Singing the Body Electric

My final five fills this year for threesentenceficathon (the ficathon where you leave a prompt and someone writes a three-sentence story for that prompt):


Mother Panic

No Place Like It (Dominic + past Dominic/Frederic + implied Dominic/OMC, rated G, 180 words, AO3 Link)
Prompt: your tiny fandom that i've probably never heard of

Look at me now, Dom used to think, imagining his parents gawking at the penthouse apartment, the designer clothes, the parties, all somehow without filling in the blanks of what he'd had to do between the day they kicked him out of the house and the night two years later when he got into the back of Frederick's car.

The sentiment has softened lately, the way everything seems to in the damp and crumbling grandeur of the Pike, when he's tucked away in a quiet corner with his nursing school notes and one of Otis's rats curled up asleep in the crook of his arm, a phone number in his pocket that he plans to call tomorrow.

Sometime between tea with Mrs. Paige in the wild, creeping garden and sliding into his seat at the kitchen table when the boss gets home safe at two a.m., it's only a vague feeling, barely worth pinning down: a flicker of sadness that wherever they are, his parents probably don't have it in them to understand how good he has it here.


Our Flag Means Death

Measures (Izzy Hands & Ricky Banes, rated T, 94 words, note: contains Ricky's death, AO3 Link)
Prompt: "I'll stomp you to death with my hooves."

Until first blood is drawn, until one fighter is disarmed—sometimes, most times, that's as far as a sword fight needs to go. But what's to be done when there is no disarming a man, not when his weapon is his name and whose loins he dropped from, and every law and legitimate flow of coin in this world is its whetstone.

His royal fucking lowness Prince Ricky lies bloodied on the ground, pinned beneath a gold-painted hoof, begging for his life, and Izzy sees to it that he does not get up again.


Au Petit Matin (Frenchie/Izzy Hands, rated M, 117 words, AO3 Link)
Prompt: waking someone up with a blowjob

Izzy thinks of it as setting the tone for the day—contented captain, contented ship.

Easier that, calling it an exercise in morale, than putting a name to the urge that has him shuffling under the blanket shortly after waking, his eyes barely open, moving quietly and carefully as he takes Frenchie's soft cock in hand and lowers his mouth to it. He's part of the crew himself, after all, and so maybe it's only natural that the contentment be his as well as he spends a long and formless time slowly sucking, feeling Frenchie come awake in shallow waves, until questing fingers curl into Izzy's hair and he hears that first happy sigh of the morning.


Imprint (Fang/Izzy Hands, rated T, 89 words, AO3 Link)
Prompt: bite marks

"Romance is wasted on that man, I hope you know that," Lucius says upon hearing his request, but he's sweet enough to kiss him on the cheek and make a perfect drawing all the same.

You can't tattoo a wound, but once the teeth-marks on his shoulder have healed, Fang takes that drawing of them to Wee John, who in turn takes out his needles and ink.

The romance isn't wasted on Izzy; not if the matching love-bite on his other shoulder that night is anything to go by.


Violet Hour (Izzy Hands + past Izzy Hands/Ed Teach + implied Stede Bonnet/Ed Teach, rated G, 123 words, AO3 Link)
Prompt: violet hour

There's a hush that falls over the sea a little ways into the last dog watch this time of year, and Izzy always finds himself on deck when it happens, turning his head in whichever direction the Bahamas lie to gaze into the darkening sky. Having no living kin and not the sort to take a wife, he never thought he'd be the sailor looking landward with a pang in his stomach that has nothing to do with a healing wound. But it's a far gentler pain and a shorter hour, being able to see no light burning in the window of an inn some thirty leagues across the sea, than it once was to fail to find it an arm's length away.