Posts Tagged: fanfic

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Wehhh, it’s a picture of Kid!Clint and Kid!Loki from my kid!fic over on a03, Fish Day!

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invictofiction:

I was browsing through some tags and I came across a post that proposed a series of tattoos for Clint . They were imaginative enough that it got me thinking about the same thing; I talked to my friend, Sharo, and we came up with something a little .. different.

Clint and Bruce, pre-slash. Genfic. Completely un-beta’d because I am impatient and I don’t like to read my own fic.


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Source: invictofiction
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It was late January when Agent Joan MacAuliffe first met her new partner, and by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, she knew just enough not to be too surprised by the small white box Agent Webster pushed into her hands.

"I thought- you know, it’s a holiday, and you and I work together and all," the visibly pregnant desk jockey said, grinning nervously. Blinking, Jo peeked inside- three red velvet cupcakes were nestled together inside, the cream cheese frosting heavily dusted with pink sugar.

"Oh, wow. Thanks, Kip," Jo said sincerely, and smiled at the hugely pleased expression on the new agent’s face.

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Invicto: Beyond the Stars [pt 2]

invictofiction:

Fic [pt. 1] | Beyond the Stars. // A Planet Hulk AU. Caiera/Bruce {Hulk} G

Part two of the series. I just needed some good, old fashioned happy times for Bruce and his crapsack life. It’s sad that it needs to be an AU to accomplish that.

Read more breaks aren’t working for me, this is…

BABYYYY

Source: invictofiction
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radicalturk:

Way back, two months ago, my friend Sharo wrote a fic.

The premise was that John was suffering PTSD and had essentially invented Sherlock.

You all should read it since, apparently, that has recently become a thing!

LINK

Oh darling! *le blush~*

Source: actualjo
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When John Watson is a boy and answers to a different name, he nearly dies. Later, he remembers every bizarre detail- the rain and sleet, the icy path, the overwhelming feeling of despair when he realizes that he is going to die, he is going to die a cruel, fat, friendless virgin, and he is fifteen and no one has ever kissed him, no one has ever wanted to because he is a nasty, bullying coward with no redeeming qualities. He is going to die alone.

Of course, he isn’t alone- Harry is there with him, and Harry saves his life. It isn’t quite a turning point in their relationship, but it gets John to thinking.

~ ~ ~

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I re-installed GIMP so I decided to draw a picture for the first time since I got my computer working again
And it is a picture from the latest bit of The Other Gods
WOOOOOOOOO

I re-installed GIMP so I decided to draw a picture for the first time since I got my computer working again

And it is a picture from the latest bit of The Other Gods

WOOOOOOOOO

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A continuation of a fic that I was writing a while back! But now I am writing it again, mostly because I posted the other two bits on Ao3 and that inspired me to write more. Here is part three!

~ ~ ~

Loki lost what little appetite he had, picking at his meals but no longer able to stomach more than a few bites at a time. Everything he touched to his lips felt like slime, tasted of ashes. The smells made Loki’s stomach heave, bringing forth images of the old and infirm, their still-living bodies rotting from the inside out.

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invictofiction:

Heavy fog crept along the forest’s floor, muffling sound and keeping hidden the recent devastation from the battle that had raged through it hours previously. Static crackled in the distance, voices calling for survivors and damage reports while beams of light cut through the hazy atmosphere of the forest. Every few minutes one of the trees would give way, each thunderous crack of sound startling the search party.

S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Avengers alike tromped through the underbrush, dressed in radiation suits, Geiger counters leading the way. They followed the concentration of radiation to an enormous impact crater, several hundred feet in diameter. Fog spilled down over the rim of the crater, pooling in the center, obscuring what lay in it’s depths.

“We found it.”

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Source: invictofiction
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When John is young, he is called to serve and joins the Army. When John is younger, he is called to medical school and becomes a doctor.

John in Afganistan is a hero. He doesn’t say it, no one ever says it, but he feels it in his heart, even on the bad days. For every man who slips away in his hands (and so often his mind tries to correct this, calling them boys because they don’t even look old enough to shave, much less kill or be killed in this loveless place) there are dozens who will get up and fight again, or get up and go home.

John in Afganistan is important to hundreds of people, every day. John gets letters from Harry, and he knows he is important to Harry, too, but the letters dwindle until it seems she only writes when she is drunk. (When he learns that she is almost always drunk, he realizes that she only writes when she is lonely.)

~ ~ ~

When it happens, it happens like this: the first bullet goes straight through him, nicking the lower edge of his shoulder blade, the second bullet is higher up and it breaks into pieces, shattering bone, splinters of his own body tearing traitorously through the meat.

~ ~ ~

Another doctor tends to John, declares he is a lucky man, that he will get up and go home. John is too tired, too worn out from the pain, to call him a liar.

Two stray bullets, and John is now only important to Harry.

~ ~ ~

John limps off the plane and waits for hours. He doesn’t have a cell phone, but Harry promised to pick him up. Maybe she got the time wrong?

John eventually hobbles over to a clutch of pay phones, change in hand. The pay phones are very near the airport’s bar. John stops long enough to assess the situation, turns and dials her cell number anyway. He hears it ring insistently from only a few feet away, glances over and sees her thumb the screen a bit. The ringing stops just as suddenly and she orders another drink.

John closes his eyes, counts down from ten, and limps over to where he can make arrangements for a taxi and a motel.

John is no longer important to anyone.

~ ~ ~

There is a dark, boring motel room. John hates it.

There is a bright, airy, modern therapists’s office. John hates it and her.

Within a day Harry is offering the kind of backhanded apology that she always ever gives, blaming his lack of a cell phone. She gives him hers, as if the inscription on the back is meaningless. He accepts the phone and rejects the apologies.

~ ~ ~

John meets a man- a fantastic, brilliant man. Through him, John meets other people- landladies, detectives, criminals, victims- but none of them are as vital, as real as Sherlock. John moves in with him- it takes no time at all, really, and it’s utterly natural to do so.

John fills out the blog his therapist suggested for his treatment for the first time in weeks.

John meets the therapist one last time, smiling for the first time since he was shot.

“Yes,” she replies to his query, “I did read it, it’s very exciting. I do hope he’s not putting you in any danger, this Sherlock,” and John grins a little wider.

“No, no, I’ve been totally safe the whole time,” he reassures her, and she smiles at him.

“Well, I’m happy for you, John. There is one thing I’d like to ask you, though- the address you gave the people in billing is incorrect,” she says, sliding a sheet of paper toward him on her desk. “The statement was returned to the office, would you write the address of your new flat down for me again?”

“Sure,” he tells her, and he writes it down, 221B Baker Street. “But you won’t be needing it long.” He smiles at her as he leaves- John no longer needs therapy. Everything he needs is wrapped up in the perfectly bizarre man John lives with, and he is happy.

John is important again.

~ ~ ~

“Would it kill you to get the milk?” John snaps, and Sherlock only looks at him, dark eyes gleaming in the low light. John wants to be angrier- John wants to remain angry- but it’s hard to be angry at Sherlock for long. John sighs, closing the refrigerator. “I’m just saying, Sherlock. I hate having to run out to the shop at this time of night.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock mutters, fingers pressed to his mouth. John rolls his eyes and leaves, before he gets sidetracked.

He comes home hours later and Sherlock hasn’t moved, hasn’t moved an inch. He’s even looking up at John, exactly the way he did when John left.

“Somebody miss me?” John asks lightly, and Sherlock’s voice is barely audible.

Yes.”

John pretends not to hear, waves goodnight at Sherlock as he heads up to his room to sleep, and doesn’t hear Sherlock get up or go to his own room.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes it’s different. Sometimes it’s Sherlock’s hands, cold as his own, touching him, teasing him, never allowing him to touch back. Sherlock’s breath in John’s ear, no declarations of love, no words at all, just a voiceless need.

Sherlock never stays. By the time John clears his head enough to try to talk about it, Sherlock has gone from his bed without a word.

Sherlock never acknowledges what he does- what they do- but John thinks he detects a secretive little smile tugging at Sherlock’s lips whenever he thinks John isn’t looking.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes John dreams about the life before he met Sherlock. He dreams about the dark little motel room (in his dreams, it seems to gather some of the clutter he associates with the flat he and Sherlock share) and a reflection that gets thinner and thinner. He dreams that Harry comes round more than once, banging frantically at the door, but she still hasn’t visited him at Baker Street, hasn’t even tried, so he denies the dream-Harry the pleasure. He dreams about dull things, unlovely things, unimportant things. He blogs about his life- it’s fabulously interesting- and ignores the dreams.

John has a dream that is entirely too vivid, that lasts entirely too long, and when he wakes up Sherlock is there, holding him against the darkness.

“Nightmare,” John shivers and presses his face against Sherlock’s chest, because what else would he call a dream in which he’d never met Sherlock?

Sherlock, it seems, has learned a little tact, at least for John’s sake, because he says nothing on the matter.

~ ~ ~

John is kneeling on the floor, Sherlock crouched down nearby but not near enough to touch, never near enough to touch.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” John whispers, looking desperately into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Rubbish,” Sherlock tells him, but there is a pain there John doesn’t remember seeing before. “I won’t allow it.”

John looks up at Sherlock and thinks, What if I’ve gone crazy?

“You haven’t,” Sherlock promises, and John closes his eyes.