#not flash fic friday

[helloliriels]

Sherlock stared at the postcard ...

It was not every day you received a happy holidays from a stranger ... on a postcard ... from across the pond.

In fact ... he would argue the odds being on the scale of winning the lottery. But even the lottery ... you had to enter.

No.

This was different.

This was interesting.

.

It was definitely his address:

221B Baker Street,

Marylebone, London, NW1 6XE

He wondered about the man who'd sent it? And why?

The impression given ...

. Was that all was not alright ...

At the very least the man was lonely.

.

At the worst ...

.

Sherlock wondered. Not allowing his mind to go there. He had been too near it himself ...

One doesn't send letters to random strangers during the holidays ... unless one is desperate for connection. A reason to live.

He hoped this had worked?

He turned the postcard back over. Re-reading it.

Curvy handwriting. Large text. Someone who enjoyed writing ... someone who saw the romantic ... even in the mundane.

The postcard itself was proof of that.

Informal ... as if fighting the conventions that had been forced upon them. Prior military, perhaps?

.

That jovial greeting, 'hey'.

A man used to camaraderie. Used to friends ...

So why was he lonely?

.

Not old. Not Young. Middle aged.

Old enough to have borne too many memories ... and buried too many friends ...?

.

MW? JHW? ... he couldn't quite make it out ...

But he could reciprocate in kind.

.

Sherlock picked up a pen ... and decided to write back as if they'd known each other for ages. Knowing ... it was highly unlikely, impossible, really ... that the man would still be there ... upon it's arrival.

.

Hey,

Not often the post surprises me. The distraction could not have been more perfectly timed. Hate the boredom that inevitably follows a good case.

Did I tell you about that last one? Wish you were here to write it up, properly.

Oh - I do hope you'll accept a belated Happy Holidays? And forgive me, I didn't know where to send it sooner.

Please tell me you are well. And if you want to talk about Boston, or the beating heart of London. I am all ears (metaphorically).

You know where to find me.

Sincerely,

- Sherlock Holmes

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Just some

[tom-whore-dleston]

Bed Chem

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f. reader

Word Count: 541

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

Summary: Being fwb with Bucky has amazing benefits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

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

[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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[helloliriels]

There had never been anyone before.

None who stayed.

Sherlock's mind was racing, despite his best intentions to keep it together today. The wedding.

John's suit fit like a glove. Tailored to perfection. Sherlock had made certain of that.

The corsage was of a green carnation, and a soft pink rose bud.

Soft. Suble. Unobtrusive,

And spoke volumes.

Sherlock felt the tears coming to his eyes, and told himself to breathe. Just breathe ... still he could feel his courage slipping, as he began to hyperventilate ...

Then he felt the firm hand Mycroft placed on his shoulder like a steadying rock.

He could get through this.

Eyes closed ... he thought of the relationships of his past ... "friends" who had one by one moved on to calling him "freak"

And wondered ... would John have stayed?

"Brother dear ... open your eyes ..."

Mycroft's voice invited him softly, breaking his fearful torrent of thoughts, "... your husband is waiting?"

Sherlock took a deep breath,

Opened his eyes

And saw him ...

John Watson.

Here. Ready. Willing. Having accepted Sherlock's proposal upon his return from the dead. It was reality? He wasn't dreaming?

Sherlock had lied to John. Hurt him. Cut him more deeply than any man should ever wound a friend, let alone ... a lover ... and still John said 'Yes' ...?

As Sherlock held out his hand, and John took it ... he knew.

Yes. He would have stayed.

He did stay.

And now Sherlock would to. Until death parted them. And only then.

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband ... to have ... and to hold..." John squeezed his hand and smiled up at him, reassuring and oh, so real ... "... til death do you part?" The minister asked.

Sherlock felt something unfurl in his heart. Something that felt like hope. The hope now reflected in John Watson's deep blue eyes ...

"You know I do, John," he whispered to his soon-to-be-husband. The thought made him shiver with anticipation ...

The minister carried on ... "... and do you John Hamish Watson, take this ..."

"Handsome? Brilliant? Oh, so charming man ...?" John was whispering over the ministers scripted words to Sherlock's wonder. Neither could take their eyes off each other.

At last they felt the minister pause with his question aired?

"Oh God, yes," John nearly giggled replying. His would-be-husband blushing in response.

"You may now kiss-"

They crashed together. Their kiss was all but chaste, and only broken by Mycroft’s tap to Sherlock's foot, and a gruff clearing of his throat.

Sherlock stole the ministers next role, proudly puffing his chest as he announced loudly to the small assembly:

"I am both astonished and humbled to have the pleasure of introducing you to ... Mr. John Hamish Holmes," Sherlock paused, holding the weight of those words, "and the luckiest man on earth-"

"- and also the cleverest" John interjected. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, "Mr. Sherlock William Scott Watson."

At that John laughed heartily, the crowd cheered; Mrs. Hudson cried.

Sherlock snuck another kiss near John's ear, whispering "you know you do that out loud?"

"You could always stop me like this?" John teased, pulling Sherlock down for another good snog.

Lestrade shouted impishly at their antics, "Oi! Get a room you two!!"

"Already booked!" Sherlock countered ... as John took his hand and raced down the aisle with him.

The start of a new adventure.

FFF#249 Open Your Eyes | Sherlock Fandom

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[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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[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.

[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.

[innitmarvellous]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

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

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

~~~

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

Oh, if only.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

[btheleaf]

Fandom: Legend of Korra Characters: Pema & Lin Beifong Words: 726 Rating: General Audiences Read it on AO3 @flashfictionfridayofficial

“This was all Kya’s idea, you know.”

Pema turned her tired eyes on Lin who was just coming over to sit next to her. “What was?”

“This.” Lin gestured a lit cigarette at the group playing their game and then up at the sky. “On the full moon.”

Pema looked at the moon and then back at Jinora, Tenzin, Bumi, and Kya who were still playing the game they invented earlier in the night and flinched as another ice ball exploded.

“Waterbenders like full moons.” Pema was so tired that she wasn’t sure if she understood what Lin was saying, but hoped that was a decent response.

Lin’s lips pressed together in what could have been a smile, but Pema really wasn’t sure about that either. She watched the ember at the end of the cigarette glow and fade before Lin tossed it down on the stones to stomp it out.

“Come on, Pema.” Lin finally exhaled the smoke. “You’ve been married to him for over a decade, you never noticed how he gets around the full moon?”

Pema shrugged. “I guess he gets a little wired.”

She looked back out at the courtyard and flinched again as yet another ice ball exploded. Bumi started yelling that Tenzin was cheating, and Kya told Bumi he was bitter because he’s old and, well, bitter and old. The healer punctuated the sentiment by sticking her tongue out at him. Pema wondered if she should sneak down and snag the wine bottles while Kya and Bumi weren’t looking.

“None of them really sleep when there’s a full moon. They get it from their water tribe genes. I’m surprised you don’t know.”

 “I’m not exactly in the business of staying awake all night. I do have four young children.”

“Three.”

Pema bristled. “She might have her tattoos but she’s still only eleven years old and you better remember that.”

“Touchy subject?” Lin put her hands up in a gesture of surrender when Pema didn’t dial down the glare. “I’ll back off.”

The two of them turned their attention back out to watch the group in silence. Kya sat in a chair and would pull water from the nearby spigot to form it into a hollow ball of ice. Pema didn’t know exactly what they were doing, but it looked like Tenzin, Jinora, and Bumi were fighting for control of the ball with their airbending while Kya zoomed it around in random patterns.

After watching for a while, Pema decided there must be a small hole in the ball somewhere that each of them was trying to get at. She curled her legs up to her chest and wished the four of them would go to bed. Tenzin, Kya, and Bumi were still injured from the Red Lotus attack, and Jinora’s skin must be hurting after the days-long tattooing sessions with Tenzin. She bit her lip in worry and flinched again as another ball exploded.

Jinora’s arm jutted out a couple seconds before the ball shattered like broken glass and she exclaimed with glee, jumping around while the others praised her. Bumi and Kya’s praise wasn’t quite so eloquent after all the alcohol, but they were trying to reel in the swear words, especially with Tenzin's pinpoint flicks of air to the forehead that he kept using as reminders.

“Looks like Jinora got the gene too,” Lin said casually.

“The gene that makes them stay awake during full moons?” The words came out flat because she was so tired, but truthfully, Pema thought Lin was being ridiculous.

“Mhm.”

“Everyone is still excited from the ceremony, that’s all.”

“Kya convinced Tenzin to have the ceremony today because she wanted to party all night." Lin pulled out another cigarette. "You’ll see as she gets older. The other kids are probably like that too.”

“Great.” Pema yawned.

Lin shrugged and lit her cigarette. “You get used to it.”

 “I’m going to go take the wine away. Pray to a powerful spirit for me.” 

Pema uncurled from her seat and walked down the hill towards the group. Lin chuckled and laid out on the grass; her eyes locked on a twinkling star. 

“Give her strength, Uncle Aang.” Disgruntled protests from Kya floated up the hill not a moment later and Lin laughed again as she stood. “Okay, okay. My wife, I’ll go cut her off.”

[tom-whore-dleston]

Side Effects of Soldier Boy

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 391

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shantismurf]

@flashfictionfridayofficial has offered a reference to the classic line, "It was a dark and stormy night" for us this week. I was inspired by this lovely ad shared by my dear friend @lisellelascelles yesterday. I looked up the origin of the line and this story wrote itself!

Thank you @lucigoo for your tireless support and encouragement! 🥰

[#FFF276 Dark and Stormy Night]

---

Bedtime Story

A/N - “London” has been discreetly shifted to “Lindon” in the excerpt below, to place this story in Middle-earth. Let's all pretend Lindon is a bustling metropolis, hmm?

---

"It was a dark, and stormy night;"

Bilbo sighed happily. His eyes fluttered shut as a peaceful wave of relaxation swept through him. His shoulders melted into the cushion that had been tucked under him so tenderly.

“the rain fell in torrents—”

Gentle fingers drifted idly over the crown of his head, sending tingles sparkling happily down his spine. As the warmth of the firm thighs under his cheek seeped into his skin, the blissful domesticity of the moment made his chest squeeze pleasantly. This was his absolute favorite thing.

“except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Lindon that our scene lies),“

The soothing cadence drifted over him, flowing through without really being attended as he was rather distracted by the fingertip tracing the upper curve of his ear, dipping into the pointed tip and dragging along the other side.

“rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

A tiny frown marred his brow as he tried to parse out that line of text, but as the honeyed voice rolled on in its quiet tones he settled further into his comfortable position and let the soporific sound sink into his skin.

“Through one of the obscurest quarters of Lindon, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a man, evidently of the lowest orders, was wending his solitary way. “

His eyes flicked open, frown deepening. He darted a glance up at his bedmate, who was holding a suspiciously bland expression on his bearded face as his gaze remained fixed on the somewhat dusty linen-bound book in his hand. The warm light of the bedside lamp cut across his features, sharpening his nose (if that was even possible) and glinting in the silver of his hair.

“He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated,”

“What in the world are you reading?” Bilbo couldn't take it any more. He'd never heard such drivel.

Eyes gleaming with humor over their wire rimmed spectacles and decidedly not looking down at the hobbit in his lap, Thorin was unable to keep the laughter from rattling through his velvet voice as he continued,

“-and tended inquiry for some article on another which did not seem easily to be met with.”

“Alright, that's it!” Bilbo rolled over quickly and mercilessly dug his fingers into the soft rolls above Thorin’s hips, where he was especially ticklish. The former dwarf king curled up into a ball and laughed helplessly, book sliding out of nerveless fingers and utterly forgotten.

“Just see if I ever let you pick the book we read again!”

---

–Excerpt from the 1830 book “Paul Clifford” by Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton, which inspired the long-standing trope of the absolute worst starting line to a story, ever. Seems like he wasn't content to leave the banal hyperbole to just the starting line 😅

[umgeorge]

behind the scenes with mercedes in monza 👀🇮🇹, but it's just the good parts - september 17, 2024

[umlewis]

"'Have fun' 😁 Lewis and Kimi before FP1 🤝" - october 25, 2024 📷 @.mercedesamgf1 / tiktok