#not flash fic friday

[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.”

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[blooms-in-april]

"Here."

Jaskier looks up from his lute to see Eskel holding the reins of a horse so beautiful it looks like a pearlescent moon.

"She's for you." Eskel says.

Jaskier moves as if in a dream, taking the reins of the albino mare. Eskel continues, the words flowing.

"She was a steal, blemished. Someone cut her deep in the head and sides. But I thought you'd find that romantic, you know. Make a wounded unicorn out of her marks. And you need a horse and you like pretty things. It made sense to me."

The chords of his throat knot, cut short. Jaskier draws his fingers through the white mare's mane, lute callouses catching on hair white as snow. He picks at a stuck burr and his heart clenches with the familiarity of the movement .

"Why couldn't it have been you?" He says.

Eskel stops abruptly. There is something wild and despairing in the bards voice, a reclamation of destiny.

"Why couldn't it have been you I met in Posada all those years ago?" Jaskier says. "Where were you twenty years ago? Where were you ten? Where were you when I was young and green and full of music?Of course I meet you now,"

He laughs, and there is no melody in it.

"Of course I meet you now, when I am full and sick of loving. You would have been- kind, when you finally sent me away. You would have killed it quickly, killed the dream quiet and fast, in my sleep, like a horse with a broken leg too weak to stand."

[umgeorge]

george russell in the paddock ahead of fp2, singapore - september 21, 2024

[umlewis]

lewis hamilton on itv's pre-race show, china - october 7, 2007

[drewtanakaweek]

Riordanverse Flash Fic Fridays 2025!

Welcome back to your favorite fandom flash fiction event! Any kind of short fic can be a flash fic, whether it is three words or 1k! This event is to just encourage putting pen to paper, so anyone who writes for any character/ship within the riordanverse is welcome to join!

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There will be 2 Sessions, a Winter and Summer One

The Winter Session will be 6 weeks, the Summer Session will be 4

Each day will have 4 prompts and the fifth is free choice

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Prompts go up at 12 PM EST the Thursday Before

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[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Warnings: mentionings of torture, injury.

Don’t Tell Him

The pain is greater and more agonising than all the beating he got in that filthy cell in Serbia, because this pain isn’t just physical. Sherlock knows that if he answered John’s insistent questions about who the shooter was, it would break John’s heart, despite what Mycroft says.

“Tell him, brother mine,” Mycroft urges. “John is far more resilient than you give him credit for, and his feelings for you…”

“Don’t!” Sherlock snaps. “The love of his life shot me in the heart. I refuse to add that burden to his confused mind.”

“I agree that he is confused, but not for the reasons you think, Sherlock,” Mycroft says cryptically.

Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He’s not only in constant pain, but he’s also exhausted with all the emotions that this whole business regarding Mary Watson throws his way. It’s so much harder to stay focused and aloof when the painkillers leave his brain all foggy and relaxed. His pining for John comes to the surface, tugging at his heart.

“Go home to Mary,” Sherlock urged John before Mycroft arrived. “She needs you more…”

“I’m staying,” John interrupted in his stubborn tone. “Just fetching some clothes and stuff before I’m going with you to Baker Street tomorrow. Non-negotiable!”

He had lifted his chin in defiance, daring Sherlock to protest. His last words are a puzzle Sherlock still hadn’t been able to deduce.

“You need me, and I need…to…”

***

John has gone to Aldi to buy milk, bread and eggs, wile Mycroft stays to keep an eye on his brother, with strict instructions from the good doctor to call if anything changes regarding Sherlock’s pulse, heartrate, temperature, and several other unnecessary trifles. (Sherlock’s words)

“John, for Christ’s sake, go!” Sherlock says exasperated. “I’m fine.”

John looks sceptically at him, grabs his wrist and takes Sherlock’s pulse. When he’s satisfied, he hurries out of the bedroom and descends to the front door, probably running all the way to the shops to reduce his absence to a minimum.

“Are you still convinced that he only has friendly feelings for you?” Mycroft asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Don’t tell him, Mycroft! He can’t know. If he’s ever to realise how much…I…I wish she had finished…”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft rarely raises his voice but when he does, it speaks volumes.

“I would not survive your demise, brother mine. She can count herself lucky that she didn’t kill you. Even John’s plea for her life would’ve been in vain, her pregnancy notwithstanding.”

Mycroft’s voice trembles with emotions, which is odd to witness.

***

Sherlock has no sense of time anymore, but he thinks it’s been days since his conversation with Mycroft. Something is being delivered, and John’s steps are heavier than usual when he ascends the stairs.

Carrying something. Not groceries. Two bags. One over each shoulder.

When John brings his meds later, Sherlock observes that something is different. John’s face is displaying a variety of conflicting emotions. There’s determination and insecurity, sorrow and relief, anger and hope. The last deduction does something to Sherlock’s shattered heart.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks calmly, although he’s terrified of the answer.

John’s voice sounds mechanical, as if he’s rehearsed what he’s about to tell Sherlock.

“Mary left a note. She’s gone. The baby isn’t mine. Her name isn’t hers. She’s apparently an assassin. Worked for Moriarty. She shot you. You knew, and you wanted to shield me. I want you to stop doing that.”

He sheds his clothes down to his pants and tee and climbs carefully into bed. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

Is this real, or a hallucination?

“It’s real, Sherlock,” John tells him, as if he’s the one who’s become a mind-reader.

He lies down beside Sherlock, letting his palm rest over the wound, over his heart. The heart that beats solely for John.

Does he know? If so, how?

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sherlock. What I saw traces of before this, became clear as day when your brain function was compromised by painkillers. Am I wrong?”

Don’t hide. Tell him.

“No, John. You’re not,” Sherlock says and places his hand over John’s.

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[polizwrites]

Redirected Aim

This is a fill for today’s  @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt [#FFF288 Loud Lie, Quiet Truth] as well as the @yearoftheotpevent  January prompt  Stockholm Syndrome. 

Fandom: MCU/Marvel Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Tony Stark Rating: Teen Tags: Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes. Recovering Bucky Barnes, Young Tony Stark, Kidnapping,  Stockholm Syndrome Summary:  The Soldier’s mission had been to retrieve the serum Howard Stark had reformulated, leaving no witnesses.  He chose a different target Word Count: 687

“You know Stockholm Syndrome isn’t really a thing,”  the young man declared, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the man standing in the shadows off to his left.   “I’m not going to fall in love with you because you kidnapped me.” 

“That wasn’t  my intent,” he replied gruffly.  His handlers had made the mistake of giving their Asset  a too-thorough briefing.  The name Howard Stark and the phrase ‘super-soldier’ combined to trigger a cascade of memories.  He still didn’t really remember who he was, but he did know that Hydra was the enemy.  So the moment he was released to begin his mission, he disappeared instead.  

They had trained him well  in becoming a ghost and he could easily defend himself against anyone else his former captors would send after him. He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary; he’d spilled enough blood for several lifetimes. 

However, the Soldier - he had nothing else to call himself - was well aware he wasn’t Hydra’s only weapon. He also knew Howard Stark’s latest creation was of immense value; it was only a matter of time before someone else completed the mission he had abandoned.  But he  could at least try to mitigate the damage and make sure Howard’s legacy lived on in the form of his son.  

Tony Stark had the potential to surpass his father when it came to engineering and innovation, that had been clear from the briefing. However, whether he knew anything or not about the redeveloped serum was less clear, and in the Soldier’s mind, that made him a target.  

It had been surprisingly easy to snatch the young man from campus late the night before; he’d been drunk enough to not put up much of a struggle as the Soldier bundled him into the backseat of a stolen vehicle.  Now that he was conscious again, the abandoned factory was remote enough that his shouts for help would go unheard. 

The Soldier had retreated to a dim corner after binding his quarry loosely to a chair, mostly to keep him from injuring himself while semi-conscious.  The young man returned to his senses not too long after their arrival, and after a moment or two of apparent panic,  he took in his surroundings with an assessing gaze. 

After his brief outburst, Tony shifted around for a few moments - making the Soldier wonder if he had to take a piss.   But instead, his captive revealed that he’d managed to free  his hands. “You’re a lousy rigger,” Tony commented with a self-satisfied smirk, reaching for the knots that bound the rest of him to the chair.  “But for future reference, my safeword is Asimov.”     

“I don’t know what that means,” the Soldier replied, finding his companion’s bravado - as well as his whiskey brown eyes and slim build - more attractive than he ought to.  “Believe it or not, I brought you here to keep you safe.” 

Tony gave him a skeptical look. “And why wasn’t I safe before, pray tell?” 

The Soldier paused, considering how much of the truth to tell.  “Because of your father. Howard Stark has reformulated the super soldier serum.”

“What?” The honest shock on his companion’s face led the Soldier to believe Tony didn’t know what his father had been up to. “But how does that put me in danger?” 

“Because my … employers …,” the Soldier spoke carefully,  “instructed me to secure the serum by any means necessary.” 

“So now you’re going to try to trade me for it?” Tony snorted in derision, even as a  glimmer of fear flickered in those dark eyes.  “Good luck. Howard doesn’t negotiate.” 

“We’ll see.”  He wasn’t ready to explain to the young man that his father - and most likely his mother as well - were already as good as dead.  

“Would you at least step out into the light, so I can see your face?”  

The Soldier did as Tony asked, seeing no harm in the request. 

Tony looked him up and down, staring at his face with a mildly puzzled look.  “Huh - has anyone ever told you that you look like Bucky Barnes - Captain America’s sidekick?” 

[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.

[starkraivennemad]

Facing the Storm

Mycroft looked at his phone as it buzzed with a number not heard from in nearly two years.

“Hello Inspector, I…”

"Fuck you and that inspector shit!!! I'll be home in thirty. Get over there now, you bastard!" Greg spat, then immediately rang out.

Mycroft stared at his phone and knew there was only ONE reason for the call now.

The day he has looked forward to -and anxiously dreaded was now upon him.

He sighed as he looked out of the sedan window at the dark stormy night of London on his way home. He could barely see out the windscreen, its wipers barely able to hold the tide against the torrential rain that lashed violently against the windows.

"Change of plans, Edgar." Mycroft gave his driver an address on the opposite side of London. "Inspector Lestrade's flat."

"Sir?"

"He's met with my resurrected brother."

“Ah...” Edgar made the U-turn.

This was a different storm for Mycroft to face.

----    ----

Mycroft recalled Gregory's flat faced the front of the building and realized his approach had been noted and was not surprised to find Gregory’s door slightly ajar when he reached it. He was surprised to open it and find a towel that waited on at the table by the door, but not the owner of the flat.

Gregory stood by the wide windows, his back to Mycroft as he watched the raging storm outside.

Mycroft entered, placed his umbrella in the stand and hung his coat next Gregory's on the rack before he faced the room.

In moments of weakness, Mycroft has watched Gregory via cameras. But he had not seen the man in person in nearly two years.

And Gregory… looked good.

The stress of clearing his name at work, and life in general, has made his hair more silver, but he remained a rugged, casually gorgeous man.

There were many things Mycroft Holmes wanted to say to Gregory Lestrade. What came out of his mouth instead was not it.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Gregory flinched; his reflected face glared at Mycroft in disbelief. Mycroft could not blame him; he was appalled with himself at the inappropriate jest. Mycroft suspected the D.I. was purposely keeping his distance, lest he give into the temptation to lay hands on him -and not in a good way.

“Your brother made the same bad joke. He told you he’s seen me…” It was an accusation.

“No, he has not. I know you have by… your level of anger.”

“My level of…” Gregory practically snarled as he spun from the window. “You lied to me, Mycroft. For two fucking years.”

“I never lied to you, Gregory. I couldn’t…”

Gregory started for his kitchen.  "It's shit out there, have a seat. The water's hot and I have the Darjeeling you like."

“I… I think this conversation requires something… stronger.”

Gregory paused, then came back with two glasses and a gift-wrapped box. He threw the paper at Mycroft as he revealed a very expensive bottle of scotch. Scotch that had come up in a conversation during dinner some time ago. Without looking Mycroft knew it was supposed to be a Christmas present from Gregory to  him. Christmas from the previous year as the crumpled-up paper and gift tag in his hands confirmed with a gut punch.

"Thank you.” Mycroft accepted the glass. “Before you speak Gregory, or give to the ardent desire to punch me, will you please hear me out?"

Greg threw him a look, that barely hid the smirk of veracity to the threat. "Whatever."

Mycroft took a fortifying sip of his scotch; not tasting it in his nervousness, as he took a deep breath and began.

“My brother and I. Our relationship… is complicated as you well know. We obfuscate, and omit truths at times, but we never lie when it is of importance and we never break a vow with each other. I told you my brother did what he did to save John, Mrs. Hudson, and you." 

Greg made an impatient get on with it gesture...

"Sherlock made me vow, not promise vow, I would tell no one he was alive – no exceptions.” Mycroft looked at Greg, then lowered his head at the coldness found there. “On St. Bart’s roof, Sherlock found a loophole in Moriarty’s reasoning. One in which Moriarty committed suicide to close it shut… And thus, Sherlock…jumped.”

There was no time to arrange visual, but Sherlock had been wired, so Mycroft had heard everything between Sherlock and Moriarty. Still, Mycroft shuddered in the memory of those harrowing seconds after the gunshot, when he had no idea whether one or both on the roof were dead. Mycroft’s overwhelmingly relief in receiving Sherlock’s text LAZARUS was immediately overshadowed in the enormity of then carrying out LAZARUS IS GO.

Even now nearly two years later, Mycroft shuddered in the memory.

“Gregory, I made that vow in the planning stages never believing it would be needed.” Mycroft forced himself to continue. “I made that vow before I realized keeping that vow meant I had to lie to the man I was then only realizing I had fallen in love with.” Mycroft looked up and held Gregory’s eyes. He watched as Gregory took the words and processed them; saw the moment the impact of them registered and continued, “Yes, I said he jumped, but I never said that he died. No exceptions, unfortunately included you, Gregory. I could not bear to ask him to let me tell the man I loved whom I could see whenever I wanted, when he risked everything for John and could not.” Mycroft drained his glass and put it down. “And I absolutely could not continue to face you with that hanging over my head. I could not. So, I… I kept my vow… And withdrew from you.”

“I know.” Gregory said quietly after a moment.

“You know?”

“Well, I do now…” Gregory admitted. “Sherlock snuck his resurrection on me in NSY carpark. Once I got over the shock, he told me the much the same as you about your vow. And…” Gregory ran rough hand through his hair, setting it awry. “…He begged me to forgive you - but still did not really know why I should… until now.”

Mycroft understood it meant Sherlock had not broken his vow to Mycroft to not tell Gregory of his love.

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable as both men watched the storm outside until Mycroft’s phone buzzed.

Text>> I tried to explain, but he was livid upon realizing you’ve known all this time. I did not realize it was reciprocal until I saw his face. It is the same fury and hurt I saw with John. If you see him, know that I did not tell what is yours to say to him. – SH Text>> In retrospect, I see now I have broken four hearts with this vow I forced upon you. I do not know if John can ever forgive me in this – or if Greg will with you. – SH Text>> I am sorry. – SH

Mycroft sighed and showed Gregory the texts.

“John will forgive him… eventually...”  Gregory stood, poured himself a fresh drink and walked away to stare out the window again.

Mycroft understood the silent dismissal for what it was. He went to the door and took his things before he opened it.

“Is my brother right, Gregory?”

“Yes, it is reciprocated. And yes, I am furious and hurt…” Gregory answered after a moment.

Mycroft stepped out and with his back to Greg and his hand on the door, he forced himself to ask one last question. “And will you forgive me?”

“Eventually…but not tonight.”

Mycroft left. Outside, he looked at the continuing deluge, undecided on which storm was worse.

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

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[kayedium-writes]

Homegrown

MCU | No Warnings | Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanov | 614 Words

Read here on AO3!

( Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: midnight distractions )

It was just past midnight as Natasha leaned back on her hands, her palms meeting the cool metal of the truck bed. Her legs swung aimlessly as the crickets chirped in the grass below. 

“So, this is where you grew up?” Steve asked, the gravel beneath his boots crunching as he brought her a drink from the cooler.

“More or less,” she said. There were a lot of places Natasha could categorize as ‘where she grew up’ but Ohio was the only one that conjured up a positive memory. She gestured with the plastic bottle toward the road in front of them. “Technically, I grew up on the other side of that tree line.”

Steve joined her on the tailgate, draping his flannel shirt around her shoulders. Late summer in the Midwest meant packing for blazing afternoons and brisk nights, but catching a flat tire on the way back to the rebuilt compound from Clint’s meant they hadn’t exactly prepared for that. Too bad neither of them had thought to check for a spare, either. 

Really, if she hadn’t suggested they make the detour, she’s pretty sure they’d be closing in on Buffalo by now but Steve’s curiosity got the best of them both and that left them waiting on a tow. 

“It’s definitely different than where I'm from.”

Natasha glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. “Because it’s not Brooklyn? Or because it’s not 1925?”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Well... Both.”

“Sorry we aren’t all fossilized New Yorkers,” she said, giving him a playful nudge with her shoulder. 

“Y’know, the world would be pretty boring then.” He flashed her a smile. “Seems like a nice place, though. Peaceful. Laid back. No one getting rundown on the sidewalk. No taxi drivers screaming at ya’.”

“You’d have to actually have a sidewalk to get rundown on one.” She took another sip of the Coke before passing the bottle back to him. “But it was. All of those things. I’d race the neighbor kids down the street on my bike. We had barbecues. Went to baseball games." She pointed to the few twinkling yellow lights bouncing over the overgrown switchgrass. “And Yelena and I used to just lay in the yard and try to count the forest stars—that’s what she called the fireflies—in the trees. There were always so many of them…”

She felt a pit in her stomach just thinking of her sister. Yelena was out there. Somewhere. Probably alone. And Natasha had no idea where that 'somewhere' was. That was the only thing on her mind since they’d brought everyone back after Thanos. After everything they went through to take down the Red Room, she hated feeling like she’d abandoned her again.

He wrapped his arm around her tighter, pulling her snug against him as he let his chin rest against her head. “We’re going to find her. I promise.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I’m counting on it.”

There was a certainty to Steve’s voice that made it so easy to believe him. And after all these years, she did. 

As she sat up to look up at him, the near-blinding yellow and white flashing lights of the tow truck came into view over the hill. Steve slid off the tailgate to his feet and waved a hand in the air to direct them to the field they managed to steer the truck into.

“Think they’re going to recognize us?” Steve asked over his shoulder.

Before Natasha could make a wager, they both heard the driver through the rolled down window choke out, “Holy shit! It’s Captain America!”

Natasha laughed as she joined Steve’s side again. “Something tells me they will.”

[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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[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~

[umgeorge]

"Holey Moley, this was a cute moment! 🥹" - april 11, 2025 📷 @.mercedesamgf1 / twitter

[umlewis]

lewis hamilton in the paddock ahead of fp2, singapore - september 21, 2024

[ravenlocksentwisted]

Steve has changed, Bucky thinks.

When the Winter Soldier was unthawed (over and over again), there were always expectations. By the time they put the man who had been Bucky Barnes into cryo for the first time, he did his best to meet them. Deviations were punished. The instructions weren't always clear, but they were convincing.

Now, that man is clapping his long lost friend on the back. He sends a backhanded complement at Sam, who gamely shows teeth and returns fire. It's a dance, falling into the expectations of the things they should be, and Natasha sends Bucky a look as the rogue Avengers depart on another jetsetting adventure.

Steve's demeanor is grim now. He's always quick with a retort, and he's contrary as ever, but something niggles at the back of Bucky's mind. Shuri showed him the high school PSAs, laughing at the hypocritical bullshit American schools were willing to feed their teenagers. Bucky agreed it was ridiculous, but mostly because he knew Steve.

Bucky Barnes had always been willing to play the role society assigned him. The Winter Soldier had been more of the same. But Bucky would never have thought his best friend would ever twist himself into something that other people wanted him to be.

Bucky wonders what the expectations were when Steve Rogers was unthawed.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Getting the Numbers Right

I glare at Billy. The empty eye sockets glare back. 

“You’re nothing like John,” I tell him.

Billy stays silent. He often does. Especially after John moved in and I didn’t need him for a sound board anymore.

“No one is like John,” I mutter.

“How long has he been gone? Is she the one who will hold his attention longer than two dates?"

Billy’s mocking tone puts my nerves on edge.

“If I text him now, about a case, he will abandon her without a second thought,” I inform the obnoxious skull.

If Billy was still able to roll his eyes, this would be the moment for it.

“To answer your first question, he’s been gone for one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

“Trust you to know to the second how long he’s been out.”

I roll my eyes because I can, and huff loudly.

“Getting the numbers right is just a way to keep my brain occupied while I’m talking to you. Now, to your second question. This one, Jeanette? Lisa? Sarah? is number six in as many months. John looked exactly the same as he does before every second date he’s been on since he moved in here. My analysis will prove that he’ll end it. Tonight, or by text tomorrow.”

“You seem awfully sure about this. What if this one is the exception.”

It turned out that Billy was right for once.

***

“Alright, I’m off. See you in a week,” John says and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to eat.”

“Why?” I mumble into the sofa cushion.

“Because I don’t want to come home to a corpse, you git,” John explains.

“Why bother coming home at all if you’re moving in with what’s-her-name anyway,” I protest.

A foreign sensation is starting in my throat. It thickens and something is burning behind my eyelids. 

“Sentiment!”

“Shut up, Billy!” I yell.

“Moving?” John asks incredulously. 

A thump startles me. John has dropped his bag to the floor, and his palm is warming my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asks, clearly worried.

“Nothing. You’ll miss your train,” I say and curl in on myself, trying to shake off John’s hand without succeeding.

“You’re trembling,” John states and places his other palm on my forehead to check for fever.

“Am not,” I say, but something is wrong with my voice.

It’s hoarse because of my swollen throat. My nose fills with moisture, overflows, and my philtrum is suddenly soaked with snot. Both cheeks are wet with shed tears, which I evidently have an endless amount of. 

“Sherlock? Talk to me,” John pleads. “There’s clearly something bothering you.”

To my utter dismay, the tears keep flowing and my chest has started to ache. A sob is impossible to stifle. It’s a sound I haven’t heard myself produce since I was a child.

Another sound catches my ears. John is tapping on his phone. The absence of his warm hands is unsettling. I feel…bereft. To my relief it doesn’t last long. His strong fingers rake through my hair, and his other hand stroke my upper arm.

“I really wish I didn’t have to go, Sherlock, but this conference is…shit…look. I’m postponing my departure a few hours, and I won’t stay the whole week, just the three days that are inevitable, alright. But I need you to talk to me. Tell me what all this is about. And I swear, if this is just shamming…”

“It’s not,” I croak. “I’ve come to realise…you…John…I can’t…I won’t cope when you move…”

“Shh, now. No one is moving. Didn’t you deduce that I broke it off with Jeanette last month? You must stop talking to Billy. He’s an idiot,” John murmurs.

Strong arms turn me, but I can’t bear to look at John when my face is covered in snot and tears. Instead, I bury it in the crook of his neck, and the familiar scent instantly soothes me. My body goes limp, and the tears stop falling.

***

It’s a totally different experience when John prepares his second departure. He holds my head in his hands, looks me square in the eyes and talks softly.

“Keep busy. Count the days, minutes, seconds until I’m back if you must. Perform safe experiments. Eat. Stay hydrated. Text me if you need to. I won’t always be able to answer right away, but whenever I can, I will. We can talk when I’m finished for the day. Video calls. I’ll want to see you to know that you’re okay.”

He pulls me down and kisses me so tenderly, I’m tempted to start crying again. I hold the back of his head carefully and puts all my love for him into the kiss.

“I love you. I’ll miss you. Come back to me,” I murmur into his hair when we break the kiss and we’re holding each other tight.

“I will, Sherlock. I’ll miss you too. I always miss you when I’m not with you. Love you too. Now, start counting,” you say. 

You stroke my cheek, then leave. I start counting the seconds, minutes and days until we’re reunited.

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