#john stones prompt

[hendolish]

stonesford ficlet where John takes care of Jordan after bad results with Everton???

btw I love your writing so much 😭❤️

john stones/jordan pickford | comfort ♡

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

Jordan pauses arranging the pillows on the couch then to stare at him.

“It was four-nil, John. Four-nil. What’s worse than that?”

“Five-nil?”

John quips with a grin on his face that suggests he didn’t want to make the joke but had felt compelled to. Admittedly, it does make Jordan’s lips twitch as he chucks one of the cushions at him.

“It was shit. We were a mess,” He rakes his hands through his hair as he finally takes a seat. It’s still slightly damp from where he’d just gotten out of the shower, “I was a mess. Didn’t feel in control at all and I hated it.”

John watches him with a frown, lips pressed together. He hates seeing Jordan like this. Especially when anger and frustration usually seems to fuel him rather than pull him down.

The plan was to watch the Arsenal game together, John wants to be up to date with everything for when he’s fit again, but with Jordan’s brows pulling into an ever deeper frown every time one of the keepers makes a save, John is quick to flip the channel over. He can go over the game later himself.

As expected, Jordan’s wallowing so deep in his own thoughts that it takes him a couple of seconds to even turn to John and ask what he’s doing.

“C’mon, let’s put on a film and I’ll make you a cuppa.”

Jordan’s frown neutralises mildly at the suggestion, but remains because it’s pretty obvious that John’s attempting to cheer him up. Either way, he agrees with a weak nod as he rubs at his eyes. Red and tired from where he hadn’t slept a wink last night thinking about what he should have done. Which way he should’ve dived.

John’s determined to fill his mind with anything but.

“You choose,” He says over his shoulder as he extracts what has become Jordan’s mug out of the cupboard. Evertonian blue, of course.

“I’ll even watch one of those terrible action films with you,” Jordan picks up the remote, his left eyebrow quirked upwards, “You know. The ones with the cars and the semi-naked girls.”

That seems to do the trick, Jordan soon rising to the defence of his favourite film series, which may or may not have been John’s plan all along as he distributes the teabags.

Jordan still looks a little put out once he returns to the couch with two mugs in hand, balancing them carefully until they’re safely on the coffee table, so John plants a kiss to the top of his head as he passes by. Once he’s sat down again, he grins at the grimace on Jordan’s face because he knows he loves it really. Just far too stubborn to show it.

“You picked one?” John asks as he arranges himself on the couch; aesthetics and long limbs really don’t match.

Jordan doesn’t reply, instead gesturing to the TV with the remote still in hand where a title screen is blinking back at him. John still thinks he looks distracted though, and so adds, “We’ll smash ‘em for you. You’ll see.”

The other hums in agreement, but the noise soon turns into Jordan’s sniggering. John can’t help but grin back at him, “What?”

“Pretty sure you don’t play them ‘til, like, December or summit.”

John’s still smiling at Jordan because his face looks far less grim glancing over at him; he doesn’t even realise the other’s hit ‘play’ until a car screeches to a halt through the TV’s speakers.

“I know,” He says, just to keep Jordan looking at him, grinning, “But does it make you feel better?”

John holds his breath as he watches Jordan move closer to him on the couch until he’s lowering his head down into his lap, eyes still traced on the TV. He daren’t move in case the other man changes his mind, but slowly lowers a hand to land in his hair once Jordan seems set on staying where he is.

“It does.”

Jordan murmurs as he buries his face into John’s thigh and pushes into the hand playing with his hair. Soft for once and not slicked with product. John grins to himself.

“Good.”

♡

[underwater-i-will-go]

half past 1 in the morning. cannot sleep. watching newcastle play but i'm too tired to focus. my brain is running in circles.

you know when you feel like two people were meant to be but somehow life just got in the way or there was maybe one minor event that prevented them from ending up together? maybe one day where the call one was always meaning to make wasn't made or the one sentence that never left someone's lips. and then suddenly that moment is gone, and the opportunity is no more.

and sometimes john just sits there. he's not unhappy with the life he lives, but he sees him living his life to the fullest, the happiest he could be perhaps and john just knows that this won't ever be him. not as long as he's not with jordan. but he just has to live with the fact that he never took the chance, never had that talk with him. who knows if it would have made a difference if he had that conversation with jordan or not - but the fact that he'll never know and that it is now too late eats him from the inside. he thought it would get better with the years passing but it didn't.

and now their lives have taken entirely different turns. they live their lives separately and not together, not sharing it. with other people on their side instead of each other. john's head hurts. he just wishes things would've gone differently. but it is what it is, right?

[football-and-fanfics]

Sleepy Dialogue Prompts

I know, I know.... the last thing I should be thinking about is even more new prompts/requests 🙈🙈🙈, but I came across a Sleepy Dialogue prompts list, and I LOVE every single prompt on it! 

So, I have decided to keep this prompts list up for around 24 hours. What gets requested, gets requested. What remains, will be stored for later use. 

This will probably be a prompts list for the long(er) run, but I hope to get some of these out rather soon 😇😇

Note upfront: Since I like writing for many different players and to keep things diverse, I will only be accepting one request from this prompts list per player. This will be on first come, first serve basis. Once a player has been requested, he will be removed from the list. Each prompt can also be requested just once.

Go to the prompts and request

Credit for the prompts list here

[wildglitch]

I volunteered as tribute. So this is a quick draft of that ideas with a few more HC's thrown in. I might come back, fix this up and post a better one-shot on ao3, but for now @purplearchivist this is for you . (Hope you like it, cause with most of the things I post im doing this on the spot)

It was early in the day at the WatchTower. Not many people were in the tower and the few that were, were milling in and out of the cafeteria for an early 5 a.m breakfast.

He could see Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter chatting over coffee. Captain Marvel was staring daggers at Constantine who was smoking right across from him, all the while Cyborg sat next to them with the most dead eyed stare that told anyone he was not present at the moment. The trinity was having breakfast at their own table and probably planning out the meeting they would have later. People are just trying to get a few minutes of peace before having to face the day.

"Dude! Someone made Pancakes!" Wally or better known as The Flash yelled from the other side of the room.

Then there were people like him, who were bribed and manipulated with pity to accompany his friend on his night time monitor duty shift. Nightwing should probably apologize to Cyborg, poor guy not only lives on the tower, but also had to deal with their dumbasses all night.

"Thanks" Nightwing yawned receiving the plate his friend offered him

All in all, it seemed like nothing that interesting was going to happen, just a regular morning in a room filled with people that were probably sleep deprived and had nothing better to do than come to the watchtower for breakfast. That was until a sparking glowing portal appeared in the middle of the room.

"Oh god damn it" He heard Flash say next to him, and honestly, Nightwing couldn't help but agree.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you talk me into eating breakfast and just gone home. '' He sighed to his friend, already getting into a fighting stance along with the few others present at the moment, preparing for the worst.

What came out of the portal was a battered yet elegant looking man with a very serious face. Before any of them could do anything, the man lifted his hands in a show of peace with the words "I need a favor '' stumbling out of his mouth.

The heros were confused, who was this man? How did this man get onto the tower? And what was the light show he just did?

The answer came for 2 of the more unlikely people

"Dr. Strange?" Captain Marvel asked as Constantin sat back down with a mutter about "Not this fucking guy". Not a good sign.

"John, Captain" The man quickly made his way towards them, ignoring the other people in the room. "I need your help, fast" The man said seriously, he seemed stressed.

"With?" The Captain wearly, and that's coming from the guy who never seemed to be worried about anything. next to him he sees John let out a deep sigh.

"What did you do this time Strange?" The man said more resigned then anything

"Lets, let's just say that through a series of very unfortunate events, things got messy and now my reality is imploding on itself." Oh Shit.

"Oh Shit" Cap said numbly alongside a gawking John

"How much time do we have to save your universe? '' Superman said, starling the three out of their conversation. they seemed to have forgotten about the other people in the room. and honestly he can't blame them considering he also forgot.

Looking around, he can see that everyone is no longer in a battle stance, and inside look ready to help this man in whatever way they can. And Honestly he can help but agree, this man came here asking for help. What kind of heros would they be if they turned him away?

"None" The man said, recomposing himself a bit, turning to talk to the room at large. "But that's not what I came asking for help with"

"Then what is?"Wonder Woman asked confused

The man sighed, as if the weight of what he was about to ask was fully hitting him. How bad would this favor be?

"There's this boy. I need you guys to look after him."

...Huh?

And theres that. Im not writing the whole thing rn. I'll safe that for ao3 lol. But I hope this can help feed that idea you had. I imagien that a lot of really powerful magic users are awear of eachother and have possible meet before, and that big magic events are things that bring peoples attention to certin users. And I think the "Sorcer Suprem who helped wipe half of life", "Youngest Champion of Magic" And "Some Brit that keeps selling his soul and getting away with it" have meet if not are awear of eachother.

Fanfic Prompt

I'm not really a fic writer but I had an idea after reading a lot of crossover fics where Peter Parker gets dumped in the DC universe by Dr. Strange after the multiverse fiasco. 

However, I think it would be really cool if someone made a fic where Strange dumped Peter in front of the Justice League explained what was going on and why, and asked them to take Peter, and then the League or Batman proceeded to ream out Strange for destroying Peter's life. 

I would love it if someone would write this if they do or if there is already a story like this please link it is that possible on Tumblr?

Links to current Fics:

Dark Matter by mysterycyclone

Make it out Just to fall by derryhawkins

Peter the Pizza Guy by Irisen

Dumpster Diving for Treasure by Clovrtree

Along Came A Spider by RagsnBones (Complete)

[thegnomelord]

For the prompt game, maybe 7 with price and m!reader. Price gets pissed off that reader almost got themselves killed on a mission to protect him. Just some lovely old man angst

Tumblr's acting up again and it's deleted my draft like 3 times so fingers crossed this works else I will cry😓 . I saw the old man angst and immediately thought of Rodolfoparras work and this so yeah. Play the game HERE.

Prompt: “Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.” “You… What?”

CW: SFW-ish, Omega John Price, Alpha Male reader, mentions of gore, kissing, angst, omegaverse.

When your file had landed on his desk he had contemplated refusing; you were a stereotypical alpha — a loudmouthed meathead with little regard for your own health, headstrong and stupidly stubborn over the dumbest shit, and with a long list of incident reports dating back to the first day you joined the army. TF141 was your last chance before a dishonorable discharge and Price, stupidly, had taken you in like the stray you were.

Safe to say you turned out to be the leading cause of his grey hairs with all the shit you pulled. . . but. . . not to the extent he expected.

Unlike most alphas, you were surprisingly receptive to taking orders from an omega like Price, and carried yourself around the others without attempting to establish the dated hierarchy. After giving you guidance, and learning how you thought, Price had been seeing serious improvement.

'Course, all of that went down the drain when you decided to charge head first into a group of enemies when Price had gotten stabbed.

"What the fuck were you thinking lad?" Price hisses harshly under his breath, eyes boring a hole between your brows. He's standing at the foot of the medical bed, watching your chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. "What the fuck were you thinking?" You better not die so he can kill you himself.

He doesn't expect you to answer, knocked out as you are with your chest wrapped in fresh bandages after the docs fished out who knows how many bullets from your torso— 16, his inner omega reminds him, 16 bullets he took for You.

He sighs, "You're a lucky muppet." Walking around the bed he places a hand on your thigh, slowly inching up to rest on your lower abdomen, dark red spots denoting where bullet wounds lie. "But a stupid alpha." He growls. It's a good thing military alphas are like walking tanks of fat and muscle, you can take a few hits, though the thought does little to soothe his omega when you lay unconscious.

He doesn't even notice he's making a small distressed sound in his chest until your eyes flutter open, squinting from the harshness of artificial lights before you notice him looming over you; something between a guardian angel and death itself.

"Price?" Your nose twitches, lungs expanding despite the ache in your chest to catch his scent, your alpha noticing the sharp acrid taste hiding his usual pine smell. "What happened?" You ask, achy as you are you manage to tilt your head enough to let out a low chest vibrating purr, seeking to calm your omega.

"What happened, it that you dumb muppet almost died!" He hisses, anger making his scent even harsher, hating himself how his omega swoons at the purr, at how you put him before yourself even when you're knocking on death's door. "Were you trying to get killed?"

You hand your head and look away. You can scarcely recall what happened, the drugs and adrenaline muddling your mind so any memory comes out like an abstract painting, but one detail remains — Rage.

A Deep.

—bleeding flesh neath your fingernails, painfilled screams silenced by your snarls—

Dark.

—the 'crack' of bone against stone as the strength behind your hands forced the skull to shatter, blood and brains splashing against your face—

Animalistic.

—desperate hands scrambling against your head, the frantic pulse beneath your tongue rapidly dwindling once your teeth dug deep enough to tear through the jugular—

Rage.

You don't remember ever being as angry as you'd been when you'd seen Price clutching his side, the bloodied blade of a knife clenched between his fingers, unknown hostiles encroaching towards him. Your omega had been injured. Your omega had been injured. And you didn't think twice, vision turned as red as his blood with a singular thought of Kill Kill Kill banging on your skull you didn't even notice you were bleeding.

Like a proper animal. Like something you've been trying to prove you're not.

"I'm-" You swallow, though cleaned, you can still taste the blood of the enemy whose throat you'd torn out, your teeth still stained red. "-sorry. I'm sorry."

"'I'm sorry' he says, is'at the best you've got?" Price presses on, coming closer and bracing a hand on your chest, his limb vibrating from your purr. It's hard to stay mad at you when you're doing this, his omega wanting nothing more but curl next to you, to share warmth and protect you while you recover. "What was going through your thick skull? Wait, let me guess: Nothing." Still he persists, not showing what he's feeling.

You hang your shoulders low and head lower still, chewing on your lip as you listen him chew you out. Something sits heavy in your chest, growing bigger with every word he says like a snowball, his anger leaving your alpha —dumb creature that it is— confused and hurt; why is your omega angry, when you protected him? When you nearly died for him? When you love him—

“Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay?" You snap, rough and angry, your gaze fixed on his. You stop purring, leaving the room too cold and silent without it. "But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.”

“You… What?”

You flinch and suck in a breath as pain flares across your body. You expected a lot of different responses, from anger to indifference to being told you're out of the taskforce. . . not that.

"Lad." Price's voice is unnervingly calm, one hand on your scruff, the other holding your chin, the sudden contact of his skin on yours fooling your alpha into letting him tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Repeat that. Slowly."

You gaze into his eyes, so many things swirling in the blue yet you're unable to tell any of it. Slowly you breathe in, "I. . . I love you." You say, open and honest and too vulnerable for an old omega like him.

". . .oh, you stupid alpha." Price almost laughs, dimples around his mouth as he smiles. Like puzzle pieces something clicks in his head.

Before his words can feel like a slap to your face he leans in, your foreheads bonking together before you find the right angle for his lips to meet yours. He tastes like his cigars and black coffee and everything you thought he would, your body melting into his, your nose full of his scent, your brain full of him.

"Could have told me without nearly dying." You separate to catch your breaths, foreheads resting against each other, breathing the same air and only now do you notice Price is purring. It's not the same bone rattling purr alphas can produce, but just as soothing, and you can't help but giggle when your own purr causes his to become louder.

You think, maybe, everything will be alright—

"After you get better." He whispers against your lips, soft and sweet, saccharine pine scent sticking to your nose like amber. "You and I will have a long talk about safety."

Maybe not.

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #10

(#) = Notes at end of post

TW: mentions of human experimentation and blood

✦

The Sapphire Stone Sits Highest on the Throne

The GIW have done the unthinkable. They've captured Phantom, King of the Infinite Realms and ruler of all who reside within it. The government organization tortured and experimented on Danny so much and for so long that Danny was forced to recede into his core. While a ghost's core is relatively strong by itself --only another ghost of similar strength could shatter it-- it's also extremely vulnerable to misuse if left in the wrong hands.

The GIW use the King's core to ravage Amity Park --uncaring if human citizens got in their way-- as well as the Ghost Zone itself. The Ancients combine their efforts to search for the lost, little king, desperately trying to find Danny's core and take it back from the blood and ectoplasm stained hands of the agents. As a result of their dogged search, the Ancients bring worldwide destruction down upon the Earth in their hunt for every single white suit agent remaining, scurrying from one hiding place to another like rats in the walls of a dilapidated house.

One by one, almost every agent was hunted down and bound in unbreakable chains of ice, awaiting their trials for the atrocities they committed against the Infinite Realms and its King. The only one left is the leader of the organization itself, the one who holds Danny's core. The leader, however, is extremely slippery and has managed to evade capture for months now, going so far as to throw their own men to the wolves if it meant an easy escape with the jewel-blue heart of a scared, grieving, and injured child.

At this point though, the Ancients have caused so much destruction and natural disasters, that the Justice League has no choice but to step in. At first, the JL actively try to fight the Ancients, not fully understanding the situation but having little luck in actually hitting any of them regardless. It isn't until John Constantine runs onto the battlefield like a bat out of hell and skids to a stop right smack dab in the middle of the fight that things change. He's out of breath, his hair is in disarray, he smells heavily of smoke and alcohol, and that's definitely a still fresh coffee stain on his weather beaten trenchcoat along with red blood painting his knuckles.

Normally, one small human wouldn't be able to stop the wrath of the Ancients when they've set their sights on something. This instance, however, was very different. As Constantine raised his hands up towards the rampaging Ancients about to unleash their fury on the JL, one thing managed to capture every single one of their attention.

That being the weakly glowing, sapphire-like core held in one of Constantine's outstretched hands(1 & 2) and the faint, echoing cries of a child begging the Ancients to put an end to the carnage they've unleashed upon the world.

✦

Notes:

(1) Constantine gives little explanation on how he got his hands on Danny's core. Little do the JL know, it was just pure, dumb luck. He ran into the leader of the GIW right as the bastard was leaving a coffee shop. Coffee got spilled all over Constantine and, being slightly drunk off his ass, he decides to deck the person in the pretentious white suit and knocks him out in one shot. Constantine's about to walk away when he hears a child crying. He finds Danny's core in one of the downed guy's pockets and has a panic attack when he immediately realizes what it is. Danny explains what's going on and Constantine books it towards where he can sense a large amount of necrotic energy gathering. The rest is history.

(2) ALSO, sapphire is a pretty significant gem. According to the internet, the sapphire symbolizes wisdom, royalty, prophecy and divine favour. It's a symbol of power and strength, but also of kindness and wise judgement. Which just fits Danny PERFECTLY in this prompt, imo.

[maryangelex]

Please, please, please.

I am requesting an Ex!husband John price/ Fem!reader, where they divorce and he’s absolutely devastated by it, grovels and upset that he lost the love of his life, and then years later by circumstances are in force proximity with each other and have to deal with communicating all their grievances and then bam heated smut and pent up frustrations at each other, and then get back together.

Thank you so much and I really appreciate you! But it’s also okay if you skip my request :)

a/n: anon how could i possibly leave this delectable prompt unanswered!!?!?!?! i have literally been saving this one for almost last because i need to use 110% of my prune brain its so amazing. one thing about me is...im a whore for ex-husband!price *clutches pearls* im sorry for making ya wait, i hope you love it!!!

this is gonna be a long one!

c/w: ex-husband!price, make-up sex, forced proximity, quickie, against a wall, p in v, creampie, john price yearns for his pretty wife

It hadn't been easy, no divorce is easy, really. Much less when it was something you didn't really want to do, but more so saw yourself as needing to do. The nights without John had gotten too lonely, his side of the bed had gotten too cold. You thought the times he was back would make up for the times he wasn't. When John came back from deployment it felt like a coin toss: sometimes it was your honeymoon all over again, but other times he was cold and distant.

You had two kids in tow; two kids that needed their father. You were a wife that needed her husband just as much. You don't blame him for not being there of course. After all, you owed it all to him; all you ever wanted he got for you, he provided you a house to raise your children in, to grow old in. He gave you nothing but unconditional love. That's what made everything harder when you decided you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't keep hoping he'd come home to be his normal self every time just to be met with the shell of the man you fell in love with.

You knew it wasn't his fault, you knew his line of work. But having to be alone the majority of the year plus having to still be alone when he was around had gotten to you, it had become too much. And John knew this. When you told him through sobs and wails that you couldn't do this anymore, that you felt hopeless and alone and like this was the only remedy, he understood. He had packed his things and left without a fuss, leaving you the house and renting an apartment barely a drive away. He tried to make it as simple as possible, arranging to stay with the kids every weekend and more if you needed time for yourself. His silence and compliance to separate felt like more of a dagger in your chest than the reason to separate to begin with. You wished he had fought for you, that he had yelled at you and argued with you to stay and fix this.

Little did you know that when he found himself in the empty single-bedroom apartment he rented himself he did nothing but cry like a neglected child for hours until his eyes stung and couldn't physically push out any more tears. John Price was a man made of stone and yet he found himself clutching his chest as he sobbed for his wife nearly every night and every lonesome morning. He kicked himself for not fighting for you, as well. He blamed himself for having to come to this in the first place, for leaving you alone and not knowing how to cope well enough to be the very best of himself when he came back from grueling missions. For not being able to look you in the eyes after losing a man, for not being able to open up to you and cry like this in front of you when he needed to let it out of his chest, for not making love to you like a tending husband should at his wife's every whim.

He felt like the consequences of choosing his career had finally caught up to him, and losing you was his penance.

The two of you finalized your divorce quietly and without struggle, feeling like it only drove the knife deeper into your chest. You settled on the kids seeing John every other weekend and he'd be more than welcome back home to be present as their father. Because that was the thing about John: he may have not seen himself as a good man (not good enough for you, for sure) but you both knew he was the best father your kids (and you) could ever ask for.

It's been a year since your divorce; John had been living in his separate flat whilst you and the kids stayed home. He'd come every week, and take the kids every other weekend. Now your oldest's birthday was a few days away and who were you to deprive him of coming? After he had been doing such a good job at not crossing your boundaries, at being a loving father and giving you every bit of warmth and kindness and love that he gave you when you were still together...the more you listed these things the more your heart ached and you doubted yourself. The more you realized you still loved him.

On the day of your kid's birthday, he made sure to get there extra early to help you set up the place. He bought the necessary supplies, picked up the cake from the bakery, and set up the chairs and balloons. Hell, you barely lifted a finger. And of course, he was more than happy to do everything and anything for you with that cheek-pulling smile of his. As the party went on and the house filled with guests and wild kids running about, you scrambled around the house to make sure no one needed anything. That's when John intervened.

"Everythin' alright, hon? Been runnin' round the house like mad," his voice was sweet like honey as he entered the garage, where you were taking out can after can of soda from the spare fridge and into the cooler with ice you brought with you. You didn't turn to look at him as you sighed in exasperation, but you could feel John just a few steps behind you.

"Just making sure everyone's got something to drink...the sodas've run out in the cooler outside and--"

"Everyone's havin' a good time, love," John cut off your rambling with a light chuckle, the rumbling of his voice making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He interjected by taking the cooler from your hands "Let me get that for you," he said, lifting the heavy plastic for you. You sighed again and brought the back of your hand to rub your forehead. You finally looked up to meet his eyes, which were gazing at you with so much adoration it made your stomach twist.

"John..." you started, and he responded with a furrow of his brows and a silent question. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like you still love me," you blurted, and the beat your heart skipped let you know you physically regretted saying that, instantly.

John's lips pressed into a thin line as he paused for a moment in silence.

"I do still love you," he confessed. You shook your head in disbelief and scoffed.

"John, please, it's our kid's birthday," you dismissed as you turned on your heel and made your way to the door except-

Right, you now remembered why it was a rule in your house this past year to not close the garage door: the lock was busted. You gripped the knob firmly and gave it one, two, three harsh tugs, hoping to somehow force the door open. You banged the door with your fist in frustration, hoping maybe someone heard it on the other side but all you heard was the music playing on the other side.

"Let me have a go," John said, placing the cooler down and tugging just as harshly, even slamming his shoulder against it to see if it would budge, but nothing. You and John were trapped in your garage. You let out a groan and a quiet curse as you pinched the bridge of your nose with a hand on your hip.

John placed a hand on your bicep. They were cold from the ice but the squeeze and rubbing of his thumb on your skin was filled with warmth.

"S'alright, take a breather, hon," he said tenderly, "they'll miss us soon enough to come lookin' in here."

You nodded as you stepped away from his touch. You never stopped John from still using terms of endearment for you, it never felt like a big deal. You were frustrated from the party, the perfectionist in you wanting nothing but to give your kids the best party, and now you were locked up in the garage. To make matters worse, you were locked up in here with your ex-husband who just said he still loves you.

"I meant what I said, love," his voice was barely a whisper but it still brought you out of your thoughts.

"John..." you warned.

"No, I mean it," his tone rose, firmer this time, "I still fuckin' love you, baby."

"Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? You're gonna make an effort now, John, a year later?"

John was silent, pleading blue eyes gazing at you, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

"You didn't fight for us, John. You didn't fight for me." your finger pointed to your chest firmly as you looked back at him with tear-filled eyes.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice shook in his throat, "I should've fought for us... I should've been a better husband to you, better dad for the kids I-- I should've just been there."

You were quiet as you choked on a quiet sob, the tears escaping down your cheeks.

"I haven't stopped loving you for a second, my only regret in life is not having fought harder for you, having let go of you so easily - fuck," you watched the tears prick his eyes as he stepped closer to you. His palm came to cup your cheek and his thumb wiped away the tear staining your cheeks.

"I failed you. I just...please, baby, I just want one more chance to be a better man for you... I just want my girl back." His tone was soft as if he was reciting a prayer kneeling at a pew. His other hand came to the other side of your face, tucking your hair behind your ear before it cupped your other cheek alike.

You sobbed and brought your hands up to his wrists, shaking your head lightly, knowing all you really wanted was to forgive him despite your denial.

His forehead pressed against you as he whispered once more, "Please, baby..."

"John..." you tried

The tip of his nose rubbed against yours, "Please," he repeated, "be my pretty wife again...be mine again, yeah?" His lips brushed against yours and his hands were firm on your cheeks. You sobbed one more time before his lips pressed against yours, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. And fuck, you melted as your lips met.

His lips against yours just felt so right; they were your husband's lips, after all. They were made for yours and yours were made for his, that's why you knew you were so perfect for each other. The way he kissed you made your chest break into a million pieces because you just missed him so much.

The hold on his wrists became limp and you didn't resist - you couldn't resist his kiss because you wanted it so desperately, you've wanted it for this entire past year.

Your mouth moved with his, lips clashing and caressing against each other, teeth clicking together with the force of your desperate kisses, your tongues hungrily pressing their way into each others' mouths. John's hand slid to the back of your head, fingers snaking into your hair and raking through your scalp. You hummed into his mouth at the feeling.

Your hands slid up his back, balling into fists over his shoulder blades and gripping the fabric of his shirt as if you'd lose him again if you didn't hold him firm enough. You held him impossibly close to you as he did the same, your bodies familiarly molded to each other.

You felt John step forward as he still kissed you, backing you up into the nearest wall and it made the heat in your core ignite like a bonfire. When you felt the cold wall against your body, you pried your mouth away from his to gasp a breath but it wasn't half a second later before he captured your lips again. His hands slid down the frame of your body, pawing at your chest and curves before eagerly bunching up the skirt of your dress around your hips. You scrambled to his belt, clumsily and hurriedly doing your best to unbuckle it and undo his pants.

He scoured under your dress to tug your underwear down your thighs with messy urgency. His lips sloppily and wetly trailed up and down your chest and neck before finding their way back to your mouth.

Your hand palmed his hardened length through his boxers and he groaned into your mouth. One of his hands took hold of yours and stuffed it in his boxers to stroke his aching cock as you both panted between kisses.

"All yours, darling," he groaned as he guided your hand stroking his cock, "forever fuckin' will be yours."

And you whined at his words, or maybe at the way his other hand snaked between your legs, fingers wetting themselves with the slick pooled between your folds before pressing into your hole. He pumped his fingers in and out, making you reminisce on how those thick digits have made you feel so good in the past.

You moaned his name like a prayer, pleading for him to fuck you because you needed him. You've needed him for a fucking year and couldn't wait a second longer.

John would give you anything and everything, he always has. So he wasted no time in removing his fingers from your pussy, coating his cock in the slick they collected, and using his other hand to hike your leg up around his waist.

You braced yourself against the wall and with your hands against his shoulders as he practically lifted you off your feet and insert his girthy, swollen cock inside of you. You moaned unabashedly at the way he split you open as he bottomed out.

"So perfect...my perfect wife," he breathed, "made just for me, baby." His fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh and you were sure it would bruise the same way your nails clawing through his shirt were sure to leave crescents on his skin.

John pumped his cock in and out of you slowly but firmly for a few strokes before picking up the pace. His rhythm was relentless as he fucked up into you, pistoning his hips and making your skin clap against each other.

You threw your head back as you whined and moaned at the feeling of the head of his cock bullying against your cervix. Thank god for the music outside.

John hiked up your other leg, wrapping both around his waist as he fucked you against the wall hard and needy. His eyes looked deep into your teary ones, not breaking away to not miss the gorgeous sight of his pretty wife getting fucked by him after so long. He moaned at just the look on your face, at the way your walls gripped him like a vice.

"Look at you... never lettin' go of somethin' so beautiful," he practically slurred, his rhythm becoming sloppy and desperate as he chased his high, and he knew you were close too.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and took his mouth into another starved kiss. Your hands tugged at the hair on the back of his head and you let him fuck you with the same longing and desire as the first time.

You chanted his name between breathy moans as you climbed up to your climax. John was a mumbling mess of endearments and sweet nothings as he kept thrusting hard and sloppy into your squelching pussy.

"I love you, John," you choked out through tears, not knowing if it was from the pleasure he was giving you or from the overwhelming emotion being with your husband again was making you feel.

"I fuckin' love you more, dove," he accentuated his words with thrusts until he felt your walls clamp around his length and watched as you wailed and sobbed out more moans, sending him into his own climax with just a few more pumps shortly after. You were sure you'd bear him a third child with the way his cum seeped out of you.

He rested his sweat-coated forehead against yours as you both panted. You were a flushed mess against the wall, limbs liquefied and throat raw. John slowly let you down with the utmost care in the world, gently holding you up on your feet like you were a delicate porcelain doll.

You held each other close as he peppered soft kisses on your face, the same way he'd always done after sex when you were married. John Price, always the gentleman.

You basked in the afterglow as you gazed at each other, love filling John's wide dark pupils. It was hard for you to hide the smile that tugged at your lips and it made John chuckle, thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly.

Then, you heard the rattling of the door and you quickly stood up straight and collected yourself up on your feet the best you could. Kyle, or Uncle Gaz as your kids coined him, and the other two men had burst through the lodged garage door.

"Oi, how long you two been locked here?" he questioned.

"Aye, we been callin' youse for half 'n hour," the Scott quipped behind him.

John scolded them for not acting quicker if they were so worried, and scowled at the way the younger two had shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. He dismissed them as he picked up the cooler, which was now more full of water than ice, and shot you a look.

You chided at his smirk with your bright red cheeks.

"This mean I can move back in?" he teased.

"We'll see, John" you fought back a smile.

[bs2sjh]

An Extra May 20 Prompt - Do-Over

Okay, I couldn't let today pass without writing an actual do-over, so I chose this scene to rewrite. Enjoy!

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

"Let me through, he's my friend." 

John could only sit there on the pavement as he watched his friend be lifted onto the trolley and wheeled away. The blood ran in rivers along the cracks in the pavement, forming a spider's web of red. Soon, it would all be washed away, leaving nothing to mark the devastation of this moment.

"John?"

The voice was nearby, yet he couldn't bring himself to turn towards it, to tear his eyes away from where the person who made his life worth living had just ended theirs. 

"Come on, John. Up you get. You can't stay here. You're wet through."  Hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him upwards off the floor. Sluggishly, he stood, his legs feeling like jelly, a hollow emptiness filling his entire body. "Come on. Let's get you warmed up." He followed the hand on his arm, his eyes never leaving the now faintly pink paving stones. 

John blindly followed. His feet moved automatically. Sometimes, he stumbled as his knees threatened to give out again; each time, an arm came around his waist to keep him upright. 

"You're alright. We're nearly there now." The voice was vaguely familiar but distant like the voice was a recording playing through far away speakers. 

You're in shock, John. You should have a blanket.

John shook his head. Hearing his best friend's voice already. Definitely a bit not good. 

"Here we are, just through this door." John heard the door squeak slightly as it opened. The room was dark inside and seemed to be empty. "You'll be alright in here." The familiar stranger left the room and left John alone in the dark. 

"Hello, John." John shook his head. 

"You're not real. I just watched you die." Someone flicked the switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light. 

"I assure you, I am very much real and alive. I have the bruises to prove it." Sherlock stood before him, a sad smile on his face. 

Upon seeing his friend, John collapsed onto the floor, the stress of the last forty minutes leaching the last of his strength. Sherlock at once knelt before him. "You weren't meant to see. You weren't meant to be there. I am so sorry, John." 

Sherlock folded John into his arms, holding him close, John gripping on just as tightly. 

"Oh, God. You're really here. You're really here." 

"I am. I really am. But we can't tarry for long. We have a mission, John, and I will need your help. I can't do this without you." John sat back, keeping hold but just far enough to see Sherlock's face. "It could be dangerous." John couldn't help but laugh, his body feeling a thousand times lighter for knowing Sherlock was alive.

"Only could be?" Sherlock smiled. "Were you actually going to leave me thinking you were dead?" The smile faded. 

"That was one version of the plan. But I'd be totally, hopelessly lost without my blogger." As Sherlock's lips met John's, Mike Stamford decided his job was really done and walked away, a very big smile on his face. 

An extra one-shot for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.

[hendolish]

Hiiiii it's me with stonesford thingy.

John and Jordan don't have huge arguments often but they do it's quiet big. However it can over something really small.

Once they have an argument during NT callup and they have silent days, which makes their teammates worried. For example, Kyle confronts John about the situation, and when he hears what it's all about, he's so done.

john stones/jordan pickford | it’s about the toothpaste, kyle ♡

Amidst the backdrop of the lush greenery that envelops St George's Park, an unusual tension hangs in the air. The jovial camaraderie that typically accompanies the England national team seems to have taken an unscheduled leave with John and Jordan locked in a silent dance of avoidance.

The quiet dispute, unfathomable to the uninvolved, simmers beneath the surface, each passing day injecting a sense of unease into the camp. Kyle, ever the mediator, can't bear to see the tension persist. His stride is purposeful as he approaches John, his brows furrowed in concern.

"Alright, mate, what's going on?" Kyle inquires, his tone a blend of frustration and genuine worry. John, a man of few words during such moments, sighs before letting the crux of the issue unravel.

"It's about the toothpaste, Kyle. Jordan insists on squeezing it from the middle. The bloody middle," John confesses, a mix of incredulity and frustration etched across his features.

Kyle, standing there, momentarily disoriented by the sheer banality of the dispute, blinks at John. "The toothpaste? You two are having a go over toothpaste?"

John nods, his expression solemn. Kyle can't help but shake his head, suppressing a chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. "You've got to be kidding me, mate. Toothpaste?"

"Every bloody time, Walks. It's a small thing, but it's always there," John laments, his shoulders sagging as he sadly digs back into his food.

And Kyle is so done with the two of them already.

Later on in the day, Kyle spies his opportunity to make things right whilst he, Trips, John and Jordan are walking to the canteen to join the other lads for dinner. John and Jordan are, of course, still being drama queens and refusing the talk to each other.

Once he’d divulged the banal circumstances of John and Jordan’s fight to Kieran it hadn’t been hard to get him to agree to the plan. He too is aware of the frighteningly-long periods of time the couple’s silent stalemates can endure.

“NOW!” Kyle shouts as they pass by a big-enough-looking supply closet and he and Kieran shove John and Jordan inside.

“Mate, what the hell!” Jordan exclaims, muffled, from behind the locked door he and Kieran are currently pressed up against, just as John seethes out a threatening, “Kyle…”

“Easy now lads,” Kyle placates as he adopts an airy tone, “This is for the good of the team.”

A couple of disgruntled mumbles sound from behind the door but they soon die away. Kyle is immensely glad they can still see some reason.

“Now I don’t care how you do it: talk, fuck, fistfight. Just so long as this gets sorted out.”

There’s some movement from behind the door, Kyle belated hopes they haven’t actually settled on the latter option.

“We’ve tried talking it out mate,” John tells him exasperatedly, “It’s what got us into this bloody mess.”

Then a moment of realisation seems to wash over him; one option remains. Kyle can hear John turning back around to face Jordan.

“I’ll give you a blowie every time you roll the toothpaste from the end.”

Kyle wishes his ears were detachable. Kieran looks equally as scarred.

“Done”.

Jordan answers rapidly and succinctly. Kyle doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then follows an impatient knock on the door.

“Can we come out now? I want my Sunday roast.”

♡

[jimmy-j-james]

Any chance you could make a part two of Venom!Reader x Price, or a similar idea with Soap/Ghost? I think it's such a cool prompt

VENOM AU W/ SOAP AND GHOST

- Ghost x M!symbiote!reader & Soap x M!symbiote!reader

- Proofread:

- Genre: ???

- Synopsis: Drabbles on what it’d be like if Soap and Ghost had you as their symbiote, or more specifically their first impressions.

A/N: If anyone is wanting either drabbles for other characters, or full stories like Price’s, do request!

⚠️ Simon’s part is a bit graphic and more aggressive in nature⚠️

════════════════

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

Simon had found you while on a lone mission. The task at hand was simple. Walk in, grab the valuables (this case being the illegal scientific subjects), and get out.

Of course, the Brit wasn’t as lucky as the one tank for grabs was broken, the symbiote no where in sight.

The sight was a panic alone, but what further presented as eerie was the obscene sounds of wet flesh from above.

As Simon raised his gaze, he was shocked to find a black inky blob drop down onto his face. Pained noises escaping the man as the unlabelled thing forced its way into his maw before disappearing into his body.

Panting and shaking, Simon calls in the incident, called back for evac and an immediate check up with the base’s doctors.

The checkup had gone awful. He was sweating, hungry, and aggressive. Feral, that’s how the doctors described him.

They sent him in for an MRI, which had only caused more harm. In a strange fit of rage, Simon had even destroyed the machine. God knows how he had the strength to do such harm..

The strange behaviours only continued though. From general hunger to thoughts of cannibalism.. he’d express his concerns to Price again, earning himself a necessary time in solitary.

Pounding at the walls, screaming things he’d swear was out of his control. He felt insane and drained.

Lying back against a cold stone wall, that’s when Simon met the parasite. He had thought it was trick of the eye, but no.

A slick and slimy tendril traced out from beneath his sleeve, snaking down onto the floor as grasping hold of a small mouse that had been idly picking through rubble.

Simon watched out in horror as the creature strangled the small creature. Inside he thought back to the men he had killed in similar ways, but something about the way this small mouse was slowly being killed.. it scared him.

The tendril slowly retrieved the dead mouse, dragging it up to the head it had poked out from Simon’s shoulder.

The crunch alone scared traumatized the Brit, shooting up in a panic as he banged on the door desperately. Shouting out about the alien.. something passers would ignore on claims of him being insane.

“You are scared?” A low, raspy, and grotesque voice calls out from behind Simon, another small tendril slipping up his neck, beneath his mask. “They will not help you like I can. You want love, I can be that.”

The tendril is cold to the touch, dragging goosebumps along the man’s skin. A stuttered exhale leaving Simon’s scarred lips. He can’t help the way the touches relax him, an unexplainable phenomenon.

“You like this?” The creature purrs, almost tauntingly. “You humans are such needy beings.”

To you, Simon was a needy man. He practically lived off your touch and praise. Completely and solely dependent on you.

It was such a contrast to his past shell of being. The old Ghost, the one that would berate him for being so clingy to this alien.. but to him, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you.

He fed you his victims, devoted his life to you. Saw upon you as a god rather than a parasite. A blessing even.

No one knew if it was a good or bad change for the bloke, but one thing was certain. Don’t bother trying to remove you from his body. If you were to be removed, either you’d let the man die, or he’d let himself die. Both of you needed each other, and no one could take that from you.

════════════════

JOHN ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

John had found you after running loose within a crash site. He had happened to pass by the crash of your ship, to which you had taken it upon yourself to use him as a host, without his knowledge of course.

He hadn’t noticed until days had passed. He was constantly craving weird things.. chocolate at first but then live animals. Next was the ungodly fevers he faced. Constantly sweating, and not your average amount either. Drenched head to toe in the stench. It was so bad to the point he was forced on medical leave, forced into bed rest while studied by the many doctors on base.

All was fine until they had him in a MRI. He freaked, or more so, whatever possessed him did. It was painful and traumatic. Seeing the sickly black mess slide across the floor. The doors were immediately locked, trapping him inside with it. Better him than the whole base, huh?

It’s what caused the alien creature to reattach to his body, to the life source it needed. It was what provoked the first verbal contact with said being.

“They want to hurt us.” It echoed throughout the Scot’s thoughts. Causing the man to stammer and desperately disagree.

“M-me? No, no, no! They’re after you!” He argued in turn, accent heavy in the moments of his panic. “Steamin’ jesus- get out of my body! Out of my head!”

To anyone else, the man looked absolutely insane. Fisting into his Mohawk, screaming on into an empty room. He remained like that, all until the other being spoke again. An grotesque tendril slipping out from his wrist, wrapping around one of his fingers.

“They don’t understand you like I do, John.”

The knowledge of his name alone had Johnny choking up. He was scared beyond belief. This had to be some cruel joke, maybe even the side effects of a bad concussion? But no. This was real. The thing was real. And he was stuck with it.

You thought of Johnny as the perfect specimen. Destructive and dependent of social praise. But those things didn’t matter anymore, he had you!

You kept him alive and well, refusing to detach from the Scot without harm caused. You truly were a parasite to him.

It had taken him awhile, but he had eventually learned to accept and care for you. Truly the perfect specimen.

════════════════

[calaisreno]

The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom

1077 words / Prompt: Awkward

John Watson is not a mystery. 

Thirty seconds after he comes through the door, Sherlock knows that he’s not been sleeping well, probably because he’s drinking every night, thinking that will put him out. Mary has a cat which needs to be groomed so it won’t leave hair all over John’s trousers. She’s not a fastidious housekeeper. John’s shoes tell him this: they’re still wearing last night’s mud. She didn’t mind him wearing them into the house, and he was too absent-minded to notice he’d left them on. And he’s lost almost half a stone since Sherlock returned. A happy husband-to-be doesn’t lose weight. Mary might be an awful cook, but John has never been picky about what he eats. 

Absent-minded, not sleeping, weight loss, drinking more than he used to. John is troubled, and Sherlock would like to know why. 

Naturally, he can’t ask. They’ve never done that kind of probing, not since Sherlock deduced his cane and his phone and his haircut. They hadn’t even been introduced at that point, and Sherlock could see who he really was.

The man standing at the door is easily deduced, but none of those deductions explain what’s wrong. Any questions he asks will be awkwardly deflected.

The night Sherlock returned from the dead, John hit him. That’s something he certainly should have seen coming. John is a devoted man, and didn’t like having his devotion (his grief) mocked. 

Sherlock understands that, and regrets it deeply. His adventures in Serbia left him below par, or he wouldn’t have barged into that restaurant, thinking they would have a good laugh about his funeral. 

He understands the John who poured his heart out in the railway car, thinking they were going to die. And the John who was ready to kill him when he realised Sherlock had found the switch. He even understands why John didn’t hit him and walk away again, why he just shook his head when Sherlock said, killing me— that’s so two years ago. 

And this is the knot Sherlock must unwind: John blames himself. Everyone else has accepted Sherlock’s return, gotten past it, and moved on. It’s too long to be holding a grudge, John thinks, so he forgave Sherlock. But he’s troubled.

What does a man like John do with feelings? In that, he’s not so different from Sherlock. He declares them unimportant, non-existent, and pretends all is well. 

“Anything on?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Sorry, no. Dull as ditches. But I’m glad you’re here.”

John raises his eyebrows, frowns sceptically at his old chair. “Right. I suppose we haven’t seen much of each other. Sorry about that. Flu season, you know.”

“Of course. You’re well, though? And Mary?”

John blinks. He still hasn’t sat down. “Yeah. We’re fine. No problems.”

“I’ll make tea,” he says, “unless you’d like something stronger.”

“What’ve you got?”

He remembers the last time he opened the refrigerator. Better not do that while John’s here. “No beer. A half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.”

He pours them each a couple fingers, and watches as John settles into his chair. Settles is the wrong word. He ought to look familiar and comfortable sitting there, across from Sherlock. But he looks uneasy, like a man who is doing something that embarrasses him. 

What would embarrass John Watson? He’s an honourable man. He feels honour-bound to forgive Sherlock, but he’s still angry. He’s ashamed of his grief, of his anger. Sherlock was brilliant, as always, fooling everyone into thinking he was dead. Making a fool of John.

Sherlock has apologised. He did that as soon as he realised that John wasn’t just shocked, he was angry. Tricking John into forgiving him was more than a bit not good— but he knew that there had to be some way to get them beyond what neither of them could say. Talking wasn’t something they did; in their case it was useless. They just needed to get to the part where they were chasing criminals again. Back to before.

John refills his glass. Neither of them has thought of anything to say. He can see John’s eyes losing focus. 

“How are things—“ He breaks off, realising they’ve already covered non-specific pleasantries. “The wedding, I mean. The—“ he waves a hand vaguely, “the plans. I suppose there’s a lot to… erm… plan.”

“Mary’s got it all under control. I’m not sure why it takes nearly a year to plan something that’s twenty minutes of church, and then dinner.” John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He truly has the most expressive face, but he’s guarded now, uncertain. Troubled. 

“Well, if there’s anything I can do,” Sherlock begins. Again, he waves a hand vaguely.

“You?” John is smiling, but it’s an incredulous smile. “Plan a wedding?”

“I have a very organised mind.”

“And no tolerance for tedium,” John adds. 

“I’ll just… well, let me know if you need to escape. I’ll come up with a case.”

They lapse into silence again, and Sherlock imagines that it’s a slightly more comfortable silence. Not quite like 2010, but fine, in a different way from before. He remembers the silent breakfasts, both of them too sleepy after a late night to say much. Tea, toast, and John half-awake, his hair rumpled…

It’s too bad that a person can’t know in the moment when their lives are perfect.  That’s the tragedy of time, how perspective changes and we don’t realise we’re happy until we’re not. 

The two years he was gone barely seemed like two months. There were nights when he dreamed of Baker Street, wished for John’s company. On the whole, though, he was too busy surviving to think about how long it’d been. Not until he saw John’s picture, the horrible moustache, did it begin to sink in how long it had been. In the mind of John Watson, it must have seemed an eternity.

“I should go.” John stands and walks into the kitchen. Sherlock hears him rinse his glass and place it back in the cupboard. The bottle is empty, and Sherlock still hasn’t finished his first glass.

John stands at the door, looking at him for a moment, then nods and heads out. His feet are slightly unsteady on the stairs, Sherlock thinks. The front door shuts, and he’s alone.

In his mind, he’s opening a new file: The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom. As always, his mind is already turning over solutions.

---

Maybe this one needs a sequel?

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @ninasnakie

[football-and-fanfics]

An Alphabet of Prompts

Since it is my birthday this Saturday (another year older, yeah... 🤪), here is my present to you: An Alphabet of Prompts! It's just what the title says: an alphabet of prompts! There's a one-word prompt for each letter of the alphabet. You can find the link to the prompts list (including a list with who I write for) and the form to request at the bottom of this post.

Note upfront: Since I like writing for many different players and to keep things diverse, I will only be accepting two requests from this prompts list per player. This will be on first come, first serve basis. Once the two requests have been reached, the player will be removed from the list.

Each prompt will only be written once. This is also on a first come first serve basis.

Happy requesting! 😇😇😇

GO TO THE PROMPTS AND REQUEST

[cranberrymoons]

lovers that bless the dark

prompt: fall (@steddieholidaydrabbles) rating: t word count: 734 tags: meet-cute, love at first sight, fluff, and one very cute dog 🍂🥰 title from "autumn in new york" by billie holiday because i am cliché

It happens on a Saturday afternoon in the park, when the air is crisp and the sun is golden and the leaves are swirling on the path underfoot. There’s a saxophone playing in the background and there are kids running through the field to their left, and in front of the fountain, Steve Harrington is meeting the love of his life.

It happens all at once, without anything to tell him it’s happening. Just – a dog breaking free from a leash and a frazzled owner chasing after it and paws crashing into his chest and nearly knocking him back into the cold water from where he sits perched on the stone ledge.

He catches himself with a hand braced on the dog’s back, fingers pushing into shaggy black fur, and he looks up when he hears a shout.

“Sorry!” the man is yelling as he hurries over. He looks exactly like his dog: long dark hair, big brown eyes, slightly flustered and very uncoordinated. “Shit, sorry, he doesn’t normally do that.”

“What, tackle people?” Steve asks, because – honestly.

“Yeah,” the guy says. He laughs, a little awkward, a little apologetic. He reclips the dog’s leash and tugs him out of Steve’s lap. “Or – you know, run away in general.”

Steve looks up from where he’s brushing loose hair and pieces of dried leaves off his jeans. 

“This is Ban,” the man says belatedly, nodding at the dog. “He’s also very sorry.”

Steve frowns a little as he reaches down to scratch the top of the dog’s head, and the dog lurches forward eagerly, nose pressing into his knee.

“Hi, Van. You’re forgiven.”

“With a B,” the man says. “Ban. It’s short for Bananarama.”

“You –” Steve laughs, squinting up at the man through the flare of afternoon sunlight. “You named your dog Bananarama? Do you have a cat named George Michael?”

“John Mellencamp, actually,” he says. “I call him Mel.”

And Steve can’t actually tell if the guy’s joking or not, but he’s smiling, big and wide and endearing, and Steve feels something take flight in his chest, warm and soft and comforting as a mug of hot cider. 

(This is the falling in love at first sight part, and looking back on it, he’ll know; in the moment, he knows nothing other than wanting to be closer and closer and closer to that feeling.)

“I’m Steve,” he says, and then he dips his head down to pretend he was directing it at the dog. “It’s nice to meet you, Bananarama.”

The man makes a small noise of mock outrage and tugs on Ban’s leash. “I can’t believe you just full-named my dog.”

“Well, he is technically in trouble,” Steve says. He scratches Ban under the chin. “For the jumping and the running away and the almost knocking me into dirty fountain water.”

He watches the guy’s face twitch, eyebrows skating up toward his hairline as he lets out a little laugh, which Steve returns. He realizes belatedly that he’s been smiling through this entire interaction, enough that his face hurts with it a little, and he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. 

“The fountain is clean, actually,” the man says. “We just did a community clean-up day last weekend, so.”

“Oh, well in that case,” Steve says. He tucks the book he’d been reading back into his bag. “I guess I have nothing to complain about. Who wouldn’t want to be knocked into a clean fountain when it’s fifty degrees out.”

“Exactly,” the man says. Then, as if he’s only just remembered – “I’m Eddie. By the way.”

(And this moment, the one where he reaches down to help Steve up, and Steve’s hand slides into his for the first time: this will enter their relationship lore, along with the dog and the book and the fountain and the park itself. It will become one of those things they tell their kids fifteen years from now – he grabbed my hand, and I just knew, just like that . And he does know, sort of: he knows that Eddie’s fingers are calloused, and that makes him curious; he knows that his skin is warm, and that makes him linger; he knows that they fit together, and that makes him want to hold on.)

“Hi, Eddie.” He smiles, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. “Want to buy me a coffee?”

[also on ao3]

[visit-new-york]

Has the Brooklyn Bridge ever undergone significant renovations?

The Brooklyn Bridge, an iconic symbol of New York City, stands as a testament to engineering brilliance and architectural marvel. Since its completion in 1883, the bridge has played a crucial role in connecting the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, witnessing the evolution of the cityscape over the decades. In its long and storied history, the Brooklyn Bridge has indeed undergone significant renovations to ensure its structural integrity and adapt to the changing needs of a bustling metropolis.

Initial Construction:

Designed by renowned engineer John A. Roebling and completed by his son Washington Roebling, the Brooklyn Bridge was a groundbreaking feat of engineering in its time. However, even with its sturdy construction, the bridge needed to adapt to the increasing demands of a rapidly growing city.

Early Renovations:

In the early 20th century, several renovations were undertaken to enhance the bridge's stability and accommodate the ever-increasing vehicular and pedestrian traffic. The original wooden walkway was replaced with a more durable concrete surface, and the bridge's cables and support structures were reinforced to meet modern safety standards.

Mid-20th Century Upgrades:

As the mid-20th century dawned, the Brooklyn Bridge faced another wave of renovations. The emergence of automobiles as a dominant mode of transportation prompted the need for wider lanes and reinforced roadways. The bridge's signature Gothic towers underwent meticulous restoration to preserve their historic charm while ensuring they could withstand the test of time.

1980s Rehabilitation:

In the 1980s, the Brooklyn Bridge underwent a comprehensive rehabilitation project to address the effects of wear and tear from decades of heavy use and exposure to the elements. The project included the replacement of deteriorating stones, repainting of the bridge's steel components, and the installation of modern lighting to enhance visibility and safety.

Post-9/11 Precautions:

In the aftermath of the tragic events of September 11, 2001, the Brooklyn Bridge, like many other landmarks, became a focus of heightened security measures. The city implemented additional safety features, including surveillance systems and increased police presence, to safeguard this critical piece of infrastructure.

Contemporary Maintenance:

Even in the 21st century, ongoing maintenance is crucial to preserving the Brooklyn Bridge for future generations. Regular inspections, repairs, and technological upgrades ensure that the bridge continues to serve as a vital transportation link while retaining its iconic status.

Conclusion:

The Brooklyn Bridge stands not only as a physical link between boroughs but also as a symbol of resilience and adaptability. Over the years, the bridge has undergone significant renovations to keep pace with the evolving needs of a dynamic city. From its initial construction in the 19th century to the comprehensive rehabilitation efforts of the 1980s and the ongoing maintenance in the present day, the Brooklyn Bridge remains a testament to the commitment of New Yorkers to preserve their heritage and ensure the safety of this architectural masterpiece.

[weeesi]

Fire - May Prompts (21)

“Sherlock?” 

He’s disappeared into an undulating sea of ribbon-wrapped sugar.

John finds him stowed away in the gents, holding a smouldering newspaper like a naughty schoolboy.

“What are you doing?” John hisses as he adjusts Rosie in her carrier. She gums at the toy duck she’d wailed over for the better part of an hour and hiccups, oblivious.

“I believe the preferred nomenclature is creating a diversion.” Sherlock holds the paper to the alarm above his head without needing to stretch. Tall git.

“By burning down Fortnum & Mason, apparently. You do know it’s Christmas Eve. They’ll haul you to the Yard for this.”

“I’ve had worse haulings on Christmas Eves. Give me a better one later?”

“Might do.” They kiss. It’s not even the weirdest location so far.

Sherlock pulls back. “We must escape unnoticed, John. Our lives depend on it.”

Someone’s been following them. A solid stone tumbles into John’s gut. 

“What, seriously?”

“Seriously.” 

John pulls out his phone to text Lestrade. “That dealer?”

“Worse. Far worse. The most horrifying sight I can imagine.”

“Oh god.” John tightens his grip on Rosie.

And there goes the alarm.

“Mycroft and my parents are currently on the third floor—” Sherlock tosses the paper in the basin before he pushes at the door, “—selecting our Christmas hamper.” He opens up his lungs. “FIRE!”

+

In case you're not familiar, Christmas hampers from F&M are, like, a thing. A very nice thing, actually, but Sherlock will not suffer being asked his preferences on jam.

Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompts-all-the-Time; just a wee silly interlude today]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) 14: eavesdropping (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

Greg Lestrade has tried only three times, in the several aggravating years of their acquaintance, to surprise his friend Sherlock Holmes. It has yet to work, even when Sherlock was off his tit. The bastard.

But Greg has a new plan. Time has passed; he'd like to think he's learned a thing or two. And he has a new ally: Rosie Watson. 

Sure, she's too small to be a super spy--yet--but she is a very excellent excuse to come round the flat. 

She's undoubtedly getting spoiled, this one, as if everyone involved is trying to miraculously compensate for a lost mum, even though they know it's futile. 

But also? Kids are fun when they're little. And Greg has no issue admitting he misses those days. Especially when he can hand the kid back when the nappy needs changing. It's brilliant.

And it's nearly John's birthday, so he figures he can kill two birds with one stone. Surprising Sherlock is just a bonus, a personal challenge he lays out for himself every once in a while. To keep his mind sharp. Like sudoku, but one where the sudoku insults you afterwards.

Today, he's prepared: He's bribed Mrs Hudson with some (completely legal, thanks) CBD sweeties. He's noted which stairs squeak. He's planned it for a time he reckons Rosie will be home and awake. He knows Sherlock isn't on any case for the Yard.

Yes, there's a chance John will be at his day job, or Sherlock will be on a private case, but those are chances he just has to take.

He holds the carefully wrapped package under his arm and starts up the stairs. He can hear music, immediately recognisable as Frozen II, but not much else.

One he gets to the landing, he considers the two doors in front of him. He listens again, harder, and thinks he can hear Sherlock and John conversing under the soundtrack, and thinks they're in the sitting room.

So he just goes for it. Opens the kitchen door slow as treacle, then peeks round.

He blinks, then pulls back. Has he just seen-- 

He peeks around again.

Yep. Yep, he has definitely seen Sherlock and John standing in front of the fireplace, in between their well-loved chairs, and kissing like the world is theirs to command: That feeling of a new relationship, which is a bit of luck considering how long those two blokes have known each other, but…

He rubs his eyes, then goes back for one more look.

Same picture, only this time-- Sherlock, eyes closed and expression intense as he holds John's face in one hand and explores his mouth without shame, uses the other hand to make two fingers in Greg's direction behind John's back.

Greg almost laughs out loud. Instead, he leaves the gift on the landing and heads back out. There's only so much a man wants to know about his mates.

He grins to himself. New new plan: Never try to surprise Sherlock Holmes again.

[ <3 ]