Smolensk (Beeblock Fic)

random-ficcery:

image

Title: Smolensk (Also On AO3)
Rating: PG-13/R (violence)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Misc OCs.
Word Count:3,388
Disclaimer: Not owning, not profiting, no claiming of any kind. Nope.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: Some, yes – Death of OCs, Non-graphic violence, Endangerment of major characters, Gratuitous partial-nudity, Wanton destruction of private property, Waste of perfectly good vehicles.
Original Prompt: lady_karasu said, “You referred to ‘what happened in Smolensk’ in that reward fic – so, tell me what happened.“
Summary: Seb goes along with Jim’s plan to infiltrate a Russian mobster’s home/headquarters, things don’t go according to plan, dangerous hijinx ensue.
Author’s Notes: I promised lady_karasu a fic for her birthday… *clears throat, shuffles feet*… in February. AHEM! So, yeah, at least it’s before the NEXT birthday, right? I mentioned the Smolensk thing in another fic and, although we discussed it briefly, she wanted the whole story as a fic. Finally, after much wrangling with the Muse and RL, here it is. Sorry for the wait, bebe, but here it is!

Yaaaaay, my gift fic!  *snuggles it*  It’s so /lovely/… in, you know, an explosive mormor sort of way.  ^_^  Thank you, Random~!  (Oh crap, I need to start working on yours, don’t I… I’m running out of time.)

And Then…?

random-nexus:

random-nexus:

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*)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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…

random-nexus:

(For Lady-Karasu, who’s being so patient with that other story meant for her birthday, and who squeed with me over the ideas we both had when we saw this pic.)


Just Like Old Times

It had been months since the death of Sherlock Holmes, his memory thoroughly trashed, reputation in ruins, and yet everyone he’d cared about was alive and well to suffer for having known him.

Exactly according to plan.  What hadn’t been according to plan was the other death on that rooftop.  The one that Sebastian Moran actually gave a fuck about.  That hadn’t been in the plan, nor the back-up plan, and certainly not the last-ditch emergency plan.  Jim wasn’t supposed to sodding die, he was meant come down and join Sebastian in celebrating a victory.  The plan absolutely did not include Seb watching Jim’s limp body being carried off the roof in a body bag by hospital staff.

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Oooh, I like this.  (Like that’s a surprise?)  I do love it when your muse takes over (clearly the bribes muse treats are working ^_^)  Thank you, dear~ ❤

random-nexus:

river-boy:

Merman Rescue

by Bruce Lennon

(via)

So, I saw this lovely artwork and some fic happened. 


“Okay”

It was movement that brought Olou up from the dark depths of the sick-sleep. He was moving—no, being moved—unlike floating on the current or riding a wave, something was touching him. Hot, smooth touches with gritted sand in between in places, like his own upper skin, but… Olou’s thoughts rose away from him and burst into nothing as he heard a deep grunting sound.

His memories flooded back, filling him with chaotic images of the wild storm that had caught him stupidly far from safety. Images of being buffeted by the winds, startled repeatedly by flashing sky-spears, and of struggling for what seemed an eternity against the debris and hard waves the storm was pushing before it in its upstream rush to land. Trying to make it out to sea and safety, Olou had been repeatedly pushed toward the riverbanks, scraped and battered on the land and by the debris in the water with him, until the last of his energy was spent and his mind trickled away from him.

Now the bright light of day splashed deep crimson and violet light on the inside of his eyelids and he felt another tugging drag move him across the sand, along with another breathy grunt. Something large was trying to move him, trying to… was it some creature trying to eat him? Did it think him carrion? Remembering only took the mere flash of an instant, and Olou could only imagine what was happening until he saw for himself. Heavy-lidded eyes opening with a bit of a struggle, he reached out with youngling-weak hands to push at whatever gripped his body, lashing his tail and writhing listlessly to free himself.

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Reblogging again for the lovely fic addition.

random-nexus:

ms-meryl:

sirpond:

have u ever had one of those friendships that’s not so much a friendship and it’s more like you’re kindred spirits that were destined to meet and you’re always on the same wavelength or thinking the same things and finishing each others sentences and have the same responses and thought process and saying things at exactly the same time and at some point it just starts getting really frickin creepy

Hive mind packages

That’s all I can say

Srsly, it’s kinda cool that others experience this.

Just The Fics And Nothing But The Fics: Things We Observe While Being Observed (Beeblock Fic)

random-ficcery:

image

Title: Things We Observe While Being Observed (Also On AO3)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Word Count: 2,158
Disclaimer: I disclaim, am not claiming, have no claim of any kind on the creations of ACD, The Mofatt, The Gatiss, and The Beeb.
Spoilers: Nuh-uh
Warnings: Not really, Implied manly scrumpings, Potentially unhealthy relationship dynamics, Questionable television viewing choices.
Summary: Sometimes it’s surprising to realise how well you know someone – or how well they know you.

Just The Fics And Nothing But The Fics: Things We Observe While Being Observed (Beeblock Fic)

Vulnerability, revisited

I wrote a thing.  (This may or may not have been a good idea.)

This follows sometime after bendydicky’s prompt-fill fic: Sebastian, Vulnerability  The enjoyment of this (or understanding, at least) is improved by reading that, first. 😉  Warning for… um.  minor squick, I guess, and Jim being Jim.  Which is often the same thing. 

Title: Vulnerability, revisited  (AO3)
Pairing: Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Wordcount: 1,565
Follows: Bendydicky’s fic

It had been Seb’s turn, this time; not that they took turns, really, but once most of their clothes had been cast off, moving inexorably towards the bed, Sebastian was the one who ended up on his back, stretched out and tied down with taut ropes.  The man – dangerous, formidable in his own right – was never so alluring as when he willingly let Jim make him vulnerable.  Something he never allowed another soul – shouldn’t allow Jim, were he thinking clearly.

And that allure…   well, that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

Distractions.

So an idle thought became a budding action; uncertain, yet, of its true termination, but rich with a full range of possibilities.  Jim rarely made truly idle threats, after all, and Sebastian had been warned.

Warned heedlessly, apparently.  Now, Seb looked so very peaceful, sated and pleased in the shadow of their activities, dead to the world but for where his body intersected with the warmth of Jim’s draped along his.  So contented, so relaxed…

There wasn’t even a start when the blade settled against the soft skin of Seb’s neck; barely the slightest pause in the rhythm of his breathing, a moment of stillness to note his surprise, something which would have gone unnoticed had Jim been anyone else, if he hadn’t been looking for it.  But that small pause was all; Sebastian didn’t tense, didn’t resist, didn’t even open his eyes, all he did was tilt his chin back slightly, slowly, and turn his head to the right. 

Remembrance of his last threat hung heavy in that motion – the connection easily made to that small argument, when Jim had opined that Seb became too relaxed during these couplings, too trusting, unguarded; that he might well chose to slit his throat during a moment of vulnerability, if Jim ever chose to kill the man – but now, with the blade at his throat, he didn’t tense, didn’t make any other movement or plea.  His heart rate was still evening out, and in this new position Sebastian’s carotid artery pulsed gently, blatantly, just under the surface of vulnerable skin; offered clearly, easily, without hesitation.

Of the many reactions he had considered, this one hadn’t even made the list; this was not the survivor he knew.  Scowling slightly, Jim moved the knife into place along the offered artery, but didn’t exert any pressure on it, merely letting it bob slightly with the faint motion of Sebastian’s heartbeat; a subtle promise.

“You’ve never struck me as suicidal, Moran.” He murmured, voice low and rich, but without inflection. 

The man had the audacity to smirk, a lazy grin pulling at his lips for a long moment before he responded with almost cocky indulgence, a hint of warmth threading into his tone, “Good; I’d hate to think you were losing your touch.”

When it was clear nothing more was forthcoming, Jim pressed slightly, then shifted the knife, point drifting up to trace the line of Sebastian’s artery where it disappeared up under his jaw, then following it back down to his collar bone, tipping and twisting the blade once it stilled until a small drop of blood welled up at the prick.  “Sebastian”, he said warningly, then paused, waiting.

Blue eyes finally opened to regard him, though Sebastian did not otherwise move, seemingly comfortable with his present position.  “You’ll do what you want, Jim”, he replied after more of a wait than might have been intelligent or safe, given his tenuous situation – the pause a point of its own, subtly stressing a complete lack of fear.  “I came to terms with that well before this became more than a job.”

Seb let out a breath of a laugh, then, that in other circumstances might have been a harsh bark of humour, brash and unrestrained in its amusement.  Now it was subdued, but no more self-conscious or restrained, hinting that this sudden fatalism was more an act of reasoned devotion than apathy.  There was more under the statement than what was said, but Jim’s attention shifted from that consideration when Seb bucked up slightly, just enough for Jim to feel him, to make a quiet, voiceless point.  “Anyway, your timing could be worse”, Sebastian continued, voice still warmly amused, with a hint of dark irony, “I always thought I’d go out in a much less… pleasant way.”

The response wasn’t quite… flippant; rather, earnest, with a hint of black humour, and Jim paused, simply watching for a long moment before deciding how to respond.

“You know, I only had to make a quick job of it, when I was relying on your guard being down…  now that you’ve-“, he smirked, glancing up at the ropes holding Seb in place, “-let yourself get all tied up, there’s nothing to keep me from drawing this out – having a bit of fun with you, first.”

He drew the knife down lightly, just enough pressure on the tip to be felt dragging across Sebastian’s chest until the point dipped into his navel; Jim’s eyes followed its progress avidly, but he paused, there, glancing up to meet Seb’s gaze again, his own expression edging into a mischievous mien that would often precede blood.   “I could gut you, like this, if I wanted”, he offered lightly, reflectively, “maybe even skin you… “  Trailing off, Jim let the thought hang as the blade pressed down to flatten against Sebastian’s belly, though the tip remained where it was, threateningly nestled in his navel.  For his part, Seb did not seem particularly concerned with this display, watching with an almost passive eye until Jim had finished, then making an attempt at a shrug. 

The response was languid, unhurried, and after a moment Seb replied with an ease that spoke of confidence.  “You could, but I don’t think you will.”

“Oh?”, Jim asked, exaggerated surprise in his voice and the rise of his brows as he leaned back slightly to more directly regard Sebastian, “And whatever gives you that idea?”

Tilting his head slightly, Seb regarding Jim more evenly, appearing to give the question honest thought before responding, “You could, if pressed, but it’s not your preference; I have no doubt that you could kill me in an instant if it served you, but you’d try to make it quick, clean, if you could – you drag it out when it’s expedient, or someone really irritates you, but you’ve become fond of me.  Insofar as you’re fond of anything.”  He shrugged again with a twitch of shoulders that could barely move, and went silent, as if he were relating a simple fact – a student reciting their sums – rather than opining how he might or might not meet a horrible end.

To be fair, it was this sort of frank acceptance of the facts that had initially made Jim…. fond, if that was the word of the evening.  Possessive, he thought, might be a better one, but that was down to semantics. 

The confidence in that answer, however, had the blade moving silently upward once more; cutting lightly, this time, a shallow scrape up across Seb’s abdomen, then over a scant few centimeters and back down.  Jim gave every indication that his attention had shifted fully to the work, watching a small line of blood well up here and there where the knife had passed, though Sebastian didn’t react beyond the occasional autonomous twitch of muscle under Jim’s hand, merely watching him move.  Once he was finished laying the base, the knife came back up to thread under the very tip of the shape he had made, working delicately to peal up a gossamer-thin layer of skin.  He glanced back up to watch Sebastian’s face, knowing they both knew what was about to happen, but the yank, when it came – far more painful than damaging – pulled little more than a hiss and the slightest wince from the other man, along with a thin, almost negligible thread of skin.

The stillness between them stretched out for several long heartbeats – it was Jim’s show, now, and Seb had always respected his predilections – before Jim smirked.

“You died tonight, Sebastian”, he purred, sliding up along Seb’s body, hand – still loosely gripping the knife – trailing along the raw flesh of his belly until it rested just below the man’s collar bone.  Cool, dark eyes met blue firmly, and held them, transfixed.  “Every day you wake, after this, is a gift.”  He held his position for another long moment, still – amazingly, though not surprisingly – sensing no fear from the man beneath him, only acceptance.  The danger had passed – they both knew it – but he doubted the reaction would be different if it hadn’t. 

In a flash, his smirk deepened and Jim swooped down to press an almost violent kiss to Sebastian’s lips as his hand shot out…

The contact was fast and impassioned, leaving rent fiber and a breathless marksman in its wake once Jim drew back.  “Just remember that, tiger”, he said, playful amusement lilting Jim’s voice as he pulled away, leaving the knife on the bed and patting the other man’s hip in a doting sort of affection.  Sliding off the bed in one smooth motion, Jim left the room without a backwards glance, leaving Seb to undo the rest of the bindings, himself.

He would pick up a perceptive one… still, best to keep his tiger on his toes.

————————

So, I read one of bendydicky’s prompt fic’s (Sebastian, Vulnerability, to be exact) a bit back, and was immediately struck upside the head by the muse with a following scene.  Having obtained permission to write said scene (which will almost certainly be regretted, soon enough XD) I’ve done so, and given the content, had a cackling fit over posting it today.  Because it’s so very romantic. *snicker*  Everyone needs a little Valentine’s day skinning, right? XD

Anyway, this started in Seb’s perspective, but Jim is a bossy git and took over; I have no excuse past, I’ve been sick. This is basically me trying to force my muse into cooperating with me after a long dry spell.  (Thanks to Random-nexus for giving this a look-over for any particularly embarrassing mistakes, before posting :D)

random-nexus said: *huggaluvs* Tell the mad genius up the street to knock it the hell off or buy a generator. ;p

I know, right? I’m just saying – glowsticks can be a very convenient thing to have a (minor) infatuation with…  saved us a lot of bumping into things without actually worrying about burning the place down. (Which would be inconvenient.)  And I get looked at funny for having a bag of them.  USEFUL, I SAY!  (Hubby has been chuckling at me all night, but he’s not complaining.)  I’m not kidding, though – weirdest start to an outage we’ve ever had; it was a lightswitch rave on the whole block for a solid 15 minutes (power out, power on, power out, power on, etc) before it finally went for good.  Just wish I’d have made dinner, first.  (It’s not that I can’t cook now, it’s that I am afraid to open my fridge, since I have no idea how long it’ll be out – we’re figuring wind damage on either the lines, or a transformer blew).  Ugh.  I’ll take ficrecs for when I have proper access again, though…  you know, to cheer me up… *hint, hint*