so Charlotte Bronte read Emma by Jane Austen and was really interested in this minor character named Jane Fairfax who was poor and would have been a governess had she not married well and then Bronte wrote her own novel exploring the plight of the poor governess who married this guy named Edward Fairfax Rochester in a novel called Jane Eyre and my point is don’t let anyone tell you shit about fanfiction.
Tag: fanfic
And Then…?
Lady-Karasu: (So of course I looked at this and thought, how can I take that in a direction you were clearly not intending? (Because I do things like that). Then this happened. XD)
Recap:
Climbing the stairs quietly, already prepared for the inevitable argument to come, he paused as a sound echoed down the stairwell. Laughter. No, laughter and giggles, along with a few thumps and thuds.
He continued up as silently as he could manage, pausing in the doorway of the sitting room to see…
…the bastard detective and his good doctor, relaxed and distracted by relief and the release of stress, thinking themselves clear, finally; free to reclaim the lives they’d thought they’d lost.
All it took was a month’s patience and his /own/ faked death to manage it.
Idiots. As if that ruse could only be used once.
He could already hear the shade of Jim mocking his actions – knew it’d take a bottle at least to shut him up, later – but his caution would be rewarded; had already been proven, given the relative lack of concern emanating from the room. What had been a tense and wary atmosphere mere weeks previous was now heedlessly unconcerned. A perfect target.
Sebastian’s pause could barely be called a hesitation – just the moment it took to silently pull his sidearm out and to the ready – sliding a step to the side, just cresting the door jamb with a shoulder and sighting into the room. It wasn’t his preference – lacking the distance and clarity of his rifle – but he’d long since given up the pretext that this wasn’t personal, was just business; he’d let the last framework of ‘the business’ be burnt to cinders around him, just for this chance, this moment. To complete his last order with a flair it’s issuer could appreciate.
If there was ever one thing that could be guaranteed above all others, it was that he never failed a job. Not for Jim. And if Holmes was still alive, well – that meant a bullet for Watson. It was simple as that. It could have been handled impersonally, of course, at a distance at any time in the other man’s comings and goings, but he wanted to /see/ the recognition of what was happening, the agony when Holmes realized his hard fought victory had just been snatched from his fingers, everything he’d worked for burning to dust around him in an instant. The centre of his world snuffed out right in front of him, unable to do anything about it. His loss.
Hell, Seb might even let him live to enjoy that feeling.
There was a brief, sadistic urge to make himself known, but he dismissed it out of hand; Watson was just a pawn, now. Had always been, really. Seb knew it was safer to make his move without announcing his presence – not allowing that moment of horror, however delicious it might be – but that was hardly the reason for his decision; let the man die cleanly, without warning. It was Holmes he wanted to suffer.
Lining up his shot with no further hesitation, Seb took a breath. Exhaled. Squeezed the trigger.
(…your call how that ends. *smirk*)
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Expository Lump: (Okay, Lady-Karasu and I had talked about what I was going to do in answer to this, but I was uncertain about my plan. In the meantime, the lovely kakareen-is-sonya popped in with an ending that made me squee. But also, funnily enough, her ending had similarities to what I’d been discussing with Lady-Karasu. I hadn’t planned to carry forward with mine, since I didn’t want Kakareen to think I was stealing her idea; however, I was not long afterward informed by Miz Karasu that I was not getting off the hook so lightly, so I carried on and wrote it.)
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Damn straight you weren’t getting off the hook – when you tell me there’s fic to be had, I expect there to be fic…. even if comes a year later. XD (I’m not at all referring to a certain mormor fic, nope, not at all.. *smiles innocently*)
Also, yay, you finished it! You’re much kinder than I would have been, so probably best it was you and not me… Sebastian had very firm ideas on how this should end, after all…
Mormor really is a sickness… and then fic happened. *facepalm* Oh well, might as well share now that it’s written:
——–
The room was dark, just this side of uncomfortably cool – for now; the coolness would be welcome, soon enough – and almost painfully quiet. Jim waited as patiently as he ever did for a long-game or an involved plan; still, quiet, unconcerned. It was Sebastian’s turn, this time, and he well knew his lover’s penchant for theatrics; similarly, Jim well knew he had nothing to actually fear from Seb, regardless of where he’d been led. And led was the word for it, black satin cloth blocking out any hint of light he might have caught during their trip. He didn’t go so far as to tape smaller cloths over Jim’s eyes, but the blindfold was shaped in such a way to hug the rise of his nose, and wide enough to cover from the top of his cheeks to the middle of his forehead. Jim had grinned almost impishly when he’d been presented with it, but hadn’t hesitated at all, simply inclining his head slightly in tacit permission, letting Sebastian come around behind him to place the cloth in position with light, trailing fingers caressing over the line between fabric and flesh, pulling it comfortably snug and securing it in such a way that Jim would have to struggle violently to remove it.
Seb knew he wouldn’t.
Sebastian’s fingers had drifted down, tracing the line of Jim’s neck to shoulder, then tracing over fabric, down his arms to collect thin wrists in his palms, pulling them back and chaining them together with handcuffs, accompanied by the soft huff of a laugh Jim offered in return. “Interesting night planned, tiger?” he’d asked teasingly, voice soft and lilting, head cocked just so to imply his full attention, without ever trying to turn in Sebastian’s direction. He hadn’t spoken back – wouldn’t, not yet – simply squeezed the wrists in one broad palm before releasing his grip and guiding Jim out with the slight pressure of one hand on the back of his shoulder, warmth bleeding into the skin beneath the fabric. It wouldn’t have taken much; he’d caught Jim in a simple button down and slacks – smartly cut and flattering, but far fewer layers than usual, not even a vest beneath his shirt. Jim chuckled softly again, and complied, steps nearly as sure as they’d have been with full sight; trust was not a word they would openly use, but Jim had every deserved expectation that Seb would never lead him wrong.
[Read More] (AO3)
Minutes (Beeblock Fic)
Title: Minutes
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: James Moriarty/Sebastian Moran, Misc Short-lived OCs
Word Count: 2,294
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t claim they are, not making money at this, no offense meant, promise to return them when I’m through with them.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: This time, yeah. Somewhat graphic descriptions of violence, Strangulation, Male homosexuality, Men having sex.
Summary: Sebastian Moran on a job,the events of and following, all broken down in rough increments by minutes.
Author’s Notes: So, I had this mental image and shared it with Lady-Karasu, of Jim and Seb sexin’ it up and Jim being evil and a bit rough and Seb being all sarcastic afterward. She, not surprisingly – she ships them like woah – flailed and did many things to convince me I should write that up. So I was going to make it a little ask-box ficlet thing for her on Tumblr or something. Yeah. About that. *sigh* Do I even need to say it anymore? So, Lady-Karasu, this is for you, my dear. Founding member of the Professional Enabler’s Club, that you are, I shouldn’t even be surprised for an instant that you got me to do this. *grin* Try to use your powers for good… or at least good porn, yeah? ;D
Aww, you shouldn’t have— I LIE, OH YES YOU SHOULD! o/ I fully support this behavior; what do I need to do to get more? Baking? I can do that – I can have double-chocolate brownies to you in – well, I’d say in a few days, but the post office does not apparently like to deliver to you so maybe more like a week. XD
Hehe – I see I have leveled up in my enabling powers if it gets me this lovely, lovely thing (I told you ‘it’ll be short’ – famous last words XD) Seriously hun, thank you so much – the amount of flailing I did while reading was completely unseemly *snicker* I adore it, and it just makes me want to work on the other two mormor storylines we’re working on. *grins suggestively* Thank you~!
playing violin
I absolutely adore this.
I was informed that this needed ficcery and that some fluff was required, stat. This is the first thing the Muse offered up, hope it’ll do?
~~~
The sounds of the traffic outside fade, along with his awareness of the room in general, as Sherlock adjusts the violin under John’s chin, moves his fingers to a more proper hold on the bow, and lays one each of his fingers over John’s on the strings.
Breath just brushing his ear and cheek, Sherlock speaks in a low murmur. “Now, no slouching, but don’t tense up. Yes, John, just like that.”
Almost surprised into following orders, John lets himself be guided, posed. “I just asked -“
Sherlock cuts him off, a quiet baritone rumble to which he has somehow trained himself to listen, “It’s pointless to explain if you have no basis for understanding. Now, feel the strings, each one’s tension. Touch the bow to them, move it…yes, very smooth for a novice, John… feel the vibrations?”
John nods the tiny increment he is allowed, violin under his chin, Sherlock’s cheek against the side of his head, and the realisation that he has no wish to dislodge either. Nor does he mind the warm presence of Sherlock’s body, all along his back, or those longer arms curved over and around his upper arms, or having the graceful and sure touch of those long-fingered hands atop his own.
“Now, press this finger hardest, then this… here… yes, now draw the bow steadily across those strings… no, firm enough to engage the strings properly.” When has Sherlock ever sounded so patient? Rarely, to be sure, and the few times John can recall were often when walking him through some convoluted deduction.
“I’m sure to be rubbish at this, Sherlock,” John protests, aware his voice has dropped to a soft tone, too.
A breath of a chuckle, nearly silent, tickles the hair at his temple and his ear. “Everyone’s rubbish to start,” Sherlock retorts.
John draws the bow across the string, a multiple tone sounds from the contact, weak and uneven, and John presses slightly more firmly, keeps his fingers tight where Sherlock’s holding them, and the tone solidifies into one long smooth note that is resonant and sweet in the quiet room. A grin flashes across John’s mouth and he feels another soft laugh from Sherlock, this time the movement of his chest and diaphragm press against John’s back.
“Perfect,” Sherlock says, guiding John’s fingers into another configuration. “Now, this will be—”
This time John interrupts Sherlock, “You’re not going to actually teach me how to play, are you?”
“Not this afternoon, no.” From the drag of Sherlock’s hair against his own and the feeling of the other man’s breath against his cheek, John is sure Sherlock’s head has turned and he’s studying John, but John doesn’t return the gaze, feeling strangely unnerved.
“I mean,” he says almost reluctantly, not even sure why he’s arguing, “this sort of thing takes years.”
Sherlock’s head moves again, and John lets his fingers be guided once more, and he is only mildly surprised when Sherlock speaks, a little more humour infusing the deep, quiet voice. “Well, it’ll be something to fill the time between cases, won’t it?”
A smile pulls at John’s lips, accompanied by a bright, buoyant feeling in his middle. Years. Of cases and excitement, of squabbling over the shopping and messy experiments, of violin in the wee hours and the flickers of genius in changeable eyes that see everything.
They bring another pure note out of Sherlock’s violin, with only a tiny hint of scratchy off-tone at the end, and John glances at Sherlock, who’s also smiling, and he gives a tiny tilt of his head. “Better than bullet holes in the wall, yeah?”
Sherlock’s answering chuckle is low and rich, like dark chocolate and honey, and John joins in, his own lighter while being just as warm, and yet they blend almost perfectly.
~~~
(For Lady-Karasu)
Well this made my night. ^_^ I just had to sit in awe of that for a few minutes – and when did you find time to do this, I only mentioned it maybe a half hour ago! – good lord, woman, I adore you. *tackle hug* Seriously, Random, you’re amazing, thank you. ❤ *smooches head*
(‘I hope this’ll do’, she says… *shakes head* What am I going to do with you? Clearly, talk you into writing more pretty things for me. :D)
To celebrate finding beta/britpickers (yes ’s’, I need two to keep me from making a fool of myself online. Sadly, they can’t help me in real life.) willing to work with this sorry, sporadic writer, I have revised my last two Post-Reichenbach Lestrade fics. ^_^
This way to the improved Collateral Damage series. (AO3)
Or, if you prefer LJ, Collateral Damage, and Expected Inquisition.
(Thanks, ladies! ^_^)
Lady Karasu 