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Writer Wednesday, Week 1 (2023)

Tagging @writer-wednesday

Watch and Learn, City Boy

Summary: Your romantic getaway with Sergeant Hound hits a snag, but luckily, you're resourceful. Hound isn't so sure about this whole "camping" thing, but you know the best way to get him on board.

Pairings: Clone Sergeant Hound x Fem!Reader

Fandom: Star Wars/The Clone Wars

Rating: T (spicy version is on AO3! Link below!)

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff; mild language; implied/fade-to-black sensuality

#writer-wednesday #dystopicjumpsuit writes #tcw fanfic #star wars tcw #arf trooper hound #clone trooper hound #coruscant guard #writing challenge #write something #support writers #support creators #support content creators #grizzer #sergeant hound #clone wars #star wars #writer wednesday

"As long as you wish"

Inspired from this prompt by @writer-wednesday, week 7 of 2023.

Paring: Aegnor x Andreth

Themes: Soft

Warnings: brief mention of war (blink and you might miss it)

Word count: 400 words

Summary: Aegnor has a surprise for Andreth

"My love, where are you taking me?"

Andreth could do nothing but hold onto Aegnor's hand. The elven lord had come to her that morning, his eyes twinkling like anything. He had found something, he declared, and he wanted to show it to her. However, she had to close her eyes and let him lead the way. Andreth smiled and indulged him. She was always ready to indulge him. Neither of them knew when he would have to leave for war.

They walked for some time. The sun was high in the sky now. Andreth felt a heady warmth against her skin. It was a bright summer morning, and she loved it still. Summer meant feasting and frolics and picnics and nights spent under the stars. Andreth loved the nights spent under the stars most of all. Aegnor would point out each one of them to her. He would talk about them and tell her their stories, and she would listen eagerly.

But not today. There will be no stargazing today. Aegnor had something else in mind for his lady. He had found it by sheer happenstance, and now he could not wait to show it to her, certain she would find great joy in his little discovery. The elf led her down one winding path and then another, and then walked on and on past bubbling streams and pretty meadows, little thickets of trees, and clumps of wild berry bushes, until he came upon what he was looking for.

"Here we are!" He cried, and let go of her hand. "Open your eyes, my starlight. Go on."

Andreth opened them and gasped, her eyes going wide at the sight before her.

There were dandelions as far as the eye could see. Beneath the gnarled oak tree and all around the abandoned cabin. By the shallow pond and over the little hill. A sea of milky white fluff was what it was, eagerly awaiting the first strong wind. Andreth plucked one and brought it to her lips. A simple puff of breath was all it took, and the tiny seeds took flight. She watched, mesmerized, while they floated away on a gentle breeze.

"Can we stay here a while?" Andreth did not want to leave. Not for a long while. She wanted to stay and drink in the magic of this place. Aegnor took her hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze, his smile a reflection of hers.

"We can stay here for as long as you wish," he promised.

#Aegnor #Andreth #aegnor imagine #andreth imagine #The silm #the silm imagine #the silmarilion #Writer Wednesday #Writeblr #💫whimsy's shenanigans #writer-wednesday

Pigment: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/N: So this idea was kind of kicking around and then the Writer Wednesday prompt gave me permission. I know for certain that I'm not the only one who headcanons Ezra using writing and drawing as a way of building up dexterity in his non-dominant hand. Apologies if this is too derivative. This is fairly early in the Prickle 'verse timeline. Takes place after "Rain." Reader's nickname is 'Artichoke' but Ezra also calls her 'Prickle' or 'Prickle-girl'. Warnings: Mentions of old injuries. Mentions of violence. Food mentions. A little anxiety on reader's part. Mild language.

You didn't mean to look. It just kind of happened.

Acora is a trinary system, two main-sequence stars that orbit each other in a slow precise dance, and way out, past the smattering of gas giants and icy worldlets a T-class brown dwarf that the researchers on the bench nick-named Big Pink. Two suns means that certain times of day are unbearable for suit-work, so the three of you wait in the tent. The pod is mostly powered down, so not to overtax the coolant system and even with the scrubbers and chillers running no one wants to move much. You hear Cee shifting around in the upper bunk, tinny sound from her music player punctuated by snippets of singing. She forgets sometimes and sings aloud. You don't mind. Ezra sits propped up, scribbling in a spiral bound book resting on his knee, scratching away with a nub of graphite pencil. Probably running pull numbers or orbit curves, fuel-to-mass and all that. You wonder why he doesn't just use his tablet. Seems like it would be easier. You try to distract yourself from the rising heat, the tiny pinholes lining the tent's seams that sizzle like little stars, irritatingly bright while you try to read. It doesn't help that you've read this particular mediocre locked-room mystery multiple times. You already know who done it. That's how it goes. Most decent sized benches have some form of lending library, or at least junk dealers willing to make a trade. Paper books are surprisingly valuable out here. You don't have to charge them. They won't shit out if you drop them. Software glitches or botched updates won't turn them into useless bricks. Acora is not a decent sized bench. A skeleton crew of ice miners to keep her fueled and the flying, other than that it's all researchers. Geeks studying the workings of a trinary system. All of them seemed a bit wiggy, like when there was a dust storm back home and you'd have to seal everything up and kick on the scrubbers and try not to murder each other while waiting for the sky to come back. These aren't even real storms, your Gran kept saying, we aint had a real storm since they started dropping ice down the well. Still, by day four or five everyone would have tight smiles and big jittery eyes and once you'd watched your two older brothers start beating the shit out of each other in the kitchen because one ate the last sweet roll without sharing and Ma had to wade in with a broom to break it up. Not that you really expected a station full of scientists to start wailing on each other, but it didn't seem like any of them had been off bench in a good while. The rumpled botanist who's shelling out for live samples from this gruesomely hot little moon exuded that sense of being bottled up in spades. She talked rapidly and told the three of you far more than you needed to know for the task she hired you for, smiling big all the while. Your hand drifted downward to the thrower at your hip. Cee caught the motion and gave a little shake of her head. She was stimmed up to her eyeballs, she'd told you later. My father would get like that sometimes. As long as her money's good, who gives a shit, right? A quick and dirty little job while the freighter unloads and refuels, a three cycle turnover. You try to settle in and ignore the sweat sliming your skin, juicy rattle of the chillers struggling to cope. Best to wait for first sundown, Ezra told you, we'll still have plenty of light but a lot less heat. You peer at him over your book. He is deep in concentration, taps the eraser end of his pencil against lower lip and then against his forehead as if he could knock his ideas loose, brows pushed together in thought. Kevva, he's got pretty eyes, you think, and he glances up at you, a small smile quirking one side of this mouth and you wonder if you've said it aloud, feel heat creeping into your face. "Good book?" "It was the first time through." "Don't worry," says Ezra, "There'll be better pickings on Tirana. It's just a hop, skip and a jump. You can trade for more reading materials there." "Hop, skip and a jump," you echo, the both of you knowing full well that you'll be finishing this novel and then re-reading one of the other half dozen you've got stashed under your bunk before you hit Tirana Bench. "Right." Ezra chuckles and you turn your attention back to this foolish story. Bench-boss's asshole son gets snuffed and the plucky hero has to figure out who did it, all sealed up in a ring with the potential killers, femme fatale ship captain inserting herself into the mess. You know all the twists, familiar as the weight of your suit and body armor on a drop, as Cee's music, as Ezra's snores as he drops off into sleep, soft rasps off to your left, and you feel your own eyes growing heavy as well, a sort of reflexive slide into sleep, too hot to do much else, you rest your book on your chest and let your eyes fall closed, sinking into the unintentional rhythm of tent-noise, the chillers, soupy and rattling from sucking humidity out of the air, small comfort knowing the water is going right into the tanks, that it won't all be cycled piss, Cee's music, some Vayok synth pop she picked up two drops back, Ezra's small snores, and you're almost out yourself, right on the edge, things starting to turn soft and unreal, when a sharp sound snaps you back.

You push yourself up on your side. Ezra's notebook lays on the dusty floor, face down, front and back covers splayed like wings, pencil not far off. Must've fallen asleep writing. You frown. He's had that notebook since before you've been crew. He would not like to see it wrinkled and left on the floor. You pick it up and brush the dust off, straighten the pages, smooth the wrinkles back down and that’s when you notice that his technical notes are not notes at all, or at least not entirely. He has drawn Cee to the life, the tilt of her head, music player covering her ears, that far-away face she gets when she's listening to something new. A Central-standard date pencilled in beneath. You shouldn't look, you should place it beneath the corner of his bunk where he's got his data pad charging, and his stash of Shock-berry Limited Edition Bitz-Bars (as if he had to stash them, they were nasty on so many levels that you and Cee had handed over your share of them in a wordless trade for the regular kind, better the devil you know). You flip a page, curiosity getting the better of you. A cluster of heptagonal shapes, and you feel yourself smiling. The fossils on CJ's World, opaline red, winking in the sun as you pulled them out of the soft sediment. A good and easy haul, low risk. You'd seen a rainbow rising out of the distant sharp cut canyons, and found Ezra's hand folded warm around yours. That was a good day, you think, listening to Ezra's soft snores. "You sure you stripped the aux input panels?" He asks clear as day and you freeze, but then he shifts and the snores resume. One more page, you tell yourself, then we stop being a snoop. The next page bears your face and your name, not 'Artichoke', but the one you signed on the line when you joined this little crew. You in profile, but that can't really be you, can it? You recognize your tactical gear, the webbing that holds your thrower to your thigh, your knife-sheath, the tool belt you wear in place of armor when you're on a friendly drop, but there's a small soft smile on your face, a light in your eyes that he's somehow managed to imply in a few graphite strokes and paper left blank. He's drawing weak-handed, that must be it. You flip the sketch book closed and place it beneath the corner of his bunk with the rest of this things. You lie back in your cot and stare at the pattern of shifting light over the tent, waiting for your mind to settle. It takes some time.

Tirana Bench is a ramshackle hub but there are plenty of stalls in the commerce ring to poke around in. This is how it goes. Once the pod is supplied and the next job negotiated, there's usually a little time for the three of you to split up and get whatever incidentals you need for the next leg of your endless trek around the Great Arm, books, music cylinders, special snacks, extra consumables. Used books, a hand lettered sign reads, one for one trade. You've left what you mean to trade with the man running the shop, and you've got a few promising novels tucked in the crook of your arm when something else among the junk catches your eye. A flattish metal case the length of your hand opened to show wells of bright pigment, cracked, obviously used but with plenty left, a clutch of fine bristled brushes held together with a bit of string. Paint-kit, the tag reads, near new. You fold it closed and examine it, turn it in your hands. If Cee was here you'd ask what she thought, but she's off somewhere else in the commerce ring, making her own deals. The label is mostly missing, faded yellow against the plain grey metal. The catch is s small button and when you push it, the lid pops open on its own. That's what sells you. Ezra can open it one handed. You add it to the clutch of books. He's gonna think it's silly, you think, and the proprietor obviously agrees because the trade for the battered tin of colors is two novels. "That's highway robbery," you grumble. "Where else you gonna find honest-to-Kevva art supplies in a dump like this? Lose two stories or take your trade elsewhere." "Fine," you say and take the slimmest two volumes and slide them back across the counter, "We good then?" "We're good," he says and you tuck the remaining books and paint-kit into the bag slung over your shoulder. "Safe flight, spacer." You nod. Spacer as a form of address still feels weird, like a title you haven't earned. You wonder if that feeling will ever fade, if that small voice that says you have no business out here in the black will ever shut up.

Privacy is an odd thing living in a drop pod for extended periods. Clipped to a bench it's not so bad, there are places you can go, things you can look at, food stalls, bars and the like. You can get away from each other for a little bit. Clipped to a freighter? It's been a mixed bag so far. Depends on the ship. Depends on the whims of them flying her. At best there might be a grotty little mess hall where you can get a hot meal. At worst you are locked down in your pod, with no view and nothing but the same shit rations you eat downworld. It's not entirely unfamiliar, being cooped up. The winds would kick up so high back home that the sand and flying dust could scrape you raw and bloody if you got caught out in it. Privacy is a matter of claiming it, and everyone agreeing to it. When Cee has her music player over her ears, you and Ezra know not to bother her, likewise when you are reading, or when Ezra is running points or calculations or drawing. Silence will fall between the three of you. Not unwelcome. Just everyone doing their thing, usually after you've eaten your last meal of the day, no rules, just an easy habit the three of you have fallen into. Except tonight you can't seem to settle in. You've read the first five pages of the horror novel you traded for on Tirana Bench at least a half-dozen times. It's not that the story or writing's bad, you just can't concentrate. That little metal box in your storage compartment is burning bright in your mind like a lump of radioactive material. You glance over at Cee. She's fast asleep, music player knocked askew. You know eventually she'll take it off in her sleep. Ezra is still awake. Of course he is. Better now than when Cee is awake. She'd probably roll her eyes and call you a goof-ass, but it's not her judgement you worry about. She'd probably also tell you to quit waffling. You abandon your novel on your crash couch and fetch the paint kit from your storage locker. "Hey, Ezra?" "Yeah?" You turn to him, holding the little box behind your back. "I, uh, found something I thought you'd like. On the bench." He's sitting up on the edge of his crash couch, legs hanging over, sketchbook spread across his lap, looking at you expectantly. You offer him the paint-kit. He looks at the battered metal box and then back up at you, that little line starting to stitch itself between his eyebrows. You feel yourself starting to smile a little at his confusion. "Push the button," you say and he does and the dented lid springs up. You set the box on the sketchpad, flat surface folded open and step back, hands worrying at each other. Ezra raises his hand to his mouth. His face runs through a complication of emotions. "I saw some of your drawings. I didn't mean to pry, you fell asleep and dropped your book and I didn't think you wanted it getting all dirty, and I saw this kit and thought you might like to try some colors," Your face and neck go hot. You're rambling. "I mean, you always say how you gotta have the right tools for a job and I saw this and figured I'd get you some tools. It doesn't mass much more than a book. I thought--" "Get me a squeeze bulb with some water, yeah?" "Yeah okay," you say, and snag a squeeze, "You're gonna try it now? It's kind of late-" Ezra makes a dismissive noise. "We've got fifteen and a quarter cycles cooling our heels in this pod," says Ezra. You look at him and he is beaming, dimples sunk into his scruffy cheeks, eyes warm and crinkled, he glows and you feel yourself warmed by him, feel yourself mirroring his smile.

#writer wednesday #ezra x f!reader w/cee #ezra prospect x f!reader #prickle 'verse #prospect AU #prospect fic #pedro pascal #writer-wednesday

Trailmix

Frankie Morales x GN!reader

For @writer-wednesday even though it's now Thursday. (shhh, I won't tell if you don't!) Frankie's weekly hike leads to finding an unexpected friend Warnings: I don't think there are any, but let me know if you want me to add something. Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

It had started as a fun thing to do with his daughter on visitation weekends. Little grabby hands in his hair while she sat on his shoulders rambling about her kindergarten classmates, and almost every leaf, bug, and the woodland creature she could see. Hiking was simply a good way to get outside, to teach her some of the things his dad had taught him, poison ivy-- leaves of three let it be, and all that good stuff. It was well worth the bruises from her tiny kicking feet on his chest, to see his kid learning to see and love the world around her.

It doesn’t take him long to get to the top of the biggest hill looking out at the little valley below. He snaps a quick photo before shifting his backpack off his back to grab some water. He’s not sure how long he spends crouched in the grass under the shade of a tree, sipping from his bottle and snacking on trail mix, but it’s long enough for him to settle into his surroundings relaxing his shoulders and levelling his breathing. And then it hits him. A gigantic wet kiss across his face and then another, and there's a set of paws pressing into his chest and his collarbone. More smooches. He struggles to keep his eyes open, between avoiding slobber and holding back laughter as he tries to settle the big chocolate lab down. Satisfied with the amount of love he’s managed to give Frankie the overgrown puppy plops down on his rump, tail still wagging wildly, tongue out and panting with glee. “Who do you belong to, hmm?” Frankie wonders aloud, trying to get a look a the dog's collar. The dog surges forward to offer more kisses, which Frankie politely declines, gently guiding the dog to lay next to him, head settled in his lap. “Chewy,” Frankie reads the tag, flipping it over he finds a phone number. He takes a picture of Chewy, his new friend, saving it to the camera roll before sending it off with a text; I think this is your dog. It’s not long before his phone dings with the response Omg thank you thank you thank you!!! Where are you? Frankie replies that he’s at the lookout point and happy to hang out with Chewy for a while. Chewy is a good dog, loving, and calm. His head doesn’t move from Frankie’s lap as he starts to dose off and Frankie can’t help but feel himself growing sleepy, a tranquillity he hasn’t felt in a very long time falling over him as he pets the dog. “Chewy!” a voice interrupts the pair's power nap. Chewy’s head pops up at his name, he stands up tail wagging, tongue ready to leave goober kisses once again as his owner approaches. “You scared me half to death!” you speak crouching down to be affectionately tackled by puppy lover “A friendly guy,” Frankie laughs. “Thank you so much for watching him. He never wanders off-- I don’t know why he did today--he was there, and then--” “It’s no problem really,” Frankie interrupts your panicked rambling, “I was glad to have some company”. “Good nap?” you smile, “Chewy loves a good nap” you laugh scratching under chewy’s chin. “So, Chewy? Like Star Wars? Chewbacca?” His question is met with a shy nod, “Yeah. And he really likes chewing on things. Especially, old plastic bottles”. “He’s a good dog,” Frankie says. “He is. A very good friend, a good hiking partner,” you grin as Chewy wanders back to Frankie for more petting, “Do you come here often?” The accidental pick up line has the tips of his ears turning pink, “Yeah. weekends mostly”. “You have a little girl right? I think I’ve seen you guys around”. Frankie nods, not able to hide his proud smile at the mention of his daughter, “Yeah, she’s with her mom this weekend. It’s just me today”. “Well, you have my number now. If you ever want some company, I’m sure Chewy would be happy to join you,” you laugh as Chewy tries to get his nose into Frankie’s bag of trail mix. “And you? Would you like to hike sometime?” his heart pounds as he asks it. “Any time”.

#writer wednesday #writer-wednesday #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character x reader

Secrets in the Wind

Summary: You don’t want to be at this party. You don’t want to be living this life. You escape to the hotel roof, but Jack finds you. A Writer Wednesday fic: @writer-wednesday

Pairing: Bodyguard!Jack Daniels x F!Reader

Word Count: <1k

Rating/Warnings: It’s a very melancholy ficlet. Forbidden/hidden romance, angst, “jokes”/talk of suicide. Talk of parental pressures and judgement. I wrote this in a very low place and it shows. If I missed any warnings, please let me know. No beta, very little editing. All mistakes are mine.

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.

The sounds from the streets echoed and bounced up the facades of the tall buildings. Horns, engines, chatter, birds - they all melded together in some kind of symphony of the city. You could barely hear it as the wind blew past your ears, roaring until the rest was muted and dull. You were alone with the rushing air and your thoughts - at least until the door behind you opened.

#Jack Daniels x Reader #Jack Daniels drabble #Jack Daniels ficlet #Jack Daniels fanfic #agent jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey drabble #agent whiskey ficlet #agent whiskey imagine #jack daniels imagine #wookie tales #writer-wednesday

Daniel Jones x GN!Reader

Word Count: 621

Warnings: proposal

Notes: here’s this week’s blurb for @writer-wednesday! enjoy!

#glassbxttless #glassbxttless adcu #daniel jones x reader #daniel jones #daniel jones x gn!reader #daniel jones x you #tw: proposal?#writer wednesday #writer-wednesday

Writer Wednesday Week 24

Tagging @writer-wednesday

Fun in the Sun

Tobi X Maeve (OC) (The Man Who Killed Don Quixote)

Tobi and Maeve take a well-deserved vacation.

Warnings: smut, swearing.

#writer wednesday #Writer-Wednesday #fanfiction #fanfic #tobi grissoni #toby grummett #the man who killed don quixote #oc insert #oc insert fic

The real you

Agent Whiskey x f reader | Drabble

For week 6 @writer-wednesday

⚠️Warnings: injuries , mention of blood, almost dying

It was a sunless day, overcast, grey. A storm was brewing in the distance and the moody weather felt like the perfect metaphor for how you were feeling.

The car ride was silent minus the occasional groan from Whiskey: you were both hurt pretty bad, but being in better shape, you opted to drive.