Tag: random-nexus

3 Sentence Fics: Mormor – “a tiger in a tux” for Lady-Karasu

random-nexus:

Sebastian fidgeted in subtle ways almost no one else would’ve noticed—to any casual observer he appeared nothing but gracefully wrapped in an exquisitely-tailored tuxedo—and muttered mutinously in Jim’s ear, “I hate this sort of showy nonsense, Jim, and you know it—Christ, the Bolivian Ambassador’s wife is eyeing me like I’m made of sodding chocolate.”

Smiling with wicked smugness, Jim’s dark eyes swept down and then up again over his partner’s lean, athletic form as he replied in an equally soft murmur, “You asked what I wanted, Sebby, and I wanted a night out with my tiger in a tux; so, you will be in the tux, my handsome tiger, and let people look their greedy fill.”

Smirking and rolling his eyes with a sigh, Sebastian surrendered by relaxing into the easy, confident manner of a man who wears a tux like a second skin and doesn’t give a toss who’s staring, because no one but the person at his side has the right to touch.

~~~

Prompt: “Mormor (haha, like it’s any surprise) – but I saw a line from an earlier offering, and now want to make it your prompt. ‘a tiger in a tux’.” ^____^ by lady-karasu

(Hairy Crispmoose, bebe. I hope it’s okay. ❤ Hee hee!)

Heee~!  I love it!  Thank you, sweetie!  ^_^

During a fic editing session…

Hubby: I hear you girls, and your exciting use of punctuation.
Me: Oh yeah, it’s been thrilling
Random_nexus: We used a colon earlier!
Hubby: You use a lot of colons in your writing.
Lady-Karasu & Random_Nexus: *laughs*
Hubby (from other room): I’ve seen your dash!
Me: Wait, my dash, or my /dash/?
Hubby: Your /dash/, I know how much colon use goes on…

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 ^_^)

Captains at Sea (in progress)

Previous post (alternate)

~~~

The Captain watched him closely while he got the circulation moving into his hands again, but John didn’t allow himself to react any differently for the attention, only keeping a portion of his own on the captain in return.  The knife was returned to its sheath as the other man took another step back, but it wasn’t the gesture that caught his eye – lesser, unthreatening.  Instead he immediately noticed the subtle movement of hand to sword-hilt when the shift was made, but didn’t react outwardly.  It seemed a comfortable, almost absent motion, but John got the feeling Holmes never did anything without purpose, and took note of his own relative position and disadvantage, as he suspected was the point.  

Shifting his legs slightly, testing for that telltale prickle of oxygen returning to starved muscles, John wondered vaguely how long he could take being on edge like this, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop while remaining functional and combat ready.  He’d seen other soldiers retrieved after too long in captivity; everyone handled it differently, but there was always a breaking point.  He didn’t expect to escape enemy territory any time soon, after all.  Presently there was no option at all, nowhere to flee to unless he grew gills overnight.

The time to consider didn’t last long. 

As if merely conducting business – and he supposed that was accurate enough – the captain’s countenance shifted in an instant, authoritative and businesslike again as he gestured for Lestrade’s attention, giving orders after his care while still addressing John directly, remarking upon his ‘luck’ in this situation.  John managed to hold in the snort, simply inclining his chin somewhat in acknowledgement, and shifted his attention to his apparent keeper when Lestrade addressed him directly.  He took a moment to properly look the man over, now that he wasn’t fighting for his liberty or – at least for the moment – expecting execution, tentatively choosing to take the captain at his word. 

He was perhaps a few years John’s senior, though it was hard to tell for sure; thirty five? Perhaps up to forty, but he wouldn’t guess any higher than that.  The man was of a medium build – lean, though John had reason to know the modest, but well defined muscles he carried were more than serviceable – with dark brown eyes set in a slightly hawkish face; sharp, watchful, and entirely too keen for his tastes.  Longish black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that seemed to be the prevalent style at a glance over the rest of the crew, as well as the garb; coarse trousers, a shirt that was likely meant to be white at one time, and an open waistcoat. 

The attention was brief – assessing, but unchallenging – then ostensibly slid back to what he was expected to be focusing on; blood flow, and his ability to move. 

It only took a few minutes before his body was able to support him again; not comfortably, but reliably enough, since he didn’t want to show any further weakness than he already had.  Lestrade had already moved to the side, making a somewhat pointed show of waiting on him, though nothing so obvious as to be considered outright rude after the captain’s vague censure.  Holmes’ attention had already turned elsewhere, flitting away as soon as he’d dismissed John, and John’s focus was necessarily split between the man at his side and the captain’s next focus: addressing the unhappy bearers of wounds he’d inflicted earlier in his struggle.  John didn’t try to quell the small satisfied smirk that pulled at his lips, but he did duck his head slightly as he rose so it would not be as obvious.  His expression slid back to neutral by the time he had taken his feet again – the first time, properly, since being fished out of the water – and he tilted his head in Lestrade’s direction to imply his readiness, waiting for the other man to move so he could follow.

Or, that was his hope.  Lestrade, for his part, was not so green, smiling pleasantly but coolly and stepping back to wave John on in the proper direction, and, in the lead.  Without hesitation – there was nothing to be gained for it – but less surety that he might have had, had he been certain of their destination, John started walking in the direction indicated.  He had no real desire to have the other man at his back, but at the moment it couldn’t be helped, so he simply stayed alert and moved towards the only obvious doorway visible.

He supposed, as they moved, that their intended destination could have been one of the hatches strategically peppering the deck, but no correction stopped him, and the relatively short walk was taken with straight spine, forward eyes, and likely far more curious glances than the captain would have preferred.  The door opened under his hand without correction, though, and he entered the small, narrow hall accompanied only by the sound of footsteps behind him, and an itching between his shoulder blades that told him – unhelpfully – that he was being watched. 

There were three doors visible in the dim light cast by the partially open door, and he moved towards them – the span of perhaps 5 meters – one on either side of the hall, and one at the termination, though all were at the very end.  Stopping when he could move no further, John waited a moment, but was given no immediate direction.  Turning his head to his shoulder to indicate his attention as well as the unspoken question – though not turning far enough to actually look back – Lestrade finally uttered a gruff, “Right”, and John nodded, opening the door to his right and stepping through just as he heard the external door click fully shut. 

Most people in this sort of situation – the almost oppressive silence in close contact with another – would feel some urge to make small talk, to ramble, fill up that quiet space.  John was having no trouble fighting that small, human urge.  What would he even say?  ‘I’m sorry for putting up such a fight?  Hope the bruising doesn’t last too long?’  It would be completely insincere, anyway, so he held his tongue and moved further into the room to allow the other man entry behind him, stiff-backed and still head high.  Whatever pretty name it was given, whatever the trappings, he was still a prisoner; a soldier stripped of his liberty – he would abide by his word, but he didn’t have to look happy about it.

Instead, he took in what would be his cage – albeit, a more comfortable one than the captains initial threat – for the foreseeable future, or at least until the other man tired of putting on this particular act.  The room was small, but serviceable, though likely large for its location, given the premium of space on a ship.  A narrow bed lined the far wall, linen and duvet absent, but, given circumstance, probably tucked away where it would not be tossed with the waves.  One large multi-paned window was set into the back wall, a small table and two chairs nestled under it – weighted, roughly hewn from heavy wood, but serviceable and worn smooth with use – nothing on its surface but a few gouges and stains.  The near wall held a chest of drawers coming up roughly to chest height, a small, imperfect mirror affixed to the wall above it, and the wall opposite the window held a respectable wardrobe. 

The initial inspection was clinical, detached – necessity only, he could look around more thoroughly once he was alone, though John didn’t expect to find much past perhaps some bedding, or loose odds and ends – and he turned back to the other man shortly after he entered the room behind John, waiting for whatever additional direction he was sure to issue.

There was nothing at first, just another assessing look, then Lestrade pulled a face, nose wrinkling in disdain – whether at John, or the musty smell of the room, he wasn’t certain – crossing the expanse to unlatch and prop open a section of the window.  “Been a few months since these quarters were used regularly,” he said, looking about more sharply once the task was complete. “I’ll have the bath brought shortly, per Captain’s orders. And that trunk of clothes.”  Keeping a wary eye on John, he went back to the door, pausing with one hand on the handle; clearly ready to be done with him, though he stopped to ask, “Have you any questions, sir?”

There was that little telltale pause before ‘sir’ again, an addition he clearly did not part with easily, only for the sake of grudgingly following orders.  John had to fight the urge to snap, ‘we both know I’m no ‘sir’, here’ – but they both had their part to play, so he kept his mind his own, even if they both knew the score, already. 

He had watched the other man’s movements, but at the ‘parting’ question and his own quelled response, John directed his more obvious attention out the window.  In a flat, almost neutral tone, he asked, “What do I need to be aware of to…” His lip curled slightly, but he controlled that response as well, leaving it a subtle twitch of a reaction, tone remaining even as he finished, “stay in line?”

In his peripheral vision, he caught the rise of Lestrade’s brows as he considered the question, scratching lightly at his slightly stubbled chin. “If you stick to what the captain asked of you, you’ll do well enough.” He replied at first, then paused again, seeming to debate further before adding bluntly, “Don’t bother lying to him, he’ll know. Don’t flout him in front of the crew…” he studied John a little more knowingly. “He’s given you leeway he doesn’t accord to anyone, as a rule, let alone – pardon me speaking frankly – someone hauled up like flotsam. Someone who might possibly be an enemy, to boot. But, because of that, if you challenge him in front of the crew, he’ll have to make a show of disciplining you.” He shook his head, lowering his voice. “He can be a cruel bastard, make no mistake, but he’s a good man.” 

It hadn’t really been what John was asking, looking more for some kind of procedural outline – an overview of anything off limits that might not be readily apparent – but he supposed it was more than he’d really been expecting by way of an answer, anyway.  “Figured as much”, he said to himself in a distracted undertone, then pulled himself back from his thoughts, shifting to face the other man fully, again.  “Point taken”, he said, accepting that as confirmation of what he’d already suspected from the earlier discussion with the captain.  “That’s all pretty well covered in the agreement made."  He shrugged, confirming his own intentions by adding, "I’ll abide by my word.”  

It came out stiffly, but that did nothing to detract from the truth of it; he’d made an agreement, and, as he told the Captain out there, until he was given cause not to, he would keep it.  Still, there was a slight stress on ‘I’ll’, faintly hinting at his somewhat dubious – and reasonably so – acceptance of the current offer; it was difficult to believe, particularly given the crew’s response to it, and Lestrade’s own words only minutes earlier. 

Apparently, that slight stress didn’t go without notice or offence.  A frown crossed Lestrade’s features almost immediately and his voice hardened. “See that you do, sir. I can assure you, Captain Holmes is a man who keeps his. Give a shout for the cabin boy if there’s anything you require, Mr. Watson. Good day to you.” He nodded with bare courtesy, stepping back and out of the room without further delay; movements sharp and abrupt. 

Given his own suspicions and the initial threat so casually made – chaining him in the hold and keeping him barely alive until port – John couldn’t help but take that clipped assertion as a menacing reminder rather than any sort of assurance.  Regardless, it made no real difference, and John made no effort to address the topic further, or the man firmly closing the door behind him.  “Oh, I’m rather sure he does”, John muttered darkly to himself, instead, just in time to have his words punctuated by the telltale snick of the lock being engaged.

He could muster absolutely no surprise for this.

~~~

Next (pending)

Writer’s Whinge…

Lady-Karasu: You realize it’s taken us over an hour to figure out how to word one paragraph?
Random_Nexus: *puts on gravelly mean voice* I grab the language by the shirtfront and shout, ‘Render up your adverbs! We will have your linguistics, and have them now!’
Lady-Karasu: *giggles* We ought to post that!
Random_Nexus: I’mma do it.

Captains at Sea (in progress)

(Continued from here)

The captain’s obvious and increasingly irritating satisfaction only grew with his agreement (he had to have known it was coming, perhaps it was just John’s recognition that pleased him so), and John’s jaw clenched a little tighter while Holmes started snapping orders with regards to his treatment.  The other man never looked away, however, merely shifting and gesturing to acknowledge his men as he spoke, and John refused to break eye contact first, knowing, somehow, this in itself was its own sort of challenge.

Nonetheless, he paid careful attention to what was being said and the reactions to it, needing every possible edge he could have.  The prospect of a change of clothes was… almost distracting, and he fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably now that his mind had been brought back to the still-damp and bunching fabric he wore, but his focus never fully shifted, and his ears perked at the unexpected bone of contention when it came.  The special attention given to the prospect of giving him a razor didn’t click at first, then he realized – if everything else was… period-accurate, then any razor to be had would likely be a straight razor; a serviceable, if not ideal weapon.  This did cause the slightest raise of an eyebrow, but also, in the pause and tension he could feel from the other man – this ‘Mr. Lestrade’ who had had a hand along with several others in getting him… under control – a grim smile pulled at his own lips.  Lestrade’s reaction – the long look in his own direction – was noticeable, even without more than a small space in his peripheral vision, and John couldn’t help but to take a grim sort of satisfaction that he had left that much of an impression with the man, and probably several other of the crew who would be sporting bruises by morning at the very least. 

Then the discussion moved back to clothing him by way of topic change, the order clearly accepted if not liked, and John let his self-satisfaction shift to the back of his mind, giving proper attention to what was being said, again.  He was sure there was some backstory to this byplay as well, but not so much that it mattered to him; didn’t seem to have any bearing on his situation, anyway, just something regarding their recent exploits, and dear lord he was using words like exploits in his own head.  The internal groan that bubbled up with that thought was suppressed more easily when Holmes drew his knife, drawing all of his attention from other thoughts to one, deadly focal point.

John didn’t move away when the other man leaned in, but neither did he shift his focus away from the blade as it moved nearer.  This intense concentration on his weapon seemed to amuse the captain, prompting a vaguely chiding question about his concerns that did nothing to pacify him.  “Something to break the monotony?” John asked almost flippantly but quietly at the attempted logic, then more seriously, but still the tone of a rhetorical question, “What sense is there fishing me out of the ocean if only to take me captive and waste supplies on me?” John didn’t tense – whatever instinct might suggest, tensing was a mistake in situations like this – instead staying loose and ready to move if he needed to.   “Agreement or not, any man in my position would be a fool not to stay very conscious of weapons in the hands of his capt– I’m sorry, hosts."  The grim smile was back, pulling into something more of a dark smirk, and John’s eyes finally left the knife (though he kept it in his periphery), rising back to meet Holmes’.  "Not much I could do just now, but at the very least, I could get few strategic kicks in before I bled out."  Some of those strategic kicks were likely the reason he’d had more than one set of ropes applied to his legs when he was moved for this ‘audience’ with the captain. 

Holmes, for his part, raised an eyebrow in response, hint of a smirk pulling at his lips – and what should John take from that? – but didn’t immediately speak, making the smart move and cutting the bindings to his legs, first (never kneeling as would be easiest, only bending to keep the dominant position), before moving to lean around him, cutting the ropes binding his hands.  Regardless of the other man’s apparent ease, his assertion that there was no reason, presently – and presently really was the proper perspective for John to keep in mind – to attack him, he was fully aware of the subtle tension, much like his own – ready to move, to react – that Holmes carried as he finished his self-appointed task. 

John knew better than to make any abrupt movements with Holmes tense, close and armed – or even to move at all, immediately after being freed – holding his position as if the bindings still kept him in place until the other man pulled back and put space between them once more.  Only then did he slowly bring his arms forward, rolling his shoulders – hearing a multitude of small cracks that came more from shifting strained tendons than joints – as he shifted to rub hand over wrist in his lap, working out some of the soreness and casually inspecting the abrasions left in the scuffle to secure him.

It hadn’t been a pleasant thing, though it got a bit better once Holmes deigned to grace him with his attention – initially he had fought hard enough that the crew resorted to hog-tying him.  He could still feel the strain in his shoulders and hips, back, even, making their complaints known; John attempted not to make the lingering effects too obvious, however – he could lick his wounds in private, later, if this captain did, indeed hold up his end of the bargain.  If he didn’t, then the remaining discomforts of his capture would be the least of his worries, anyway.

~~~~

Next (Alternate*)
*to compensate for halloween url change

Captains At Sea (WIP)

random-nexus:

Continued from here.

Captain Holmes watched Watson closely as he replied, and wished he had spent more time with him previously; he was almost certain the man was telling the truth, but couldn’t be completely certain. Not yet. Even so, how extraordinary this fellow was turning out to be! Showing unexpected twist after predictable turn and then back to unexpected again, as well as his odd way of speaking and all the other little details that didn’t match up with what ought to have been. It was like finding a present wrapped in many layers, each one another small present in itself.

Of course, it might be that he was simply more kindly disposed in general due to this man’s discovery, considering it had broken the streak of boredom threatening to turn Holmes quite mad with frustration. Nevertheless…

It wasn’t that Watson was being challenging, there was no intentional bravado or provocation in his words – Captain Holmes would’ve wagered on that highly – no, it was that this strange man wasn’t so much refusing to surrender fully as he was offering a sort of conditional truce, in a way. Why this pleased Captain Holmes more than a simple agreement to his demands would have done, he couldn’t wholly say, but he would find out, by the Powers.

In a low, wry voice, Captain Holmes said with a slightly crooked cant to his lips, “Willing cooperation is easier, it’s true, and no, you are not in a position to argue; however, you are not precisely agreeing, either, are you?” Before his captive could comment or reply, Captain Holmes stood upright abruptly, shoulders back and chin at a rather haughty level, looking down with imperiously arched brows at the semi-waterlogged soldier bound before him. “Very well, then. Let us have a sort of truce then, Mr. Watson. You make no promises you cannot keep, and I shall do likewise. You give me the courtesy and obedience due me as master of this ship, until such time as one of my laws crosses your character or obligations; in which case, you will not disrupt the running of my ship nor the disposition of my crew, but come to me with whatever it is that has offended your honour or troubled your conscience.”

Behind Captain Holmes, Mr. Lestrade was trying to hide it, but some of his incredulous expression got out before he caught himself; this sort of compromise with a captive – at least one with no obvious wealth or position to provide a reason – was rather unprecedented. A few of the men standing on guard around them were not as good at hiding their surprise, and glances meant to be subtle were shared around; Lestrade cleared his throat meaningfully, bringing them back in line without a verbal challenge.

~~~

The pause between his response and the captain’s reaction wasn’t long, but still longer than he expected, subtly braced as he was was for displeasure that may or may not be instantly violent.  It seemed the most likely response, really, given circumstance and Holmes’ own warnings attached to his demands; demands John could not agree to in honesty without caveats.  Instead of harsh reprisal, however, he received a low, ironic reply, questioning the validity of his own answer.  John couldn’t help feeling as if he were being toyed with and he raised his chin slightly, lips parting to respond – he wasn’t dissimulating, he was being precise and honest; wasn’t that better than lying outright to give the answer desired? – but the captain spoke over him before the response could even emerge.

Forcing his reaction and his words down, John listened as the captain parroted back his own assertion with a small but significant addition; he would bring any issues to the captain first, without taking any other measures.  The demand – and though it was delivered like a request, there was no doubt it was a demand – was completely understandable, but dangerous all the same.  It locked him in, removed any other option of recourse if things went badly (which he honestly half expected), removing even his ability to voice complaint openly if his treatment were ‘less than courteous’.  He couldn’t imagine the captain would be easily accessible on the whims of a prisoner, even if he were earnest in his offer of fair treatment; particularly after he’d gotten what he wanted out of John. 

The thought rankled, and there was something in the captain’s expression, his bearing, coupled with John’s realisation that made him want to comment, sarcasm bubbling up under the surface; however, contrary to popular belief, John did have a sense of self-preservation, and the reaction of the surrounding crew – some hiding their surprise better than others, but all displaying it – was telling enough that this gesture was a rarity; an unexpected leniency. It didn’t make his position any more comfortable, but it did allow him to force his reaction down again, recognizing this was as good as his situation was likely to get. 

Jaw tight, John met the other man’s eyes knowingly; focus unwavering, even though the startled, likely agitated shifting behind the captain hadn’t ceased.  They both knew this put him very nearly back where he started, left him exceedingly vulnerable, but there was nothing to be done for it; he had no leverage in this.  Apparent leniency or not, as he understood it, the wording of their ‘agreement’ was now vaguely specific enough to make any action not explicitly granted a potential hazard, even down to his own defense, effectively tying his hands more completely than literal bonds.  Still, there was little choice – there hadn’t been from the start – John had stated his limits and intentions given the situation, Holmes had responded in kind; there was no negotiation to be had, it simply was.  So he didn’t attempt to clarify further, seeing the likely end of tolerance on the horizon; merely raised his chin and bit out, “Accepted, then.”