leave me fic prompts
seeing as I'm bored, I'm going to ask people to leave me characters and/or pairings in the comments and I'll give you little drabble pieces of my head canon (if you want an AU setting or something, just specify)
try to aim for a fandom I'm familiar with please, though go free reign on any pairing/character/AU that you want; length of response will ( Read more... )
try to aim for a fandom I'm familiar with please, though go free reign on any pairing/character/AU that you want; length of response will ( Read more... )
Comments 18
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They tell John that he won. There is a scar on his shoulder that he asked to keep and a tremor in his hand that won't go away and a limp in his leg that doesn't make sense. They tell John that he won, but he doesn't believe them ( ... )
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When they show off the tributes, there is something captivating about Sherlock. In the Capitol, they don't see his cheekbones as a sign of starvation, but one of beauty. The shift in perception is uncanny, no matter how many times John comes here. Still, the audience screams a little louder for Sherlock, and John can barely let himself hope ( ... )
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Or a crossover? (I've seen Tony and Sherlock go toe-to-toe that ended with Sherlock wrestling Tony to the ground so he could lick the arc reactor. IN A NON-SEXUAL, SHERLOCKIAN WAY. I died.)
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Alongside the typical pile of letters accumulated in his morning mail, Mycroft finds a small brown package. It would have already been checked for poison and explosives, or else it would not have made it past security. There is no writing on the packaging, nothing that would tie it to Mycroft or to the sender. He is almost curious, but only almost.
Opening it reveals a small mobile phone, and not a second has passed before it starts to ring. Mycroft picks it up and says dryly, "Theatrics, my dear man, are beneath you."
"Theatrics are the only thing that work with you, I've found," Fury counters. Mycroft has to bite back a sigh; he is getting tired of aggressive Americans. The posturing can be so tedious sometimes. "Do you know how many times I've tried to arrange a meeting? Your secretary--"
"My PA," Mycroft cuts in coldly, "knows exactly what I think of your proposal and has filed it appropriately under not importantFury snorts and growls, "How is the safety of the planet 'not important ( ... )
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Oh my god that was fuuuuuuuuun~ And then of course Sherlock would be like "screw you, Mycroft. I'm boooooored" and he'd prance off to New York and get into arguments with Tony over pointless stuff because they both have to have the last word~
I'll shut up now.
LOVE.
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To be honest, Anthea really likes her job. It's almost a shame that she's signed so many confidentiality agreements that she's not quite sure whether she's allowed to admit that. Her mother thinks she's an secretary, her sisters think she's a PA, and her estranged father has probably forgotten she even exists. But that's okay. Names have never meant much to her anyway - it doesn't matter what they think, what matters is what she actually doesMycroft may be one of the smartest men alive, but he isn't exactly well-equipped to handle the tide of constantly advancing technology. He can use his mobile phone for texting and calling, but that's probably the extent of it. The man still prefers writing things out in longhand script, which Anthea is charged with retyping and organising into a secure storage space ( ... )
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Believe it or not, I've written something like this prompt before.
Warnings: a little breathplay and bloodplay in addition to the powerplay you requested.
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Jim's throat feels fragile under his fingers and he presses down a fraction harder. The blade at his gut digs a little harder, drawing a thin line of blood. It's worth it though, hearing Jim's breathing change to a stuttering gasp. His pale skin is reddening, a delicate shade of reddish-pink, and it's utterly intoxicating.
One of Jim's hands is stroking the hollow curve of Sherlock's back, the other hand holding the switchblade. It's a precarious position they're in, balanced on the very edge of fun and danger. Sherlock's body is above Jim's, his legs bracketing the smaller man's waist, keeping him firmly in place. Yet it feels like Jim is only there because he wants to be there, even as his breaths grow weaker ( ... )
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There are red marks on both of them now, bruises in the shape of fingers and hands painted on their skin. Sherlock sucks at a bite mark on Jim's jawline, sucks until it hurts and Jim cries out. He won't cry out stop, but his fingernails claw at Sherlock's arms. It should be uncomfortable, but there is something delicious about this certain ache and there is blood everywhere, the smell like copper in the air.
"Are you giving up?" Sherlock asks, but he knows before Jim answers that he'll say no, and Jim grins again, nothing ( ... )
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