Fics written for the three sentence ficathon-thanks to caramelsilver
Poetry, for the prompt Game of Thrones: Littlefinger/Sansa Stark, when he’s away he writes her every day
Petyr Baelish is no poet.
He is a clerk, and he writes like a clerk; meticulously, each sentence a mathematical process totalling to an inevitable conclusion. Dearest Sansa, he writes, ending the letter Thinking of you with great affection, because he is a clerk and a cynic, and he cannot admit love.
Suck Squeeze Bang Blow, for the prompt BSG, Kara/Lee, mechanics
They make love in the shelter of a Viper engine as wide as Lee is tall. The engine is greasy with oil when they press their hands against it, slick and curved in all the right places. Kara’s heart beats like a four-stroke in her chest as Lee slides into her, hips pistoning, and she wishes she knew love like she knows engines, a simple mechanism that she could understand.
Lift us up, o lord, that we may see further, for the prompt Firefly, Book, still flying
The crew stand together at the port and watch the ship sail into the black. As her engines shrink to stars Mal turns to River, who has the keenest sight, and she shades her eyes, peers into the distance, and says “He’s gone.”
They are just about to turn away when she whispers, “Somewhere, he’s arrived.”
Things Could Be Worse, for the prompt Musketeers, Porthos/Flea, relationship.
“We walk in different worlds,” Porthos says gravely, but the sentence isn’t quite as convincing as it sounded in his head.
“Last time I looked, the Court of Miracles was still a part of France,” Flea tilts her head, dirty blonde hair cascading onto her shoulders. “Now if you were English, that would be a different tale.”
Closing Time, for the prompt Force Awakens/Sucker Punch, that AU where Poe pays his way through flight school by moonlighting at the cabaret
The tips are lousy tonight. Poe Dameron’s pockets are light as he crosses the street towards the transit, humming a song he’s got to have word-perfect by tomorrow. As he passes between the spotlights of the streetlamps he gazes at the bleached-out sky and remembers something he heard someone say: we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
Drowned Ships, for the prompt Pacific Rim, Mako & Stacker, into the deep
Strange things drown within the deep; wrecked ships, and fish with phosphorescent eyes. Mako treads carefully as silt clouds the water around their Jaeger’s feet. She sees the dark shape of Striker Eureka at her side and wonders what it would be like to never see the sun.
Ensnared, for the prompt Secret of Kells, Aisling, I am no bird and no net ensnares me
The fibres of the net are smeared with bird-lime, and they trap her wings. Aisling shifts into a wolf and crashes through the net, tearing small holes into larger ones. Though she has no voice in this form, she thinks it will take more than that as she runs into the forest, and the huntsmen get the message.
Radiator, for the prompt Mad Max: Fury Road, any, thirst
When Max reaches the village, they’ve poisoned the well. Smears of rainbow scum float on the black water. He waits a decent amount of time before he unscrews his radiator cap and siphons out a measured handful of water, enough to keep him moving and alive.
How to survive spaceflight, for the prompt Star Wars, Poe & BB-8, I can always talk to you
BB-8 often wishes it could talk.
Poe Dameron can-and does-talk fluently in seven galactic languages, once for three days straight and sometimes in complete sentences.
BB-8 has so much dirt on Poe Dameron, it is unbelievable.
Do you want to hear about the deal I’m making? for the prompt MCU, Loki/Jane, deal with the devil
“This is not how it works,” protests Loki.
Jane poises her pen over the paper, which is also a tablet of stone and a book with golden clasps and a sheet of rune-engraved ice. “Of course it is,” she says, eyes stinging from three sleepless nights, “Now let’s review the contract.”
Dustland Fairytale, for the prompt Mad Max: Fury Road, any, Wasteland songs
Furiosa does not sing. As for Max, he barely makes any sound at all. But on clear nights they climb the pillars and listen to the people’s songs flying ‘cross the wasteland like a banner; we are still here, and this is still our home.
Love The Way You Lie, for the prompt The Musketeers, Athos/Milady, These days he doesn’t know if it’s love or hate that he feels
Athos rips her portrait from the frame and weeps as he glues it back. Over time, the glue weakens and the canvas doubles over, folding until the crown of Milady’s painted head touches her glossy décolletage. Athos does not mend the portrait, but he often wakes wishing that he’d saved it from the fire.
If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail, for the prompt Star Wars, Ben/Poe, a shell of yourself
“I could strip away everything you are,” Ren hisses as he drags Poe’s head back by the hair, “leave you a shell of yourself, can’t fly, can’t even walk, would you like that?”, and despite himself Poe looks past the black clothes and the mask and sees a kid younger than he is, a kid with too much power and not enough control.
“If you could,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even, “you would have done it already.”
He hears Ren growl behind the mask as his anger ignites, and knows he’s right; knows that Ren’s no torturer, that there’s no finesse there and no precision, but then Ren’s rage punches through the Force and into Poe, and Poe’s knowledge is no comfort, for he has no defences left.
Dirge, for the prompt Imperial Radch, Justice of Toren, the ship that would not stop singing
Justice of Toren does not balk at bringing civilisation to the masses. That is justice, after all. But secretly she wonders if the Radch-if Anander Mianaai- will only halt expansion when the whole universe sings the same sad song.