily, letting his fingers wander up to tangle in Obi-Wan’s hair. He finishes the thought with his lips against Obi-Wan’s neck, evidently too tired to keep his head upright any longer. “So beautiful, sound so pretty. Could listen to your voice all day, mesh’la.”

Eager to give him what he wants, Obi-Wan keeps talking. They speak softly of everything, of nothing at all. Traded promises and sweet nothings, nonsense that served no purpose more than keeping the world at bay a little longer and protecting the sanctity of the small, perfect universe they’ve created between their mingling breaths and tangled limbs. Cody’s head fits so perfectly in the space under Obi-Wan’s chin that when they’re inevitably parted, he will feel he’s lost a part of himself. Already, the light and sounds of dawn outside the temple window are beginning to seep in, a persistent reminder that a galaxy waits outside through thin walls, demanding their attention. Waiting to return them to their usual selves, governed by sense and reason and duty in all their bleak, cold glory. 

For now, though, Obi-Wan turns his focus to the heat of Cody’s skin against his own. Fills his lungs with the feel of Cody tracing starmaps among the freckles on his pale chest. He threads his fingers into Cody’s cropped hair, imagining that he’s tethering the two of them together, and smiles at the soft hum he gets in response.

The galaxy can afford to wait just a few more minutes.

#sw tcw fanfic #codywan #codywan fic #flash fic #answers #request #codywan fluff

[conditionaljewel]

Imogen stirs with a chill in the middle of the night. The window was left wide open when they went to bed and now a stiff breeze is blowing in. Laudna, meanwhile, has been bundled up in the blankets this whole time nice and warm, seemingly having stolen them off Imogen during the night.

Imogen sneaks out of bed and closes the window most of the way, leaving a small crack just to keep it cool inside. As she crawls back into bed, she reaches over to Laudna’s side and starts to peel away some of the blankets.

However, this causes Laudna to stir, as she reaches up and grabs Imogen’s hand, thinking she’s intending on cuddling.

“No, give me some blanket,” Imogen says as she pulls her hand away from Laudna’s and quickly moves to the top of the blanket. Immediately, Laudna moves onto the defensive in her half-wakened state, and playfully responds with a mumbled “no, mine.”

Imogen tugs at the blankets - gently, playfully - as she tries to get her girlfriend to let her underneath. “But it’s coooooold,” Imogen whines.

“I know and you’ll let all the warm out!” Laudna pulls her head under the blankets like a turtle, as Imogen puts up more of an effort.

“What warm, you’re all bone, babe!” Imogen’s now tugging as the back of Laudna where the blanket had been tucked underneath her. She pulls a corner free and starts to work it out from under her wiry frame with very little struggle, though Laudna continues to resist as best she can.

Finally, after a moment of play fighting, Imogen has pulled the cover over both Laudna and herself, both huddled underneath from head to toe like children hiding in a tent, giggling as Imogen continued her playful assault on Laudna. She now tickled and teased her beloved, as Laudna curled up in defense before ultimately trying to reach for and grab Imogen’s wrists. Managing to do exactly that, Laudna with all of her bone strength manages to get Imogen off guard and rolls her over, pinning Imogen down, and gives her a kiss. Laudna has successfully quelled the “attack.” For now.

Imogen returns the kiss and relaxes, allowing Laudna to remain on top of her, both of them still under the blankets somewhat comfortably.

Laudna buries her head into the crook of Imogen’s neck as she wraps her arms around her, holding Laudna’s bone-thin frame tight.

After a moment, Laudna slinks off to her side of the bed once more and redistributes the blankets evenly back amongst the two of them. As the two of them settle back into a comfortable position, now holding one another’s hand between their resting bodies, Imogen gives Laudna one last playful nudge with her foot under the blankets.

“If you need more, you know you can always take it,” she teased Laudna.

Laudna snuggles closer to Imogen, practically clinging to her now. “Darling, you’re all the warmth I need.”

Imogen kisses Laudna’s forehead and says “good night.” They both close their eyes and drift back to sleep.

#Imogen x laudna #flash fiction #fan fic #short story #flash fic #cr ff #cr fan fic #critical role fan fic #critical role fan fiction #Imogen #Laudna #southern gothic #imodna

[beedreamscape]

When Augustine is being genuine, he calls her Joy. Always Joy.

All the bitting, the fighting, the snipping.

Joy.

Somewhere in the ether Cristabel and Alfred are tangled up, looking down at their myriad long play, hearing the rumors of who they were what they could've done to save him save her, if they were given five minutes, five words, five days... it's a broken record.

They were both beyond salvation, nobody likes a peace maker.

And yet, at the end of it, he calls her Joy and his mouth is dripping with honey and his chest painted with the desecrated remains of her heart.

And she calls him Augustine, all nine letters, and again very softly, pleadingly. Mean souled little man, that person, miserable ass, man-shaped worm, chattering imbecile, vile condescending son of a bitch. Augustine, Augustine, you promised.

He knows her like he knows his own soul like she knows the sternum, he knows her violence like the taste of blood in his mouth, knows her taste like the taste of in-season melons, like the taste of lives past.

She's quick enough in the draw to know every nasty little inch of the Saint of Patience's body down to the millimeter down to the composition of his genetic code down to the taste of his skin.

There's no practical application in that.

She needs not to wrap her arms around him to perceive the marrow of his bones. She needs not to see him to know it's his lungs and his lips and his breath...

He smells like nicotine. Yuck. Pfaugh. She will stain her hands so his remain clean.

My girl, my child, my chick, my dove.

My Joy.

I'm profoundly tired of looking at your face, sick of stirring in the storm of your eyes, I'll eat Cristabel's rotten soul at the red table of your rotten-peach heart instead, I'll call your ribcage my tomb, the pillows of your lungs my grave.

May I burn in your pyre, may our ashes be mingled and fuel a lonely star in the furthest loneliest part of the universe where none can bother our slumber.

Corrosive effervescence, poisonous delight, drunken familiarity.

Shush, my kiwi, my pipsqueak, my bleeding-heart dove, let us rest easy now.

Joy will show you what fervid decided devoted passion looks like - one last crack of this frail wishbone - Mercy will teach you a lesson in forgiveness.

#Or M- and A-. Mercymorn and Augustine. Patience and Joy. are so in love with each other they can't even be in the same room #mercistine #mercymorn x augustine #dios apate #mercymorn the first #augustine the first #the locked tomb #htn spoilers #flash fic #writing #nonsense also

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The First and Last

They tried to define love between bots. “What was love for the artificial?” philosophers and philanthropists asked to entertain themselves or understand themselves, in good faith or bad. Was love a data-exchange? A sharing of storage space or new lines of code? Was it the same as people–the instances of hand-holding, long quiet nights together, a touch of foreheads. Androids and cleaner-bots and enormous shipping units seen turning toward each other in the dark with no one else was around. Who was to say?

There was the first and last bot, of course, eventually. The first of its kind and the last. A weapon, a cannibal, and called itself an Us. A bot that took from people and bots the same–but mostly bots. Stripping them of legs, arms, chest plates, hard drives, engines, cores and more. Hearts, minds, metal and wires, taken and attached to an ever-expanding unit. A planet they said, a universe unto itself day by day. 

Eventually, some bots were seen throwing themselves onto the piles and the people despaired. The First and the Last said, at last, this is love. To become a them, an us, the togetherness of love beyond love and love that cannot hurt as it never ends. And the people despaired until they didn't any longer and threw themselves upon the first and last light of the universe.

#I am trying a 100-day micro fiction challenge #flash fic #spilled ink #sci-fi #science fiction

[grtmnick]

Emma slowly turned toward her parents. The width of her unfocused eyes, and the rosiness of her cheeks, each made it so she looked as if somewhat dazed.

She then muttered, mostly to herself, “D-dress…? Wha…?”

After which she seemed to shake from her revere and exclaimed, “O! Yes! Regina’s boo—I mean dress! That was what all three of us noticed, simultaneously, her Evil Queen-esc. dress.”

#drabble #flash fic #swan queen #emma x regina #emma swan x regina mills #ouat fandom #once upon a time #swanqueen #snow white #Prince Charming #instagram #flash fiction

[jazzythursday]

Prompts: Dressing | Sensitive (721 words)

It’s a known and documented fact that Wylan likes wearing Jesper’s clothes. 

He’s been doing it almost as long as they’ve been together. Slipping his arms into Jesper’s soft shirts in bed, nicking his rings to fiddle with and twist around his fingers during the day. Stealing a jumper left over the bed post or at the back of the wardrobe on colder days to wear as he sketches or tinkers, when there’s nothing to call him away from their room. Lifting his ridiculously loose ties over Jesper’s head and putting them around his own neck before moving to undo buttons. 

It’s like a reminder, like a message that says Jesper Fahey was here. An added layer of warmth and comfort when he puts on one of Jesper’s shirts in the small hours of the night. One that proves every morning they wake up together that it’s all real. 

Jesper’s clothes are as loud as the sharpshooter himself. He mixes patterns and colours Wylan wouldn’t ever dream of considering for himself. But somehow, Jesper manages to pull them off. 

“I dress to impress,” Jesper had said, the time Wylan commented on the fact that going to the Kooperoom in three piece yellow and blue plaid was hardly the casual breakfast he’d proposed. “And I am. Or, so I’ve been told.”

“I can imagine,” Wylan had teased, smoothing his hands over Jesper’s lapels and leaning in close. “You’re very impressive.” And he’d taken Jesper’s matching tie pin and wore it himself for the whole day, just to prove that he could.

Dressing up is part of the allure of Barrel life for him, Wylan supposes. Like the flashy feathers of a male Gouldian Finch or Scarlet Macaw. He wears colours like he wears his revolvers at his hips, proudly and with the express intent of drawing attention. A message to stay away or come closer. A constant reminder to everyone around exactly who he is and what he’s capable of. Jesper treats every day like a fashion show. Each hat chosen with the same flourish that he twirls his guns. It’s not a costume so much as it’s the parts of himself he chooses to present to the public, exaggerated. Jesper Fahey: Crow, sharpshooter, gambler, and renownedly generous lover. 

The last one, Wylan can attest, is not an exaggeration. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

He’s wearing one of Jesper’s shirts now, a silky and wide-sleeved purple thing with embossed curls patterned all over the delicate material. Jesper had worn it the night before while they were out, and the smell of gunsmoke and Jesper’s cologne and sweat still lingers on the fabric. It probably lingers on Wylan too, and he finds he likes the idea quite a lot. Likes the concept that Jesper, bright and dazzling and inexplicably warm, is leaving a mark.

“You’re a shameless thief, Wy," Jesper teases, when he sees, but it’s clear that he doesn’t mind in the least, and Wylan can’t really deny the accusations anyway. It’s no secret that Wylan likes wearing his clothes, and it’s no secret either that Jesper likes it too. He goes soft around the edges every time he notices Wylan’s wearing something of his. 

He’s just come back from the washroom, towel slung low around his waist, and his hair is still a bit damp. It hangs over his forehead in looser coils than his usual style, little droplets clinging to the curls. The sight does things to Wylan that he can’t articulate. 

“Am I?”

Jesper nods sagely. His eyes roam freely up and down Wylan’s body as he grins. “One day I won’t have any shirts left, at this rate.”

“Oh no,” Wylan answers, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging, not bothering to fix Jesper’s shirt—too loose on his smaller frame—as it slips off one of his shoulders and pools down around his arm. “That is a problem, whatever will we do?” 

“I have ideas.”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Jesper says, crossing the distance between them and joining Wylan on the bed. Hands already roaming under the folds of the shirt, replacing the reminders of Jesper with the real thing. Thumbs drawing brackets down the sides of Wylan’s rib cage, coming ever closer. Kissing the sensitive skin under Wylan’s jaw, his neck, further down. “I’ll just have to take it off.”

#a drabble for your troubles? #jazzy writes fanfiction #jazzy writes #wesper fic club #flash fic #shadow and bone #wylan van eck #wesper #six of crows #jesper fahey

[chrononautintraining]

Besides how you've written it before (unless that is your absolute favorite idea), how do you or would you headcannon Bilbo and Thorin accidentally proposing or getting engaged and how would they proceed when they find out or the other accepts the proposal?

Among hobbits, these things tend to be done quietly. Sensibly. Oh, the Tooks have their own ways, and every once in a while a Brandybuck will cause something of a to-do at a birthday party. But good manners in Hobbiton necessitate that such private affairs are, well, private.

Two young people who have been walking out together for some time reach an agreement. Parents are told. Then siblings are told. Then wedding invitations are written and good natured gossip handles the rest. In all honesty, once he reached fifty as a respectable bachelor, Bilbo Baggins felt he was quite safe from anything of the sort ever applying to him.

The point is, that if something of that sort happened to him, it ought to have been a discrete, blushing conversation with a person whom he had "gone a' courting" as it were.

Thorin was holding court. That was something very different and not at all related aside from any esoteric linguistic comparisons. Thorin was sitting on his ridiculous throne in front of hundreds of dwarves talking about taxes and zoning regulations and Balin's schedule for renovating a particularly sacred hall. Then Thorin just turns to Bilbo and says, "You and I will marry in August."

Thorin Oakenshield! How like that awful dwarf to not even make it a question. To just say such a bold thing in front of hundreds of people and expect Bilbo to agree. All of Bilbo's hobbit heart wants to wriggle and blush and despair at hearing something like that from a person he hasn't ever even kissed. Unfortunately, he was sadly used to Thorin's utter lack of manners.

And he was a Baggins.

"April 26," he corrected. "I'm terrible with anniversaries; I shan't bother remembering two."

Nodding regally, with just a hint of red coloring the cheeks above his beard, Thorin turned back to Balin. "Plenty of time to restore the masonry properly, then."

#flash fic #chrononautical writes #the hobbit #bagginshield