#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

Obstinately Pig-headed

Sherlock knows it’s the worst he can say to her, but he can’t help himself.

“You are just as obstinate as your father.”

“Am not!” Rosie Watson yells and stomps her feet.

“I beg to differ,” the consulting detective mutters.

“Sherlock,” his brother warns him.

The three of them are in Mycroft’s office of all places. Sherlock is still baffled about how his brother has embraced the uncle title Rosie has bestowed on him. He spoils her rotten with knowledge, presence, and gifts. The girl adores him, but to Sherlock’s utter relief, she still prefers him to comfort her, to confide in, to share secrets with.

“You are her Papa, remember.”

John’s voice fills Sherlock’s mind as if he was present in the room.

“Rosamund, come here.”

Mycroft’s voice is soft and patient. Sherlock remembers that tone from his own childhood. His heart aches and a lump form in his throat. He knows how much this means to Rosie, and he acknowledges that it will be wise to let his brother take the lead.

The girl approaches her uncle who has taken a seat on the sofa. He reaches out for her, and she willingly takes a place in his lap. The lump in Sherlock’s throat grows, and he blinks furiously.

“Do you think Sherlock was a virtuoso on the violin from the day my father placed it in his hands?” Mycroft asks his niece.

“No,” she answers petulantly, which brings a smile to the brother’s faces.

“Correct. He spent hours and hours making mistakes.”

A scoff from Sherlock makes Mycroft look up with an irritated look. Rosie smirks at him, her face completely changed now.

“Stop talking about me like that in front of my daughter, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps, but they’re all aware that there’s no sting to his chastisement.

“That being said, I do appreciate your need for independence, but sometimes we are all in need of assistance,” Mycroft says. 

“Even you?” Rosie asks curiously.

Both brothers chuckle, and the eldest discloses that he too needs help occasionally.

***

“How did the rehearsal go, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks when they return to Baker Street.

“Difficult. I didn’t want any help, but Uncle Mycroft said that even Papa had made mistakes as a boy,” Rosie informs her Nana.

“Did he now?” 

Martha Hudson looks at Sherlock with questioning eyes, but he reassures her that everything is fine. They just need some minor adjustments before the big event.

“Practise makes perfect, you know,” the elderly lady tells her goddaughter.

A perfect sherlockian eyeroll is Rosie’s reply.

“Just don’t tell Daddy. It’s a surprise.”

“I heard you the first fifty times, dear,” Mrs Hudson replies. “I’m not senile.”

“Alright, ladies, that’s enough bickering for now,” Sherlock says amused. 

“Let’s head upstairs to call Daddy before bed.”

Rosie’s face lights up at this prospect and waves goodbye to her Nana, before hurrying up the stairs.

***

“Hello, my darlings,” John greets them from his hotel room in Edinburgh.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says, eagerly taking in his beloved’s face.

“Hi, Daddy!” Rosie exclaims.

Sherlock squeezes her leg in warning. Her small hand pats his in acknowledgment.

“I know, Papa. I won’t spill our secret.”

They talk for the few minutes John is available, which is far too few in Sherlock’s opinion.

“I’ll call you later,” John promises, the love in his eyes evident.

Sherlock nods, unable to find his voice.

“Bye, Daddy. See you soon.”

“Sleep tight, sweetheart. I’ll be home tomorrow evening, alright.”

She leaves for the bathroom, and Sherlock exchanges words of love and longing with John.

“I miss you,” he tells John in a low voice.

“Me too, love. So much,” John whispers. “Talk to you in a couple of hours, yeah.”

“Please,” Sherlock chokes out, biting his bottom lip hard, and taking deep breathes.

“God, I hate seeing you like this,” John replies.

“Papa, can you help me?” Rosie calls from down the hall.

“Perfect timing,” Sherlock smiles, not wanting John to feel guilty about being far away from them.

“I love you,” John says. “Give her a goodnight kiss from me.”

“I will. Love you more,” Sherlock murmurs, and reluctantly ends the video call.

***

A week later, they’re all dressed to the nines, rings have been exchanged, vows have been made, tears have been shed, kisses have been bestowed in abundance, and it’s time for the big reveal.

“Are you ready, Rosamund Watson-Holmes?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock’s eyes sting painfully, and he must use all his willpower to stay collected.

“I am. The last rehearsal went well enough, but it wasn’t perfect. That’s a good sign Nana says,” she answers.

She’s wearing a light green dress, white shoes, and in her hand is her piccolo flute.

“Papa?” she inquires, looking up at Sherlock with a confidence he wishes he’d had at her age.

“Ready. Let’s surprise Daddy with our duet. And remember what I said, don’t be surprised if he cries. Most likely, they will all cry,” he says calmly.

“I know. Sentiment,” she huffs and rolls her eyes.

A chuckle from Mycroft, makes Sherlock’s lips lift in a tiny smile.

“You are a terrible influence, brother mine,” he says fondly.

“So it seems,” Mycroft concurs and squeezes his brother’s shoulder.

***

It ended like this: The tiny stage was softly lit when Sherlock and his precious girl entered, both carrying their instruments, a murmur of surprise filling the room. Rosie didn’t need help with anything, and the duet was a tremendous success.

“How do you know that?” Rosie whispered in Sherlock’s ear when he crouched down beside her, reassuring her of that particular fact.

“Because even your uncle cried,” he whispered back.

“Oh. Do you think he want help to find some tissues?” Rosie asked seriously.

“Best not. Despite how eager he is to help others, he rarely accepts to be helped himself,” Sherlock said.

“Just like you, then,” Rosie said and smiled mischievously at him, and then John was there to hug them both.

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

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[starkraivennemad]

Do You Like Me?

Mycroft Holmes looked at the paper he pulled out of his pocket in utter confusion.

He knew what it was: three-holed, loose-leaf paper. The type of paper every school-aged child was familiar with. He felt an odd sense of nostalgia simply holding the paper with its college-ruled lines. His brain began to swim with deductions:

Carefully halved -its smooth torn edge telling him the person likely used a ruler to do so.

Folded to create a square.

Wrinkled as if having been balled up to be binned but then smoothed out again.

All of that, while its own level of bafflement, was not as dumbfounding as what was written inside.

It's Valentine's Day. I like you. Do you like me?  Yes ⬜ No ⬜

It was evident the giver started on this quaint, middle-school note-writing path, realized the ridiculousness of giving him of all people such a thing, and was going to throw it away, but then changed their mind and slipped him the note anyway.

It was unsigned but Mycroft recognized the writing and could hear the voice of its author in his mind.

He has not seen him in nearly a week. How? Why NOW?

Then he recalled a conversation from a year ago.

It was the week of Valentine's Day. He and Gregory Lestrade had met for their monthly Sherlock update, which stopped being about Sherlock long ago. Gregory was recalling how he felt when, as a spotty young teen, he slipped such a note to a girl he liked but forgot to sign it. The girl in question presumed it was from another classmate that she fancied and approached him with it. The classmate, seizing the opportunity, claimed the note was his. By the time Gregory realized what had happened, he was too heartbroken and ashamed to say anything. He had not sent a Valentine again until he was married, and they both knew what happened there. Mycroft was just coming to terms with realizing he had fallen in love with Gregory and convinced himself Gregory would not be interested in him. Thus, kept his feelings to himself. He could not admit then that he would have never made that mistake were Gregory to send him such, and he would have checked off Yes. Instead, Mycroft casually mentioned he had started uni by then. Not that he thought of such things then, but he was much too young for his intellectual peers. And that same intellect had cut him off from what should be his social peers. He had not said the words, but he knew Gregory understood it meant he had never sent nor received such a thing. So, in true Mycroft fashion, he blew the whole conversation off in fierce snark about the sentiment surrounding the time of year and quickly changed the subject.

Now, a year later, Mycroft stared at the paper in his hands.

He was grateful none could see how his heart lurched, for surely could not hide his wonder.

Here he was, a grown man, a near middle-aged man at that! -receiving his very first Valentine!

For a little piece of paper, it carried a lot of weight. One he never expected to bear.

And it's from Gregory!

The enormity of what it meant! That Gregory, who would never toy with him on such a thing knowing who he is, has done this?

Could it really be that simple? To have everything by answering a Valentine?

The thought utterly gutted Mycroft.

Mycroft was not a man for romantic overtures; he simply was not. Still, he knew he had to do something.  There are only two people who could get close enough to him to deliver such and he has not seen his brother in days.

"Anthea?"

"Sir?"

Mycroft held out the note. "Please reverse the travel of today's delivery."

Anthea barely suppressed her smirk as she slipped the note into a pocket without looking at it. "Yes, sir."

Mycroft gave it two hours.

Ninety-three minutes later, his phone buzzed.

TEXT: This is faster. She or whoever was sent is good. I just found it in my pocket. –GL

It was a photo of the original note, now with Mycroft’s response added, plus another text.

It's Valentine's Day. I like you. Do you like me?  Yes ✔ No ⬜ It is MORE than like. YES ✔  

TEXT: If you could have 24 hours with me and I couldn't say no, what would we be doing? –GL

Mycroft nearly dropped his phone as far too many visuals, clean and… otherwise, suddenly crashed in his mind.

It was heady to realize what he once never dared to dream could be on the verge of becoming reality.

TEXT: Be my Valentine and find out. I’m at Diogenes. The clock will begin upon arrival. Come and kiss me. –MH

TEXT: I’ll be there in an hour, depending on traffic. –GL

“Anthea?”

“Shall I clear your schedules for today, Sir?”

Mycroft could not find it in him to even pretend annoyance at her presumptuousness; she was his aide-de-camp for a reason.

“Today and tomorrow,” he looked at his phone, “Actually -hold that thought…”

Emboldened, Mycroft sent another text.

TEXT: Can you be enticed to double the time if you’ll allow me to reverse the order? –MH

He mentally grinned at the thought of Gregory's face upon reading it. 

TEXT: Consider me enticed. I’ll be there in LESS an hour! –GL

Mycroft’s eyes playfully narrowed on a smug-looking Anthea. “Make that today, tomorrow, and the day after.”

“Of course, sir.”

=========================

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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.

[a-forbidden-detective]

Until their dying day

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt FFF291 - stuff of legends and @fluffbruary Feb 7 using hand as the prompt. Thank you once again for these prompts. Also, with my head canon in mind I’d like to tackle Ron Kamonohashi’s ancestor, Sherlock Holmes.

—

Fandom(s): Kamonohashi Ron kindan no suiri / Sir ACD’s Sherlock Holmes

Characters: Ron Kamonohashi, Totomaru “Toto” Isshiki, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

Pairings: RonToto, Johnlock

Word count: 1099

“AHHH! Now I must clean up my dad’s messes. Imagine, Toto, having a father like him leaving dirt on his trail?”

“You have been going on about that all day long…” But Toto shut up his mouth at once when he saw Ron looked admiringly at the picture of his father. Next to it was a rare photo of his parents together, which he alternately paid attention to.

“May I?” Curious, Toto pointed at the picture Ron next to Ron’s head. The forbidden detective was smiling at his newly christened lover.

After the two had a lay-in caused by the gruelling events of the Plateau Auberge incident, Toto went back shortly to his flat in Asakusa to get some fresh clothes, reported to Amamiya and returned to Ron’s place immediately. It made him anxious leaving Ron alone even though he knew that the younger man could cope with it better than Lily-san, Mia and Sakai.

Toto traced the two figures entwined on the picture frame.

“Your life is so extraordinary, Ron. You have these two great people who have cared for you…” He let out a sigh, he and Ron were ready to die together.

“I love the way you think about me… I truly cherish it,” Ron sat behind Toto, encircled his arms around the police officer and went to tell the story of his parents and the ancestor he wanted to emulate, who was the stuff of legends in the family.

“Come to think of it. Milo mentioned that I reminded him of your ancestor’s trusty companion. Who could that be? Do you know him?”

Ron looked at Toto, slowly got up and walked toward the shelves where one of the boxes contained several photographs.

He handed him an old picture of a man in a British uniform. The man sported a slight moustache with blonde hair underneath the helm. His eyes could be blue with the looks of it. He seemed to be a very handsome man.

“It was him why half of the reason my ancestor could and would never leave London. The other was the cases. His name was John Watson, an army doctor for Her Majesty, the Queen Victoria,” Ron said with a naughty smile on his lips.

“Huh? What do you mean? Were your ancestor and this man more than acquaintances?” Toto was surprised.

“Yes.” Ron responded with pride, his eyes were glowing. “You could say they were my ‘real’ great-great-great grandparents!”

“How long has it been going on?” Sherlock lighted up his pipe, white hair threatened to overwhelm his once dark brown hair. Across him was his partner, Dr. John Watson glaring at him, there was also sadness etched on his face, tears threatened to fall. The consulting detective was holding a telegram.

“You are gravely mistaken, my dear doctor. There’s no more understanding between us. The child I left behind only longs to see his father,” the detective was looking at the luggage in the living room. John Watson was going to leave him. If he did not play his cards well, he would do so permanently.

“I only wish for your honesty, Holmes. To me,” the doctor bent his head. “Only to me. After all that we’ve been through. After all the lost three years I have wasted for you.” Frustrated, he believed this was the last straw. The three years in which the doctor thought that his partner had died broke him apart. He likened himself to those bereaved wives who lost their husbands in the wars. As a former soldier, he beat himself up for being pathetic.

On the table there was an ukiyo-e painting of a woman clad in cobalt blue kimono with white plum blossoms all over it. Her face was hidden on the spectator by her fan. It was sent to the flat a few weeks ago. Next to it was a picture of a healthy beautiful boy smiling seated on a wooden floor. Not even two years old. His hair stood up and his cheeks were round like a bun. One could see that he was loved and adored by his family. Below was a note in English, “Yori-kun says Dada for the first time, Chiyo,” with two shaped hearts drawn on it.

“Are they the reason you left for a few months this year?”

Holmes nodded. He took another puff from his pipe but he smoked it too fast that he experienced a tongue bite. There was a burning sensation on his tongue.

“I understand that you deem it as a betrayal, but she is the closest thing I had when I was far away from you,” the detective said. His eyes pleaded, praying that the doctor somehow would understand.

“You didn’t have to go anywhere, Sherlock! You could have asked for my help! But you told me there were assassins following me ready to kill me if you established your connection to me again after your fall at the Reichenbach,” John put his hand on his face suppressing his anger, the need to hit someone or something.

“Now there is nothing we can do. You have your son. And I…” trailed John, who did not know what to say.

Holmes put down his pipe, walked to him, and without saying a word placed his arms around his partner.

“I understand that you hate me. But I never forgot you, John, during the three years of my absence. I always thought of you, asked Mycroft about you, told him to fast-track the process and eliminate the problem as soon as possible so I could come back to you,” the detective assured his best friend one more time.

The doctor shook his head, slowly pushed Sherlock back and said, “No, you could have told me everything. But you have many secrets and I am not even privy to them! Am I an outsider to you?!”

The question rattled Holmes as he had never seen his partner so angry like this.

“No! No, John!” Sherlock put down his hands. He knew when he was beaten.

“I can’t do this. Please give me time. I have to sort this out first.”

With heavy footsteps, the doctor took his luggage and headed to the door.

Upon hearing the door slammed, Sherlock sat on the floor and closed his eyes.

“They got back together again, didn’t they?” Toto held Ron’s face. He was seated on the forbidden detective’s lap. How did it happen?

“Of course! Until the army doctor’s dying day!” Ron replied.

“Thank god!”

And the two laughed together as they held hands.

~fin~

[elycwinters]

Stuff of Legends

Words: 143 Tagging: @flashfictionfridayofficial

You are the stuff of legends.

Please, do not ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You are brave and strong, kind and loving. So what if you get angry sometimes? Do you not think, that those whose names echo in history did not get angry too?

You are the stuff of legends.

You are a star that is shinning, bright and mighty upon earthly firmament. So, please, do not dismiss yourself. Do not make yourself to be less, because you are magnificent.

You are the stuff of legends.

But some people forget, that not all legends names are written down, some names are passed down by word. Because the legend they left behind is kindness in an unkind word. So, please. Be the stuff of legend: loving and kind, fierce and bold when needed. And wise enough to know how to be each.

~ Ely C. Winters.

[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

[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.

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Soldier Boy Masterlist

header credit: @saradika | divider credit: @firefly-in-darkness

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Incandescent in All His Glory

My brother likes to present himself as aloof, undeterred, haughty, and cold-blooded. To those who has never seen him in pyjamas and dressing gown, the image remains unaltered. Underneath that stoic and well-maintained façade, he is very much human, despite how loathe he is to admit it. 

Granted, he has a peculiar way of showing his emotions.

Sentiment is never an advantage, is his trademark, so to speak.

Having known him for my entire life, and by being an adept observer, I am aware of the truth. 

His heart might be heavily protected by a seemingly unbreakable padlock, but when that lock is broken, there’s no stopping the tidal wave of emotions hidden there.

The unbridled rage is the most common of the forementioned emotions. Let me rephrase: the most common emotion to appear.

This rage mostly recurred in our childhood, and as far as I know, only directed at me. Not that I didn’t deserve it. I did almost anything to get his attention back then. I ruined his new suede shoes in the murky pond, put cockroaches in the biscuit tin he hid in his room, and read a love letter he’d received out loud at the dinner table on Christmas Eve.

“Did you ever apologise?”

Of course, John would ask that.

I shake my head. Much to my surprise I feel ashamed. Mycroft hadn’t done anything to deserve that, other than leaving home for school, which in my opinion was the same as treason.

What my brother has done is this:

He brought me food I tolerated when my parents didn’t understand my stubborn ways, when I refused to eat what they sat before me.

Once, he came home unforeseen. Three of my bullies were after me, again, and I ran as fast as I could, but they were older, had longer legs, and caught up with me quickly. Before the first blow, I closed my eyes, protected my head, but nothing happened. The anticipated pain wasn’t forthcoming. I looked up, and there he stood. My big brother, incandescent in all his glory. Fuming with rage. I swear, I saw flames in his eyes. Nobody ever bothered me again.

Three times he’s followed me to rehab. Picked me up in places he normally never sat his feet. Each time I woke, I saw his pain and sorrow. His quiet requests, no, pleas, to make me stop breaking his heart, left my own heart raw and aching.

He interrogated my newfound flatmate to make sure he knew what he was getting himself into, but also to assess what kind of a man John Watson was. I know Mycroft’s heart sung with relief when the ex-army doctor took it all in his stride, not the least bit perturbed by my brother’s inquisitorial questions, but rather affronted on my behalf.

Without so much as hesitating, he agreed to be my best man at my wedding, and his speech made us all weep. Even John. My husband.

Mycroft’s rage nowadays, is nothing like the one from his adolescence. Now it is cold as a polar wind. He remains calm, which in my opinion is much more terrifying than his uncontrolled fury from the past. I guess one doesn’t get employed by the British government if one has trouble managing one’s anger.

By now, most of his associates call him The Iceman. It fits him, and I know the nickname pleases him immensely. 

I’m happy to say, no one uses my hateful nickname, The Virgin, any longer. John wouldn’t stand for such an insult, being the one who unburdened me of said virginity…

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

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@givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson

@binx72 @macgyvershe @raina-at @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate

@fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle @aloeverawrites @ch0s0lvr

[starkraivennemad]

The Shadow Visit

The flat was dark when John Watson entered, cane in hand; the old aches had returned with a vengeance.  

The only light that filtered in the windows of Baker Street came from the streetlamps from the sidewalk. It was hardly enough to chase the shadows in the corners away.

Not that John needed to chase them. It may have been a few weeks since he last stepped into the flat, but John could walk every inch of it blindfolded in pitch blackness if he wanted, so attuned was he to every centimeter. Well, that’s if Sherlock did not have an experiment, books, or his transport spread out in the middle of the floor.

John gave a mournful sniff, knowing the chances of that happening again were nil.

The Christmas party really was not all that long ago, was it? John remembered when the room was filled with light, even when it was dark, but that was a different time, a time before the party was over. None of them knew that party was the zenith of things, did they?   

He plopped into what will always be his chair, the way it yielded to his weight as much a comfort to him as the emptiness of the black leather chair across from it a bane.

“Why am I here…?” he whispered, “Again?”

He did not plan to stay long, but he had to rest.

It was quiet for a long while before he spoke to the shadows again; his tired eyes desperately wanted to believe he might have seen movement, but he knew it was naught but a trick of the tears that welled in them and blurred his vision. He forced himself out of the chair only to find himself staring into the sightlessness of Billy the Skull.

“It was a party, Billy. Oh, don’t look at me like that! Wait, wait, wait… you didn’t even hear me out…”

John once scoffed, amused when Sherlock confessed that he often spoke to Billy when John was not there. Provided that Mrs. Hudson had not temporarily absconded with Billy in a fit of ire against the genius and the genius’ constant shenanigans.

Now John is the one who talked. John wished he had the excuse of being under the influence. Still, after so many weeks of wallowing in grief and self-pity of what once was, John was clear-eyed and far too sober, as he gave a sarcastic sniff at Billy’s presumed but understandable disbelief of John's claim of 221b’s party status.

“Okay, it was not always a party, not really, and it was not always fun, but God, it was not boring, was it, Billy? His brilliancy, his poshness, his tactlessness, his strops!” John quietly chuckled, then turned pensive, “But he was one of a kind. There was never anyone like him, and there won’t be again, so I guess the party’s over, Billy. The music, the excitement, the lights went out with him.  I don’t know what becomes of you, and I’m sorry, so sorry to leave you but… but I must… All these things in here, Billy, all this… Sherlock in here… and in here…” John pounded on his own chest.

He somehow wound up in the kitchen with all the things that should be there. Then he placed a hand on the fridge door, opened it, and immediately slammed it closed. Its shelves, devoid of experiments, gutted him. It just wasn’t right.

He slid to the floor and fell into the shadows there.

“It hurts. It hurt so much – too damned much. Too damned much to be here – too damned much…”

His head fell into his hands. And he sobbed hard.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…! I’m sorry…!”

He sobbed hard as he had each time he returned to the flat.

And as with each other time, the tears eventually stop.

With joints not as young as they once were, John, more worn out than when he entered, could not use the cane. He made the short crawl to the table and pulled himself to standing – still far too hurt emotionally to pull himself up out of the morass of missing his former flatmate.

Bearing the unbearable, John picked up his cane and forced himself out of the flat, down the seventeen steps, and out of the building at last.

With a promise to himself that he would not return, John let the shadows of the London night swallow him as he departed.

It was a promise he already knew he would not keep.

===========================================

Read/Comment on AO3

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[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! 🎉

[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.

[btheleaf]

Chief's day off

read it on AO3 words: 954 fandom: Avatar: Legend of Korra @flashfictionfridayofficial

content warning: alcohol abuse/alcoholism, implied/referenced torture

Please, Lin.

“No.”

Please, he’s sulking around. Throwing rocks at people. Bolin is doing damage control. Bolin. I’m desperate.

“This isn’t an emergency, Tenzin.”

Please, just make a small appearance before—

Lin slammed the receiver down.

The bottle of gin scraped across the marble countertop as she dragged it towards herself and chugged for a few seconds. It burned on the way down, and the burn turned to warmth that spread from her stomach through her tense muscles to every inch of her skin. She took some steadying breaths as she stared at the phone. The image of it became blurry and she angrily wiped away the tears that she would not allow to fall.

It’s been three years.

Get a grip.

One more time tipping back the bottle. Courage, she told herself.

Courage.

She dialed the number and picked at the label on the bottle while she waited for the line to connect.

Saikhan.

“Come pick me up.”

Oh- alright. You okay, chief?

She hung up the phone instead of responding and went to go put her uniform on. Saikhan was knocking on her door within minutes and she was ready for him, presentable as ever, not a hair out of place. It was only the redness of her eyes that betrayed her.

“Let’s go.”

She made sure Saikhan went down the stairs first, otherwise he might have seen her struggling to walk in a straight line. He was obviously concerned about why he was summoned to her house, hailed like a private taxi for her on her day off.

Her one day off.

This day.

Annually.

Like clockwork.

She let go of the railing to rub away the phantom sensation of pressure in the middle of her forehead and almost tripped, but by the time Saikhan turned around she had righted herself.

“Eyes front,” she barked.

Saikhan turned back around and opened the door that led to the street. It was a sunny day, but she could still feel the cold rain on her face, trickling down her skin under her armor. The fear.

Why?

I don’t understand.

I don’t understand.

“Where to?” he asked once they were in his squad car.

She didn’t remember getting in the passenger seat. “The docks.”

She wished she had brought the booze with her. Saikhan drove like a grandmother.

“Where is the avatar?!”

Blood stained her tongue and teeth. All she could taste was iron.

“Where are the airbenders?!?”

Were those snapping sounds her bones?

“Stop the car.”

“Chief, we’re in the middle of a bridge.”

Lin reached up to flip the emergency lights on and started opening the door. Saikhan skidded to a stop, much to the chagrin of the single lane of traffic behind him. Lin bounded out of the car and over the sidewalk to put her head through safety bars below the handrails and began to vomit.

“Spirits in all hell.” Saikhan got out of the car and ran over to try to hide her with his larger form. If news of this got out, the press would have a field day. He put his hand on her back and she shoved him away before continuing to wretch off the bridge. Cars started honking their horns.

“Chief…”

“Shut—shut the fuck up and get back in the car.” She heaved again.

Saikhan hovered until she pulled her head back through the bars. They got in the car and continued on.

“You sure you should be getting on a boat—”

“Do you want to get demoted?”

He remained quiet and dropped her at the docks without so much as a parting “see you tomorrow.”

Lin boarded the next ferry to Air Temple Island and stood like a pissed off statue the whole way there.

People got out of her way as she made for the steps and started marching up to the temple. Towards the top she could already hear Pema poorly singing one of those nomad tunes for children.

“Auntie Chief!!”

Little Rohan perked up from the group of children and sprinted over. Rocks he had been bending clattered on the ground, forgotten as he ran to Lin. She braced herself just in time to catch him. His bright eyes, excited laughter, and face smeared with something multicolored was enough to make Lin crack a smile.

“Happy birthday, rookie. Did you have cake?”

“Yeah!” He threw his arms up in excitement and then wrapped them around Lin’s neck and started tugging. “You eat cake too!”

Lin laughed. It was surprising how genuine it felt. She started walking towards the rest of the party. “Are you sure what’s left of the cake isn’t all over your face?”

Rohan smiled and shook his head. “I left some for aunt shief!”

“Thanks, rookie.”

She put Rohan down by his mother and the brief eye contact they shared was enough to recognize that Pema was not having a good day either. Pema looked away first, her voice still bubbly for the young children she was trying to entertain, but Lin saw that her eyes and nose were pink. She assumed it was probably from wiping her face. Rohan had no intention of letting her dwell on it, though. He grabbed her hand and took off. She was turned abruptly and smacked into something both hard and soft.

“Oof.” Tenzin stood there rubbing where her metal shoulder caught his chest. The bags under his eyes made him looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

Rohan kept running. So much for needing her presence.

“Watch where you’re going,” Lin snapped.

Tenzin’s bushy eyebrows raised and slowly lowered as he regarded her. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d get here before the party was over.”

[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.