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lisbeth-kk · 6 months

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Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there.

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

#flash fic friday #flashfiction #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #johnlock #post recheinbach

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helloliriels · 6 months

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ANTAGONISH

"As I was walking up the stair,

. I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.

. I wish, I wish ... he'd go away."

. - William a Hughes Mearns

John had stepped into the flat only a handful of times since Sherlock's demise.

The pain of memories ... happy, whole, perfect memories ... too much to bear.

It was empty now. Their flat.

. Theirs.

. And it had been.

Once.

John steeled himself for what he was to face - going up those seventeen steps ...

The unshakable feeling that if he was just to turn around ... ?

Sherlock would be right behind him.

Coming up the stairs.

That if he turned back around ... Sherlock would be before him.

Beckoning him home.

John huffed a laugh.

Foolish.

His childish imagination.

But the last time he had been here, he could have sworn ...

He took one last look around to confirm that the hall and the landing were, in fact, empty.

Then he took a firm step forward. One.

Then two. Three.

He paused.

The hair on the back of his neck rising.

Shaking his head against the urge to look.

Don't turn around ...

. Don't turn around ...

. Don't turn.

He took another step.

Willing himself to keep moving.

A creak on a stair below him.

He isn't there ...

The echo of a step ...

Stop it!

John froze. Willing his eyes to stay downcast on his own shoes. He studied them. As worn and haphazard as his hope ...

Then forced himself once more, to move.

Three more steps. Two more steps. One.

His hand reached out for the door to 221B.

He took a deep breath.

This time the step behind him on the stair, was unmistakable ...

As was the fall of a large hand onto the wooden railing below.

"Sherlock?"

John spoke the name aloud before he could stop himself.

The stairwell was silent.

John's grip on the door handle tightened.

The tears stinging at the corners of his eyes ...

He took another deep breath.

His imagination.

Just his imagination ...

A wild, hopeful, god damned wishful and desperately-longing-for-all-of-this-to-be-just-a-magic-trick imagination ... begging the universe not for an empty stairwell ...

... but for an empty grave.

"I asked you for one more miracle," John told the air.

Oddly. The confession seemed to help quiet his nerves.

He looked up. Pinpointing the light of the setting sun.

"I asked you not to be dead."

He knew the words were final. Closure.

Somehow ... the air in the hall itself, held its breath ...

Then he heard a gasp.

And a heavy step below him.

Accompanied by the very real feeling ... Unmistakable.

That of a warm hand moving along a polished wooden rail. The slightest friction echoing up the stairs ...

John tried to steady his heart rate. His pulse thrumming in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound ... If it even had been real ...?

Sherlock's voice broke the silence next, barely a whisper ...

. "I heard you."

It sounded unsteady ... shaky ...

. fragile ... ?

Like a ghost.

But the next thing he heard was a very real hiss of pain, shattering his illusions ... even as he felt the thud of a body collapsing onto the stairs below.

John was down the stairs in seconds.

Gathering the long-missing detective into his arms. Every sense taking in and cataloguing what his eyes could not yet believe ...

(... continued below the cut)

"Sherlock? Oh, God - Sherlock!" John cradled his friend closer, rocking him into a better position where he could check him for wounds ... for anything he could do to help alleviate his pain ...?

He couldn't make out was cause of Sherlock's distress, but the man was fading into unconsciousness.

"Just ... hold on, Sherlock!" John commanded hauling Sherlock up into his arms.

Despite Sherlock's thin stature, he had been almost pure muscle before, but now ... John didn't want to think about how Sherlock could have lost this much weight in the time he had been away?

He was real. He was here. That was all that mattered.

John found the strength to carry whatever weight Sherlock had, gladly.

Upstairs, he tucked Sherlock into a bed that lay fitted and ready for use as if he had never left it ... and then stared at the sight in wonder.

Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was home.

John felt Sherlock shift and those crystal blue eyes blinked open for a moment. He could see Sherlock fought against the sleep that desperately wanted to overtake him.

How tired was he ... ?

John shushed him and managed to settle him back down. Watching as his friend's demeanor relaxed. His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out ...

Seconds passed. Minutes.

Maybe hours.

When John felt Sherlock's hand reach out in his sleep ... and grasp for his hand.

"... John, I ..."

The baritone voice poured into John's veins. Hot liquid. More valuable than blood. More heady than pure oxygen. Speeding up his heart rate again ...

"... I heard you," Sherlock sighed with relief, "I heard you ..."

John sighed too.

. Sherlock was dreaming.

This time ... John knew he wasn't the only one wishing for an empty grave. A successful magic trick.

They were both experiencing a miracle.

John gripped Sherlock's hand firmly, caressing the knuckles as he watched his miracle ...

. Sleep.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @whumptober

@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @gregorovitchworld @lisbeth-kk @john-smiths-jawline @chinike @rhasima @calaisreno @discordantwords @raina-at @kettykika78 @khorazir @hasenkind687 @iwlyanmw @missdeliadili @safedistancefrombeingsmart @iamjustreading @jobooksncoffee @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear @amyreadsandstresses @shiplocks-of-love @caffeinatedanxiouscucumber @timberva @colourfulwatson @arwamachine @peageetibbs @meetinginsamarra @whatnext2020 @purplevatican @ineffableuser @estrella-creek @k2ntwo @kaursblog11 @mrb488 @justanobsessedpan @gaylilsherlock @sarahthecoat @7-percent @lillysliterature @ninasnakie @the-reading-lemon @a-victorian-girl @wizama @jawnscoffee @13monkton ... I'm getting back into writing, go easy on me!

#flash fic friday #whumptober 2023 #post-trf #fix-it fic #teh #(belated)#(beloved)

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zutaras-where-its-at · 6 months

Note

One word prompts: Butterflies

Thanks 😊

it’s not that he’s never had a crush. he’s had plenty of crushes—for agni’s sake, he had a steady girlfriend for years!

by now, he’s very accustomed to the awkwardness of first dates and first kisses and first touches. if anything, he’s well on his way to being quite experienced in those areas, thank you very much.

he’s fucking twenty-five years old. he’s not some child, okay—

“it is bad for your health to worry so much, my nephew,” iroh muses beside him.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” zuko grinds out.

he tugs at the collar of his formal robes, feeling the silky material cling stubbornly to his neck. fuck, did it suddenly get hotter?

“though,” iroh continues, as if zuko hadn’t said anything at all, “i suppose it is natural to be nervous when experiencing the throes of young love.”

“uncle—“

“announcing chief sokka and ambassador katara from the southern water tribe.”

zuko stiffens in place, heart suddenly hammering a thousand times faster than before and slamming itself repeatedly against his poor ribcage. servants sweep the doors of the palace open and suddenly, suddenly—

“now this is what i call a welcome party,” a familiar masculine voice echoes into the vast hall. a second later, sokka strides into the throne room with the same wide grin he’s had since they were fifteen. “you fire nation folk sure know what you’re doing when it comes to all the fancy stuff.”

in spite of himself, zuko grins back and is just about to respond (because trust sokka to know how to bombard straight through delicate situations) when the air seems to get sucked right out of the room.

“katara.”

she looks even more beautiful than the last time he saw her six months ago. those huge, cerulean eyes blink warmly at him from across the room and he can’t tear his eyes off the cute scrunch in her nose she gets when she smiles.

“hey, zuko,” she says, a glimmer of something in her voice.

“what the fuck. i’m right here, man,” sokka whines, and zuko chokes on a laugh, because fuck, he can’t seem to properly breathe, and his cheeks feel flushed, and shit—

the butterflies in his stomach just won’t quit long enough for him to catch his damn breath.

before he even realizes it, she’s wrapping strong arms around his torso, and squeezing—and well, that—that definitely doesn’t help with the butterfly situation. he finally hugs her back, accidentally crushing her with the intensity of his embrace, but if it bothers her, she doesn’t show it.

he’s sure she can feel his heartbeat through their smushed chests, and he’s pretty sure they’re starting to get weird looks from the palace staff…but agni, he missed her. her hair still smells like salt and cucumber, her frame is still so solid and unwavering, her tinkling laugh is still the most perfect thing he’s ever heard—

and okay.

maybe he’s had a couple crushes before, and yes, maybe he’s done the whole ‘girlfriend’ thing in the past, but wow—none of them come even close to comparing to how absolutely, devastatingly, damnably in love he is with her.

his stomach flutters almost painfully.

this is really starting to get out of hand, he thinks.

#mehhhh don’t love this one but i hope you enjoyed it!#thanks for the prompt! :)#zutara #katara #zuko #sokka #uncle iroh #flash fic friday #my zutara stuff

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serpentarius · 3 months

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Anton and Viago want to #SaveOFMD

“Babe,” Anton calls out to Viago, who’s been lounging in the other room while Anton’s catching up on work. “Can you grab me the charger? Laptop’s dying and I’ve gotta finish reading these manuals tonight. Think it’s by the sofa.”

He hears Viago shuffling for a minute. But then, the silence drags on a bit too long, so the werewolf checks in again. “Vi? S’it there?”

No response, still. Barely any sound actually. Though after nine years of being together, and the most recent five of those living together, Anton’s learned that vampires are amazing at sneaking up on people, on account of being able to levitate and move at paranormal speeds. And the completely unnecessary need to breathe. Natural predators, them.

“You alright in there, love?” he tries again, voice tinged with a tiny bit of concern this time.

And suddenly, the vampire - his vampire - appears at the threshold of Anton’s study. He’s not floating, but walking slowly. His mouth is formed into what appears to be the biggest pout-frown Anton’s seen on him in months, maybe even years, and even from where Anton’s sitting he can see his eyes are glassy. He’s staring down at the phone between his hands (the Galaxy Note that Anton had bought him for his last birthday, equipped with a stylus since they’d learned that touch screens didn’t register vampire fingerprints), but he still isn’t saying anything.

“Babe!” Anton immediately gets up from his seat and goes over to him. “What’s wrong??”

He’s just put a hand to Viago’s face, the action silently urging the vampire to speak despite the tears now spilling down his cheeks, and puts his other hand on Viago’s shoulder.

“Anton,” Viago’s voice wobbles. Christ, Anton’s heart always feels like it’s been pierced when Viago is upset. “It has been cancelled.”

(Ficlet continues under the cut! Happy ending impending, I promise ❤️️)

He feels his own face twist with confusion. “What has, love?? What’s been cancelled?”

“Our pirate show,” and there’s a frantic panic in the other man’s tone, now, lips quivering and brows furrowed in disbelief. “Our beloved pirate show!”

“Our Flag Means Death?” Anton exclaims. He starts to shake his head, “No, no - what? No way, Vi, where’d you hear that?”

Viago’s cheeks hollow, as if forcing himself to hold back more tears.

“It is all over the news outlets.”

“What?” Anton repeats. “But I was just on Twitter a few days ago and it was - it seemed like a sure thing! Samson put up some not-so-vague posts on Instagram, and Jenkins was engaging with the fans–” “He is the one who has announced it!” and now, Viago has turned his phone toward Anton, and Anton’s eyes take a second to focus. He’s met with a picture of a familiar unicorn masthead, beautiful and backlit, and then he scrolls down to see the caption–

And his heart sinks.

OUR FLAG won’t be returning for a third season.

“What the hell,” he wants to yell, but it comes out as a soft, broken whisper instead. “No, what? This has to be a joke…”

The vampire shakes his head sadly.

“What the fuck?” and now, the werewolf feels the volume rising in his chest. "What's the network thinking, doing this?!"

Viago’s face crumples. Another shooting pain in Anton’s chest. “It is not a joke,” and he’s openly sobbing now, unable to hold them back anymore, and on reflex Anton pulls him close, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing his other hand on the back of Viago’s neck, letting him settle his face into the crook of his neck. “It’s not fair,” Viago muffles out, voice thick, “Why would they do this?”

“Christ. I really don’t know, babe,” Anton murmurs. He’s at a complete loss for words - his stomach is flipping and the upset is rocking his core, and he's angry, and off-balance, and there’s nothing he can say that can make this better. “I genuinely don’t know.”

Perhaps another partner would tell their sobbing significant other not to get so upset about a television show. That these things happened all the time, that this was just how the business went sometimes; that time would heal the wound, and that something new would eventually come and take its place.

But that’s now how Anton feels.

Since its release, Our Flag Means Death quickly became their thing.

Even with him working more evening shifts these past few years–in an attempt to adjust his sleep hours to spend more time with Viago–the opposing nature of their natural schedules still weighed on them some days.

So having this shared interest together - something to look forward to, one of the few things they would never dare to participate in without the other - was lovely, and deeply special. Nothing could replace what this show meant to them.

It started out as quite a lighthearted viewing experience. They enjoyed the new episodes every week and giggled in delight over pirate shenanigans, and couldn't help pointing out the somewhat uncanny physical similarities of the actors playing Ed and Stede to Viago and Anton themselves.

It wasn’t until more than halfway through, though, that they realized a romance plot was building up between the leads. As the story progressed, there were more moments that pulled on their heartstrings, almost entirely in sync with each other. When Ed's eyes would light up around Stede, or when Stede tucked the red silk into Ed’s vest and told him you wear fine things well, Anton would glance over at Viago, and his chest would swell at the sight of him. Happy, beautiful, clearly very touched by it all, and just a second later, glancing right back at Anton with love in his eyes.

And then, the kiss. Anton and Viago had both been holding their breaths during the buildup, anxiously watching Ed and Stede talk through their feelings on the beach, hoping the moment was coming, and yet still rocked by pleasant surprise when it actually did.

But then, Stede didn’t show up to the dock. And Ed went back to the Revenge. And then, they were at the finale.

The pair of them were already emotional wrecks partway through the episode, and then suddenly they were screaming through their tears when the final shot closed on Stede in the dinghy.

"How the hell could they end it there!" Anton had yelled, now on his feet and just inches away from the television. “How could they end it like that??”

"I think that David Jenkins is an evil genius!" Viago had yelled back.

“Stede has to find Ed!” Anton continued. “I mean, they’ve gotta have a series two now, right? Right?”

“He has to find him,” the vampire had said with wide eyes and his hands clasped in front of his heart. “He has to!”

(Anton’s not ashamed to admit that, when they’d tumbled into bed together soonafter the finale, they held each other even tighter than usual. With every kiss, each breathless gasp and tangled limb and treacle-sweet term of endearment whispered into the other’s skin, the I love yous flowed freely from them, even long after their bodies were spent. Ed may not have known how Stede felt about him yet, but Anton had long ago made it his life’s purpose to never let Viago forget how much he loves him.)

The wait for the news on series two renewal was grueling, particularly because it seemed the network was taking a ridiculously long time to renew a show that was so clearly a hit, having already amassed a gargantuan fan base.

During these months, Anton had become somewhat obsessed and found himself on Twitter - an app he had previously avoided like the plague - only because it allowed him to monitor for any Our Flag-related news. Unfortunately it had become somewhat of an addiction, though luckily whenever Viago would ask what had gotten him so glued to his phone, Anton felt he could be honest, and Viago’s irritation would ease once he’d snuggle up to Anton so they could scroll together.

At long last, the series two news came, and the pair of them celebrated for the entire following week. Celebrations included a season one rewatch, Viago overindulging on blood bank baggies, and Anton overindulging in one too many rye and gingers. (And sex. Lots of sex.)

When series two finally aired, it was even better than ever, and they’d filmed it in Aotearoa! The couple hadn’t been able to make it up to Auckland to try and catch a glimpse of production while it was happening, but that hadn’t mattered much. It didn’t take away from the distinct, glowing sense of pride Anton felt, and he couldn’t wait to see the breathtaking landscapes of his home country dazzle the silver screen.

And it definitely didn’t disappoint. Even with the heartbreak of Izzy’s fate at the end, both he and Viago felt like this series had been an even grander rollercoaster than its predecessor. And in their hours-long discussions after the fact, they agreed that Ed and Stede being on their own for a little while was a good idea; that they needed the chance to be away from pirating to sort their own relationship out.

“They will return to the ship, though,” Viago had adamantly stated. "I do not think they will make very good innkeepers, after all. And I do wonder if that Frenchie will make a suitable captain…”

“Frenchie’s plenty capable, babe! Plus, he’s got a ship full of badasses to help him out if he ever slips up.”

“This is true. They have Zheng the Pirate Queen and Auntie, and Fang!”

“Don’t skimp on the merit for the rest of the crew,” Anton points out. “Even with Buttons gone, Jim and Oluwande know their way ‘round the ship. And Lucius is a proper pirate now, and you’ve got the veterans like Pete, Wee John, and Roach... plus, oh, they’ve got the Swede back too! And I dunno if Spanish Jackie’s ever sailed but I’m sure she could teach them a thing or two about something - man. They must be having a ball of a time on there.”

“Ja, you are right of course, my love,” Viago replies warmly, and he zones out for a moment, likely getting lost in the idea of the pirate family at sea. Then, suddenly, “Ooh, I have just had the best idea! We should make a party for Calypso’s birthday and invite all the others! We can decorate the flat and wear pirate-y costumes.”

“And buy a barrel of rum?” Anton adds cheekily.

“It would not be complete without that, of course. And of course, also a barrel of blood for us vampires.”

Anton grins at him. “Brilliant idea as always, love.”

Because yes, at this point, they had already successfully gotten the other vampires and werewolves into the show. The idea had initially been met with some resistance; Vladislav revealed he had a personal vendetta against pirates (Anton reminded himself to ask about that history at a later time), and Clifton only exclusively watched shows about crime, with lots of gore and violence to boot. (“But pirates are the ultimate crime-committers!” Anton had told him, which was apparently all he needed to trick Clif into it).

But by the end of episode one, every single one of them was invested. From there, they organized regular watch parties, and as they watched, Anton would think warmly of how their own mismatched group - the Te Aro pack and Wellington vampires, absolute misfits, so wildly chaotic and different from each other, and yet still able to become as close and loving as family over the years - were sort of like their own Revenge crew.

Oh, god, Anton thinks now, suddenly snapped back to the present. “Fuck,” he says aloud. “The others are gonna be devastated about this.”

Viago’s shoulders droop and he nods sadly. “They will be very upset. I am afraid Vladislav may go on quite a rampage once he hears of this.”

“Can’t believe how much he loves the show,” Anton can't help but chuckle fondly. “Even despite his messy past with Kristoffer Trondson.”

“Yes,” a small smile plays at Viago's lips. “I am proud of him for getting over his deep, intense hatred for pirates.”

The disappointment quickly returns, a creeping grey cloud of hopelessness and dread filling the room as the reality starts to sink in.

“Fuck. This sucks, love,” Anton exhales, suddenly feeling tears pricking the corners of his own eyes. “This really sucks.” Viago says nothing, only pulls him back into a crushing embrace, and they stay like that for a while.

The next day, Anton's sadness morphs into rage.

“Apparently the CEO at the top-top is some soulless corporate arshole,” Anton growls later that night, the harsh glare of the computer screen causing his eyes to strain.

He had barely been able to get through work today, his mind so distraught by the news of cancellation that he had to take himself aside and snap his brain out of it. Now, he's furiously sipping at his flat white while Viago hands him his blue-light blocking glasses. “He's a known homophobe, apparently, which - Christ, isn’t surprising at all, is it - and determined to burn the whole company to the ground! He’s gotten rid of everything of substance, Vi, just so he can get more money out of it. Absolute shithead of a man!"

Viago makes a displeased sound. "He deserves nothing but curses," he rumbles, but then his tone shifts into one of hopelessness. "So what it is we can do now? I am not ready to say goodbye to our pirates, Anton."

“I know, babe. I know how much they mean to you,” he sighs. “How much they mean to us. I mean... fuck, we still need to see Ed and Stede get married! And the rest of the crew needs to get back at Ricky, and kill the English, and just... ah. What a numpty fucking decision this was, not to renew."

They spend the rest of the evening away from the computer, because everything Anton sees about the news is making his blood boil, and he needs to keep that shit in check - he rarely wolfs out at random anymore, but this one seems to be getting to him. They go for a lovely walk to the waterfront, and try to distract each other as best as possible, and settle in for bed in the wee hours of the morning.

It's not until Viago finds Anton, just a few hours later, sniffling on the couch with his phone out in front of him, that Anton realizes how deeply the hurt is settling into him.

“My love,” Viago joins him on the sofa, blinking a bit blearily. “What is it you are crying about?”

"Sorry, 'm sorry, babe," Anton wipes at his face, "I didn't mean to wake you, I just - couldn't stop thinking about it, and now I'm reading someone's post about how the show saved their life - helped them realize who they were, that they didn’t have to hide anymore, and it just - just made me…”

But he isn’t able to finish the sentence. Because Viago knows. They know each other so deeply, now, that they don't always have to speak out loud for the other to understand. Viago just presses him close, wrapping his limbs around Anton’s and slotting them together the way they’ve done so many times before. A perfect fit.

“I think that perhaps we should stay off the interwebs for right now, liebling,” Viago whispers gently, stroking his hair. “Because it is making us too sad.”

“Yeah,” and it comes out a bit choked, “Yeah. Think you’re right. Think we need to get our minds off this for a bit.”

A few days later, Anton gets a ping on his phone. A text from Stu.

Have you seen this? followed by a link.

Anton is confused at first, but then he clicks on the link, and his eyes go wide.

Hours later, he hears the front door click open; Viago's back from his visit with the vampires, and starts talking to Anton about some Vampire Council business, and normally Anton loves to hear about the wildly dramatic politics of the supernatural world but today, he just yells out at Viago to join him in the kitchen.

"Got something to show you!" Anton tells him, leaning over the island with his laptop open.

“What is it?” Viago asks curiously, shrugging off his white cape.

“Right, okay, so - I know we said we’d take a break from the internet, but look,” and once the vampire is standing next to him, he points to the screen.

He shows him the tab with the official petition, first. The link that Stu sent him. Renew as a Crew, it reads, followed by a short blurb. A petition that already has tens of thousands of signatures and counting.

Then, he cycles through to Twitter, slowly going through the newsfeed where they see multiple articles from major news outlets condemning the cancellation decision, and numerous trending hashtags about saving the show; countless initiatives and analyses from fans, advice on what the best course of action is to get the show back; letter-writing campaigns and posts tagging other networks to consider picking up the series, celebrities voicing their support, an endless amount of fanart and fanfiction, screenshots and GIFs and videos, posts from people celebrating the friends and community they've made through the show — “Look babe,” he feels his own eyes crinkling at the edges. He rests a hand on the small of Viago’s back as the vampire leans over him. “They’re not going down without a fight.”

Viago examines the screen, taking over the mouse and scrolling for a while. Finally, he looks back to Anton with a sparkle in those big, beautiful brown eyes, and a genuine smile that lights up his entire face.

“Then neither will we.”

Anton smiles back at him, and then makes a show of cracking his knuckles.

The ideas are already circulating in his head; he's already sent the petition to their immediate social circle, and considers sending it to the folks at work. He and Viago can start writing letters to the network, and send as many emails as possible - Stu could help with that tons, too, what with his IT background - Anton could even get in touch with the few film industry friends he has, see if they have any insider knowledge or advice. Maybe their little Wellington community could even start up a sub-initiative of their own.

“Let’s go get our damned men back.”

SIGN THE PETITION HERE! And follow Renew as a Crew on Twitter for more updates. Love you all! We can do this!!

#renew as a crew #this fic just flowed out of me because I love the show so much #I wouldn't have discovered vianton without it #our flag means death #viago x anton #flash fic friday #this is very meta and weird I know #but I couldn't help it!#these two are just as upset as we are #and they want to #save OFMD #vianton #wwdits #viago von dorna schmarten scheden heimburg #anton the werewolf #what we do in the shadows

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bazzpop · 6 months

Text

Tied Up In Knots

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Aziraphale’s first indication that something was wrong was the loud thump of something—or someone—very heavy slamming onto the ancient floorboards. His second was the wince-inducing crash of porcelain shattering as it, too, hit the floor. And, lastly, his third was the hissed out obscenities that soon followed, no doubt coming from a very grumpy, and likely pained, snake.

“Crowley, dear?” Azirpahale asked towards the backroom, though he didn’t get up to check just yet. If Crowley was well enough to move on to cursing his way through every dead language they knew in history, he probably wasn’t in any real danger. “Everything all right?”

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed irritably, “jussst peachy.”

“I highly doubt that whatever you’re doing back there has anything to do with peaches.” Aziraphale set his book aside and primly took off his nifty reading glasses that were more for form than function. “You know I’d be awfully cross if it does and you didn’t share any.”

“No peachesss,” Crowley promised. The rasp of scales sliding furiously against the floors loud in the otherwise quiet shop. “If anything, I’d sssay ‘s more like a pretzel.”

Intrigued by that tiny admission, Aziraphale rose from his cushy armchair and mentally prepared himself for whatever Crowley could have possibly gotten himself into while he began the short walk into the backroom.

The sight that met him upon entry was not at all what he’d expected.

Crowley was in serpent form, sprawled out on the floor, littered remnants of an unfortunate mug of cold cocoa scattered around him, and absolutely tangled in the blanket Aziraphale had carefully laid over him while he had been dozing off in the sunbeams earlier. But, from the look of things, he had also managed to get a bit tangled up in himself too—if the giant mess of a knot in his middle, spine up in a rather nasty twist because of it, was anything to go by.

“Uh,” Crowley’s thin tongue poked out to lick his non-existent lips, strongly resisting the urge to hide his snout somewhere deep amongst his coils in embarrassment, “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can,” Azirpahale desperately tried not to laugh for Crowley’s sake, “and I’d very much love to hear it, but how about I get you unraveled first? That can’t be very comfortable.”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”

Gently, Aziraphale picked up the bundle of snake and went about inspecting the knot. Oh dear, Crowley had done quite a number on himself with this one, he tsked. It took him a couple minutes of poking and prodding for the knot to finally give way.

Inspecting his handiwork, Aziraphale stroked a hand down the smooth scales in a soothing manner. “There we are, good as new.”

“Thanksss,” Crowley slipped through the angel’s hands, collapsing onto the floor and back into his favorite human shape. But as soon as he materialized, he grabbed at his back with a grimace, leaning into the arms Aziraphale had brought up when his knees almost buckled under him. “Ow, that smarts.”

“Something wrong?”

“Think I pulled something in my back,” the demon explained with a wince before it turned into a disbelieving laugh, “didn’t know I could do that as a snake.”

“Neither did I,” Aziraphale chucked along with an undercurrent of concern, raising a hand to snap, “is it something I could help with?”

“Nah, don’t trouble yourself—I’m fine, really. Nothing a bit of sitting down for a while, stretching it out, and maybe having something to drink can’t fix.”

“Oh,” Azirpahale wiggled, though a more controlled wiggle as to not jostle the poor demon’s aching back too much, “I do believe I can help with that!” Together they hobbled their way over to the sofa so the demon could sit himself down, and then moved on to pour them some drinks from an ornate crystal decanter of Crowley’s favorite scotch. “Now then, I believe I was promised an explanation on how that happened?” He asked, offering a tumbler of amber colored liquor to a crooked sitting demon.

“Right.” Crowley accepted it, tongue flicking out to better catch the scent. Oooh this was the good stuff, leave it to Aziraphale to know him so well. “Let’s just say I couldn’t get comfortable, tied myself up in knots without something warm to wrap myself around in such a drafty old bookshop.”

“Well then,” Azirpahale smiled down into his glass, feeling brave, “perhaps I’ll just have to offer myself the next time you feel the need to cuddle something warm, shouldn’t I?”

Crowley sputtered into his drink, alcohol burning his nose, and tried to hold onto his cool attitude, even after the indignity of today’s events. “Sure, if you like.”

“I would.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens ficlet #azirpahale #crowley #ineffable husbands #snake crowley #aziraphale good omens #crowley good omens #flash fic friday #flash fiction friday #fff221 #bazz writes

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loki-is-my-kink-awakening · 1 year

Text

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt an eternal summer

His summer

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Tags: feelings realisation

He doesn't want this summer to end.

Not that it had been any different from previous summers. It's still the two of them camping under the stars, the same as ever.

But something in Geralt has shifted. Something he can't explain.

He'd stopped grumbling whenever the bard sang, strumming his lute into the late hours of night.

He didn't complain when Jaskier grabbed a comb and teased out the knots in his hair, carefully braiding it down his back.

He even let the troubadour steal his food, wear his clothes and use his bags to bring along whatever unnecessary items he wanted to.

When Geralt glances up from poking the fire to look at Jaskier, he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.

The bard was screwing his face up, hand scratching his head while he pondered the lyrics for his next song.

The years had been kind to the bard. His features are still soft and full of youth despite the wilderness they frequent.

His eyes shine bright, day or night, but Geralt prefers seeing them right now, across a campfire when they flash at him, piercing and demanding.

"What are you thinking, my dear witcher," Jaskier purrs, setting his quill and notebook down on the log.

Geralt's eyes dart down, flickering back to the fire. That smile on his face threatens to spill out across his lips.

He can feel Jaskier walk around, coming up behind him. His knees drop, perching onto the edge of the stone that Geralt is sitting on.

Jaskier's arms wrap around his neck.

"What's on your mind, love?" he whispers in his ear.

"Nothing," Geralt lies, like he always does.

Jaskier hums in a low voice, a mockery of all the times Geralt made that noise, clearly making a point.

In response, Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's. He wants to turn his head, to kiss him, but he doesn't move.

He can't lose this. These moments they have. He wants more, Melitele, how badly he wants more, but he's never had more. He won't push it.

"I was thinking, it's such a nice night, maybe we can put out bedrolls together and watch the stars after dinner."

Geralt nods his head, then feels his breath hitch as Jaskier brings his lips up to his cheek and places the softest peck against him.

Then he's gone, leaving him to go back to compose while Geralt cooks the rabbit.

He never wants this to end, and yet, as the summer leaves start to turn, he knows it will have to.

His heart aches in his chest at the thought of a winter without him, his bard, his companion, his shadow.

His love.

The thought crashes through him. That's the word. That's what Jaskier means to him: love.

He stands up, dropping his stick, and walks over to Jaskier.

The dirt beneath his feet crunches, but he doesn't hear it for the thumping of his blood pumping around his body.

He feels warm in a way he's never experienced, not even in the throes of passion with Yennefer, or at a brothel.

His fingers twitch, his body feeling heavy with each step.

Jaskier isn't even looking at him, furiously writing down words onto a page. Geralt's never looks at what he writes, but he likes the way he sprawls black ink across the pages.

He steps forward, his leg hitting Jaskier's knee.

There's a huff of protest from Jaskier for a second, then he's looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

The argument is over before it begins, because Geralt reaches out with his hands, cupping his face with one and holding onto his bicep with another, and then Jaskier is rising to meet him.

Those blue eyes sparkle in confusion. They dart back and forth, up and down, as if Geralt's expression will reveal the secret.

Geralt feels breathless, like the air is thin. He moves his other hand up Jaskier's arm, sliding up and behind his neck.

The bard's lips are parted, tempting Geralt to taste them. Jaskier peers up at him, blinking.

There's a brief pause, a moment while Geralt tries to commit this to memory.

Then he leans forward, bringing their lips together.

Jaskier whimpers at the touch, barely responding, then suddenly his hands clutch onto Geralt's shirt, pulling hard.

Their lips slide together, soft and tender. The taste of plum wine that Jaskier drank earlier while they were in town fills Geralt's senses.

This is the perfect moment, something that should never end.

Yet Jaskier pulls back, gasping for air for a second.

Those eyes shine, like they always do, and Jaskier bites his lips playfully, leaning his forehead against Geralt's.

"I have to ask something, Geralt, or I'm going to explode. And, please, I need you to answer me. How long have you wanted to do that?"

"Just…a while," he admits, giving a small shrug.

Jaskier splutters, slapping his arm. It doesn't hurt one bit.

"You…okay, fine. Tell me later. I just need you to kiss me again."

Their lips meet again, sending tingles of pleasure through Geralt. He feels himself melt into it, knowing deep in his bones that this is where he wants to be forever.

This right here is all he needs. Jaskier, his bard, his love, is his eternal summer.

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #i'm obviously feeling soft today #my fic #flash fanfic #flash fic challenge #flash fic friday

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polizwrites · 4 months

Text

Competing for His Affections

This is a fill for today's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt [#FFF233 Imperfect Sign], as well as my @tonystarkbingo KINK: Cock-blocking 'bots and @buckybarnesbingo Humor squares, along with a belated @fictober-event prompt for Day 27: "I don't know if they will accept this."

Fandom: MCU/Marvel Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Tony Stark Rating: General Tags: Tower fic, new relationship, 'bots, Dum-E, cock-blocking 'bots, humor

When Bucky leaned in to brush a kiss across Tony’s cheek, he was a little hurt to have his - admittedly still somewhat new - boyfriend pull away, even as he gestured toward Dum-E and U, who were parked in their charging stations.

“I don’t know if they will accept this, sunshine,” he murmured, waving a hand between the two of them.

Bucky frowned in confusion. “I thought the ‘bots liked me.”

“As a playmate, sure. As competition for my affection?” Tony frowned and grimaced, “Maybe not so much. After all, they never did take very well to Pepper.”

Bucky suspected the opposite was true as well; that Pepper had some level of jealousy towards Tony’s creations. But that was neither here nor there. “Okay - so you’re saying no making out in the workshop?”

Tony sighed. “At least, not for a little while.”

Bucky nodded in reluctant acceptance. “Fair enough.”

However, Bucky discovered it was easier said than done to keep his hands off Tony when they were in the presence of the ‘bots. Sure, they made up for lost time elsewhere, but it still was a hassle.

To be fair, Tony made it clear he was struggling with the G-rated workshop time as well. “I’m surprised I haven’t bitten my tongue clear through with the times I’ve almost let loose with a pet name when the ‘bots are around,” he complained as they were making lunch together in the kitchen.

“I’d hate to have anything happen to that talented tongue of yours, sweet thing,” Bucky purred, pulling Tony into his arms for a lingering kiss.

They froze at the sound of a familiar, somehow disapproving chirp. “Dum-E, buddy, what are you doing up here?” Tony asked, carefully extricating himself from Bucky’s embrace and putting a foot or two of space between them.

The ‘bot aimed his camera first at Tony, then at Bucky before trundling right over inbetween them. “What have I told you about personal space, buddy?” Tony muttered as they both took a couple of quick steps to avoid having their toes caught under an errant tread.

Making a stubborn beeping sound, Dum-E grabbed hold of Tony’s wrist to pull him towards the workshop. “ Hey, whoa, this is not acceptable! Dum-E, stop it right now!”

The ‘bot did as he was told, but didn’t let go of Tony’s wrist. “A little help, Buckeroo?” he asked, half-joking, but half-serious as well. Not that Bucky thought the ‘bot would hurt Tony intentionally, but Dum-E didn’t always know his own strength.

Bucky tapped on Dum-E’s housing with his metal hand to get the bot’s attention before squatting down to meet him eye to camera eye. “Listen up, pal. Tony here has the biggest heart of anyone I know. I promise that just because he’s taken a shine to me doesn’t mean he loves you any less. That goes for U and JARVIS as well - you’re his family.” He looked up to catch Tony’s eyes. “And if I’m lucky, maybe I can be a part of that family someday, too.”

Dum-E hummed thoughtfully for a moment before letting go of Tony’s wrist. “That’s better,” Bucky praised the ‘bot, patting its housing. He stood up and gently took Tony’s wrist, pressing a soft kiss to it.

Dum-E whirred and pointedly turned his camera away. “Okay, okay,” Tony chuckled, “we’ll keep the PDA to a minimum while you’re up and around. That said,” he added, looping an arm around Bucky’s waist, “once you’re in your charging stations for the evening, anything goes.”

#writing stuff #fanficlet #mcu/marvel #WinterIron #Dum-E #shameless self promo #flash fic friday

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my-cabbages-gorl · 2 months

Text

Delicate by @my-cabbages-gorl

Genre: Hurt/comfort, Romance Rating: Teen audiences & up

Some tags: Zukaang, one-shot, aged-up (Aang is 24 & Zuko is 27), just two men in love being messy as hell, fellas is it gay to find solace in the lips of the man who betrayed you and lead you to you your death

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt Broken Moonlight

Read below or on Ao3

The dusty purple curtain of evening settles over the sandstone roofs of Ba Sing Se. From their balcony in the Earth Kingdom palace, the night hums at a placid, noiseless distance. Aang used to dread this yearly week of pacifying nobles and politicians. By the eighth annual summit, after the dam broke and the Firelord now shared his bed, that—along with almost everything else—changed.

By now, the frenzied, diplomatic commotion of the annual Four Nation Summit has become somewhat of a predictable routine. But this year, even in the quiet of the usual sanctuary of their shared chambers at the end of an exhausting day, something ticks uncomfortably behind Aang’s dark grey eyes as they trace the golden alleys, glittering with life, slashing across the night in Ba Sing Se.

Channeling his seismic sense, he notices a stammering hitch in Zuko’s breathing as he enters silently through the heavy stone doors and bends flames alive to light the torches lining the room. Without turning to see whatever practiced, placated expression he wears on his face, Aang can feel there is more than broken moonlight hanging between them.

“You were excellent today, your highness,” he offers over his shoulder with his arms crossed and back still to Zuko. Amusement that usually soothes somehow prickles Zuko uncomfortably.

“As were you, Avatar Aang,” his hot breath and scarred hands closing around him—joining him to watch the distant vibrance humming below the palace in the dark. The severe set in Aang’s shoulder stiffens at Zuko’s touch.

In the last two years of their new relationship, it’s been Aang who finds a stoic and cold Zuko alone in their chambers and works to pry him open, offering his love as a tether to rescue him from the depths of himself. Tonight is different. Zuko tries to remind himself what Aang would say in these moments.

“You seemed distant today. Is everything—are you...” his voice trails off into the deep blue of the night, intertwining with the static buzzing between them.

A steadying breath rakes through Aang as his eyes shift sidelong to take in Zuko’s knit brow. “Yes. I mean, no. It’s... complicated.” his voice shakes in the way it does when he’s pretending that he isn’t about to cry.

“Aang, talk to me.” Zuko’s softness washes over Aang as he steps around him to look up into his eyes. Lavendar moonlight smoothes the exasperated lines of Aang’s face. His palms find Aang’s cheeks—thumbing away the moisture beginning to sting the corner of his eyes.

“I don't know what I can say, Zuko,” his head shaking gently into Zuko’s touch, a gentle sob shuttering his shoulders as his grey meets Zuko's’ gold. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I-,” another shake in his frame lurches him forward and deeper into Zuko’s touch.

“Aang,” there’s a sternness in his gilded eyes, filtering through his whisper, “I love you. I’m here. I can take it, whatever it is.”

“Being here in the Earth Kingdom palace, with you, now,” there’s a hitch in his breath, his words taste strange in his mouth, he’s not sure the rest is worth saying. But he wanted to try, "I was dead, Zuko.”

The truth and darkness of his words slam down over them like a slab of concrete. Every point of contact between their bodies feels like it's frozen, but somehow—burning.

“I hated you so much,” he manages between the gasping, sobbing breaths that are coming now. He slams a fist against Zuko’s chest, but he doesn’t flinch. He just nods, tears forming in his eyes.

“I hated you, Zuko, I hated you,” his cries choke him as Zuko wraps his arms around him, holding him through every wave.

They remain this way for moments that stretch on into minutes. Whispering I’m sorry and I love you like the words to a hauntingly familiar song. Two lovers, alight with the tortured work of forgiveness in the dead of night.

When they pull apart, this time it’s Aang's hands that find Zuko’s jaw and pull his tear-stained face up to his. His eyes taking in the pained set of Zuko’s brow before crushing their lips together—moving his mouth against Zuko’s in a wild, desperate erraticism.

“Aang,” Zuko pants through the thick haze of desire overwhelming him as Aang’s fingers rake through his hair and he feels his hands prying open his robes, “I’m sorry,” his breathing growing heavier with every frantic kiss. “I’m so sorry” The sound of his moans mingling with shame slows the motion in Aang’s body. He pulls his face away, the sight of Zuko’s untied robes, his bright pink lips, and disheveled topknot stabbing him with remorse.

“I- sorry, I shouldn’t have,” his stormy eyes, purple and flush with need in the moonlight, fall towards the ground as his hands slump down to Zuko’s waist.

“It’s okay, Aang,” his fingers finding Aang's, "I’m the one who should be... sorry,” he looks down at their bodies still pressed together. Sorry feels pointless. Sorry will never be enough.

“You've been apologizing for ten years. When will I just,” a breath he didn’t know he was holding puffs through his lips impatiently, “...get over it?” he sounded exhausted.

“No one’s asking you to get over it, Aang,” the silence stretches on between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Zuko fills his lungs with the evening air before saying, “I’m not asking you to get over it,” their eyes meet again in the anguished purple of the darkness, something sanguine and unspoken settling over them.

Before he can say anything else, Zuko pulls Aang into his arms, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and curling his head into his chest. His lips rest on the blue of Aang’s arrow, breathing in the sweet sandalwood of his skin like a healing tonic.

And there, in the dusty indigo of the night, for what feels like the millionth time, he prays a prayer of thanksgiving to Agni that the man in his arms is still breathing. And that after everything, he’s still his. ~ This is my first @flashfictionfridayofficial submission, and I had SO much fun writing it. Shoutout to @theavatarandthefirelord for being my inspiration to write fff and to write more Zukaang in general. Generally leaning way more into angsty as hell and messy as hell Zukaang - hope ya'll enjoy!

#zukaang #my fic #zuko #aang #atla fic #atla #flash fic friday #flash fiction #fff240 #writeblr #writing community #writing prompt #writers of tumblr

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lisbeth-kk · 3 months

Text

Sherlock fandom.

Damaged goods

“Your anger and loyalty will catch up with you one day, and it’ll be your downfall,” John’s father told him when he came home bruised and injured after another fight protecting his sister.

“I don’t care,” John answered through gritted teeth while he cleaned himself up as best he could.

His father’s words hurt just as much as setting his dislocated shoulder, but John knew he would do it all again if need be.

***

“Brother mine, why won’t you tell me who did this to you?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, concern seeping out of his voice.

“I’m not a snitch, Mycroft,” a thirteen-year-old Sherlock spat.

Blood from his split lip created an interesting pattern on his white t-shirt, his left eye was swollen, and the trousers were ripped at the knees where more blood was visible.

***

Through the years both men considered themselves damaged goods, but when there was justice is to be served, they fought. Fleeing was never an option.

Those two men met by chance according to John, but Sherlock always stated that the universe is rarely so lazy.

Whatever it was and however it came to be, they were a matched set. When they were together, they felt whole, their flaws were but trifles.

John’s father never witnessed his son’s loyalty being valued beyond measure, saving a man’s life just hours after he made his acquaintance.

Sherlock’s brother, however witnessed it all in amazement but also with a considerable amount of apprehension. But, as the years passed, despite his aversion to being wrong, he admitted, at least to himself, that he had miscalculated when it came to John Watson.

“He keeps me right, Mycroft,” Sherlock told him when Mycroft had expressed his disquiet.

And for once, Mycroft was glad that he had trusted Sherlock’s instincts.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @safedistancefrombeingsmart @phoenix27884 @gregorovitchworld @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @raina-at @helloliriels @sabsi221b @topsyturvy-turtely

#flash fic friday #FFF2236 #fight or flight #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #johnlock

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helloliriels · 8 months

Text

S H A T T E R E D

John felt the adrenaline racing through his veins. His pulse pounding in his ears. Every breath he took, too short. The fear gripping him that he might be too late to save Sherlock?

Then he saw him.

Two panes of glass away, in the mirrored classroom across from him. As a madman tempted Sherlock to die for curiosity alone ...

To John's horror, Sherlock unscrewed the cap ... and touched the pill to his lips!

Every nerve came alight as John raised his gun arm. Aiming the weapon, tried and true ...

He pulled the trigger ...

... and fired.

Watching in slow motion as the bullet shattered through the glass before him ... rushing onwards towards its intended target. John smiled. Knowing how this story would end.

But suddenly ...

... John was on the other side of Sherlock?

Staring at the glinting shards of a shattered mirror ... as the bullet instead ... pierced through belstaff, shirt and scarf ...

A crimson red blossoming on Sherlock's torso ... as he fell backwards, unconscious, onto the carpet of Magnussen's office ... !

John fell to his knees.

... Dropping the offending weapon in horror.

Save Sherlock Holmes.

He was always meant ... to save Sherlock Holmes? Not kill him.

Not the man he loved.

"The man we both love."

John heard Mary's voice mocking, as he turned. She picked up the fallen gun ... and fired.

(continued below cut) ✂️

John jolted awake.

The steady dance of the green line ... the rythmic blip and beeps of Sherlock's heart monitor calmed his breathing. Slowed his own racing pulse.

He swallowed a deep breath. Gulping back the tears that threatened to break through the grunt that followed.

Then took a moment to collect himself ... Stealing guilty glances at Sherlock lying there, unconscious ... again.

His fault this time!

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried to rub the nightmare from behind his sore eyes.

He had let Sherlock carry on with the fight he himself had picked with Mary!

He was angry.

But angry now ... with himself, more than her.

He knew the truth at last.

The vision of Mary shooting Sherlock.

Sherlock had given him that.

... And instead of arresting the murderess right then and there as he should have ... ? He had tried to understand her. To understand Sherlock's forgiveness ... to understand why they were here?

Until Sherlock collapsed again, requiring EMT's to carry him off.

This time there was no forgiveness.

Mycroft had met John and Mary as they entered the hospital. Slapping cuffs on her as John left to follow the disappearing gurney behind double doors.

He was never leaving Sherlock's side.

"You said ..." John hesitated ... glancing at Sherlock's sedated, softly breathing form ...

"You said ... 'at my next wedding' ...," John smiled, thinking, "there would be no murderers ...? and I'm ... I'm going to hold you to that, you know."

John nodded, brushing a hand along Sherlock's blanket and fixing it. Then he tilted his head as he took Sherlock's hand in his.

"We could have a little ... private affair ... ?

Perhaps Molly and Lestrade will act as witness?

I'd ask Mrs. H, naturally. Only ... I'm convinced she's murdered someone, somewhere?" he teased. His thumb brushing against Sherlock's fingers.

Then he raised Sherlock's hand to his lips, and kissed it.

Falling silent.

The monitor beeped. The rhythm in sync with John's thoughts. Willing Sherlock to continue being here, being present, being alive ... for him.

"Shame."

John turned to see a ghost of a smile cross Sherlock's lips.

"She'd make a great witness."

Join felt the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth ... tightening in his chest, as his heart thumped in relief ... heaving almost incoherent oaths of gratitude between tears.

The next move was instinctual. John's arms were around Sherlock even as they each fitted their faces so close they could hardly breathe.

Then he took off his jacket and slipped into the hospital bed. Holding each other until they both fell asleep.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: broken mirror

#flash fic friday #a little late #johnlock #sherlock #bbc sherlock #shattered #helloliriels

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zutaras-where-its-at · 6 months

Note

zutara prompt: au in which zuko doesn’t know how to swim and katara teaches him while she’s still unsure whether they can trust him (at the beginning of his redemption arc)

she hates him. really, she does.

he’s a no-good, lying, son of a bitch, and if he hadn’t betrayed them in ba sing se, aang wouldn’t have a scar cratered in the skin of his back. she hates him.

except—

he just looks so…pathetic right now.

everyone else is carving graceful arcs in the water, whooping as they dive headfirst into the frigid-but-still-functioning pool they found in the western air temple. even toph—who notoriously can’t swim and hates being in water—wades casually in the shallow end next to teo.

but zuko won’t even get in.

the heavy look of dread that muddles his sharp features and curls his proud shoulders inward is enough to elicit a stab of sympathy in her for the scorned prince, and katara wonders at the fact that sympathy and hatred are apparently not mutually exclusive.

it’s pity that leads her to brush past him with hardly a glance as she says, “if you don’t know how to swim, you don’t have to get in.”

“i know how to swim,” he snaps, then flinches when he sees who he’s speaking to. calmer, he repeats, “i know how to swim.”

she just ticks a brow speculatively. “you sure?”

zuko has tried very hard to be extra civil with her the last week, but now, she can see just how difficult it is for him to keep the glare off of his face. “i’m sure.”

there’s something there, then. something hesitant and anxious and dark that twists his mouth and keeps his eyes from really looking at her. and katara—observant as she is—recognizes it for what it is.

“okay. so you’re scared.”

he looks stricken, suddenly, adam’s apple bobbing once up and down in his throat. he still won’t look at her. “i’m not.”

it’s sharper now, sitting just under the surface, so katara sinks her talons into it and tugs—“you don’t like the water. you’re afraid of it.”

“i’m not afraid of the fucking water, okay?” he inhales and bites his lip and balls up his fists, “it’s just cold, is all.”

“cold?” she drawls disbelievingly. in the background, aang hollers loudly as he cannonballs into the deep end. “aren’t you a firebender?”

at that, his gold gold gold eyes finally find her face, and she’s startled by the raw panic she sees in them. after a long moment, he seems to make up his mind about something. she watches as he gathers his words properly in his mouth and confesses quietly, “i almost drowned. in the north pole.”

she puts two and two together in record time—because she’d always wondered how he’d snuck into the heart of the northern water tribe under such intense war-time surveillance, had always been confused and resentful of the fact that he’d stolen aang out from right under her nose when she’d least expected it—and frowns.

she thinks about her childhood, how hakoda taught them to check for thin ice, carefully pick their fishing spots, and above all, what to do should they fall in. it’s been drilled in them since they were young, that the ocean is no joke, but the poles are a nightmare should you step wrong. hypothermia, hidden icebergs, the disorienting dark beneath the surface—

katara hates him.

but it’s just so pathetic and sad the way he watches them all with lonely eyes and a fear anyone could see from a mile away.

because all too soon, she’s convinced aang that there’s absolutely no way he and zuko are strong enough firebenders to heat up the swimming pool, and surely zuko hasn’t taught him well enough that they could actually do it in under five minutes, and really, she doubts zuko even knows how to control the temperature so it doesn’t boil them.

she hates him, but maybe—maybe she doesn’t.

#lmao this ended up way longer than i meant it to #also #i tweaked it a bit bc zuko does in fact know how to swim #but i still liked the idea of him having a phobia of it #so hopefully that worked and didn’t come across as stupid haha #thank you for the prompt!#zutara #katara #zuko #my zutara stuff #flash fic friday

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mtnikolle · 2 months

Text

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Naruto

Characters: Kakashi and Iruka

Modern AU, teens

WC: 1048

“So? You gonna come or not?” Iruka blurts to his friend when they meet up at lunch time.

Kakashi isn't quite sure what to make of this question. He doesn't recall talking with Iruka about going somewhere in their recent conversations—and he's pretty sure he didn't accidentally tune him out during any recent rambles, either. He looks at Iruka closely, trying to make heads or tails of it. Iruka is slowly turning red. His posture is getting stiff. And that scowl isn't the one he wears when he's angry, it's the one he wears when he's nervous. Kakashi bites the bullet.

“Where would we be going?” He asks.

Kakashi’s not sure how it's possible, but Iruka turns even redder. And face palms.

“Ummm, sorry. There's a fair in Senju Park this week. Mom said I can go tonight. And stay late, since I did so well on my last report card. So…” and Iruka takes a big breath in, “…do you want to come with me?”

This is unusual. Not the going out part, they do that all the time. This nervous, blushing, asking-in-person part, rather than a quick text.

“Would this be a date…?” Kakashi asks. And he's not sure how he feels about that.

Iruka goes from bright red to dead pale in an instant.

“N-n-n-no,” he stutters out. “Not— not—”

Yes, it was absolutely meant to be a date.

“Yes.”

💙🍦💜

They meet up at the park a few hours later. Kakashi spent more time than he wants to admit to trying to figure out what to wear. His dad laughed at him. Especially when, in the end, he wore the same basic clothes he usually wears—comfortable jeans, sneakers, tshirt, and comfortable hoodie, but the green one that Iruka likes, rather than the red one he was wearing at school today.

Iruka has changed, too. He's wearing Kakashi's favourite top—the one that shows off his forearms. And suddenly Kakashi realises that he's been looking at Iruka for a while. They've been friends for… well, almost ever. When did this happen? How did Kakashi not realise it before? Kakashi knows exactly how he feels about this now, and he is so, so happy now that Iruka was courageous enough to ask him out tonight.

“Hey.”

They stare at each other kind of awkwardly, which is bullshit because they've known each other forever.

“Shall we…?”

“Yeah.”

Iruka passes him a bright yellow wristband and leads him into the park.

Together they pick some rides to try. Iruka’s a bit of a daredevil, so he wants to go on the Drop of Doom and roller coaster immediately. Kakashi is somewhat less so, so he convinces Iruka that they should warm up with the Octopus and Monster rides, instead. Iruka agrees, and they laugh so hard and have so much fun that it breaks up any awkwardness remaining from their knowledge that this is a date. Kakashi feels really, really okay with that now.

💙🍦💜

An hour of rides later, Kakashi is more than ready for a break. Iruka reluctantly agrees, and they make their way to the food stands and carts that have been set up for the day. They find a truck they both like the look of and stand in line. A long line had to mean good food, right? Kakashi sure hopes so—he’s all about comfort in food and never ventures too far from his favourites.

Between them, the teens consumed one loaded chili dog, the greasiest hamburger Kakashi was sure he'd ever seen, a bucket of poutine, and a giant bear claw. Since the rides hadn't done him in, he is sure the food will. Then Iruka bounces up from the bench they've been resting on.

“There's one more place I want to check out!”

Kakashi isn't sure he can move yet, but he’ll try for Iruka.

“Let's go.”

Iruka helps haul him up from the bench, and Kakashi is surprised he can stand. And then surprised he can walk. He has no idea how Iruka is bouncing around the way he is—Kakashi is sure Iruka ate more than he did!

They meander through the crowd for a while, waving at the occasional classmate they see, but making no move to join any of them, when Kakashi sees the stand a little ways away and balks. It is an ice cream stand. The concept of ice cream now is okay, but this isn't just any ice cream. No, the Golden Scoop is the ice cream shop on the other side of Konoha that Iruka has wanted to try since they opened. Kakashi on the other hand…

The thing is, they make all these weird flavours, and they don't sell vanilla or chocolate at all.

Iruka turns around when he sees Kakashi isn't beside him any more.

“Are you okay, Kakashi?”

Kakashi doesn't want to ruin this for Iruka, but he's honestly not sure if he can make himself go over there. Curry Thai Chili ice cream just isn't something he can make himself eat…

“I don't think I can eat that,” Kakashi explains. “Why don't you go ahead? I'll wait here.”

“Are you too full?”

Iruka is offering him the perfect out, but Kakashi knows him, and if he takes it, then Iruka won't go.

Kakashi wants him to go—Iruka's been wanting to try the Scoop's ice cream for ages. He hesitates to answer. Long enough that Iruka notices. Kakashi watches his face light up with understanding.

“Oh. Oh!”

Iruka holds out his hand to Kakashi.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

Kakashi knows a trap when he hears one. Or, well, it would be a trap from anyone but Iruka.

“Yes.”

Iruka holds out his hand.

“Take my hand. I know they'll have something you'll like, too.”

Iruka is so sincere when he says it that Kakashi believes him. So he puts his hand in Iruka's and lets Iruka pull him toward the stand.

💙🍦💜

Iruka walks away with a double scoop cone with lobster and strawberry chive flavours. Kakashi ends up with extra virgin olive oil ice cream. Iruka was right, they did have something he likes.

They continue on wandering the fair, looking at the craft vendors, eating their ice cream, but now with fingers slotted together.

#iruka umino #kakashi hatake #kakairu #hatake kakashi/umino iruka #naruto #first date #at the fair #weird ice cream flavours #do you trust me?#isn't always a trap #take my hand #the great mission #umino iruka #hatake kakashi #iruka #kakashi #fff238 #flash fic friday

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