Title: A New Game
Characters/Pairing: James Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Genre: PWP, romance
Warnings/content: BDSM elements, rape roleplay, rough sex, handcuffs, verbal insults, bad language, topping from the bottom.
Notes: just to be clear, everything in this is consensual.
Can be read here
I don’t know why but I’m totally imagining Patrick Allen as Moran in this
Title: Bedtime in the Moriarty/Moran household
Characters/Pairing: James Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Wordcount: approx. 1,300
Warnings/content: sexual content, D/s elements, bondage, gags, sensory deprivation, references to spanking
After the funeral Moran is silent - a heavy sort of silence, vaguely ominous. Moriarty too says nothing; there is nothing to say; Moran does not want tea and sympathy and Moriarty would be far from comfortable offering anything other than the tea anyway.
Moran may not be grieving for his father but Sir Augustus’s demise has still shaken his world to its foundations. Hate is as strong an emotion - stronger even - as love, after all. Now that the focus of his hatred is finally gone, Moran feels strangely cast adrift.
Moriarty knows what he must do then if he is to stop the colonel returning to his downward spiral of drink and debauchery. He must remind Moran that he belongs with him; that he is a part of Moriarty’s family now; that he can finally step out of his father’s shadow.
“Sebastian,” he says softly. That is all; no more words, just a gesture - reaching out his hand to Moran, breaking into his private reverie.
Moran stares at him for a moment, and then he finally takes the professor’s hand.
Title: A Most Intimate Experiment
Characters/Pairing: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Warnings/Contents: explicit sexual content, D/s
Summary: Professor Moriarty proposes an experiment
With Moran it is not quite a case of the iron fist in the velvet glove. His hands - with their long, strong fingers - are frequently gloved, although in fine leather, and perhaps these gloves may hide much of the blood that he has upon his hands. However, though he may appear far more innocuous than he truly is, still there is danger wrought through his demeanour; a touch too much hardness in those blue eyes and a sense of stillness about him that speaks not of idleness or sloth but of a predator awaiting the moment to strike.
The warehouse is cold and smells of the river. Moran shivers inside his overcoat and wrinkles his nose at the smell. He won’t say anything, of course he won’t, nor will he allow his discomfort to distract him. Moriarty needs him at his back and Moran will do his bidding without complaint, but by god he wishes he was back at the house next to a roaring fire, with a glass of brandy to warm him up, and then perhaps he and Moriarty can help warm each other up also.
He remains standing squarely, straight-backed and completely alert, but he allows himself a faint smile at this prospect.
Moriarty looks up from his paper as the crunching sound breaks the silence. In the chair across from him Moran sits eating an apple and as Moriarty watches him a little juice runs over his bottom lip.
“Up to your usual tricks, Colonel?” Moriarty says, knowing of Moran’s propensity for swiping fruit from market stalls. Not all of the man’s crimes are of the most serious nature; he seems to revel in performing petty acts of rebellion too.
“Aye sir.” Moran grins around his mouthful of apple. “Forbidden fruit is that bit much sweeter, I find.”
“Yes,” Moriarty agrees, watching him as he takes another bite and more juice dribbles down his chin. “Indeed it is.”
(The random word generator keeps giving me ‘married’; it’s obviously a sign.)
He looks at Moran’s face across from his on the pillow. His fierce, perhaps slightly feral gunman is relaxed now, eyes half-closed, his mouth pulled into a sleepy smile. Moriarty has come to like seeing him this way, sated and contented; completely relaxed. It’s so rare that Moran ever does relax fully, especially in company, and knowing therefore that the colonel trusts him enough to let his guard down around him gives Moriarty a strangely warm feeling inside.
“Sebastian?” he says. “Have you never wished that you were married?”
“Mm,” Moran says, not bothering to open his eyes. He shifts closer to the Moriarty, slipping his arm around Moriarty’s body. “Can’t marry you though, can I?”
Moriarty stares at him for a moment. “No,” he says, “you cannot.”
“Doesn’t matter though,” Moran remarks, his lips almost brushing Moriarty’s throat as he snuggles up against him.
“Well we’re as good as married anyway, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Moriarty says, stroking Moran’s hair and breaking into a fond smile, “Yes, I suppose that we are.”
Appropriately, it rains, so that by the time the coffin is lowered into the earth the hole is already filling up with water.
Moran stands and watches, doesn’t say anything, just stands there with rain dripping off his hat brim. Even when the few others that attended the funeral leave, he remains, watching the man filling in the grave who hurries to try to get it filled before the rain worsens. Shortly even he leaves and it’s just Moran left there alone, staring at the grave, smoking a now sodden cigarette.
“I thought,” says a voice behind him, “you said that you were not attending the funeral.”
Moran throws down his cigarette end; grinds it into the mud with his heel, then turns to face Moriarty. “And yet you knew to find me here anyway.”
“You are predictable, Moran.” Moriarty looks impeccable in his dark suit and overcoat, despite the rain. He stands under a black umbrella and now beckons Moran to join him under it. “I knew that you would want to see him buried, if only to make sure he was truly out of your life.” He links his arm through Moran’s, pulling him tight against him, pleasingly warm and solid and alive, not like Moran’s hated father. “Come on,” Moriarty says, guiding Moran towards the cemetery gate now. “I have a feeling that you could use a drink now.”
Moriarty does not often watch Moran shoot, but sometimes he likes to observe. He admires how the colonel works; how efficient he is; how focused. He also notices that sometimes, when Moran is concentrating especially hard, he sticks his tongue out part way between his lips. Moriarty finds this rather endearing somehow, yet he knows better than to comment on it. If he does he knows that Moran will make an effort never to do it again.