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More 3-sentence Ficathon fills
The 3-Sentence Ficathon is still going! There is also a list of unfilled prompts by fandom.
My ability to stick to three sentences continues to fail.
11.
any, any, "I can't fight this feeling anymore"
"Shut up, Steve!"
Several couch pillows hit him in the face.
"I'VE FORGOTTEN WHAT I STARTED FIGHTING FOOOOOOR --"
"Someone change the radio station," Max begged as several of the boys piled onto Steve, who was now laughing so hard he could barely make it to the next lines, bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"IT'S TIME TO BRING THIS SHIP INTO THE SHORE--"
"Someone do something," Max wailed.
"I can't change the station, it keeps changing back," Lucas complained.
"I like this song," Eleven said simply, from where she was sitting on the opposite couch with her legs tucked up and a large popcorn bowl beside her.
That pretty much did it; there was no way Mike wasn't going along with what Eleven wanted, and by now Dustin was singing along anyway.
12.
Any, any, an excellent big brother.
"You're good at it, you know."
Ward looks up; he's been idly reading in their hotel room today, not really wanting to go anywhere in the gray rain sluicing down the windows. Most days Danny, with his boundless energy, would probably be dragging them out somewhere to hunt down some informant or clue or other, regardless of the lousy weather -- but last night Danny (an absolute rarity, the first time Ward's ever seen him do this) drank himself absolutely shitfaced after hitting yet another dead end on their K'un-Lun/Iron Fist/Orson-Randall's-magic-warehouse quest, and today he's brutally hung over and has mostly been making apathetic attempts at meditating and watching daytime game shows in a language Ward can't understand.
Last night, after Ward finally tracked him down in the dive bar where he was drinking himself to unconsciousness, all Danny could manage to do, as Ward hauled his limp and probably flammable self back to their hotel room, was apologize. As Ward has told him a dozen times, it's not other people drinking that's a problem, it's him drinking -- though honestly, he'd be lying if he didn't envy Danny certain aspects of that insensate state. He still feels it pull on him, some times more so than others.
Though Danny's floppy, green-faced condition today is a pretty good deterrent. Ward's not sure if he's ever seen anybody that hung over. Danny is really not much of a drinker.
Now, Danny slides off the bed, still a bit wobbly despite all the water, aspirin, and occasional bites of food that Ward's been managing to get into him. He's only wearing a bathrobe, and the scars from his multiple surgeries back in New York are vivid on his bare leg, long pink and purple streaks down his pale shin.
"I'm good at what?" Ward says as Danny sits down across from him at the room's small table, just to prove that he was paying attention.
Danny props his chin in his hand. "You're a good big brother."
Ward lays the book down; he really wishes Danny would at least give him a heads up before walloping him with unasked-for sincerity.
"I know you doubt that a lot, because of Joy," Danny says, still with his chin resting on his fist. "And yeah, I know, there's a lot that went down between you two; I understand that. But Ward, you are good at it. You are."
Ward has to look away for a minute; then he shoves a half-empty bottle of water across the table. "Since you're here anyway, hydrate."
"See?" Danny says, half-complaining, half-fond, and he takes the water bottle as instructed.
My ability to stick to three sentences continues to fail.
11.
any, any, "I can't fight this feeling anymore"
"Shut up, Steve!"
Several couch pillows hit him in the face.
"I'VE FORGOTTEN WHAT I STARTED FIGHTING FOOOOOOR --"
"Someone change the radio station," Max begged as several of the boys piled onto Steve, who was now laughing so hard he could barely make it to the next lines, bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"IT'S TIME TO BRING THIS SHIP INTO THE SHORE--"
"Someone do something," Max wailed.
"I can't change the station, it keeps changing back," Lucas complained.
"I like this song," Eleven said simply, from where she was sitting on the opposite couch with her legs tucked up and a large popcorn bowl beside her.
That pretty much did it; there was no way Mike wasn't going along with what Eleven wanted, and by now Dustin was singing along anyway.
12.
Any, any, an excellent big brother.
"You're good at it, you know."
Ward looks up; he's been idly reading in their hotel room today, not really wanting to go anywhere in the gray rain sluicing down the windows. Most days Danny, with his boundless energy, would probably be dragging them out somewhere to hunt down some informant or clue or other, regardless of the lousy weather -- but last night Danny (an absolute rarity, the first time Ward's ever seen him do this) drank himself absolutely shitfaced after hitting yet another dead end on their K'un-Lun/Iron Fist/Orson-Randall's-magic-warehouse quest, and today he's brutally hung over and has mostly been making apathetic attempts at meditating and watching daytime game shows in a language Ward can't understand.
Last night, after Ward finally tracked him down in the dive bar where he was drinking himself to unconsciousness, all Danny could manage to do, as Ward hauled his limp and probably flammable self back to their hotel room, was apologize. As Ward has told him a dozen times, it's not other people drinking that's a problem, it's him drinking -- though honestly, he'd be lying if he didn't envy Danny certain aspects of that insensate state. He still feels it pull on him, some times more so than others.
Though Danny's floppy, green-faced condition today is a pretty good deterrent. Ward's not sure if he's ever seen anybody that hung over. Danny is really not much of a drinker.
Now, Danny slides off the bed, still a bit wobbly despite all the water, aspirin, and occasional bites of food that Ward's been managing to get into him. He's only wearing a bathrobe, and the scars from his multiple surgeries back in New York are vivid on his bare leg, long pink and purple streaks down his pale shin.
"I'm good at what?" Ward says as Danny sits down across from him at the room's small table, just to prove that he was paying attention.
Danny props his chin in his hand. "You're a good big brother."
Ward lays the book down; he really wishes Danny would at least give him a heads up before walloping him with unasked-for sincerity.
"I know you doubt that a lot, because of Joy," Danny says, still with his chin resting on his fist. "And yeah, I know, there's a lot that went down between you two; I understand that. But Ward, you are good at it. You are."
Ward has to look away for a minute; then he shoves a half-empty bottle of water across the table. "Since you're here anyway, hydrate."
"See?" Danny says, half-complaining, half-fond, and he takes the water bottle as instructed.
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