#flash friday fiction

[drowning-in-cacophony]

nugatory

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 288: Loud Lie, Quiet Truth

[Summary: a woman ignores a truth she knows deep down] [tw: implied death of narrator at end]

We are going to die here.

She ignores the nibble, at the lobe of her ear, her brain. A catching between teeth blunted from the constant refusal to engage. It’s an old dog unable to stop howling that last warning, even as it knows its master’s never going to give a damn.

Her fingers twitch about the staff – it’s already showing the wear of the fights. A crack through the wood at the end she’d just used to brace against the thunderous hurricane of blows from a man with arm muscles the size of overinflated balloons, but she’s still fine and she’ll display that peacock-style. Her toe points proud, her chin jutting out in challenge. The staff she brings back into defence, which everyone knows is just a temporary status before she gives into attack. Maybe it’s better described as another challenge. Down her spine, a trickle of a sigh; against her skull, a quiver. Better that than her shoulders, though. Better there than somewhere someone can see. She’s fought through impossible odds before, right. What’s going to be different about this one?

Pride always comes before a fall, a reminder that swirls with a degree of bitterness, a pointlessness. Pride comes before a fall, but what if she turns the fall into a roll, slamming back onto her knees, slamming the staff into some soft part between the next set of ribs? She glances at the rest of them, one eyebrow cocked in the space that’s remained, the breath they’re all taking before whoever’s next comes in to deal with her. She takes a breath, purposefully easy, like her heart beat’s not some rabbit jacking against her bones. She looks half-impatient, taunting them for their decisions, and all the while a voice in her head can’t stop murmuring a truth. The only thing that awaits here is her death, it says, because there’s no other way out of this. It’s bravado, in her veins. It’s lies, in her head. Just because they’re screamed loud doesn’t mean they’re true.

But she’s always thought it’s the things that have noise that are understood, not those quiet things creeping in through the shadows.

“I,” she says, nothing flinching about in her voice, “can do this all day.”

All leery mockery, indications flashing bright lights, warning of impending doom. To their egos, if they let her keep chatting this shit. To her body, something murmurs, if she doesn’t use the small stunned silence she wrought after her last sound success to beat it in the other direction. Tear for the hills, live to fight another day, but she doesn’t need retreat. She won’t acknowledge the need. It doesn’t exist.

The next competitor is on his feet in an instant. Wrapped fists, clenched knuckles that look thrice the size of her own, and he doesn’t even look like there’s a bone in his body that understands defeat. She braces her feet, launches. The staff might bear a few scars, yet who doesn’t? It’s all a matter of perspective. It’ll do fine enough, and it does, as she uses her smaller stature to nimbly dodge the power hits of the man, waiting until the perfect opportunity to sweep the uncracked end of the staff through the air. A cutting whistle, the sound of triumph cresting over the soundtrack of pounding hearts and meaty pants. She hits him in the back of the knee, in the back of his skull when he goes down. A firm smack of wood to that bone will do quite a nice bit of damage.

So, she learns a second later, does a fist.

The fall. She crashes to her knees, a mountain felled, and then comes the avalanche to polish things off.  An attack, right to her ribs, an explosion of pain to rock the table. Her palms scratching the soil, and she fumbles for the staff while trying to breathe, footsteps punching into the dirt like a fist had done her poor sore and throbbing neck. Another kick has her on her back, wheezing in agony and  staring into an uncaring sky soon blotted out by the lucky hitter. He’d not been content waiting for the pause after her defeats for her challenge. He’d come right in and just taken it as his success, fed up of the games.

“You’ve not finished me off yet,” she spits, a warm fleck at the corner of her lip. The loud lie, right on her mouth along with the blood.

Yes, then have, the quiet truth she still ignores, even when the man raises his clenched rock-destroying fists, with only one direction for them to go.

[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

[thezombieprostitute]

Can't Stand It

A/N: Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial.

Warnings: Bad boss. Please let me know if I missed any!

Summary: Working at a fancy restaurant with a demanding boss, you're starting to reach your limits. So is your favorite customer.

You're grinding your teeth in frustration and your shift hasn't even started yet. It's not that you don't like the work you do, it's just the people you have to work with, specifically your boss. If you could be a waitress for a boss that didn't insist on waving his dick around, sometimes literally, you'd be happy to do the job.

Instead, Mr. Hansen has you working the worst shifts for collecting tips and making sure your schedule is unpredictable. You know it's because you turned down his advances. Go figure, he can't handle being turned down.

Some of your favorite customers have asked after you, including Mr. Levinson, or Ari, as he insists you call him. You heard through some of your coworkers that Mr. Hansen got some harsh words from Ari because you weren't working your usual shifts. You smile at the thought of someone putting that asshole in his place.

You're doing your prep working and just trying to avoid Hansen so you don't have to fake your smile so much to your customers. Most of them don't care about fake smiles, but the big tippers always seem to appreciate the genuine ones.

Talia interrupts your work telling you, "Mr. Levinson just arrived. I made sure to seat him in your section."

"Thank you, so much!" You're definitely smiling for real now.

She gives a playful scoff. "I did it as much for me as for you. If Levinson found out you were working and I didn't seat him in your section I don't doubt I'd get an earful."

"Still, thank you so much."

Heading out the dining area, you make right for Ari. You'd never admit it, but between his ocean blue eyes, long hair, and strong physique, he's definitely shown up in several of your dreams. Your face heats up as you recall some of them. You have to stop for a moment and shake your head to clear up your thoughts.

Ari smiles wide when he sees you. "It's about time I got to see you again!"

"Yeah, my schedule's been crazy," you tell him as you hand him a menu. You omit the reason for the crazy schedule as it wouldn't do to set Hansen off again.

"So I gathered," his voice softens as he takes the menu from you.

The two of you chat a little before you get his drink order and head to the kitchen to grab it.

"There you are!" Hansen yells as soon as you're in the kitchen. "Where the hell have you been? Your prep work is sloppy and, worse yet unfinished. You wanna tell me what you've been doing?"

"My job," you snipe back. "I have a customer and I need to get their drink."

"We don't get customers at this time," he shoots back. "I made sure to schedule you for now specifically because of that."

"Well you can go out and look for yourself, Mr. Hansen. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get the man his drink."

Bringing Ari's drink to him, you try to plant your smile back as it was before your encounter. Unfortunately for you he's very observant.

"What happened?" His tone is kind and your smile turns a little more genuine.

"Just a little spat is all," you shrug. "It happens, you know?"

His expression turns stern. "Is someone giving you trouble?"

"Well, yes, but that's what bosses do, right?" You try to make sure there's a joking tone in your voice but his expression indicates he isn't buying it.

"Do you like your job? Do you enjoy working here?"

"Honestly," your voice quavers. "I can't stand it. My coworkers are okay but my boss is killing me. He keeps jumping my shifts around and is metaphorically on my ass all the time because I refused to let him literally be on me."

Ari's fist tightens in frustration. "Come work for me." You'd say it's an offer but his anger makes it sound more like an order. When you hesitate he continues, "I need someone reliable and friendly as my secretary. My current one keeps putting off clients with his cold, sarcastic demeanor. I can promise you it'll pay better than this job. And your schedule will be a lot more stable."

You hear a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by Hansen shouting at everyone and everyone.

"I'm in," you tell him, holding out your hand.

Ari takes your hand in his, giving it a firm shake. "Happy to have you aboard. Can I watch as you tell Hansen you're quitting?"

You laugh, "sure!"

As he follows you into the kitchen, you don't notice Ari's eyes on you. He was just hoping to ask you for a date, but he's not one to turn down an opportunity to get to spend more time with you. He's hopeful you'll feel the same about him.

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Changes Hurt

John muses about how different his life would have been if he’d only followed his instincts thirteen years ago. He clutches his hand over his heart. It aches. The pain is just as familiar as his other discomforts; his star-shaped scar, which can be forgotten for weeks, but then the weather changes, and the throbbing pain returns full force. As if it wants to make up for its absence. And then, the most infuriation of the three, his leg. After he and Rosie left London, John has never been without his cane.

Rosie greets him cheerfully, and John’s heart hurts like it’s been stabbed with a knife. What he’s about to tell her, is not going to be pleasant. 

“Sherlock says hello,” Rosie says, looking expectantly and a bit snooty at her father.

“How is he?” John manages.

His eyes sting with unshed tears, but he needs to be firm now. Their future depends on it, though he knows an upcoming catastrophe when he sees one.

“Same as usual. Missing you. Us.”

Her jaw tightens, and she cocks her head in defiance.

“I know, love,” John sighs. “Sit down, please. I need to talk to you. About our situation.”

“What situation? Are you planning to move back to London? You know how much I loathe this place, and – “

“Please, Rosie.”

This is worse than he feared. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable outburst.

“I’ve been offered another job. Better paid, which is preferable. It’s not like we’re rolling in dough here,” he chuckles.

The blank stare Rosie gives him, makes him blush.

“So, yeah, we are moving, but not to London.”

“Where?”

Her tone is dangerously calm. It’s a tone he’s used himself numerous times. As a captain in the army, and while berating Sherlock, or the Yarders for calling his best friend – 

“Dad!”

He’s lost himself in the memories of a happier life. A life where…no, he can’t go there now. Needs to focus.

“Edinburgh. It’s a great – “

“What? But that’s miles away. I can’t visit Sher – “

“You can visit, just not as often as every other week,” John says softly.

“I hate you!” she yells and runs from the room.

“No, you don’t sweetheart,” John whispers, as tears roll down his cheeks and his heart breaks.

The front door slams so hard behind his daughter, that the picture hanging on the wall beside it falls to the floor, shattering the glass. It’s a photo of Rosie as a toddler. Only John knows who snapped the picture. The man living alone in 221B Baker Street.

***

John has texted Rosie for hours, but she doesn’t reply, and when he calls, an automatic voice tells him the device is turned off.

He starts to call her friends, but no one has seen her. To be expected. John is just stalling. He knows where she is. 

John never had the heart to pull Rosie away from the people she loves back in London. After all, quite a few of them are her godparents. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock. The latter was the only one who didn’t chastise him for leaving Baker Street. Both women were livid, and Greg tried to talk some sense into him, but he was determined. And stubborn. 

After the disaster with Eurus, John decided that a life in Sherlock’s orbit was too dangerous. His daughter deserved to keep her only living parent at her side. Sherlock hadn’t even pleaded with him, but said he understood. It had been uttered quietly, but it roared loudly inside John’s head for weeks afterwards. He knew it was a lie. Over the years, John had grown more astute, and could tell when Sherlock was shamming. The pain in those cerulean eyes before he turned away from John, contradicted his statement like a neon sign. John broke Sherlock’s heart that day, and his own heart cracked so thoroughly it was almost audible. It was the most excruciating pain John had ever felt.

***

Please tell me Rosie is with you.

On a case. She left hours ago. SH.

John called Mrs Hudson.

“She isn’t here, John,” his former landlady informed him.

It stung a little that she’d stopped calling him “dear”. His own fault of course.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said and hung up.

Molly hadn’t seen Rosie since last week. She tried to comfort him by saying she’d probably just gone for a walk.

“Just like you did. Before…”

John’s heart broke a little more. It was nothing for it. He – 

What’s happened? Have you found her? SH

We had a row. Said she hated me. Ran out. Phone’s turned off.

She doesn’t hate you, John. SH

No, but she was in quite a state. 

I’ll contact my network. They’ll keep an eye out. Mycroft too. We will find her, John. SH

John sobs like he hasn’t done since the day he left London. Sherlock’s assurance is like balm. He’s missed him more than anything. They haven’t texted in ages. Not after Rosie got old enough to arrange their meetings herself. 

He continues to text her, despite his knowledge that they won’t reach her since her phone is turned off. But he needs to do something.

“How about getting your stubborn arse on the next train from this godforsaken place, and come to London, old man.”

It’s unnerving to hear his daughter’s voice in his head. There’s only been one other person who’s invaded his mind like this: Sherlock.

***

The quiet truth is this: John has missed London and his best friend like an amputated limb. How could he ever think his life would be whole without living in a flat in central London; the only place that’s felt like home.

John runs towards the gigantic statue at St Pancras – The Meeting Place, his cane forgotten. A bit to the side, away from the tourists wanting to take selfies, two people stand close together. A tall man in a luxurious coat, and a teenage girl who clings to the man, her face buried in the woollen fabric.

John’s heart quickens its pace. He feels alive. It’s time to move. Back home to 221B.

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

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(Tell me if you want to be tagged or removed from the list)

[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

[aalinaaaaaa]

2024 In a Gift Box

Hey, everyone, greetings after another year that has flown by all too quickly! Featuring new friends, a few awards and 400% more holidays (rip my wallet lol), this has been a wild year for me. And that's only half of it.

For some strange reason, my desire to write increases with the hecticness of my life. Much of Obsidian Sapphires' revival/troubleshooting phase occured during the latter part of the year, from October onwards (though I had been tinkering with its plot for some time now). All because I woke up one morning with the solution to a plot hole appearing in my head.

Anyway, preambles aside, here's a few major highlights from my year (in writing terms):

First up, thanks to @druidx for the Year in Review Tag! The premise of the tag is to post one's favourite five or so pieces that they've written throughout the year.

To be truthful, some of Obsidian Sapphires' scenes would make this list only the respective chapters for them aren't completed yet 😅

A Pawn for a Greater Cause — I had a ball writing the starting dialogue, and the prompt gave me a few revelations regarding Petrius' character.

Regrets — This made me cry at 1am, the catharsis was unreal.

To Perpetuate Life — Amazing how almost falling asleep gives me ideas. This piece helped me answer a few questions about Orlaith's backstory, and also gave me extra questions surrounding the lore.

Blue Moon — This feels like a nice deviation from my usual style, it's more dreamy and whimsical. Also, this reminds me to go and work on its second part, lol (because the scope was too big for one piece)

That angsty pining scene — This is not posted as one scene, but rather in splinters because parts of it are dripping in spoilers for Obsidian Sapphires. However, I enjoyed writing this scene too much not to post some snippets.

WIP Roundup

First things first, an ode to the WIPs that I've put on ice to focus on Obsidian Sapphires.

The Lady's Lament, a brief idea born out of a plot bunny inspired by a plot on Wattpad. The idea sprouted in April 2023, but it lives on in the form of worldbuilding ideas for South Arobyre.

And then also, Flamebearer, one of my oldest wips but also arguably my most complex one. It's a story of grief, religious dilemmas and romantic/familial drama, all under the backdrop of sociopolitical turmoil. It's going to take a lot of research and planning, that much I know. Hence why I want it to be as perfect as I can make it, when I have the knowledge and writing practice to do it justice.

In April this year, one of my Flash Friday pieces (Duel to the Debt) sowed the seeds for another piece (An Endless Round) in May, and later on Soulswapped derived from it. I intended it to be a short enough story, a novella of sorts that would be woven into a larger compilation, but it's become its own thing. Already, I think it may get a sequel. But I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

Obsidian Sapphires

So its progress this year has been skewed. Like, 'a lot of its progress spawned in October or thereafter' sort of skewed. I woke up one morning and the cogs for the rigmarole surrounding what is currently Chapter 2 all clicked, to the point I yanked out my laptop and starting writing notes until I had to run for class.

Since then, I've had a bunch of ideas, but currently I'm deliberating on the story I wish to tell. It seems more cohesive and easier to plan for when I cut Eshani's perspective out, but at the same time, cutting her perspective would cut or at least hide much of her character development. That and I love her to bits, and she may/may not be a readers' favourite also.

In terms of actual tangible content, bits of the angsty pining scene got posted, as did sections of the first and second chapters. It even came with a few memes, lolololol. (And there's more memes sitting in my gallery/Scrivener notes, this story's quite memeable honestly).

The antagonists got their time of day, however brief so far. And not just the lead meshai, but also the septet of folks angry at the meshai and his fellows.

And this gets onto something that has existed as tags and headings and brief little mentions. A collection of pieces, leading up to answers surrounding some major events in the history of the country Obsidian Sapphires is set in.

That would be This Blood-Stained Charcuterie. It is going to be the anthology of short stories and one-off pieces surrounding Morilast's High Councillors (and indeed, the Court's other denizens and its namesake himself!). A lot of juicy details surrounding certain characters' backstories are going to feature here, I can't wait to get into it. (It's also my excuse to figure out all the bits of lore and convoluted ancestries [who murdered who], lol).

When I finish with Obsidian Sapphires, that is about when I'll start releasing this one. The title could change upon me getting to the end, but we'll see.

Flash Fiction Friday

I started doing these pieces in late 2023, so it's been about a year since my first one (Contemplations). In all, I've completed a total of 28 pieces so far :D

The masterlist came about in early January, because I was inspired by other people who had masterlists for their pieces. It's very satisfying to see it develop from a few pieces to what it is today, a decent few pieces.

Whatsmore, it reflects the trends in my writing, such as the wips that the prompts inspired me for, and what periods I was consistently doing it week-by-week and when the major gaps were.

For whatever reason, I have a tendency of getting inspiration for these at about midnight or so. Even if I get a handful of basic notes written down, it may not still be until late in the night that I can get a piece together, lol.

To commemorate the end of the year, I've started a series known as Flash Friday Flashbacks to celebrate what I've made and show off behind-the-scenes when it comes to notes, context, deleted scenes, etc.

There are a few pieces left in this year's version, which will be reblogged close to the end of the month (to celebrate the New Year).

Next year's edition is going to feature the December 2024 pieces in addition to all the 2025 stuff (which hopefully is a lot). There will also be a 2025-specific masterlist too.

Writeblr Community Events

What is writeblr without its community? It's beyond a pleasure to be part of a group so lovely and talented, everyone has something amazing going for them.

As part of this, there are some people here who create events, discords and/or other initiatives that bring people together. Shoutout to everyone who has done/is doing something along these lines ❤️

Special mentions in my case go to:

@flashfictionfridayofficial for taking the prompt submissions, making the posts, and reblogging everyone's stories (with fantastic comments) every week

@writeblrsummerfest for making a lovely event spanning the entirety of August, encompassed by a well-organised theme and all

@bardic-tales for establishing the @creators-club and doing all the various types of ask/tag games to foster interaction and support

@agirlandherquill for her first ever Writemas! These prompts are impeccable and it was really fun looking forward to the next day's prompts! I wish I could've participated more, but alas, that's how the cookie crumbles. (Also, high five, we're in the same timezone, woo!)

Plans for 2025

Continue with Obsidian Sapphires — I'd love to get the draft finished

Doing as many of the Flash Friday prompts as well

Reblogging people's posts more and hopefully improving at reaching out to people

Learning to draw is something that I've always wanted to do, but I want to get focused with it this year. It would be cool to put my characters in visual form

Getting a handle on the lore and background information needed to compile This Blood-Stained Charcuterie

The Tags

That brings this post to its natural course, the end. Merry Christmas everyone ❤️🎄

Giving a Year in Review Tag to everyone who is on at least one of my taglists (ask, comment, etc to be added/subtracted): @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @guessillcallitart @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @original-writing @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @oliolioxenfreewrites @theglitchywriterboi @seastarblue @gioiaalbanoart @rae-butter @corinneglass @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @outpost51 @mundanemoongirl @scarletteflamerald @ceph-the-ghost-writer @flock-from-the-void @mattresses-and-macaroni @limitlesswritingvoid

...As well as all these people I'm tagging here: @winterandwords @finickyfelix @wintherlywords @anyablackwood @cherrybombfangirlwrites @kaylinalexanderbooks @angelfevr @thatndginger @thepeculiarbird @ominous-feychild @oh-no-another-idea @space-writes @veneritia @the-golden-comet @jev-urisk @cljordan-imperium @an-indecisive-nerd @mauannacreates @laureleavess @theeccentricraven @paintedbutton (@/bardic-tales, @/agirlandherquill, both of you are tagged for this too)

...And most importantly, here's a tag for everyone in the audience!

Here's to a hopeful 2025! 🎉

[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.

[writingamongther0ses]

The New Pet

Summary: Zavir is having a very rough day. The warlord's pet is probably having a worse one- at least they have a giant monster to befriend. Based on @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of Galaxies Away. It was either this or aliens deal with Earth's oceans.

Today was a horrible day for Zavir.

Scratch that, it had been a horrible month. Starting when he had been told- he hadn't even volunteered, he had been told like he was a common soldier- that he was going to be sneaking onto the ship of the most feared warlord in the universe.

To be fair, Pix Gui Haban was in a good mood. It was dangerous when he was in a good mood. That was when he wiped out species. Zavir's mission was to sneak on board and where and when Haban was attacking next. The part that was kept quiet was figuring out why the warlord was in a good mood.

There could be a few reasons. One, the Light just shone down on Haban. Two, Haban had just succeeded in a new conquest and the good mood lingered. The third was most horrifying.

Gui Haban could be in a good mood because he got a new pet.

Generally, new pets weren't a problem. Most species in the universe liked having animal companionship. The issue with Haban's pets, however, was that the Pix's pets were people.

Haban liked to kidnap members of rare or dying races and keep them until he got bored. Only four had ever escaped Haban's grasp, and that included Haban's sister, Gui Ava. Their stories were horrifying. Zavir's stomach turned whenever one let out a new piece of info.

So, yeah. The secret part of Zavir's mission was seeing if Haban had kidnapped a new person. If he did, he would have to figure out how to get them out or at least get the information out so the Federation could figure out how to rescue them.

That led into the horrible day.

Sneaking in had been easy. Zavir had trained himself to look like he was meant to be there. The trick was not secretly panicking. The issue was when he had to start poking around and stealing information and then accidentally triggered the alarms.

There was way too many alarms. He knew Gui Haban was a paranoid man, especially considering his species' history of civil war, but this felt like too much even for him.

Either way, guards started rushing around. Zavir flattened himself against the wall, trying to count the number of guards.

Then the wall had opened behind him.

Zavir fell back with a yelp. He should've expected this, considering Haban liked hidden doors. (Ava had complained about it many times, with her brother using them for dramatics or to stalk his prey.) Instead of a hallway, however, he found himself falling down a shaft, his tail aching as it whacked into the walls as he tried to slow his fall. It didn't work-

SPLASH.

Most species were weak to hydrogen hydroxide. Zavir's race, the Selken, were not. But that didn't mean that they liked water. Rather, it was the opposite- hydrogen hydroxide matted and tangled their fur to such a painful degree.

The minute he was submerged, he began to swim up. He looked around as he moved. He could see what looked to be glass, like something at an actual zoo and a feature of the quarters of the "pets". The hydrogen hydroxide meant that there was a few species that could be kept in here.

Then Zavir made the mistake of looking down.

He shrieked the minute he realized he was being stared at. The monster, because his frazzled mind couldn't think of what species it was, was huge. It stared at him with huge, beady eyes, like it was considering whether or not to eat him. That was all he could take in because the hydrogen hydroxide was rushing into his open mouth, of shit he was going to-

SPLASH!

He barely felt hands grab his arms and yank him up. In his daze, he thought he saw one of those hands move forward and make...make...make...okay, he was hallucinating. There was no way someone was stupid enough to shoo a giant monster.

Then his head breached the surface.

The person he hallucinated shooing grabbed his collar and started dragging him along. Zavir barely felt his back hit something soft in his haze.

The last thing he saw was green eyes, staring at him with concern, and then the silver collar she wore, the tag announcing her planet and species. His last thing was well, guess we know he got a new pet.

What was a human?

[starkraivennemad]

The Last Friday

Greg stood at the window looking out at London lit in its holiday glory. “Last Friday of the year.”

It felt so incredibly right. Yet it felt so incredibly strange.

He could not help but smile slightly as he heard the peal of bells from the church a block over in the quiet room.

“For whom the bell tolls, eh?” Sally Donovan gave him a bittersweet smile.

“It tolls for me.”  Greg returned the smile.

It was time.

He looked around the room and handed Sally a small gift box as he headed for the door.

She teasingly jiggled the box and jokingly guessed its contents. Looking at Greg's face, she knew it was not a joke. She ripped into the box and gasped at the verification in her hands.

"Really? For me? Thank you!" There were tears in her eyes. “I surely thought the chief…”

“Oh, I threatened him with Sherlock, or I’m sure he would have denied it.” Greg laughed. There is no one more deserving, and he knows it.”

“Thank you!” She beamed but then demurred. “It’s all so…”

“It is…” Greg agreed and hugged her, “Stay, take it all in. Happy New Year, D.I. Donovan.”

“Happy New Year, Greg.”

Greg grinned upon seeing the black sedan and the now-former occupant of an office in the British Government who awaited within.

“What a difference a day makes, my good man?” Mycroft read his mood. “Ready?”

“Where were you, New Year’s Eve?” Mycroft Holmes had asked Greg some 360+ days ago. “Wishing I was kissing you.” Lestrade, sleep-deprived after a grueling serial killer case, accidentally but truthfully answered. “I’m getting too old for his shite.” “Same.” Mycroft concurred, then blinked, “What did you say?”

That began a most unexpected conversation that kicked off a chain of events culminating today.

The ending of one life and the beginning of another – together.

Detective Chief Inspector-Retired Gregory Lestrade-Holmes took a final look at the New Scotland Yard sign and stepped into the sedan with Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade.

“A day? Try nearly a year of them,” Greg kissed him, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m ready, my good man.”

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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.

[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.

[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.

When You Lose Yourself

“John. Wake up. You’re here. Safe. Home.”

Sherlock’s dark and hoarse voice was full of worry. He knew he mustn’t touch John when he has a nightmare. It could end badly. John might perceive Sherlock as a threat to his own safety, lost in the Afghan desert as he was.

“Please, John.”

He raised his voice, desperate to get through to his lover, but still John was lost to him. His wailing broke Sherlock’s heart.

Violin. Get your violin.

Sherlock’s inner voice coaxed him into action. Swiftly, though reluctantly, he left the bedroom and picked up his violin from the case. Soon, Bach’s Lullaby sounded in the sitting room. His instinct told him to stay there instead of returning to their bedroom. John wasn’t accustomed to hearing it in there, which probably would confuse him.

Familiarity is what John needed.

“I know,” Sherlock answered himself through gritted teeth, and continued playing John’s favourites.

His entire body longed to be close to John, but he heeded John’s previous warnings.

“I hurt Sarah when she tried to wake me from a nightmare. Gave her a black eye, and her throat was bruised for more than a week.”

After that, John had stopped dating, and it took him an agonising six months agreeing to share Sherlock’s bed. He always went up to his room when they’d had sex, though, too afraid to assault Sherlock in his sleep. When Sherlock had protested, vehemently so, John just set his jaw, and refused to listen.

“Anything could happen, Sherlock. It was horrifying enough what I did to Sarah. I didn’t love her. But you…no, I just can’t.”

It had been an accident when John fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed the first time. He’d been exhausted and sleep-deprived, just as Sherlock had been. The case was solved, but in the aftermath, after John had been abducted, again, they craved to be close. It wasn’t sexual. They needed to assure themselves that they’d got through it unscathed.

John had panicked the morning after, but Sherlock told him to shut it, and stop being an idiot. So, that was the end of them sleeping alone.

The nightmare came as a shock. Sherlock had naively thought that his presence would keep them at bay.

Stupid. Stupid!

He realised that his anxiousness could be heard in his playing, so he zoomed in, focused solely on the music. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard John’s voice.

“You are so beautiful when you lose yourself like this.”

Sherlock blinked but didn’t stop playing. When the piece ended, he lowered his bow and violin, placed the items in his chair, and opened his arms. John came willingly and they stood close for an eternity, not speaking, just breathing and wallowing in the other man’s familiar scent and form.

“Thanks for not trying to touch me,” John said finally. “Did you speak?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, still heartbroken that he couldn’t wake John from his night terrors.

“I’m sorry, my love,” John murmured and caressed Sherlock’s cheek.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault, John. I…I just felt so…helpless. I’m supposed to solve puzzles, be the smartest man in the room at any given time, but – “

“Shh. This is not a case, Sherlock. It’s trauma. And…well, it can’t be fixed, not entirely at least.”

He took a firm grip of Sherlock’s upper arms, urging his beloved detective to look at him.

“It is better than it was. Before I met you, it happened every night. When I moved in with you, they only appeared once or twice a week. And now, I’ve shared your bed for almost a month. What does that tell you?”

Sherlock looked down at his best friend, his blogger, his doctor, his captain, his John, seeing nothing but love and affection on his face. Gone was the agony from half an hour ago. He gave John a smile, and the one he got in return could light up all of London.

Instead of answering the question they both knew the answer to, Sherlock cradled John’s face with his hands and kissed him. Strong arms pulled him closer, and when they returned to the bedroom, an uncertain number of minutes later, Sherlock’s anxiety had evaporated. Tightly tangled in each other’s limbs, they slept without any interruptions until the sun bathed their sanctuary in a golden light the following morning.

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[rwi-writes]

A little bit of privacy

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial! This is my first piece of writing in a long time so I may be a bit rusty.

Fandom: Arcane Pairing: Silco x male!Reader (could be also read as gender neutral) Warnings: some tiny sexual innuendos, but nothing actually happens (even if it may seem like it will) Synopsis: Silco cannot stand being bothered unannounced, but nobody really questions it why. A man like him maybe just needs some alone time to de-stress from the hardships of being in control of an entire city.

Despite being a leader of quite a big faction within the Undercity, Silco fancied himself as a person who liked his privacy and alone time. Not that he got a lot of it, but even the evillest of men needed a break from controlling an entire city. So it was an unspoken rule among his people that, unless it was an emergency, all requests to see him must be transmitted through Silvika, and she will give them a time and day. But not everyone was up-to-date with this, and sometimes people would randomly burst into his office, unannounced and uninvited.

Such event happened on a pretty normal day during the golden age of Silco's control over the Undercity. Shimmer was flowing plentifully to and from the city through the newly constructed Hexgates. Every other random homeless person in the Undercity was addicted to the stuff. Other faction leaders made alliances just to get their hands on some of that shimmer. Everything was going good.

Silco was in his office, taking a well deserved break. When suddenly, the door opened wide to reveal two large men who looked like they had muscles instead of brains. The two meatheads walked in and started complaining about some people at the bar drinking too much and causing a scene. Silco didn't let them finish talking.

"Why are you telling me this? Do I look like the all-controlling force of the bar? Talk to someone who actually has time to deal with such mundane tasks." His tone was sharp and strict. It sent shivers down the two men's spines. Even they knew they fucked up by coming here, so they couldn't wait to leave and hope that their boss will forget about this.

He spoke a few words to dismiss them from his office.  As the door closed behind the two meatheads, Silco sighed. "I cannot stand these people sometimes." He groaned, moving his chair away from the desk. "Why can't they just let me be alone for two fucking seconds?"

A chuckle broke his train of thought. You got up from the confined space under the desk, stretching your muscles, hoping to get rid of the ache and pain. "A better question is why do I have to keep hiding from everyone?" You walked in front of Silco, taking your gun out of its holster and bringing it to your temple. "As your most trusted hitman, I could blow their brains out and leave no trace behind." You said, half seductively, knowing Silco enjoyed your little shows of power.

"Darling, if I let you kill every man that came in your path, I will be out of people to do my bidding." He responded in a low, steady voice. "Plus I like keeping my personal life private, away from the eyes of people who would rather want me dead than happy."

"All I am offering you is a solution to your problems..." You point the gun towards the door. "Just say the word and boom!" You say as you motion taking a shot at someone. But of course, you wouldn't do anything without your boss' permission. You put the gun back and turn to face Silco again.

Your eyes meet in a staring contest that last just enough for the both of you to burst into small laughter. Silco gently grabs your hand and gives it a kiss. Your hand caresses his scarred face. Your time together has resumed, and it won't be interrupted for another couple of hours. Life is good, even for the evil.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

An ode to a scar and the shoulder blade

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF284 noticing small things. (Thank you once again!) Missing Ron’s 96 scar that I wrote this on a whim. Methinks this is only a prelude and I might add more chapters if I can. If you haven’t seen nor read the Shibuya arc, then treat some of these as spoilers.

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Fandom: Kamonohashi Ron kindan no suiri / Ron Kamonohashi’s Forbidden Deductions

Characters: Totomaru “Toto” Isshiki, Ron Kamonohashi, brief appearance of Spitz Feier

Word count: 1095 (I struggled with this)

TW: mention of suicide, biting

HAND on his heart, Toto could still pinpoint the time and place Ron’s “96” scar had bewitched him.

Well, bewitch might be a strange wording, but the very first time he found himself staring at it was the day he returned to Ron’s apartment to talk about the first case they shared together and the aftermath.

Ron sat on the floor with his thigh muscles bulging from his grey sweatpants, looking up at Toto. From this perspective, the police officer knew that he was not wearing a shirt underneath that beige pullover. He had a beautiful view of the scar. He was still aghast, mind, after Ron told him of his flaw, that is sending the suspects to kill themselves through his power of hypnosis, in which Toto experienced firsthand. But the scar kept on disturbing his peace.

Of course, that time Toto thought it was a tattoo. Who would in their right mind let himself be tattooed with a number? Especially when the Japanese people do not have a positive attitude toward skin ornaments. And yet, he did not ask Ron. Japanese men, the polite ones mostly, would never do such a thing. Besides, what would his grandma say? Oh well, the old woman knew that he had the habit of not holding back things from his mind, saying them aloud without filter.

“It is not a tattoo. It is a scar.” Ron told him at the onsen. It had been a month since he learned to know the younger man and they already saw each other naked.

“Not a tattoo?”

Ron smiled at him and explained the instances he got the scar.

“Ah, I have learned to like it. It has become a part of me.”

“Definitely…”

To be honest, one could not overlook the “96” scar as it was so huge. But what fascinated him more was the intricate firmness of Ron’s shoulder blade. Toto realised later that Ron was not fond of wearing T-shirts underneath his hoodies or pullovers. The shadow of a bare chest followed his sleepless nights.

Toto thought about it long and hard when they were on the rooftop battling against Winter Moriarty at Shibuya. Ron asked for his help about searching for clues that had something to do with his scar and that could be found within the surrounding areas. The police officer could not help it, but his vision went straight toward Ron’s gorgeous left shoulder blade where the huge 96 was. The wind blew the collar away that it exposed the skin. Ron was not wearing a shirt with only his pullover hiding his upper torso. Toto gasped.

Damn it. They were in the middle of a crime scene exchanging wits with a Moriarty clan member and all he could think of was Ron’s white smooth skin and the muscles that defined his shoulders. Ron followed Toto’s line of sight, and an image of a lighted bulb appeared on his mind.

“As expected of my partner,” Ron said, who tried to lighten up the mood a day later after Toto informed him and Spitz that the cadaver in the morgue was not that of a suspect but someone else.

“What do you mean, Ron?” Spitz asked, curious, putting down the iced black tea on the table. The three men were at Ron’s apartment to go over the recent case.

“I asked Toto for clues. I never thought that the M Family henchman meant me and my scar. That was the reason I realised that Toto’s supervisor and the victim were in the same building.”

Quick thinking. Another asset that Ron possessed. Toto was so lucky to have known this person.

Spitz said his goodbyes mentioning that he could not stay longer and had to fly back to London as his students were waiting for him. The police officer, however, stayed.

“Are you still feeling distraught concerning the suspect and the victim?” Ron grabbed his drink, which consisted mainly of ice cubes and kuromitsu.

Toto found out from Amamiya that the victim chose to kill himself hours after Ron saved him. It made him wonder how huge the M Family’s influence all over the world was not only in England.

“There was a split second where the suspect looked scared though after you guessed it correctly. Do you think he was talking to the boss?” Toto focused on the floor.

Caught off guard, Ron spilled his black sugar syrup drink on his T-shirt.

“Ahh… apologies, Toto. I think I must change.” Ron took off his shirt right there and then that made Toto freeze on his seat. His mouth forming an O.

Mesmerised with the scar and the shoulder blade before him, Toto forgot to ask anymore questions.

He touched his forehead then shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly the room began to feel warm despite the ventilator running on the ceiling. He untied his necktie, rolled it nicely and pocketed it inside his grey suit.

“Are you all right, Toto?”

“Y-yeah… I felt so warm. Is all.”

“The room has a nice temperature, don’t you think?”

The police officer nodded. Vigorously. He supposed. The younger man came closer to him still undressed.

“Lately, I have been noticing things, albeit small, on you, Toto,” Ron began his speech. “You have a penchant for my shoulder blades, my left one specifically, is that so?”

Toto did not, well, could not, answer. He was tongue-tied and so Ron continued.

“Would you like to touch them?” Ron took the police officer’s hands and put them on his shoulders. “There… there…”

Like a scorching hot pancake, he put them away at once.

“Toto…” Ron sat then on his chair gesturing Toto to sit on his lap. “Come here…”

Like an obedient child, Toto followed Ron’s orders. He looked at this former shut-in with delectable blue eyes and an intellect so great he could not believe his luck.

At first, he hugged Ron and then placed his face on his left shoulder. Sensing that the forbidden detective was waiting for more, he sniffed it then bit Ron’s shoulder without further ado. It made the latter moan. Like a victim of a vampire, Ron made it more accessible to Toto, who was trying to control himself that he did not go for the overkill. Like a cat, he began to lick the “96” scar down to his shoulders.

“If you do not continue this Toto, I would be very disappointed…”

“Huh?”

“I would like to go on please… let’s go to my room!”

And Toto could not say no to that.

~tbc~

[bakerstreetbasilisk]

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE ICEMAN

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

Written for prompt FFF288 Loud Lie, Quiet Truth of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial

If asked, almost all of the people acquainted with him would agree with the fact that Mycroft Holmes is very aptly named The Iceman. The name would make sense even with just one cursory glance.

Sherlock calls him the British Government. The most dangerous man you will ever meet.

That comes with his position and the power attached to it.

The power that rests in his hands is something he has earned, something he is trusted with by his employers because he is very, very good at his job. When your job involves making decisions that no one else can, human emotions hardly belong there. That is what makes him so good at it.

His career is his life and he runs his life with numbers and logic.

Cold and ruthless.

Detached.

A machine.

That’s what they know of him.

But most of what they know is not true.

There is only one man who knows the truth in its entirety. That man is Greg Lestrade.

The truth, as Greg knows it, was something he’d had to dig out by himself. It was something even Mycroft had not been aware of at the time.

No one ever noticed the sheer panic that drove him whenever Sherlock did something ruthless. No one ever saw his frustrated despair the time statistics piled staggeringly high along with dead bodies when a high-stakes mission had gone wrong the last minute. No one ever witnessed his genuine gratefulness for the fact that he had someone to come home to.

No one else but Greg.

As sweat cools on their naked bodies, Greg curls an arm around his lover, pulling him close. He smiles, content, at the feeling of Mycroft’s long fingers combing through his chest hair, straying away later to rest on his heart. Here, in the afterglow, Greg would place a gentle kiss on his lover’s forehead. He’d come to realise that it pleases Mycroft to no end. Mycroft would hide a delighted smile in the crook of his neck, reminding Greg that the truth is this. Something no one else knows.

No one else but him.

And that is enough.