Three White Collar Ficlets
Title: Three Ficlets
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter; Neal/Sara
Spoilers: See works
Summary: Three ficlets written for writing challenges in November.
A/N: Ugh, I was out all day today and couldn’t finish what I wanted to post for Day 12 of the Twelve Days of Ficmas. So have a few unpublished drabbles and ficlets left over from the WC in DC Fandom Meet-up last November.
The first was written for qwertyfaced’s drabble writing contest; I was very honored to have won. The prompt I got was “photo.” This was written prior to the airing of No Good Deed. Spoilers for S5.
Wordcount: 100
He stares at the photo a long time, numbly at first, dumbly. He doesn’t believe what he sees, the evidence before his eyes. His heart hurts, he wants to vomit. Self-fulfilling prophecy, they’ll say. What did you expect? Leopards and their spots.
But he expected better, expected more. He thought he’d gotten through to Neal, thought his love meant something more. He could offer so much - all he had, all he was, even. And yet.
He shoves it into his pocket, shakes his head: Neal, in fireman’s garb, a safe, a crime being committed. Pictures don’t lie.
What will he do?
These next two were written for a “Three Words and a Genre” challenge. The words were pet, enormous, and alcohol, and the genre was tropes. The first one’s only a little bit naughty. No warnings.
----
“No. Uh-uh. Nope. Not gonna do it.”
“Neal.”
“Peter, I am not going undercover at a furry convention, wearing this enormous fox’s head!”
“You will go undercover at this furry convention if we are ever going to get the intel on the Pederson case we need that will break it wide open. Besides… itxerblfght”
“What was that? Say again?”
“I said it’s kind of sexy!”
“You sick bastard.”
“Hey - it’s a legitimate kink. And look - I had the suit tailored to fit you perfectly. He’s even got a little waistcoat.”
“I’ll have to admit, I like petting whatever this thing’s made of, and at least the pocket square matches the tie. I must be rubbing off on you.”
“Heh. Heh-heh-heh.”
“You will not make a joke about wanting to rub one off on me!”
“Heh-heh-heh.”
“Christ, there’s not enough alcohol in the entire city to get me ready for this!”
We had 30 minutes to write, and I had time left, so I also wrote this one:
----
Neal thumbed through the songs on his iPod, searching for the right tune to fit his mood. Nothing too slow - no, that wouldn’t do. And nothing too fast - he would need to keep pace. Ah - perfect! The Beastie Boys had never let him down.
So whatcha whatcha whatcha want! Mike D began and he began cracking eggs.
The soufflé base came together like a dream - it always did. He hadn’t tried this particular recipe, but the alcohol gave the base a lovely flavor - he’d been dubious - and he knew Sara would enjoy the subtlety.
Body movin’, we be body movin’
Neal bopped across the kitchen as he fitted the baking dish with its parchment collar, dusting it with sugar and orange zest. The whites were next, and he took up the largest balloon whisk he could find and began beating them.
Can’t stand it! I know you planned it!
I’ma set it straight, this Watergate
He gazed at the beaten whites critically - the peaks were enormous. He chanced it and inverted the bowl over his head - they stayed in the copper mixing bowl.
“Perfect.”
He made quick work of folding the base and the whites together, turned it all out in the soufflé dish and brought the entire thing to the oven just in time to hear Sara’s light step on the stairs. Picking up his remote, he quickly changed songs to a more appropriate piano sonata.
“Darling,” he purred as he went to greet her at the door.
“Something smells good,” she said after greeting him with a kiss; she petted the side of his face affectionately.
“Grand Marnier soufflé.”
“Oooo. Is that Beethoven on the stereo?”
“Bach.”
“Perfect.”
“Wine?”
”Like a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, I’m fine like wine when I start to rap!” Sara sang, and Neal laughed as he closed the door.
Thank you for your time.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter; Neal/Sara
Spoilers: See works
Summary: Three ficlets written for writing challenges in November.
A/N: Ugh, I was out all day today and couldn’t finish what I wanted to post for Day 12 of the Twelve Days of Ficmas. So have a few unpublished drabbles and ficlets left over from the WC in DC Fandom Meet-up last November.
The first was written for qwertyfaced’s drabble writing contest; I was very honored to have won. The prompt I got was “photo.” This was written prior to the airing of No Good Deed. Spoilers for S5.
Wordcount: 100
He stares at the photo a long time, numbly at first, dumbly. He doesn’t believe what he sees, the evidence before his eyes. His heart hurts, he wants to vomit. Self-fulfilling prophecy, they’ll say. What did you expect? Leopards and their spots.
But he expected better, expected more. He thought he’d gotten through to Neal, thought his love meant something more. He could offer so much - all he had, all he was, even. And yet.
He shoves it into his pocket, shakes his head: Neal, in fireman’s garb, a safe, a crime being committed. Pictures don’t lie.
What will he do?
These next two were written for a “Three Words and a Genre” challenge. The words were pet, enormous, and alcohol, and the genre was tropes. The first one’s only a little bit naughty. No warnings.
----
“No. Uh-uh. Nope. Not gonna do it.”
“Neal.”
“Peter, I am not going undercover at a furry convention, wearing this enormous fox’s head!”
“You will go undercover at this furry convention if we are ever going to get the intel on the Pederson case we need that will break it wide open. Besides… itxerblfght”
“What was that? Say again?”
“I said it’s kind of sexy!”
“You sick bastard.”
“Hey - it’s a legitimate kink. And look - I had the suit tailored to fit you perfectly. He’s even got a little waistcoat.”
“I’ll have to admit, I like petting whatever this thing’s made of, and at least the pocket square matches the tie. I must be rubbing off on you.”
“Heh. Heh-heh-heh.”
“You will not make a joke about wanting to rub one off on me!”
“Heh-heh-heh.”
“Christ, there’s not enough alcohol in the entire city to get me ready for this!”
We had 30 minutes to write, and I had time left, so I also wrote this one:
----
Neal thumbed through the songs on his iPod, searching for the right tune to fit his mood. Nothing too slow - no, that wouldn’t do. And nothing too fast - he would need to keep pace. Ah - perfect! The Beastie Boys had never let him down.
So whatcha whatcha whatcha want! Mike D began and he began cracking eggs.
The soufflé base came together like a dream - it always did. He hadn’t tried this particular recipe, but the alcohol gave the base a lovely flavor - he’d been dubious - and he knew Sara would enjoy the subtlety.
Body movin’, we be body movin’
Neal bopped across the kitchen as he fitted the baking dish with its parchment collar, dusting it with sugar and orange zest. The whites were next, and he took up the largest balloon whisk he could find and began beating them.
Can’t stand it! I know you planned it!
I’ma set it straight, this Watergate
He gazed at the beaten whites critically - the peaks were enormous. He chanced it and inverted the bowl over his head - they stayed in the copper mixing bowl.
“Perfect.”
He made quick work of folding the base and the whites together, turned it all out in the soufflé dish and brought the entire thing to the oven just in time to hear Sara’s light step on the stairs. Picking up his remote, he quickly changed songs to a more appropriate piano sonata.
“Darling,” he purred as he went to greet her at the door.
“Something smells good,” she said after greeting him with a kiss; she petted the side of his face affectionately.
“Grand Marnier soufflé.”
“Oooo. Is that Beethoven on the stereo?”
“Bach.”
“Perfect.”
“Wine?”
”Like a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, I’m fine like wine when I start to rap!” Sara sang, and Neal laughed as he closed the door.
Thank you for your time.