+Write Think Dream+

((Champion AU))

“Your insolence grows by the day,” Loki noted, once they were alone in his private quarters, each curled against the bannister of the balcony that overlooked vast, golden Asgard; Loki surveying his kingdom, Thor with his back shewn to it. 

“It is not the only matter that grows by the day,” Thor grinned, shameless as a Midgardian whore, and he refused to sober at Loki’s scowl.  ”Your armies respect me, your enemies fear me.  What more do you want of me, milord?”

“A little decorum,” Loki, however, allowed Thor to bracket him with his arms, one large palm set against the ivory curve of the bannister to either side, and he pulled off his horned helm to invite lips against his jaw.  ”At least in public.”

“The God of Mischief asks for decorum,” Thor mused, with mock solemnity, as he pressed himself flush against Loki’s slender frame, ignoring Loki’s muttered grumble as buckles and breastplate dug into his back, “How the world turns.”

“We were children when I was assigned that ill-thought moniker,” Loki huffed, though he shifted carefully and relaxed. “Yours is the hand that has wrought far more of its share of mayhem since.”

“In your name, of late,” Thor pointed out, reaching for the clasps of his armour, and Loki had to snort and shake his head at that, reaching back to tangle his fingers through his champion’s thick, tawny mane.  In this, as in most matters, Thor knew that he had Loki’s indulgence. 

(Source: , via beingevil)

dramatis-echo:

“…that if she touched you, I’d kill her. And you let her do it anyway.”

Sebastian Moran || Jim Moriarty

# Moran-Series

Kitty Riley is a pretty young thing, with her china-doll fringe and her schoolgirl pigtails, passionate and easily gulled; she’s Moriarty’s favourite type of prey, the sort that he’d twist around his little finger until there’s nothing left to break.  Sebastian knows the sort on sight, and months, years ago, he’d have felt nothing more than a dim sense of professional inevitability, whether the little bleating sheep would turn vicious after the wolf has had its fill.

Now, however, now- 

The boss has been reckless where he used to be patient, flamboyant where he once preferred the sidelines; the circling waltz that he’s orchestrating with the private detective is heading towards nowhere good.  Sebastian has good instincts, and he knows when something’s going due south on a burning train, and months, years ago, he’d have just started to quietly pack up his things, book some tickets to nowhere, just in case. 

Now, however, now- he’s sitting fakir-style on the carpet, disassembling his bolt-action 50MG McMillan TAC-50, carefully wiping down the chrome-moly steel of the match-grade barrel, and the weight of the gun calms him, focuses him.  The boss is preening before the wardrobe mirror, admiring his ridiculous down-and-out actor disguise.  There’s a smear of lipstick on his collar like a sweeping thumbprint; it’s the brightest shade of crimson on the boss, compared to the bloodstain splashes over his jeans.

Eventually, Moriarty drawls, “You do realize that you’ve made matters… inconvenient.”

Sebastian doesn’t reply, gritting his teeth as he detaches the stock, wipes it down, then Moriarty makes a ‘hmm?’ sound, and he sighs.  ”Yes, sir.” 

“I needed Miss Riley alive for at least the weekend.  Now I’ll have to cover up her demise and get her ‘scoop’ published at the same time under her name with no fuss.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Moriarty turns back to the mirror, runs his thumb absently down over his collar, then he smooths down his hair.  ”And you could at least have used a rifle.  Knives are so very messy.”

“Yes, sir.” Sebastian loves all of his rifles, even the Springfields, but their kills are all impersonal.  This one hadn’t been, God help him.  It was a kill out of nothing but fury.  Miss Riley’s blood had been warm under his palms, the combat knife easing quick under her ribs. 

“Care to explain yourself?”

“I warned you,” Sebastian murmurs quietly, reaching for the cleaning rod, but he hesitates when Moriarty exhales in a sharp hiss of breath, tapping his shoe briefly on the wood panelled floor.  ”That if she touched you, I’d kill her.  And you did it anyway.”

“Yes, yes, you told me.” Moriarty glances up at the ceiling, then back at the mirror, and from what Sebastian could see of it, the last of Richard Brook’s fumbling persona is gone, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of Jim Moriarty.  ”And what did I tell you in return?”

“That you were my master, that my finger might be on the trigger but it would be you who would decide when and where it gets pulled.  I heard you.  Sir.” Sebastian replies, tonelessly.  He has never been afraid of dying, and if Moriarty puts a bullet through his head now, for this first and last act of insubordination, then he supposes it would have been worth it.

“And yet you disappoint me.” Moriarty shakes his head, and tsks.  ”Sebastian, Sebastian.  I’ve been spoiling you, I really have.”

“The Glock’s over to your left,” Sebastian points out flatly, and reaches for the cleaning rod, this time, inserts a patch through the jib.

Moriarty sucks in another, sharp breath, and closes his eyes briefly.  ”You want me to kill you.  I won’t.  I still need you, Seb,” he croons, and this time his master turns around, the wild edge of his madness in his otherwise flat stare and the thin curve to his mouth.  ”I still have plans for you.”

Sebastian hastily sets the rod aside as Moriarty slips onto his lap and folds his arms over his shoulders, but he keeps his palms on the carpet as he’s learned, even when Moriarty purrs and rubs against him.  ”Sir-“

His question cuts off as Moriarty bites down, just below his left ear, hard enough to draw blood, and he grits his teeth to swallow his whimper as thumbs dig into the pulse at his neck for a moment.  ”But I won’t tolerate disobedience again, Seb.  Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, sir,” Sebastian whispers, and moans as Moriarty runs the tip of his tongue with mocking tenderness over the fresh crescent scar. 

dramatis-echo:

“Oh I insist. After you, my dear.”

Sebastian Moran || Jim Moriarty

# Moran-Series

The boss probably knows it, but Sebastian always gets vaguely nervous when he smiles like that, wide and secretive, like he’s the only man in the middle of a minefield who knows where the mines are.  Sebastian hates it.

They’re in, of all places, Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, and although the city’s pleasantly warm and the Sheraton Addis is air-conditioned, Sebastian’s just gone twenty-one hours straight in the dust scoping out a route into Somalia, and he’s exhausted, filthy, and more than tired of Islamist militants and their various guerilla factions.  He’s also vaguely surprised that they got out of the situation alive and paid, what with sticking out like bloody sore thumbs throughout the entire crazy business.  

Especially Jim Moriarty, who follows him into the hotel suite still insistently dressed like a banker, all prettied up in Alexander McQueen, dust flecking his pants legs but otherwise immaculate.  The welcome mat fails to explode and there aren’t any nasty surprises in the bathroom, the bedroom, or the closets, and Sebastian wearily signals the all clear even as Moriarty strolls over to settle into a couch in front of the flatscreen television set, leaving Sebastian to inspect their luggage for tampering.

Paranoia duly assuaged, Sebastian mutters, “Sir, do you want to use the shower first?” because Moriarty’s fastidious like an old biddy at the worst of times, and Sebastian feels like he’s wearing at least half the countryside’s mud over his skin and boots. 

“No, after you, my dear.  I insist.” Moriarty flicks his wrist at him from the couch, and Sebastian shrugs, too tired to argue, grunting as he drags off his boots and strips down on his way to the shower, inking footprints as he does in mud and sand over the carpet and tiles.  

The warm water sifts over him in an almost sensuous pleasure.  Sebastian leans heavily against the tiled wall as he scrubs at his skin and scratches caked blood off his palms, drags his fingers through his days-old beard and rubs the flat of his hands over his eyes.

When the door clicks quietly open behind him, he turns, groping for the shower door, his mind instantly triangulating distance to the Glock that he’s left in its holster in the pool of dirty clothes next to the shower, but it’s only the boss, less his jacket and barefoot, smirking as he sidles into the bathroom, tugging out his tie, that crazy, wicked smile cast tight over his lips.  Moriarty looks him up and down, idly, then at the heap of clothes with a half-shake of his head.

There’s a small velvet packet in the boss’ hands, and Moriarty unrolls it in the sink: a small bottle and an old fashioned shaving razor, those with blades sharp enough to cut you long before you can feel it.  Dimly, Sebastian is aware that he’s stopped breathing, and he exhales in a ragged gasp as he watches Moriarty deliberately fold up his sleeves.

“Let’s clean the rest of you up,” Moriarty purrs, and it starts with the shower turned off, Sebastian kneeling on the tiles with his face upturned, and Moriarty’s never gentle when there’s a blade in his elegant fingers.  Sebastian’s sure that he’s bleeding, later, when his beard’s been shaved off and the boss is wiping off the blade, but he’s too tired and too wired high with lust to give it any much thought.  

He waits until Moriarty packs up the razor, then he moans when fingers card through his hair, rubs his cheek against his master’s palm.

“Get to the bed,” Moriarty instructs, nudging his thigh with the tip of his shoe, and he smiles again, wide and plastic and sharp.  ”If you’re good, I might let you come today.” 

dramatis-echo:

“He said you’d understand.” || #Moran-Series

The American FBI turns out to be somewhat more competent than its British counterpart, and although they check off everything on Moriarty’s list - setting up racketeering rings, advising on drug smuggling, arms trafficking, purchasing Senators, going to Disneyland - the long arm of the law catches up with them in the Big Apple.

Sebastian doesn’t think twice about castling with the king piece; Moriarty escapes unscathed, and Sebastian goes to maximum security.  A week into the system, he’s in solitary, having killed three men in the showers and seriously wounded four others.  He’s been in better shape than he ever has been, even when he was in the Army, and he used to bare knuckle box for a living, after all - the other inmates hadn’t stood much of a chance.  

The hours tick by towards his indefinite trial date, and Sebastian resigns himself to the waiting game.  He isn’t entirely sure whether Moriarty will come for him; they don’t have that many contacts this side of the world, not yet, and pieces on the game board are made to be used.  He won’t resent Moriarty if he’s left here, not particularly.

A month and a couple of trips back into solitary and a guard stops by his cell, one night, slips a small white bracelet to him through the opening, mutters a phrase and shuffles away quickly.  Sebastian runs the pale white beads through his left thumb and trigger finger, slouched on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.  Maybe he smiles.  Yes.  He understands-

(The bracelet is from Spain, Mardi Gras, when Sebastian was playing bodyguard for the first time, a tiny crown of fake bones, cheap and tacky.  Jim had smiled his wide, plastic smile in his terrible Baron Saturday getup and had pickpocketed it from some unsuspecting tourist and had handed it to Sebastian with an ironic flourish, like some morbid favour.  It’s the first of many collars, metaphorical and otherwise.)

A trial comes, accelerated, and Sebastian doesn’t remember much of it; he spends it all staring at the sleek, trim figure of Jim Moriarty in the courtroom, dapper in a gray suit and a pale cream tie, playing lawyer to the hilt.  His performance is awful but the trial’s a given thing, what with its human jury and its human levers, and Sebastian walks out a free man, somewhat dazed by serendipity.

Moriarty spends the ride to the airport with his eyes closed and singing along to Led Zeppelin, and it’s only when the private jet has taken off that he finally seems to remember Sebastian.  ”Careless,” he notes, mildly, eyebrows arched. 

Sebastian nods.  He doesn’t add that he would do it again if he had to, act as a decoy, anything, but Moriarty’s smile widens, sharpens, and he unbuckles his seat belt to sidle over onto Sebastian’s thighs, knees tucked over his hips, arms over Sebastian’s shoulders.  ”How was the Big House?”

“All right,” Sebastian shrugs.  He keeps his hands on the arm rests as though he’s been trained and tries not to squirm when Moriarty shifts closer, until they’re pressed flush together and that sleek, pert arse is pressed tight over Sebastian’s rapidly curious cock.  Fuck.  Moriarty smirks at this: he’d known all along, after all, the goddamn tease, known how Sebastian gets at the violence that Moriarty wears, at the vicious unpredictability of his temper, at the way he smiles like the lethal edge of a knife.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you, Colonel?” Moriarty whispers into his ear, silky as sin and just as tempting, and Sebastian sucks in a breath and clenches his fingers.  ”You’re always watching me.”

Sebastian nods again, shakily this time; there’s no denying it, not with Moriarty.  Moriarty chuckles at that, low and harsh, breath tickling Sebastian’s neck, and at the first stinging press of teeth against his skin, he gasps and jerks and curses.

“Shh, shh,” Moriarty murmurs, his smile mocking as he glances up at Sebastian.  ”I’ll give you what you want, eventually.  After all,” Moriarty continues, tucking his forefinger under Sebastian’s chin, tilting it up to bare all of his neck, “It’s a long flight back home, and I’m going to be bored.”