Short fill: Master (1/2)rat_chanJanuary 2 2012, 10:57:17 UTC
OK, I really liked this prompt, but was going to fill something else first, was writing that fill when I kept getting distracted by the image from which this fill came. So I wrote this bit, thinking it could be a mini-fill or a prologue. As I see, coming back to this prompt, that someone else plans to fill this, and as the likelihood of me finishing a multi-chapter fill is pretty low, I'm gonna say this is a short filler fill to tide you over until Anon finishes their proper fill.
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The door never creaked when he came in. There was only the nearly imperceptible shifting of air when he opened it, the gentle thud when he closed it, and the soft grating of metal when he locked it.
He's here. Holmes willed away the unwonted arrhythmia of his pulse at the sound of Moriarty's footsteps moving to the large writing desk that stood on the opposite side of the room to the wide bed on which Holmes lay. He kept his eyes closed, focusing his dulled analytical skills on the sounds that would tell him exactly what his captor (lover, his body whispered against his will, warming and tingling here and there in a muted fever of anticipation) had in mind.
Concentrate. It was too late to hope (dread) that this was one of the exceedingly rare nights that he would be left alone, but there was still the minute possibility that Moriarty was not in the mood for... that. He refused to consciously define the act, though his treacherous body shivered its name -- began to sweat it out as the footsteps moved away from the desk and a silken rustling of cloth against cloth erased any probability of a quiet night.
What will it be tonight? He strove for calm in his mind, detached contemplation, but the quiver in his limbs and spine had shifted to his belly, gotten warmer. A scrape, a creak, a slide of metal on wood, a click, and a soft, satisfied sigh came from the side table... Followed by a sound that Holmes had come to loathe (love) more than anything: the deceptively gentle buzz that preceded the music on a phonograph -- the melody that would tell him precisely what mood the former professor was in. Almost every night for... many, many nights, Holmes had listened to that sound, heart racing, teeth gripping lower lip, fists clenching and unclenching (heat fluttering deeper, lower inside him). Gluck? Verdi? Moriarty often chose them when he was feeling excited. They meant that he would start quickly, sliding into Holmes with minimal foreplay, but continuing in slow, long, hard strokes that brushed Holmes' prostate in time to the dramatic strains of music and the unpleasant (delicious) tickle of Moriarty's beard against neck and chest. Saint-Saëns? Liszt? Those composers usually presaged one of Moriarty's... playful moods. With them, he would draw Holmes off the bed to try something different, taking him on the plush, smoke-scented hearth rug... against the hard oak of the door... pressed against the cool glass of the window... bent over the sleek marble balustrade of the terrace... Never in the same place or quite the same way, but always leaving him reeling, spent, panting... and with his seed whitewashing the scene, or their entwined bodies... or both. Mozart? Holmes swallowed, fists locking closed. Schubert?
Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 2 2012, 11:03:42 UTC
"Ah," before he could stop it, a soft gasp escaped Holmes as the first chords of music came out of the phonograph player's horn. Don Giovanni. Moriarty was feeling nostalgic. Holmes shuddered again in a contradictory mix of relief, disgust, (desire,), and resignation. Disgust (and desire) because this opera, the soundtrack to Moriarty's first triumph over Holmes, meant that the former professor wanted to relive, recreate that defeat, that humiliation, that ascendancy in this bedroom. He would gently, but securely bind the one-time detective's limbs, whispering half-mocking compliments about Holmes' genius, the incomparable challenge he'd once presented. Then he would proceed to undo him, touching, probing, pinching, kissing, nipping and caressing... All over, from earlobes, to nipples, to manhood... Teasing... drawing him to the brink... pulling back... to the brink again, but never over. Fingers stroking outside and in, pulling Holmes down into a fiery inferno, like the hands of Don Giovanni's demons, until unable to bear the (God, so pleasurable) hell of unfulfillment any longer, he gave in and begged Moriarty to fuck him. He would mouth every filthy word of surrender the madman required until finally, with a gloating, possessing kiss, Moriarty would thrust hard into him, drinking Holmes' cries of pleasure and pain along with his degradation and defeat...
Still, as the now softer, shoeless footsteps slowly approached the bed, there was relief. Relief that it was not Die Forelle. That song meant anger at Holmes for some inconvenient echo of his former interference. It meant a bruising clutch of hands on shoulder and hip and a quick, hard fuck, pain in greater measure than pleasure, and firm reminders in the aftermath of Holmes' place.
Greater relief, though, that it was not something light, sweet -- a song Moriarty would say reminded him of his childhood. Holmes dreaded (longed for) those times most of all. To the gentle strains of their melodies, Moriarty would hold Holmes' cheeks, kissing him with soft passion, as a leg shifted to ease his legs apart. Every brush of bearded lips, caress of smooth fingertips would be for their mutual pleasure. That husky, silky voice would whisper how beautiful Holmes was, how rare, as that warm, human body moved tenderly over him, in him... And Holmes would respond, utterly helpless then to stop himself from wrapping his legs around Moriarty's hips, his arms around his back, his lips around the other man's. They would cry out together as their mutual climax shook their tangled frames.
And afterward, when he was left alone, Holmes would feel the greatest sickness.
"Holmes," Moriarty intoned as he reached the bedside and, behind him, Il Commendatore sang the prone man's doom. Holmes opened his eyes and met his captor's (ruler's) gaze. Moriarty's eyes glowed with lust, gloating triumph, anticipation... and a question.
"Moriarty," he answered, still giving the other man that name and no other.
For now.
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Know it's not everything you wanted OP, but I hope it will please you and make the wait for Anon's true fill more bearable.
Ah, that was the first time in a long time I started writing something and didn't want to stop. I enjoyed it, even if no one else will. =]
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 3 2012, 08:03:17 UTC
<3 Thank you!
I still don't know about continuing this. I'd have to deal with all the plot exposition then! Not to mention that there are so many tempting Moriarty/Holmes prompts out there now.
OP (attempting coherency)rat_chanJanuary 2 2012, 22:19:46 UTC
Goodness gracious! Consider me pleased! You spoil me with your lovely fill! This is my first-ever prompt and I'm afraid you have ruined me forever. And if, as you say, you didn't want to stop, perhaps, just perhaps, that was a sign that you shouldn't have ;)? The passage concerning the music from Moriarty's childhood was absolutely spine-tingling - I would love for you to write Holmes' first encounter with that side of Moriarty, I'm sure the ensuing angst would be positively delicious. Thank you so much for the glorious fill! I'm sure no one (especially myself) would discourage you from writing more...
Re: OP (attempting coherency)rat_chanJanuary 3 2012, 08:19:28 UTC
You're welcome (and thank you!). I'm so glad you liked it! And a possible double fill for your first prompt? You must've hit the kinkmeme lottery! I think my first 10 prompts were ignored and the 11th was quite deliberately filled with crack.
As to continuing? While yes, my mouth salivates at the thought of all that delicious angst, there are some other things I'd like to get written first. And, as I said, the chances of me finishing a multi-part fill? Not good recently.
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 9 2012, 05:22:18 UTC
Thank you very much! =D
It's my headcanon that Harris!Moriarty has a serious musical obsession (did you see his face when he was watching the opera: how enthralled he was?) that borders on the sexual (maybe the Mozart helped influence it, but it reminded me of Salieri in Amadeus... if you've seen that... ...my favorite movie since I was four...).
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 8 2012, 20:45:10 UTC
So I chose not to read this until completing the first part of my own as I didn't want to unintentionally lift anything. That said: OH, my heart.
I love that the whole piece is saturated in sound. Not just the music that threads through the story, but the initial opening of the door, Moriarty's footsteps, Holmes' heartbeat, the intimate shifting of clothes. Beautifully done.
whispering half-mocking compliments about Holmes' genius, the incomparable challenge he'd once presented. And this? So very, very cruel.
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 9 2012, 05:28:42 UTC
Oh, I understand about holding off. Thank you for reading & for the lovely praise!
I actually initially wanted to do this as a video -- not with images, but just using the To the Opera! track from the soundtrack, a black screen, and Holmes' thoughts. But then I realized that I'd need the other sounds too and maybe a different arrangement for timing and etc, etc... Maybe for a rewrite. Or another fill.
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)lazaefairJanuary 10 2012, 00:04:29 UTC
I know you mentioned that you didn't like collaborative fiction, but I do have to confess that your fic played some inspiration into the fill I'm writing now - nothing of content, mostly in characterization and mood. Great read.
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 10 2012, 08:12:51 UTC
Thanks a bunch!
I know it's a bit hypocritical for a fanfic writer to bitch about "intellectual property," but... I'm not really up for people writing sequels or co-writing... and I did get a bit upset when someone in another fandom randomly used my OC in one of their works (I guess I should have been flattered).
Inspiration, though? That's fine. More than fine! And I'm really flattered that you thought the characterizations were that good! Let me know when you've finished your work!
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)tabby_stardustJanuary 30 2012, 16:41:24 UTC
I thought I'd let you know that I'm working on an illustration for this story. (If that's okay with you?) Don't know when it will be done but hopefully it won't take as long as my previous fill.
Re: Short fill: Master (2/2)rat_chanJanuary 31 2012, 11:40:01 UTC
（＾Ｏ＾☆♪ Is there anyone who would object to you doing art for their story!? I'm over the moon! And aglow with anticipation! ☆彡☆彡☆彡
You may be right. CAPTCHA is seeming a lot more like Moriarty these days... Although no math for me today: "given uspacku." You don't suppose uspacku is the name of his friendly meat hook?
As I see, coming back to this prompt, that someone else plans to fill this, and as the likelihood of me finishing a multi-chapter fill is pretty low, I'm gonna say this is a short filler fill to tide you over until Anon finishes their proper fill.
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The door never creaked when he came in. There was only the nearly imperceptible shifting of air when he opened it, the gentle thud when he closed it, and the soft grating of metal when he locked it.
He's here. Holmes willed away the unwonted arrhythmia of his pulse at the sound of Moriarty's footsteps moving to the large writing desk that stood on the opposite side of the room to the wide bed on which Holmes lay. He kept his eyes closed, focusing his dulled analytical skills on the sounds that would tell him exactly what his captor (lover, his body whispered against his will, warming and tingling here and there in a muted fever of anticipation) had in mind.
Concentrate. It was too late to hope (dread) that this was one of the exceedingly rare nights that he would be left alone, but there was still the minute possibility that Moriarty was not in the mood for... that. He refused to consciously define the act, though his treacherous body shivered its name -- began to sweat it out as the footsteps moved away from the desk and a silken rustling of cloth against cloth erased any probability of a quiet night.
What will it be tonight? He strove for calm in his mind, detached contemplation, but the quiver in his limbs and spine had shifted to his belly, gotten warmer. A scrape, a creak, a slide of metal on wood, a click, and a soft, satisfied sigh came from the side table... Followed by a sound that Holmes had come to loathe (love) more than anything: the deceptively gentle buzz that preceded the music on a phonograph -- the melody that would tell him precisely what mood the former professor was in. Almost every night for... many, many nights, Holmes had listened to that sound, heart racing, teeth gripping lower lip, fists clenching and unclenching (heat fluttering deeper, lower inside him). Gluck? Verdi? Moriarty often chose them when he was feeling excited. They meant that he would start quickly, sliding into Holmes with minimal foreplay, but continuing in slow, long, hard strokes that brushed Holmes' prostate in time to the dramatic strains of music and the unpleasant (delicious) tickle of Moriarty's beard against neck and chest. Saint-Saëns? Liszt? Those composers usually presaged one of Moriarty's... playful moods. With them, he would draw Holmes off the bed to try something different, taking him on the plush, smoke-scented hearth rug... against the hard oak of the door... pressed against the cool glass of the window... bent over the sleek marble balustrade of the terrace... Never in the same place or quite the same way, but always leaving him reeling, spent, panting... and with his seed whitewashing the scene, or their entwined bodies... or both. Mozart? Holmes swallowed, fists locking closed. Schubert?
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Still, as the now softer, shoeless footsteps slowly approached the bed, there was relief. Relief that it was not Die Forelle. That song meant anger at Holmes for some inconvenient echo of his former interference. It meant a bruising clutch of hands on shoulder and hip and a quick, hard fuck, pain in greater measure than pleasure, and firm reminders in the aftermath of Holmes' place.
Greater relief, though, that it was not something light, sweet -- a song Moriarty would say reminded him of his childhood. Holmes dreaded (longed for) those times most of all. To the gentle strains of their melodies, Moriarty would hold Holmes' cheeks, kissing him with soft passion, as a leg shifted to ease his legs apart. Every brush of bearded lips, caress of smooth fingertips would be for their mutual pleasure. That husky, silky voice would whisper how beautiful Holmes was, how rare, as that warm, human body moved tenderly over him, in him... And Holmes would respond, utterly helpless then to stop himself from wrapping his legs around Moriarty's hips, his arms around his back, his lips around the other man's. They would cry out together as their mutual climax shook their tangled frames.
And afterward, when he was left alone, Holmes would feel the greatest sickness.
"Holmes," Moriarty intoned as he reached the bedside and, behind him, Il Commendatore sang the prone man's doom. Holmes opened his eyes and met his captor's (ruler's) gaze. Moriarty's eyes glowed with lust, gloating triumph, anticipation... and a question.
"Moriarty," he answered, still giving the other man that name and no other.
For now.
--------------------
Know it's not everything you wanted OP, but I hope it will please you and make the wait for Anon's true fill more bearable.
Ah, that was the first time in a long time I started writing something and didn't want to stop. I enjoyed it, even if no one else will. =]
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This is brilliant. I love Moriarty's music choices depending on his mood and Holmes' mixed thoughts of disgust and pleasure... Very chilling.
The fic works beautifully as it is now, but I do hope you will continue some time. Because of reasons. ;)
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I still don't know about continuing this.
I'd have to deal with all the plot exposition then!
Not to mention that there are so many tempting Moriarty/Holmes prompts out there now.
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And a possible double fill for your first prompt? You must've hit the kinkmeme lottery! I think my first 10 prompts were ignored and the 11th was quite deliberately filled with crack.
As to continuing?
While yes, my mouth salivates at the thought of all that delicious angst, there are some other things I'd like to get written first. And, as I said, the chances of me finishing a multi-part fill? Not good recently.
We'll see.
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I… I don't know what to say…
[faints from blood-loss due to excessive nosebleeds]
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Happy to oblige... I think! =)
Rat-chan is not liable for illness or injury resulting from the reading of her fanfiction.
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(The comment has been removed)
It's my headcanon that Harris!Moriarty has a serious musical obsession (did you see his face when he was watching the opera: how enthralled he was?) that borders on the sexual (maybe the Mozart helped influence it, but it reminded me of Salieri in Amadeus... if you've seen that... ...my favorite movie since I was four...).
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I love that the whole piece is saturated in sound. Not just the music that threads through the story, but the initial opening of the door, Moriarty's footsteps, Holmes' heartbeat, the intimate shifting of clothes. Beautifully done.
whispering half-mocking compliments about Holmes' genius, the incomparable challenge he'd once presented. And this? So very, very cruel.
Reply
I actually initially wanted to do this as a video -- not with images, but just using the To the Opera! track from the soundtrack, a black screen, and Holmes' thoughts. But then I realized that I'd need the other sounds too and maybe a different arrangement for timing and etc, etc... Maybe for a rewrite. Or another fill.
Reply
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I know it's a bit hypocritical for a fanfic writer to bitch about "intellectual property," but... I'm not really up for people writing sequels or co-writing... and I did get a bit upset when someone in another fandom randomly used my OC in one of their works (I guess I should have been flattered).
Inspiration, though? That's fine. More than fine! And I'm really flattered that you thought the characterizations were that good!
Let me know when you've finished your work!
Reply
...
LOL. Captcha approves of this, apparently.
IDEK.
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Is there anyone who would object to you doing art for their story!?
I'm over the moon! And aglow with anticipation!
☆彡☆彡☆彡
You may be right. CAPTCHA is seeming a lot more like Moriarty these days... Although no math for me today: "given uspacku." You don't suppose uspacku is the name of his friendly meat hook?
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