#flash fiction fridays

[junypr-camus]

Tears of the Sea

Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt!

For the precious chord whose echoes have faded from her hallowed halls, and, now gone, can never be strummed again. 

It’s dark in the space between the stars. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and it’s empty, and it’s where she goes to clear her head. To get away from the murmurs of the stars and the whispers of the winds. 

She closes her eyes, feels the touch of robes spun from the breath of a newborn star, and listens. 

Beyond the silence is a scream. 

A scream that winds around her until she’s caught in its embrace. A scream that tugs, ever stronger, until she takes a step and time spins and spools and falls away. 

And she’s on a beach. The sand like stars again skin darker than the end of time, the waves a kiss upon milky cheeks. 

And the scream is louder. 

And the scream is death.

The water stings with the chill of the deep as she draws a ragged breath. In. Out. And the air in her lungs burns of salt and sand and scorching sun. In. Out. 

She doesn’t need to breathe. She lives on the light of the stars and the stars alone. When they flicker and fade for the last of their lives so too will she be gone. 

But the air in her lungs cleans the dust from her mind, and with each breath the turquoise clears from silver eyes and she begins to see. Each building a link. Each link a chain to girdle the earth around her slender waist like a python around the snowy heron. 

And the earth weeps.

She weeps the tears of a world beaten and broken and bruised. Tears that fly through the crumbled arches and stagnant fountains and broken dreams. Painting over the work of the people with nimble fingers.

A reminder of all that once was. A reminder of all that will be.

She weeps not for her enchainment. Not for death that holds her so gently, waiting for her last gasping breath. 

But for the birds that no longer sing. The trees that no longer sigh. The winds that no longer whisper as angels do.

For the precious chord whose echoes have faded from her hallowed halls, and, now gone, can never be strummed again. 

Eva watches, and she sees, and she too feels herself weep with tears that fall heavy like quicksilver before melting into the sea.

[razieltwelve]

The Truth (Flash Fiction Fridays #28)

Simon’s laughter trailed off as Cuddles stared at him. “Wait… Santa isn’t real, right? Right?”

The cosmic guinea pig nibbled on a caramel-glazed donut and took a sip of brandy. “What makes you think he isn’t real?”

“Because it just doesn’t make sense. Someone who knows if you’ve been bad or good and who can not only deliver a gift to every child in the world but also one specific to their individual needs, all in one night? Santa would have to be some kind of nigh-omnipotent being.”

Cuddles took another bite out of his donut and raised one eyebrow. “Nigh-omnipotent? I might know someone who fits the bill.”

“…” Simon’s eyes widened. “No! There is absolutely no way that you’re Santa.”

Cuddles’s nose twitched, and he was suddenly wearing a Santa outfit, complete with a little Santa hat. Another twitch of his nose summoned a sleigh and a team of reindeer. One of the reindeer even had a red nose. Cuddles hopped into the sleigh and motioned for Simon to join him. A second later, they were soaring through the air over the Warehouse.

“…” Simon took a deep breath. “The reindeer are flying.”

“Yep.” Cuddles snickered. “They are.”

“This has to be a prank. You’re just messing with me. You’re not Santa.”

Cuddles took a long swig of his brandy. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just messing with you.” He paused and sleigh bells began to ring. “Or am I?”

Author’s Notes

It is the season…

Simon and Cuddles are from Cosmic Delivery Boy. As might be expected, Simon is maybe overthinking things while Cuddles is being a bit of a troll. This is what happens when Mr Edwards isn’t around. That said, Cuddles does indeed possess the power to be Santa. It’s simply a matter of whether or not he also possesses the inclination.

But there is one way you can be sure he isn’t Santa. If he was Santa, he’d be asking for booze, coffee, and junk food not milk and cookies.

[tom-whore-dleston]

Side Effects of Soldier Boy

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 391

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

I Can’t Stand It

Rosie’s tantrum in the park, reminds Sherlock of his own childhood. It’s strange that so much of what the little girl says and does resonates with him.

“She’s not yours,” several voices inside his head tell him.

Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of being something more to her than just…what is he exactly to her? She calls him Lock; he calls her Watson. He desperately wants her to call him something else, which he only allows himself to think about when he’s alone.

“I can’t stand it, daddy!” Rosie exclaims and stomps her feet.

“But, sweetheart,” John tries to reason with his four-year-old daughter. “You were perfectly fine eating this last week.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and throws her arms in the air. Sherlock can see that John’s mouth twitches slightly as he’s supressing a smile. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice filled with delight in his mind.

“She’s so much like you sometimes, darling.”

“There are big pieces in it,” Rosie explains to John. “I want smooth ice cream.”

John looks over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has long ago decided to never lie to John again. He shrugs apologetically and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John inquires, his tone exasperated now.

“It’s quite normal for children her age to change tastes and react to new textures. I was the same.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not…”

“I know, John!” Sherlock snaps. “You and everyone we know keeps telling me that.”

He turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the park. Behind him the two Watsons call after him, begging him to come back but he can’t. Sherlock can live with everyone else claiming that he’s not Rosie’s father, but it hurts when John joins the choir. Of course, Sherlock knows he has no biological connection to her, but he’s raising her together with John, isn’t he? She comes just as willingly to him as to John. 

“Protect your heart, brother mine,” Mycroft told him after John and Rosie moved to Baker Street, and not for the first time. His brother knew that Sherlock’s heart belonged to John and had for a very long time.

***

Where are you? I’m sorry, Sherlock. We need to talk. Are you coming home soon?

Sherlock’s heart races in his chest when he reads John’s text. He barely registers the apology. All his brain is capable of is trying to deduce what John wants to talk about.

Are they moving out? Does John want him to spend less time with Rosie? Won’t he be allowed to do children safe experiments with her anymore?

He pulls his hair in frustration. Why is it so hard to figure out what John wants? Sherlock’s able to read anyone but John. Why?

“Hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were here,” Molly says when she walks into the lab at Barts.

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock tells her and walks rapidly out of the room.

***

Sherlock stands and watches the Thames float by. The London Eye is coloured in pink in the far distance. It’s getting dark and he’s got no recollection of the last hours. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he suddenly remembers that he’s forgotten to answer John’s text.

“A bit not good, Sherlock,” John’s voice scolds him.

Can I call you? Rosie wants to say goodnight.

Sherlock feels his face soften. The Watsons are probably still at Baker Street then. He doesn’t hesitate but calls John’s number.

John’s voice sounds relieved when he picks up, but it’s tinted with worry.

“Hi. You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and it comes out more clipped than he intended.

John sighs and apparently gives the phone to Rosie.

“Lock!” the little girl exclaims.

“Hello, Watson. Ready for bed?” Sherlock inquires softly.

“Yes. Tired,” she tells him and yawns.

Sherlock feels his throat thicken, and he must swallow hard and close his eyes to keep his tears at bay. Without thinking he uses the endearment only Rosie has heard.

“Goodnight, my heart.”

“Night, Lock. See you tomorrow,” Rosie slurs, clearly almost asleep.

Sherlock ends the call before John gets a chance to ask him humiliating questions. The sharp intake of breath from John when Sherlock bid Rosie goodnight didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’ve ruined it now, Holmes,” he tells himself.

***

Aldi is still open, and Sherlock buys two boxes of ice cream for Rosie without any pieces of fruit, berries, crunch, chocolate or other abominations.

He takes a deep breath before locking himself into Baker Street, and he ascends the stairs silently. John sits in his chair, reading one of his medical journals. Sherlock just nods and walks to the kitchen with his purchases. He places the boxes in the freezer before walking to the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him.

“Shower,” Sherlock answers.

The shower does wonders, and Sherlock feels quite refreshed and relaxed when he puts on a t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his maroon dressing gown. John stands just outside Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock startles a bit.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Watson?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. Soundly asleep. I just want to apologise properly to you. I was way out of line earlier. No, Sherlock, listen. I need to say this. Please.”

John’s expression is pained, and Sherlock doesn’t know what’s to come next. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“I know it’s no excuse that I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but that’s the defence I have, and it’s appalling to say the least. Rosie…she is…just as much yours as she is mine. You care for her just like any parent. She loves you, we both do, and…”

“John?” 

Sherlock’s voice is trembling, and he feels his balance is about to fail him. Warm and steady hands are placed on his upper arms and when John speaks again, his voice is warm with affection.

“Forgive me. Please?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself melt in John’s embrace.

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[#FFF271 Tantrum Entrance]

Who is having the tantrum? Why? What caused them to enter in such a manner? All those emotions building up and up and up until they explode! We want to read all about them, so get writing! Go, go, go!

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The Collective <3

[wayoftheghost]

initiation

[#FFF262 Run Far and Fast ]

fremen!benegesserit! reader x paul atreides

honestly, never thought i'd see the day where i'd write x reader again, but here we are <3 this wonderful prompt got the juices flowing and isn't that what these exercises are for! i'm a bit late for this week but thank you for reading!

Word count: 833

Tags: @flashfictionfridayofficial @dunefandomhub

“You need to be quicker. Don’t drag your feet.” 

Paul nods. “Right, okay.”

Your gaze flits in his direction. You stand above him on the curve of the desert dunes with Paul further down in the basin below, inspecting his technique as he prepares for Shai-Hulud. 

Paul moves like the shadow that walks beneath your feet as the sun cuts your shape across the dunes. Lean, dark, and mirroring your every movement. Like you, it was clear that the boy has had a lifetime of rigorous training. The speed at which he picks up your instruction is uncanny, almost supernatural.

Even Paul’s looks make you uneasy. His sharp and striking features, his hazel-green eyes, everything of him that you knew to be the product of careful genetic selection. 

Heat ripples all around you, billowing your cream-colored aba robes and veil like sand in the wind. The beating sun is unforgiving this time of day, and so are you. 

“Be quicker, princling,” you speak through your face-covering. “You want to be worm-food? Because that’s what you’ll be if you’re not moving fast enough.”

The nickname bristles his annoyance, the slightest pull in his shoulder blades that is quick to your trained Bene Gesserit eye, but one that Paul easily masks as his shoulders relax and the emotion passes through him. With the weight of his silence, of his full attention, you consider, just for a moment, telling him what you truly think of this prophecy.

Other offworlders had come to Arrakis before, claiming divinity and prophetic visions. But they were soon martyred by the desert or killed by their own ignorance.

Why should this boy be any different?

That is why you have been pushing Paul so hard in his initiation training, an order that had come directly from Arrakis’s new Reverend Mother; the weirding woman and Paul’s birth mother. In that cave-chamber, you had watched Lady Jessica drink The Water of Life and ascend into the motherhood that had once belonged to your dying grandmother for generations. 

You had given no water to your grandmother, the Fremen ritual of suppressing tears as ancient as the desert itself, yet it hadn’t stopped the cold and quiet anger from simmering in your belly. At Stilgar’s easy trust to welcome in the offworlder woman and her witching son that your Fremen peers already called Mahdi. To allow Lady Jessica the rite of passage.

Lady Jessica’s power frightened you. A pale phantom of a woman with piercing blue eyes, she had recognized your importance as the last Reverend Mother’s gifted granddaughter and calculated how you could benefit their cause. More specifically, how to benefit Paul. 

And as a fellow sister of the Bene Gesserit and perhaps most unsettling of all, you had perceived Lady Jessica’s use of the Voice on you, like worm-poison in your mind. As she had brushed past you in the hallways of the sietch, the dusty air tasting like the breath you held in your chest, you felt the cold blue of her eyes. A single command hummed through your bones.

“Teach him.”

Gifted as you were, you had tried to reject her influence, to fight her Voice’s power, but you were not strong enough against the woman from Caladan. And like an out-of-body experience, not in control of your own being, you had watched yourself glide towards Paul’s chambers with the words of forced friendship already forming on your tongue. 

The path had been set. 

You would show Paul the ways of the desert, yes. But you would not do so with kindness. 

Now, outfitted with his fremkit and stillsuit, you guide Paul down the path that has been prophesied by the Bene Gesserit order and your Fremen people alike. Your two circles of life intersecting in an eclipse, swallowing each other like a snake with its own tail. 

Maybe this is why Lady Jessica had chosen you. 

“Move faster, or this lesson is over,” you growl to Paul. “I don’t know what gravity is like on Caladan, but you run like you have maker hooks stuck up your ass.”

His form was in fact impeccable, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of proceeding with no corrections. 

Paul’s laughter echoes through the desert basin. You hadn’t expected him to find humor in your insult. He turns up to face you, his black curls flowing in a messy halo. Paul swings the maker hook in his right hand in a perfect circle.

“I’m ready. I’m not afraid.” Paul tells you. 

You regard him with a defiant tilt of your chin, then reach into the silks of your robes. You pull out the thumper that the Fedaykin girl, Chani, had lent to you for this exercise. In one fluid motion, you have clicked the thumper open and impaled it into the sand. The steady rhythm of the mechanism beats through your chest, echoing across the endless dunes. The very heartbeat of the desert. 

The sand at your feet quivers. 

“Then run like it.”

[darkhorse-javert]

A posey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bunch for your sweetheart,

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

I'm also posting it on Ao3. It's over 1000 words, so feel free to go here to read it!

cw: implied drug use, implied suicide attempt, implied torture

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

There had been a number of times where Mycroft Holmes had been made very aware that he did, in fact, have a heart beating in his chest after all.

The first was when a small, red-faced infant had been brought home. As Mycroft looked down at the crying, screaming thing, he didn't expect the sudden jolt in his chest. A stab of sudden overwhelming emotion. What was equally unexpected was that when he stroked his new baby brother's face and told him to quieten, that everything was going to be okay, that he would always be protected by his big brother, the infant had listened. William Sherlock Scott Holmes simply looked at his older brother, and Mycroft felt that deeply. 

The second time was sheer pain at finding his younger brother in a drug den, surrounded by needles, barely breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd found him in a place like this. But on this occasion, it felt different. Mycroft knew that this time, Sherlock had not meant to survive the encounter. Scooping up the younger man in his arms, his heart ached at how thin the boy was, at how little life remained in him. He took him straight to the nearest hospital, where they whisked him away, leaving Mycroft with his aching heart to sit and wait. It wasn't until many days later that Sherlock opened his eyes to see the concerned expressions of his family around him. In his heart, Mycroft knew that this wouldn't be the last time his brother would be in this situation. The pain was indescribable. 

The third time was seeing Sherlock chained up in a filthy cell in Serbia. His brother had spent two years moving around the globe, destroying pockets of Moriarty's empire single-handedly. That the criminal mastermind hadn't targeted Sherlock's family should have hurt, but strangely it didn't. Knowing that Sherlock had people he cared about enough to keep them safe meant that he valued at least some people in his life to prevent their suffering. It was a pity that John Watson didn't know the lengths to which Sherlock would go to protect him. It might have saved his heart some of the ache he was currently feeling. But seeing Sherlock beaten, tortured, at the edge of his sanity. Anger filled his heart this time. That someone could do this to his baby brother. Infiltration successful, Sherlock finally cut down from his bonds, too weak to stand, bleeding and barely conscious. Mycroft hardened his heart and made sure no one who had laid a hand on his brother was left to tell the tale. 

The fourth time was the hardest to bear. To know that Sherlock had once again sacrificed his life for a love that would never be acknowledged. By now, Mycroft was angry at John Watson. He had Sherlock's undying love but was so blindingly stupid not to realise that fact. So here they were, in a prison cell, Sherlock about to be sent away on a one-way mission to the place he had been rescued from not long before. All so that John Watson could be happy. And there was nothing Mycroft could do. His heart ached at how easily Sherlock would throw his life away for someone who merely considered him a friend. But nothing Mycroft could say would make Sherlock change his mind; he refused to tell John the truth, and that was that. The relief when Moriarty appeared on the screen, the phone call that followed, the pardon that he had hoped for arriving almost too late. His heart skipped with happiness only to sink again when he realised his brother had fallen back on old habits. No one who had seen that list could think otherwise. Sherlock had not meant to land in Serbia alive. Telling John Watson to look after his brother was the hardest thing he had ever done, but at that point, Mycroft knew he had to let go. His heart couldn't take any more. One day, Sherlock would succeed, and his heart would break. 

The fifth was a surprise. As Mycroft stood blinking at his brother, who was sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street bouncing a three-year-old Rosie Watson on his knee, his heart gave the biggest lurch he'd ever felt. He felt for the chair he knew must be there and sank into it like his strings had been cut. 

"Best man?" His brother rolled his eyes and set Rosie on the floor, watching as she toddled off into the living room.

"Yes."

"But..."

"But what? You've been there every day, meddling, since I was born. For once, and once only, I'm asking you to be there. With me." Mycroft's heartfelt three sizes bigger; a lump appeared in his throat, and his eyes started to fill. Choking down the emotion, Mycroft coughed and turned away. 

"Don't tell me it broke him too. You two are ridiculous." John laughed as he walked into the kitchen. So a few weeks later, Mycroft stood next to his brother as he married his best friend, finally. 

If the fifth was a surprise, nothing shook Mycroft more than the sixth. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor as he watched Sherlock waltz with his new husband, besotted expressions on their faces. It happened when the other best man approached. 

"So, normally, I guess I would be asking the maid of honour to dance. But seeing as that would either be you or me in this case, would you do me the honour of this dance?" Gregory Lestrade held out his hand for Mycroft, and at once, something like a bolt hit him straight in the heart. 

"I'd be delighted, Gregory." He accepted the proffered hand, and they waltzed onto the dancefloor. As they moved in time to the music, Mycroft felt his heart change. He continued to feel its presence long after the dance, the night, the week. Mycroft spent the rest of his life knowing full well he had a heart. It was a joyful feeling most of the time, and, on occasion, it ached. It got larger as their families grew and settled. And he never once said again that caring was not an advantage. Because he had learned that it most definitely was. 

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @dapetty @calaisreno

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[jpitha]

It's just a walk for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only 4 days!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We set off.

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

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

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

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

"What? What if you got tired?"

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

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

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

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

[starkraivennemad]

Covenant of the Blood

John Watson was tired after shift; all he wanted to do was sit and rest.

“Hey, Sherlo---”

John enter the flat and pauses at the sight of Sherlock and Rosie asleep on the sofa. A hint of Sherlock's dark curls just seen over the arm of the chair. His hand resting on the Rosie's small body, protected by the slight curve of his body around hers.

He and Sherlock were supposed to go out to dinner, but clearly Sherlock had heard about his day and knew he wasn’t up for it. There was no need for a babysitter if they were staying home.

“Our daughter’s asleep, I’m not. ” Sherlock’s rich baritone chuckles.

Our daughter – John internally smiles.

Some people think Sherlock uncaring, but John knows better.

The living and loving proof was right before him.

The way Sherlock takes care of Rosie and him, as John takes care of them both.

“Would you like to be Rosie’s father? For real?” John kisses Sherlock and sat on the coffee table.

“By adoption?”

“By Marriage.”  

Sherlock carefully sat up and studied him. “You’re… serious…”

“I am.” John takes his hand. “We’re family of heart – I love you so much. Marry me.”

“You, Rosie and I. Yes.” Sherlock smiles. “A family by the law and by the covenant of the Blood.” @flashfictionfridayofficial

Art credit: hamish_by_milgarionangel

[junypr-camus]

The Phoenix

Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt! This is a short piece, building on the world of Seranid.

That’s why they called me the Phoenix. The girl who would rise from the ashes of the old Resistance. Who would create a country reborn.

Some days when we were working in the basement, I would notice Camus watching me. Watching the way I held a pair of pliers, the way I twisted my connections and squinted at the soldered joint. There was a heavy gray in his eyes, like clouds on an overcast day, a thickness that even the sun could not penetrate.

Some days, I felt that his eyes were still cloaked in the past.

He always looked away when he realized that I realized that he was watching me. But one day I stared back. Willed him to meet my gaze with my narrowed eyes.

Camus stared at the gutted droid in front of him, his slender fingers tracing the tangle of wires. He had wire clippers in his hand, but he wasn’t cutting anything. Just looking. He didn’t meet my gaze. He said, “You work just like him.”

I pressed my lips together and set down the pliers. I knew who he meant. Ethan Silver. My father. The man whom everyone seemed to know, except me. The parent who was robbed from me when I was only four.

It was always the first thing that people here asked me. “You’re Ethan’s daughter, aren’t you?” If it wasn’t something in the deep brown of my eyes or the arc of my cheekbones, it was something in the way I moved. The way I cut through crowds like they weren’t there, spun stories of what could be with every step. Like I knew where I was going, and would bend space and time to get there.

That’s why they called me the Phoenix. The girl who would rise from the ashes of the old Resistance. Who would create a country reborn.

I didn’t know if that was who I was. Who I could be. It had only been a week since I learned how the original Resistance was formed, how it failed, and how my father died.

The memory of that stark, sterile room, the memory that wasn’t even mine, still haunted me. When I looked at Camus, I saw that it haunted him too. Shadows of the past encircled his eyes; invisible scars drew lines across his skin.

He saw my father in me, just like they all did. At least he didn’t see me as the Phoenix, too.

I watched the pliers glint in the flickering light, bright against the layer of dust that we had yet to sweep away. “I’m not my father,” I said. “And I’m not the Phoenix. Not the one everyone expects me to be.”

His gaze shifts from the droid to meet mine, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

“But I wanted to continue their legacy,” I said. “I want to honor them.”

He gave me a nod and the faintest hint of a smile. He whispered, “You will.”

[rydykg]

Into a Villainess

this is such a bad title but i can’t think of anything better. anyway, a pre-story thing for a new wip that is, yet again, isekai (transmigration). @flashfictionfridayofficial

When █████ was younger, her mother would tell her many stories as she tucked her into bed. One of those that remained clear in her mind, even after decades, was the story about a bodysnatcher.

There was a little child who was envious of a classmate, who seemed to be better at him in every aspect. One day, he wished upon a shooting star, and the next day, he awoke in his classmate’s body. He got all of the things he wished he could’ve gotten, and he was happy.

But eventually, people got suspicious of the classmate’s sudden change. The child himself grew tired of this life. He regretted his decision. He wanted to change back.

One day, the classmate cornered the child at school with his actual parents. His parents could immediately tell the difference, because in their words, “every soul gets a little damaged when they aren’t in the right place”.

Of course, the child apologised, the classmate forgave, they wished upon a shooting star and righted things, and they all lived happily ever after.

But what if the neighbour was nowhere to be found? What if the child was stuck in that body forever?

What if the lines between one and the other began to blur?

Rong Die wondered that, often.

█████ had been Yu Rong Die for a year now, with nothing but her knowledge of 【 Heartless Cut 】 and a whisper of a heart’s deepest wish to guide her.

The whereabouts of the original Rong Die were unknown to her. In a good world, a world where the bodysnatcher lived, perhaps she would be in █████’s body.

The world of 【 Heartless Cut 】 was nothing good, though. Total annihilation seemed more in-track with the drama and sadism of the novel.

In 【 Heartless Cut 】, Rong Die was the vicious official wife of one of the scum male leads, Fan Lu. Her husband had many mistresses, and despite being a powerful CEO in her own right, she risked everything for her jealousy and anger.

She failed. Just another body to add to the count, another body to further the plot.

A pitiful villainess.

“Don’t let anything get in your way.”

The least █████ could do was do all the things Rong Die wished to do.

And she did it well. It spoke volumes that nobody even noticed the disappearance of the original Rong Die. Not her father, not her so-called “friends”, and certainly not her fiancé.

Sometimes, Rong Die wondered if there was no █████ in the first place. Maybe this was like one of those novels with the plot twist where both original and transmigrator were the same person in the end.

Sometimes, she wondered if any of this was real. Maybe the bodysnatcher story was right; a secondhand soul like hers was certainly damaged after all, and the result was a diminishing memory and emotions she couldn’t place to anything anymore.

She could hardly remember her own appearance, nowadays. She knew she used to have black hair and brown eyes. She knew there used to be a mole below her left eye. She knew she used to be slightly chubby, just a little extra fat to her stomach.

Rong Die had black hair too, except hers was shorter, her eyes were prettier — yellow-brown and shining like gemstones — and her face was entirely smooth and pale. Her body was thin, carefully kept through a diet and a training regimen.

Rong Die couldn’t afford any imperfections, no matter how much she might’ve wanted otherwise.

Neither could she, now.

She was to get married to Fan Lu in six months, forming a business alliance. Her father would die in another three, leaving a mega-corporation for her to run. In another five years, the main plot of the novel would start, where a delicate college student would come looking for a job, and attract wicked men to her like greedy bees to a beautiful flower.

Hell, Fan Lu had already started playing around more, perhaps trying to cherish the last bits of his freedom before his marriage.

If things went on like this…

Well, she had to avoid the original’s fate somehow.

Rong Die had already booked an appointment with Fan Lu at six. She had a contract ready, and for all that Fan Lu was a playboy and dismissive, he was shrewd and calculating when it came to matters of business.

If she played her cards right…

If she just steeled herself and planned everything carefully for the next few years…

“Don’t let anything get in your way.”

Yes. She could do that.

Her own deepest wish was to live for herself, after all.

[inkjackets-original]

I’ve always known I’d go far in my life.

For I was perfection incarnate. My parent’s pride and joy.

‘Oh, your Timmy won a prize? Well my child won five.’

‘Little Sarah plays piano? Mine plays violin besides.’

And I’d stand there and smile; jaws aching, eyes glazing. Grimacing through the praise they showered all over me.

And not once would I waver. Nor dare sow disorder.

Tears. Pain. Blood purple under skin.

‘After all I’ve done for you! You ungrateful thing.’

And so I rose to great heights. Did everything right. Perfected society’s scripts and said all the right lines. Just about keeping my head above water.

But the older I got, the faster I drowned.

Pressure. They say it turns coal into diamonds.

On minds, I discovered, it just makes them splinter.

Deeper and deeper, splitting apart. Unravelling and ripping from seams pulled apart.

I was to be a physicist, a doctor, a best-selling author. The best of the best — absolutely nothing less.

But these great expectations were weeds and vines, growing between the cracks in my mind, causing stones to tumble from the ruins of my life. Until I was nothing but dust. Ash. Burnt out and broken down. Trying to regrow dead seedlings in dry ground. Succumbing to nothing — the destination I was bound.

For I’ve always known I’d go far in my life.

But never once did I think the direction would be down.

~~~

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt Great Expectations

[tom-whore-dleston]

Denial and Devotion

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader

Word Count: 880

This fic contains: preludes to smut, implied smut, amnesia, mentions of squirting and fingering, reader was a Soldier Boy fangirl (like me fr xD), toxic celebrity culture?

Summary: You are in denial that you slept with the Supe you used to crush on.

Notes: I'm just a girl that writes Soldier Boy fanfic at 2am knowing damn well I have work at 9am flksdghk this gif replays in my brain every waking moment of the day I literally hate how hot he is >:( This is my weekly contribution to @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt no. 241: Hour of Denial

The moment you rose from your slumber, you knew something was wrong. First off, you woke up in a room that you did not recognize. Then, you realized the cotton sheets of the unfamiliar bed clung close to your bare skin as if you had slept in it before. 

You attempted to lift yourself out the bed, but your muscles were weak, soreness more prominent in your hips and thighs. As you winced in discomfort, your eyes widened upon the discolored love bites scattered over your body. Your eyes finally glanced to the opposite side of the bed, only to discover the person occupying it was none other than Soldier Boy.

When you were younger, Soldier Boy was your first crush. At the time, he was presumed dead, but your father would tell you stories about how he was one of the greatest superheroes to ever live. Your childhood room was covered in Soldier Boy posters and you had a doll of him that never left the box. As you got older, you conducted more research on the man you worshiped, but eventually learned that he was a monster in a superhero costume. As a result, you ripped the posters to shreds and finessed some cash off the doll in hopes to erase any trace of your Soldier Boy phase. 

You stared in disbelief at the same man that lay peacefully asleep. Your mind raced with questions. The only logical answer to all of them was that you were dreaming. To test the theory, you pinched your forearm as hard as you could. After cursing from the pain, you tried another method by poking Soldier Boy in his meaty bicep. Without fluttering his eyes open, he grunted in annoyance and rolled over. 

If your head wasn’t already spinning, it definitely was at this very moment. You slithered out of the bed, making sure not to disturb the sleeping man, and frantically searched for your clothes. In a hurried attempt, you shimmied back into your little black dress from the night before. Regardless of whether this was all a dream or not, you silently vowed that you are remaining sober for the rest of the month. 

“Where you going so fast, sweetheart?” You turned toward the groggy voice that belonged to Soldier Boy, who was propped up against the bed frame with his muscular torso in view. It felt as if no time had passed since the beginning stages of your devotion to Soldier Boy. Your eyes scanned over his physique with a hunger that only he could satisfy. Heat radiated your body and you stood paralyzed in your unzipped dress, leaving enough uncovered for his imagination to run wild.

As Soldier Boy hopped out of bed, you swiftly turned away as his thick cock unveiled from the thin sheets. He began walking towards you, but you ignored him by fiddling with the zipper on your back. You grew frustrated with the zipper’s defiance the closer the beefy supe inched towards you. His intense stare begged for your attention until he took matters into his own hands by lifting your chin up to his gaze. Your heart pounded against your chest as his green eyes studied your face. Except there was no studying necessary.

“I’m a little embarrassed by this,” you laughed nervously, “but I don’t remember anything from last night.”

Soldier Boy smirked. “Want me to give you a reminder?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” You paused. You may not have been as infatuated with the supe as much as you once were, but you didn’t want to come off as rude. “I mean…I’m sure last night was great but I shouldn’t impose-“

“Great? Well if you define squirting on my fingers and cock until you begged me to stop as great then maybe I gotta fuck you harder.” 

You were about to let out a moan, but quickly masked it with a sigh. Every part of you wanted to hate him but the ache in between your legs betrayed your voice of reason.

“You can play the ex-fangirl game all you want, but you and I know you never truly get over your first crush.” There wasn’t a more pathetic feeling than regressing back into that naive girl who treated a flawed superhero like a god. 

Suddenly, your back hit the wall and Soldier Boy towered over you, his arm the only thing keeping him from pressing you against the wall to grind into your core. His free hand hooked under the strap of your dress, slowly pulling it off your shoulder. As the dress pooled around your feet, he lightly kissed the crook of your neck, electricity coursing your blood as his beard pricked your skin.

His hot breath fanned over your ear. “There’s no need to deny me anymore, sweetheart. I’m here for you to worship and fulfill all your pretty little fantasies.”

Fuck it.

All your common sense flew out the window as you desperately smashed your lips against his. Gripping your wrists, he pinned you against the wall before grinding his semi hard cock against your wet pussy. 

Soldier Boy may have been the biggest pain in your ass, literally and figuratively, but he was right about you never fully recovering from your first crush.

Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Soldier Boy Masterlist

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

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide (Reichenbach feels...)

Mourning a Lost Soul

It was the last porcelain cup she had left. She’d always liked the blue and white flower pattern. Her mother and father had bought it on their honeymoon in Delft. Once there had been six plates, six saucers, six cups, and a small sugar bowl. After her parents died, she and her sister divided the items among them. Martha Hudson knew her sister still had every item intact. 

Something warm fell on her wrinkled hands. Tears. She could literally hear Sherlock’s voice in her head.

“Sentiment, Hudders! How commonplace of you.”

Martha gazed down at the fractured forms at her feet. They were almost unrecognisable. Only the handle was in one piece. It was lying a bit away from the other porcelain fragments. Alone.

Again, Sherlock’s voice infiltrated her mind.

“Alone protects me.”

Her cheeks and hands were wet with the spilling tears she no longer could keep at bay. It was her fault that the cup had broken. She washed it after her morning tea, and it had slipped out of her hands as the events of yesterday hit her full force.

John’s ashen face. His blank expression. The impassive voice when he told her about Sherlock’s suicide. He was still in shock. They sat in her kitchen without saying a word, until John patted her arm and climbed the stairs to 221B.

Martha was sobbing, her throat constricted by a painful lump, but she didn’t feel a thing when the shards from the broken porcelain cut her palms and fingers.

“My darling boy. How could you do this to him?” she whispered hoarsely.

She made a mental note to hide John’s gun later.

“Don’t you understand that this will destroy him? What does he have to live for when you are gone?”

Her voice was angry now, scolding the man she loved like a son. She’d never met Sherlock’s parents and he rarely spoke of them, but Martha guessed that they were even more devasted than she was. 

Her thoughts went back to yesterday again.

Greg Lestrade confirmed John’s statement. He didn’t look as ashen as John, but it was a near thing. The DI had after all saved Sherlock’s life once. The determination to save John’s life, was heavily implied.

When she finally got rid of the concerned police officer – she was no fragile flower petal, mind you – she made some calls, while her mind was still able to function properly.

Her former employer heard the news from Mycroft Holmes but had nothing more to add. With a deep sigh she called Sherlock’s brother. The man she had quite conflicted feelings about. With one word, spoken in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use, he broke her: “Martha.”

She hung up before he could realise the state she was in. After she’d turned off her mobile, she cried until her eyes were sore. 

At Sherlock’s funeral, she asked to have a moment alone by the grave. Before the coffin was covered with earth, she strewed the remains of the Delft cup into the dark hole.

“Farewell, my darling boy. I hope you are at peace. We’ll all take care of John for you.” 

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

I'm sorry if I hurt you. Feel free to yell and pour your heart out. The urge to explore how Mrs. Hudson received the devastating news, was too overwhelming to ignore, I'm afraid.

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[writingamongther0ses]

The New Pet

Summary: Zavir is having a very rough day. The warlord's pet is probably having a worse one- at least they have a giant monster to befriend. Based on @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of Galaxies Away. It was either this or aliens deal with Earth's oceans.

Today was a horrible day for Zavir.

Scratch that, it had been a horrible month. Starting when he had been told- he hadn't even volunteered, he had been told like he was a common soldier- that he was going to be sneaking onto the ship of the most feared warlord in the universe.

To be fair, Pix Gui Haban was in a good mood. It was dangerous when he was in a good mood. That was when he wiped out species. Zavir's mission was to sneak on board and where and when Haban was attacking next. The part that was kept quiet was figuring out why the warlord was in a good mood.

There could be a few reasons. One, the Light just shone down on Haban. Two, Haban had just succeeded in a new conquest and the good mood lingered. The third was most horrifying.

Gui Haban could be in a good mood because he got a new pet.

Generally, new pets weren't a problem. Most species in the universe liked having animal companionship. The issue with Haban's pets, however, was that the Pix's pets were people.

Haban liked to kidnap members of rare or dying races and keep them until he got bored. Only four had ever escaped Haban's grasp, and that included Haban's sister, Gui Ava. Their stories were horrifying. Zavir's stomach turned whenever one let out a new piece of info.

So, yeah. The secret part of Zavir's mission was seeing if Haban had kidnapped a new person. If he did, he would have to figure out how to get them out or at least get the information out so the Federation could figure out how to rescue them.

That led into the horrible day.

Sneaking in had been easy. Zavir had trained himself to look like he was meant to be there. The trick was not secretly panicking. The issue was when he had to start poking around and stealing information and then accidentally triggered the alarms.

There was way too many alarms. He knew Gui Haban was a paranoid man, especially considering his species' history of civil war, but this felt like too much even for him.

Either way, guards started rushing around. Zavir flattened himself against the wall, trying to count the number of guards.

Then the wall had opened behind him.

Zavir fell back with a yelp. He should've expected this, considering Haban liked hidden doors. (Ava had complained about it many times, with her brother using them for dramatics or to stalk his prey.) Instead of a hallway, however, he found himself falling down a shaft, his tail aching as it whacked into the walls as he tried to slow his fall. It didn't work-

SPLASH.

Most species were weak to hydrogen hydroxide. Zavir's race, the Selken, were not. But that didn't mean that they liked water. Rather, it was the opposite- hydrogen hydroxide matted and tangled their fur to such a painful degree.

The minute he was submerged, he began to swim up. He looked around as he moved. He could see what looked to be glass, like something at an actual zoo and a feature of the quarters of the "pets". The hydrogen hydroxide meant that there was a few species that could be kept in here.

Then Zavir made the mistake of looking down.

He shrieked the minute he realized he was being stared at. The monster, because his frazzled mind couldn't think of what species it was, was huge. It stared at him with huge, beady eyes, like it was considering whether or not to eat him. That was all he could take in because the hydrogen hydroxide was rushing into his open mouth, of shit he was going to-

SPLASH!

He barely felt hands grab his arms and yank him up. In his daze, he thought he saw one of those hands move forward and make...make...make...okay, he was hallucinating. There was no way someone was stupid enough to shoo a giant monster.

Then his head breached the surface.

The person he hallucinated shooing grabbed his collar and started dragging him along. Zavir barely felt his back hit something soft in his haze.

The last thing he saw was green eyes, staring at him with concern, and then the silver collar she wore, the tag announcing her planet and species. His last thing was well, guess we know he got a new pet.

What was a human?