Six Sentence Sunday (except on Monday)

From A Dropped Call, the next chapter of Special Relationship:

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she pleaded, her throat constricting with each ring. Finally, after four rings, she heard a familiar voice: “This is Steve.”

Peggy opened her mouth, but she couldn’t force any words past her lips. She let out a breath that sort of sounded like his name.

“Peggy? What’s wrong?”

“S—Steve. Steve. I—I can’t—”

Healthy Habits Challenge

So, I’m done w/week 2 of IF. Meaning I’ve completed it, not that I’m finished with it. I made it 6 out of 7 days, and I feel great! My pants have started to feel more like I can fit into them again, which was the main point. My bras too feel better. I’m in week 3 now and I think I’ll keep this up until my vacation later in April.



Star Wars Fictober - 09 Flaw

There was something unsettling about just how aggressively innocuous Anakin Skywalker looked. The boy wasn’t a vergence, he was the vergence. There were so many shatterpoints surrounding him, he was practically a flaw in the fabric of reality. Mace didn’t know if he really was the Chosen One, but no one with that much potential had any right being a ragamuffin slave.

Skywalker had tested well and proved strong in the Force, but the whole Council in turmoil by the time he was through. They exchanged uneasy glances as he bowed and left the room.

“Clouded, the boy’s future is,” said Yoda.

“That is an understatement,” Mace said, trying to massage away a looming headache. A possible Sith and a definite vergence were not what he was expecting when he woke up this morning. Trust Qui-Gon to dump both of them in his lap at once.

“He could be a great warrior for the Light,” Depa said.

“Or a tool for the Dark Side,” countered Ki-Adi-Mundi. “We can not risk training him.”

But what to do with him if they didn’t? Mace closed his eyes and traced the possibilities. Skywalker could save and be adopted by the Royal House of Naboo. He could be acquired by the Sith. He could spark a slave revolt in the Outer Rim. There was no path Mace could see where the boy starved quietly on a street somewhere. They could dump him into the darkest hole of the Coruscant’s Lower Levels and he would still shape the fate of the galaxy.

“I agree that he is too dangerous to train,” Mace said, “but we can not let this boy out of our custody.” No child with that much sheer potential could be allowed to shape their own destiny.

“What are you suggesting?”

What was he suggesting? Mace wasn’t sure he knew. They should keep the boy, but as what? A ward? A prisoner? A servant? Any option would be as unprecedented as taking on a 9-year-old initiate, but what could they do? Just sit back and let the galaxy change?

Don’t Say It

Summary: Y/N gets tired of waiting around for Dean when he shows up unexpectedly 

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1029

Warnings: Angst

A/N: This is definitely a day late but hopefully not a dollar short! This is written for @impalaimagining 1k celebration! The fic is based off of the song I Know You Won’t by Carrie Underwood. Thanks @megansescape for the beta!

It was late at night and your house was quiet, any noise made would echo through the empty halls. You had taken everything and packed it away. You only had one box left to take to your car, but you would do that in the morning. You had one foot on the stairs, ready for bed, when you heard that familiar knock at your door. It was hard, but not angry, you knew the person on the other side of the door just couldn’t wait to get in. There was only one person who would knock like that, Dean Winchester. You froze in place, unsure if you were going to open the door or not.  You hadn’t seen him in four months and you hadn’t talked to him in two. The last time he contacted you was when he sent a picture of Sam’s arm asking if it needed stitches. Since you worked as a vet, you were always able to stitch whatever wound Dean appeared at your door with or give him substantial medical advice.

You made your way to the door expecting to see Dean, beaten and cut up, but to your surprise, he was fully intact. “Dean? What are you-”

Before you could finish, he engulfed you in a hug. “I’ve missed you so much, baby.”

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The Sun is not your Enemy

BayoJeanne Week Day 1|
Beach Day
Pairing: Bayonetta/Jeanne

Summery: Cereza enjoys long warm days out on the shore, but she enjoys Jeanne’s company far more.

The shiny white sand of the shore reflected almost as much sunlight as the ocean. Tiny granules like little coals against the feet of the many, many beach goers that swarmed in fluctuation all around them. Off in the distance, the ocean pulsed on and ever on, hissing and sighing with each wave. It was perhaps the most textbook example of a beach day one could ever dream of.

“I thought the point of laying on the beach was to tan, Cereza?”

Including the occasional irritated tone of her present company.

Opening one eyelid by a sliver, Cereza looked up to see Jeanne staring across the open expanse of the ocean. Or at least, that’s where Cereza guessed she was looking, it was a bit hard to tell with the broad sunglasses Jeanne wore.

“And what does it look like I’m doing?” she replied as she luxuriously stretched her arms to the side and then brought them forward to prop her chin up on her hands, the warm fabric of the beach towel softly tickling her palms.

Jeanne titled her head to look down, her white hair spilling over her shoulder in pretty waves. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself, though as you know, it will take you hours before the sun will have any effect on your skin,” Jeanne reached up and shifted her sunglasses up to rest on her head, her gun-metal grey eyes shining with amusement, “one of the many side effects of our contracts that might be more of a hindrance than a help, at least in this situation.”

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Blue Christmas (Part 2)

Read Part One here

The four boys burst into the hospital and, running past scolding nurses and irritated patients, nearly missed colliding straight into the stocky frame of Chief Hopper. He stood squarely in front of his daughter’s room and stared down at her best friends with an intimidating glare. The kids froze instantly—Mike was afraid to breathe, and Dustin nearly dropped the wrapped gift in his hands. The shyest of the bunch was the first to speak up, though.

“Um, hi, Hopper! Mom said that she heard El’s feeling better, and we came over here as fast as we could!” said Will brightly.

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Maybe everybody is dysfunctional and God put us all in this mess so we can learn how to function. To test us. I don’t know, but we don’t seem to be doing such a hot job of it. I guess we need to work harder at getting rid of that d-y-s part.
I wish I had a clue where to start.
—  A Day Late and A Dollar Short, Terry McMillan
MariChat May Day 18: Rejection.

A day late and a dollar short, I’m afraid, but sometimes life happens just a little too fast to keep up.  I’m not sure whether I will get today’s done today, or not.  My grandmother is terminally ill, and we’re on the death watch.  The writing is helping me cope, but I’m not sure how much time I’ll be able to put into it over the coming days.  Thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting, you guys are wonderful.  ^_^

I ended up writing something very similar to what @freedom-shamrock came up with, and @marinette-buginette too, I think, though it was completely unintentional.  Great minds, and all that.  ;)

This is for @frostedpuffs!

Marinette sat listlessly at her desk chair with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped loosely around them.  A plate of cookies sat untouched on her desk, evidence of her mother’s attempt to cheer her up.  She sighed dejectedly.  “I should have known better than to get my hopes up, Tikki.  They’ve only chosen a 17 year old twice before, so I knew it was a long shot.  But I’d felt so sure…”

“Oh Marinette, hope is never a bad thing.”  Her kwami nuzzled closer, offering comfort the only way she knew how.  “You’ll have a whole year to get better, and then you can apply again.”

“I know, Tik.  I just had my heart set on doing it this year.  I guess I didn’t even consider the possibility that—”

There was a tell-tale thump overhead, and Tikki dove into her hidden nest just as a shadow fell over the skylight.  Marinette waved him in without rising.  “What are you doing here so early?  It’s nowhere near dark yet,” she said as he dropped in through the skylight.

“Well hello to you too, Princess.”

She winced, and dropped her feet from the chair as he settled on the floor next to her.  “Sorry.  I don’t mean to be snippy.”

He folded his arms over her lap, and rested his chin on them.  “What’s bugging you?”

She snickered at his unintentional pun, and waved away his curious look with a blush.  No way was she explaining that.  She began toying with his hair absently.  “I didn’t get that internship.”

“Wait, what?”  He straightened abruptly, a surprised frown on his face.  “But I thought— er, I’d have thought you’d be a shoo-in.”

“Apparently, I did, too.” She laughed mirthlessly.  “I’d thought that I had a realistic view of my chances.  I knew it wasn’t likely, and I’d thought I was ok with that.”

“Not so much?” He put his head back on his arms, and sighed happily when her fingers returned to his hair.

“Not so much.”  She agreed, running her fingers over his black cat ears, and he shivered.

“You’re wrong, though.  About it not being likely.”

“Oh, Chat.  Thank you.  But I’m young and inexperienced and they almost always choose someone in their first year at University.  I knew that.”

“Almost always.  They will take on a younger intern when there’s enough raw talent, right?  And you have that coming out of your ears.”

She giggled, scratching his scalp gently.  “I’m glad you’re here, Chaton.”

He melted completely against her, his purr rumbling in his chest, and his eyes slid closed.  “No place I’d rather be, Princess.”

Prompt #1: Spectre

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge
Prompt #1: Spectre

Originally posted by fleurdanslalune

Limsa Lominsa
~Fall of Baelsar’s Wall

The stack was out again. How it had gotten from its place on the shelf to the tablet was a mystery, but there they were. Thirteen letters, a baker’s dozen of missives fanned out. Sometimes they were chronological. Sometimes, one was selected for a particular phrase or memory.

 In her hand was a letter from somewhere in the middle. The date put it sometime in mid-summer. All her messages were forgotten; burnt, probably. Likely. 

“Still waiting for our cooks to pack it in & leave all the meals to the Lominsans. Nothing they make smells half as good and even the biggest bloody patriot of the lot admits it. Reminds me of Mum’s La Noscean toast and several of those salty fucks have blessed her for ‘making do with what them grim-faced tree-lovers call food’. At least that’s what I think they said, not sure honestly. Someone should tell that lot there’s more than twelve letters to the alphabet.”

Honoura gnawed on a hangnail and scanned the words, trying to figure out what sort of conversation she’d been having with her brother. 

It was one of the wordier letters – she hazarded his particular unit had been called back. Maybe it was a change in strategy. Maybe the unit had suffered too heavy a number of casualties. Irrelevant, she knew, but it was a level of understanding she hadn’t had back when her grimy hands had first read the passage. Aidan hadn’t mentioned it either way. The next passage was the lyrics to a really dirty sea shanty. Pity they didn’t teach him all the lyrics, she thought, and squinted at a crude doodle of an elezen with glasses. Now that’s a familiar face.

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Alright, here I am, a day late and a dollar short to the Imperial Radch week. But I do come bearing gifts.

Specifically- two new drinks. One for Seivarden, the other for Kalr 5.

Seivarden’s is a pastiche on the classic sazerac cocktail: Do a glass rinse with arak, then add crushed ice, a sugar cube, a shot of your preferred whiskey or cognac, a shot of cherry heering, and either angostura bitters or tea bitters. Stir, then drink while trying not to have feelings for your boss/best friend/raison d'etre.

Kalr 5 is a very civilized person, so I made her a very civilized, sip on your back porch/pound while at the Kentucky Derby kind of drink. Over ice; one shot of Pimm’s No. 1 Liqueur, 1 shot pink grapefruit liqueur (as a fun reference to her pink tea set), top up with ginger beer and throw in the aforementioned angostura/teapot bitters.

Tomorrow I hope to present my takes on Anaander and Tisarwat, but I can only make and drink so many of these in one day so ya’ll will need to be patient.



Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 Day 3: First Kiss

Yes, yes, it’s a day late and a dollar short, but here it is!

Not Something They Agree On

Molly says the first two don’t count. They were meant as an apology and a sort of goodbye. Besides, they were on the cheek.

Sherlock maintains that they were both sincere and, although he didn’t consciously realize at the time, they were also both romantic in nature and therefore they do count.

John refuses to arbitrate, as does Lestrade. They don’t even consider asking Mycroft and Sherlock knows Meena will side with Molly so he nixes that idea in the bud. Then he has to apologize to Molly because he nixed it in the bud before she even drew breath to suggest it and she hates it when he does that, cuts her off before the words do more than form in her mind. That kiss, unquestionably, is romantic and apologetic, quite consciously so. But it’s not in the running because it’s their seventeenth kiss (by his counting, fifteenth by hers and thus their ongoing conundrum).

Mrs. Hudson is chosen as the final court of appeals, after Sherlock (allowing Molly to actually make the suggestion out loud this time) claims that his parents would be just as biased as Meena. Biased towards Molly, not their own son, as they adore her and won’t hear a word against her. (Not that anyone tries, certainly not Mycroft after receiving a lovely shiner because of some snide comment he’d made that Molly shrugged off but Sherlock…well, he’s awfully proud of that shiner.)

“Oh, love, sorry, but I’m with Molly. Those first two don’t count. I mean, yes, they were kisses and very sweet ones, at least the one I saw you give her - oh, and wasn’t that unexpected! Molly, did you know we’d none of us ever heard him sincerely apologize to anyone like that before? Not even me, and I’ve known him longest, never mind what Greg claims. He’s a dear boy but a bit forgetful at times.”

Sherlock’s eyes sort of glaze over midway through Mrs. Hudson’s speech but Molly is grinning and squeezing his hand the entire time. When she falls silent, beaming at the two of them as if she were some benevolent goddess offering her blessing (and in a way, that’s exactly what she’s doing, at least in Molly’s mind), Sherlock huffs out an annoyed breath. But he’s agreed that Mrs. Hudson has the last word on the subject and so he shrugs and offers Molly a smile of his own. 

“Fine,” he says, pulling her close to his side, his arm around her shoulder. “The first kiss was the one we shared in your flat after I explained about Eurus and you patched up my splintered hands and told me what an ass I was.”

“Bastard,” Molly corrects him, her grin widening. “I’ve never called you an ass.” She turns her smile on Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you. He may be clever but sometimes he just doesn’t get it.”

And Mrs. Hudson nods in agreement, then heads back down to her own flat, leaving the two love-birds to add to their growing stockpile of kisses.

Now if only those kisses could lead to grand-tenants, her life would be complete.