#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.

[tom-whore-dleston]

Bed Chem

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f. reader

Word Count: 541

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

Summary: Being fwb with Bucky has amazing benefits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

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

[darkhorse-javert]

A posey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bunch for your sweetheart,

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[aalinaaaaaa]

2024 In a Gift Box

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WIP Roundup

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

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

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

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

Obsidian Sapphires

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flash Fiction Friday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writeblr Community Events

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

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

Special mentions in my case go to:

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

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

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

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

Plans for 2025

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

Doing as many of the Flash Friday prompts as well

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

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

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

The Tags

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

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

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

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

Here's to a hopeful 2025! 🎉

[shantismurf]

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

[#FFF 273 Invisible Guest]

Invisible Guest

Teen, 790 words, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come." Thorin said implacably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jpitha]

It's just a walk for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only 4 days!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We set off.

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

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

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

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

"What? What if you got tired?"

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

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

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

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

[writingamongther0ses]

Liar

Written with inspiration from @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt Tantrum Entrance. I had a new idea for a Wizard of Oz cartoon, where Dorothy is not present until the S1 finale, where Scarecrow lies through his teeth and tells her that nobody missed her, hoping that she'll stay out of the events of the plot for her own safety.

This is the aftermath of that talk.

-_-

"I don't miss you."

Dorothy closed the door behind her, allowing the smell of paint and drying clay to assault her senses. She couldn't bring herself to go back to her dorm, not when her poor, sweet roommate had nothing to do with this. Instead, she found herself in the spare studio room she had taken over back when she was a freshman.

"I forgot you existed."

Her hands were trembling. Dorothy wasn't sure whether to spread her arms out or huddle tight, because the rest of her was trembling too.

"Who would miss you?"

Each word was like a dagger to the heart. She had been excited seeing Scarecrow, because he was here. In Kansas. It was a ten minute confirmation that she hadn't dreamed up Oz when she was eighteen, a stress dream of new adulthood creating a whole world for her.

"You've made such a mess of things."

She had missed him. She had missed Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. Her hand, still trembling, managed to get her satchel off.

"Nobody's missed you, Dorothy Gale."

She grabbed something. Dorothy wasn't sure what it was, except it was soft and had a heft to it. She sent it flying, revealing it to be a sculpture she was working on. It hit the canvas of a painting, one depicting the red poppy fields.

She screamed.

She grabbed another thing and threw it, enjoying the sound of it smashing against the floor. Dorothy allowed the haze of red to engulf her senses. She enjoyed grabbing things and throwing them, breaking them in a way that definitely would've hurt Toto if he was here. Her art was full of wishes that her dearest friend had just tainted, grabbed and shredded like the painting Dorothy grabbed and yanked apart.

When the entire room was a mess, Dorothy found herself standing there, panting for air that didn't seem to be entering her lungs.

She collapsed. She huddled up on the floor, her hands gripping her clothes tight. It was suddenly freezing in the room, the sensation oddly soothing against her cheek.

"You..." she hissed through tears rolling down her cheeks. "You fucking liar."

Her eyes raised, staring at her satchel. In the haze of heartbroken rage, it had fallen over. A box laid there, untouched by the damage. Dorothy could only faintly remember it being pushed into her hands and stuffing it in her bag as she tried to get away from where Scarecrow and that teenager had disappeared.

She reached out and pulled it close, her hand limply opening it.

The sight of silver greeted her eyes.

...Was it...?

She pulled the silver shoes out. Dorothy blinked, feeling her eyes dry, as she studied the shoes.

Why had Scarecrow... Oh.

She pulled them close to her chest.

"You fucking liar," she said, a smile forming on her face.

[drowning-in-cacophony]

the stone or the pebbles

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 281: ripple effect

She tosses the stone with too heavy a hand; the grey lump soars over an orange sky and plunges deep into the lake without a single skip. A dead-weight doomed to spend the next decade languishing under soft waves, so far from the sunlight. It feels more than fitting.

Instead of watching the successful skip, hops across a still surface to a beautiful horizon, she gets to watch the ripples instead. The dip of the new waves, shoved down from the weight of the stone and gravity in equal parts. The way they cascade out, reaching as far as they can. Bumps of orange-tinted blue, each losing their power the further they go, all hoping to brush the shore. They don’t make it that far. What she lacks in control she more than makes up with force. Shame that doesn’t really translate to anything useful.

The silty shore digs into her thighs when she drops to a shit, legs bunching up to her cheeks. There’s other stones, sure, all glistening dully around, but a proper attempts not going to bring anything new. She’s not a kid anymore; she doesn’t believe in wishes. Get to seven in a row and everything you want will come true. That sort of shit didn’t work when she was eight and all she wanted was a horse. It’s not going to work at seventeen either, when what she wants is the impossible.

The ripples have lost most of their momentum now. It’s a gentle bobbing, the last trace, like a bump in a quilt just begging to be smoothed back. A crease pushed straight. She mashes her palm against her knee in the motion, squints at the murmurs and imagines ironing them perfect. Warping reality – that would probably be the only way to get what she wants. Learn how to change the world they live on, but of course that’s not her job.

It shouldn’t be anyone’s job, but it’s expected and hurts in same weight doses that it’s her mother’s.

She grinds her hand into her knee, harder now, the same force to throw a stone, until the bone there twinges a little and her palm gets a bit of fabric rub from her leggings. This pain doesn’t take anything from the bloody wound that’s spreading open in her heart. There’s only one thing to suture that. The only thing she can’t have.

Ripples: the consequence of something displacing. A stone to water. What happens to her, then, with the huge fucking asteroid that’s about to obliterate everything?

 

A shoe's scuff behind her, and she knows who it is so she’s not going to look. It’ll be the same excuses. The same not-funny opener, the one that tries to stuff her feelings out into the lake, to drown along with her thrown stone. Stuff it down is the message. Think about what your mom needs. But what about what she needs? How is it that she’s the one that’s got to compromise? Her fingers bunch up, this time down in the silt. A few tiny pebbles to thread through her fingers, none effective enough to truly disturb the lake. If she tossed them, a drizzling rainstorm, here for a second and gone the next. Pointless. The little currents they’d create like stepping stones, only good enough to disturb the reflection of the sun and the trees, and even that wouldn’t last long enough. That’s what this is meant to be for her, she thinks. A momentary toss, a few stray debris pieces. Something to disrupt her, sure, but not for too long. She can recover, is the assumption. She has to recover.

It’s not momentary though, and if they listened to her for longer than a minute they’d all understand that. It’s not the pebbles. It’s the fucking stone.

The sigh comes next, a story she knows too well. Her brows knit an impossible knot, her chest a suffocating thing before the wheedling words have even come, because there’s the thing. It’s always the same song. A skipping stone, seven successful bumps over the water, their wish coming true.

But she’s not a still lake. Their wishes can’t come true, but then neither can hers.

[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.

Warmed by a Lover’s Touch

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

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

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

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

“Cold,” Sherlock mumbles.

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

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

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

“Told you,” Sherlock replies with chattering teeth.

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

“What is it?” John asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feeling better?” John inquires quietly.

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[ohanahoku-ao3]

This is my entry for @flashfictionfridayofficial and their latest prompt:

Fair warning, this story ran away with me, so it's like 1350 words instead of 1000. No hard feelings if it doesn't get reblogged, but I hope you all enjoy it! Shortly to be posted to my Ao3 account.

Gen, General Audiences, Merlin

The Warmth of Coming Home

     “I’m leaving for a couple of weeks this afternoon.”

     “I’m sorry, you’re what?” Arthur asked, ignoring the breakfast Merlin had brought him and turning to watch as Merlin made quick work of his morning chores.

     “Leaving. For a couple weeks.” Merlin answered, hanging laundry haphazardly on their hangers and stuffing it in Arthur’s closet.

     “You can’t just leave without permission, Merlin. You’re my servant, remember. I need you here.” The prince said, an unhappy furrow between his brows.

     Merlin paused, looking back at him before putting away the last couple of shirts. He closed the closet and took a breath before turning to face Arthur. “I need to go home.”

     That gave Arthur pause, and he stood, worry overtaking his face. “Is your mother sick?”

     “No! No, that’s not why.” Merlin rushed to reassure him. “She’s fine, I just… I just need to take care of a personal matter.”

     Arthur raised an eyebrow as his hands settled on his hips, and Merlin sighed. “Arthur, please. It’s complicated, and I don’t want to get into it right now. Just please, let me go.”

     The prince seemed to consider him for a moment before nodding his head. “I can finish anything important today, and we can ride out together tomorrow. If you’ve gotten yourself into some sort of situation, you may need help.”

     “Arthur-” Merlin sighed exasperatedly, cutting himself off. “I don’t need your protection! This is something I have to do alone. And no, I am not in any danger!” He cut the prince off before Arthur could retort.

     They stared off for a minute, Arthur obviously discontent with the situation, but Merlin needed him to let this go. “Arthur, I’m not just your servant. I’m also your friend. And as your friend, I am asking that you respect my decision to leave.” Merlin told him, and his voice pitched a little lower in solemnity. “I’m coming back.”

     Finally, Arthur caved, hands falling to his sides as he glanced down before looking back up, raising a hand to settle it on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that promise. Go and return safely, and tell your mother I say hello.”

     Merlin’s smile was blinding as he pulled Arthur into a surprise hug. “I will!” He promised, pulling back as his grin stretched a little wider. “Don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone.” He teased as he backed towards the door, laughing as he dodged the pillow Arthur launched at him and slipped out the door.

TᕼE ᗯᗩᖇᗰTᕼ Oᖴ ᑕOᗰIᑎG ᕼOᗰE

     That afternoon, as Merlin left the citadel, anticipation stole his breath. Off in the distance, somewhere only Merlin’s ears could hear, came the call he’d heard that morning. He knew it in the same way he knew his own voice, the same way he felt the pull of Kilgharrah when the dragon called to him. He knew it in the way his heart longed to answer, and he knew it in the way his mother called for him. It was his father calling- calling him home.

     It didn’t matter that Merlin had thought him dead or that his father had been absent his whole life. It didn’t matter at all. Because when that call rang out, from one Dragon Lord to another, Merlin could hear a thousand sentiments in the language of their kin. He could hear- feel, even- the remorse, the guilt, and the regret that plagued his father. But there was so much more than that. He could feel the sheer pride and love and longing that his father held for him, and when Merlin was finally far enough outside the city, he tilted his head back and roared, sending back the same love, pride, longing, and everything else that he knew he’d fail to put into proper words. He hadn’t waited more than a minute when his father responded, and Merlin could feel gratitude and excitement reflecting his own in the call, and his chest swelled with warmth, the warmth of home.

TᕼE ᗯᗩᖇᗰTᕼ Oᖴ ᑕOᗰIᑎG ᕼOᗰE

     He met with his father at the base of a mountain, and neither hesitated as they rushed to embrace each other with tears in their eyes. It was a private reunion, but if any had witnessed it, there would have been scores written in vain trying to capture the sheer beauty of the moment.

     “Come,” Balinor said at length as they pulled apart, a gruff yet gentle smile on his face as he watched Merlin dry his eyes. “I have something very special to show you.” He told him, leading him to a cave entrance.

     Merlin followed him without question, not once drifting further than a foot away, as if he could soak up the warmth he felt in Balinor’s presence like a sponge. Verily did he want to do just that, and the feeling only increased as his father guided him further and further down into the deep cave. At some point, they reached a narrow passageway that led even further down into the dark, the flames they each held in their hands revealing a spiral staircase carved into the floor. It felt like hours that they walked and talked, time slipping by fast yet slow as they spoke, sharing news of Hunith,Camelot, and Arthur.

     At length, the steps leveled off, and Balinor sent Merlin a grin that the young man immediately knew he inherited from his father. “Do you trust me, Merlin?”

     “Of course.” Merlin breathed, almost startled by the implicit truth. He could hardly remember the last time he trusted someone completely.

     Balinor’s grin softened as though he could read Merlin’s soul, but then Merlin supposed he probably could. “Then close your eyes, lad. Let me guide you.”

     Merlin’s eyes slipped shut without hesitation, and the fires in their hands went out. A hand gently laid over his eyes, another pressing lightly at his back as his father guided him down the path, turning them into what Merlin could assume was a new chamber. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as they walked in, the warmth suffusing his soul flaring like a brilliant fire, like a- a dragon’s breath.

     “F-Father?” A lump in Merlin’s throat caught the single word painfully as his eyes grew hot and wet behind his eyelids. The sheer warmth was like nothing he’d ever felt before, overwhelming and all-powerful, drowning him in relief and a sense of belonging that threatened to break him if he didn’t anchor himself somehow.

     “It’s alright, I’m here.” His father assured him, slowing them to a stop. “Open your eyes, Merlin.”

     His eyes opened, blinking as Balinor’s hand fell away and then widening as he took in the sight before him. He stood in an impossibly tall cavern extending high into the mountain, filled with glittering crystals that glowed, casting blue and purple light all around. Beautiful as they were, though, what caught Merlin’s attention more than anything were the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of teardrop-shaped eggs nestled in the crystals and lining every cavern ledge.

     Merlin slowly spun in a circle, taking them all in as tears freely cascaded down his cheeks. These were dragon eggs, tiny dragons in each of them just waiting to be named and hatched, ready to live and breathe and fly.

     “You are not alone, Merlin,” Balinor said, watching him with warm eyes. “You never will be.” He told him, and when Merlin slowly managed to tear his eyes back to him, he simply held his arms open, catching his son as Merlin barrelled into him.

     Merlin sobbed, tears of unprocessed grief and unbridled joy dampening Balinor’s jacket. “Thank you!” He gasped, holding on as though scared that Balinor would disappear if he let go. “Thank you!”

     “You’re welcome,” Balinor murmured, holding the back of Merlin’s head and pressing a kiss to the top of his child’s head. “I love you, son.”

     “I love you too.” Merlin laughed, incredulously happy as his father hugged him close. It was cool in the cave, but Merlin felt nothing but warmth as they stood there, surrounded by their kin. The future was looking a lot brighter than Merlin ever imagined it could.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

An ode to a scar and the shoulder blade

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

—

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

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

Word count: 1095 (I struggled with this)

TW: mention of suicide, biting

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a tattoo?”

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

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

“Definitely…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right, Toto?”

“Y-yeah… I felt so warm. Is all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

And Toto could not say no to that.

~tbc~

[elycwinters]

Little Details

Words: 106 Tagging: @flashfictionfridayofficial

I did not looked at you and swooned. Because I did not fall for you on one fell swoop. I fell for you by noticing the small little details from you.

How you furrow your brows when you're confused, how your nose twitches before you sneeze. How your hands big and powerful are so gentle and delicate when holding a dandelion.

How cheeky you look when you grin, how you lean forward excited to share a secret with your beautiful eyes sparkling with mischief.

How your voice grows low, almost a growl when you speak to. But most importantly how much peace you made me feel.

~ Ely C. Winters.

[innitmarvellous]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

I think this is my longest prompt story so far, haha.

Fandom: Star Trek The Original Series Pairing: Kirk/Spock Words: 940

~~~

Spock's shuttle was drifting helplessly through the vastness of open space.

Oh, if only.

In fact there was a meteorite field all around the little spacecraft. So far the outer hull was holding out, but ever since the engine had failed and Spock had drifted into the field he could hear the constant noise of a barrage of rocks hitting the shuttle.

And that wasn't all. A brief analytical scan had showed that these meteorites contained a rare metal that made it impossible to get a fix on anyone with the transporter. It also severely influenced the communications equipment.

Seriously, how wrong could a mission possibly go? Spock knew that most humans in his situation would panic, but he was a Vulcan. He wouldn't steep so low. (He decided to conveniently forget his half-human heritage. Everything was allowed, as long as it helped him to keep his composure.)

Suddenly a beep from the console alerted him. 'Warning! The life-support system has failed. Remaining oxygen supply will last for approximately ten minutes,' came the emotionless voice from the computer.

Alright, things could always get worse. He sat down and pressed a few buttons on the console. Now there was only one thing he could still do.

---

'I don't want to hear any more excuses, Scotty! We have to rescue Mr Spock!' exclaimed Kirk sternly. 'I'm doing my best, captain, but...' 'Then you need to do more than your best, Mr Scott! Work on it!'

Kirk knew he was being a bit unfair, but after all he was beside himself with worry, so Scotty would probably understand him.

'Captain? We've got an incoming transmission from the shuttle,' said Uhura suddenly. 'What?! Put it on the main screen,' demanded Kirk.

And there he was, his first officer. The picture on the screen was grainy and the sound was crackling, but there he was. 'Mr Spock! How did you get through the jamming and-' 'There is no time to explain, captain. I did some minor adjustments to the instruments. It will cause them to be destroyed in a few minutes, but I decided that it doesn't matter. Not when the whole shuttle will soon be destroyed.' 'About that, Spock...Scotty is working on a solution. We will have you out of there very soon.' 'I fear I must object, captain. One of the meteorites hit an important part of the shuttle. The life support system failed, and the oxygen supply will run out in,' he checked the screen, 'in three more minutes.' 'What?! But Mr Spock, surely there is-' 'There is nothing you or me or Mr Scott can do, captain. I only called the Enterprise to tell you a last goodbye. Please allow me this kind of sentimentality in my final moments.' He said all of that in an entirely matter-of-factly tone, as if it didn't concern him at all. Before Kirk could get a word in, he added: 'I am aware that making a final call home to talk to one's friends and loved ones is a very human trait, or at least I heard about it. However, having seen you for one last time, captain...it makes it easier. Goodbye, captain.' 'What do you mean, goodbye? Mr Spock, I order you to return to the Enterprise! To your home...to where you belong! Is that clear?' Then the connection seemed to fade away. The picture got worse, and even though Kirk still saw Spock's lips move, he couldn't hear him anymore. 'Mr Spock! No!' He whirled around. 'Do something! Anyone! There must be something...' 'There isn't, Jim. You heard him,' said Bones. 'It's too late. The three minutes he mentioned are already over.' 'But this is just-'

In that moment the console beeped again and he heard Scotty's voice. 'Captain? Please come to the transporter room, would you? I've got a-'

He didn't even wait until the chief engineer had finished speaking, because he was out of the door in a heartbeat.

-

'I surpassed myself, if I dare say so,' said a voice with a Scottish accent. 'I rerouted the entire transporter system in mere minutes. Means I will have to do a lot of repair work since a lot of relays burned through, but it made the transporter beam strong enough to penetrate the meteorite field.' 'Very good, Scotty. Very good,' said another voice. It was warm and full of relief...then Spock finally realised that it was the captain's voice. But how was that possible?

He slowly opened his eyes and saw the faces of Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy hovering over him. 'Look, he's waking up!' said Kirk and took his hand. 'Spock, are you alright?' 'I think so.' He slowly sat up and looked around. This was clearly the Enterprise's transporter room. So they must have found a way to save him. 'You brought me home, captain.' 'Well, technically it was me, but I'll let it slide just that one time,' commented Scotty with a brief laugh. Kirk smiled at him. 'Welcome home, Spock. Welcome home, my dear friend.'

Just as Spock was about to say something, the doctor shoved Kirk aside. 'Now that you welcomed him you should finally let me examine him.' 'Of course, Bones. But you surely won't mind if I stayed with him while you do that?' Kirk grabbed Spock's hand tighter and Bones sighed.

He knew these two. No force in the entire universe would get the captain to let go of his first officer's - and T'hy'la's - hand if he was like that.

'Oh, sure, go ahead. I'm used to it, after all. By god, am I used to it,' he muttered.

[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