Aenonnymoose

aenonnymoose:

For: Lady-Karasu

IMPORTANT NOTE: First go look at This Post and see the GIF, then notice the comment; and then read the following:

Sebastian Moran entered the refitted hunting lodge with duffel-bag and rifle-case over one shoulder, handgun in his free hand. The perimeter had been secure, as was the gate at the bottom of the little hill upon which the lodge had been built. Instead of coming in the front door, however, Seb entered from the back, coming around from the garage.

The reason Seb was stealthily sneaking into what was, to all appearances, a secured location, was that Jim hadn’t answered his phone in the last thirty-two minutes, which was highly unlike him. James Moriarty was borderline obsessive about staying in touch with the goings on of his organisation, as well as his right-hand man, favourite assassin, and lover.

Once inside, finding nothing obviously out of place, Seb checked the few rooms on the ground floor—no one and nothing unusual to be found—then crept upstairs, expecting trouble, cat-footed and nearly silent.

In the outer room of the upstairs bedroom suite, Seb found Jim’s mobile next to the universal remote on the plush sofa, text and missed call notification icons showing on its screen; it had been set for vibrate. Even as he stood there, frowning down at it, the mobile buzzed softly, screen lighting up to show a received-text reminder. The reminder was for a text from Seb, himself, as a matter of fact.

Hearing a soft sound of movement in the bedroom beyond an only slightly-ajar door, Seb moved toward it, half expecting to find Jim taking a perfectly innocent nap and half expecting to find him in danger; the one would lead to some grumbling from Seb about ‘security and practicing what you bloody preach, Jim’ and the other would lead to someone being dead.

What Seb didn’t expect to find was Jim sitting on his heels at the edge of their huge bed, just then pulling a ribbed cotton undershirt off while still wearing a too-large pair of camouflage fatigue trousers. In fact, Sebastian’s own fatigues, as was the undershirt, the camouflage fatigue jacket discarded on the far edge of the bed, and the ball-chain with dog-tags still dangling at the end that swung against Jim’s sternum as he turned with raised brows and wide brown eyes.

It was exceedingly rare that Jim allowed himself to be surprised; he was usually the one who did the surprising, and rarely in a way that was very fun for the surprisee. But this time, Jim’s lips fell open slightly, teeth then coming together to almost form what Seb was certain might have been the beginning sibilant of his own name. With Jim’s upper body turned toward him, Seb could see the way the trousers rode low on his slim hips, making it fairly certain that Jim wore nothing underneath.

Seb let the duffel and case slide to the floor, then flicked the safety catch on his gun to ‘on’ and tossed it onto the bed beyond Jim as he approached, saying nothing, looking him over thoroughly; whatever showed on Seb’s face, it brought the merest hint of colour to Jim’s face, made the pulse flutter at his neck, and caused his smooth chest to rise and fall with a sudden inhalation.

Where words, meanings, double entendrés, clever witticisms, and subtle threats were Jim’s usual province, Seb wasn’t really the talkative sort—it wasn’t that he was stupid, on the contrary, he just wasn’t one for idle chit-chat—and to have startled Jim into silence was, indeed, a very rare thing. Seb didn’t ruin it, he let his face show his intention, and let his actions show his opinion on this unexpected discovery. Whether Jim was embarrassed at being caught or had planned this whole ‘scene’ was immaterial to Seb at that moment; he’d find out the truth later, or not.

As Seb stepped right up to the side of the bed, his hands fell to Jim’s hips, gripping handfuls of the loose trousers and using that to lift Jim up onto his knees, pulling him forward to the very edge of the mattress. Simultaneously, Jim’s hands came up to meet Seb, one on his left bicep, the other on his chest, not stopping him or pushing him away, just touching as he tilted his head back slightly to keep Seb’s gaze as the taller man moved in close. Jim’s lips quirked just a little, pulling to the side in something close to amusement and closer to arousal, but he still remained silent as Seb’s own lips took on a cockily-aroused tilt just before he brought them down on Jim’s.

Seb didn’t dick around with soft buildup kisses or nibbles this time, he urged Jim’s lips open straight away, wanting in now; he met with absolutely no resistance, the response was eager as Jim made the tiniest hungry sound deep in his throat. Answering with a lower, just as hungry, sound of his own, Seb’s hands slid further around Jim, grabbing his arse and pulling him closer, still. It was obvious Jim was excited as their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, and in moments it was just as obvious Seb felt the same.

The lack of discussion continued for a good long while, though there wasn’t any lack of communication, even if it was in the form of sighs, moans, growls, and maybe a couple of enthusiastic shouts at one point.

Much later, Jim put on his own, usual clothing, but kept the dog-tags. Sebastian had no complaints, and his smug expression lingered for quite a while.

END

~Moose

(This wouldn’t work in an askbox due to there being a link involved, hence it being posted here instead of slipped into Lady-Karasu’s askbox directly.)

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay~! o/  Thank you so much, I adore it.  ❤  I am far too tired to properly articulate my Joy at the moment, but let me flail at you over this lovely, lovely piece of work.  *FLAILS*

Aenonnymoose

Storytime For Sebastian (Beeblock Fic)

random-ficcery:

Title: Storytime For Sebastian (Also On AO3)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Word Count: 1,131
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even my usual pairing in this fandom, not profiting, all hail Moffat, Gatiss, and the Beeb!
Warnings: Implications of men in relationships with men, non-graphic references to violence, inappropriate use of scrapbooking materials.
Summary: Sebastian’s in a coma, Jim’s waiting for him to wake up.
Author’s Notes: Lady-Karasu shared This Tumblr Post with me (same as linked above) , and her tags were pretty much a prompt – at least as far as the Muse was concerned. Bearing in mind the fact that she has been slowly infesting – I mean familiarizing – me with many things in the Moriarty/Moran category, I could pretty much immediately see the scenario. Also, I wanted to write it for her; because, even though RL has been kicking her in the shins about as much as it has me lately (if not more!), she has still found the time and the kindness to be a very good friend to me, as well as an awesome RP-buddy. Hope you like it, bebe! *huggaluvs*

Gah! I’d thought I had reblogged this earlier, then I realized it was still pending, so clearly I must rectify this.  Random – oh lovely, dear, sweet Random – wrote me this beautiful fic to cheer me up.  It did brilliantly, and I flailed and loved every moment of it because it’s exactly what I had in mind when the idea first occurred to me, and she rendered it beautifully into text.  Thank you, dear – I adore this. ❤ (and you ^_^)

Minutes (Beeblock Fic)

random-ficcery:

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~!

Non-AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock – JM/SM

aenonnymoose:

For: Lady-Karasu

He doesn’t believe in gods, demons, anything but the world around him that he can twist and use to his purposes. He believes in what he can do with his mind, with his hands; everything of superstition and myth can be someone else’s hang-up, he doesn’t need any of that nonsense. Some might say he’s mad, twisted, wrong somehow, but they don’t say it to his face. Lately they don’t even whisper it behind his back, and the heady rush of the knowledge that he is feared and hated, but obeyed, does. not. get. old.

He doesn’t believe in the things other people do, but he has found it strangely satisfying to be believed in. To see the light of eager compliance, of willing obedience in the eyes of a killer. Eyes that are flat and cold when turned on everyone else. It’s of particular satisfaction to him that despite all his random little tests, his relentless pushing, his studied cruelties, the world-hardened killer, the insanely-patient shikari has given allegiance to him. Willingly.

So, it’s with a pristine conscience that he accepts the unexpected worship that is the startlingly gentle touch of large hands on his bared body. Hands that have killed countless times, that could snap his neck without more than a soft grunt of effort from their owner, and which will release him the instant he wishes. But he doesn’t wish it. He takes the offering of that strong, scarred body that he can caress or mark as he pleases, drinks of a hard-lipped mouth that softens only for him. He’s found that the sounds of moans and sighs, of his name whimpered imploringly or choked out unintentionally, all are like music to his ears – as cliché as that may be.

Deep in the night, when he wakes from dreams of endless nothingness filling him up and erasing him rather than the horrors others profess to fear in their dreams, he whispers into the tanned and scarred skin that’s always so warm when he’s so cold. No one but his own and only believer hears the words, will ever hear them. If he ever loses faith, ever stops believing, best to kill himself than to run; no mercy will be shown. Better still, he says, just kill them both, because that’s the kindest end he can think of on nights like these.

Always, no matter what’s happened, no matter if he bears fresh scars from fingernails and teeth, or wine-dark marks from lips and tongue… always, his sole acolyte, his killer, his never-tamed but obedient tiger, will enfold him in strong arms and whisper in his rough-edged voice, “Never, Jim. Never. I’m yours till you end me.” Each time, the nothingness inside is pushed back, the burden of being is eased, and he can sleep peacefully again; the worshipped genius instead of the abandoned madman.

END

~MF-Anon

(This just won’t work in an AskBox, so breaking tradition a bit and posting here first.)

aklsfjdalksjdf!!!  MORMOR FIC FOR ME! o/ There are no words for how much I adore this, THANK YOU ANON!  No, seriously, this deserves caps – so much love for this.  SO MUCH!  *hugs it tightly, then backs away slowly because those boys are dangerous*  ^_^  Excuse me while I glee!flail…

10- Sherlock remains nestled in John’s lap, who thinks it’s just fine, sharing the rest of his toast bite for bite with John – whose own is forgotten. In between bites, they share long, luscious, honey-flavoured kisses, and the moans seem to grow longer and deeper. Being a genius, Sherlock suggests further experiments with the honey. John, again, has no complaints. Thereafter, every other shopping list contains the item ‘2 jars cinnamon honey’ – only one of the jars is ever for toast. END ~Moose

Oh my dear, sweet nonnie, thank you so much; this was sweet, and delicious, and I may be a little caught up in the subject matter… um.  Hot.  Hot is good.  In short, I adored this, thank you~!  ^_^

[Back to the beginning…]

9- The difference is remarkable. What was delicious is now sumptuously amazing. John’s aware of the soft moan rising up out of him, but it’s irrelevant. Sherlock’s deeper moan joins along and he frees John’s mouth to delicately lick his upper lip before saying, “Oh, John, this is even BETTER.” Again ‘saying’ should be ‘purring’ or some adjective that means ‘tone that sidles up to the libido and gives it a very friendly fondle’. “No complaints here,” John says a little breathily. (tbc)

Next (last) bit…

8- Sherlock frowns as if John’s doing something strange, and John only then realises that Sherlock’s pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed. He usually looks like this after they’ve kissed and fondled for a few minutes; this just from spiced honey on toast? As this observation enters John’s brain, Sherlock’s clearly having a thought – knowing him, several dozen – and he licks some of the brownish-gold flavoured honey off of the toast and leans down, kissing John with a honey-coated tongue. (tbc)

Next bit…

7- Not averse to trying just about anything Sherlock asks when he uses THAT voice, John obediently opens his mouth and, when Sherlock slips the edge of the toast between his lips, he takes the bite. There’s the usual crunch of toasted bread, the warm taste of butter, the smooth, rich taste of honey, and the spicy bite of cinnamon; however, the flavours blend and shift into something more as John chews, and it’s really quite delicious. He hums and nods in agreement and enjoyment. (tbc)

Next bit…

6- Smiling, maybe with a bit of a leer, John nods and starts to reply, but halts when Sherlock lifts one long leg and summarily straddles John’s lap, squeezing his lean body between the table and John. “Have you tasted it?” he asks – no, he rumbles, nearly purrs – and John nods. “Licked my finger when making your toast,” he replies distractedly. Sherlock’s already shaking his head, holding the cinnamon-honey and butter covered toast to John’s lips, purring, “Not the same, take a bite.” (tbc)

Next bit…

5- John’s brows go up in query; Sherlock’s tone is arresting, as is his expression as he swallows and immediately takes another small bite. Another soft, throaty moan works its way up that long neck and John’s comfy old denims seem to shrink a little. Licking his lips, Sherlock turns to John and snatches the newspaper out of his unresisting hands. “You listened,” he says as if John’s arranged for a quadruple locked-room murder with a note written in some convoluted cipher from the killer. (tbc)

Next bit…