mymetalphantom (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mymetalphantom) wrote2009-08-26 01:26 pm
mymetalphantom) wrote2009-08-26 01:26 pm
Entry tags:
Real life stuff taking over
I would be pleased except it isn't exciting real life stuff. It's just your average run-of-the-mill stuff that is getting in between me and my computer.
As a result of this I have been a bit rubbish at the whole LJ thing recently and my posting and commenting has been intermittent at best and completely absent at worst.
Still, I've had some time to myself in the past few days and I have managed to start on my new Holmes story, which, hopefully, will be a plotty little number dealing with emotions and legal grey areas. Oh and a healthy dose sexual tension of course ;)
My key concerns with this fic are trying to get the plot in order and trying to balance out the inevitable angst with some light humour. I just love writing.
Anywho, my dear, brilliant, ridiculously lovely f'listees, I will leave you with some goodies. First a Holmes fic (which is more of an overgrown drabble actually) and second a House of Cards (TPtK actually) mini-fic.
'Shirtsleeves'
White cotton, smelling of the laundry and tobacco and the soft soapy fragrance and underlying masculinity of him.
Wonderfully formed biceps flex and relax under the material with every movement.
I cannot stop my eyes roaming from his arms, over his shoulders, up to his neck and the tantalising glimpse of hot, bare flesh. White, unmarked skin exposed by the undone shirt button. The collar up. Shockingly bohemian. I cannot help imagining the feel of that skin beneath my lips and fingertips.
My eyes travel down along the hard body encased in a waistcoat, the lines of his slender body clear and well defined by the perfectly tailored fit of his clothes.
I release a breath; a silent sigh. I do not even try to stop the grin that spreads across my face, betraying my every thought.
I had come to the conclusion that, when relaxing in our rooms, there is nothing more gently erotic than the sight of Sherlock Holmes in his shirtsleeves.*
'Because I Hate You'
We sit in the office alone, but not for long. Soon he’ll be here and I know that I’ll be in the shit and you know it too and I’m so bloody angry that I could scream. You don’t say anything, you don’t have to, your whole body is positively thrumming with nervous excitement, the sort I imagine old French crones would have whilst they sat at the steps of the guillotine with their knitting. You’re so smug and it makes me angrier. That used to be me. I used to be the smug one. I used to be the one with the sly smile and the arrogant air of a favourite.
I would quite like to throttle you, but I sit as calmly as I can with my hands in my lap; my fists clenched. They’re ready to strike, but I doubt that lamping you one would get me back into his good books. I’m not completely certain how my name ended up in the bad books. I just woke up one day to discover that I’d gone from trusted associate to comedy stooge over night; no longer a key player in the unholy administration, merely an annoyance. In fact in recent weeks I’ve been made to feel like I’m nothing but a contemptible fuck-up.
You can do no wrong. Of course you can do no wrong, because as far as I can see you do sod all anyway. Oh yes, you fiddle about with polls and you rewrite speeches and you parade your Oxbridge intelligence but when it comes to the really dirty jobs who’s the silly bugger that takes all those on? Me of course, with my one rather shoddy O-Level in maths from a rather shoddy Grammar School in Essex. I’m the one who has to tackle newspaper editors and bully/blackmail/bribe MPs into behaving themselves.
Yet I can’t compete with you can I? How could I? A pretty, blonde University graduate who also happens to put out as well; how can I possibly compete against that? I am neither pretty nor educated and am all together far too masculine to be considered for his ultimate pledge of allegiance.
You know that people find you attractive. You know that in a crowded room probably half of them are imaging you with no clothes on. You know that you fuel hapless men’s erotic dreams. Maybe in altered circumstances I would be one of those poor bastards but as it happens I only ever dream of killing you. Because I hate you.
I know all about murder, you know. I know how it works and I’ve become an expert in covering them up as well over the years. Of course covering up a murder is a million miles away from actually committing one and as much as this may surprise my detractors, it is not a gulf I’m prepared to cross. Even for him.
So I’ll just sit here and keep my mind trained on the future, when you’ve grown bored and pissed off somewhere else. I’ll take my beating like a man if I think it’s all for the good cause, but I warn you, both of you that I’m not going to put up with your shit forever.
*Hooray for Vasily Livanov looking rather good in his Victorian get-up.
As a result of this I have been a bit rubbish at the whole LJ thing recently and my posting and commenting has been intermittent at best and completely absent at worst.
Still, I've had some time to myself in the past few days and I have managed to start on my new Holmes story, which, hopefully, will be a plotty little number dealing with emotions and legal grey areas. Oh and a healthy dose sexual tension of course ;)
My key concerns with this fic are trying to get the plot in order and trying to balance out the inevitable angst with some light humour. I just love writing.
Anywho, my dear, brilliant, ridiculously lovely f'listees, I will leave you with some goodies. First a Holmes fic (which is more of an overgrown drabble actually) and second a House of Cards (TPtK actually) mini-fic.
'Shirtsleeves'
White cotton, smelling of the laundry and tobacco and the soft soapy fragrance and underlying masculinity of him.
Wonderfully formed biceps flex and relax under the material with every movement.
I cannot stop my eyes roaming from his arms, over his shoulders, up to his neck and the tantalising glimpse of hot, bare flesh. White, unmarked skin exposed by the undone shirt button. The collar up. Shockingly bohemian. I cannot help imagining the feel of that skin beneath my lips and fingertips.
My eyes travel down along the hard body encased in a waistcoat, the lines of his slender body clear and well defined by the perfectly tailored fit of his clothes.
I release a breath; a silent sigh. I do not even try to stop the grin that spreads across my face, betraying my every thought.
I had come to the conclusion that, when relaxing in our rooms, there is nothing more gently erotic than the sight of Sherlock Holmes in his shirtsleeves.*
'Because I Hate You'
We sit in the office alone, but not for long. Soon he’ll be here and I know that I’ll be in the shit and you know it too and I’m so bloody angry that I could scream. You don’t say anything, you don’t have to, your whole body is positively thrumming with nervous excitement, the sort I imagine old French crones would have whilst they sat at the steps of the guillotine with their knitting. You’re so smug and it makes me angrier. That used to be me. I used to be the smug one. I used to be the one with the sly smile and the arrogant air of a favourite.
I would quite like to throttle you, but I sit as calmly as I can with my hands in my lap; my fists clenched. They’re ready to strike, but I doubt that lamping you one would get me back into his good books. I’m not completely certain how my name ended up in the bad books. I just woke up one day to discover that I’d gone from trusted associate to comedy stooge over night; no longer a key player in the unholy administration, merely an annoyance. In fact in recent weeks I’ve been made to feel like I’m nothing but a contemptible fuck-up.
You can do no wrong. Of course you can do no wrong, because as far as I can see you do sod all anyway. Oh yes, you fiddle about with polls and you rewrite speeches and you parade your Oxbridge intelligence but when it comes to the really dirty jobs who’s the silly bugger that takes all those on? Me of course, with my one rather shoddy O-Level in maths from a rather shoddy Grammar School in Essex. I’m the one who has to tackle newspaper editors and bully/blackmail/bribe MPs into behaving themselves.
Yet I can’t compete with you can I? How could I? A pretty, blonde University graduate who also happens to put out as well; how can I possibly compete against that? I am neither pretty nor educated and am all together far too masculine to be considered for his ultimate pledge of allegiance.
You know that people find you attractive. You know that in a crowded room probably half of them are imaging you with no clothes on. You know that you fuel hapless men’s erotic dreams. Maybe in altered circumstances I would be one of those poor bastards but as it happens I only ever dream of killing you. Because I hate you.
I know all about murder, you know. I know how it works and I’ve become an expert in covering them up as well over the years. Of course covering up a murder is a million miles away from actually committing one and as much as this may surprise my detractors, it is not a gulf I’m prepared to cross. Even for him.
So I’ll just sit here and keep my mind trained on the future, when you’ve grown bored and pissed off somewhere else. I’ll take my beating like a man if I think it’s all for the good cause, but I warn you, both of you that I’m not going to put up with your shit forever.
*Hooray for Vasily Livanov looking rather good in his Victorian get-up.
no subject
By the way...you're a really good writer. :) I'm looking forward to reading more of your stuff in the future. :)
(no subject)
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
'Shirtsleeves' - GUH. *fans self* You are so incredibly right about the sexiness of Victorian men in shirtsleeves. Clothed manages to me a billion times sexier than unclothed! Thank you, Vasily Livanov XD
'Because I Hate You' - Oh holy cow, you're good. I love your Stamper-voice beyond all reason. Poor misused Stamper! Your writing really brings out his complexity, the jealousy and self-loathing and sense of injustice.
the sort I imagine old French crones would have whilst they sat at the steps of the guillotine with their knitting.
That's the awesomest image ever. Oh, Sarah, you horrid woman. I find that I have no sympathy for her whatsoever. Mattie Storin might have been a little loony, but I really felt bad for her… not so with Sarah.
I doubt that lamping you one would get me back into his good books.
I've never heard to term "lamping" before, and it's just delightful XD Oh, Stamper. You devote your life to reprehensibility and nobody even bothers to thank you!
Of course you can do no wrong, because as far as I can see you do sod all anyway.
*cracks up* It's TRUE! The polls didn't seem nearly as important as they were made out to be.
Me of course, with my one rather shoddy O-Level in maths from a rather shoddy Grammar School in Essex.
Awww, Tim. *pets him and most likely gets her hand bitten off*
I am neither pretty nor educated and am all together far too masculine to be considered for his ultimate pledge of allegiance.
*muffled squeal* This is SO GOOD. "His ultimate pledge of allegiance." That's totally IT, and I'm not unconvinced that Stamper would go for it if Urquhart were willing.
Of course covering up a murder is a million miles away from actually committing one and as much as this may surprise my detractors, it is not a gulf I’m prepared to cross. Even for him.
Again, SO good. As awful as he is, he's much of a lesser evil than Urquhart, particularly once he realizes he's been thrown under the bus. I love your HoC fic, OMG!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)