#fff257

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Getting the Numbers Right

I glare at Billy. The empty eye sockets glare back. 

“You’re nothing like John,” I tell him.

Billy stays silent. He often does. Especially after John moved in and I didn’t need him for a sound board anymore.

“No one is like John,” I mutter.

“How long has he been gone? Is she the one who will hold his attention longer than two dates?"

Billy’s mocking tone puts my nerves on edge.

“If I text him now, about a case, he will abandon her without a second thought,” I inform the obnoxious skull.

If Billy was still able to roll his eyes, this would be the moment for it.

“To answer your first question, he’s been gone for one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

“Trust you to know to the second how long he’s been out.”

I roll my eyes because I can, and huff loudly.

“Getting the numbers right is just a way to keep my brain occupied while I’m talking to you. Now, to your second question. This one, Jeanette? Lisa? Sarah? is number six in as many months. John looked exactly the same as he does before every second date he’s been on since he moved in here. My analysis will prove that he’ll end it. Tonight, or by text tomorrow.”

“You seem awfully sure about this. What if this one is the exception.”

It turned out that Billy was right for once.

***

“Alright, I’m off. See you in a week,” John says and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to eat.”

“Why?” I mumble into the sofa cushion.

“Because I don’t want to come home to a corpse, you git,” John explains.

“Why bother coming home at all if you’re moving in with what’s-her-name anyway,” I protest.

A foreign sensation is starting in my throat. It thickens and something is burning behind my eyelids. 

“Sentiment!”

“Shut up, Billy!” I yell.

“Moving?” John asks incredulously. 

A thump startles me. John has dropped his bag to the floor, and his palm is warming my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asks, clearly worried.

“Nothing. You’ll miss your train,” I say and curl in on myself, trying to shake off John’s hand without succeeding.

“You’re trembling,” John states and places his other palm on my forehead to check for fever.

“Am not,” I say, but something is wrong with my voice.

It’s hoarse because of my swollen throat. My nose fills with moisture, overflows, and my philtrum is suddenly soaked with snot. Both cheeks are wet with shed tears, which I evidently have an endless amount of. 

“Sherlock? Talk to me,” John pleads. “There’s clearly something bothering you.”

To my utter dismay, the tears keep flowing and my chest has started to ache. A sob is impossible to stifle. It’s a sound I haven’t heard myself produce since I was a child.

Another sound catches my ears. John is tapping on his phone. The absence of his warm hands is unsettling. I feel…bereft. To my relief it doesn’t last long. His strong fingers rake through my hair, and his other hand stroke my upper arm.

“I really wish I didn’t have to go, Sherlock, but this conference is…shit…look. I’m postponing my departure a few hours, and I won’t stay the whole week, just the three days that are inevitable, alright. But I need you to talk to me. Tell me what all this is about. And I swear, if this is just shamming…”

“It’s not,” I croak. “I’ve come to realise…you…John…I can’t…I won’t cope when you move…”

“Shh, now. No one is moving. Didn’t you deduce that I broke it off with Jeanette last month? You must stop talking to Billy. He’s an idiot,” John murmurs.

Strong arms turn me, but I can’t bear to look at John when my face is covered in snot and tears. Instead, I bury it in the crook of his neck, and the familiar scent instantly soothes me. My body goes limp, and the tears stop falling.

***

It’s a totally different experience when John prepares his second departure. He holds my head in his hands, looks me square in the eyes and talks softly.

“Keep busy. Count the days, minutes, seconds until I’m back if you must. Perform safe experiments. Eat. Stay hydrated. Text me if you need to. I won’t always be able to answer right away, but whenever I can, I will. We can talk when I’m finished for the day. Video calls. I’ll want to see you to know that you’re okay.”

He pulls me down and kisses me so tenderly, I’m tempted to start crying again. I hold the back of his head carefully and puts all my love for him into the kiss.

“I love you. I’ll miss you. Come back to me,” I murmur into his hair when we break the kiss and we’re holding each other tight.

“I will, Sherlock. I’ll miss you too. I always miss you when I’m not with you. Love you too. Now, start counting,” you say. 

You stroke my cheek, then leave. I start counting the seconds, minutes and days until we’re reunited.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

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[seekers-who-are-lovers]

What a fool

Using the @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt #FFF257 Count the days, I have written Wakamiya/Nazukihiko’s POV of the terrace scene. Thank you Flash Fiction Friday for this opportunity.

Fandom: Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master

Characters: Wakamiya/Nazukihiko, Yukiya, mention of Lady Azusa and Shiratama

Word count: 919

Warning: if you haven’t seen the 10th episode let me tell you that there are a couple of spoilers ahead.

LIKE everything else, Wakamiya could sense it when someone was in the Main Shrine. The palace had become a part of him akin to a heartbeat that he knew it at once if there was an intruding presence.

Carefully treading the wooden steps to the rooftop terrace, he caught a glimpse of a figure wearing a sky-blue kimono lounging on the railing. The way it leaned on the bamboo terrace was familiar. It still surprised him that Yukiya willingly went up there without any qualms. Something bothered the boy.

“Yukiya,” the prince softly called his attendant’s name lest the pubescent would think of jumping to the ground and injuring himself in the process.

“Your Highness?!” Yukiya’s big midnight blue eyes shone in the pale moonlight. They fascinated him.

“Did I startle you?”

“You did and I was ready to run away!”

Wakamiya did not know why but he found the statement so funny that he let out a half-suppressed laugh. He knew the many times Yukiya would love to hit him in the face. Too bad for the boy because he knew how to defend himself.

There was brief silence between them when he remembered Lady Azusa’s letter of request if he could give Yukiya a few days off to celebrate his 14th birthday coinciding with the Lunar Festival.

One of the princesses, Shitarama, Yukiya’s cousin, turned 14 when she arrived at the Sakura Blossom Palace to join the rite. However, it was strange to refer to Yukiya as a mere child when his cousin was already regarded as a woman when their birthdays were only a few months apart. Unbeknownst to everyone, the girl already had a lover back home.

“Cannot sleep? Is everything all right?” This was unusual. Staying up late was not on Yukiya’s routine since he started working for him.

“My mother asked me to visit them for the moon-viewing in a fortnight.”

Ah. Of course, the only thing he must do is ask me. Or better yet, tell me in my face that he is going to visit them without expecting if I would give my assent or not. Why is he so reluctant?

“It is also your 14th birthday. It is only proper to grant the Lady Azusa’s request even if it means you are going to leave me for a few days.”

He could not help giving off that sadness on his voice which made Yukiya turn to him.

“Your Highness?”

The prince shook his head. At the age of 14 he was somewhere else away from Yamauchi because every day he had to be mindful of his life not to be in danger. Once when the Empress called his audience, a few minutes seated before her, he sensed the numbness on his fingers and toes, was sweating and could not stand up. Breathing became laborious. He asked to be dismissed at once. When Natsuka found him in his bedchamber, he noticed that his little brother did not look well.

The cause of it all was the karon incense that the Empress was so fond of. Calming at first, but deadly with the large doses if the human body was not used to it. For years, he developed ways to withstand the sedative effect of the incense that could only be imported from the Southern Territory.

Yukiya then looked at him with the pain in his eyes that the Crown Prince could not discern if it was pity or affection.

“You need me,” the boy said. For now, there was a change on Yukiya’s vocal cords. A slight one, nonetheless. His physique gained a bit of muscle mass as his sparring with Sumio became more intense wanting to know if there was anything else to improve. He observed the boy practise every day, who never shied away from what he was capable of. He knew that if another attempt again would ever happen, he could rely on Yukiya to defend him or fight with him on his side.

“I do,” he said softly. Suddenly, the urge to reach for him, to touch the boy’s face, was so strong but the way he looked at him with so much intensity stopped him from doing so. Alas, their kimonos touched. Wakamiya counted the days until he could ascend to the throne. It was a requirement that Yukiya as his kin’ju to move in to one of the rooms in the upper floors of the Main Shrine, close to the emperor’s suite, like it had always been thousands of years ago.

A thought came up to him: What a fool to put all his trust to one person.

He wanted to tell him how in diverse ways he was important to him. The teenager, on the other hand, turned red on the face and leaned his arms on the handrail.

And now you are hiding away from me.

Wakamiya’s left hand was an inch closer to Yukiya’s hair. He heard the boy whine softly as if in pain.

“Your bed is calling for you,” Wakamiya could only say.

“I will come back per our agreement,” Yukiya assured him.

“Of course. I expect you to.”

The boy wished him good night and headed toward his bedchamber.

As the sound of footsteps slowly ebbed away, Wakamiya started to shiver as the biting cold filled his lungs. He then inserted his hands inside his kimono sleeves to warm them up and let out a sigh that he was keeping for so long.

He waited for the sunrise to come.

tbc

—

So enamoured of the Yatagarasu universe I don’t blame everyone who’s enchanted by it. This is Yukiya’s POV. Full AO3 link here.

[halfbakedideas]

Days That Pass

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: ‘count the days’.

—x—x—x—

The Doctor with the new-old face moved in with the Temple-Nobles. That in itself wasn’t hard. What was hard was actually living with them.

He had never been one to stay still for long. They’d been bad at it when he’d last worn this face; but nowhere near as bad as their fish-fingers-and-custard self. That one had been downright awful at stillness.

They managed a grand total of four hours of ‘still’ on the first day before he’s up and moving again, heading back into the TARDIS. Not to leave — he wasn’t going to leave, he’d promised their future self and Donna that he would stay in 2024.

Even though they knew that, Donna didn’t; she followed him to the TARDIS.

“You better not be trying to leave already, Spaceman,” Donna’s voice sounded out from behind him, echoing slightly.

They spun on his heel.

“What? Oh. no, no…I’m not. Came in here to do some repairs after how the TARDIS crashed yesterday,” The words tumbled out of their mouth.

She ended up sitting with him while they fiddled about beneath the console doing repairs that weren’t that urgent (the TARDIS could fix herself for the most part) but certainly helped quieten the nagging urge to run.

The days passed. The Doctor found himself counting the days. It’s not a conscious thing, at first. They wanted to make sure he would remember absolutely everything that happened during this period.

It was weird, counting up the days they spent with the Temple-Nobles instead of counting down to something ending.

…Okay that was a lie. He was also counting down. Counting down the days he had left with Donna before he lost her for a second, far more permanent time.

The last time he had worn this face all those years ago, they had made the mistake of going and finding out all the details surrounding Donna’s death.

It had been comforting (mostly) back then, to know she would be surrounded by family at her passing. The details had been comforting then, but not so much anymore. Because now he had their best friend back again and every day that passed meant one day closer to when they would lose her again.

So the Doctor did what he did when faced with any particularly negative thing: run away. Only this time no actual running was done.

They started another counter. Counting up.

Twenty-four days after the bigeneration, he bought a house. It was the solution to the looming problem of all the damage done to the Temple-Nobles’ house. Damage that he had responsible for. Blue tarps had been a temporary fix but a more permanent solution was needed.

The house-buying had nothing to do with the stepping-on-toes feeling that plagued him the entire month, not at all.

The Doctor defined this counter, the increasing one, with moments. Sitting outside to watch the sunrise with Donna; Helping Rose with her homework; Somehow managing to improve his interactions with Sylvia so they don’t run the risk of being slapped (again); Even sneaking out in the TARDIS with Rose to take her to see purple sunsets or try alien ice cream. Amongst dozens of other memories.

Despite how much they filled their days with, the Doctor’s still acutely aware of the counter counting down. No matter how much they tried to lose track of it he couldn’t, his brain wouldn’t let them.

It was Thursday, game night. Everyone was gathered in the living room to play The Game of Life. The Doctor was sitting on the sofa, with Rose to his right and the armrest to their left.

Later he would realise this wasn’t the best choice of game. They’d only chosen it because it was space-themed. But right now he was too busy being zoned out.

“Oi, Martian, your turn,” Donna called, leaning forward from Rose’s other side to look at them properly.

It was their turn yet they were blankly staring at the table like he had for the last twelve minutes. Donna would bet good money he wasn’t actually seeing the board.

He saw an older Donna being told she only had four months left to live, and then their best friend on her deathbed. The memories of a future yet to happen (and might not even happen anymore) had frozen them in place.

“Doctor?” Rose tried. A moment passed and still nothing.

When this happened before, he’d be back to normal again within minutes. Not this time.

“Take your turn, Mum,” Donna told Sylvia before she stood up and crossed around the table towards the Doctor. “Spaceman?”

They’d zoned out like this before, touch had brought him back out then so maybe it would now.

Donna reached out and touched the back of his hand. As soon as her fingertips touched, the Doctor jerked backwards, back thumping against couch cushions.

Some images slipped through from the contact, of an older version of herself. She only saw it for a few seconds but that was enough time to realise what it was : Their memories of her last moments.

He knew how she was going to die. It felt wrong for her to have seen it.

“Is it my turn?” they asked.

“You know how I die,”

He froze where they’d been reaching towards the spinner. “Yeah, I do…You weren’t supposed to see that,”

“So what, you were gonna keep it secret forever?”

“No! Not forever. And it might not even happen like that anymore,”

“How long have you known?” It’s hard to keep the horror-concern out of her voice. The last time he had zoned out was because he had been remembering her death.

The Doctor looked away.

“Not long I took you home,” That was very specifically vague.

That wasn’t the last time the Doctor got lost in those memories. The two of them eventually talk about it at-length, and Donna finds out about their counting down counter.

They’d always know exactly how long they had left with Donna, that would always loom over his head, but adjusting to the slower life in 2024 helped. Distracting themself with both mundane and adventurous things helped. Spending more time with Donna helped.

[lucigoo]

Count, Count, Count before you Cry: Count, Count, Count before I Die

#257 - Count the Days, @flashfictionfridayofficial

Pairing -Bilbo/Thorin

Warnings - Gold sickness, possessivness, maiming, imprisonment, suicide, MCD (please do mind the tags)

Words - 921

Summary - Thorin and the dwarves are Gold sick and they have NOT forgiven Bilbo his betrayal

A03 link here

“Count the days. Count the hours. Count the minutes. Count, count, count, until you cry,”

Bilbo was mumbling to himself over and over again.

There was nothing to distract him from both the heartache and physical pain apart from his own mind.

He refused to look down. To see what HE had done to him. To remember how he had cradled Bilbo’s feet before breaking each toe and his ankles whilst cooing softly and saying it was for Bilbo’s own good before placing shackles around them.

Bilbo’s wrists were similarly shackled before him, and all attached to the wall behind him.

Bilbo was an utter shell of the hobbit he had been before this, both physically and mentally, and now he was just counting the days until it was finally over. Until his own personal void rushed forward to embrace him and cover him in its darkness.

“Count the days, count the hours, count the minutes. Count, cou...”

“Will you stop that infernal racket Bilbo?” Thorin suddenly bellowed as he stormed over to his hobbit.

He grabbed Bilbo by his chin and roughly pulled it up, adding more bruises to the bruises he had already inflicted on his little One. “You are my treasure. You are to sit and look pretty. I have no need for your wicked little tongue, not after you betrayed me,” Thorin said as he viciously pushed Bilbo into the wall.

Bilbo could do nothing but whimper in pain and heartbreak.

This demon in Thorin’s skin was destroying him, bit by bit, moment by moment.

Bilbo could no longer stop his soft little whimpers as he curled himself up as best as he was able.

“What’s Uncle Bilbo snivelling for now, Uncle Thorin?” Kili asked as he walked through the treasury.

Bilbo watched as the same half awake sheen covered the younger Durin’s eyes too. It covered all of his dwarves’ eyes. The dragon sickness having infected them all and now all they were was monsters.

“You know him. Always snivelling about something. Don’t worry about him, Kili. I will break his fingers if he carries on whining,” Thorin said dismissively. Kili just chuckled and carried on wandering around the vast treasure mountains in Erebor.

Erebor, Bilbo thought with silent tears falling down his face. It was supposed to be a new, wonderful start for the dwarves. He had also hoped it would be for him.

Bigger fool that he was. Now he could hear the men and elves and orcs battling with Dain’s troops outside of the mountain. Bilbo didn’t know if any of them would survive. But no matter what the outcome was, he was as good as dead. He was never getting out of here. He would never see the sky again, he thought mournfully.

Bilbo had first thought that Gandalf would save him. That he would use his wizardry to get his friend out of Thorin’s greedy hands, but the dwarves had refused to let him scurry away.

Gandalf had been powerless against the three leaders at that moment, but he also hadn’t realised what Thorin was going to do to his friend. Dear, sweet, stupid Gandalf, who wouldn’t have a friend left to save after the battle.

Bilbo just bit his lip until it bled. It didn’t matter now, anyway; he thought as he accidentally wiggled his toes and screamed in pain from it.

He was destroyed. From the inside out and there was no point counting the days until Gandalf came to rescue him.

There would be no rescue for Bilbo, not this time. This he understood and was ready to welcome it.

He silently picked up the item he had been moving closer to himself by steadily shifting the gold for days. Almost glad that Thorin and The Company were all wandering the treasury, acting as if they didn’t have their burglar, their friend, their hobbit, chained to the wall like a damned animal.

Bilbo managed to grab the item in both hands and cradled it softly to his chest.

Having it in his hands must have served as some kind of pressure valve because Bilbo started sobbing and just couldn’t stop.

Thorin of course heard him and stalked over to Bilbo, showing him who was prey and who was the predator ready to rip the other’s throat out.

“Why are you sniffling now? I swear to Mahal Bilbo, shut up,” Thorin hissed out, putting his face close to Bilbo’s threateningly.

Unlike all the other times where Bilbo had cringed back and tried to make himself invisible, this time Bilbo sat up as straight as he could and snapped his teeth at Thorin, causing him to draw back in surprise.

Bilbo looked into Thorin’s glazed over eyes sadly and saw nothing of the dwarf he was once, the one who had cared and loved Bilbo more than anything else.

Bilbo slowly raised one hand to Thorin’s cheek and stroked it gently before pressing a soft kiss to it.

He then pulled back, one hand still on Thorin’s check, the other clenched at his breast.

Bilbo looked into Thorin’s eyes before he spoke again.

“Count the days, count the hours, count the minutes. Count, count, count before you cry. Cry, cry, cry before I die,”

he whispered with a sad smile before plunging the hidden dagger straight into his own heart.

The last thing Bilbo heard before everything faded was Thorin’s anguished howl.

His last thought before he slipped away to the void was “oh, there’s my dwarf, I found you.”

[orion-lacroix]

Time minus two minutes

FFF257: count the days

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Tw: annihilation of mankind, war, murder

from one of my smaller WIP

words: roughly 500

12 days.

I was dragged to the same building as other hackers by a soldier. I am given a computer and told to talk with the other about our new job.

The job in question is the creation of a program that would target foreign countries and I am told to obey if I want to live. A gun is in my back, I can feel the pressure on my spine and fear close my throat. I grab the computer and begin.

10 days.

I talk with my fellow hackers, some have been here for weeks, some hours. Josh argue with ushed voice with another hacket about the morality of all this. My throat is still closed, I do not say a word. Someone says we should make the program fail on purpose, like a failsafe.

7 days.

Josh yell at one of the soldier, he says he wont do it. The bang echoes in my ears for hours, the blood that stains the cement floor remains for a week. No one dares to raise their voice or voice their concern again.

2 minutes before disater.

I watch one of the smallest bombs fall on the city around me, on the news a reporter says the entire planet is getting bombed by nuclear missiles, many by their own arsenal. I grab my dictaphone and record one last message on it before locking it in the metal box. The next bomb that will fall on this city will be nuclear, I know it will.

The message I record on the dictaphone is an apology, on behalf of humanity. It is a plea for forgiveness.

3 days.

I am codding the program that controls and acces the weapons when I realized something. I discrealty grab the attention of another hacker, when I show it to her she tells me to do it, whatever I planned. I disregard the fear of doom and the guilt clawing at my guts and I code the program.

8 hours.

We are ordrered to start the program for a test run on some foreign country. I tell the general that the program isn't ready, that it could blow up the whole world. I look at Isabelle, she nods in understanding. I accept to start the program. We are resigned.

2 days.

I am done with the program. under many different files name and cover me and the other have named it the plague. I wipe the memory of my dictaphone and once out off earshot I record a memo and label it part 2. "I, Eden, was a hacker. I am one of five responsible for the end of humanity. I know the consequences of my actions as well as the price I pay. I am only glad I will not live with the guilt for long. It wasn't a failure of codding. I am sorry. Things will go on without mankind going forward and destroying everything we touch."

[lukas-clost]

Rinse and Repeat

Thank you so much to @flashfictionfridayofficial for another wonderful prompt! I've been having so much fun with these!

[#FFF257 Count The Days]

For context, this is an Undertale AU fanfic following Kate (an OC detective in training) who has recently started her training. This is in the POV of Sans, a victim advocate, who is getting sick of his monotonous incapability to help the monsters enough

The first day was always the hardest.

Being the victim advocate at the police station meant being ready to support people—monsters and humans alike—in whatever way they needed, be it comfort, finances or magic, Sans loved his job, truly; it was an easy way to help so many people and keep monsterkind safe, but...

There shouldn't be this many victims.

The day after was always more bearable. Sure, he'd be exhausted from expending so much energy and magic on the victims to make sure that they'd be okay, but he usually didn't have to do it the next day. All he really needed to do was check in on them, make sure that they were coping alright, refer them to therapists or doctors if they wanted him to. And then he could rest some. Not that he wanted to, but Papyrus and Muffet would have his head if they found out that he wasn't.

By the time a week had passed, the victim wouldn't need daily checkups, a community of caring monsters doing that for him. Making sure that they were going to therapy if they had started, that the people around them were taking good care of them; making sure that his job was completely and thoroughly taken care of.

Then, he could really start.

The first day was always the easiest. Being the victim advocate meant talking to people, calming them down, asking them questions about what happened. Sans loved his job, truly; it was an easy way to help so many people and keep monsterkind safe, but...

There was still more he could do.

The day after was always more difficult. By then he would have exhausted all information from the victims, but it never hurt to try again. All he had to do was check in on them, and use that to do some investigating on his own as he made his way to their houses. He could eavesdrop om his colleagues' conversations too. Sure, he hated the invasion of privacy, but he'd long since been desensitised when he realised how much information he could get from it. And he couldn't rest. Not that he wanted to, but he had to make sure that Papyrus and Muffet didn't find out.

By the time a week had passed, there was nothing more he could really do, the detectives already doing what they can to investigate. Having interviews, looking for clues, making it clear that it was just as futile as when Sans had first started looking.

Then a new victim would come in, and he would have to start all over again.

[renee-writer]

Days

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial 257 prompt: Count the Days

It is something you do more as you get older, she realizes. When there is more of life behind you then in front, every day is precious.

You begin to look back more, as well. To what you did right, wrong, what you wish you could change, what you never would. Taking stock.

Thinking about those gone before, about what they would think of the world as it is now. More then that, about those coming up behind. What are we leaving to them, what lessons can we teach them, how can we make their lives easier? Should we?

What is left to do? Breathe equals purpose, after all. Whether there is a year left on earth or thirty, what is to be done in that time?

Counting the days, pondering the past and future. Maybe though, it would be better to live in the present. Maybe that is the real lesson in growing older.

[lizardperson]

4261 days

[on ao3]

fandom: original work rating: m cw: suicide mention, grief, drinking/alcohol abuse wc: 691 prompt: #fff257 count the days for @flashfictionfridayofficial

---

Have a pleasant trip. You may smoke, you may drink, you may dance You may die. We may even land oneday. [Flight One, by Gwendolyn MacEwen]

One day since she left. Daria knows she's supposed to be in pain right now, but it barely hurts. There's just numbness. Hardly any feelings at all. It's fine, she'll manage. She has to.

Seven days since she left. Daria functions. She has to. There are so many things that need to be done when one's spouse dies, you don't have much time to think anyway. Still barely any pain. She doesn't even cry at the funeral, just keeps busy, comforts the other mourners. Gives her eulogy, talks about what a wonderful person Fiona was. This will be the last time she says her name out loud for many, many years to come, but she doesn't know that yet. It's fine, she'll manage. She has to.

Twelve days since she left. Daria functions. She has to. Goes to work, buys groceries, keeps appointments. Thanks people for their condolences, tries to keep those talks short, they are awkward for everyone involved anyway. "I'm sorry for your loss." She smiles, says thank you. I'm sorry your wife killed herself. Thank you, it was nice seeing you, goodbye.

22 days since she left. The pain finally arrives, suddenly, at night, explodes right into her heart. Daria cries for hours, falls asleep exhausted, wakes up, cries again. Curls herself into a ball on the floor, cries some more. It hurts so much, and she has no idea how she will ever pick herself up from the floor again.

23 days. 24 days. 25 days. Why did you leave me. 26 days. 27 days. 28 days. Why wasn't I enough. 29 days.

30 days since she left. Daria functions again. She has to. Throws herself into work, tries to distract herself from the pain. The days are okay, mostly. The nights rarely are.

117 days since she left. Daria functions. Work numbs the pain during the day, scotch numbs the pain at night. It's fine, she'll manage. She has to.

365 days since she left. Daria doesn't visit the grave, she fears she might want to lie down beside it and never get up again. Die by her side. I miss you. Why couldn't I help you.

730 days since she left. Daria always assumed by now the pain would be gone somehow, or at least diluted enough to bear it. She's wrong. That night she drinks herself into unconsciousness, and part of her is almost disappointed that she wakes up again the next day.

1825 days since she left. Why does it still hurt. Daria functions. She has to. She wishes she wouldn't.

2767 days since she left. Daria is used to the pain by now, it's almost like an old friend. It will always be there. Other people see it too, it's like a cloud hanging around her head. They pity her. She's still grieving? Hasn't it been years by now? Yes. She's still grieving. After all these years. But it's fine, she manages. She has to. Life goes on, somehow. She wishes it wouldn't.

3045 days since she left. Daria moves to a new city. People still see the cloud of sadness around her, but at least here they don't know. They don't pity her. She befriends her neighbor, occasionally socializes with her colleagues. The nights are still hard sometimes. But it's fine, she manages. She has to.

3658 days since she left. Daria realizes she doesn't think about her every single day anymore. She even smiles sometimes, and means it. She looks forward to getting up in the morning sometimes. Spending time with her neighbor helps. It still hurts, but there are times when she thinks one day it might not anymore. It's fine, she manages.

4261 days since she left. Daria looks at July, her neighbor, who fell asleep next to her while they were watching a movie, just as she did so many nights before. Daria thinks one day she might actually be happy again. She's fine, she manages. Because she wants to.

[polizwrites]

PoliZ's Flash Fics - Stucky Edition

Continuing the celebration of  completing my 100th @flashfictionfridayofficial  fic by promoting  some of the ficlets I’ve written based on these amazing prompts.  Most of these are also on Ao3 under Politzania, usually edited, and sometimes expanded/rolled into larger fics.

Here’s ficlets  I wrote for another of my favorite MCU/Marvel pairings - (and my first slashfic pairing!):   Stucky (aka Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers ) - I’m including the platonic pairings as well.   

If you like any of these - please let me know and consider reblogging!

[#FFF94 Riveting Revival]: Making Strides [Bucky & Steve, General, 314 words]

[#FFF100: A Hidden Path]: A Scent and a Sound (I’m Lost and I’m Found) [Steve/Bucky, General, 915 words]

[#FFF103 Burn it Down]: Emotion is a Distraction [Steve & WS!Bucky, Teen, 429 words]

[#FFF107 Never Forgotten]: Found Family [Bucky/Steve, General, 618 words]

[#FFF111 Clandestine Closet]: Here to Save the American Way [Bucky & Steve, General, 614 words]

[#FFF116 Deceiving Fragrance]: Restoring the Shield - Chapter 3 Excerpt [Bucky & Steve, Teen, 450 words]

[#FFF117 Stars And Shadows]: Stars and Shadows [Steve/Bucky, General, 419 words]

[#FFF118 Yonder Hills]: Bittersweet [Bucky & Steve, General, 386 words]

[#FFF 120 A Greater Horror]: Something Very Wrong With Me [Bucky/Steve, General, 365 words]

[#FFF135 A Touch Of Faith] : A Sacrifice of Praise and Thanksgiving [Steve/Bucky, Mature, 200 words]

[#FFF139 It Doesn’t Hurt ]: It Doesn't Hurt [Bucky & Steve, General, 100 words]

[#FFF140 Setting Heaven On Fire: Setting Heaven On Fire/ A Stolen Moment [[none - Bucky/Steve], Mature, 424 words]

[#FFF154 Far From Perfect: Past Imperfect [Steve/Bucky, Mature, 518 words]

[#FFF211 An Old Friend]: In the Dead of the Night [Bucky & Steve, General, 317 words]

[#FFF241 Hour of Denial]: The Hour of Denial [Bucky/Steve, General, 357 words]

[#FFF252 Spill the tea]: Baring His Soul [Bucky/Steve, Teen, 634 words]

[#FFF257 Count The Days ]: Short-Timing It [Bucky & Steve, General, 313 words]

[starlightfireflies]

the Path

written for: @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: fff257; silver sparks warnings: fireworks word count: 813

My basket dangles merrily off my arm.

It’s a traitor.

For it has just split open at the seams, after I placed one—one!—tiny jar of strawberry jelly into its carefully woven mesh.

I can’t help but watch in dismay as the glass shatters around my feet, the jelly staining the cobblestones blood-red. Four silver pieces wasted. And now I must hurry through to square to find the only basket-weaver my mother trusts.

Wonderful. Lunatics and magicians are exactly how I wanted to start my day.

I have no choice. So I hurriedly scrape up the remains of the jelly, hand out bronze coins to those caught in the crossfire, discard the basket’s remains in the arms of a poor little girl, and set off on what should be a grand adventure but will instead be a very large inconvenience.

No one has died on the Path in three years. Though my heart still stutters, at least my life will be safe.

For the first few minutes, life is wonderful. I wave to all my mother’s friends, all of them flushed from the sun, leaning over their stalls to entice new customers or catch up with the old ones.

I even encounter my sister’s girlfriend. She’s too engrossed in a display of magic to notice the half-hearted wave I send her. The magician, eyes an impassive blue, manipulates the air in whispers and creeping smoke. The audience is fascinated. To them, it’s a trick to amuse their hearts.

To me, it marks the beginning of the Path.

Already, I can see the chalk like drawn across the middle of the road. It seems to warp reality, chasing shadows to one side and yanking light over to where I stand. No tents cross the line. No people do either.

It’s odd, I muse. The Path is no different from our side.

Just like our market, the people on the Path scurry with intent. They clink coins in pockets, yell merrily, walk past each other carrying armfuls of goods. The only difference is the silvery sparks flaring ever so often.

But those sparks make all the difference.

I take a deep breath, clutching my basket as I cross the line. Instantly, I am enveloped in cool blues. My clothing softens to match the gray and purples of the Path. My eyes shutter against the shadows.

When I turn, my side is all yellow and orange, so bright that I must look away, even though I was standing in the same glowing sun only a moment ago.

“Trinket for your heart?” rasps a scrawny man. He’s holding out a platter of amulets. His bloodshot blue eyes are fixed on me. On where I just came from.

“No, thank you,” I say, and hurry on. Travelers from my side are the Path’s favorite kind of customers. We’re isolated from magic, drawn in by its lure. We’ll fall for their pretty tricks quickly.

More vendors have noticed me. Their gazes catch on my clothes, on my golden eyes. Soon I am surrounded by a shouting crowd of merchants, each shoving their goods in my face, proclaiming the worth of their magic.

“I’m fine!” I try to shout, but I am drowned out by the cacophony. “I don’t need any of your magic, thank you very much!”

“Surely not?” That’s a girl, delicately running beads through her fingers. Another man twists a silver wire into a perfect ribbon. Yet another merchant makes fire ripple, while a woman in shades of deep navy blue tries to press golden earrings into my palm.

“For protection,” she says, before I snatch my hand away. “Truly, I’m good.” The basket-weaver isn’t far. I must free myself and hurry along before I am swept up in the magic. Before I’m tempted.

A sudden shot of silver sparks burst upwards, exploding into trails in the sky.

The crowd scatters.

More sparks boom, these ones blue, and then another round of silver cascades across the sky. They’re gorgeous to look at, even if they do leave a ringing in my ears.

My way forward is clear. I rush along it to the end of the Path, where a small, unassuming building sits. It is dwarfed by the mansions around it—white peacocks prance around marble gates of one while gray steel shimmers down the doors of another.

There’s a small note pinned to the door of the basket-weaver. My heart lurches the further I get to the door, my mind whirling as the print grows clearer.

Closed for the celebrations, the note reads, the handwriting barely decipherable. Apologies for the inconvenience.

I close my eyes. Wonderful.

More sparks send noise crackling through the air. Cheers follow. After a moment, I crack my eyes open a smidge. Smoke is rising, flags are waving. Light glows and whistles echo.

Celebrations, eh? Might as well join in the fun.

[gradienty]

Gorse Peach Schnapps (#fff257 to #ffd2cd)

[gregorovitch-adler]

This is so 🥹🤌🤌

Sherlock fandom

Getting the Numbers Right

I glare at Billy. The empty eye sockets glare back. 

“You’re nothing like John,” I tell him.

Billy stays silent. He often does. Especially after John moved in and I didn’t need him for a sound board anymore.

“No one is like John,” I mutter.

“How long has he been gone? Is she the one who will hold his attention longer than two dates?"

Billy’s mocking tone puts my nerves on edge.

“If I text him now, about a case, he will abandon her without a second thought,” I inform the obnoxious skull.

If Billy was still able to roll his eyes, this would be the moment for it.

“To answer your first question, he’s been gone for one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

“Trust you to know to the second how long he’s been out.”

I roll my eyes because I can, and huff loudly.

“Getting the numbers right is just a way to keep my brain occupied while I’m talking to you. Now, to your second question. This one, Jeanette? Lisa? Sarah? is number six in as many months. John looked exactly the same as he does before every second date he’s been on since he moved in here. My analysis will prove that he’ll end it. Tonight, or by text tomorrow.”

“You seem awfully sure about this. What if this one is the exception.”

It turned out that Billy was right for once.

***

“Alright, I’m off. See you in a week,” John says and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to eat.”

“Why?” I mumble into the sofa cushion.

“Because I don’t want to come home to a corpse, you git,” John explains.

“Why bother coming home at all if you’re moving in with what’s-her-name anyway,” I protest.

A foreign sensation is starting in my throat. It thickens and something is burning behind my eyelids. 

“Sentiment!”

“Shut up, Billy!” I yell.

“Moving?” John asks incredulously. 

A thump startles me. John has dropped his bag to the floor, and his palm is warming my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asks, clearly worried.

“Nothing. You’ll miss your train,” I say and curl in on myself, trying to shake off John’s hand without succeeding.

“You’re trembling,” John states and places his other palm on my forehead to check for fever.

“Am not,” I say, but something is wrong with my voice.

It’s hoarse because of my swollen throat. My nose fills with moisture, overflows, and my philtrum is suddenly soaked with snot. Both cheeks are wet with shed tears, which I evidently have an endless amount of. 

“Sherlock? Talk to me,” John pleads. “There’s clearly something bothering you.”

To my utter dismay, the tears keep flowing and my chest has started to ache. A sob is impossible to stifle. It’s a sound I haven’t heard myself produce since I was a child.

Another sound catches my ears. John is tapping on his phone. The absence of his warm hands is unsettling. I feel…bereft. To my relief it doesn’t last long. His strong fingers rake through my hair, and his other hand stroke my upper arm.

“I really wish I didn’t have to go, Sherlock, but this conference is…shit…look. I’m postponing my departure a few hours, and I won’t stay the whole week, just the three days that are inevitable, alright. But I need you to talk to me. Tell me what all this is about. And I swear, if this is just shamming…”

“It’s not,” I croak. “I’ve come to realise…you…John…I can’t…I won’t cope when you move…”

“Shh, now. No one is moving. Didn’t you deduce that I broke it off with Jeanette last month? You must stop talking to Billy. He’s an idiot,” John murmurs.

Strong arms turn me, but I can’t bear to look at John when my face is covered in snot and tears. Instead, I bury it in the crook of his neck, and the familiar scent instantly soothes me. My body goes limp, and the tears stop falling.

***

It’s a totally different experience when John prepares his second departure. He holds my head in his hands, looks me square in the eyes and talks softly.

“Keep busy. Count the days, minutes, seconds until I’m back if you must. Perform safe experiments. Eat. Stay hydrated. Text me if you need to. I won’t always be able to answer right away, but whenever I can, I will. We can talk when I’m finished for the day. Video calls. I’ll want to see you to know that you’re okay.”

He pulls me down and kisses me so tenderly, I’m tempted to start crying again. I hold the back of his head carefully and puts all my love for him into the kiss.

“I love you. I’ll miss you. Come back to me,” I murmur into his hair when we break the kiss and we’re holding each other tight.

“I will, Sherlock. I’ll miss you too. I always miss you when I’m not with you. Love you too. Now, start counting,” you say. 

You stroke my cheek, then leave. I start counting the seconds, minutes and days until we’re reunited.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

@helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @phoenix27884 @topsyturvy-turtely

@peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @jolieblack

[polizwrites]

Short-Timing It

This is a fill for today’s  @flashfictionfridayofficial  prompt [#FFF257 Count The Days] as well as my @buckybarnesbingo  K4 - Last Times/Farewells  square.   

Fandom:  MCU/Marvel Rating: General Pairing:  Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers   (Stucky if you squint) Tags:  Pre-War,  Brooklyn, Roommates,  Summary:  Bucky has three days before his entire life changes.   Word Count: 313

Three days.  Seventy-two hours, give or take a few.  It seemed like both forever and a blink of an eye before his entire life would change.    Bucky looked around their apartment - all the little chores and fix-its that he told Steve he’d get around to when he had the time.  

Well, at least he had a little time now.  He’d told his  boss at the docks that he’d gotten his orders  and would  be shipping out on  the Excelsior bright and early on Monday. He’d finish out the week, but that would be it.     

To his surprise, O’Malley told him to take Friday off, and he’d cut his check early.    Another surprise - the guys he worked with came around, pulling change and bills out of their pocket and handing them over.  He ended up with a collection of twelve dollars and fifty cents and was told to spend it  on reading material (girlie mags was the number one suggestion) and candy bars for the trip.   “Give ‘em hell, Barnes!”  they all had cheered.    He was pretty sure hell was going to be involved, one way or another.  

But there would be plenty of time to dwell on that when he was in the middle of the Atlantic.  Bucky grabbed their meager toolbox out of the broom closet and went to work.  He tightened the u-joint under the sink so it wouldn’t leak,  replaced a screw in the latch of the wall-mounted ironing board and oiled the hinges of the bedroom door so it wouldn’t squeak.      

He was down on his hands and knees, looking to see if they had any more Bon Ami under the sink  when Steve came through the door.  “What are you doing home, Buck? Are you sick or something? What’s wrong?” 

Bucky stood and took a deep breath. “I got my orders, Steve.  I leave in three days.”  

[starlightfireflies]

Moonrise

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF257; count the days warnings: none word count: 821 notes: I missed the posting deadline but wanted to share the piece I wrote anyway.

Night has fallen. 

For all my sister’s genius, she has forgotten–forgotten, I think with a hint of scorn, for my sister has never forgotten anything–to find me a place to stay once the moon rises. 

The stars are already twinkling down at us. My sister used to say they watched over us from the sky, lighting the path for us so we knew where to go in the deepest darkness. She enthralled me with tales of weary travelers who were saved from death by their protection. 

I disagree with her. The stars are laughing at me. They are laughing because they are safe, and I am not. 

Their companion, after all, is the moon. And the moon will mean my end. 

Drawing my traveling cloak tighter around me, I feel my pockets for my silver coins. Twelve of them, each engraved with the stamp of the sun. I had hoped, if I were careful, they would last my journey. But once I check into an inn, I will already be down four. 

Curse you, I think, and the sharpest edge of steel laces my thoughts. Curse you, sister mine, for your one shortcoming in your perfect life. 

My angry thoughts continue to snarl at her memory until I cross the threshold of the inn. Only there, with the comforting pattern of charms carved into wood in my sight, do I relax. 

I should be grateful for my sister. After all, she is the one who is giving me this opportunity. 

My journal and my pen find themselves in my hands once I reach my room. A few quick strokes later, I am satisfied.  

Six days left, I have written. Six days of my travels and only one mark to show for it. 

The lightest dusting of snow is covering the path ahead of me, but I forge on. White will soon cover most of the trails. Once the storms hit, I will be trapped for months. 

It has been four days since I set out from home. Four thin marks in bleeding blue ink, the page wrinkled from when I fell into a river and spent an hour fishing downstream for my belongings. 

I have a single silver coin. 

My sister has only sent one letter. The maps she enclosed spilled out onto my laps, along with the only penned word: beware. 

The contents would be cryptic if not for the tiny moon blazing in the corner of each parchment piece.  

Yet for all my sister’s precautions, all of her planning, I have still arrived on the night I have been dreading.  

No inn in the area will accept only one coin. A peasant family will be weary of strangers. Tonight, I must break into a charm-locked building, with all its protection, or I will trek on through the night and hope my instincts are good enough to keep me alive. 

Even as I pass dwelling after dwelling with no carved charms, my hope still stays at the surface. It is only when I run out of buildings to examine I label my faith desperate. Everything changes when the moon rises – and I fear I am not good enough to survive it. 

Curse you, sister mine. As the thought crosses my mind, the parchment in my pocket burns. Guilt covers my skin. For my sister has looked out for me. 

She sent me the maps. She knew I would need her guidance. 

And in the end, cursing her will do nothing to stray her hand. I am at her mercy, whether I like it or not. 

Drawing out my journal, I leave another line on the page, crisp and clean. It is a promise to myself. I will live out the night. 

Whatever it takes. 

Gates of pure iron loom in front of me. 

I am the only traveler on this lonely road. For good reason, as the moon has only just set. No sane person would leave their magicked doors for the unpredictable night. 

What does that make me, I wonder briefly. I have survived two days under the moon. My journal holds the stories. But it is my twisted dagger, blackened with soot and burning with crimson blood, that will forever serve as a reminder. 

Shaking my head, I lay my palm on the imprint in the center of the gate. After a moment, the charms engraved into the iron glow with an ethereal blue light. 

My heart pounds as I step back. For so many days and so many nights, I have waited to come here. I–and my sister, I admit grudgingly–have risked everything for this. 

The gates swing open. 

In the same motion, I have opened my journal. My pen splashes ink onto my fingertips as a scribble furiously for the last time. 

Six days, reads my scrawl, lit by the sun. Six days, two moon nights, and I am finally, finally home.