sailing-the-shipping-seas:

By Kyliselle. Spock/Kirk.

Summary: Prompt-fill. An accident leaves Spock with amnesia. His last memory is bringing a cadet up on charges for cheating on the Kobayashi Maru - a cadet who, to his disgust, is now his bondmate. 
AN: A lovely OP and lovely LJers requested I fill this heart-wrenching prompt

- - -

They stood in silence for a moment. Finally, Kirk took a breath and said, a little shakily, “I know you hate feeling my emotions. Did you want to try again to shield the bond?”
Yes, Spock did. He wanted to dive into that golden sunlit mind and never leave. 
"No," he lied. "I do not wish to ever touch your mind again."
And he walked away from Kirk, ignoring the raw pain bleeding across the bond as he left.

Link to part 1/3.

(yeah, life irl got messy. and then I was actually doing better than I had been.  …and now I’m doing the who not-really-sleeping thing, again, so. yay fics?)

This is definitely my favourite Star Trek fic. I googled ‘Spirk+memory loss’ because amnesia is my new kink and I found this perfection. Absolutely heart-wrenching story, makes me emotionally compromised everytime I read it. I cherish it.

I wrote another thing because I adore Spirk and I love Titanic and Love Actually. (The latter is my absolute favourite but Titanic is pretty cool, too.)

But really, my brother watched Titanic a dozen times when he was younger because of the sinking scene. Surely I always watched it with him to cry and emotionally compromise myself. Aww, those childhood memories.

I might have wrote a thing. Just a short thing, really.

giidas:

Jim doesn’t realize how much he touches Bones and Spock people until Uhura gently reminds him that Spock is a touch telepath and would probably prefer it if Jim reigned himself in.

So Jim does.

Gone are the shoulder slaps and the way he’d sometimes stop Spock by grabbing his forearm. He refrains from bumping his shoulder to Spock’s, tries to always keep at least a few inches of space between them.

After the first day of aborted movements, Spock looks at him a bit funny. After three days of the Let’s Not Touch Spock Initiative, Spock downright frowns at him. Or what would pass for a frown on a Vulcan, anyway.

Four days in, Spock puts his hand, very gently, on Jim’s shoulder when he updates him on the status of the samples they collected during their last mission, his thumb moving in small circles over a patch of skin, making Jim take a steadying breath. When the Alpha shift ends the next day, Spock leans his shoulder on Jim’s in the turbolift, presses in, just a little, just to make Jim feel his weight. When they have breakfast next morning, their legs touch, from thigh to ankle, and Jim has to focus on drinking his coffee lest he accidentally drowns in it.

When Spock takes Jim’s face in his palms five days later, after a long game of 3D scrabble, and leans in to mingle their breaths, to touch his nose lightly to Jim’s, to carefully taste Jim’s lips while his fingers gently run over Jim’s palm, Jim thinks he will send Uhura a thank-you bouquet.

(via shellysbees-deactivated20140130)

I need a Star Trek AU where Spock makes a bet like Phileas Fogg about a 80 days long journey around… don’t know, a certain galaxy or something, and Chekov is his Passepartout because he can do zat, and they meet this Terran guy, Jim T. Kirk who is about to be burnt alive so they rescue him, and there is Spock, this logical, composed Vulcan, facing this ridiculously illogical voyage with so many adventures and troubles… well, you know the story.

So, is there someone up for writing this in a fic? Pretty please?

Guess who wrote her first Star Trek fic…

rumpelmerlock:

there are two kinds of fanwriters in the star trek fandom: those who think that Spock’s skin is colder than humans, and those who think it’s warmer.

(Source: hanlockenterprise, via crucibleoflight)

Okay, fanfic writers: I double-dog dare you.

gunslingerannie:

teafortrouble:

thestratospheric:

fresheima:

watsonsdick:

sherlockscarf:

belovedmuerto:

roane72:

mazarin221b:

emmagrant01:

Open up the file of the last fic you worked on, copy the very first sentence of that fic (no cheating!), add it to the bottom of this post, and reblog.

"John never has called him Sherlock in bed."

Okay, I am DYING of curiosity about this one. :)

ME TOO.

Also, here’s mine: “He doesn’t so much wake up as regain some semblance of consciousness.”

When the alarm goes off at 8.30, I slap the snooze button, and automatically reach across the bed, groping for the warm, pliant form that should be curled against me.

“What is this place, Mr. Holmes?”

"John Watson had to take a deep breath when he entered the huge stage from the side."

But it’s also hardly more than this xD

Damian Scott has spent five days in Q-Branch when he receives call from a very irate, impatient and off-radar Agent 007.”

Oooh, lookit me adding in a 00Q HAHA.

"There were a whole host of reasons this entire venture was a bad idea, but perhaps the most glaring was small, furious, and currently hovering approximately two feet off the ground."

"It’s late in the evening when Carlos makes the decision."

Spring was always pleasurable in St. Mary’s.”

i-o-u-a-fall:

mindpalaceofversailles:

Obviously their boggarts would be each other’s corpses.

If Sherlock hadn’t known what it was John was seeing, he would have rolled his eyes; would have cast the spell himself; would have scolded John for freezing up at the sight of his worst fear. They were third year students who had tangled with trolls , aggravated acromantulas, and made friends with the merfolk of the Black Lake. This wasn’t above them by any means, and John was a capable-enough wizard to know how to best a boggart.
However, Sherlock knew exactly what it was John was seeing. He was there, behind the line, watching the boy panic at the sight. And, he had seen the same when he had taken his turn with the beastly boggart: the corpse of his best friend.
(John’s throat bit out by some monster or other, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, wide and empty, his blood pooling around him, staining his tawny locks, paling his skin— No. He couldn’t think of it again. Couldn’t think of the way John called his name behind the other students, trying to reach out, trying to protect him from the trick; how his hands had shaken, how he had stammered out the counter spell, how he had pushed his way back to John’s side and stood in stoic silence, unreachable.)
He watched the young Gryffindor’s hand tremble as he held his wand to his chest in a death grip. John seemed to be choking on breath, trying to contain the tears glistening in his eyes. He looked physically ill, unsteady and ready to be knocked over by a mere breath. Sherlock knew the other students were muttering about themselves in judgment. He didn’t care to hear their words himself, but he knew John would (and more importantly, he hated to see John lose himself), so he stepped forward, ignoring the rule not to intervene, and gingerly reached to touch John’s shoulders.
A tiny yelp escaped the boy, who flinched greatly under the touch which burned him. John turned away from the boggart to look at the offender. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, damp and overflowing, and in his friend’s gaze he saw confusion and fear. John looked back to the boggart, blinked hard and gazed his way again, then returned to the trick before him, whimpering and entirely unsure which was reality and which was fraud.
"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, supportingly, in the way John would encourage him. "’Riddikulus’. It isn’t real.” A sharp breath shook the Gryffindor’s entire frame, and Sherlock saw tracks of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. His hands gripped John tighter, hoping the grip would bring him back to reality.
"I-I can’t," John choked at last, his horrified eyed not on his friend but on the boggart at his feet (at the picture of Sherlock’s still body soaked with blood, lifeless, no more brilliant charms or incantations slipping from his lips, no light in his eyes, no more Sherlock Holmes). John shook his head feverishly. “I can’t," he squeaked, and a desperate sob escaped him as he said again, “I can’t.”
With a glance to the professor and a nod of approval received, Sherlock tugged John aside - and he fought against him, uttering ‘No, no’, desperate to stay by his corpse’s side - without waiting for the professor to intervene with their own boggart, with their own jestful spell, with their own solution. He grabbed his and John’s bags and left the building, ignoring the hushed murmurs of their peers as they passed.
There is a secret room in Hogwarts that not many people know about. It burned the last time it was used, but Sherlock knew how to find it. He had read about it, had heard rumours, and now he and John were masters of summoning the Room of Requirement. And there they found themselves again and once more; and within the walls of the secret hideaway, John screamed at Sherlock, screamed at him what it was he saw as if Sherlock hadn’t seen as well; and within the walls John broke, falling to his knees, his hands on his eyes in anguish, sobbing out apologies that Sherlock was sure involved the illusion of his death; and within the walls Sherlock let John in, holding his frame and trying to soothe the distraught boy as best he could.
And he didn’t judge John at all, for he was the stronger of the two in Sherlock’s mind. He was the one who could let himself cry at the thought of his best friend dying. He was the one who cried for them both.
"It’s fine, John," Sherlock murmured, his cheek in John’s hair. “It’s all fine."
He pretended not to notice the fingers wrapped around his wrist, counting his pulse, each pump of blood bringing them both back to life.

i-o-u-a-fall:

mindpalaceofversailles:

Obviously their boggarts would be each other’s corpses.

If Sherlock hadn’t known what it was John was seeing, he would have rolled his eyes; would have cast the spell himself; would have scolded John for freezing up at the sight of his worst fear. They were third year students who had tangled with trolls , aggravated acromantulas, and made friends with the merfolk of the Black Lake. This wasn’t above them by any means, and John was a capable-enough wizard to know how to best a boggart.

However, Sherlock knew exactly what it was John was seeing. He was there, behind the line, watching the boy panic at the sight. And, he had seen the same when he had taken his turn with the beastly boggart: the corpse of his best friend.

(John’s throat bit out by some monster or other, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, wide and empty, his blood pooling around him, staining his tawny locks, paling his skin— No. He couldn’t think of it again. Couldn’t think of the way John called his name behind the other students, trying to reach out, trying to protect him from the trick; how his hands had shaken, how he had stammered out the counter spell, how he had pushed his way back to John’s side and stood in stoic silence, unreachable.)

He watched the young Gryffindor’s hand tremble as he held his wand to his chest in a death grip. John seemed to be choking on breath, trying to contain the tears glistening in his eyes. He looked physically ill, unsteady and ready to be knocked over by a mere breath. Sherlock knew the other students were muttering about themselves in judgment. He didn’t care to hear their words himself, but he knew John would (and more importantly, he hated to see John lose himself), so he stepped forward, ignoring the rule not to intervene, and gingerly reached to touch John’s shoulders.

A tiny yelp escaped the boy, who flinched greatly under the touch which burned him. John turned away from the boggart to look at the offender. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, damp and overflowing, and in his friend’s gaze he saw confusion and fear. John looked back to the boggart, blinked hard and gazed his way again, then returned to the trick before him, whimpering and entirely unsure which was reality and which was fraud.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, supportingly, in the way John would encourage him. "’Riddikulus’. It isn’t real.” A sharp breath shook the Gryffindor’s entire frame, and Sherlock saw tracks of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. His hands gripped John tighter, hoping the grip would bring him back to reality.

"I-I can’t," John choked at last, his horrified eyed not on his friend but on the boggart at his feet (at the picture of Sherlock’s still body soaked with blood, lifeless, no more brilliant charms or incantations slipping from his lips, no light in his eyes, no more Sherlock Holmes). John shook his head feverishly. “I can’t," he squeaked, and a desperate sob escaped him as he said again, “I can’t.

With a glance to the professor and a nod of approval received, Sherlock tugged John aside - and he fought against him, uttering ‘No, no’, desperate to stay by his corpse’s side - without waiting for the professor to intervene with their own boggart, with their own jestful spell, with their own solution. He grabbed his and John’s bags and left the building, ignoring the hushed murmurs of their peers as they passed.

There is a secret room in Hogwarts that not many people know about. It burned the last time it was used, but Sherlock knew how to find it. He had read about it, had heard rumours, and now he and John were masters of summoning the Room of Requirement. And there they found themselves again and once more; and within the walls of the secret hideaway, John screamed at Sherlock, screamed at him what it was he saw as if Sherlock hadn’t seen as well; and within the walls John broke, falling to his knees, his hands on his eyes in anguish, sobbing out apologies that Sherlock was sure involved the illusion of his death; and within the walls Sherlock let John in, holding his frame and trying to soothe the distraught boy as best he could.

And he didn’t judge John at all, for he was the stronger of the two in Sherlock’s mind. He was the one who could let himself cry at the thought of his best friend dying. He was the one who cried for them both.

"It’s fine, John," Sherlock murmured, his cheek in John’s hair. “It’s all fine."

He pretended not to notice the fingers wrapped around his wrist, counting his pulse, each pump of blood bringing them both back to life.

(via mycroft-is-dumbledore)

Guess who found North and South fanfictions? Good-bye, sleeping!

Mary Poppins vs. The Holmes Boys

enigmaticpenguinofdeath:

kingmoran:

Sherlock: “Mycroft, she’s singing again…”
Mycroft: “I know. Just ignore her and perhaps she’ll go away.”

read it here. fic by travels_in_time

This is pleasingly bonkers. I approve.

(Source: cclbaldwin)

  • fanfic author: oh so you like this fic?
  • fanfic author: it would be a shame if
  • fanfic author: i never
  • fanfic author: updated it

Tags: uhm ummmm fanfic