#flash friday fiction

[drowning-in-cacophony]

gentle like a wave

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 269: Living Weapon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To?”

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

“No.” She nods to herself. “Next.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what you want,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She raises her head, and gives him the answer.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Weaponizing Her - Esther Coleman/Lea the Clown Cafe Host

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

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

[tom-whore-dleston]

Side Effects of Soldier Boy

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 391

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

I Can’t Stand It

Rosie’s tantrum in the park, reminds Sherlock of his own childhood. It’s strange that so much of what the little girl says and does resonates with him.

“She’s not yours,” several voices inside his head tell him.

Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of being something more to her than just…what is he exactly to her? She calls him Lock; he calls her Watson. He desperately wants her to call him something else, which he only allows himself to think about when he’s alone.

“I can’t stand it, daddy!” Rosie exclaims and stomps her feet.

“But, sweetheart,” John tries to reason with his four-year-old daughter. “You were perfectly fine eating this last week.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and throws her arms in the air. Sherlock can see that John’s mouth twitches slightly as he’s supressing a smile. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice filled with delight in his mind.

“She’s so much like you sometimes, darling.”

“There are big pieces in it,” Rosie explains to John. “I want smooth ice cream.”

John looks over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has long ago decided to never lie to John again. He shrugs apologetically and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John inquires, his tone exasperated now.

“It’s quite normal for children her age to change tastes and react to new textures. I was the same.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not…”

“I know, John!” Sherlock snaps. “You and everyone we know keeps telling me that.”

He turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the park. Behind him the two Watsons call after him, begging him to come back but he can’t. Sherlock can live with everyone else claiming that he’s not Rosie’s father, but it hurts when John joins the choir. Of course, Sherlock knows he has no biological connection to her, but he’s raising her together with John, isn’t he? She comes just as willingly to him as to John. 

“Protect your heart, brother mine,” Mycroft told him after John and Rosie moved to Baker Street, and not for the first time. His brother knew that Sherlock’s heart belonged to John and had for a very long time.

***

Where are you? I’m sorry, Sherlock. We need to talk. Are you coming home soon?

Sherlock’s heart races in his chest when he reads John’s text. He barely registers the apology. All his brain is capable of is trying to deduce what John wants to talk about.

Are they moving out? Does John want him to spend less time with Rosie? Won’t he be allowed to do children safe experiments with her anymore?

He pulls his hair in frustration. Why is it so hard to figure out what John wants? Sherlock’s able to read anyone but John. Why?

“Hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were here,” Molly says when she walks into the lab at Barts.

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock tells her and walks rapidly out of the room.

***

Sherlock stands and watches the Thames float by. The London Eye is coloured in pink in the far distance. It’s getting dark and he’s got no recollection of the last hours. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he suddenly remembers that he’s forgotten to answer John’s text.

“A bit not good, Sherlock,” John’s voice scolds him.

Can I call you? Rosie wants to say goodnight.

Sherlock feels his face soften. The Watsons are probably still at Baker Street then. He doesn’t hesitate but calls John’s number.

John’s voice sounds relieved when he picks up, but it’s tinted with worry.

“Hi. You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and it comes out more clipped than he intended.

John sighs and apparently gives the phone to Rosie.

“Lock!” the little girl exclaims.

“Hello, Watson. Ready for bed?” Sherlock inquires softly.

“Yes. Tired,” she tells him and yawns.

Sherlock feels his throat thicken, and he must swallow hard and close his eyes to keep his tears at bay. Without thinking he uses the endearment only Rosie has heard.

“Goodnight, my heart.”

“Night, Lock. See you tomorrow,” Rosie slurs, clearly almost asleep.

Sherlock ends the call before John gets a chance to ask him humiliating questions. The sharp intake of breath from John when Sherlock bid Rosie goodnight didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’ve ruined it now, Holmes,” he tells himself.

***

Aldi is still open, and Sherlock buys two boxes of ice cream for Rosie without any pieces of fruit, berries, crunch, chocolate or other abominations.

He takes a deep breath before locking himself into Baker Street, and he ascends the stairs silently. John sits in his chair, reading one of his medical journals. Sherlock just nods and walks to the kitchen with his purchases. He places the boxes in the freezer before walking to the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him.

“Shower,” Sherlock answers.

The shower does wonders, and Sherlock feels quite refreshed and relaxed when he puts on a t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his maroon dressing gown. John stands just outside Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock startles a bit.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Watson?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. Soundly asleep. I just want to apologise properly to you. I was way out of line earlier. No, Sherlock, listen. I need to say this. Please.”

John’s expression is pained, and Sherlock doesn’t know what’s to come next. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“I know it’s no excuse that I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but that’s the defence I have, and it’s appalling to say the least. Rosie…she is…just as much yours as she is mine. You care for her just like any parent. She loves you, we both do, and…”

“John?” 

Sherlock’s voice is trembling, and he feels his balance is about to fail him. Warm and steady hands are placed on his upper arms and when John speaks again, his voice is warm with affection.

“Forgive me. Please?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself melt in John’s embrace.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @7-percent @ninasnakie

[wayoftheghost]

initiation

[#FFF262 Run Far and Fast ]

fremen!benegesserit! reader x paul atreides

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

Word count: 833

Tags: @flashfictionfridayofficial @dunefandomhub

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

Paul nods. “Right, okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why should this boy be any different?

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

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

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

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

“Teach him.”

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

The path had been set. 

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

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

Maybe this is why Lady Jessica had chosen you. 

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

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

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

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

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

The sand at your feet quivers. 

“Then run like it.”

[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

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"But..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[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.

[starkraivennemad]

Covenant of the Blood

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

“Hey, Sherlo---”

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

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

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

Our daughter – John internally smiles.

Some people think Sherlock uncaring, but John knows better.

The living and loving proof was right before him.

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

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

“By adoption?”

“By Marriage.”  

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

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

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

Art credit: hamish_by_milgarionangel

[inkjackets-original]

I’ve always known I’d go far in my life.

For I was perfection incarnate. My parent’s pride and joy.

‘Oh, your Timmy won a prize? Well my child won five.’

‘Little Sarah plays piano? Mine plays violin besides.’

And I’d stand there and smile; jaws aching, eyes glazing. Grimacing through the praise they showered all over me.

And not once would I waver. Nor dare sow disorder.

Tears. Pain. Blood purple under skin.

‘After all I’ve done for you! You ungrateful thing.’

And so I rose to great heights. Did everything right. Perfected society’s scripts and said all the right lines. Just about keeping my head above water.

But the older I got, the faster I drowned.

Pressure. They say it turns coal into diamonds.

On minds, I discovered, it just makes them splinter.

Deeper and deeper, splitting apart. Unravelling and ripping from seams pulled apart.

I was to be a physicist, a doctor, a best-selling author. The best of the best — absolutely nothing less.

But these great expectations were weeds and vines, growing between the cracks in my mind, causing stones to tumble from the ruins of my life. Until I was nothing but dust. Ash. Burnt out and broken down. Trying to regrow dead seedlings in dry ground. Succumbing to nothing — the destination I was bound.

For I’ve always known I’d go far in my life.

But never once did I think the direction would be down.

~~~

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt Great Expectations

[drowning-in-cacophony]

inauspicious

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tom-whore-dleston]

Denial and Devotion

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 880

This fic contains: preludes to smut, implied smut, amnesia, mentions of squirting and fingering, reader was a Soldier Boy fangirl (like me fr xD), toxic celebrity culture?

Summary: You are in denial that you slept with the Supe you used to crush on.

Notes: I'm just a girl that writes Soldier Boy fanfic at 2am knowing damn well I have work at 9am flksdghk this gif replays in my brain every waking moment of the day I literally hate how hot he is >:( This is my weekly contribution to @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt no. 241: Hour of Denial

The moment you rose from your slumber, you knew something was wrong. First off, you woke up in a room that you did not recognize. Then, you realized the cotton sheets of the unfamiliar bed clung close to your bare skin as if you had slept in it before. 

You attempted to lift yourself out the bed, but your muscles were weak, soreness more prominent in your hips and thighs. As you winced in discomfort, your eyes widened upon the discolored love bites scattered over your body. Your eyes finally glanced to the opposite side of the bed, only to discover the person occupying it was none other than Soldier Boy.

When you were younger, Soldier Boy was your first crush. At the time, he was presumed dead, but your father would tell you stories about how he was one of the greatest superheroes to ever live. Your childhood room was covered in Soldier Boy posters and you had a doll of him that never left the box. As you got older, you conducted more research on the man you worshiped, but eventually learned that he was a monster in a superhero costume. As a result, you ripped the posters to shreds and finessed some cash off the doll in hopes to erase any trace of your Soldier Boy phase. 

You stared in disbelief at the same man that lay peacefully asleep. Your mind raced with questions. The only logical answer to all of them was that you were dreaming. To test the theory, you pinched your forearm as hard as you could. After cursing from the pain, you tried another method by poking Soldier Boy in his meaty bicep. Without fluttering his eyes open, he grunted in annoyance and rolled over. 

If your head wasn’t already spinning, it definitely was at this very moment. You slithered out of the bed, making sure not to disturb the sleeping man, and frantically searched for your clothes. In a hurried attempt, you shimmied back into your little black dress from the night before. Regardless of whether this was all a dream or not, you silently vowed that you are remaining sober for the rest of the month. 

“Where you going so fast, sweetheart?” You turned toward the groggy voice that belonged to Soldier Boy, who was propped up against the bed frame with his muscular torso in view. It felt as if no time had passed since the beginning stages of your devotion to Soldier Boy. Your eyes scanned over his physique with a hunger that only he could satisfy. Heat radiated your body and you stood paralyzed in your unzipped dress, leaving enough uncovered for his imagination to run wild.

As Soldier Boy hopped out of bed, you swiftly turned away as his thick cock unveiled from the thin sheets. He began walking towards you, but you ignored him by fiddling with the zipper on your back. You grew frustrated with the zipper’s defiance the closer the beefy supe inched towards you. His intense stare begged for your attention until he took matters into his own hands by lifting your chin up to his gaze. Your heart pounded against your chest as his green eyes studied your face. Except there was no studying necessary.

“I’m a little embarrassed by this,” you laughed nervously, “but I don’t remember anything from last night.”

Soldier Boy smirked. “Want me to give you a reminder?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” You paused. You may not have been as infatuated with the supe as much as you once were, but you didn’t want to come off as rude. “I mean…I’m sure last night was great but I shouldn’t impose-“

“Great? Well if you define squirting on my fingers and cock until you begged me to stop as great then maybe I gotta fuck you harder.” 

You were about to let out a moan, but quickly masked it with a sigh. Every part of you wanted to hate him but the ache in between your legs betrayed your voice of reason.

“You can play the ex-fangirl game all you want, but you and I know you never truly get over your first crush.” There wasn’t a more pathetic feeling than regressing back into that naive girl who treated a flawed superhero like a god. 

Suddenly, your back hit the wall and Soldier Boy towered over you, his arm the only thing keeping him from pressing you against the wall to grind into your core. His free hand hooked under the strap of your dress, slowly pulling it off your shoulder. As the dress pooled around your feet, he lightly kissed the crook of your neck, electricity coursing your blood as his beard pricked your skin.

His hot breath fanned over your ear. “There’s no need to deny me anymore, sweetheart. I’m here for you to worship and fulfill all your pretty little fantasies.”

Fuck it.

All your common sense flew out the window as you desperately smashed your lips against his. Gripping your wrists, he pinned you against the wall before grinding his semi hard cock against your wet pussy. 

Soldier Boy may have been the biggest pain in your ass, literally and figuratively, but he was right about you never fully recovering from your first crush.

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Soldier Boy Masterlist

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

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide (Reichenbach feels...)

Mourning a Lost Soul

It was the last porcelain cup she had left. She’d always liked the blue and white flower pattern. Her mother and father had bought it on their honeymoon in Delft. Once there had been six plates, six saucers, six cups, and a small sugar bowl. After her parents died, she and her sister divided the items among them. Martha Hudson knew her sister still had every item intact. 

Something warm fell on her wrinkled hands. Tears. She could literally hear Sherlock’s voice in her head.

“Sentiment, Hudders! How commonplace of you.”

Martha gazed down at the fractured forms at her feet. They were almost unrecognisable. Only the handle was in one piece. It was lying a bit away from the other porcelain fragments. Alone.

Again, Sherlock’s voice infiltrated her mind.

“Alone protects me.”

Her cheeks and hands were wet with the spilling tears she no longer could keep at bay. It was her fault that the cup had broken. She washed it after her morning tea, and it had slipped out of her hands as the events of yesterday hit her full force.

John’s ashen face. His blank expression. The impassive voice when he told her about Sherlock’s suicide. He was still in shock. They sat in her kitchen without saying a word, until John patted her arm and climbed the stairs to 221B.

Martha was sobbing, her throat constricted by a painful lump, but she didn’t feel a thing when the shards from the broken porcelain cut her palms and fingers.

“My darling boy. How could you do this to him?” she whispered hoarsely.

She made a mental note to hide John’s gun later.

“Don’t you understand that this will destroy him? What does he have to live for when you are gone?”

Her voice was angry now, scolding the man she loved like a son. She’d never met Sherlock’s parents and he rarely spoke of them, but Martha guessed that they were even more devasted than she was. 

Her thoughts went back to yesterday again.

Greg Lestrade confirmed John’s statement. He didn’t look as ashen as John, but it was a near thing. The DI had after all saved Sherlock’s life once. The determination to save John’s life, was heavily implied.

When she finally got rid of the concerned police officer – she was no fragile flower petal, mind you – she made some calls, while her mind was still able to function properly.

Her former employer heard the news from Mycroft Holmes but had nothing more to add. With a deep sigh she called Sherlock’s brother. The man she had quite conflicted feelings about. With one word, spoken in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use, he broke her: “Martha.”

She hung up before he could realise the state she was in. After she’d turned off her mobile, she cried until her eyes were sore. 

At Sherlock’s funeral, she asked to have a moment alone by the grave. Before the coffin was covered with earth, she strewed the remains of the Delft cup into the dark hole.

“Farewell, my darling boy. I hope you are at peace. We’ll all take care of John for you.” 

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

I'm sorry if I hurt you. Feel free to yell and pour your heart out. The urge to explore how Mrs. Hudson received the devastating news, was too overwhelming to ignore, I'm afraid.

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[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?

[itsmoonpeaches]

Title: Eye of the Hurricane

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

[NOTE: I had to create this gif as no existing gif that I wanted of this scene previously existed in the gifs search. This gif belongs to me.]

Word count: 1,004

Rating: G

Summary: Poseidon cannot change fate, but he can be there for Percy when he is needed the most. In the only way a god can.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sally asked, her voice tremulous as the storm Poseidon had conjured outside upon his arrival. “I know you shouldn’t but maybe just to hear his voice.”

It was easy for a god to covet things, to wish for wants, and demand them to appear. It was easy too for a god to change perceptions of reality, if only to bend the rules for a moment. Poseidon tasted that potential for a sliver of time when he glanced back at the patterned pane that separated him from the young boy. He could see glimpses of Percy through that inch of glass. A boy with eyes like the sea, with blond windswept hair, and a mustard yellow sweater.

Thunder shuddered the walls of the diner, rumbling in those few seconds that brought the truth back into focus and reminded Poseidon who he was…a god who could do nothing. 

It was difficult for a god to be powerless.

Poseidon forced himself now to never glance in Sally Jackson’s direction—to never tempt himself with forming something permanent with the mortal he loved. 

“One day,” he said so only she could hear. “One day, when he’s ready. When he knows who he is and where he belongs. And fate has revealed to him his true path. On that day…I’ll be right by his side.”

The scent of smoke and burning chocolate syrup mixed with sundae ascended from the tall glass cup that divided them. He could still feel the tingle of desperation in his ichor, the call of a human to his domain.

He allowed himself one look. One last look at her before he left. Her eyes were closed, the single tear that had escaped her eye finished its journey down her cheek, and he imagined what it would have been like if he could hold their son between them instead of holding their distance.

When he left, he knew the rain had continued its deluge upon that little town in Upstate New York. He permitted it to happen. What else could he offer?

That autumn day, he stood on the beach at Montauk. Alone because the humans who went there thought the waters too cold apart from the summer season. The ocean lapped at his feet, the breeze a welcome comfort.

Montauk was not his most awe-inspiring work. The waves were turbulent, the climate too unforgiving to warrant many seasonal visitors. Not like plenty of his other haunts where the sands were powder and the ocean a clear sapphire when much of the world froze. But Montauk was an aspect of him. Of rocks, surf, and pebbles hidden in shores. Of sharp sea glass, short cliffs, and gray waters.

Montauk was Sally. Montauk was Percy.

Poseidon stepped into the tides. He descended as easily as he always had. A current roared overhead, so strong that it could drag any careless swimmer under in a matter of seconds.

“Lord Poseidon?” chirped a hammerhead shark in his mind. “Lord Delphin wishes to meet with you about the upcoming dolphin migration from the Carolinas. The riptides might deter them from moving any faster.”

His eyes snapped to the shark. The creature stiffened with fear.

“Riptide,” Poseidon said. He looked above him once more at the same current that had pushed him below.

“Ye–yes,” stammered the shark. “That is indeed part of the problem.”

“Or it is part of the solution.”

The water bubbled and Poseidon disappeared. He called upon a force of old, a force he had not called upon for thousands of years since the time of Heracles. That familiar thing tugged at his core and in the palm of his hand, burning and thriving.

And so, when he reappeared, he was on the shore of Long Island Sound. Night engulfed him. Apollo completed his duty. There was silence on the beach.

He walked through the forest and past curious wood nymphs who melted out of trees. He felt their eyes. He felt their words. He let them pass.

Upon the hill, he saw the Big House, its glass shimmering with starlight. A shadow shifted on the porch.

“Chiron,” he remarked as he approached.

The centaur looked startled. Chiron unfolded himself from his resting position on the deck, a mortal book about architecture in his hand.  “Lord Poseidon!” he exclaimed. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

Poseidon hummed. He lifted his hand, the object he had willed into existence thrummed on his skin. "I have a task for you."

“You have laid a shroud of Mist over it, I see," Chiron observed. 

Poseidon nodded. “The world outside is dangerous. Humans do not understand our world. I do not expect them to.”

"It is a curious choice to disguise a weapon as a pen."

“A gift,” Poseidon corrected. “One day, there is sure to be someone who needs it more than I.

“The story of this blade is a tragic one, but it does not have to be. You must keep it in your possession. Do not let anyone who is not worthy take it. Do not let anyone know you have it.”

“How will I know who is to own it?” Chiron asked.

“You will know.”

Chiron studied him, and Poseidon felt like a demigod would if they were one of the centaur's pupils.

“The blade is called Anaklusmos," explained Poseidon. "Riptide.”

The name rolled off his tongue, and like a whirlpool forming in the deep, clashed against the currents that had prevented him from remembering it. A reminder that even the powerful were not invincible.

“The master of that blade will drown their enemies in the depths of the raging sea. It will protect them.” He glanced away. “I will protect them.”

Chrion took Anaklusmos from his hand.

Poseidon knew this desire of his was a fool’s quest for the impossible. But though a god could not change fate or ancient laws, he could try.

Poseidon was the sea. His son was born from defiance.

Also available on ao3.

[loopstagirl]

Midnight Snack

Just a bit of brotherly fluff for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt this week.

Word count: 1000

Scott’s senses were tingling.

With a groan, he threw back the covers and rolled from bed. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now. His brothers always mocked him for his ability to just know when something was wrong, but that didn’t stop them from listening to those same instincts when it suited them.

This wasn’t a collapsing building sort of wrong, though. It was much closer to home.

He padded out of his room on silent feet, not pausing to grab a top. The island was hotter than usual, and he welcomed any breeze he could find.

He pushed open Virgil’s door. A deep snore was his only hint there was someone in the bed. Despite the heatwave, Virgil was still buried under his covers, just the top of his head poking out. Smiling, Scott retreated and shut the door.

Alan was the opposite. Limbs splayed in all directions and lying on top of the covers. His head was thrown back, mouth open, but he, too, was fast asleep. Scott couldn’t resist watching the rise and fall of his chest for a few moments, finding it soothing. But it wasn’t Alan who needed him.

Habit made him open John’s door. Of course, the room was empty. Hovering in the doorway, he touched his watch, sending the faintest vibration up to space. If John was awake, he’d answer. If not, he wouldn’t feel it.

Nothing. His space-bound brother was also lot in dreams, although Scott prayed they were good ones after the few days they’d had.

He didn’t bother checking Gordon’s room. He didn’t need to now he knew the other three were resting. Instead, he stole downstairs, glancing into the lounge as he did so. The automatic lights were off around the pool: Gordon wasn’t out there, either. However sneaky he tried to be, he couldn’t get around the sensors – which was the exact reason their dad had installed them in the first place.

There was a light on, however. It wasn’t really a surprise it was coming from the kitchen. Scott nudged open the door, blinking in the soft glow. Gordon was sat on a bar stool, head resting in his hands, slumped against the table. He didn’t give any sign that he’d heard his big brother, but Scott knew he had. It was harder to sneak up on Gordon than him – and that was saying something.

He slipped onto the seat opposite, waiting. He didn’t say anything, knew he didn’t have to. It took a good ten minutes before Gordon lifted his head. He looked exhausted, red-rimmed eyes and dark bags betraying how much sleep he hadn’t been getting. But more than that, he looked miserable.

“Tell me,” Scott said softly. His tone was a mixture of command and plea, knowing Gordon needed to let whatever it was off his chest.

“It’s just…” Gordon breathed deeply for a few moments. But then he pushed himself into a more upright position and looked Scott in the eye. “So many rescues, lately. Do we even make a difference?”

Scott smiled gently. Gordon was always the lightest of sleepers out of all of them, and no doubt the heat had been keeping him up despite the tiredness caused by the rescues. But while exhaustion may have given voice to his words, it hadn’t planted that thought. Who knew how long this had been bugging Gordon?

“168,” Scott said. Gordon blinked.

“Huh?”

“168 people. That’s how many we’ve had contact with over the last two weeks. Sure, some of them would’ve been fine without us. But you know a lot wouldn’t have been. Especially those fires.”

“168,” Gordon repeated softly. “That’s how many we’ve-,” he trailed off, as if saying it was just too big.

Scott nodded. “Saved, yes. And 38 were you alone when you got that trawler to safety.”

“Well, Virgil-,”

“Gave you a lift there, and that was it. You saved those people, Gordon. You let them go home to their families and loved ones that night. Why don’t you ask them if we make a difference?”

Gordon managed a weak smile. But a shadow was shifting in his eyes. This wouldn’t be the end of it: the next hard spell would bring those same doubts back, for Gordon, or any of the others. But for now, Scott hoped that nightmare had been put to rest for the time being.

He stood up. Gordon looked surprised.

“That’s it? You’re going?”

“While my bed is calling me, no,” Scott said. He crossed the room, grabbing a couple of spoons before opening the freezer. The kitchen tiles were bliss on his bare feet. “There’s something we both need more than sleep right now.”

He heard Gordon shift behind him as he rummaged to the back.

“I’m not in the mood for a beer.”

Scott shot a scathing look over his shoulder. “Since when do we keep beer in the freezer?”

He pulled out his prize, dumping it on the table between them and passing over a spoon. Gordon’s eyes lit up.

“Chocco-chunk,” he half-moaned. “I thought Al had eaten it all.”

Scott winked. “I hid it the last time he was raiding the freezer.”

It was already half eaten. Gordon wasn’t the first to need an emergency sweet treat lately, and Virgil had helped him make a good dent in the ice cream last week.

As Gordon attacked it, smacking his lips in delight at the ice-cold sensation, Scott smiled and prised some out for himself. He wasn’t generally a big ice-cream eater – that was John – but there was something about a middle of the night crisis session where it was the only thing that would do.

As the coldness melted on his tongue and he felt his entire body temperature drop, Scott relaxed. Gordon’s shoulders had softened, his posture had straightened, and the look in his eye gave away Scott wouldn’t be getting much more if he didn’t hurry up.

In other words, back to normal.