#micro fic

[frownyalfred]

"I'm gonna fuck your mom" "I'm going to get my adoptive billionaire dad to sleep with both of your parents and they're both going to fall in love with him and write you out of their will, fuckhead."

(Schoolyard threat from an unknown Wayne child, provided to the Gazette in March 2013. Bruce Wayne, responding via email, denied all allegations of an improper relationship and declared it "entirely spontaneous and consensual."

Mr. and Mrs. [redacted] could not be reached for comment, but court records indicate that Mr. [redacted] began divorce proceedings in April of 2013.)

#clearing out drafts #I think I wrote this while I took that one edible #it made sense at the time I think #bruce wayne #batman #dc #micro fic #batfamily #batdad #idk which batkid said this but #it was not an idle threat

[sp0o0kylights]

I once had to pose in a ton of photos for a friend's AP photography final back in high school so may I present to you:

Steve Harrington, who gave in to Robin's begging that he act as her weird art model for her senior year portfolio (the same one her teacher is encouraging her to bat out of the ballpark and enter into contests.) 

She's doing a whole thing on fashion, subcultures and sexuality using photos and collaged poetry, a project that has Steve trying on different outfits and posing in different places. 

"This might help me land a scholarship, Dingus." She hisses while she's got him bent over her bathtub, spraying parts of his hair blue with wash-out dye.

Steve, soulmate and best friend extraordinaire, goes through it all with minimal (for him) bitching, even if the goth outfit feels absolutely ridiculous, and the 'geek' photoshoot downright laughable.

He starts to have fun when she has him mimic Nancy's straight laced, all A's good girl aura, and equally has a blast with the country look (he has no idea where Robin got a miniature horse but it conned him for every piece of food he had on him and then some.) 

The final piece is the one they're struggling with, the one Robin's now (fake) dying his hair partially blue for. 

A few hours later and he's dressed up once again in a studded leather jacket, the tightest jeans he owns ringed with belts, and combat boots.

 Robin had even talked him into letting her use eyelash glue to attach a few metal studs on his face--two acting as an eyebrow piercing and one on his nose. 

The looks he drew took a minute to get used too when all was said and done, Robin dragging him around Hawkins while she tried to find the 'perfect backdrop' but he's not gonna lie. 

He kinda enjoys being punk Steve.

That is, until Robin has him posing in an alleyway and Eddie Munson comes around the corner, jaw right about falling to the floor.

Even better? 

Eddie doesn't recognize him. 

Not at first, when he siddles up to Steve, nodding to the handkerchief in Steve's back pocket and then flicking the pink triangle pin on his jacket with a finger. 

Steve owes Jonathan a bottle of his father's best alcohol for giving him enough knowledge to get through the music razing Eddie subjects him too, and Steve's all too happy to play the part of punk asshole to Munson's music-snob metalhead.

It's not until Eddies playing with his hair and Robin gives in to letting him have a quick break from the shoot that he gives up the ghost, leaning in to whisper in Eddie's ear. 

"Gotta say, Munson," Steve all but purrs."I wasn't expecting you to fall for the Harrington Charm that fast."

"What?" Eddie asks, jerking his head back to look at him with wide eyes. 

Maybe it's the outfit giving him the extra ounce of courage, but Steve likes to think more that it gives him the freedom to lean forward and brush their lips together. 

Eddie doesn't return it, but that's alright. 

Steve's played this game enough to know that it was merely a hook for a real kiss. 

"Okay." Robin says, annoyed, camera at her side. "Steve, I'm happy that you're finally exploring that repressed as fuck homosexuality we keep arguing about, I really am, but I have to get this last photo!" 

He ignores her, instead nudging Eddie's shoulders.

"Care to pose with me?" Steve asks, grinning. He can tell Eddie still isn't sure if this is a joke, that he's seconds from running, and reaches out to tug on his black handkerchief. "Get Robin her photo, and then talk about this after, Mr. S&M."

Eddie flushes scarlet, but after some reassurance (and wheelding) from Robin, finally agrees. 

(Later, he agrees to a date, which Steve also credits the outfit for.

Even if Robin demands half the credit.) 

#punk steve #except not #steddie #robin buckley #steve harrington #eddie munson #platonic stobin #just think if Eddie had stumbled over the geek outfit #or the mini horse #micro fic #0o0 fanfics #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

[skepsiss]

Steve keeps a picture of Eddie in his wallet behind his license. The photo is creased and has fold lines suggesting it's been there for a while. A picture of Eddie in some innocuous moment in time together, smiling and maybe slightly out of focus because Steve was the one who took the photo.

Eddie finds the picture one day and absolutely melts as he stares at himself and the well worn lines and thinks about how that means Steve looks at it frequently and how he gets to go everywhere with boyfriend like this.

#my_writing #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #micro fic #ficlet

[scriveyner]

minor headache

Atsushi winced as he plucked another piece of glass carefully from the side of his palm. A bright red drop of blood beaded to the surface, and he discarded the shard into the bin between his feet.

He looked up when the bathroom door opened, and Akutagawa closed it gently behind him. “They’re both in bed,” he reported. “And quite contrite, I might add.”

Atsushi extracted another shard from his skin, then ran his finger along the outside of his palm, looking for bits he missed. “I BET they’re contrite, you’re scary when you’re angry.” He raised an eyebrow at Akutagawa, who frowned. “It was an accident.”

“There are too many accidents. They know better.”

“They’re growing boys, and rambunctious.” Atsushi dug more glass from his skin. “Yelling at them won’t solve anything.” The glass pinged into the bottom of the bin. “Maybe we should enroll Acchan in a sport, or something.”

“I cannot see him containing himself to play a sport.” Akutagawa took Atsushi’s hand and inspected it himself; Atsushi knew better than to take it back. “But…it might be good for him.” He rubbed his thumb over some of the beading blood, smearing it, before raising Atsushi’s hand to his mouth and brushing his lips over the wound.

Atsushi sighed and smiled. “Sometimes I think you’re developing a taste for my blood.”

Akutagawa met his eye and licked the blood from his skin. Now Atsushi did pull his hand back, and Akutagawa rumbled in amusement. “Gross,” Atsushi muttered, inspecting his palm, but the wounds had healed over by now anyway. “Why do you have to be so gross?”

Akutagawa leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “It’s never gross when it comes from you, my darling weretiger.”

“Freak,” Atsushi snorted affectionately, and Akutagawa smirked in response.

#bungou stray dogs #sskk #shin soukoku #sskk² #typetrigger #micro fic #happily married dorks

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

Memories for @hinnymicrofic | 302 words

A Deathly Hallows Missing Moment

"Sit."

Ginny stood, gaze focused on the beady eyed murderer sitting in front of her. The sword of Gryffindor lay on the desk between them. Luna and Neville long gone after the Carrows escorted them back to their dormitories. Snape held her gaze.

It unnerved her.

"Where is he?" He asked, voice firm.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Snape forcefully stood, nearly knocking his chair over. "What else would you possibly need the Sword of Gryffindor for besides giving it to Potter?"

"I fancied myself a new letter opener," Ginny acerbically replied, crossing her arms, raising her eyebrow at her Headmaster. Daring him to do something. Anything. Make him slip and say something revealing she could leak back to the Order. Curse her so she could feel something besides lethargy. Take her away to wherever they kept their hostages so she could be involved in the action instead of being held hostage at a school that pretends there is not a war going on.

A look of frustration crossed Snape's features for a second before disappearing.

Suddenly, she felt herself forced back into her own mind.

Memories of hard hands and soft smiles drew her in. Dark broom closets and bright green eyes. Sunlit days and starry nights. Flying on a shared broomstick and falling in love. Harry was everywhere in her brain, forever immortalised in her memories.

Memories that did not belong only to her anymore.

Ginny mentally stumbled back to reality. Snape still in front of her, and Harry long gone.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Miss Weasley. A game I thought you already learned the lesson of during your first year," Snape sneered.

Snape picked up the Sword of Gryffindor, staring at his face in the reflection.

"Play smarter, or quit while you're behind. You're dismissed."

#you see me in hindsight tangled up with you all night burning it down #someday when you leave me i bet these memories follow you around #micro fic #hinny #harry potter #ginny weasley #dh #hpdh

[itssotragic]

12. “Did something happen to you that I don’t know about?” with maybe Rhea/Damian/Dom 🤔

Rated: T Tags: References to past sexual assault, therapy, nightmares.

Prompt List

Quiet nights at home were few and hard to come by. There was always something that needed to be done—unpacking, packing, getting ready for the next show, traveling, training, press. Rarely did the grind stutter to a stop long enough to be still and breathe. But somehow, they'd managed to find one of those precious nights among the chaos—a respite, a chance to simply be and be together. Damian cooked, they ate, then JD and Finn disappeared into the back bedroom with a few soft murmurs exchanged in the leaving. Both had looked so exhausted that Damian had no reason to doubt they really were turning in early.

And so five became three.

They shifted to the living room, where Dom curled up against Damian's side, head resting in his lap as if he belonged there—which, he mused, maybe he did—and Damian held him close as they put on a movie Rhea had rescued from a discount bin somewhere last week. It didn't take long before Dom was half-hidden behind a blanket, peering over the fringe and clutching onto Damian's hand with every jump and pop of noise. Damian was only half paying attention, idly carding his free hand through Dom's hair, his thoughts and gaze both drifting to where Rhea had plopped down on the floor in front of the sofa, meticulously hammering studs and rivets into a trim expanse of black leather. He had no idea what event it was for—he didn't even know if she knew—but he liked watching her work. Once in a while, her tongue would poke out from between her lips, poised at the corner of her mouth, her brow furrowed in concentration as she lined up sharp bits of metal, measured with her fingertips, counted, then swept the whole mess onto the floor so she could start hammering again. 

It was hard for him to imagine a more perfect night than this—to have not just one person who fit so well into every crevice of his life, but all of them. The warmth of Dom pressed against him, Rhea always lingering just within arm's reach, Finn and JD safely tucked away in the other room. It was a kind of contentment he couldn't even imagine until he'd met them. One by one, they'd slotted into place, and a sense of peace had wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.

He had half a thought lingering somewhere in the corner of his mind—something he'd been about to say, a notion that hadn't quite formed into words yet—but it was lost in the rustle of Rhea suddenly rising to her feet. She cracked her neck and stretched her arms above her head with a soft groan and a little pop of something somewhere at the base of her spine. Dom reached out and batted at her hip, and she stepped out of the way of the television with a laugh, pivoting on her toes, practically dancing between the piles of tools and fabric and supplies. 

"You headed to the kitchen by any chance?" Damian asked, watching as she flicked the hem of her shorts back into place around her thigh.

"I think I need glue," she answered.

"You wanna grab me another drink on your way back?"

"Please," she teased and wiggled her fingers at him as she reached for his empty glass.

He rolled his eyes. "And thank you," he offered, handing it over with a small, fond smirk. Their hands brushed, his touch lingered, thumb grazing over her knuckles before he let go of the glass and let her slip away toward the other side of the space.

Damian's gaze followed her, tracking every movement through the room, lingering just long enough to see her slip around the corner of the island counter. Then he turned back to Dom, fingers sliding into his hair again, scratching gently at his scalp beneath a mop of dark waves. Dom hummed softly, a barely audible noise, tilting his head into Damian's palm and shifting ever closer against his side. His focus slipped, settled, sank—grasping onto nothing in particular, at least not long enough to matter—shifting from Dom to Rhea and back again with ease. Rhea's footsteps pattered softly against the tile, punctuated by the glide of drawers as she rummaged around. But even that faded into the background after a moment or two—a rhythmic pulse like a metronome, a steady beat for him to track her by.

Time slowed to a crawl. The movie played on without him; he didn't care. His eyes slipped closed, lashes heavy, comfort guiding the way towards a drowsy sort of almost-rest. Then Rhea's fingers brushed against his shoulder, cold and damp with condensation off his glass, and he hummed a soft sound of acknowledgment as she passed. He heard her nails scratch softly over Dom's blanket, skipping down his side and hip before he felt the couch cushion shift as she settled down and rest her back against it again. A gentle silence settled over them like a fog, warm and comforting, thick enough to sink into and soft enough to mold around his body.

He drifted, lulled by the feeling of Dom's fingertips brushing slowly up and down the side of his arm, tracing shapes that felt nonsensical at first until one curved and glided just so, and his attention honed back in on his own body. Slowly, the shapes Dom was drawing began to make sense. The swoop and arc of his fingertips traced tangled serpents and caressed the side of Medusa's face, almost—maybe entirely—unconsciously. His gaze was focused on the television, one arm tucked up against his chest, while the other hand simply trailed the lines as if he had them memorized. Damian's fingers stroked down the side of his neck, thumb tracing over his collarbone and shoulder before slipping back into his hair again, and shifted his arm a bit closer, easier to reach.

"Have you seen Adam's show?" Dom murmured, turning just slightly to look over his shoulder at Damian, his big, dark eyes wide and gentle and curious. 

He couldn't help but laugh. Of course, to Dom, it was Adam's show, even though he was only in—what?—three episodes. But he nodded, twisting one long strand of hair around his finger. In his gut, he knew what question was probably coming next, but he still offered a soft smile and said, "Yeah, why?"

Dom shrugged. "Just wondering if that's why you got her—" His fingers swooped across Medusa's face again, then down towards Damian's wrist. "Because of the story, I mean."

It was innocuous enough that Damian probably could have skirted around the subject if he wanted to. But it felt—maybe not pointless, but unnecessary. There were parts of himself he'd always kept hidden away—for good reason—and Dom's innocent question brought one of those shadowy things stumbling out of the dark to sit in the center of his chest. And, somehow, it didn't feel as heavy as it once had. Maybe time did heal all wounds or some trite, cliche shit like that; or maybe the salve they'd been applying to it over the last months—years, in some cases—had finally started to heal something. Either way, it didn't feel as deep as it had three years ago when he'd sat down in a tattoo parlor, across from a woman with the prettiest rose-colored hair he'd ever seen, and spilled the entire story over the course of a six-hour session.

He swallowed around the knot that tried to form in the back of his throat, the phantom tingle of needle pricks flaring up along his arm, and nodded again, his smile soft and genuine even if there was a heaviness still sitting just below the surface. But Dom had already seen the flicker in his expression, the slight deepening of the lines around his eyes, the way his fingertips stuttered then stilled where they rest on the arc of Dom's shoulder.

"I'm not supposed to ask that, am I?" he said—timid, a little hesitant, a trace of worry in his voice that he had upset Damian. 

But he just shook his head and gathered Dom a little closer, watching Rhea out of the corner of his eye as she set her tools down and shifted around to face them both. "No, no, it's alright, hermano. You can ask. It was a really long time ago, and I'm mostly okay now."

"Mostly?" Dom echoed, looking up at him again, searching his face, trying to find an answer in his expression.

There was no reason to try to hide anything—not with them. They didn't need the pretty version of things—the glossed-over, watered-down, sanitized truth. It was messy and ugly and uncomfortable, but they were safe, and that was the only thing that mattered. Still, he felt that hard throb in the center of his chest, the last dying ember of a fear he'd spent years trying to extinguish and couldn't quite snuff out completely. He'd learned to live with it, to maneuver around it, and it remained largely inconspicuous if still softly smoldering somewhere in the distance. But here, now, he felt like he could pick that ember up in his bare hands and not get burned by it. It was as small a spark as it had ever been.

Rhea leaned her elbow against the back of the sofa, resting her chin on her hand, looking at Damian with a softness that made his heart ache, but he couldn't quite bring himself to meet her gaze just yet. Instead, he shifted a little and tugged Dom upright, coaxing him into his lap so Rhea had space to move up onto the couch next to them. He slipped into the space between Damian's thigh and the arm of the sofa, legs draped over and between his, shoulder tucked just under his arm, blanket folded around their limbs. 

He felt Rhea's lips fall against his cheek as she rose and took her place on the other side, her legs tucked beneath her as she reached for him and tangled their fingers together. Part of him was glad it was just the three of them, then. It wasn't that he didn't want Finn and JD to know, just that it seemed easier to deal with when there weren't so many people staring at him. The wound had healed, sure, but it had scarred, and some of those scars were thicker, deeper than others. It was hard to know where to start sometimes. He cleared his throat, blinked a few times, and stared up at the ceiling.

"Truth is," he started, gaze gliding back to the television and the credits rolling there. "I wasn't fully aware of what was happening at the time. There were just a bunch of whispered conversations I don't think I was ever meant to hear, and then, all of a sudden, I was being shipped back to New York. I didn't understand why I had to leave—just that everyone was upset all the time, and all I knew was that I was at the center of it. I thought I was being punished for something, but I didn't know what, and I didn't know how to process everything that was going on either—so I just didn't."

Silence hung heavy for a few seconds, but Damian needed that pause to ground himself—to settle into the warmth that surrounded them, the feeling of Rhea's thumb brushing over his knuckles, and Dom's hand curled softly in the front of his shirt. 

"I didn't start dealing with any of it until a lot later," he continued, still staring at some vague spot in the middle distance. "I had a coach who basically told me to get my shit together, then shoved me in the direction of a therapist. I hated it. I thought it was stupid and pointless—that there was nothing I could benefit from knowing—that it was gonna be a massive waste of time. Then, little by little, it started to help—even if, eventually, it opened up a can of worms I didn't realize was actually full of snakes. Once I started digging, I started to remember, and it hit me like a fucking truck. I had nightmares for weeks. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could barely make it to practice. I was a wreck. And, thankfully, a lot of people gave me a lot of grace while it was happening. They didn't know—no one did—they just knew I was trying to get my head on straight and that, hopefully, I was going to come out the other side of it better."

His throat was dry, and he could feel his voice faltering, but he forced himself to keep going. It was cathartic, in a way, like taking a hot knife to an infected wound and prying it open so the poison could drain out.

"There were things that had grown around that initial memory, though—rooted into it, branched off of it—things that needed to be handled separate from everything else. But by the time I moved to Vegas, I'd gotten a hold of most of that, too. The real bone-deep pain wasn't there anymore. Every once in a while, something still flares up, and I have to sit with it for a bit, but..." he shrugged, "but at least I can sit with it now. I can look at it and acknowledge that it's there, and it hurts, and that's okay. Most of the time, it's just phantom pain, anyway; something that aches because it remembers, not because it's still bleeding."

Rhea's palm slid against his cheek, cupping his jaw as she guided his face towards hers, and he felt the slightest sting in the corners of his eyes. That was residual, too—a reflex left over from all the times he'd secluded himself in some small, dark place, hoping he might feel safe enough to cry through the pain. He blinked it away and leaned into her touch, resting his forehead against hers for a moment. He could feel her eyelashes flutter against his, her fingernails gliding softly through his beard, holding him there as he breathed deep and steadied himself. When he pulled back, he found Dom's dark eyes still watching him, quiet and curious and unassuming—a dozen different questions lingering in his gaze. Damian carded his fingers through his hair, tucking loose strands away from his face, tracing the line of his jaw with his thumb. Dom's lips twitched into a soft smile, and he pressed his cheek into Damian's palm.

"Is that why you've always been so good with me and my bad dreams?" he asked.

He laughed and nodded, his smile finally softening into something more natural. "I'm sure it has something to do with it, yeah. But you're easy to take care of."

His smile faded for a moment as he shifted his hand to curl around Dom's shoulder, holding him snug against his chest. If he'd noticed the flicker of emotion on Damian's face that time, he didn't let on; he just tucked himself in closer, drawing his knees up, and nuzzled into the solid expanse of Damian's chest. Sometimes he wondered how alike the two of them were and how much Dom kept quietly closed off for the sake of everyone else around him—to continue being the bright little ball of sunshine they all knew. But it wasn't the right time to start digging into that. He could only hope that offering this small fragment of himself would be enough that they might also feel safe in unburdening their darkness with him—more than they already had. He pressed a kiss to the top of Dom's head and shifted his gaze back to Rhea, catching the soft, sidelong glance she cast in his direction.

"I'm proud of you," she said, her voice low and warm, gentle as she drew her fingers through his hair and grazed her thumb along his temple. "You know that, right?"

Damian hummed, the sound rumbling in the back of his throat, and nodded, turning his face to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "I do," he murmured, reaching for her other hand again. "But it's still nice to hear sometimes."

#damian priest #dominik mysterio #rhea ripley #the judgment day #poly judgment day #wrestling #tragically written #micro fic #no beta we die like men #you should know #i had leonard cohen on #the entire time i was writing this

[mstrickster]

if you're still looking for prompts

domestic Tim/Kon, Kon is trying to duplicate one of Ma Kent's hotdish recipes and makes a mess of the kitchen

I adore that you said hotdish and not casserole. Makes my MN heart happy ngl. I have technically not written batfam so I hope this is decent at least. Anyway, enjoy!

Tim walked through his apartment. He was tapping away on his tablet and only managed to avoid bumping into things because he had the layout memorized. He swerved towards the kitchen. He could smell food and figured Kon was cooking something.

"Hey babe, what are you..." Tim looked up, "What the hell?"

Kon turned quickly from where he had set something on the stove. The kitchen was a mess. No a mess was being too kind, it was a disaster. The sink was full of dishes despite the dishwasher being open next to it and basically empty. You could barely see the counter under the remains of what appeared to be flour. The trashcan was overflowing with burnt food remains. Tim's gaze lifted to a large splotch of something on their ceiling.

Tim sighed and pinched his brow, "Explain."

"I did it," Kon replied happily.

"Did what; destroy our kitchen?" Tim replied dryly.

"It's not that bad," Kon said looking around.

"You clearly don't know what bad means," Tim replied.

"I'll clean it up," Kon promised, "Come look what I made!'

"You better," Tim grumbled, joining Kon at the stove, "What am I looking at?"

Kon rolled his eyes, "It's Ma's famous potato hotdish!"

"I have been trying to perfect it all after," He noted, "You enjoyed it when we had it at Ma and Pa's so I wanted to recreate it."

Tim softened considerably, "Thank you."

Kon smiled brightly, "Let's eat!"

"Clean the kitchen first," Tim demanded.

"But babe...." Kon began to argue.

"Use the superspeed," Tim said turning to leave the kitchen, "Hurry up, I'm hungry."

Kon groaned but nodded, getting to work.

#timkon #asks #sar answers #batfam #tim drake #conner kent #kon-el #superboy #micro fic #mini fic #sar writes

[gregorovitch-adler]

Pen

A pen was all he had with him, in the end. Ever since Sherlock had committed suicide, by jumping from the rooftop of the hospital building, John was left with an empty mind, an empty heart, and just a void the size of a black hole in his soul.

In this miserable and alcoholic state, John was determined about one thing: he would let the whole of London - or if possible, the whole world - know the truth about everything that had led Sherlock to that suicidal state at all. Because if he had to hear one more person referring to Sherlock as a 'fake genius', he'd go insane.

John was going to make a long post on his blog, and for that, he was creating a rough draft in his notebook with a pen.

Because pen was the only weapon he was left with, now.

***

Sherlock September Challenge by @onesmallfamily

Prompt: Pen

Tagging: @lisbeth-kk , @helloliriels , @gaylilsherlock , @calaisreno , @topsyturvy-turtely .

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #micro fic #september prompts #challenge #johnlock ficlet #sherlock x john #sherlockian #sherlock headcanon #post-recheinbach #the reichenbach fall #trf #angst

[marauders-rarepair-fics]

Marauders Era Rarepair Microfics Previous Prompt List:

These microfics are no-commitment, no-pressure, daily prompts for those that want to have a crack at writing, want to spread some love to their rarepair favs, and those who enjoy writing microfics or following prompts! All rarepairs are welcome, no matter how whacky (with the exception of incest and pedophilia). Pick a prompt that inspires you to put your ships in a fun little situation and write away! Tag us and use the hashtag “#marauders rarepair microfic”.

Have fun with these prompts, get inspired to write, draw, make playlists, create mood boards, edits, collages, or anything involving your rarepairs to spread your love for them. NSFW is cool, but please make sure everything is tagged correctly and plenty of warning is provided.

Late submissions are A-okay. Feel free to interpret the prompts however you like, the theme is only there to aid if you’d like, and to make things a little more fun :)

Rules, guidelines & FAQ's + AO3 collection information

prompts all under the cut:

May 2024

June 2024 - coming soon!

#marauders rarepair #rarepair microfic #marauders era #rarepair #marauders #marauders rarepair microfic #fic prompt #dailyprompt #micro fic #marauders microfic #barty crouch jr #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #andromeda black #lily evans #mary macdonald #marlene mckinnon #pandora lovegood #evan rosier #dorcas meadowes #bellatrix black #peter pettigrew #remus lupin #narcissa black #emmeline vance #molly prewett #rita skeeter #alice fortescue #frank longbottom

[frownyalfred]

(a story in headlines)

“Bruce Wayne, Parent? Billionaire’s Recent Adoption Labeled PR Stunt”

“Camera Shy: Wayne Adoptee, Age 12, Stays Out of Spotlight”

“EXCLUSIVE: Dick Grayson’s First Day at School, in photos”

“Bruce Wayne Arrested, Charged with Assault After Tackling Paparazzi at Son’s School”

#treadmill thoughts #bruce wayne #batman #dc #micro fic #dick grayson #dc comics #Gotham

[twisted-tales-told]

hi! hate to be lame by lizzy mcalpine?

I gotta tag @sophsicle because ik u like these guys

Sirius is watching Remus read. He’s always liked doing that. His face scrunches up when something annoys him. He laughs sometimes, and seems totally oblivious about it. He bites his nails absent mindedly.

This time, Remus looks over at him. Catches him staring.

“What?” He laughs, and oh, that look. Those soft eyes Sirius revels in. That make him feel so special.

“You’re cute when you read.”

Something else flashes behind his expression. Something like hurt. And Sirius wants to take it back. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but he hates that he’s the cause.

#send me your favourite song—and i mean the one you’re insane about #wolfstar #micro fic

[thatmexisaurusrex]

For Micro fic prompts. I'm not sure if you haven't done this one already, but Hurt/Comfort pretty please 🥺

Micro Fic Challenge Prompts

Good pick! I hope you enjoy the micro fic! 🥰

Hurt/Comfort

The building collapsed.

Sam.

Can't think about that.

"Joaquín, above. Monica, lights. Wong, portals," said Bucky into comms, "I'll keep the structure sound."

Sam's suit was vibranium. Sam had the best chance of surviving this.

The team set to make it safe to pull people out like Janga blocks without toppling everything left onto other survivors.

Focus, James.

"I think I see Sam," Joaquín said.

Bucky's heart stopped.

"I think he's breathing," whispered Monica.

Sam.

Everyone talked over each other as they found a way to save Sam. All Bucky could do was watch Sam's chest move from afar.

"Sam?" croaked Bucky, "We're getting you out of there."

"I know, Buck," Sam whispered, "I trust y'all."

Tears. Bucky could feel them running down his face.

"I love you," choked Bucky.

"You're telling me this now?" laugh-groaned Sam, "Great timing."

"Don't get trapped under a building next time," grumbled Bucky.

"I was helping a kid and her cat through a portal," Sam said, "I blame the cat."

Bucky snorted as Sam disappeared before his eyes. Everything was even more of a blur as they saved the remaining survivors.

"Sam's looking for you," Monica said giddily.

Did she know something? Whatever. Bucky made a beeline to the medical tents.

Sam.

Sam looked bad. Not as rough as some, but a building had fallen on him.

"Kiss me already," grumbled Sam as he opened his arms, "Can't really move from this bed."

Bucky tripped on his feet, stumbling over to Sam. Sam giggled. A little high.

"We'll do a big damn kiss if you feel like it off pain meds," said Bucky as he kissed Sam on the cheek and held Sam lightly.

"I love you too," whispered Sam, "You know that, right?"

Bucky nodded into Sam's shoulder, still holding him.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky fic #micro fic challenge #mission fic #hurt comfort #my fic #micro fic

[scriveyner]

broken spine

It wasn’t unusual for there to be late nights and early mornings, even as a senior member of the ADA; but the overnight adventures were fewer and farther between. Atsushi had been gone the better part of a week, and was sore beyond all measure—he could very much have used his partner on this one, but with everyone scattered out from the city and working it was either him or Akutagawa, and he was a touch more durable than his husband.

The sun was inching toward the horizon, the tops of the buildings painted with the last of the sun’s rays when he finally made it home. It had been a long, long, long few days, and he could be forgiven if his first thoughts were of a hot meal, a shower, and passing out face-first into the bed.

When he opened the door to announce his arrival, he only had a split-second of warning.

“PAPA!”

Acchan hit him center mass at full speed, and Atsushi went backward, tail over teakettle. The world spun at least three times and he ended up flat on his back on the sidewalk, the strap of his duffel bag wrapped around his neck and Acchan sitting up on his chest, all four limbs striped and furry and tail thumping in excitement. “Papa! I MISSED you!”

Approximately fifteen seconds behind the first weretiger-seeking-missile, Ryuu-chan thudded into them, launched from the door by his Rashomon, and landed pretty much directly on Atsushi’s solar plexus. He wheezed, the wind completely knocked out of him, as the kids hung on and proceeded to talk over each other at an increasing level of volume.

Akutagawa’s laughter from the porch finally oriented him, and Atsushi exhaled loudly, arms over both Acchan and Ryuu-chan. “I missed you too,” he groaned.

#bungou stray dogs #sskk #shin soukoku #sskk² #micro fic #typetrigger

[fires-of-ninjago]

M Garmadon

Name: Monster in the Strom

Words: 200

Character(s): Lord Garmadon, Vinny Folson

Pairing: Survivalshipping

Garmadon growled as he made his way up the mountain; snow and ice blowing across his path as he went.

“Why the hell were you driving in this!?” He howled into his phone. The Oni warlord could practically feel the flinching from the other side.

“I had to,” the other said. “We had a story to cover!” Garmadon tried to growl, but the second he opened his mouth, another squall whooshed forward. He sputtered as snow rushed straight into his mouth. In a flash of rage, he let loose a wave of pure destructive Oni power as he broke out into a spin.

“BLAST THIS SNOW!” He howled as he landed back on the now cleared road.

“H-hey! Are you okay?!” The warlord said as he snapped out of his anger at the sound of his beloved’s voice. 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine!” He replied as the snow started to fill the void he’d created with his storm. 

“Listen, I’m almost at the rest station. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks Garm, we’ll see you soon. Oh, and Gail wants that exclusive interview while you’re here.” He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard that.

“Tell Gail not to push her luck!”

#Ninjago #Ask Game #Survivalshipping #Ninjago Garmadon #Ninjago Vinny #Vinny Folson #Lord Garmadon #Micro Fic

[itssotragic]

Rhea/Dom/Damian/JD + “you don’t need to earn my affection, not now and not ever.”

pleassseeee 🥹

Rated: T Tags: Insecurity, love confession (sort of), slight allusion to OCD, polyamory, some sweary words.

Prompt List

JD sat alone in the locker room, his hoodie and sweatpants were thrown on over his gear to ward off the chill of the cavernous backstage halls, his fingers tracing carefully over a silver bracelet. It had become a habit over the past few days. Whenever he felt like he was spiraling into another pit of doubt and uncertainty, he'd fish it out of his bag and slip it on, the metal biting briefly into his skin before clipping into place. However small it was, it sat heavy with the weight of meaning—a reminder that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't doing this alone. And maybe that was what made it feel so daunting.

He'd never been good at gestures. Words came easily enough, most of the time, but when it came to more tangible efforts, he felt like he was trying to decipher a riddle in a language that had been dead for a thousand years. But for something so big that meant so much to all of them, he couldn't help but feel like he needed to do something in return.

But nothing he could think of felt like enough.

Which was why he was hiding in a dimly lit side room while Rhea finished up with press. Usually, he'd be lurking a few feet away, next to Dom, but tonight he'd hung back under the guise of having a headache. It wasn't an outright lie, but he was fairly certain the pain at the back of his skull was less from his head bouncing off the mat earlier and more from the thin shard of stress that had buried itself there. Now, he could hear the rumble of equipment trolleys loading onto trucks and the faint buzz of conversation and laughter shifting through the halls, fading off into the distance, and whatever time he'd been afforded to settle his mind had already elapsed.

He hefted his bag off the bench beside him and yanked the tie out of his hair, stuffing it absent-mindedly into his pocket as he lurched into the hallway. His footsteps echoed faintly off the cement and cinder block, growing slightly more muffled as he rounded into the staging area and towards where the others had gathered, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment as Dom glanced over his shoulder.

There was something in the way Dom smiled at him—the effortless, bright, beaming smile—that made him forget a little bit of that stress. But Dom was easy; it was the other two that left him feeling apprehensive sometimes. Not that they had ever done anything to cause that worry, but he was hyper-aware of the fact that he was a brand new variable being introduced into a situation that had existed, so finely balanced, for over a year. It was going to take time to rid himself of the fear that one wrong move would send him plummeting off the metaphorical scaffolding onto the ground below. Most of the time, he was fine. It didn't sit with him constantly. But once in a while, that shard, that splinter of thought, dug right into the center of his brain and refused to budge, no matter how much logic and reason he tried to apply to force it out.

He slumped against Dom's side, catching the tail end of their conversation. Damian said something in Spanish he only caught half of, and Dom chuckled, wrapping an arm around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

"We good?" Damian asked, turning his attention to JD. There was something in his expression that was a little softer than usual—a quiet sort of concern he knew not to question. He had an uncanny ability to read people, and it made him wonder if he hadn't already noticed that something was off, or if he might still be able to play it off with the same excuse he'd been using most of the night.

"More or less," he shrugged. "I'm not concussed if that's what you're worried about."

"You checked out?" Damian folded his arms across his chest, attention flitting away for half a second as Rhea grabbed her sweatshirt off the top of her bag and yanked it on over her head.

"Yeah, I stopped by medical after my match. They said I'm fine."

Damian nodded, satisfied enough for now, though it wasn't like they were going to have a conversation about anything more involved than that in the middle of everything. "Alright," he said, "let's roll, then. You guys want to grab something to eat on the way?"

"Always," Dom answered, giving JD one more squeeze before he pulled away, falling in line next to Rhea with a playful bump of his shoulder against hers and the same wide, adoring grin he always had for her.

They made their way out through the arena towards the parking garage, with Damian leading the pack, Rhea and Dom next to each other, and JD trailing just behind. A few people were still milling around, but most had either left already or were on their way out. There were a few nods and waves exchanged on the way—brief passing conversations that faded into an echo and then into nothingness. Then the sharp, hollow beep from the rental van's key fob cut through the relative quiet, lights blinking, and the click of the doors unlocking carried across the nearly empty lot.

"Why don't you sit up front?" Damian said, thumping JD on the shoulder with one hand as he threw his duffel bag on top of everyone else's and slammed the hatch closed.

His eyebrows raised slightly, and he shrugged. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Make the kids sit in the back."

Normally he was one of the kids, but with Finn still on holiday, he assumed he was technically the next in line. No one seemed to mind, or at least not enough to argue about it, so JD slid into the passenger's seat and dragged the seatbelt over his shoulder, clicking it into place before Damian even got the door closed on the other side. He kept his hands pinned between his knees, palms together, watching Damian plug his phone into the aux cord and tick the volume down a few levels. The heat whirred on, and a few clicks later, the seats and steering wheel were warming up as well.

Damian tipped his head back against the headrest, glancing into the rearview mirror. "You want to find somewhere to eat, and I'll punch it into the GPS before we take off?"

Rhea murmured a quick "Yep" and slung herself across the back seat, draped over Dom's lap so he could look at her phone with her while she scrolled through all the restaurants and drive-thrus between here and their hotel. It was a process. Checking hours, checking menus, checking to see how far off their route it was going to take them to get there, and whether there were carry-out options or if they felt up to crowding into a booth. Then, inevitably, they repeated the cycle three or four more times until they found something that had everything they wanted.

But at least the van was warm.

JD settled back in his seat and stretched his legs out, shoving his toes to the end of his sneakers and hooking them under the dashboard to soak up heat from the base vents. Damian thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel, mostly in tempo with the song humming out of the speakers, but there was a stutter to it—something thoughtful, half a beat behind the rest. When, after a few long seconds, he finally dredged up the courage to look over, he found Damian staring straight through him. Disconcertingly precise and deliberate.

"What?" he frowned, holding Damian's gaze even as a flush crept into his cheeks.

Damian shifted, angled himself towards JD, and rested his elbow against the door, his hand still draped over the spoke of the steering wheel. "I'm still wondering what's up with you tonight."

He heaved a sigh and reached up to shove his hair out of his face. "Nothing, really—"

"Bullshit."

"—it's just…" Another sigh, this time more frustrated. He could feel the impulse to answer honestly, but he didn't know why he was fighting it as hard as he was, or why he kept looking for an excuse to cast the truth into the abyss again. He dragged his lower lip through his teeth and thumped his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, that shard shifting a little deeper.

"Look, I don't..." he started again. "I don't know how to do this shit, alright? I'm bad at it; I'm genuinely bad at it." He gestured vaguely with both hands, trying to summon something more than just panic and insecurity from thin air. "The only person I've ever felt right with was Finn, and he's always been here, so we just sort of figured it out together. But now there's you three, and I feel—I'm starting to feel—the same way, and I don't know how to... show that, how to break even. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to be the piece that makes this all fall apart."

It was a hell of a lot more than he'd planned on saying, but once he started, he couldn't stop the words from pouring out of him. By the time he'd caught his breath and lowered his hand from where it was clutching the neckline of his hoodie, Rhea had leaned forward into the space between the seats, her hand resting on his upper arm. Damian reached out too, fingers encircling JD's wrist as his thumb brushed softly over the face of the bracelet—a gesture that carried more than enough intent for him to understand.

"Maybe part of your problem is feeling like you have to break even in the first place," Damian said, his voice softer and gentler now, though it still rang with a tone that suggested this should have been obvious. "It's not about keeping score; you don't have to do anything to earn our affection—not now, not ever. It's there; you've got it." He tapped the bracelet with his thumb, then slid his hand around to trace JD's wrist with his fingertips. "And we're all still figuring it out. Trust me, it was bumpy in a few places when this all started; it still is sometimes. But that's just how things are. If you want it badly enough, you work through it."

JD hesitated for a moment, then slowly turned his hand over, palm-up, watching with a spark of amazement as Damian laced their fingers together and squeezed. It was such a simple gesture—so small, so ordinary—but it carried a weight of its own. It was the first time they'd ever done that, and yet it felt familiar already—the weight of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips. He drew in a slow breath and nodded, then turned his gaze back up towards Damian's face.

He wasn't sure what it was that Damian saw there, but he almost immediately pulled back, flipped the center console up, and reached out to place his hand on the back of JD's neck, dragging him forward with a soft "Goddammit, c'mere, kid." It was awkward; the seatbelt bit into the side of his neck, but he didn't care. His arms slid around Damian's torso, hands clutched in the back of his jacket, and his face buried against his shoulder. His breath shuddered softly, muffled by leather and solid flesh.

"If you need a place to start," Damian said, almost in a whisper, though he was sure both Rhea and Dom could hear it from the back, "start by telling us what you need, when you need it. Don't let it get this bad. We've all got you, and we've all got each other. That's how it works."

"Okay," JD murmured.

Damian pulled back, his hand at JD's jaw, and his head tipped down just enough to look him in the eyes under the veil of errant curls. "Familia, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And," Rhea added, thrumming her fingers softly against his shoulder, "if you ever feel like you're getting in your own way, come talk to one of us."

"Or all of us," Dom said.

"Or all of us," Rhea agreed.

He nodded and scrubbed hastily at his cheek with the cuff of his sleeve as he sank back in his seat. Anything he might have said was caught behind a lump in his throat, but that sharp prickle of anxiety had vanished from the back of his mind, leaving behind little more than a faint buzz of residual nerves and a warmth he was fairly certain had nothing to do with the heating vents. Damian twisted back into his seat, and Rhea gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before she fell back against Dom, who wrapped his arm around her waist and peered over her shoulder at her phone again.

There was a lull, a trickle of silence. JD sniffed. Damian cleared his throat.

"So are we getting food, or what?" Damian asked.

"If you two would shut the fuck up for ten seconds, I'd have told you that we found a place." Rhea rolled her eyes, overdramatic, but handed her phone over, so Damian could enter the address into the on-screen navigation.

He passed the phone back over his shoulder to her when he was done, shifted the van into gear, and started the winding journey out of the garage. The glitter of streetlamps was a lot more pleasant than the waxy yellow lights and dingy cement, and JD let himself relax a little against the window, keeping the three of them in his peripheral. It wasn't until they stopped at a red light that he felt Damian's hand slide over the armrest, fingers splayed and his palm resting upward. He looked up, meeting Damian's gaze with a smile as he tangled their fingers together again.

#damian priest #dominik mysterio #rhea ripley #jd mcdonagh #the judgment day #poly judgment day #wrestling #tragically written #micro fic #no beta we die like men #an attempt at being concise #i genuinely can't tell if this is any good #but it went in an unexpected direction #c'est la vie #there was a weird typo but it's fixed now #carry on

[resident-gay-bitch]

For my “I’m bored so give me a number between 1-50 and I’ll pick the correlating song from my playlist, and give you a marauders headcannon about it!” game!

@stxr-bxy picked number 15 which is: Feel Good by Yot Club

This song for me is such a summer late night drives song, so have some James and Sirius. This can be taken romantic or platonic, whichever you prefer :)) irs just a little fluffy headcannon.

But then you also get a second one because the vibe of my original thought does not correlate with the lyrics AT ALL. The song is about being in a stable relationship but still having a sense of doubt or not feeling good, soooo you get some sirius angst, internalised queer pining and major denial for this one :) also that one’s written in fic format too :) <3

★ ★ ★

THE FIRST ONE:

It’s summer after seventh year, they’re at the peak of the war and everything’s hard. But Sirius has just finished his bike. It flies and everything. He begs James to take it for a test run.

The air is hot outside, almost humid. Sirius’ hair is sticking out from under his helmet that he’s painted all over, and he’s grinning wider than ever. He even made a helmet special for James, with his nickname written over it and everything.

They hop on the bike, it’s so dark out, only the steet lights lighting the way. Sirius takes off, spreading through the little town and laughing as the wind whips at his skin.

James is holding him around the waist, laughing as they race along the road.

And then they lift off, taking to the air. James grips Sirius tighter, tucking his chin over Sirius’ shoulder to hold on for deer life. Sirius is laughing and James is screaming in his ear, begging for Sirius to let him make it home in one piece or his mum would kill them both.

Just James and Sirius letting go and enjoying a nice moment together after school, before everything goes to absolute shit.

THE SECOND ONE:

Sirius rolls over in bed, panting as he lies flat on his back. He looks up at the top of the canopy, a hand over his chest, skin sweaty. His chest feels hollow.

Beside him, Mary sighs, sitting up to sip her water. She’s beautiful, so beautiful, as she always is. So Sirius doesn’t know why he feels like this.

She leans over and kisses him, brushing his curls out of his eyes. He smiles up at her, kisses her back and then smacks a few on her cheeks for good measure. She hops up to shower, walking away, naked with an enticing shake of her hips.

But Sirius doesn’t watch. He pinches the bridge of his nose and hates himself.

He loves her.

He really really really loves her.

What’s not to love about her? She’s truely the most brilliant woman Sirius has ever had the pleasure of meeting. And they’re good, they’re stable. They have their own flat, and an anniversary coming up, and James has been telling him that the girls think he’s gonna propose. He should propose. They’re in love, for fucks sake, have been for years. Well, that’s what everyone else thinks.

Sirius feels sick thinking about it too long.

He just… doesn’t love her like that. He can’t. No matter how hard he tries it just feels… there’s something missing. Something wrong.

He should feel good, he should feel happy, but he doesn’t.

He feels safe with her, at home, but it’s still not enough.

There’s something wrong with him. He knows there’s something wrong with him. Something that makes him feel sick.

It tears him down until he breaks. It makes him numb, and fake, and horrible to be around. He lashes out, cries, and isolates. He doesn’t even know why Mary sticks around, why’d she’d even want him to propose.

He tells her he loves her, all the time, but surely she can feel how much of a lie that is, right? Or maybe he’s just gotten so good at pretending that she can’t tell anymore.

Maybe she just wants to be loved so desperately for something other than her body that she can take what she can get. Maybe she likes that Sirius isn’t constantly trying to fuck her; he prefers when they just have a nice meal, or cuddle up to read on the couch.

Maybe she does know and feels the same as he does.

He hopes that’s the way. The last thing he wants to do is to hurt her.

He rolls over and looks at his bedside table, at the picture he has framed there of the Marauders fresh out of school. He looks at one face in particular; scarred and freckled, honey brown eyes and sandy hair, and he feels his stomach flip. A longing sense of desire grows within.

But he ignores that, and follows Mary into the shower.

Okay holy fuck I really like that second one. I started writing it with no real direction but UGH I both love and hate how it turned out. So angsty and justice for Mary, but OHHHHHHHHH I LOVE IT.

#jay answers #sirius black #headcannon #micro fic #sirius and James #sirius and Mary #wolfstar #sirius x mary #angst #James potter #mary mcdonald #prongsfoot #padfoot #Feel good #yot club #remus lupin #ask game #jay writes #feel good by yot club #marauders #marauders headcannon #fluff #Sirius’ motorbike #cannon compliant