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Three Sentence Ficathon 2022 - Fills
Apr. 20th, 2022 10:20 pmBetter late than never! I've collected my fills for the Three Sentence Ficathon, which was hosted this past January and February with the first post here and the second post here. I definitely recommend checking out the fills there - and filling some prompts of your own, if you feel inclined!
Original prompt: The Hunger Games, Haymitch, finally a potential victor
Haymitch doesn't pay much attention to new tributes, hasn't done in who knows how long. They're too easily lost, here one minute and gone the next, like a candle's light in a poisonous mine shaft.
This girl, though...with the deadly way she handles a bow and the anger sparking behind her cool eyes, here he might have a fire that won't go out.
Original prompt: A Little Princess, any, retribution
Sara is a prisoner of the Bastille; she is Marie Antoinette in the shadow of the guillotine; she is anywhere but here. She tells herself that there is nothing so strong as rage held in, and so she gets through the drudgery of her days like a princess under a wicked curse, brave and gracious as she thinks a princess ought to be.
But sometimes - when Lavinia sticks out a dainty foot to trip her, when Miss Minchin gives her nothing but cold eyes and colder insults and no supper at all - she thinks of other sorts of princesses, the kind who tip poison into goblets and send their faithless lovers into the maws of tigers, with a hot swirl of joy and shame so fierce she almost shakes with unfulfilled retribution.
Original prompt: M*A*S*H, any, midnight coffee
You get a certain routine to misery - wait around so bored you forget to be scared, wince at the squealing brakes on the jeeps as they rush another toward you with another groaning soldier strapped down on its back, pray to any god that will listen that this guy's heart will keep beating long enough to stitch him together again, finish your sewing, take off the bloody gowns and shake out your blood-soaked boots, stumble into the mess tent and make a joke about what kind of beans they must use to make Army coffee...
The jeeps pull up. Take another swallow, start over again.
Original prompt: asoiaf, any, genderbend (male!Rhaella)
"Your brother’s gone mad," Joanna says bluntly, her voice flat and cold the way Rhaenor’s never heard before. Joanna tugs the end of her sleeve; it just barely covers a darkening bruise, and Rhaenor’s heart twists at the sight.
He hesitantly catches her hand, rubs her wrist the way they used to when they playing together as children and she had taken a bad fall. "Jo, I’m - "
"I have no need for your pity," Joanna snaps, but and her other hand comes to cup his cheek. She leans in closer and whispers into his ear, "I only need to know if you’ll be a better king than Aerys."
Original prompt: asoiaf, tyrion lannister, fem!Tyrion
Her lord father would like to forget that Tyria exists, and most of the Rock is content to follow his lead. She tries to think of it as an advantage - she can go about the castle mostly as she pleases, she fancies there is no one who knows the Rock and its people better than she does. And when that isn't enough, she weighs the sting of whispered insults and horrified looks against the loneliness of being gazed through like a pane of glass and tries to tip the scale in whatever way will keep her the closest to being satisfied.
Original prompt: any, any, withered flowers (Lyanna)
The thing Lyanna loves most in the world - after her brothers, her father, her horses, and her freedom - is her little plot in the glass garden, bursting with wildflowers rescued from the snows and seedlings Ned brought from the Vale as a gift for her and Lyanna’s very favorite, the winter roses.
Lyanna is as jealous of this garden as she is of everything she loves, pelting her brothers with clods if they try to interfere with her nurturing her plants, coaxing leaves and blooms out of the flowers and spending hours dirt-streaked and joyous while winter winds howl outside.
When he’s the only Stark in Winterfell Benjen tries to care for the flowers, he really does, but no matter what he does the flowers wither and wilt - as if they miss her as much as he does, as if they too have something inside them missing now that she’s gone.
Original prompt: ASoIaF, Elia Martell, water gardens and desert pools
Elia's always loved the Water Gardens, loved the coolness of the pools and the children's laughter that always echoes against the alabaster walls. Even when she had been too sick to play herself, she had insisted that her brothers bring her out into the gardens, to let her dip her feet into the fountains and sneak blood oranges into her pockets to share with Ashara late at night.
There will be a new life for her before long, one far away from these oases of joy and innocence, but for now she'll sit by the pools and enjoy the best of Dorne.
Original prompt: Any, any platonic, intimacy (Luke & Leia)
She and Luke have always had a knack for knowing what comfort the other needs - hugs, a shoulder to rest a head on, a hand to hold.
Just Jedi magic, she had assumed at first; she kept thinking that all the way to Endor, when Luke had told her the truth with a kiss on the cheek and both his emotions and her own swirling inside her, and all she could think was of course, of course.
And so she knows now just when and how to catch Luke’s shoulders, squeezing his hand with a grin and her joy flowing to him, drawing her brother away from the ghosts and back to the celebration.
Original prompt: Star Wars, Luke Skywalker & Leia Organa, family history
They rarely talk about Anakin. It does happen - sometimes old wounds just reopen, and sometimes they reopen them themselves because letting it fester feels worse - but it always leaves them both wrung-out and exhausted, always ending either holding each other tight or barely able to look at each other for days.
What helps is (they found all these holos hidden in my father's old Senate rooms Aunt Beru said that Shmi taught her this recipe look isn't this one of Padme's gowns?) looking for the other missing pieces, building something a little bigger and brighter out of their family history.
Original prompt: Any, any, blackberries (Linus)
Linus will never admit it - he likes to think that all the seasons are lovely in their own way, none of them better than the others - but blackberry season is his favorite time in the valley.
He loves to gather up the ripe blackberries into his old wicker basket, and before he moves on to the next he always likes to thank the bush for all the hard work it's done this year, growing all that plump fruit full of sweet juice and tiny seeds.
The others in the village would probably think it a bit silly if they ever heard of it, but Linus knows better than any of them what wonderful things nature can give them, and whenever he sits by his tent and eats the blackberries - the leaves rustling and the autumn wind soft and cool against his face, the tartness bursting on his tongue - he can't think of anything in the world more deserving of his appreciation.
The Hunger Games
Original prompt: The Hunger Games, Haymitch, finally a potential victor
Haymitch doesn't pay much attention to new tributes, hasn't done in who knows how long. They're too easily lost, here one minute and gone the next, like a candle's light in a poisonous mine shaft.
This girl, though...with the deadly way she handles a bow and the anger sparking behind her cool eyes, here he might have a fire that won't go out.
A Little Princess
Original prompt: A Little Princess, any, retribution
Sara is a prisoner of the Bastille; she is Marie Antoinette in the shadow of the guillotine; she is anywhere but here. She tells herself that there is nothing so strong as rage held in, and so she gets through the drudgery of her days like a princess under a wicked curse, brave and gracious as she thinks a princess ought to be.
But sometimes - when Lavinia sticks out a dainty foot to trip her, when Miss Minchin gives her nothing but cold eyes and colder insults and no supper at all - she thinks of other sorts of princesses, the kind who tip poison into goblets and send their faithless lovers into the maws of tigers, with a hot swirl of joy and shame so fierce she almost shakes with unfulfilled retribution.
M*A*S*H
Original prompt: M*A*S*H, any, midnight coffee
You get a certain routine to misery - wait around so bored you forget to be scared, wince at the squealing brakes on the jeeps as they rush another toward you with another groaning soldier strapped down on its back, pray to any god that will listen that this guy's heart will keep beating long enough to stitch him together again, finish your sewing, take off the bloody gowns and shake out your blood-soaked boots, stumble into the mess tent and make a joke about what kind of beans they must use to make Army coffee...
The jeeps pull up. Take another swallow, start over again.
A Song of Ice and Fire
Original prompt: asoiaf, any, genderbend (male!Rhaella)
"Your brother’s gone mad," Joanna says bluntly, her voice flat and cold the way Rhaenor’s never heard before. Joanna tugs the end of her sleeve; it just barely covers a darkening bruise, and Rhaenor’s heart twists at the sight.
He hesitantly catches her hand, rubs her wrist the way they used to when they playing together as children and she had taken a bad fall. "Jo, I’m - "
"I have no need for your pity," Joanna snaps, but and her other hand comes to cup his cheek. She leans in closer and whispers into his ear, "I only need to know if you’ll be a better king than Aerys."
Original prompt: asoiaf, tyrion lannister, fem!Tyrion
Her lord father would like to forget that Tyria exists, and most of the Rock is content to follow his lead. She tries to think of it as an advantage - she can go about the castle mostly as she pleases, she fancies there is no one who knows the Rock and its people better than she does. And when that isn't enough, she weighs the sting of whispered insults and horrified looks against the loneliness of being gazed through like a pane of glass and tries to tip the scale in whatever way will keep her the closest to being satisfied.
Original prompt: any, any, withered flowers (Lyanna)
The thing Lyanna loves most in the world - after her brothers, her father, her horses, and her freedom - is her little plot in the glass garden, bursting with wildflowers rescued from the snows and seedlings Ned brought from the Vale as a gift for her and Lyanna’s very favorite, the winter roses.
Lyanna is as jealous of this garden as she is of everything she loves, pelting her brothers with clods if they try to interfere with her nurturing her plants, coaxing leaves and blooms out of the flowers and spending hours dirt-streaked and joyous while winter winds howl outside.
When he’s the only Stark in Winterfell Benjen tries to care for the flowers, he really does, but no matter what he does the flowers wither and wilt - as if they miss her as much as he does, as if they too have something inside them missing now that she’s gone.
Original prompt: ASoIaF, Elia Martell, water gardens and desert pools
Elia's always loved the Water Gardens, loved the coolness of the pools and the children's laughter that always echoes against the alabaster walls. Even when she had been too sick to play herself, she had insisted that her brothers bring her out into the gardens, to let her dip her feet into the fountains and sneak blood oranges into her pockets to share with Ashara late at night.
There will be a new life for her before long, one far away from these oases of joy and innocence, but for now she'll sit by the pools and enjoy the best of Dorne.
Star Wars
Original prompt: Any, any platonic, intimacy (Luke & Leia)
She and Luke have always had a knack for knowing what comfort the other needs - hugs, a shoulder to rest a head on, a hand to hold.
Just Jedi magic, she had assumed at first; she kept thinking that all the way to Endor, when Luke had told her the truth with a kiss on the cheek and both his emotions and her own swirling inside her, and all she could think was of course, of course.
And so she knows now just when and how to catch Luke’s shoulders, squeezing his hand with a grin and her joy flowing to him, drawing her brother away from the ghosts and back to the celebration.
Original prompt: Star Wars, Luke Skywalker & Leia Organa, family history
They rarely talk about Anakin. It does happen - sometimes old wounds just reopen, and sometimes they reopen them themselves because letting it fester feels worse - but it always leaves them both wrung-out and exhausted, always ending either holding each other tight or barely able to look at each other for days.
What helps is (they found all these holos hidden in my father's old Senate rooms Aunt Beru said that Shmi taught her this recipe look isn't this one of Padme's gowns?) looking for the other missing pieces, building something a little bigger and brighter out of their family history.
Stardew Valley
Original prompt: Any, any, blackberries (Linus)
Linus will never admit it - he likes to think that all the seasons are lovely in their own way, none of them better than the others - but blackberry season is his favorite time in the valley.
He loves to gather up the ripe blackberries into his old wicker basket, and before he moves on to the next he always likes to thank the bush for all the hard work it's done this year, growing all that plump fruit full of sweet juice and tiny seeds.
The others in the village would probably think it a bit silly if they ever heard of it, but Linus knows better than any of them what wonderful things nature can give them, and whenever he sits by his tent and eats the blackberries - the leaves rustling and the autumn wind soft and cool against his face, the tartness bursting on his tongue - he can't think of anything in the world more deserving of his appreciation.