Fic it… Fic it good…
Working on my AO3 auction fic - well, I’m writing it, but it belongs to the lovely person who paid for my services. *wiggles eyebrows*
au meme → sherlock learnt to play piano as a child
(the song i imagine him playing [x])
“You never asked.” He responded lightly, pausing the song. He began a bit slowly. John watched off to the side, bowing his head slightly as he listened. The song, John had heard it before. Bliss. This was Bliss. John rested against the wall, Sherlock wasn’t going to stop and he didn’t want him to. He closed his eyes, and the memories flowed. The first day, in the lab. When Sherlock had deducted he’d been at war. Going to 221B Baker Street. Feeling home. Mrs. Hudson, the rush of solving a case, and then again. The determination. The amazement. It never ceased to end. The bomb strapped to his chest, yet Sherlock came to his rescue. Sherlock almost taking the pill for the idiotic rush, and John shooting the man-saving Sherlock.
John sat on the edge of his bed, remembering the day Sherlock had played this piece. He hit the pause button on his laptop, ending the music. He’d listen to this piece and it’d remind him of his lost friend. It’d remind him of why he should keep going. He played this song on the day of the funeral, back in his flat. It was difficult, but he made himself listen. Bliss. It was what he heard every time he played the piece. He sighed, restarting the piece.
“You never told me you could play.” John murmured quietly. He looked up, sensing someone enter the room, his eyes widened, and a small smile grew on his face.
“You never asked.”
All of this, altogether, is just gorgeous! And, wow, does the Muse like that piece of music!
Irony? Not sure. Listening to Jamie Freeman while writing an RP response in a Sherlock & John RP scenario. Heh.
He sounds SO much like his brother, more sometimes than others, of course, but… it’s so cool. And he’s damned good, btw.
AO3 named to TIME’s ‘50 Best Websites 2013’ list
Random stretched luxuriously, well, as luxuriously as she could in the back of one of Mycroft's black cars. She turned what almost was an accidental slap in the face into a gentle caress of Greg's cheek and giggled when he ran his nails lightly down her arm. She looked down at Mycroft, his head in her lap as he dozed in a post-coital haze and ran her fingers through her hair. She was so glad that she'd talked her husband into letting her put fictional characters on their 'exceptions' list.
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!* OMG OMG OMG OMG!!! Anonymous person of awesome! I adore you with adoring adoration and big squishy hugs and loud, smacking head-smooches! \o/ EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! <3
Reblog if you DARE someone to write a fic about you and the character of their choosing and send it in an ask/submit.
I recently realized my personal relating to John Watson, and my bestie to Sherlock, left one position free for my boyfriend. Mary. And while thinking of our personal dynamics, I came up with the conclusion that I, like the john in your story, deep down want both. And god. that was BEAUTIFUL. I want to shower down praises and muse treats and... And beg you to write more. Tough luck on that one, but I definitely enjoyed it! :D -your ardent admirer, porn writer, and companion in the special hell
Oh, how awesome that is to discover! I hope it works out for you all wonderfully! Communication - best tool in the relationship kit! ^5
Don’t know if you’d be interested in any canon-based Sherlock Holmes, but if you like the J&M Watson/S. Holmes dynamic, I’ve got a very fluffy series of fics and drabbles and whatnot based on that.
If you’re not into the canon-based fics, that’s okay and I won’t be offended in the slightest.
Thanks for sharing this with me, and for the encouragement & Muse Treats! I send you a basket of Muse Treats in return and wish you nothing but the best! (Considering how many of us are heading there now, the Special Hell is going to be so fun!)
OT3 Drabble game - Sherlock, John/Mary/Sherlock
shinkonokokoro: Tagging Random-Nexus: Sherlock, John/Mary/Sherlock
(Presuming BBC version, thus either AU or speculatory - sorry if I’m wrong. Also sorry this asploded and took forever - mea culpa - Clearly the term ‘drabble’ needs to be explained to the Muse again.)
“So, how long are you going to let him sleep on the sofa?” Mary murmurs into the back of John’s shoulder at something like 3am.
“Mary…” John sighs.
Mary’s wonderful, no, really, she is, and more so that she’s accepted Sherlock into their lives. Of course, he couldn’t help loving her even more for making good use of her kick-boxing classes and knocking Sherlock on his arse when he turned up on their doorstep, remarkably alive for a dead man. Mary Morstan-Watson, ladies and gentlemen, piss her off at your peril. And the look on Sherlock’s face… well, John only caught a glimpse before he got woozy and had to sit down right there on his own front step and breath into the space between his own shins. It was a more interesting view when Sherlock crouched down before him, cheek already swelling, and looked at John with a wide-eyed expression that John didn’t figure out until days later. But John didn’t wait days to drag Sherlock into a rib-creaking hug as his eyes burned and overflowed; he knew how sorry Sherlock was for hurting him by the fact that he didn’t pull away, that his arms wrapped around John just as tightly after a moment, and by the way his breath hitched and caught within the snug circle of John’s arms.
That was over 6 months ago and John was fairly certain Sherlock was now spending as much time at their flat as he did at his own - Mycroft had kept 221B just as John had left it, unable to do more than pack his own things after the funeral. There was lab-gear in the dining area, posh suits and silk shirts hung on the back of the bedroom door, a dark plaid dressing gown sharing a hook on the back of the bathroom door with Mary’s lavender and pink number and John’s good old striped version, containers in the fridge labelled ‘do not ingest’, and a scorch-mark on the coffee table above a suspicious stain in the rug. Sherlock would turn up on their sofa at all hours, or disappear for days, and twice now Mary’s come home with him following her like a puppy - well, perhaps more like a dark harbinger of doom, because she’d somehow got him to carry two bags of groceries - and answered John’s querying look with a simple, “He joined me in the tea aisle and here we are.”
are you still playing? or did I miss your drabble/response?
Yes! Writing right now! XD
30 Day OTP Porn Challenge – 6/30 - (Jeeves And Wooster)
30 Day OTP Porn Challenge – 6/30
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Pairing: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram Wooster
[On LJ] [On AO3]
When Lingerie Kinks Attack
Jeeves stood back and studied Bertie for a rather long slice of time, before sighing almost silently and shaking his head regretfully. “Although it pains me to say so, Bertram, I do not believe this particular scheme will accomplish your intended goals.”
“I told you it wouldn’t work, Reg!” Bertie exclaimed a bit breathlessly as he tottered in a small partial circle on impossibly tight shoes with heels Jeeves had called ‘low’ but which seemed like towering spikes bent on tipping him onto his bum and breaking one of his ankles in the process. He flopped his arms in frustrated disgust, fluffy marabou trim fluttering like strange anemones at the hems of gossamer sky blue sleeves. “No one would believe me in the role of a love interest! Let alone for myself!”
“Alas, I fear you may be correct. You are somewhat unsuited for, if you will pardon the vernacular, ‘drag’, my own.”
Well, lord love a duck! What had the man expected? Bertram’s willowy form might grace a fine tweed or a dashing tuxedo, but hadn’t Jeeves learned from that maid’s get-up once upon a wish-it-could-be-forgotten time?
The Wooster body and face were made male for a reason, by Jove; had they been meant to be squeezed into the enormously-complicated whatsit of ladies’ togs and slathered with face-paint, the creator would have fashioned one Bertram W. Wooster with the proper body and face for such exploits of fashion. Furthermore, he would have had the ability to act the part, which was a skill Bertie knew very well he lacked almost completely. Pretending to be a maid even that once had nearly been beyond him.
tygermama asked a question:
”Um, small friend?” The Tick’s voice was confused. Which was nothing new, really. The Tick was often confused, just usually not so early in the morning. “Hrmphngl?” Arthur replied. He was leaning against the counter, eyes still closed, waiting for the coffee maker to finish. “I seem to be experiencing… some strangeness in my… lower regions.” The Tick said. Arthur rubbed his eyes and turned around, “What’s that, Tick? I-” /Oh/ Arthur thought, mouth dry. How to explain ‘morning wood’ to Tick?
I answered this privately when I meant to do it publicly, thank the gmail daemons that I get email notifications for asks and it was still in my email!
I GOT TICK FIC! \o/ Woohoohoo! Thank you, thank you, and one giggly thank you more!