Real life stuff taking over
Aug. 26th, 2009 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantomI 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)
Date: 2009-08-29 04:09 pm (UTC)You're right. Poor Andrew. I hate the fact that after a while she doesn't even try to cover it up! It's pretty tacky really.
I think Urquhart's infidelity isn't even infidelity in his mind, or Elizabeth's for that matter. In a marriage as open as that there is a different sort of loyalty. She's clearly the perfect match for him and he comes to depend on her more and more as the series progresses. It's weird but that's why I love it :)
and I'm glad, because I fear his reaction if he did figure it out
Umm...yes, now you come to mention it I think that might be horrible. Eeep!
It seemed like the thing with the tape was the first time he'd really waited that long for a plan to mature
Yeah, and even then he doesn't really plan anything, lol. Like in the warehouse scene with Sarah, she's like "what are you going to do?" and he has no idea, as if he hadn't really thought any further than upsetting her XD
Poor boy just wasn't cunning enough when it came down to it.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-30 02:29 pm (UTC)I totally agree. They both were entirely fine with the other one sleeping with other people, and so it didn't make an impression on me that either of them did. It was expected, I guess!