pantasticloser

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I got the fridge poetry magnets and immediately wrote about my wife hehe

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So you know that phrase "a falling knife has no handle?"

Yeah that applies to cactuses too.

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I wrote porn, and then it caught feelings

Based off episode 4 of Red Hood: Resurrection

“C’mon, what would I have to do to convince you to let me help you?” Jason rolls his eyes, turning back around to level a glare at the kid.

“Blow me,” Jason scoffs.

The kid drops to his fuckin knees. 

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She is finished! All 17k of her! I may have gone on a small writing binge.....

Turns out I'm in a writing mood lately.

Your Novel Says You Love Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/67263802

Log No. 3

Date: June 18th 20xx

Time: 4:57am

Location: The Nest, balcony

Speaker: The Moon

Message(s): “The shadows are my own tonight, rest under my light. I will protect you.”

Tone/Voice: Motherly. Reassuring. Trustworthy?

State of Being: Exhausted, post patrol injuries minor. Decline in emotional regulation. Nearly told Batman to fuck off.

Interpretation: She's telling me to get some sleep. I should.

Notes: Schizophrenia diagnosis 65% confirmed. Not all symptoms aligned. Auditory hallucination, variation in emotional control, increased depressive symptoms. No change in impulsivity. Voices not captured on recording equipment. Foul play ruled out.

Tim starts hearing voices. They're not entirely unhelpful.

[pantasticloser]

Up to 3 chapters now!

Turns out I'm in a writing mood lately.

Your Novel Says You Love Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/67263802

Log No. 3

Date: June 18th 20xx

Time: 4:57am

Location: The Nest, balcony

Speaker: The Moon

Message(s): “The shadows are my own tonight, rest under my light. I will protect you.”

Tone/Voice: Motherly. Reassuring. Trustworthy?

State of Being: Exhausted, post patrol injuries minor. Decline in emotional regulation. Nearly told Batman to fuck off.

Interpretation: She's telling me to get some sleep. I should.

Notes: Schizophrenia diagnosis 65% confirmed. Not all symptoms aligned. Auditory hallucination, variation in emotional control, increased depressive symptoms. No change in impulsivity. Voices not captured on recording equipment. Foul play ruled out.

Tim starts hearing voices. They're not entirely unhelpful.

[pantasticloser]

Turns out I'm in a writing mood lately.

Your Novel Says You Love Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/67263802

Log No. 3

Date: June 18th 20xx

Time: 4:57am

Location: The Nest, balcony

Speaker: The Moon

Message(s): “The shadows are my own tonight, rest under my light. I will protect you.”

Tone/Voice: Motherly. Reassuring. Trustworthy?

State of Being: Exhausted, post patrol injuries minor. Decline in emotional regulation. Nearly told Batman to fuck off.

Interpretation: She's telling me to get some sleep. I should.

Notes: Schizophrenia diagnosis 65% confirmed. Not all symptoms aligned. Auditory hallucination, variation in emotional control, increased depressive symptoms. No change in impulsivity. Voices not captured on recording equipment. Foul play ruled out.

Tim starts hearing voices. They're not entirely unhelpful.

[pantasticloser]

Apparently I did a thing too much. It's already finished and 11k words. Whoops

I did a thing:

Collision Course

5 times Jason and Tim not-quite-kiss, and 1 time they finally do it right.

"He looks back to Tim's eyes, and they're just as intense as his own must be. Tim shouldn't look at him like that, nobody should look at Jason like that."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66859891

[pantasticloser]

I did a thing:

Collision Course

5 times Jason and Tim not-quite-kiss, and 1 time they finally do it right.

"He looks back to Tim's eyes, and they're just as intense as his own must be. Tim shouldn't look at him like that, nobody should look at Jason like that."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66859891

[pantasticloser]

the edit itself

this edit is getting taken down from tiktok every time someone reuploads it, its straight up censorship at this point

Im not even american but im having a great time with this

DONT LET THIS DIE

credit to miraculousgastropod for the original

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@mbirnsings-71

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He should be pulling pressure bandages from his pouch, should be checking on the others or doing something, anything other than laying there as the wind piles the sand up around him like an apologetic coffin. Like the universe is trying to say “I'm so sorry little one, we'll bury you when you're gone. We'll mourn you, our child.”

Tim dies in the desert, but he still has unfinished business, and second chances don't come free.

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I have read the fic and I love it! I'm autistic too and that's part of the reason I've always related to Sherlock I suppose. I've had a few nonverbal shutdowns before I was diagnosed and knew what it was. It was always pretty scary so reading about someone getting comforted and providing comfort in that state felt good to see

I'm so glad you enjoyed it!! And it's nice to hear someone else goes through it too. Mine never really scared me, just frustrated me until I understood what it was, ya know? I felt I was failing at communicating when I would freeze instead of talking when I was upset.

Again, I'm so glad you enjoyed it and could relate to it! I hope to write more Sherlock and co as time goes on.

[pantasticloser]

I wrote a Sherlock and Co fic on my phone while the internet is down. Kind of a preslash jonklock. Fic under the cut. It's also posted on Ao3 here

In So Few Words

Summary:

For a split second, a mere blip really, as his eyes open, John almost wonders if it would hurt this badly if the bullet had just killed him outright.

Set the morning after The Dancing Men pt 3.

For a split second, a mere blip really, as his eyes open, John almost wonders if it would hurt this badly if the bullet had just killed him outright. He groans, rubbing his hands up the stubble on his jaw and over his eyes, flinching and cursing under his breath at the deep achey pull from the left side of his ribs. If he didn't have to pee he'd lay here all day.

John forces himself out of bed and drags himself to the bathroom. He's just got his sleep pants, a hideous orange color his mum gifted him, and he forgoes trying to find a shirt. Moving his arms that much makes his side flare up just thinking about it. After handling his business, he takes a moment to look at the damage. It's ugly all right, maybe not as bad as the Ied burn, but hideous nonetheless. He traces the edges with his eyes.

It's a raised purple splotch in the middle, working its way through the rainbow in outward moving rings. Underneath he knows there's a rib with a hairline fracture and bruised bones, but there was also a pair of lungs breathing and a heart that kept beating, so pain or no, he was lucky he'd worn the vest.

Down in the kitchen he can hear Sherlock pacing, back and forth, 8 steps one way, then a turn, 8 steps again, repeat. God, Sherlock. John had been petrified when Slaney fired the gun, too busy falling and having the air slammed out of him to do much but wheeze, but Sherlock had never sounded more scared than when he'd screamed John's name. He'd also never been scarier than when he'd tried to kill an already dying man. Not scary, John corrects. He could never be afraid of Sherlock, but dangerous, yes. Sherlock was dangerous, fascinating and deadly.

The stumble to the kitchen isn't what John would call graceful. He damn near trips over Archie on the way as the dog lays snoring in the middle of the floor, and every step tugs on his skin, but he grits his teeth and bears it.

Fate would have it that he missed the dog just to slam into Sherlock mid step anyways. John can't help the hiss that comes out as he flinches back, instinctually slapping a hand over his ribs as he breathes out slowly. "Sorry Sherlock, I wasn't paying attention."

Silence meets him, and John doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them to an eye full of panicked detective.

To anyone else, Sherlock would look annoyed, maybe even angry, but John knows that tilt of his mouth, and the intensity of his gaze. It's worry. His eyes are locked onto John's side, mouth opening and closing just a fraction, like he's trying to speak but never finishes the first word. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlocks mouth clicks shut audibly, and his mouth presses into a thin line as he nods once, and whirls around to the kitchen counter. Before he has time to think, a plate has been pressed into John's hands, and he's being herded to the couch, gently but insistently by hands on his shoulders.

"You made me...breakfast?" John hazards. It's beans on toast, a bit too wet for his liking and a side of eggs, overdone. Sherlock nods again, more hesitantly this time as he drops onto the opposite end of the couch. The man curls himself up in a way John thinks should be impossible. Long legs tucked up in front of his chest, arms wrapped around and his chin on his knees. A finger points at the plate, then to John's face and he gets the meaning right away. "Okay, okay mate I'll eat." He shoves in a fork full of egg, and mumbles a thanks in between bites.

The silence stretches on, and it's not that John's a prude, but the staring is beginning to make his skin crawl. He finishes quickly, setting the plate down perhaps a little too roughly and tries to turn to Sherlock. Big mistake that, and his ribs scream at him as he gasps. "Fuck, that was stupid." He breathes out in a slow measured breath before he turns just his head to Sherlock this time. The worried look is back, even more intensely this time.

"Is there a uh, particular reason? You're giving me the silent treatment?"

He should've expected the eye rolling, really, but Sherlock is shoving a phone into his view shortly thereafter, a section of article highlighted.

John mutters as he reads. "Some autistic individuals may experience bouts of being non-verbal, as opposed to a constant state. The exact cause of these triggers is unknown, but it's often assumed that stress and overstimulation can contribute. Huh, so you're okay then? Just a bit too much excitement yesterday?"

The withering look he's given tells him excitement was the wrong word to use. "Sorry, not excitement. Bad word, won't do it again, scout's honor." An eye roll this time. He can work with this. "You are though, right? Okay, that is?"

The phone is pulled back, and after a moment of furious typing, it's thrust back into his vision. It's the note app, and in bold font it reads 'I'm not the one who got shot.'

"Well yeah," John snorts, "Slaney got shot, quite a lot actually and well obviously he's not okay he's dead, pretty thoroughly and-" his voice drops off. At that moment, John wonders if this is what Sherlock feels like when a case reveals itself, when everything falls into place."You mean me. You mean that I got shot."

A solem nod and a look that's calling him a moron without so many words.

"Sherlock, I'm okay. A bit bruised, possibly with Marianas cold coming on but I'm, really." He pushes Sherlocks hand with the phone down, leaving his atop as he holds it to the cushions. "You don't have to make me breakfast, though I do appreciate it, or stare at me like I'm going to drop dead".

John lifts his hand from Sherlocks and brings it up onto the back of the couch, gesturing with his right to his open side. "See? Just some bruising and a hairline fracture. Nothing too bad."

John would like to say he doesn't startle easily, but having a grown man very suddenly in his space has him frozen mid breath. Sherlock has his gaze locked on his bruise, and slowly, a large warm hand is resting over his ribs.

Sherlock is gentle about it, sweeping his hand over John's side, prodding medically and methodically, but decidedly gently as well. It would almost be ticklish if it wasn't hurting so much, but the warmth feels nice and John relaxes back into the couch as much as he can and lets his eyes shut.

When Sherlock seems to be done, he lets them open just a sliver, but the worried look is still there. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

Intense eyes snap to John's, and he'd flinch if he had the energy. "It's nobodys fault but Slaney’s." Slowly, so he can pull back if he wishes, John takes Sherlocks hand in his own and brings it to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm alive, healthy as a horse, well not like the ones we've met those ones were messed up-"

Sherlock seems to relax at the contact, letting out a small chuckle as his hand presses further into John's heartbeat. John continues. "The point is, I'm okay. I’m okay, you're okay, Mariana's okay other than her cold."

A solemn nod. This clearly isn't working to make Sherlock relax completely. One last idea then.

"Would a um, would a hug? Make you feel better?" John doesn't get a verbal answer, not that he was expecting one, but he does get a lap full of detective. Sherlocks arms are thrown around his neck, and he's hunched himself down, legs across John's lap and head tucked into the curve of his jaw. For the first time this morning, John can see the tension finally begin to leave Sherlocks frame, and he wraps one arm around his middle, the other hand coming across the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him into where John knows he's listening to his pulse. "I'll take that as a yes to the hugging, then."

Sherlocks breath is warm on John's collarbone, and the hair is soft as John threads his fingers through it. "I'll be okay. I'm hurt, my pride is definitely hurt, but bodies heal." He gives Sherlock a gentle squeeze before tipping his head back into the cushion just a fraction.

He should get up. Should remove Sherlock and take care of Archie and the editing for the episode, but Sherlock is warm and alive in his arms, and John lets sleep pull him back under. The doctor did say to rest after all.

[pantasticloser]

A pair of quilts I made as a gift for my partner's parents. Entirely made from scraps I was gifted and some thrifted sheets 😃