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May. 17th, 2011 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
michalsSo this isn't actually ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyryk's fault, but it wouldn't have happened without her. She should have known better than to put Lestrade/anyone next to Alec/Maurice in the same prompt, haha.
So, if you follow my logic - which is very simple and wears a tinhat the size of Ireland - James Wilby should play Sebastian Moran in the new BBC version of Sherlock. Want some insane reasons why along with a totally pointless graphic? Go here, it'll give my Tumblr purpose.
Anyway, like I said,lyryk gave me a prompt that was supposed to go towards porn, but I stopped just short because I suck, but I did invade her page with a stupid-long instance of a very Wilby-ish Moran assaulting Rupert Graves's Lestrade. And now I'm posting it here because my madness is a disease and I like to spread it around.
--
"Interesting position we've found ourselves in, huh Detective?" Moran smirks from behind his gun.
Interesting isn't the half of it. Lestrade thinks as his hand shakes on his still holstered weapon. He shuffles closer to the support column, swallowing around the press of the muzzle against his throat.
Moran unnerves him in ways few criminals have in the past. Where psychopaths and junkies and other scum twitch and flinch and stare, Moran is all deliberate action, every movement of his hand is sure and measured. He flitters between slow and precise and quick and specific.
The manic energy that apparently fuels Moriarty is nowhere to be found in Sebastian Moran.
"Tell me, Mr. Moran," Lestrade spits out, and has to take a breath in surprise at his own gall, "with all your training, all your experience and expertise, what's it like being Jim Moriarty's bum boy?"
Moran smiles at that. And that, beyond everything, is what unnerves Lestrade the most.
Sebastian Moran does not look like a killer. Sebastian Moran looks like a lawyer, or a librarian, a fucking banker but not a killer. He's all blonder-than-blonde hair, and pale skin and pink lips. He's got an accent that speaks of money and plenty of it. And when he smiles, he doesn't look like a crazy man, or the 30-plus years experienced mercenary and hired gun that he is, he looks like an angel.
Maybe that's why Lestrade feels ballsy enough to talk back to Moriarty's right hand man. The man who almost took out Sherlock and John not 3 months ago with a well placed sniper bullet.
To be fair, Moran started it. After the pool incident which left John Watson with a concussion and a broken arm and Sherlock with a couple of busted ribs it was almost a walk in the park to bring in Moran under suspicion of perpetrating it along with Moriarty. Now, Lestrade realizes that that was hardly brilliant police work and more an act of smugness on Moriarty and Moran's part.
Moran's flirting made Lestrade's blood boil, his arrogant dismissals of the Yard with that infuriatingly normal smile made Lestrade all that more determined to bring him down. Moran's records - or rather the lack there of - informed Lestrade he was not messing around with a garden variety criminal. The man might not be Moriarty, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.
But dammit if Lestrade could stop his libido from perking up with every smooth syllable from the man's mouth. Every time the bastard said, "Detective" with that glint in his dark gray eyes, every time he laughed when Lestrade would attempt to confront him with evidence, every time Lestrade would even come close to pinning something on him. The evidence would always evaporate like air with that laugh, even Mycroft Holmes couldn't keep the records from disappearing right under his nose as he went chasing for information that fell away like dominoes.
Like Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran might as well have been a ghost for all they could find on him. Lestrade could look him straight in the eye but as far as the government was concerned, Sebastian Moran did not exist. He was an infuriating anomaly, charming and soft spoken, all innocent looks and smiles with the pretentious air of a man who knew he'd get away with anything, and with several dozen dead bodies in a closet that he knew no one would ever find.
Which is probably why he had no problem flirting with the head Detective. He always found a reason to touch Lestrade, lean over and take a photo from his hand and brush their fingers together. Look up at him through his eyelashes and a twisted smirk on his face. Get unnervingly close as he's lead out of the station and say a special goodbye, just to the detective, and then sweep out with his trench coat flaring and his one hand putting a hat on his head. (Lestrade doesn't think too hard on the similarities between Moran and Sherlock because that way lies madness.)
Then he went and stabbed John Watson when the man got a little too close when Sherlock had another bright idea and followed the killer into an almost deserted tube station.
Thus began the frantic game of hide and seek the two maniacs have been leading him and Sherlock on for the last three days. John Watson's still recovering from a punctured lung at St. Bart's and Sherlock's insane thirst for revenge has fueled the new game between Scotland Yard and the psychopaths. Luckily the game has fewer causalities than the last time they went on his crazy merry-go-round, but Lestrade thinks it's not for lack of effort, it's just that the effort has been put into driving Sherlock closer and closer to the brink.
Without John Watson to toy with, Moran seems to have taken up the role of playing with Lestrade and his officers. Days of riddles and clues and several innocent bystanders caught up in the action (with all but one being rescued) and Lestrade finds himself here, alone in a poorly lit parking garage and an all too damn sneaky Sebastian Moran with a gun to his neck.
Moran is still smiling when he says, "What can I say? Jim keeps me well."
Lestrade tries to sound cockier than he feels when he asks, "He buy you that suit?"
Moran glances down at his black suit for a half second before flicking his eyes back up to Lestrade's face (how the man always seems to be looking up at him despite the several inches difference in their heights Lestrade still doesn't understand).
"Armani." Moran says leisurely.
Several tense and unnerving phone calls with Moriarty gives Lestrade a good impression of the man - he doesn't find the need to hide his voice anymore after the pool - and from the calls Lestrade finds that Moriarty is quick and wild and unpredictable. Moran, on the other hand, always takes a beat before answering, always gives Lestrade a good long moment to watch him as he waits to answer. He's a man of few words and fewer impulses. Lestrade can't tell which of the two unbalance him more.
"I should kill you right here detective." Moran says softly, and the gun eases back just enough for Lestrade to catch his breath, "Jim has told me that he no longer finds you amusing so for all he cares I could kill you." The gun presses back and Lestrade can't help but flinch, though he never stops returning Moran's icy stare, "But I think you and I both know..."
The smile returns then, and some nasty little part of Lestrade's brain that he holds no control over wonders what would have happened in another world where Moran wasn't Moran. As it is, in this world Lestrade blames the part of him that has a hopeless thing for blondes.
The noise he makes when Moran presses closer - and not just closer with the gun but with the length of his whole inferno-temperature body - is quiet and pathetic and might be just low enough to get away with.
"We both know that I don't want to kill you." Moran whispers.
Lestrade's hands grasp uselessly at the air at his sides. His jaw clenches and he can feel every muscle in his body go tense. He prays that there aren't security cameras in the lot, and if there are they can't pick up on the way his face flushes. He swallows against the cotton in his mouth and he breathes out hard through his nose.
Moran is so damn close, practically on top of him. He can feel every curve of his long legs, his bony hip. And Lestrade knows Moran can feel every part of him. He'll kill himself with his own gun before he admits to what the proximity has done to him.
A noise in the distance, echoing dully through the concrete structure grabs Moran's attention. He turns his long neck past Lestrade and listens. He turns back with a smirk.
"That's my cue. Sorry to cut our rendezvous short."
Moran pulls away and Lestrade thinks for half a second that he might be spared some embarrassment of the highest order when Moran curls a hand in his shirt and jerks him forward.
The kiss is hard and quick and almost painful. Hardly more than a pressing of mouths, and over before Lestrade's brain has a chance to catch up to what's happening. When he pulls away Moran's mouth is spit slick and shiny and a disgusting little thrill goes through Lestrade's stomach.
Lestrade almost expects Moran to dash away then, his humiliation done with, his end goal of debauching the detective thoroughly completed, but then there's that word almost and Lestrade really isn't that stupid.
"Don't follow." Moran murmurs with that goddamned smile and the gun goes from horizontal to vertical in the blink of an eye and a shot rings out with deafening volume through the parking garage and pain explodes in Lestrade's foot like the force of an epiphany.
All thought in Lestrade's brain fizzles out as he pitches forward into the empty space Moran has vacated. He doesn't even hear the footsteps at the madman runs from the garage. His mind is red and full of excruciating pain as he clutches at his leg, just above his bleeding foot.
He's half conscious of the hands on his shoulders, the shouting of Donovan as she radios for an ambulance, another officer prying his hands away to inspect his destroyed foot. He can't tell if Sherlock is there, but were he capable of the thought he'd figure he's halfway across town facing down his own demon in the form of Jim Moriarty and Lestrade should really be telling his team that, and he manages enough to get the idea across that someone needs to be looking for the private detective.
Jim Moriarty might be a cruel, nasty, downright sadistic bastard, but to Lestrade, Sebastian Moran is the devil.
lyryk's fault, but it wouldn't have happened without her. She should have known better than to put Lestrade/anyone next to Alec/Maurice in the same prompt, haha.So, if you follow my logic - which is very simple and wears a tinhat the size of Ireland - James Wilby should play Sebastian Moran in the new BBC version of Sherlock. Want some insane reasons why along with a totally pointless graphic? Go here, it'll give my Tumblr purpose.
Anyway, like I said,
lyryk gave me a prompt that was supposed to go towards porn, but I stopped just short because I suck, but I did invade her page with a stupid-long instance of a very Wilby-ish Moran assaulting Rupert Graves's Lestrade. And now I'm posting it here because my madness is a disease and I like to spread it around.--
"Interesting position we've found ourselves in, huh Detective?" Moran smirks from behind his gun.
Interesting isn't the half of it. Lestrade thinks as his hand shakes on his still holstered weapon. He shuffles closer to the support column, swallowing around the press of the muzzle against his throat.
Moran unnerves him in ways few criminals have in the past. Where psychopaths and junkies and other scum twitch and flinch and stare, Moran is all deliberate action, every movement of his hand is sure and measured. He flitters between slow and precise and quick and specific.
The manic energy that apparently fuels Moriarty is nowhere to be found in Sebastian Moran.
"Tell me, Mr. Moran," Lestrade spits out, and has to take a breath in surprise at his own gall, "with all your training, all your experience and expertise, what's it like being Jim Moriarty's bum boy?"
Moran smiles at that. And that, beyond everything, is what unnerves Lestrade the most.
Sebastian Moran does not look like a killer. Sebastian Moran looks like a lawyer, or a librarian, a fucking banker but not a killer. He's all blonder-than-blonde hair, and pale skin and pink lips. He's got an accent that speaks of money and plenty of it. And when he smiles, he doesn't look like a crazy man, or the 30-plus years experienced mercenary and hired gun that he is, he looks like an angel.
Maybe that's why Lestrade feels ballsy enough to talk back to Moriarty's right hand man. The man who almost took out Sherlock and John not 3 months ago with a well placed sniper bullet.
To be fair, Moran started it. After the pool incident which left John Watson with a concussion and a broken arm and Sherlock with a couple of busted ribs it was almost a walk in the park to bring in Moran under suspicion of perpetrating it along with Moriarty. Now, Lestrade realizes that that was hardly brilliant police work and more an act of smugness on Moriarty and Moran's part.
Moran's flirting made Lestrade's blood boil, his arrogant dismissals of the Yard with that infuriatingly normal smile made Lestrade all that more determined to bring him down. Moran's records - or rather the lack there of - informed Lestrade he was not messing around with a garden variety criminal. The man might not be Moriarty, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.
But dammit if Lestrade could stop his libido from perking up with every smooth syllable from the man's mouth. Every time the bastard said, "Detective" with that glint in his dark gray eyes, every time he laughed when Lestrade would attempt to confront him with evidence, every time Lestrade would even come close to pinning something on him. The evidence would always evaporate like air with that laugh, even Mycroft Holmes couldn't keep the records from disappearing right under his nose as he went chasing for information that fell away like dominoes.
Like Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran might as well have been a ghost for all they could find on him. Lestrade could look him straight in the eye but as far as the government was concerned, Sebastian Moran did not exist. He was an infuriating anomaly, charming and soft spoken, all innocent looks and smiles with the pretentious air of a man who knew he'd get away with anything, and with several dozen dead bodies in a closet that he knew no one would ever find.
Which is probably why he had no problem flirting with the head Detective. He always found a reason to touch Lestrade, lean over and take a photo from his hand and brush their fingers together. Look up at him through his eyelashes and a twisted smirk on his face. Get unnervingly close as he's lead out of the station and say a special goodbye, just to the detective, and then sweep out with his trench coat flaring and his one hand putting a hat on his head. (Lestrade doesn't think too hard on the similarities between Moran and Sherlock because that way lies madness.)
Then he went and stabbed John Watson when the man got a little too close when Sherlock had another bright idea and followed the killer into an almost deserted tube station.
Thus began the frantic game of hide and seek the two maniacs have been leading him and Sherlock on for the last three days. John Watson's still recovering from a punctured lung at St. Bart's and Sherlock's insane thirst for revenge has fueled the new game between Scotland Yard and the psychopaths. Luckily the game has fewer causalities than the last time they went on his crazy merry-go-round, but Lestrade thinks it's not for lack of effort, it's just that the effort has been put into driving Sherlock closer and closer to the brink.
Without John Watson to toy with, Moran seems to have taken up the role of playing with Lestrade and his officers. Days of riddles and clues and several innocent bystanders caught up in the action (with all but one being rescued) and Lestrade finds himself here, alone in a poorly lit parking garage and an all too damn sneaky Sebastian Moran with a gun to his neck.
Moran is still smiling when he says, "What can I say? Jim keeps me well."
Lestrade tries to sound cockier than he feels when he asks, "He buy you that suit?"
Moran glances down at his black suit for a half second before flicking his eyes back up to Lestrade's face (how the man always seems to be looking up at him despite the several inches difference in their heights Lestrade still doesn't understand).
"Armani." Moran says leisurely.
Several tense and unnerving phone calls with Moriarty gives Lestrade a good impression of the man - he doesn't find the need to hide his voice anymore after the pool - and from the calls Lestrade finds that Moriarty is quick and wild and unpredictable. Moran, on the other hand, always takes a beat before answering, always gives Lestrade a good long moment to watch him as he waits to answer. He's a man of few words and fewer impulses. Lestrade can't tell which of the two unbalance him more.
"I should kill you right here detective." Moran says softly, and the gun eases back just enough for Lestrade to catch his breath, "Jim has told me that he no longer finds you amusing so for all he cares I could kill you." The gun presses back and Lestrade can't help but flinch, though he never stops returning Moran's icy stare, "But I think you and I both know..."
The smile returns then, and some nasty little part of Lestrade's brain that he holds no control over wonders what would have happened in another world where Moran wasn't Moran. As it is, in this world Lestrade blames the part of him that has a hopeless thing for blondes.
The noise he makes when Moran presses closer - and not just closer with the gun but with the length of his whole inferno-temperature body - is quiet and pathetic and might be just low enough to get away with.
"We both know that I don't want to kill you." Moran whispers.
Lestrade's hands grasp uselessly at the air at his sides. His jaw clenches and he can feel every muscle in his body go tense. He prays that there aren't security cameras in the lot, and if there are they can't pick up on the way his face flushes. He swallows against the cotton in his mouth and he breathes out hard through his nose.
Moran is so damn close, practically on top of him. He can feel every curve of his long legs, his bony hip. And Lestrade knows Moran can feel every part of him. He'll kill himself with his own gun before he admits to what the proximity has done to him.
A noise in the distance, echoing dully through the concrete structure grabs Moran's attention. He turns his long neck past Lestrade and listens. He turns back with a smirk.
"That's my cue. Sorry to cut our rendezvous short."
Moran pulls away and Lestrade thinks for half a second that he might be spared some embarrassment of the highest order when Moran curls a hand in his shirt and jerks him forward.
The kiss is hard and quick and almost painful. Hardly more than a pressing of mouths, and over before Lestrade's brain has a chance to catch up to what's happening. When he pulls away Moran's mouth is spit slick and shiny and a disgusting little thrill goes through Lestrade's stomach.
Lestrade almost expects Moran to dash away then, his humiliation done with, his end goal of debauching the detective thoroughly completed, but then there's that word almost and Lestrade really isn't that stupid.
"Don't follow." Moran murmurs with that goddamned smile and the gun goes from horizontal to vertical in the blink of an eye and a shot rings out with deafening volume through the parking garage and pain explodes in Lestrade's foot like the force of an epiphany.
All thought in Lestrade's brain fizzles out as he pitches forward into the empty space Moran has vacated. He doesn't even hear the footsteps at the madman runs from the garage. His mind is red and full of excruciating pain as he clutches at his leg, just above his bleeding foot.
He's half conscious of the hands on his shoulders, the shouting of Donovan as she radios for an ambulance, another officer prying his hands away to inspect his destroyed foot. He can't tell if Sherlock is there, but were he capable of the thought he'd figure he's halfway across town facing down his own demon in the form of Jim Moriarty and Lestrade should really be telling his team that, and he manages enough to get the idea across that someone needs to be looking for the private detective.
Jim Moriarty might be a cruel, nasty, downright sadistic bastard, but to Lestrade, Sebastian Moran is the devil.
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-17 09:05 pm (UTC)Or maybe I just knew your mind would go to the Wilby!Moran place. Let's face it, this NEEDS to happen. Still loving this fic so much. SO MUCH.
Holy shit, that pic on tumblr. *stares forever*
no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 06:45 pm (UTC)I'm still so happy you like it! ♥ Now to get on that porn I owe you.
(Oh and yeah, I love that pic of Wilby, he looks so Moran-y there I love it. It's funny because I had to erase the sweater vest he was wearing; not many murderers-for-hire wear sweater vests I think.)
no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 06:55 pm (UTC)Ooh, give me your Twitter ID so I can pester you in turn. Although I try to be somewhat disciplined and not be there too much, because I seem to have enough distractions already.
And damn, girl, this is still so hot. You are totally taking my mind to the filthy place, and I'll totally try to write your prompt, too. Another Maurice viewing may be in order. :-D
no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 07:06 pm (UTC)I'm danaqorson on twitter. I mainly use to to have nervous breakdowns so you're not missing a whole lot.
Go, go to the filthy place! In times of turmoil and great need, I find porn makes the world a better place. Especially if that porn has James Wilby, mmm. I've seen Maurice so many times I could probably recite the thing from memory, lol. Wow, no wonder I'm so easy to figure out...