#flash fiction

[tkwrites]

Photo from pinterest

The idea for this blurb came to me last night, and I just had to get it down. I decided to just put it out on its own rather than wait to work it into a future snapshot. Hope you enjoy.

Quinn walked into the bedroom and stopped short. Sarah was there, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the fact that she was wearing her aquarium polo and no pants. She had on a little pair of shorts that could have been women’s volleyball shorts, except they had sharks and stars printed all over them. 

Also, she was bent over the foot of the bed, looking at her phone. 

By way of greeting, he walked up behind her and gently thrust his hips against her bum. “Hey.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she greeted him with a smile before turning back to the phone. It was then that he realized she was on FaceTime.

“Oh,” he felt his face grow hot, “hey, Beth.” 

“Hi Quinn,” she said, smiling like she was holding back laughter.

Feeling flustered, and a little like he'd just been caught red-handed, he backed away. “Well, I’ll leave you ladies to it,” he said before practically racing to the bathroom. 

He was in the shower when Sarah followed him a few minutes later. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, shooting her a self deprecating look through the steamy glass. 

“It’s okay, Beth thought it was cute.”

He rinsed and flipped the water off before walking out and reaching for a towel. “She did, did she?” 

“Yeah, I did, too.” 

“Really?” he asked, quirking his brows as he wrapped the towel around his waist. 

“Yeah. I mean, I was the one bent over the bed in my underwear.” 

 “Speaking of, why were you doing that?” 

She was still in the same outfit: red polo, little navy shorts printed with whale sharks. She looked adorable, and he always loved anything that had her thighs out on display like this. 

“I’ve been on my feet all day, so I was stretching my back,” she said. 

“And you just happened to not be wearing pants?” 

“Oh, you know, it’s a best friend thing.”

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he realized she was joking. 

She laughed. “I was sick of them, that's all.” 

“Well,” he said, walking closer and slipping his hand around her hip to cradle her bum, “these are cute.”

“Aren’t they? This was the first time I’ve worn them. They’re really comfy, too.” 

"Oh, good," he murmured as he leaned down to kiss her. 

“Welcome home,” she said when they pulled away.

“Thanks. Wanna take my pre-game nap with me?” 

She pretended to ponder it for a moment, and he pouted.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said with a big, teasing smile. 

He rolled his eyes. “Alright Ms. Sassy pants,” he said, pulling her against him and chuffing a breath onto her neck.

She squirmed and giggled, hands scrabbling over his damp, muscular back as he guided them to the bed.

Want more Quinn and Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist.

[gothamite-rambler]

Nightwing (prodding his father's arm with his shoe): Batman? Batman? Hey, Batman?!

Batman (lying on the dirt ground in pain): What?!

Nightwing: You're clearly too… um, sore to drive. I'm going to take you home.

Batman (weakly raising his arm): You… can't drive the Batmobile! You're not equipped.

Nightwing: I’ve driven it before, you had me drive it when I was fourteen. Then I would take it for a joyride around Gotham when I was a teenager.

Batman: You what—? Oh, I felt a pop in my spine.

Nightwing (shrugging with a smile): I did a lot of things as a pre-teen and then when I got my license I really enjoyed taking the car for a spin. Did you know about the time I tried heroin? Never did that again. Still not sure how Roy got addicted, I had to go to the hospital. The doctor was nice that night. Oh, and then there was the time I snuck Kori into the pool house? Well when we first started dating and then again when we got back together. Fun times. Oh and then there was the time I used the Batmobile to take Jason out for ice cream. He was just a little kid back then!

Batman: He was fourteen! Why are you telling me all of this?

Nightwing helped prop up his father on his back and began to walk him to the Batmobile.

Nightwing: Because you’re too sore to stand up and scold me. Besides, I was a teenager; I did teenager stuff.

Batman: Trying heroin isn't "teen stuff"!

Nightwing: Alfred told me you smoked weed while traveling to Germany at seventeen.

Batman sighed, clearly annoyed.

Batman: The keys are in one of my pockets. If you can just get me into the passenger seat, I’ll pull them out myself.

Nightwing: Awesome! Ice cream is on me.

Batman (begrudgingly): I want rocky road.

Nightwing: I knew you'd say that.

[strangelittlestories]

Mount Emberdrum had no living priests, prophets or paladins remaining.

This was a problem, for it had recently become active, and had no particular wish to belch ash and flame on the communities that thrived in its shadow.

What was needed was a sacrifice. Not anything too terrible. Just the occasional meal cooked in the heat of the mount’s smouldering peak, with choice tidbits given to earth. A few well-loved possessions cast into the caldera. A song sung to the moody, peach-bruised sky that reminded it of times gone by. 

But none of the people living there remembered enough to read the signs in the earth and sky, which hinted at Emberdrum’s awakening. And none still knew which cuts of meat it had loved, which things it prized as relics, or which songs soothed its ancient soul.

Yes, Emberdrum had no warm-tongued shepherds; no visionaries with ash clouds for eyes; no guardians to cut open the dusk with black-stone knives. It had no more priests, prophets or paladins, *but* it did recall the shape of things.

It remembered the curve of a blade. It knew the imprint of the holy word. It could still taste the ash of boot and blood and song.

And so, mere days after Mount Emberdrum began to wake, a figure climbed down the slope. It wore armour of charred wood, carried a wicked obsidian knife, and bore the secret names of the living earth. 

It hummed as it walked and its voice resonated steadily with the rocks and sky.

In the first village it came to - the one near the peak - it asked simply: “Is there anything I can help with?”

Some remarked on its strange appearance. On the basalt in its voice, the crystals that seemed to shine in its eyes, the rough pumice of its dark skin. But they did so quietly, and not too rudely, for it had asked very politely and they *did indeed* require help.

The visitor was happy to lend a hand with any task, be that helping distil that year’s crop of palm wine, fetching lost goats from distant crags, or fighting off bandits that roamed sometimes up and down the mounts.

All the visitor asked in return was the occasional meal, the odd song, and perhaps a well-loved possession (if the owner had no further use for it).

When it arrived in a new settlement, it was reluctant to give its name. But eventually, the people it helped would begin to insist on something to call it - if only so they knew who to thank.

And then the visitor would smile its landslide smile and say: “Emberdrum. You can thank Emberdrum.”

And thus, the mount still received its offerings.

And thus, it could return to blissful sleep (even as a little part of it was forever out wandering and visiting and seeing who it could help).

[whereserpentswalk]

There was a king, somewhere out in space, who wished to build a grand machine. The machine would be a great work of art and science, the size of an entire planet, with the works of countless species collective knowledge contributing to it.

First he started conscripting scholars and creatives of all fields from across his kingdom to create the machine. The best and brightest would work only for him, and only for his machine. And the scholars and creatives who were good enough for the machine had to choose to either flee the kingdom, or to risk their death. Even great minds from other nations would be hired on for the greatest riches. All because the king wanted his great work of art and science, greater then any other, to make his kingdom the greatest in the known universe.

The kingdom lost power for this. Recourses going to the machine drained the economy, and ambastors would have to sacrifice more practical concerns to secure funds and materials for the machine, the great machine. Nobody wanted to say the king was mad. Even if the king was evil, he had to at least be doing this for a good reason. So the machine became a national pride, something that would make the kingdom something truly amazing once it was finished. Even those who hated the king thought that the machine was some evil plan. Nobody is supposed to just do that because they want to, nobody builds a machine just to build a machine.

And the machine kept being built. And thousands and species from thousands of planets were excited for it to be built. A few hated the king from outside the kingdom, and thought it was a plan to enrich the kingdom. A few hated the king from inside the kingdom, and thought it was a plan to make the kingdom poor. It was rare to hear that the king was a fool, for if he was wicked then the kingdom needed a new king, if he was a fool then the world might be better off without kings. But as time passed, and it became clear the machine would take years, mabye decades, to build, and not just months, attention from outside the kingdom dried up.

But still the kingdom built the machine. For the plan was from the king, there must be a purpose to it. And when the king died, his heirs carried on the project of the machine, his sons, and his nephews, and his grandsons, and his grandnephews, all worked to assure the machine was built. And it was seen as the highest honer to be made to work on it, the goal of any young mind within the kingdom, the only path any scholar or creative was meant to strive for. And those great minds who didn't want to work on the machine, got out of the kingdom as soon as possible, moved away before they could be made to work on someone else's project.

And the fate of those who worked on the machine was a tragic one. Great artists and sculptors wasted their entire careers working on minor details of the machine that nobody would ever see, instead of making their own works. Great scientists and engineers spent their lives making sure the machine could be built instead of discovering and building new things. Writers wasted their careers writing the cryptic manuals and the even more cryptic writing on the walls, when they could have written the works they always wanted to. Doctors who could have saved lives, instead worked to make sure the workers could survive the machine. And millions upon millions of workers, who could have lived, died within the machine's depths.

There isn't an exciting ending of this story. Society started caring less and less about the machine. The kingdom broke up and none of its heirs wanted to continue the project. And the machine lies unfinished in the depths of space, all having done nothing for anyone, benefiting neither oppressed nor oppressor. And history books don't talk about an age when the machine was being built, they talk about an age when the kingdom had few great works of culture or scientific discoveries, and the machine was simply cited as a reason many historians agree upon.

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

i couldn’t stop myself. a little bit more than requested 🥲

The man, the one who had everything but wanted more, leaned in close as the dying embers of the evening fire flickered between them. His voice was smooth, measured, each syllable carrying the weight of something ancient, something inevitable.

“You have peace,” he murmured.

“You have love, home, stability. And yet, tell me—does it not feel like a gilded cage?”

The other man, the one whose life had once been idyllic, hesitated. His fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. Outside, the wind sighed against the eaves, a sound too much like a whisper.

“A cage?” he repeated.

“You think I am trapped?”

“No,” the man across from him said, smiling now, slow and knowing.

“I think you are bound. To your family. To your responsibilities. To the illusion that this is all there is.”

The words slithered between them like smoke, curling into the spaces left unguarded.

“What are you suggesting?” the first man asked, voice quieter now, wary but intrigued.

“A sneak peek,” the guest said simply.

“A single detour beyond what you’ve known. A taste of something greater. Power, not in the way of kings and coin, but the kind that reshapes the world beneath your very touch. You would not be just a man with a family and a home. You would be something… more.”

The fire crackled. The wind moaned. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called—a warning or an omen, he could not tell. The man who had once been content licked his lips, his heart beating against the walls of his ribs like a moth against a lantern.

“And the cost?” The guest’s smile widened.

New tag game!! (Attempted this a while back but it failed lol)

Once upon a time,

@theweirdbox123 @likeadeadbattery @d0rky-0utfits @potatoeperson33 @bamboozled-08orange @the-ellia-west @homelessnerd @isthenapoleoncute and others i forgot AND open tags ❤❤

[goose-books]

The Ghost of Christmas Past shows up and you’re like, “Ohhhhh for fuck’s sake,” but you’re in your childhood bedroom so it’s kind of on you. The ghost seems offended. She crosses her arms. She looks like you used to, with the pigtails.

“No way,” you say. “Don’t start.”

“I am the—”

“The Ghost of Christmas Past, I know, I know.” Because she looks like you, and it’s Christmas Eve, so what else. Your parents used to read you the story every year. Even when you were old enough to read on your own, it was better in your dad’s voice.

“You came home for your parents,” the ghost says, solemn. “It’s time to tell them.”

“No, like, ‘when you’re ready’?”

“You are ready,” she says, “or you wouldn’t have come back.”

Which is so stupid, because you weren’t on the moon, you were at college, and it’s only been two months of shots, you don’t even have a mustache. “Fucking leave me alone,” you say, so she does the ghost thing and takes you to a ten-years-ago Christmas. The living room. Your parents. Your fledgling self on the carpet with your stocking, the one you can’t look at anymore because when you were a baby your parents patiently hand-stitched the fucking name.

“Maybe they’ll make you a new one,” says the ghost.

“You don’t know that.” Bullshit ghost powers.

“You were happier back then. When they knew you.”

“Everyone was happier back then. It was, like, 2008.”

“There was a recession,” says the ghost.

“Shut up! Shut up!” You turn over in bed. For a second you expect to roll onto child-self-you curled up next to you. Probably crush the life out of her. You got good at that. It’s her bed, her room, pink covers, cat posters.

“This is so stupid, this Dickens thing,” you say. “I’m not even Christian anymore.”

“Tell your parents that second,” the ghost suggests.

“Oh my fucking God I’m not telling them anything can’t you go bother Jeff Bezos.”

“I’m just doing my job,” says the ghost, and vanishes.

#

The Ghost of Christmas Present has an acne problem. As soon as you open your eyes you say, “Oh my God,” and they say, “Hi,” and you say, “You better not be the fucking Ghost of Christmas Present,” and the Ghost of Christmas Present says, “I am.”

Which you knew.

“Why me?” you say, pink comforter bunched around your waist. “I didn’t do anything. Scrooge was mean to orphans.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present shrugs. “It’s the job.”

“Are you gonna show me my parents now?”

That makes them look kind of embarrassed.

“Well, don’t,” you say. If your parents are talking in the other room, huddled up conferencing with the lights off, you can’t hear it over the heater buzz. But you can guess what they’re saying: you went to school with a shitty pixie cut and worse eyeliner, and you came back with a real haircut and a permanent frown and a bunch of new friends you play sentence Twister to avoid pronouning. “I know they’re nice people, I got it. I’m just not ready.”

“It’s just—you’re kind of waiting for them to ask?” says the Ghost of Christmas Present. They scratch their face, where they have spectral sideburns coming in. “Your dad thinks you have a head cold. ‘Cause of your voice. But your mom’s starting to get it.”

You pull the covers over your head. “Cool, awesome, didn’t ask.”

“She isn’t going to ask,” the ghost says. “She wants you to tell her.”

You stick your middle finger out from underneath the covers. When you check, the room is empty again.

#

The Ghost of Christmas Future doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. You look back. You probably have bedhead. You fixed your daytime wardrobe but your pajamas are still lacy and purple.

“How come you’re a man?” you say.

He says, “I think you know.”

“Fucking—go away.”

“I have something to show you first.”

“Are we going to the goddamn graveyard?”

He doesn’t say anything but then you’re in the goddamn graveyard. Together. Looking at your headstone. The dates are close enough together to make you kind of sick.

“They went with the full name,” you say.

The ghost nods.

“Not even the nickname. My nice gender neutral nickname.”

The ghost shrugs. You kind of want to throw something at him but you’re just looking at it now. Chiseled in marble. Immovable. What’s that thing bigots on the internet say, about someone digging up your jawbone two hundred years from now? You always wanted to think you wouldn’t care.

The Ghost of Christmas Future’s pretty quiet. This is the part where Scrooge goes full breakdown. Tears, begging, promises.

“I’m not gonna cry on you,” you say.

“Okay.”

So neutral. “Man, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” says the ghost. “I think you’re there.”

You can’t stop looking at the headstone. “God fucking damnit shit. You promise they’ll be cool?”

“Nothing’s promised,” the ghost says. He gestures at the graveyard. “Except for this.”

“Awesome.” Cryptic cliche philosophical ghost bullshit. Yada yada. Death and taxes. Not with that name on your headstone, though. Not with that name on your tax forms, either.

You turn to tell him that and then you’re blinking in bed. There’s still one glow-in-the-dark star stuck to your ceiling where the glue never wore out. You put those up like ten years ago. Maybe longer. The light in the room says it’s morning. You swing your lacy-pajama legs over the side of the bed and go to ruin Christmas.

[zhelin-thames]

Danny meets JL Members #5

[Danny and The Flash in the middle of a city street]

Danny: [floating mid-air] So, you’re the guy who runs really fast, right? The Flash: And you’re the kid who’s part ghost. Danny: Cool, cool. Ever outrun a ghost before? The Flash: Ever outrun me before? Danny: Oh, it’s on.

[Flash takes off, speeding through the city while Danny goes intangible and floats through walls.]

Danny: [phases through a building] You know, shortcuts are cheating. The Flash: [speeding next to him] Says the guy who can literally fly.

[After the race ends in a tie]

Danny: Not bad for a guy who doesn’t fly or go invisible. The Flash: Not bad for a kid who skipped leg day. Danny: Rude.

The Flash: So, half-ghost, huh? What’s that like? Danny: Mostly floating, glowing, and fighting angry dead people. You? The Flash: Running fast, eating a lot, and accidentally traveling through time. Danny: Wait, time travel? I fought a time ghost once. It was a nightmare. The Flash: Yeah, same. His name was Barry.

[Danny and The Flash fight a ghost together]

Danny: Careful! You can’t punch ghosts. The Flash: [vibrates his hand] You mean you can’t punch ghosts. Danny: Okay, that’s actually cool.

[At STAR Labs]

Danny: So you’ve got a whole lab for your superhero stuff? The Flash: Yep. Advanced tech, supercomputers, the works. Danny: Dude, my ghost portal is in my parents’ basement. This feels unfair.

[Flash texting the Justice League group chat] yes they have a groupchat

The Flash: Met a ghost kid today. He’s fast and glows in the dark. Green Lantern: Sounds useful. Batman: Bring him in for evaluation. The Flash: He’s a sarcastic teenager. You sure about that, Bats? Batman: …More useful than you.

[Back in Amity Park]

Danny: [to Tucker] So, I met a guy today who can run faster than I can fly. Tucker: Did he beat you in a race? Danny: No, it was a tie. But I think I like him. Tucker: You’d better not join his team. I’m not upgrading your gear for Justice League-level problems.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Secrets of the Bly

The canopy sailed over the horizon line.

The mother looked out the window, snapping the sheets as she folded them. Her clear gray eyes were the same color as the morning sky and just as gloomy.

“Closer,” she muttered. She seemed surprised she had spoken, and her hands slowed, fingers lingering on the fraying edge of her own bed sheet. She wet her lips. Said again, “Closer.”

“What’s closer?” the daughter asked.

The mother didn’t jump, but the air changed as if she did. Her shoulders stiffened. Her hands went back to work. “Nothing,” she said. Then, not being able to help herself, “The forest is growing quickly.”

“Teacher says that trees don’t grow fast. Only an inch or two a year.”

“You couldn’t see the Bly when you were a baby,” the mother said. Her heart stung. She knew her daughter wasn’t calling her foolish. Lately, when the little girl spoke of her teacher, something she never had, it makes something sour in her want to lash out. “Now look how tall it stands!”

The daughter came to the window. Her clothes were ill-fitting. She looked as if she tumbled in and then out of fresh laundry only to come up wearing a whole bedspread. The dress she wore used to be the mother’s from when she was young. Her eyes traced the horizon. “That’s faster than teacher said.”

“Not even a teacher knows everything,” the mother said. Her own mother’s voice rang through hers. That made her jump. She thrust the laundry away from her and finally looked at her daughter. “Some truths are only learned while living—”

The daughter stared at her bare feet. Shoulders rounded. Lip jutting out so far the mother could see it through her hanging, flaxen hair. The mother’s heart stung different.

“The Bly is…different,” the mother said. It’s her own voice this time. Softer and more yielding. She kneeled so that the daughter could see her right away when she chose to look up. “It’s a secret I’d like you to keep.”

The daughter’s eyes darted up, meeting the mother’s. Her lip contracted a centimeter. “A secret?”

“Just between us two,” the mother agreed. Was the little girl old enough? She would give anything to bring her daughter’s chin up again. “Your teacher is right that trees grow slow. The Bly is different here. Only here.”

“Only here?”

“On our land. You see, the Bly is home to another kind of creature. Like us, but not. They are mischievous and kind and cruel. More importantly, they’re magic.”

“Fairies,” the daughter said confidently.

“The Good Folk,” the mother said in her own mother’s voice. Then to soften it, “And that’s not the secret.”

The daughter reached out to put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. She jumped in excitement, using her mother to steady herself. “Tell me! Please, tell me.”

The mother smiled and placed her hands over her daughters. She tilted her head forward and was rewarded when her daughter stopped leaping about and pressed her own forehead against hers. She whispered, “The secret is that once, a long time ago, I stole something from them. That’s why the forest grows so quickly over the horizon. They’re looking for what I took.”

“What?!” The daughter was amazed. “You said never to steal.”

“I did. I needed it very badly, mustn’t I have?”

“Yes,” the daughter said. Her quick mind tumbled through her mother’s confession. “So you’ve been in the Bly? What was it like? Teacher says there are wolves in there. What did you steal?”

For a moment, the mother was not there. She raced through dense old growth with her feet cut to ribbons and her skirts sticking wetly to her legs. Her breath came in cold clouds in front of her and she ran through them just as quickly as they formed. She could use only one hand to shield her face from vines and branches. Her other arm was curled around the bundle in her arms.

“One day,” the mother said. She stood but wrapped her hands around her daughter’s so that she knew it was only a necessary retreat and not a complete one. “One day, when you’re older, I’ll tell you all the stories I have.”

The girl’s lower lip was out again. “How old?”

“When the Bly hits the edge of our land,” the mother said. She held out her pinky. “Promise.”

The girl was suspicious. “It grows fast?”

The mother’s heart stung differently again. “Very fast.”

“Deal!”

---

(Patreon)

[clockwayswrites]

@cannedinternets @darkstarsapocalypse @idontcaboose Phantom + Young Justice, Heads, Blue cw for Miss Martian's mental manipulation

The hatch slammed behind Conner as he stormed out onto the roof.

She was—

She was going to—

He was so stupid! He really had though that love could be enough! Like life was some sort of fucking fairytale. Like life worked out like that. But that’s what Megan had sold him, wasn’t it?

Him and her, perfect together.

A teen romance like the movies.

Meant to be.

Conner clapped his hands over his mouth to cover the ugly laugh that bubbled free without his permission.

Meant to be as long as she could make him into what she wanted. As long as he didn’t disagree. As long as she didn’t have to be wrong.

He wasn’t, he couldn’t—is this what it was like to be out of breath?

He really didn’t like the feeling if it was.

His whole body felt weak. Black was creeping into the edges of his vision. His knees buckled under him.

But he didn’t hit the roof hard. He was lowered down gently. Someone was speaking to him.

“Con, hey man, breathe for me, okay?”

Gentle but almost impossibly firm hands actually managed to pry Conner’s hands away from his mouth. That narrowed the pool of who it could be down a lot, but Conner just couldn’t get his mind to work.

“Come on, like me.” His hands were pressed against a slight chest that took an exaggerate breath.

Conner did his best to follow along.

It still took what felt like ages for the black to recede.

“Sorry… I don’t know what…”

“Panic attack,” Phantom said. He was sitting (or floating) cross legged across from Conner. He still had his hands cradled gently. “Or that would be my guess. I think you had a panic attack.”

“Oh.”

Conner didn’t how to take that. He didn’t… he was Superboy. He wasn’t supposed to panic.

“Conner… you, um, you were talking while you paced. What did you…” Phantom closed his eyes and took a breath he didn’t need. His eyes were bright when he opened them. “What did you mean about Megan making you into what she wanted? Like, was she trying to tell you what to do or—”

“She tried to wipe my memory.” The words were out before Conner could take them back. But he… he didn’t want to keep them inside him like rot. “She was going to use her powers to wipe my memory about… something.”

The temperature on the roof drops so quickly that Conner felt it. Phantom’s power crackled through it like the coming storm.

Like reckoning.

“She did what?”

[laurasimonsdaughter]

The dragon – astonishingly – was a surprise. Even in his worst nightmares there hadn’t been a dragon. But the chains were too well fastened to fight and he supposed that getting eaten was at least quicker than starving to death on this damn mountain. He closed his eyes, but the thundering shake of the ground as the dragon landed was as bad as having seen the claws dig into the earth. He closed his eyes tighter.

“Are you the seventh son of the seventh son?” The voice was inhumanly low and it shook the fear in his bones loose.

“Yes!” he screamed. “Yes! Cursed, blighted, whatever you bloody want! Just get it over with.”

There was a short, tense silence.

“I have not come to kill you, human. I want to offer you a deal.”

His eyes opened in shock. “You what?”

The dragon was sitting a few paces away from him, its scaly claws crossed over one another and its massive, shimmering wings folded behind its hulking back. The look in its glittering eyes was intelligent and calculating, but not unkind, certainly not threatening. It waited.

“What—what kind of deal?” he stammered, heart racing with a wild, terrified hope.

“I understand that you have been left here to die by your fellow humans, because you are an extremely rare type of human, that they are afraid of. Is that correct?”

He studied the dragon’s interested expression for any trace of sarcasm, but there was none. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Well then!” the dragon exclaimed. “I propose to you this: I will break your chains and save you from the humans, and in return you will join my hoard and live in my nest.”

“I’m sorry. Join your—what do you mean live in a nest. Humans don’t live in nests.”

The dragon gave a sideways movement of its massive head, scales glinting in the sun. “There is plenty of room. It used to be a cavern in a mountain, of very respectable depth and dimensions, but during one of my hibernation some humans built a castle on top of it, so it is very suitable for humans.”

He was almost baffled enough to no longer be scared. Almost. “What happened to the people who built it?”

The dragon, somehow, managed to arch a nonexistent eyebrow. “They live there,” it replied, slowly, as if it feared that he was rather slower on the uptake than expected. “That was the start of my hoard, you see.”

He hadn’t misheard it. It did say ‘hoard’. “But...dragons hoard gold, jewels, riches…”

“Uninspired amateurs,” the dragon sniffed. “All very well for one’s hatchling years, but honestly.” The glittering eyes squinted down at him. “Do you not want to join my hoard?”

“I…” Living in a castle with a dragon for a protector sure beat being chained to a rock by feral townsfolk, there was no doubt about that. And what other choice did he have? He swallowed. “I do.”

“Wonderful!” Joyful sparks snapped off the dragon’s jaw as it gracefully leapt upright. “I shall do away with those pesky chains.” And he came towards him with remarkably light steps.

“Do you live very far away?” he blurted out, nervously watching the dragon as it studied the iron rings hammered into the stone. “Will I be able to—I cannot just leave my brothers behind!”

The dragon, who had just crushed one end of the chain to warped bits of broken iron in its claw, looked up distractedly. “Whatever are you talking about? All your brothers are at my nest already. Who do you think told me where to find you?”

His heart leapt in his chest. He didn’t even notice the heavy weight of the chains fall away as they slid to the ground. “You...you’d want to keep my brothers too?”

The dragon made an indignant noise, bowing down low and motioning rather impatiently for him to climb on its back. “What kind of dragon do you take me for! I must have the whole set.”

[microsff]

The team picked to contact Earth were all sapiophiles (the term homophile, had, after debate, reluctantly been agreed against). They knew humanity, yet still liked humans.

After making contact, they monitored media to gauge their impact. No number was followed more keenly than their AO3 fic count.

[charlesoberonn]

When you were young, your mother used to read you an old fairytale every night before bed.

It was a sad story, about lovers who walked through hell to reunite with one another and almost succeeded, only to be separated again forever in the last moment. It made you cry, and the next night you would beg your mom to read it again.

"You know it'll be sad, right?"

"This time they'll win, mom! This time they'll have a happy ending!"

But they didn't. Nor did they win in the next night, or the night after that.

Deep down, logically, you knew it'll always end the same way. The story is done. It's been told long before you were born. But when mom was telling it, you could pretend that maybe this time it'll work out. This time will be different.

When you grew older you didn't stop pretending, even though you knew it was silly and getting sillier. When you learned to read and write, one of the first things you wrote was a new ending. It was bad, about you as an all-powerful angel coming down to help the lovers reunite and then you get invited to their wedding.

"It's not real, it's fanfic." a friend told you when you showed them. They explained the word, and you saw what they meant. But you didn't care, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend.

You read voraciously as you grew. All kinds of stories with all kinds of ending. But you kept coming back to that one. Reading from your mom's old copy which her read to her from.

You didn't need mom to read to you anymore, but sometimes you asked her to anyway. Occasionally she'd do it, but more often than not she was tired.

Soon she stopped reading. Then she stopped speaking altogether, her voice too weak and throat too sick to speak aloud. That's when you started reading the story to her.

It was hard at first, your tears choking you up. It was hard pretending that the story will end differently.

"The diagnoses are just estimates, probabilities." your dad said. And when he spoke, you could pretend there was a chance. But when the doctors spoke, their words felt as final and unchanging as the old words in the storybook.

Eventually, mom was no more. Your dad read something personal and touching in her funeral. Everyone thought you would, too. Everyone knew how much you loved writing since you were little.

You thought you would write too, imagined it in your mind as your mother's end drew near. You had so much to say, but the words wouldn't come out. The only words that would come to you were from the story. You tried to bat them away, but you knew you couldn't. You couldn't change this ending.

When it came your time to eulogize, you pulled out the book and without preamble started reading from the second-to-last page. This time there was no pretending.

Everyone knew the story, even the people who didn't know mom personally. Everyone knew it will end in tragedy. The lovers will not get a happy ending.

Except this time they did.

You didn't notice the change until you were halfway through the final page, so out of it you were. But the reactions from the mourning crowd clued you in. Your stoic dad choking down a chuckle.

You looked closely at the book and saw the words were written in your mom's neat handwriting.

You kept on reading, a smile on your face.

It wasn't the real ending. It was fanfic.

But just for a little while, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend a little longer.

[gothamite-rambler]

Jessica Cruz: Why do you look so... Dead inside?

Batman (glancing at his kids): Me, Nightwing, Red Robin, Robin, or Red Hood? Which one of us are you talking about?

Jessica (taken back): The one- That is a lot to unpack there. The handsome one?

Nightwing (pointing at himself then his family members): Me, Batman, Red Robin, or Red Hood?

Robin (insulted): What?!

Red Hood (patting Damian's head): You're cute, not handsome.

Robin (pouting): I am not cute!

Jessica (now just amused): The- Wow, at least you guys love your appearances. Okay you didn't say your name that time. Nightwing, yeah you. Why do you look so dead inside, today?

Nightwing (blunt): It's my mom's birthday. So I'm just a little sad because she's not here to celebrate her life with me.

Jessica sniffled, covering her mouth.

Jessica: Oh my goodness, you poor thing. I totally forgot. Do you need a hug?

Nightwing: Hm? Yes! Yes I do!

Jessica went over and hugged Nightwing, shoving Batman out of the way.

Batman (complaining): I don't get hugs when it's my mom's birthday.

Nightwing (enjoying the hug): You'd punch them before they attempted to.

[strangelittlestories]

It is a little known fact that angels cannot step foot in hell.

Note: this does not mean that angels *don’t* enter the burning depths, only that they cannot touch the floor. You see, the fires that rage below are not regular fire. They do not consume fuel and oxygen and spit out heat. Instead, they chew on reality and drink down order, and the flames that lick up at you are made of chaos-filled void.

This is antithetical to the very substance of angels. If it touches them, at *best* the angels will be spat out as they are forcibly reminded that *they don’t go here*.

At medium, they will be unmade.

At worst, they will be *changed*.

You might think they could avoid this by simply flying through the pit, right? Oh, would that it were so simple. Remember the flames that burn up reality? Hell is an alchemical reaction of exploding space and logic and time and souls. You try flying through a place that is not a place, where up and down can hardly agree on which is which for more than an instant.

But there is a way around this. It was originally discovered by the guardian angel Cambiel. You see, under Cambiel’s protection was a woman named Ruth. Ruth was a shining light who Cambiel cared for greatly.

Ruth, in turn, had a woman she cared for very much. And, sadly, a demon had stolen Ruth’s love away from her.

“Do not follow her,” warned Cambiel, “for if you follow your heart through the gates of perdition, I cannot go with you.”

“Sorry, babe,” replied Ruth, “but I am *very* gay and *very* romantic and that has made me reckless.”

And Cambiel nodded sadly, for all of this was true and good.

But as Ruth walked the lonely, tortured path into the underworld, an idea occurred to Cambiel.

Sure, they couldn’t walk or fly into hell, but maybe they could *ride* there.

Now, a fully grown horse could not hope to navigate the depths beneath the world, for their sense of self-preservation was too strong. An adult horse would flee from the screams of imploding souls and the winding geometry of impossibly winding roads.

But a young horse? With a child’s innocence, with bright young eyes, who had not yet been tricked into believing in its mortality?

That was a mount that could bear an angel (who was, after all, light enough to dance on the head of a pin) into the fearful caverns of the beyond. Honestly, the little horse seemed weirdly enthused about the whole thing. 

And so did Cambiel guide a pair of reckless and romantic (and useless) lesbians out of hell.

When the pair thanked the angel, all they said was this:

“Don’t thank me, thank the little horse. It turns out … foals rush in where angels fear to tread.”

[whereserpentswalk]

Most interdimensional entities that humans consider horrifying demons and eldrich horrors actually consider humans pretty dangerous unless they're actively trained fighters. Your average extraplaner being isn't used to dealing with a species that evolved to hunt in groups, and developed to survive in violent scenarios.

Most final girl situations happen because young entities deeply underestimate that humans have such a strong will to live, and are willing to fight back agasint a stronger foe. Most older entities keep at bay for this very reason, which is why you just see them stranding around being creepy.

That pale long limbed cryptid you spotted in a subway station moved so quickly because it doesn't want to end up near you. That shadow person whose hovering over you in the woods is trying to observe you, but it will teleport away if anyone comes near it for a good reason.

And that doppelganger that's standing by your door at night just wants to observe you too. He was smart to try to copy your roommate's face, but he doesn't realize how good humans are at recognizing eachother's faces, and that his copy will be disturbing to any human who sees it. And he got way to reckless with his movements and bad attempts to imitate human speech. Trying to trick the human who he wants to study into coming to his dimensions is an even bigger mistake, especially since he didn't realize how quickly the human would catch on. He's soon going to learn things he should have read up on before hand: humans will try to attack things they're afraid of if they can't run away, humans can use almost any hard object as a weapon by holding it and swinging, and that those decorations on your wall are called 'swords' and were not originally designed as decorations...