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A Collection of Random Stories

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This isn't so much a chapter, but what this story is going to be containing. Now, I know it is self-explanatory, but I would like to get down what I plan to do, and why. Now, as you may know, I usually write rather long stories, meant to have a more complex and drawn out story line. However, writing those all the time takes it's toll on a person, and it tires me out. I love writing, I really do, but when I'm writing a fanfiction, I feel I need to have a certain word limit in order to publish it. Now, I don't always meet that word count, and it depresses me. That's why I take so long to update longer stories; because the word count I set for myself is rather long. So, my thinking is that if I create a collection of ficlets (I guess you could call them that), it might help ease my mind, and help me get more things on my account. They shouldn't be more than a few thousand words long, so they'll be easy to write and fun to read.

I know I love reading short, smutty fics, and I love to write them. However, I don't think I'm very good at it. But, that's what practice is for, right? If you read the tags, you'll see I have more M/M tags than F/F or F/M. That's because I have much more experience in that field. That doesn't mean I'm not going to give it a shot, but I won't write as many. I hope that doesn't bother you. I also happen to be a gay male; therefore, I guess, it's a little weirder to write F/M and F/F, as I don't have any experience in that kind of writing. It's weird, but my mind works strangely anyway XD

I will also be open to suggestions. Leave comments on this story if you have an idea, and I'll be sure to write it down and create a story. It doesn't matter what it is; I'll do research, if I need to, and make sure I get everything right. I am open to anything, if you'll allow me to write it. This is going to be a fun thing to do, I think, and it will give me an outlet during harder times. I hope you guys will enjoy all these, and if you're new to my account, be sure to check out my other fics (Everything Black and Higher Flight) I am very proud of those works, and I will continue to update them when I can. Thank you for being patient with me, though I know how hard it is (I'm a Sherlock fan, I know how much it sucks), but it's worth it in the end, right? God, I hope so.



Chapter Text

Sherlock sat in the chair across from John, observing him. It had been awhile since John had broken down like this, and it scared Sherlock to see it; broke his heart. The doctor hasn’t seen him yet, instead keeping his knees to his chest and hiding his face. His body shook with the force of his sobs and the sounds he made nearly brought Sherlock to tears. He hated seeing his John like this, and he wished he knew what to do. He’s never been put into a position like this before, and if he had been, he didn’t care enough to remember it. This...this was different. Sherlock shifted his gaze from John, to the floor, then back again. He hadn’t moved, but he wasn’t crying anymore. Sherlock clears his throat in an attempt to signal to John that he was there.


“Why did you do it?” John asks feebly, almost unintelligible from the way his knees muffled his voice. However, Sherlock knew enough about his flatmate that he had predicted the question, but he wasn’t prepared to answer. Of course, John meant faking his own death. After their initial reuniting, John had been furious, absolutely furious. Sherlock hadn’t expected this to happen; he had imagined that the war doctor would take him in his arms and rejoice in Sherlock’s return. Instead, he had been greeted with anger, and now...this. Sherlock didn’t know how to answer. He just didn’t.


“Do what?” he questions. His voice was cracked from it’s lack of use, and his heart was racing. This is the first time John had talked to him with actual sentiment in his voice since the incident a few days ago. John looked up at Sherlock, face red and eyes a shade of blue Sherlock had never seen before. His expression said, “are you kidding me? You know what I’m talking about, you insufferable idiot.”


“You faked your death, Sherlock,” John said, voice slowly gaining back it’s authoritative tone. “I was alone for the better part of a year. I couldn’t leave this place. The memories of you were too strong, but I was so attached to it that I couldn’t just leave. Then, I met Mary, who helped me through everything. In a sense, you helped me. But that doesn’t explain why you did it. Tell me.” Sherlock had a difficult time forming words. He simply stared at John, normally overactive mind falling behind and lacking basic function. He shook his head, and looked down at the floor, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.


“I...I can’t explain it, John, I really can’t,” John scoffed. His sadness was turning to anger; Sherlock couldn’t do this again. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”


“I’ve worked cases with you for two years. I think I can understand anything you throw at me,” John says, placing his feet on the floor and leaning forward as Sherlock had done. “It’s got to do with Moriarty, hasn’t it?” Sherlock didn’t answer right away, keeping his head down. John smiled, that murderous, gorgeous smile, and looked away, biting his bottom lip. “You did it for your own good, didn’t you? You did it to get Moriarty off your back, that’s all.”


“John, you know that’s not true,” Sherlock says, finally finding his voice. John, of course, had been right, in a sense; he had faked his death to get Moriarty away from him, but not only himself. “Yes, I did it for Moriarty, but I didn’t do it for myself,” Sherlock falls silent to let his words sink in. John stared at him expectantly, eyes wide and wearing an expression of disbelief. He was perfectly still, whereas Sherlock was fidgeting while he spoke. “I did it for you, John. I did it, all of it, for you.” John’s features softened, and for a moment, he believed Sherlock. He’s lying. He did it for himself, for Molly or Mycroft...but never for me. Despite this train of thought, there was still something within him that said, ‘Sherlock isn’t lying. Look at him! He’s telling you the truth.’ John didn’t know what to believe. “He was going to kill you, John. To get to me. He knew you were a weakness, the only friend I’ve ever had, and he was going to kill you. I couldn’t let that happen. You’re my best friend; I can’t lose you.” John let Sherlock’s words register in his mind. He still didn’t believe him, and no amount of reasoning from the other could change that. However, when the doctor searched his companion’s eyes, he found nothing other than truth behind them. It was the hurt on his face when John had attacked him that flashed before his eyes; the sadness John had felt when he visited his grave; the things they had gone through together…


None of those things compared to the words Sherlock was going to say, “I love you, John Watson. I love you, more than I should, more than I ever could with anyone else. Seeing you visit my grave every Tuesday and not being able to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder hurt more than you could ever imagine. I hated it,” Sherlock was standing now, just a few feet from John, he looked exhausted and broken, just as John must have looked the year before. Those words were what changed John’s mind. He believed Sherlock, one-hundred percent.


John stood up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh, Sherlock.” Then, John kissed him. It was fiery, emotional and powerful; and it felt amazing. The detective wrapped his long arms around John’s waist, pulling his companion against him. Sherlock responded to John’s kiss with increased fervor, putting all of his unspoken emotion into his actions. When the two of them finally broke apart, they were breathless, Sherlock even more so. John gazed up at Holmes, not holding back the smile that took over his features. “Did I really just do that?”


Sherlock giggled. “I think you did.” It’s then that Sherlock remembers Mary. John’s fiancee. He stepped away from John, who only looked at him quizically. “Why did you do that? You’re getting married.”

“Not for a while yet,” John pleads, stepping closer to Sherlock until he can wrap his arms around his neck. “Come on, Mr. Holmes, you said it yourself; you love me. Yes, I love Mary, God I do, but…”


“What?” Sherlock questions, once again taking John in his arms. John looks up at him, blue-grey eyes wide and beautiful.


He shrugged. “I love you more.” Sherlock was absolutely speechless. He had never felt this open and vulnerable before, not even towards John until now. He kind of liked the feeling of acting, what was the word… Normal. Sherlock kisses John once more, more passionate this time. “What are you going to do about...the other one?”


John laughs; a beautiful, genuine laugh. “Did you just call her, ‘the other one?’ That makes me sound like a cheater.”


Sherlock shrugs. “Well, to be honest, you kind of are. Unfaithfulness to your lover by kissing your best friend...fits the criteria.”


“What would you know about that?” John questions sincerely.


Sherlock only laughs, then leans down to whisper in John’s ear, “I’ve had experience.”


“You, Sherlock Holmes, have had dealings with adultery? I find that unbelievable.”

“Well, believe it. I’ve just had one.” John punches the detective lightly on the arm before resting his head on his shoulder, allowing Sherlock to hold him. He never knew how much he wanted this until he finally got it. It felt amazing, far more wonderful that being with Mary. He knew he was wicked, but...he was surprisingly okay with that. As long as he had Sherlock back in 221B, everything was going to be just fine. They would work things out and everything would be joyful. It would be Sherlock and John. The detective and the doctor.

Chapter Text

The world around him was black and smelled of smoke, as if some great fire had swept over it and burned everything in it’s path. Along the skyline, a mountain range towered over the blackened landscape. Built into the mountainside was a citadel, of a sort. It had several towers and turrets along the main wall, and standing out above the mountain tops was another large tower. The tower was made of stone, like everything else in the stronghold, and was topped by a golden dome, which glowed in the light of the five moons.


Within the stronghold, a Judgement was being held. Everyone on the planet, which wasn’t much, were lined up along the walls of the Great Hall. At the end of the walkway was a large throne, flanked on either side by smaller thrones, meant for the Jarl and the Hand. Two people sat in the small thrones, both of them with dark hair, fair skin and long, billowing cloaks. The King, or whatever he was called, sat in the larger throne, dressed in elegant colors of white and grey. He was young, about seventeen or eighteen, long and lanky. He slouched in the seat and waited while the two prisoners were brought down the walkway and presented before the king.


One of the captives was short while the other was taller. Both of them had thin frames, which were covered by hooded cloaks. Said hoods were pulled over their faces, concealing their identity until The Leader asked otherwise. The residents lining the walls whispered to one another as the two prisoners were paraded down the hall. They were forced to kneel when they reached the foot of the thrones.


“Pull back their hoods,” The Leader said. His voice was harsh and demanding, yet still held the sound of youth. The two guards yanked the black hoods off the two prisoners, displaying their identity to the masses. The shorter one had pale skin and curly brown hair, eyes wide and full of fear. The one next to him had the same pale skin and unruly blue hair, something the residents had never seen before. The Leader rolled his eyes when he saw them. “You again? What have you done this time?”


“They were caught stealing from the forges, Your Grace,” one of the guards responded. “Searching for these…” the guard held out his hand. In it, he had several small pieces of a gleaming metal, the sharp edges glinting in the light of the candles.


“Velran steel?” The Leader asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “What would you need that for?”


“Obviously, I-urrp-needed it for something,” the taller of the two prisoners answers drunkenly.


“Rick Sanchez. It’s wonderful to see you again,” The Leader regards him with a scornful look before turning to the person beside him. “Though new.”


“Morty Smith, of Earth Dimension C-137,” the other guard responds monotonously.


“Ah, of course,” the man says, leaning back in his seat. “Now, I’m going to ask you again: what do you need Velran steel for?”


Rick opens his mouth to speak, but Morty interrupts him, “I n-n-needed it for something I-I was working on and R-Rick offered to help me.” When he had finished, he looked over at his grandfather, who was simply glaring at him. Once he had said it, he knew it was stupid. What have I done?


The Leader seemed to contemplate Morty’s words. A few minutes later, he gestures to the man on his left, which Morty assumed was his Hand, and spoke a few quiet words. When he turned back to the crowd, he nodded to the guards, who then grabbed Rick roughly by his shoulders and dragged him to the center of the Great Hall. Morty was lifted to a standing position by another guardsman and dragged to the head of the group that had formed around Rick. The guard took his hands and held them behind his back while Rick was brought to his knees once again after a fight to get away. Morty’s heart raced and his stomach churned with fear. The crowd had fallen completely silent now.


“You understand the penalty of stealing from your King, don’t you, Morty Smith?” the King said, coming to stand beside the teen.


“W-we’re not even from here!” Morty protested, not taking his eyes off of Rick. A guardsman with a gleaming steel sword stood over him, the tip of the blade resting on the floor and his hands on the hilt, waiting for his King’s word.


“Oh, I know that. It doesn’t matter where you’re from. You’re stealing from royalty, and it is punishable by death, which I am sentencing your companion to,” he nodded at the guardsman, and moved behind Morty, holding his head in his hands and forcing him to stare at his grandpa, who was staring back at him.


“Y-you shouldn’t have spoken, Mo-oough-rty.” That’s the last thing he said to Morty before returning his gaze to the floor.


“This is your punishment, Morty Smith,” the King says, laughing as the guard raises his sword over his head. “Watching him die, and knowing it’s all your fault.”


It happened so fast. Morty didn’t-couldn’t-close his eyes. He watched as the sword met Rick’s neck, cleanly severing from his shoulders, his blood spilling on the dark stone floor. He wanted to cry, but no tears would fall. It was all his fault Rick was dead. If he had let him do the talking, they would be out of here by now, on their way home. If he hadn’t asked Rick to help him get the steal, they wouldn’t even be in this mess. The King was right, it was all his fault his Rick is dead. He’ll never see him again, never hear his voice in his ear as he tried to fix something he had broken, or take adventures with the same Rick again. Yes, he could get a new one, but none of them would compare to the Rick from C-137. Nobody would love him like he had, and he couldn’t love him in return.


It was all his fault….

Morty jerked awake, bolting upright and breathing heavily. His clothes clung to his body with cold sweat and he felt nauseous. He sat still for several minutes, getting his breathing under control and willing himself not to vomit, which was difficult. He tried to recollect his dream, but it was like trying to hold water, each detail slipping through his fingers. He knew one thing; he had seen Rick-his Rick-die, was his fault. That was enough to bring the young teen to tears. He held his head in his hands and let the tears fall from his eyes, silent sobs taking over him. He’d never wanted to kill Rick, or even see him die, for that matter. Why did I have that dream? Morty loved Rick, more than he should, and if he were ever given the choice to kill himself to save Rick from something, he would do it, no questions asked. He knew Rick would do the same. He could be sweet when he wanted to.


When Morty lifted his head again, his eyes were red and puffy. They were now a lighter shade of green than he normally had. They were, actually, really pretty. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the wall. His nausea from earlier had come back and he let himself vomit if he needed to. It felt like years until he finally did, bringing the garbage bin near his bed into his lap and throwing up the contents of his stomach, which wasn’t much. When he had finished, he set the bin on the floor to take care of later and threw the covers off of him, getting out of bed to brush his teeth. His throat burned from the bile and reminded him of whiskey. Maybe that would help me forget. While he cleaned himself up, he contemplated finding Rick and asking him for a few swigs of whatever it was he kept in his flask. It wouldn’t last forever, but a few hours was enough. He couldn’t stand seeing him die whenever he blinked. Morty wiped his mouth on a towel and stared at his sickly face in the mirror. The green tinge in his eyes hasn’t quite faded. He longed to see Rick again, hold him tight and know that he was still here.


Morty threw the towel on the ground and left the bathroom, making his way down the hall to the garage. He knew Rick wouldn’t be in his room; he hardly ever was. When he was, something bad had to have happened. He only ran to his room when things got especially bad and he needed time alone, away from all the blinking lights and beeping of his gadgets. When Morty passed his grandfather’s room, he was surprised to see the door slightly ajar, a faint blue light filtering through the small opening. Morty stopped in his tracks, simply staring at the blue light for a few moments before creeping towards the door. It creaked slightly when he pushed it open and he winced at the noise. He could see Rick’s figure curled up on the bed, facing the door. The blue light turned out to be moonlight, which was washing over the man on the bed. He looked like an angel. There wasn’t any alcohol near him, as the pristine lab coat he normally wore was nowhere to be seen, and he was in clean grey sweatpants. He had shed his blue sweater as well, displaying his slightly toned chest and stomach. He was covered in scars and burns, which Morty could see clearly as he got closer to Rick. Most of them were faded and old, while others were far newer, most likely from their past adventures. His chest rose and fell with his steady breathing. It comforted Morty to see his normally pretentious grandfather at ease and sleeping like a normal human should.


Most importantly, he was still alive.


Morty reached out to touch Rick lightly on the arm, just to make sure he was really there and wasn’t a trick of his mind. When his fingertips lightly grazed his skin, Rick’s eyes shot open and he bolted upright, chest heaving just as Morty’s had when he woke. For several moments he stared straight forward, not looking at his grandson who, most likely, had woken him. When he did, his icy eyes were filled with sadness and guilt. Morty had expected anger at being woken at such an early hour. Rick didn’t say anything. Instead, he wrapped his arms tightly around Morty, grabbing any part of him he could, as if making sure he was real. Not knowing what else to do, Morty responded, throwing his arms around his waist.


“Morty, y-you’re okay,” Rick said breathlessly, holding his grandson at arm’s length.


“O-of course I am,” Morty responds shakily. “W-why wouldn’t I be?” As quickly as Rick’s emotions showed, they were gone, replaced by his usual cocky manner.


“Well, of c-course you’re okay. Y-you’re always okay, aren’t you, Morty?” Rick released Morty’s shoulders and sat against the wall, one leg draped over the side of the bed. “W-what do you want?”


Morty now felt a little foolish, running to his grandfather for reassurance from a nightmare. He rubbed the back of his neck while he contemplated the best way to word his problem. “I just wa-wanted to make sure you were fine.”


“I’m f-fine, Morty,” he responds, not making eye contact with his grandson. “I know, for a fact, that I’m always fine.”

“W-well, y-you see, I had a...a nightmare, I guess,” Morty stutters, heart beating faster and breathing becoming almost impossible. “I...I saw you die, a-and it was a-all my fault.” Rick looked at Morty, gaze softening a little at the way his voice breaks.. Morty was heartbroken, and he was once again on the verge of tears. He crossed his arms over his chest, and it was his turn to avoid eye contact with his grandfather. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”


“Like I said, I’m always okay,” Rick’s voice is softer, more reassuring. He takes Morty’s hand in his own and squeezes it gently. “Are you okay?”


“I”m f-fine now,” Morty answers, blushing at the slight contact. Rick’s grip was gentler than it usually was and the sentiment he was showing sent shivers down Morty’s spine. He liked it when Rick showed emotion. It was a rare thing, but when he did, Morty tried to draw it out as long as he could. Rick released his hand and patted the spot next to him, which Morty took as a signal to join him. He happily did so, but kept his distance. Morty would have loved to curl up with Rick, arms wrapped around each other and holding the other tightly, as if protecting them from an unknown danger. He wanted to look into those bright blue eyes, slowly leaning closer to him until their lips met in a lingering kiss. Morty had imagined what that would be like, on several occasions. He loved Rick, more than anything.


What felt like several years later, Morty broke the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “I’m s-sorry, Rick.”


The blue haired man simply looked at Morty, a puzzled expression on his face. “What for, kid?”


“I woke you, for something stupid,” the teen answers, allowing the tears that had been building up to fall down his cheeks and onto his hands. He felt even more foolish now, crying in front of his grandfather. “I...I was just scared and…”


Rick turned to face Morty and wrapped his arms around him protectively, resting his head on top of Morty’s. The latter’s shoulders wracked with sobs and Rick could feel each individual tear as they hit his bare skin. It broke his heart to see his Morty like this, but he didn’t know what to do. “Don’t be sorry, Morty. I-I-I would have done the same thing.” That wasn’t a lie. Rick had been plagued with nightmares almost his entire life, which was why he hardly slept. It was the only way to escape them.


“You don’t have nightmares,” Morty responds, voice muffled. Rick understood him well enough. His warm breath on his neck sent his heart into overdrive and his stomach turned. Why are you turned on now? Of all times, you sick bastard. You’re grandson is in pain, and you sit there. Some guardian you are.


“You’d be surprised, Morty,” Rick answers, pulling back enough to see Morty’s face clearly. “Have you ever wondered why I don’t sleep?”-Morty nods-”It’s because of them. They’d gotten s-so bad that whenever I closed my eyes to sleep, they-hey’d be there, and every night, it’s the same thing.”


“C-could you tell me what they are?” Morty questions, eyes wide as he looked up at Rick.


“Another day,” he responds, leaning closer to Morty until their lips were centimeters apart. “R-right now, this is a-about comforting you.” To stop any protests Morty might have had, Rick gently presses his lips to Morty’s, drawing a surprised gasp from the teen. The sensation sent blood rushing to Morty’s cock, and he thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest. After what could have been several days, Rick pulled back, gazing at Morty. His eyes were wide as he looked at Rick and his face flushed. He smiled at the teen, then kissed him again, this time harder and more passionately. Morty, once again shocked, didn’t-couldn’t-do anything other than sit there and let Rick do what he wanted.


When he got his bearings back, he responded to the kiss, wrapping his arms loosely around Rick’s neck. The elder’s hands held Morty’s hips as he pushed him back against the mattress, crawling on top of him to straddle the other’s hips. Morty ran his hands up and down Rick’s torso, digging his fingertips into the skin whenever Rick bit his bottom lip. He was gentle with Morty, unlike he would be if these were different circumstances. It felt foreign to Rick, acting on his desires. He had often found his thoughts wandering to Morty’s beautiful, slender body and gorgeous hazel eyes; wondering what he sounded like when he was in pleasure; how Rick’s cock would feel in him. However, as soon as he found his thoughts wandering too far, he would push them away, followed by more malicious thoughts.


This...this was different. It didn’t feel wrong to Rick, or to Morty, to kiss the other like this, letting their hands explore whatever parts of the body they wanted; Morty letting small gasps and whines escape his lips whenever Rick played with his nipples beneath his shirt. It didn’t feel wrong at all; it felt right. More right than anything either of them had experienced. Rick’s cock twitched when Morty let out a particularly loud moan, drawn from him as Rick bit and sucked at his pulse. When he did that, Rick backed off, sitting upright to look at the gorgeous sight beneath him.


It was then that Rick came back to himself. He looked over his shoulder at the door, which still stood open. He crawled off of Morty and the teen whined at the loss of his body. He sat up, watching as Rick pulled a t-shirt over his head. “What are y-you doing?” he stuttered.


“I’m...I’m sorry, Morty,” he said, regret plain his voice. “I shouldn’t have done that, and-not after what happened....” Rick was quieted by Morty’s lips on his, which was a pleasant surprise.


“That’s the past, R-Rick,” he answers, returning his arms to their place around his neck. He didn’t say anything for several moments, only staring into Rick’s eyes. All the latter could see in them, from the light the moon provided, was... what was that? Love? Adoration? Desire?


“What’s the dif-difference between him and me?” Rick questioned, pushing Morty away. Instead of being hurt, like he normally would have, Morty saw it as a challenge.


“The difference that I-I love you, Rick.” Hearing his name from the kid’s mouth made his stomach turn with excitement. “I love you, more than I should, but l-less than you deserve. I ran to you because I wanted you to h-hold me, and chase away the fear of nightmares and know that you would never leave me…”


“You know I would n-never leave you, Morty,” Rick says, pulling the teen into a warm embrace. Morty could feel Rick’s strong heartbeat and the warmth radiating from his body. He smelled of soap and sweat, rather than alcohol and drugs. His raspy voice in his ear excited and comforted Morty at the same time, and he loved it. “You’re the Mortiest Morty I could ask for, and I-I wouldn’t change it for t-the world.”


Morty believed him. Normally, if anyone else said something like that, he would brush it off as a lie, but when it came from Rick, it meant everything. “I love you, Rick. S-so, so much.” Rick chuckled, the vibrations running through Morty’s being. The elder rested his head, once again, on the teen’s head, and closed his eyes contently.

“I l-love you, too, Morty...And I promise I-I’ll always keep you safe.”