Small Fandoms Drabblethon 2026

[scifirenegade]

Anders als die Andern (1919)

Lies

Also for fic_promptly, prompt was "lies we tell ourselves"

Once upon a time, he thought he would grow out of it eventually, and he would find a nice woman whom he would like just fine. The life of his parents was perfect, and it would be reflected on this hypothetical future marriage.

Perfect. His life would be perfect and normal, he would tell himself as he pushed himself to flirt with those he had no romantic interest in. Perfect, yet he would still feel numb as always.

Once upon a time, he thought he would grow out of it eventually. He didn't. Lies. They didn't even bring him comfort.

Contraband (1940)

Forelsket

Also for comment_fic, prompt was "any/any, Forelsket: /forɛlskəd/, [fɒˈɛlsɡ̊əð], the word for when you start to fall in love. A euphoria in a sense; the beginning of love. Danish"

One night, it was all it took. With the speed of a train, he who followed her like one of her aunt's hounds had lodged himself in her heart. Soppy maybe, but there was no shame in that. But the future was uncertain — there was a lot of work to do.

---

One night, it was all it took. As fast as a British patrol boat, that troublesome woman dragged him into a giant mess, but small ships bring big adventures — and he quite liked it. Never in a million years would he think such a thing could happen to him.

Havet

Also for comment_fic, prompt was "is there a sound more soothing than the sea?"

There is not a cloud in the night sky. A few cheeky stars peek out. The waves crash against the ship, starboardside, rocking it. Water on steel. Water on water. It's music to his ears.

Even if in a thunderstorm, his ear cherishes the melody with the same enthusiasm, albeit in a slightly different way. It takes him to adventure, gets him excited.

But at that moment, the music embraces him like a mother embraces a child, and his eyelids feel heavy for the first time in days. It soothes him.

The sound of the waves lulls him to sleep.

Kiss of Silk

Also for fic_promptly, prompt was "thigh high stockings"

The door opens without creaking and he steps inside. That drawer is open, as he expected it to be. He glides to the boudoir and picks up a stubborn stocking that threatens to leap out. With one hand, he raises it with tenderness. It's soft. As soft as the lips he had kissed. As soft as the skin he had caressed. He fondles the stocking, wishing for it to be as part of him as his watch.

"I see we're having fun, Captain," Mrs. Sorensen enters without him noticing. She closes the door. He doesn't bother putting the stocking away.

Ich und die Kaiserin (1933)

Like a Tiger

Also for comment_fic, prompt was "feline-esque behavior by a sleepy/sleeping human(-esque) character"

He yawned and stretched, with his large hands — like a tiger's — patted the pillow before laying his head on it. His tongue stuck out briefly, moistening his lips, and a low sound of bliss escaped them. He worked so hard that day, flirting with not one, not two, but three beautiful people. Were he more of a dastardly fellow, he would say that was a good hunt, but he was a gentleman, and hunting for foxes was it.

Covering himself with the many bedsheets he always made sure covered the bed, he curled up under them, relishing on the warmth.

Loathing

Also for comment_fic, prompt was "Any/Any, enemies to enemies with benefits"

He hates it. Sneaking into the palace with the subtlety of a formally-dressed elephant, entering a room he, in theory, shouldn't enter. Letting himself and the room's owner indulge in each other. It had been going on for weeks, and each time André tells himself it's to be the last.

He hates the aide-de-camp, that man was too much for him to handle, too nosy and full of himself, not to mention he obscured André's fabulousness. And it was certain his aversion was mutual.

He steps into the aide-de-camp's chambers, who leers at his visitor, ready to start their fun.

Just Imagine (1930)

Welcome to the Future

Also for the "Just Imagine" square on my 2026 Public Domain Bingo card, courtesy of allbingo. Elsewhere fic.

There are things BH-96 wouldn't trade away, like his good friend and the aircraft he worked so hard to get. He grits his teeth, because he remembers he can't even put a sticker on it without submitting a 10-page document to the respective authorities. Worse, he can't even submit a marriage proposal to S-71 because they'll refuse for the obvious reasons. Welcome to the future!

So tired he is of being treated as a mere number, of being restricted on what he can do, that he had to join a secret group. Soon, the world will become a better place.

Der Student von Prag (1926)

only I am as I have always been

Also for my Round 24 genprompt_bingo card, "Self-Harm" square (not really self-harm)

He scrambles through the drawer's contents for the gun before he feels its presence in the room. Looking over his shoulder, he watches his reflection watch him, unmoving, framed by moonlight and undulating curtains. Balduin freezes; he cannot protect himself.

What was once Balduin's comes to him. He looks into his own once-youthful face, into the reflection's emotionless eyes. It grabs his neck, as tenderly as its stiff fingers can. As it tears the scarf away from him, the shadow bites his lip until Balduin tastes blood. Death is not to come to him still, hence he accepts it, surrendered.

The Spy in Black (1939)

Is but a dream within a dream

She sits comfortably on the armchair, mug in hand, and sighs. By all accounts, she should be happy; her life is as perfect as one could imagine. She insists on thinking about the dead officer languishing at the bottom of the ocean, insists on thinking about promises made long ago, of visits to places she'll never go to, of silk stockings. About betrayal, of her country, of her husband. That was what it would be, she holds to it. Because that damned officer... Tempting, very tempting.

She couldn't have dropped everything on a whim, just because her instinct took over.

A Woman's Face (1941)

But who prays for Satan?

Also for fic_promptly, prompt was this Mark Twain quote "But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?"

The ceremony was as plain as it could be, the body is never found. But that wasn't the sole reason for it — it's difficult to mourn a would-be murderer, someone who relished in having such a dark soul behind the carefree demeanour he paraded around. So, the tombstone is unadorned, with only the years of his birth and death engraved on it. The small family does not bother visiting the grave, does not bother to utter his name. The old man dies. The child grows up and forces himself to forget. The grave decays faster than his body ever would.

for no one is born wise

Also for fic_promptly, prompt was "love letters"

She sought them all out, read each and every love letter that was ever put to print, full of enthusiasm. One could even say she lived through them, but that was a long time ago, when she still had some hope that her life would be like the lives of other girls. She learnt quickly that the world was not so kind, was not on her side. Her peers' mockery taught her that well.

Resentment set in, her bitterness grew. Such sentimentality, all the words were noise! Hope... She used to be so naive... 

It would never happen to her.