#flash friday fiction

[drowning-in-cacophony]

gentle like a wave

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 269: Living Weapon

[Summary: it's not as easy as thought to use this weapon]

“Bloody hell,” one of the men breathe, bug eyed and gaping. She sighs and places down her shears – her flower dead-heading is clearly a job that’s going to have to wait for another day.

They’d burst through the waterfall with gleaming guns and preposterous postures. The same story, then, and she reads that truth in the leader’s eyes as he blusters his way forward, a demand already tracing the shape of his lips. There’s an ugly-looking moustache quivering above his upper lip. She crosses her legs, tucking her ankles neatly away, backed against her latest crop of flowers. Sitting down, she’s found, puts them on the back foot constantly. They expect one image; have no idea what to do with what she gives them.

They’re all clearly shocked by what they’ve discovered here. What story was it this time? A push through the water and there would lie a sword, enchanted beyond all measure. Splash droplets from hair and wrap a hand around the greatest machine gun in history. Wipe eyes and find a bomb that’d end all wars. The leader – a commander, by the badge on his lapel – has begun to put together the pieces. Behind the water, behind all the strife to get here, and you’ll find a weapon. And well, it’s not bloody likely to just be her shears now, is it?

“On behalf of the United Squadrons, I am requesting your use,” the Commander says, wobbling himself to his full height. She presses fingertips against the seam of her trousers.

“That’s not how we do things here, Commander,” she says flatly, and continues before she has to listen to any bluster. “Tell me what you want.”

His eyes water. At his side, his hand flexes, though the handgun tucked in his holster remains sheathed. She hopes it stays that way: threatening their way to what they want never works out well. “You are the thing we’re looking for?”

How am I meant to know if you won’t tell me what it is? But it’s obvious, since no-one other than old Nana ever comes here for other means, so she gives him a gentle incline to blow his heartbeat wild. A bead of sweat hangs like a pearl, suspended at his temple.

“Then you must understand,” he begins, quick-paced, a little sanctimonious. “There is a war going on out there and-”

“No. I said tell me what you want. Not what’s going on.”

The man blinks. Behind him, his soldiers too. She sees the nervous licks of their lips, the hungry ones too. How long have they travelled to find her? There’s a hollow sort of look to their cheeks, but then she finds the soldiers often do end up concaved in face. Cheeks first, then the skulls. Once, such a man had stumbled in here and died before he could even tell her anything. His broken skull, along with his better condition bones, lie underneath the oak tree some stone throw’s away.

At least, despite the blinking, he gets to the point. “I want your power.”

“To?”

“To-? To destroy the enemy, of course! To bring justice to the land, to restore order, to-”

“No.” She nods to herself. “Next.”

The Commander stares at her, mouth hanging open. It’s quite an unseemly look to the man, so she glances to the man hovering a few steps behind. Maybe he’s the next-in-command, standing slightly closer to denote that; mostly, she just finds the next face she can. One hand reaching up, she beckons him forward with a twitch of her fingers, a raise of her brow when his step falters. His eyes dart to his Commander, uncertainty spoiling blue eyes like a damn rainstorm.

“What do you mean next?” the Commander blurts out with, cheeks going steadily red. “Didn’t you listen to me? I said-”

“I heard.” Her tone creaks, an old floorboard in distaste. “I’m not convinced by you.”

“Not convinced? Lady, do you know who you are talking to?”

She blinks, once. “Next. I won’t ask again. Either it’s next, or you’ll all leave.”

“We most certainly will not, not until you have-”

“Remember what you have come for.” Her voice now is gentle, in the way the sea goes before a massive wave rushes in to sweep a land clear. The Commander freezes, a man well acquainted with the gentle sort of danger. His throat throbs, a pulse she can see, easy enough to rip out. His eyes bulge, fish-like; she watches his thoughts go through him like the water from the waterfall.

There is this: the Commander might be the sort she doesn’t deal with, but he knows when to step back.

Stiffly, mind you, with his own distaste echoing around his face, loud as a church’s bell. Bewildered for a moment, his second is left standing on the precipice. There is a space to be filled, and she waits with expectation.

This second man takes a deep breath and a small step forward. His gun, which had been mostly lowered from the moment they’d all locked eyes with her, goes completely slack to his side. She reads his threading nerves, pounding a sickening drumbeat behind his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” she says.

The man exhales, a gust of wind to graze her cheek. “I want you to help us free the people.”

She says nothing. The gap in which to be filled, and he does not disappoint in understanding the intention. Cautious words, stalking a deer through a crispy field, he keeps on speaking.

“They suffer under a regime. I don’t know if what we intend will be better – I can’t predict it – but I know I want to try and make a place better than what it is. I want to improve things, for them.”

She taps her fingertips against the seam. “Thank you for your inquiry,” she says, and purses her lips. The man understands this too, bowing his head and waiting in silence, even as his Commander makes a few huffing noises somewhere behind him. She flexes her other hand, fingers weary already.

But this is how the agreement must go. They can ask, and if they give her an answer that meets her requirements, then she has to say yes, weariness or not.

A weapon cannot be too tired to fire, after all.

She raises her head, and gives him the answer.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

In The Dark - Michael Myers/Karen Nelson

A/N: New fic for @flashfictionfridayofficial 's latest prompt.

It’s a dark and stormy night the Halloween that Michael comes home. He stands watching her, his Karen, sleeping fitfully as lightning and thunder torment her to waking, his touch slow through her hair when she comes to him. He's not sure, even now, why she trusts him. She’s not sure, he knows, why she is the one person he’s left alive, but… in the moments where she looks at him with wide, sad eyes that shine with pain, he can’t bring himself to harm her. So he stands here, wrapped around her as she shivers, then, slowly, brings her back to the bed, when she’s steadier. Peace comes to her only when he slips his streetwear, his almost constant overalls, off to reveal sleepwear, a simple shirt and shorts she got him months ago, leaving them for him when he chooses to be here. She’s quieter now, tucked against him, her eyes slipping closed as finally she sleeps, his smile soft behind the mask he still wears, knowing that when he rests he will reveal himself to her again, but for now… for now she needs her strong man and he cannot resist wanting to help her rest.

[tom-whore-dleston]

Bed Chem

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f. reader

Word Count: 541

This fic contains: smut, pwp, fwb dynamic, spanking, lingerie, Bucky has different sides in bed, light choking, hair pulling

Summary: Being fwb with Bucky has amazing benefits.

Notes: look, after the release of the teaser trailer of Thunderbolts*, I’ve been feral for Bucky okay 🫣 I couldn’t think of a good title for this fic so I settled for my fave Sabrina Carpenter song lol This is my submission for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: Change in Tone.

You and Bucky had a different kind of relationship. You weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but you were both more than friends. For lack of a better term, you and Bucky were friends with benefits. And those benefits were the best terms you both agreed on.

Every time you had sex with Bucky, it was a different experience. Sometimes, his touches would be gentle and feather-like. Other times, his hands would be rougher and he’d grip you tighter in a possessive manner. Then, there was his voice. During his more tender moments, his voice was smooth like whiskey. On the flip side, when he was a little more aggressive with you, his voice was lower and animalistic. Bucky’s range in the bedroom taught you that sex wasn’t a performance but rather an experience. And each time you both ended speechless and satisfied.

In this current situation, you found yourself on all fours on top of Bucky’s bed wearing in a sheer lingerie one-piece. Bucky stood by the bed, admiring your backside with a smirk that you couldn’t see from your position, but could still sense. Bucky wore a crisp white shirt with the buttons done enough to get a peek of his chest hair and sculpted pecs. If you had seen how his sleeves were rolled enough to reveal his forearms, you would have melted into the bed sheets without him having to touch you.

You feel the bed creak under your hands and knees and suddenly Bucky’s bulge is right against your thigh. His fingers ghost above your spine, sending chills down to your cunt. Your breath hitched as you craved to feel his fingers down where your sensations were traveling to. All of a sudden, a hand crashes down on your ass, causing you to yelp in shock. Bucky chuckled, soothing the sting with his palm.

“Tell me what you want, darling, and I’ll give you that.” Bucky muttered, his lips dangerously close to your earlobe, his favorite part to tease.

“I want…you,” you gasped. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough for Bucky.

“How do you want it?” His vibranium hand sensually traces the curves of your body. “Do you want it soft and sweet?” He places a kiss on the back of your shoulder, causing you to smile and bite your lip. A moment later, that same hand yanks you by the hair, pressing your back flat against his chest. “Or would you like it hard and rough?”

You were unable to conjure words. Only a broken moan left your vocal cords. Bucky’s flesh hand cupped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. You gulped before Bucky smashed his lips against yours with fervor. His grip on your hair tightened as his teeth grazed your bottom lip. He let go of you once you attempted to grind against his hardness.

Bucky pushed you back down on the bed, your face in the pillow and your ass waving in the air. He unleashed a feral growl as he hurriedly unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down. The tip of his cock teased your entrance, making your voice drip with need like your pussy.

“I’ll give you what you want, darling, but I’ll give it to you how I want it.”

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Warmed by a Lover’s Touch

His digits are always cold. All year around. It doesn’t mean that he’s always freezing, but somehow both his fingers and toes are like icicles, unless he’s taking a shower, a bath, or are buried deep under the duvet. They also warm up when he and John are making love. John’s warmth seems to transfer to every part of Sherlock’s body on those occasions.

Their last case has been taxing, and they all but fell into bed last night after they’d showered off the residue from their tired bodies.

Sherlock wakes gradually and realises that he’s cold. During the night, he’s evidently tossed off the duvet. It lies on the floor. Goose flesh is forming all over his body and he shivers. He bends down to pick up the duvet, which is cold. Sherlock shivers even more once he’s covered himself with it. He seeks out John but finds his side of the bed empty. Then he hears the toilet flush and relaxes fractionally. He pulls John’s duvet on top of his own, but it’s not enough.

“Hey! Why have you taken my duvet?” John mutters when he returns from the loo.

“Cold,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you lie in just your pants in a cold room,” John explains.

He yelps when he’s made room for himself beside Sherlock.

“Jesus! You’re like a block of ice,” he exclaims.

“Told you,” Sherlock replies with chattering teeth.

John’s warm hands stroke Sherlock’s arms, torso, and back, but it doesn’t help all that much. Even after he’s pulled the frozen detective flush to his chest, Sherlock’s still freezing. He also feels that his neck, back, and legs are sore from the exertions from the night before. When he tries to turn his head, a sharp pain in his neck makes him grunt.

“What is it?” John asks.

“It seems like my entire body are stiffening and aching after that chase. And it doesn’t help that I’m not able to relax because of how cold I am” Sherlock says.

“Right. I have an idea. Be back in a tick.”

Sherlock starts to shiver violently when the heat from John’s body disappears. He shuts his mouth tight to ensure that the tooth-enamel remains intact.

“On your front for me,” John orders when he returns.

Sherlock obeys without bothering to find out what’s going to happen next. He trusts John completely and his exhaustion makes him pliant.

“I have to remove the covers from your torso, but I promise it won’t take long before you’re warmed up properly,” John says softly.

Sherlock just shivers in response and braces himself for the chilly air to get access to his naked skin again.

Behind him, John makes some preparations Sherlock can’t deduce in his current state. Soothing music, probably from John’s phone, makes Sherlock relax a fraction, before the two duvets are pulled down to his hips. Sherlock gasps when the cold air on his body registers.

“There now. Shh. I’ve got you, my love,” John breathes in Sherlock’s ear.

Warm and slick hands stroke up his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, and then up his back again. John’s hands are strong, adept, and soothing. His thumbs find the sore spots after a while, which makes Sherlock moan. The pain is of a good sort. It’s healing, and soon enough, Sherlock feels his body loosen. To his surprise warmth is surging through him, and the shivering has stopped completely.

John covers his torso again and moves down the bed. He slicks his hands with the massage oil and runs his palms firmly up Sherlock’s calves. Sherlock buries his face in his pillow and sighs contentedly. Granted, there’s pain, but not as severe as on his upper body. 

“Feeling better?” John inquires quietly.

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees.

His ability to speak at this point, is non-existent.

John chuckles and lets his palms cup Sherlock’s clad arse for a second. It’s not a sexual touch, just a caress. Sherlock sighs happily and obliges when John beckons him to turn to his back. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for John’s next move.

Firm hands cradle one of his feet, careful not to tickle him. His toes get most of the attention, and once John is satisfied, he moves to the other foot.

Sherlock is almost unconscious when John lies down beside him and takes him in his arms. He can’t remember the last time he was this relaxed. It’s been ages, he’s sure of it.

He basks in John’s proximity and the luxurious feeling of being pleasantly warm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against John’s neck, placing a soft kiss under his ear.

“Of course, love. You’d do the same for me,” John replies and kisses Sherlock’s temple.

Sherlock has a snarky remark on his tongue, but he can’t muster the strength to say it out loud. Whatever it is. 

When he wakes hours later, he’s forgotten. Probably some magic trick on John’s part.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

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[gothamite-rambler]

Catwoman meets the first Robin when he was a kid.

Catwoman stared at the young boy clad in brightly colored spandex, watching him sway back and forth with a mix of curiosity and bemusement. Her attention then shifted to Batman, whose weary expression revealed that he had anticipated her next move.

Catwoman (pointing at the kid): That's a child.

Batman: He's my ward.

Catwoman: That is a child!

Batman: He has more going for him than being 9.

Catwoman (shocked): He's 9?!

Batman (regretfully): In hindsight, I realize that wasn’t the best defense.

Robin (in a cute voice): My birthday was a few months ago! I’m Robin, and I can do flips and tricks!

Catwoman dropped her whip and clasped her hands together, admiring the adorable young sidekick. The boy looked around, confused, then waved at her.

Catwoman: He’s precious! I can't believe you have such a cute little child with you for so many reasons... but just look at him!

Robin (blushing): Huh? Aww, thank you!

Catwoman rushed over and scooped Robin up, spinning him around gleefully. Batman stood aside, confused and frustrated.

Catwoman (cooing): I can’t believe how adorable this possibly kidnapped child is! Do you know how cute you are, little one?

She held Robin in front of her, and the little boy smiled with his eyes closed, soaking up the affection. Catwoman planted a kiss on his cheek before gently placing him back on the ground. Robin stood there, not wanting to fight the villain anymore.

Robin: Batman, let her go. She’s sweet.

Batman: I should’ve waited until you turned 13, you'd be edgy and not adorable.

Catwoman: You stay here, Robin. I’m going to have a word with Batman… privately.

Batman (exasperated): Not again.

Robin (staying put): Okay!

Catwoman walked over to Batman, gripping his arm and pulling him a good distance away from Robin.

Catwoman: I’ve loved our game of cat and bat, but why? Why the child? Why the costume? If you’re a child ab—

Batman (offended): For the love of God, he’s my son! He wanted to be Robin, he picked the suit—he’s built for this! AND I AM NOT A CHILD ABUSER!

Catwoman glanced over at Robin, who waved eagerly.

Robin: I really did want this job! I had to beg him!

Catwoman (glaring at Batman): This is still very off-putting to me, but I’m willing to believe your excuse. Now, I know I’m a fabulous cat burglar and you want to catch me, but if you’re that type of creep, we can’t possibly be together.

Batman (blushing): What? I’m not into you; I came to arrest you! Hold up, are you rejecting me if that was on the table?!

Robin giggled, enjoying the tension between them.

Catwoman: Batsy, I have standards and if you're a creepy creep then I wouldn't dare be with you. Which is saying a lot for a man like you.

Batman (stammering): I—I'm not doing this! You’re under arrest, and I reject you! There, I said it.

Catwoman: Oh, all right, take me in. But if you harm a hair on that angel’s head, I will hurt you.

Batman: Just walk forward!

Catwoman shrugged with a playful smile and walked forward. Robin scurried over to Batman.

Robin: Batman, don’t yell at the nice cat burglar.

Batman (embarrassed): Robin, not now.

[darkhorse-javert]

A posey

"Buy a posey Sir." The young woman's voice is sweet and a little quivering, as she holds out the bunch of violets in our direction, "A bunch for your sweetheart, or for a Buttonhole."

Holmes pauses in his walk, stopping me as well in doing so, and cocks his head as he looks at her, surveying her and her basket of flowers. Then he flips her a coin, a coin which is much more than the customary sixpence, and selects one of the remaining bunches in the basket

"Thank you miss." Holmes says to her, touching his fingers to his hat "A Good Evening to you."

"Good evening Sirs," the girl stammers after us, and I glance back to see her hastily shoving the coin into some pocket. May she keep it safe, and not have it pilfered off her, by a thief or a tout.

Sherlock Holmes carrying a bunch of violets, symbol of Modesty in the flower language, will wonders never cease... I try to keep my smile moderate, as if I have only thought of some light amusement. By rights he should wear them upside down.

But when we turn on to a quiet street Holmes stops,

"For you, my dear Watson." He offers the flowers to me, gently in his gloved fingers.

I take them, letting our fingers brush, and Holmes appears a pin so they can be attached to my coat. He smiles, fleetingly, as they settle just above my heart, stops himself from brushing my collar. We are in public after all.

As we walk he murmers softly, "The girl spoke truer than she could ever know."

A bunch for your sweetheart,

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[wayoftheghost]

initiation

[#FFF262 Run Far and Fast ]

fremen!benegesserit! reader x paul atreides

honestly, never thought i'd see the day where i'd write x reader again, but here we are <3 this wonderful prompt got the juices flowing and isn't that what these exercises are for! i'm a bit late for this week but thank you for reading!

Word count: 833

Tags: @flashfictionfridayofficial @dunefandomhub

“You need to be quicker. Don’t drag your feet.” 

Paul nods. “Right, okay.”

Your gaze flits in his direction. You stand above him on the curve of the desert dunes with Paul further down in the basin below, inspecting his technique as he prepares for Shai-Hulud. 

Paul moves like the shadow that walks beneath your feet as the sun cuts your shape across the dunes. Lean, dark, and mirroring your every movement. Like you, it was clear that the boy has had a lifetime of rigorous training. The speed at which he picks up your instruction is uncanny, almost supernatural.

Even Paul’s looks make you uneasy. His sharp and striking features, his hazel-green eyes, everything of him that you knew to be the product of careful genetic selection. 

Heat ripples all around you, billowing your cream-colored aba robes and veil like sand in the wind. The beating sun is unforgiving this time of day, and so are you. 

“Be quicker, princling,” you speak through your face-covering. “You want to be worm-food? Because that’s what you’ll be if you’re not moving fast enough.”

The nickname bristles his annoyance, the slightest pull in his shoulder blades that is quick to your trained Bene Gesserit eye, but one that Paul easily masks as his shoulders relax and the emotion passes through him. With the weight of his silence, of his full attention, you consider, just for a moment, telling him what you truly think of this prophecy.

Other offworlders had come to Arrakis before, claiming divinity and prophetic visions. But they were soon martyred by the desert or killed by their own ignorance.

Why should this boy be any different?

That is why you have been pushing Paul so hard in his initiation training, an order that had come directly from Arrakis’s new Reverend Mother; the weirding woman and Paul’s birth mother. In that cave-chamber, you had watched Lady Jessica drink The Water of Life and ascend into the motherhood that had once belonged to your dying grandmother for generations. 

You had given no water to your grandmother, the Fremen ritual of suppressing tears as ancient as the desert itself, yet it hadn’t stopped the cold and quiet anger from simmering in your belly. At Stilgar’s easy trust to welcome in the offworlder woman and her witching son that your Fremen peers already called Mahdi. To allow Lady Jessica the rite of passage.

Lady Jessica’s power frightened you. A pale phantom of a woman with piercing blue eyes, she had recognized your importance as the last Reverend Mother’s gifted granddaughter and calculated how you could benefit their cause. More specifically, how to benefit Paul. 

And as a fellow sister of the Bene Gesserit and perhaps most unsettling of all, you had perceived Lady Jessica’s use of the Voice on you, like worm-poison in your mind. As she had brushed past you in the hallways of the sietch, the dusty air tasting like the breath you held in your chest, you felt the cold blue of her eyes. A single command hummed through your bones.

“Teach him.”

Gifted as you were, you had tried to reject her influence, to fight her Voice’s power, but you were not strong enough against the woman from Caladan. And like an out-of-body experience, not in control of your own being, you had watched yourself glide towards Paul’s chambers with the words of forced friendship already forming on your tongue. 

The path had been set. 

You would show Paul the ways of the desert, yes. But you would not do so with kindness. 

Now, outfitted with his fremkit and stillsuit, you guide Paul down the path that has been prophesied by the Bene Gesserit order and your Fremen people alike. Your two circles of life intersecting in an eclipse, swallowing each other like a snake with its own tail. 

Maybe this is why Lady Jessica had chosen you. 

“Move faster, or this lesson is over,” you growl to Paul. “I don’t know what gravity is like on Caladan, but you run like you have maker hooks stuck up your ass.”

His form was in fact impeccable, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of proceeding with no corrections. 

Paul’s laughter echoes through the desert basin. You hadn’t expected him to find humor in your insult. He turns up to face you, his black curls flowing in a messy halo. Paul swings the maker hook in his right hand in a perfect circle.

“I’m ready. I’m not afraid.” Paul tells you. 

You regard him with a defiant tilt of your chin, then reach into the silks of your robes. You pull out the thumper that the Fedaykin girl, Chani, had lent to you for this exercise. In one fluid motion, you have clicked the thumper open and impaled it into the sand. The steady rhythm of the mechanism beats through your chest, echoing across the endless dunes. The very heartbeat of the desert. 

The sand at your feet quivers. 

“Then run like it.”

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

I'm also posting it on Ao3. It's over 1000 words, so feel free to go here to read it!

cw: implied drug use, implied suicide attempt, implied torture

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There had been a number of times where Mycroft Holmes had been made very aware that he did, in fact, have a heart beating in his chest after all.

The first was when a small, red-faced infant had been brought home. As Mycroft looked down at the crying, screaming thing, he didn't expect the sudden jolt in his chest. A stab of sudden overwhelming emotion. What was equally unexpected was that when he stroked his new baby brother's face and told him to quieten, that everything was going to be okay, that he would always be protected by his big brother, the infant had listened. William Sherlock Scott Holmes simply looked at his older brother, and Mycroft felt that deeply. 

The second time was sheer pain at finding his younger brother in a drug den, surrounded by needles, barely breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd found him in a place like this. But on this occasion, it felt different. Mycroft knew that this time, Sherlock had not meant to survive the encounter. Scooping up the younger man in his arms, his heart ached at how thin the boy was, at how little life remained in him. He took him straight to the nearest hospital, where they whisked him away, leaving Mycroft with his aching heart to sit and wait. It wasn't until many days later that Sherlock opened his eyes to see the concerned expressions of his family around him. In his heart, Mycroft knew that this wouldn't be the last time his brother would be in this situation. The pain was indescribable. 

The third time was seeing Sherlock chained up in a filthy cell in Serbia. His brother had spent two years moving around the globe, destroying pockets of Moriarty's empire single-handedly. That the criminal mastermind hadn't targeted Sherlock's family should have hurt, but strangely it didn't. Knowing that Sherlock had people he cared about enough to keep them safe meant that he valued at least some people in his life to prevent their suffering. It was a pity that John Watson didn't know the lengths to which Sherlock would go to protect him. It might have saved his heart some of the ache he was currently feeling. But seeing Sherlock beaten, tortured, at the edge of his sanity. Anger filled his heart this time. That someone could do this to his baby brother. Infiltration successful, Sherlock finally cut down from his bonds, too weak to stand, bleeding and barely conscious. Mycroft hardened his heart and made sure no one who had laid a hand on his brother was left to tell the tale. 

The fourth time was the hardest to bear. To know that Sherlock had once again sacrificed his life for a love that would never be acknowledged. By now, Mycroft was angry at John Watson. He had Sherlock's undying love but was so blindingly stupid not to realise that fact. So here they were, in a prison cell, Sherlock about to be sent away on a one-way mission to the place he had been rescued from not long before. All so that John Watson could be happy. And there was nothing Mycroft could do. His heart ached at how easily Sherlock would throw his life away for someone who merely considered him a friend. But nothing Mycroft could say would make Sherlock change his mind; he refused to tell John the truth, and that was that. The relief when Moriarty appeared on the screen, the phone call that followed, the pardon that he had hoped for arriving almost too late. His heart skipped with happiness only to sink again when he realised his brother had fallen back on old habits. No one who had seen that list could think otherwise. Sherlock had not meant to land in Serbia alive. Telling John Watson to look after his brother was the hardest thing he had ever done, but at that point, Mycroft knew he had to let go. His heart couldn't take any more. One day, Sherlock would succeed, and his heart would break. 

The fifth was a surprise. As Mycroft stood blinking at his brother, who was sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street bouncing a three-year-old Rosie Watson on his knee, his heart gave the biggest lurch he'd ever felt. He felt for the chair he knew must be there and sank into it like his strings had been cut. 

"Best man?" His brother rolled his eyes and set Rosie on the floor, watching as she toddled off into the living room.

"Yes."

"But..."

"But what? You've been there every day, meddling, since I was born. For once, and once only, I'm asking you to be there. With me." Mycroft's heartfelt three sizes bigger; a lump appeared in his throat, and his eyes started to fill. Choking down the emotion, Mycroft coughed and turned away. 

"Don't tell me it broke him too. You two are ridiculous." John laughed as he walked into the kitchen. So a few weeks later, Mycroft stood next to his brother as he married his best friend, finally. 

If the fifth was a surprise, nothing shook Mycroft more than the sixth. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor as he watched Sherlock waltz with his new husband, besotted expressions on their faces. It happened when the other best man approached. 

"So, normally, I guess I would be asking the maid of honour to dance. But seeing as that would either be you or me in this case, would you do me the honour of this dance?" Gregory Lestrade held out his hand for Mycroft, and at once, something like a bolt hit him straight in the heart. 

"I'd be delighted, Gregory." He accepted the proffered hand, and they waltzed onto the dancefloor. As they moved in time to the music, Mycroft felt his heart change. He continued to feel its presence long after the dance, the night, the week. Mycroft spent the rest of his life knowing full well he had a heart. It was a joyful feeling most of the time, and, on occasion, it ached. It got larger as their families grew and settled. And he never once said again that caring was not an advantage. Because he had learned that it most definitely was. 

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @dapetty @calaisreno

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[shantismurf]

Thanks @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt, and @lucigoo and @conkers-thecosy for the inspiration and encouragement today 🥰

[#FFF 273 Invisible Guest]

Invisible Guest

Teen, 790 words, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield

A scrape of sound caught Thorin's ear, and he had to fight to keep the satisfied smirk from his face. It seemed that his invisible guest had returned once again.

He sighed dramatically and pushed back the pile of paperwork he'd intended to review that night. Perhaps it was time for a different strategy. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he let his shoulders slump, then rolled his neck and sighed once more. He needed to be careful not to lay the mortar on too thick with his act. His target was too clever by half and had little patience for being made a fool of.

He carefully stretched his arms overhead, only slightly exaggerating the twinge that sparked in the scars still healing along his ribs, and stood from his desk to shuffle slowly towards the door of his office, which he locked firmly. Slipping the key into his pocket, he made his way to the armchairs near the fireplace with a careful slowness. It wasn't an act for him to press a hand to his side in an effort to soothe the echoing pains, but the little grunt of discomfort might have been a tad put-on.

His ears were tuned to the subtle shift of fabric he heard as he slowly lowered himself to a chair and propped up his throbbing foot. Hmm, how best to end this charade, he wondered.

Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his coat, he withdrew a familiar deep red velvet cloth, rolling the smooth contents in his hand with satisfaction. He heard a creak and a small intake of breath and knew that he had his prey's full attention now.

Bringing the small package up to his lips, he thought of all the sentiment and adoration he poured into it's precious contents. It was as pure a representation of his heart as he could imagine, and he allowed the love that rose within him to show freely with a soft smile and a gentle sigh. A stifled gasp told him he was digging in the right mine.

"Would you join me, Burglar?" he rumbled softly. He was met with utter silence, but waited with the patience of stone until a flicker of russet gold curls appeared in the corner of the room and the hobbit stood slowly.

He looked around blearily and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, Thorin," he said with an exaggerated yawn. "I must have nodded off in the corner there. So sorry to bother you. I'll just be-"

"Come." Thorin said implacably.

The hobbit ducked his head a little sheepishly and shuffled over to stand behind the opposite armchair, a wary look in his eyes though his expression was pleasant. Thorin often wondered how many masks the little burglar wore at any one time, and how he might tear them all down and see the truth of things.

Speaking plainly seemed to be the one thing Bilbo was utterly defenseless against, so Thorin employed it now. Holding out the wrapped lump, he said simply, “This is yours.”

“Oh, no, really,” the burglar stuttered. “I'm sure it's not necessary to-”

“Take it.” Thorin said, again with the same placidly unwavering tone.

Bilbo gulped audibly and shuffled forward, reaching out and accepting the small bundle. He seemed surprised at its shifting weight and quickly peeled back the folds of cloth to reveal the precious gift inside.

Four oblong beads rested in the hobbit’s small palm, glinting in the firelight. The distinctive sheen of silver steel flowed around delicate stones of sapphire and opal, emerald and swirling golden chalcedony. One set was styled with a motif of curling forget-me-nots, the other with a vibrant oak leaf sheltering an acorn.

“Th-these are for me?” his voice shook a bit with what sounded like hope. The fist that had gripped Thorin’s heart so unrelentingly started to ease.

“If you would have me.” Thorin whispered. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the way pure joy and incredulity emerged in Bilbo's eyes as the wariness and fear parted like fleeing storm clouds.

“You're better. You're really truly better,” Bilbo gasped as he threw himself into Thorin's lap, clinging to his neck and all but attacking his lips. The fist clutching the courtship beads pressed to the side of Thorin's beard sweetly.

Thorin sighed into his love’s mouth, melting under the onslaught. He wrapped his arms around his precious form and held him close, twinging scars be damned. As Bilbo’s warm tongue swiped his lips, he forgot about pain entirely and lost himself to bliss.

No longer was there a need to hide in the shadows and fear the unknown. His invisible guest was now a most welcome permanent inhabitant of his heart.

[drowning-in-cacophony]

inauspicious

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 270: Lights and Sirens tw: mentions of blood/implied dead body

“Shit,” she swears, as filthy as the floor. His head shoots up so fast his neck cracks, an awful sound buried underneath the piercing cry of the sirens, blaring through the night’s secrecy.

“The cops?” He goes to scrub at his face, only to pause a second before, remembering the viscera slick down his palm. “Fucking hell. That’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck? Is that all you can say?” She peers around the curtain, now sporting a bad taste to her mouth. Lights splash up the road as the cars – cars, count them, more than one – come bumping around the corner. Their mouths look hungry, their visors dimmed out. Her eyes suffer like the concrete: blue and red, a bright cacophony bored into her retinas. “They’re going to find us.”

“Not necessarily,” he argues, and she pauses in her watching to shoot him an incredulous look. Is now when he chooses to become an optimist? He catches her eyes. Grimaces as he follows them to the mess on the floorboards. “There’s lots of houses here. They might not find us; they might not even be here for us.”

“Lots of empty houses.” She glances through the crack in the curtains, careful not to shift the fabric. Empty houses means little distractions, and more than one car means they’re here to look for something. It’s not likely to be something unrelated to them now, is it? Not when they’re not here innocent. “We have to move.”

“And leave the evidence?” he hisses, gesturing his stained hands. A fleck of crimson takes flight for its glorious moment, only to spatter on the tip of her boot. “We’re too close to give in now.”

“We’ll try again-” Every moment they spend talking is a moment handed over to the lights. The sirens cut out now as the cars come to their stop – down road from their location, but that means nothing. In their absence, the silence is stifling. A hot, crawling thing, making its way through every part of her body. The sound of the car doors opening, boots on the gravel road – that’s just as bad. There’s no clock in here but she feels the seconds anyway, the beat-beat of them draining away. If they’re going to escape, it has to be now. They could sneak out the back door, run and hope not to be noticed by the gleaning beams of torches that they will be no doubt pulling from their belts.

“I think this time is it.” A decisive cut, which makes two for the night. His eyes are wide, his intention solemn, even if his heart must be beating just as hard as hers is. “We can’t leave this one.”

“Great.” She’s got nothing on her palms, other than a bit of dust from the curtains, so nothing stops her from scrubbing her face in exasperation. Of course their luck would deliver like this. She trusts his judgement, though – he’s not the type to exaggerate chances, not when he knows what she’s got shoved down the back of her waistband. An urging at her spine begs her to check through the curtains, but it wouldn’t change much. She’ll get to peek through the frosted glass of the front door for shadows, hear their crunching approach through the letterbox, because if this time is it, there’s only one thing for her to do.

“Thank you,” he tells her before she’s even reaching a hand around her back. She shoots him something terse this time.

“Just do your thing.” Making sure to step as silently as she can, and as wide as she can first, if she wants to avoid slipping in the matter splattered all over the floor, she crosses to the ajar door of the room. The hallway it opens out onto is darker than it, considering there’s no streetlamp to glitter fluorescent through gently sheer curtains. Moody in the shadows, grey in the highlights. She slips down it, remembering where the quietest floorboards are, and to keep herself shrouded, ducks into the open door closer to the one at the end. That frosted abyss, her target board. Fingertips finally snag the item in her waistband; she pulls it out, a small cylinder she briskly shakes out to something longer. In her hands, it’ll prove deadly if any sniffing trails lead the lights to their door.

While he continues defilement on a dirty floor, she prepares to lay waste to a baying horde.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Weaponizing Her - Esther Coleman/Lea the Clown Cafe Host

A/N: Newest fic for @flashfictionfridayofficial TW: Art the Clown/Death of said Clown

Lea’s scream fills the air even as Esther breaks from cover, jumping from the top of the climbing frame to the man’s back, sinking the knives she had grabbed from the kitchen into him, taking him down and glancing over at Lea. “Run… Run Lea right now.” It's only once the man is decapitated that Esther rises, flicking blood-soaked hair back and moving to gather Lea from the doorway, leading her home to clean up. It’s not always easy to be a living weapon, but for the moment she doesn’t care, not when it let her save the woman she loves.

[tom-whore-dleston]

Side Effects of Soldier Boy

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 391

This fic contains: smut, literally PWP, drug use, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing, degradation, Soldier Boy doesn't pull out

Summary: Soldier Boy tries to keep you quiet during sex.

Notes: Wake up babes, Jordan discovered a new hottie to write about lmaoo Anyways, I know Soldier Boy is a walking red flag but unfortunately, I see the world through rose colored glasses hadshghsdl This is another submission for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt no. 239: Seal it Tight. Lowkey, I've been on a role with these quick fics, I don't want it to stop.

Sex with Soldier Boy was addicting. You would say it was more addicting than the cocaine that coursed your system. The blow was essentially the gateway drug to Ben.

The side effects: uncontrolled moans and orgasms that made your soul leave your body.

The two of you found yourselves in a rundown motel room, where Ben plowed you into the mattress at superhuman speed. His strong hand clasped over your mouth, in hopes to seal your cries of pleasure from the outside world. Considering how cocky of a bastard he is, it was bold of him to assume that simply covering your mouth would keep you quiet.

“Mmm, baby, those moans are so pretty, but so loud.” The supe grunted through clenched teeth. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as Ben’s pulsing cock stretched your walls. You gushed around him, causing each thrust to echo through the dainty room.

“God damn, even this pussy is loud,” Soldier Boy chuckled, making you throb. “Think you want the neighbors to hear me fuck the shit out of you, huh?” 

His dirty talk was no help to hushing your moans. Yet, it did push you closer to that sweet release you craved. With Ben being the instigator he is, he knew damn well what he was doing. 

The pit in your stomach was growing and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. You pumped your hips up to meet his and he took this as a signal to deepen his strokes until his balls slapped your ass. You were one step away from the edge when Ben removed his hand from your mouth to throw both of your legs over his shoulders.

“Fuck it, let the neighbors hear you. Let ‘em know how much of a slut you are for me.”

That euphoric bliss finally washed over you like a crisp ocean wave. You could have drowned under the wave but a kiss from Ben brought you back to shore. The handsome supe slammed into you one last time before filling you with his seed. He crashed onto the empty side of the bed, fingers lazily tangling between yours. The two of you laid there, staring at the cracked ceiling while catching your breaths. Just as you were coming down your high, you already itched for another hit.

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[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

I was determined to write the fluffiest flash fiction ever after the devastating events of late, but my muse decided that you'll need tissues instead. Apologies, but I think it'll have a cathartic effect.

Let Me Comfort You

John’s ascending steps speak volumes to Sherlock. They are heavier than normal. Something must have happened at work. His watch tells him that John is ninety-five minutes early. He never leaves before his shift is over, unless Sherlock texts or shows up with a case.

The moment John appears in the doorway, Sherlock knows. A patient has died, and not an old one. Melissa, six years old, leukaemia. They had hoped she would make it through the year. 

One last Christmas.

He’s in front of John before he collapses in Sherlock’s arms. John sobs like his heart is breaking, and Sherlock guesses that it literally is. The girl had been so brave, according to John. He had encountered her when her parents took her to A&E before they knew about her condition. A broken wrist and a cut over her eyebrow, which John mended easily. 

Melissa had asked for him when she came back for her treatment. John represented safety, and he was allowed to visit her by the haematologist-oncologist.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock murmurs and kisses his temple. “It went faster than expected?”

“Yeah,” John says, his voice is rough. “Infection.”

Sherlock tightens his grip and strokes John’s back. 

“What can I do?” he asks, hoping there is something that can ease John’s despair.

“You’re doing it, Sherlock,” John replies and buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

It’s a bit uncomfortable, since John’s face is damp with flowing tears, but Sherlock couldn’t care less. He’s determined to endure whatever John needs him to. His throat thickens and he has to clench his jaw to keep from crying too. He needs to be strong, just as John has been for Sherlock so many times. It is his turn now. 

“Bath?” he suggests.

“Christ, that would be wonderful,” John sighs.

Relieved, Sherlock steers John to sit in his chair, while he sorts out the bath.

***

Sherlock fills the tub, adds vetiver-scented soap, and finds four jar candles. He places two of them at the far end of the tub and the other two on the sink. The flames flicker a bit when he whirls around to gather soft towels, their pyjamas bottoms, t-shirts, and clean pants. Before he returns to the sitting room, he turns off the light, so that the candles are the only light source in the bathroom.

John is resting his head on the back of his chair, his eyes closed, but he isn’t sleeping. Sherlock strokes his hair and beckons him to come with him. John walks like a zombie, and even lets Sherlock undress him. Sherlock’s heart clenches. John’s clearly out of sorts when he’s this pliant. 

John makes no effort to get into the tub, and Sherlock strips quickly, seats himself and reaches for John to help him in. The deep sigh John releases when he’s enveloped in Sherlock’s arms, makes Sherlock almost euphoric with relief.

“This is just what I needed, Sherlock,” John murmurs after a few minutes of tranquil silence. “You’re lovely.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks flush, and not from the hot water. John’s praise always does that.

He starts humming and isn’t paying much mind to what tune exactly. 

“Bach’s Lullaby,” John murmurs. “Are you going to sing me to sleep, love?”

“I wasn’t aware actually,” Sherlock responds quietly. “Would you want me to sing to you?”

“Always,” John assures him.

He turns his head and kisses Sherlock’s cheek.

“I love you,” Sherlock says softly and bends down to catch John’s lips.

“Me too, sweetheart. So much,” John whispers.

He starts to tremble and hides his face in Sherlock’s neck again.

“Shh, my heart. I’ve got you,” Sherlock soothes.

He rarely uses endearments, John’s name is enough, but this occasion clearly calls for it. John holds on to him for dear life, and Sherlock starts humming again. This relaxes John considerably, and Sherlock asks if John has any song requests.

“You don’t have to,” he mumbles.

“Let me comfort you, John. Please.”

When John stays silent, Sherlock starts to sing. He knows it’s one of John’s favourites. One that’s soothed him on more than one occasion.

When you're weary Feeling small When tears are in your eyes I will dry them all

-------------------------------------------------------------------

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[jpitha]

It's just a walk for you?

Here's my entry for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial

I'll always hire humans on my crew, I'll tell you why.

A couple of cycles back, we were out past the Heights and the reactor failed. Some kind of overload, the engineers were chattering about it worried and finally pulled the lever and ejected it. It stopped us from being destroyed outright, but we had minimal power. Only what we could collect with our solar collectors, really. Lights, minimal environmental, things like that.

As luck would have it, we were stranded in a system with a "habitable" planet. It was much too heavy and chilly for most every sapient that I knew. Our human navigator loved it. Said it looked a lot like home. He also pointed out that it had a Community climate beacon on the surface, and that we could probably sent out a distress call from it.

Let me tell you, without a reactor, an atmospheric landing is not something you want to attempt. Still, we made it to the surface alive and mostly intact. The issue was we were still 150 kilometers from the beacon. We had no ground vehicle and it seemed like we were going to perish so close to rescue.

After lamenting our plight the human looked up in surprise. "Why are you so sad? It's only 150km. How much food and water do we have?"

"Only 4 days!"

"Oh? That's easy then. We'll just walk to it."

I looked at him like he had five heads. Nobody can walk 150km in 4 days. Still, he seemed determined to give it a try, and I had no other ideas. I told him that he could kill himself however he wanted and if he wanted to die of exposure on a strange planet it far be it from me to stop him.

He got up and rummaged around in the cargo hold and after about two demi-cycles came out with a repulse-litter and some kind of harness he made out of cargo straps. "Come on, it's big enough for everyone." and he gestured to the litter. He had even set up cushions!

By now, the crew had followed me to the cargo hold. "You can't pull this, its too big" were the majority of comments.

"Nah, it'll be fine, I've got the repulse-jets dialed in just right. It will be like wearing a light backpack. Come on, do you want to die for sure here or have a chance of survival? Look how far we've come! All we have to do is go 150 kilometers more and we can be saved!"

I put it to a vote. Of the 8 of us, 6 including the human decided to let him try and drag us to safety.

Early the next morning - ships time - we all climbed aboard. I have to say, he put the effort in. It really was comfortable to sit on the litter.

We set off.

Friends, I want to impress upon you how... easy he made it looked. demi-cycle after demi-cycle he pulled us, walking with that easy lope that all humans use when they're under gravity close to what they evolved under. He even started singing! Nobody knew the words - he said it was an old language that wasn't in the translators - but he was enjoying himself.

It was a sight to see. It really was like he was out for a fun walk around.

After the second day, someone finally got up the courage to ask him why he could do it.

"Do what, the walk? Oh, walking is not hard for humans. We evolved as persistence hunters. Our ancient ancestors would pick an animal and just jog after it until it died."

"What? What if you got tired?"

He grinned and showed his teeth. "The animal would tire first. As long as we kept the jog light and easy-" he gestured "-like we're doing it now, a human can keep it up a long time."

On the third day he kept it up. We'd pass him water and a ration bar when he asked, and occasionally he'd stop to nap for a few demi-cycles but honestly not that much. Most of the crew slept while he hauled to conserve energy. The planet was a good deal colder than what we preferred. He didn't mind though, wore a light jacket. He said that the exercise kept him warm.

Sure enough, on the morning of the 4th day, we made it to the climate beacon and our engineer was able to send out a distress call. We were picked up not even one day later, all thanks to our human navigator who hauled us all to safety.

So yeah, I will always hire a human on my crew.

[writingamongther0ses]

Time's Run Out

Summary: Two souls walked into the Woods and only one was given to the lord of the Woods. The clocks have been ticking for so long and now they ring. It's time for Lennox Cox to give what is owed. Inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of Counting Clocks

Tick, tick, tick...

"I'm sorry," Clockwork sighed, no trace of apology in her face. "Your time's run out."

An expression formed on Lennox's face that Mary Arden had never seen before. She recognized the furrowed brows and closed tension of gritted teeth anger before, but the blankness in his eyes?

Dread.

She had never seen such dread in his face.

Tick, tick, tick...

"What does that mean?" She had to ask.

"It means," Clockwork drew herself up, out of the hunch, revealing that she was taller than Lennox. Much taller. Tall enough that some prey instinct in Mary Arden cowered, ready to die. "Two souls walked into the woods and two souls are due."

"My sister-"

The clocks, all at once, hit twelve.

Tick, tick, tick...DONG.

All the clocks, all at once, began to ring. Alarms of all kind went off, from cuckoos coming out to electronic beeping. The loudest of them all had to be the grandfather clock downstairs, it's dongs loud enough that Mary Arden was pretty sure she felt her bones rattle.

"She's coming!" Clockwork cackled. "You've run out of time, Lennox Cox! The queen is coming to collect your debt!"

Lennox didn't let her continue. Mary Arden yelped as he grabbed her arm and hauled her from the room, only releasing her when they were running down some stairs. "Find Riley!" he ordered as they hit the ground floor, not pausing in their speed. "Go out the back door, I'll catch up!"

"What are you gonna do?!"

There was a CRASH that was nearly muffled by the DONG, DONG, DONG!

"LENNOX! YOUR SISTER IS COMING TO COLLECT WHAT IS OWED!"

"I'm going to distract Clockwork and Mabel," Lennox said. If he was bothered by the idea that his sister was supposedly coming to possibly murder him, he didn't show it. The dread hid any other emotion. "I'll catch up with you, I promise."

Was it bad to say that she didn't believe him?

Tick, tick, tick.

[starkraivennemad]

Covenant of the Blood

John Watson was tired after shift; all he wanted to do was sit and rest.

“Hey, Sherlo---”

John enter the flat and pauses at the sight of Sherlock and Rosie asleep on the sofa. A hint of Sherlock's dark curls just seen over the arm of the chair. His hand resting on the Rosie's small body, protected by the slight curve of his body around hers.

He and Sherlock were supposed to go out to dinner, but clearly Sherlock had heard about his day and knew he wasn’t up for it. There was no need for a babysitter if they were staying home.

“Our daughter’s asleep, I’m not. ” Sherlock’s rich baritone chuckles.

Our daughter – John internally smiles.

Some people think Sherlock uncaring, but John knows better.

The living and loving proof was right before him.

The way Sherlock takes care of Rosie and him, as John takes care of them both.

“Would you like to be Rosie’s father? For real?” John kisses Sherlock and sat on the coffee table.

“By adoption?”

“By Marriage.”  

Sherlock carefully sat up and studied him. “You’re… serious…”

“I am.” John takes his hand. “We’re family of heart – I love you so much. Marry me.”

“You, Rosie and I. Yes.” Sherlock smiles. “A family by the law and by the covenant of the Blood.” @flashfictionfridayofficial

Art credit: hamish_by_milgarionangel