#300 words

[rockingrobin69]

(never) over

“Smells lovely,” Draco huffed, more air than words, ticklish in the crook of Harry’s neck. He was half hanging off him and half swaying to the non-music, wind outside and the hum of the oven and the crackling of firewood; Harry closed his eyes and smiled, overheated and slightly overwhelmed, and overjoyed, bursting with it.

“Sweetheart,” he said, not on purpose. Then, firmer, “Sweetheart,” pressing a kiss to the precious crown of his head, and another, and another, helpless to it, “sweetheart,” in this room that was too warm (oven and fire and Draco and dancing), in his arms, in, this, here.

“Yes,” Draco laughed, swaying him worse, dragging a lip up Harry’s neck, tiny little flutters of kisses, “sweet,” meaning the smell, probably, or the—whole of it. Starry-bright.  

Harry wanted to say: you are, meaning the entire world, probably, but words were sticky and slow to come and kissing was closer anyway, so he took Draco’s chin in his palm and pressed their noses together, readying, ready, stopped there. Half-melted around the edges. Staggering, the way Draco looked at him sometimes.  

“You,” Harry said, and swallowed what might have been a whine. He was so—happy, over-filled and buzzing, overrun with delight.

“I?”

Nodding, “You.”

Draco blinked, so near Harry could almost feel the movement on his own cheeks. His eyes were huge and somewhat blurry, grey and scorching-brilliant. “You too,” he said, arms slinging behind Harry’s neck, pulling even tighter. The crackle of fire and hum of the oven, the non-music of the night surrounded them like a blanket, gentle and warm. Overpowering.

The moon sang its crescent tune distantly overhead; Harry, long over it, leaned the last remaining inch between their lips, and the sigh just before the kiss was on its own so unbearably sweet.

@moonmanatee, my dear beloved friend, here's your treat!

[castillon02]

January: an Omega watch that could level a city block. February: a Montblanc garotte-pen that could write a headline as easily as take a head off. March: a tuxedo jacket made out of a new stab-proof nano-fiber.

Q Branch had assigned these to 006, 005, and 009 respectively.

When the new Aston Martin was ready in April, Bond was too: ready to put his persuasive blue eyes to good use.

"Q."

"No."

"The odds of one going into the Tiber again are---"

"I specifically waterproofed it. It's technically a nautical vehicle. The answer is still no."

Bond smoldered.

Q kept his dark-ringed eyes on his monitor. His shoulders slumped for a moment before straightening. "Fine. If you sign this." Q handed him a letterheaded sheet of paper.

Under the circumstances that the man known as Q is removed from his position at MI6 due to the destruction of a gadget that Q has provided to me, I, the undersigned, pledge to provide at minimum a replacement monthly salary for at least 48 months immediately following the removal of Q's employment.

"No one's going to fire you."

Q arched his eyebrows. “Here: your current issue.” He handed Bond a plastic Bic pen. The top half had been chewed on and not by Q; the molar imprints didn’t match. 

Bond’s lip curled involuntarily. 

Q smiled. 

Bond signed the contract. 

Later, after the car and its surrounds exploded, Q turned up at Bond’s flat with two cat carriers in tow. “I expect we’ll be kept in the manner to which we’re accustomed.” He flopped onto Bond’s sofa.  

It’d probably be a month or two before MI6 hired Q back, which was time enough for good Quartermasters to have a rest and be spoiled. Bond would have to thank 006; the Omega had worked perfectly.

[outtoshatter]

Food Fight

“Fine,” Sparrow snapped, “cook for yourself.” “We were only teasing.” Lark held his hands up in surrender. “It’s just I never knew mashed potatoes could look…like that.” “Or smell,” Nick put in. His eyes narrowed. “No one asked you.” “The chicken was crying for help.” His face burned. “Well, I don’t know what I’m doing with that! I don’t eat meat.” Lark leaned over to peer into the bowl of green beans. “Why are they…brown?” Sparrow let out a guttural scream and shoved his head down. He squawked just before his face splashed into the beans. His arms flailed, scrabbling at the counter until Sparrow let go. He jerked upright. “What the fuck, Spa-” Nick burst out laughing. They both whipped around to face him. A green bean flew off Lark’s face with the motion, hitting the refrigerator with a plop. Nick guffawed, clutching his stomach. “Hey.” Lark stuck his hand into the gelatinous bowl of potatoes, fighting to get a handful. He cocked his arm and flung. The glob sailed across the table and hit Nick at the chin with a splat. “Hey! That’s chemical warfare,” he protested. Sparrow glanced to the left and found Lark already looking at him. They grinned. Lark grabbed the bowl of potatoes. Sparrow snatched the green beans. Nick put his hands up. “This isn’t fair.” He backed up and bumped into the table. “No, no, no don’t-” Too late. Browned green beans and mashed potatoes soared through the air. Nick tried to duck, but it was too late. His mouth hung open, dripping beans and questionable potatoes, hands out at his sides. Lark all but collapsed into Sparrow with laughter, wheezing. It only took one glance at Nick’s expression to set him off too, clutching Lark’s arm to keep himself standing.

Also on ao3 <3

[sniigura-archive]

i need adam biblically. patiently waiting for the next part of your frat boy adam😩😩

me too i’m in my knees for him 🙏🏻

im writing it rn 🫡 everything for you guys

[polutrope]

The music enchants, but it is the minstrel’s silks that enthrall Maglor. Silver-green like starlight meshed in moss, they ripple like water— nay, like thick cream, tempting both eyes and tongue. The cloth loves the one it clothes; lives as though the tiny creatures who spun it sacrificed their spirits in its making. 

It is as soft as cream, too, between Maglor’s fingers. So soft Maglor bares himself first, which he has done for no one since landing on these shores. He bares the scar that loops around his ribs: the mark of a Balrog’s whip. A strange scar, patterned like chainmail, for the metal grew so hot it singed the flesh it was meant to protect. 

Maglor’s skin burns otherwise now. He hungers for luxury. Hungers and takes, lowering the length of himself over the prone body beneath him. 

“Have you no silks in your Blessed Realm?” Daeron’s chuckle is a playful breeze on Maglor’s throat. 

They do, they did — but not like this. Ah, how Maglor wishes he could tell him: they are gone, all his gowns, all his trailing robes and winged shawls. More we shall make: so his father had spoken. But there are no such materials in cold Beleriand – none save these that have come out of the Girdled Kingdom, draped upon the shoulders of a nightborn bard with a voice like rain, like rivers, like the vast dark spaces between stars. 

Maglor’s silks are left behind and lost, but these— but you— “You are here,” Maglor says, nonsequitur. 

Daeron asks no more questions, and that is well, for Maglor can give no answers. He kisses Maglor’s mouth and shrugs out of his silks, and at the touch of skin on skin, warm and supple skin, Maglor’s hunger is at once renewed and sated. It is not his silks, but Daeron for whom he hungers; Daeron who is his luxury, his comfort, his home.

Inspired by @jouissants' Doriath silk monopoly worldbuilding in arrangement for flute and harp

[whimsicalmeerkat]

telepathy - black jewels

On AO3

She’s not trustworthy.

Daemon keeps his expression as it was when Lucivar sends his message on a spear thread.

Written for the @februaryficletchallenge day 6 prompt “telepathy”.

[toxicbrothel]

POV

300 words. I8+ noncon somnophilia, stalking

Ghostface was following you, and your date was finally ending.  He wasn’t really planning on doing anything tonight. He wanted to let you miss him. . . until he saw you kiss the guy goodnight, and even let him grab your ass? Ghostface couldn’t let that go. He put on his mask, then reached in the glovebox for his emergency switchblade and flicked it open. He almost forgot to put on his gloves. He waited until you were driving off, then practically flew across the parking lot, taking long strides with his robe flowing behind him. 

“Have a good time?” Ghostface asked your date.

Your date dropped his keys and flattened himself with his back against his car, terrified. Ghostface wrapped his hand around the man’s neck and savored the look of fear in his eyes. “Too bad there won’t be a second date,” he taunted before slashing the man’s throat. Ghostface let him slump onto the pavement, then cleaned the blade with his glove and left the man gurgling on the ground as he bled out. 

Now, to deal with you. Ghostface was nothing, if not patient. . . when he wanted to be. And he had something special in mind for you. He waited until you were fast asleep, then let himself into your house. He crept into your bedroom and palmed himself as he watched you sleep. You rolled over, then let out a little sigh, and it made his dick rock-hard. He got onto your bed and pulled the covers off you. He couldn’t help but moan softly when he saw you were naked. Good. You let out an unsatisfied grunt, but didn’t wake up. He pulled his sweatpants down under his balls, and nudged your legs apart. Then he covered your mouth with his gloved hand. You grunted into his glove, and your eyes blinked open. 

“Dreaming of me, princess?”

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

thank you for reading! and thank you @milla-frenchy for the compelling pic 💕💕

PSA: this is my only ghostface on this acct, but i do have some on main, most notoriously every inch

[literarywizard]

The Newest Act In The Modern Circus

I had a hectic, busy day today that has left me exhausted. Rather than give into the desire to take a day off writing flash fiction, I decided to channel the day's experiences into my art. Which is what this is. Art. Definitely not another pun post.

Todd, phone to his ear, rifled through a stack of papers. When he found the one he needed, he glanced at his boss’ open door across the room and decided he could probably land it on his desk as a paper airplane. As he folded, the hold music on the other line disappeared. The chipper voice was deafening after the tinny music. “Hello! Thank you for waiting. How can I help you today?” “Hi.” Todd…

[walmartlevelgoofy]

Updated: You Are My Sunshine

"You are-" The two dance together, moonlight shining down on their heads, making their tears glitter."my sunshine,"The stars twinkle and dance, a meteor shower begins, and lights far too bright shoot far too fast across the evening sky, making the shadows join the lovers dance."my only sunshine"The words come out as a whisper, tenderly floating out bloodied lips faintly brushing against the other's scarred ear."you make me happy"Every word is punctuated with a cut-short dry sob, empty of everything but emotion. "when skies are gray"The shooting stars become brighter as the song goes on, highlighting every leaf, every flower petal, every broken chunk of concrete scattered on the floor"You'll never know, dear"Their tears shine bright on the broken ground, but neither worry of anyone seeing them."How much I love-"They can hear the shooting stars come closer and closer now, but they've long since accepted their fates."you."The ground begins to shake the abandoned building, the abandoned city, this abandoned planet, full of, yet empty of life."So please"They continue dancing, no matter how tired they are."don't take"They know these are their last moments together."my sunshine"They have been through so much, and tonight, it's finally over."away"The final word can hardly be heard by the speaker. Everything is so bright, but their eyes are already closed. As the meteor comes closer and closer, the two are bathed in an otherworldly radiance. If anyone was watching, they would say they were angels. In the brightness of the end, you can't see the dirt and blood smudged on their clothes, their skin. You can't see the years of hardships and the terrors that the have seen. Because together, they faced life. And together, they will face death.

[bequia3]

300 Word Challenge

This is a story I submitted to our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum. The story had to be 300 words or less. This is based on a real “character” in our family. Names were changed even though Lila is totally recognizable by those who know her. This story would make her smile with a wink. The Coquette Lila knew how to get attention. First, she always wore a hat. She liked to make a statement even when…

[tree-of-life-and-death]

[Lorelei] could almost smell the blood. "We must all be permitted our little hypocrisies."

Flashbacks or flash forwards, who can say! The waters are indiscriminate with their torments! Can't miss a chance to get a shot in though (the guy she's talking to is the biggest hypocrite of the series)

[rockingrobin69]

just works

They play Cranium with Ron and Hermione on Friday, and the little card says Harry has to sculpt Wembley stadium from playdough. For some reason his mind goes to Wimbledon, and he makes what sort of doesn’t look at all like a tennis court: Draco blinks at it, nods, and says, Wembley.

They get the point, and Hermione loses her absolute marbles. “How,” she keeps asking, louder and louder with every glass of wine, “did you both make the same mistake, the opposite way?”

Harry just shrugs. Doesn’t quite know how to explain that they’re both the same kind of weird, but in opposite ways, that they make all the mistakes all the time and still somehow manage to understand each other. Draco’s smile sparkles with mischief, and he keeps coming up with half-arsed theories about mental connection and soul mates and bees and ants that regurgitate knowledge, but it was a total accident, and he knows it too. They’re just like that when they’re together: somehow it works. Hermione doesn’t quite forgive them even when she wins the game for spelling ‘obnoxious’ backwards, but she smiles when Ron shrugs, when he gives her that look.

“That’s Harry and Malfoy for you,” he says, and she laughs and nods, conceding the point (but still sore about the point).

On their way home, Draco leans his head on Harry’s shoulder. “My father used to watch tennis. He hated Andy Murray, but I always suspected it’s because he fancied his arse.”

Harry chokes on surprise-laughter. “Vernon and Dudley watched a lot of footie.” There’s silence for a while.

“I despise football,” Draco says.

“Yeah, tennis is boring.”

They look at each other, not much else to say. Harry’s smiling when he takes his hands, fingers threading together. Yeah, all right. That’s them.

(Flufftober day 18. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[slightnettles]

hii! if you're up to it, arwen & elrond & celebrían for the worldbuilding prompt 'weaving or fabric craft' please?

Thank you so much for the prompt!

Blue for the night sky, black for shadows beneath trees. Blue for joy, black for repose. An end to war, night as blessed as day. The wings she embroiders - for protection, for hope.

maker

His wounds are healed; but he is cold. It was so very hot in Mordor, he says, on the slopes of Orodruin… Woad for blue; oak galls and iron water for black. This Celebrían learnt from her mother, who learnt from one who wove more than thread. Blue for the night sky, black for shadows beneath trees. Blue for joy, black for repose. An end to war, night as blessed as day. The wings she embroiders - for protection, for hope. Nightingale wings, many and small, russet and fawn. Pale gull wings, edged with silver. Two swan wings, strong as wind.

mender

On the day they are wed, she sweeps the cloak over his shoulders. Not too heavy? she asks. But no: Elrond feels warm, tethered at last. When the cloak tears, she offers to mend it. But he has been learning to use needle and thread also. Not on fabric: on skin and sinew. So many years with a blade have left him sickened; now he learns another craft. All his skill, in the end, is not enough, when she is brought home. She has taught him to mend himself, not her; her cloak is warm, but sea wind is colder.

heir

Her earliest memories are of that cloak, of lying beneath it, close to her father’s warmth. Later, Arwen grows to marvel at her mother’s skill, alive in every thread. First memories, last gift. She thinks she might leave it in turn to her children; but they are heirs to so much, and when winter comes to Cerin Amroth she is so very cold. About her, white wings are for kin beyond the sea, whom she will never meet; nightingale wings, for one whose fate - whose fear? - she shares. And within - his scent - in every stitch the trace of her hand.

[xanthippe74]

Drarry microfic: Guilty

content warning: drinking/hangover

Harry is rudely awakened by a folded newspaper swatting his aching head.

“Rude,” he grumbles.

“You go to a Ministry dinner without me one time,” Draco starts in, before Harry can open his eyes, “and this is what happens?”

Harry turns his face into the pillow. “What happened? Erm, exactly? I’m a bit funky on the details. Fuzzy, I mean.”

“According to witnesses,” —there’s a deliberately prolonged rustling of paper near Harry’s left ear— “you convinced the 107-year-old Ambassador to Sweden to play a risqué drinking game with you.”

“She quit after three shots of Firewhisky. What a lightweight. Speaking of drinks, you didn’t happen to bring me some Hangover Potion, did you?”

“I’m not done yet. Then you held up the buffet queue in order to sculpt a tray of mashed potatoes into an anatomically-correct, female mountain troll.”

“I did? Wow, I wish I could remember that.”

“Lucky for you, a photographer from the Prophet captured the moment for posterity.”

“Oh, good. Big tits on the troll?”

“Ridiculously so. And then, Potter…” Draco applies the newspaper to Harry’s arse, this time with more force. “Then you started shouting ‘Right on!’ and ‘Damn straight!’ at random moments during the Minister for Magic’s speech.”

“Heh. I did do that, didn’t I? It was a right snoozefest, that speech. Thought I’d help him out.”

The mattress dips next to Harry’s hip, and he hears Draco sigh. Surrender. Harry wins! He slides one arm out from beneath the duvet and waves it around until a glass vial hits his palm.

“You’re shameless. Don’t you feel even the tiniest bit guilty about ruining an important Ministry function, you menace?”

“Nope,” Harry says blithely after tipping the potion into his mouth. “Maybe this will teach them never to leave my husband off the invitation again.”

Written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, "guilty."

masterlist of my microfics

[200story]

Taxidermy

Sharp teeth of a snarling cougar, a tray full of glass eyes, animal skins hanging from hooks. Phillip looked nervously over his shoulder to see Liza offering an encouraging smile. Then the door shut, and Phillip alone with Isaac, his girlfriend’s father. “I could spend hours working out here,” the older man was explaining. “I find it very thought provoking, especially about politics.” Liza had…

[recycledletters]

False Seashell (6/20/22)

Ytralia glided across the ocean floor. One suction cupped “leg” in front of the other.

 She felt the patterns in the water current shift. Another octopus nearby? Through the water she could just make out something moving towards her. Not an octopus. She wasn’t sure what. 

With no rocks to press herself up against, no place to hide, she pulled out her classic hat trick: bringing her arms into her chest and sticking her legs out in front of her she mimicked a large crab.

And sure enough who came to visit her but an angelfish. His name was Grmd. Grmd swam right up to Ytralia. Interested and unafraid. 

“What kind of crab are you?” Asked Grmd. 

Ytralia gave all the right answers, holding herself as still as possible. She tried carefully to ignore her emotions, so they would not come through in the color of her flesh, (an annoyed red or an embarrassed purple, perhaps). She was now contorted into the monotone hue of the crab, who did not change colors with her mood.

Something else was coming. She could feel it in the water. But she was so focused on Grmd now. If she turned to look, she would lose her disguise. It would fall apart. 

And so she didn’t see the squid descend upon her. It gobbled up both the octopus and the crab in one bite.