#its still so dim i cannot read papers without getting a headache.

[bitegore]

my bedroom specifically is like a rube goldberg machine designed to cause me physical pain.

[ka-za-ri]

Descent Pt. 1

I told myself I was gonna take a break. I lied. I wanted to write a whole bin of Sin for Simeon. I’m sorry, not sorry at all. Let me know if you want to be a part of the tag list: Chapter Masterlist: Here Crossposted on Ao3: here Part [1] Part [2] Part [3] Part 4: [4] Part [5] Part [6] Part [7] Part [8] Part [9] Part [10]

Paring: Simeon x Reader Wordcount: 4,900 ish Genre: Smut Tags: Masturbation, Voyeurism, hints of dirty talk? Summary: Sent from the Celestial realm to observe and study humans; Simeon made a name for himself as the illustrious author of The Tales of the Seven Lords. After reaching acclaim for his first series, he's having trouble writing his next great hit. Good thing you're there for him as his manager and editor to help him work out the... kinks in writing.

Trip

The most dangerous aspect of humans was their innate ability to tempt even the most stalwart and steadfast of angels into a world of sin. Simeon was not immune to their ways, no matter how reclusive he became. It was easy to study them from afar, learning about them through numbers and sales numbers. The masses were easy to sway with a few pretty words. Blending in with humans was a trivial task for him. All he had to do was make a few public appearances for book signings and some launch parties for a new series; otherwise he was free to observe and study from afar. 

After the international success of The Tale of The Seven Lords, Simeon found himself feeling rather empty. He needed a new project to keep him entertained in the human realm. However, no matter what he started to work on, it didn’t inspire the same sort of passion he had for his older series. He needed a new genre, a new style of writing to refresh his passion for words. If he was going to make it in an ever changing market, he would need to adapt as well. Yet, no matter what genre he tried, every draft he came up with seemed too mundane and overdone. 

Everything except, for the temptation of writing something much more salacious than his last work. 

Just entertaining the thought had him on a slippery slope of falling from the grace of the Celestial realm. Sure, the strict protocols of olde had been loosened over the centuries. Many angels realized that enforcing perfect adherence to the standards of purity set so long ago no longer applied to modern times. Rules had been loosened and enforcement had relaxed to the point where Simeon was almost positive if he wrote an absolutely obscene novel, he didn’t risk losing his Celestial powers. 

The only problem was that he had no experience in the genre at all. He threw together a vague plot and outline, thinking it would be all he needed to inspire him. Surprisingly enough, the publishing house allowed for the drastic change in genre, confident that he would be able to create another best seller. Just having that much trust put in him made him want to succeed even more with the haphazard novel idea. 

But, despite his determination to make his new manuscripts lewd, he was at a complete loss as to what, and how to write them properly. The outline he presented to you seemed excellent on paper. Even if it had a few plot holes, you knew he could patch them up with a little work. So, it was natural that you would push the approval and leave him to his own devices to work on the manuscript. You were sure that an author of his caliber would be able to break into a new branch of the literary market without any issues. 

But, after several months of waiting, you had no contact at all from him regarding the progress of his new book. The industry needed proof of his work in order to justify their investment in him. Being so renowned, the pressure was on him to create something magnificent. You could only imagine the kind of stress he was going through and as his manager and editor, you were responsible for making sure he met deadlines. You hated to rush his process, but there was no way he could meet the dates set by the publisher if he didn’t give you something to work with soon. 

After trying to reach out to him several times by phone and email with little to no response, the only option left was to go to his abode and see just what he was hiding from. No other outline he submitted had passed so this was his one and only chance to continue his writing career. You patiently waited after knocking on his door, hoping he would answer and wasn’t going to ignore you any further. You knew how serious writer’s block could be; but you hoped he wouldn’t let that get in the way of being a professional. 

Luckily, the door opened soon enough and you were ushered in by an extremely tired and frazzled looking Simeon. He lead you to his office after you had taken off your shoes and changed into the guest slippers he offered. Simeon didn’t speak to you during the whole exchange, a shell of the soft spoken and attentive author you had come to know after so many years of working with him. He shuffled into his office, an obvious slouch in his posture and slumped behind his desk before gesturing at the empty chair across from him. 

“I’m guessing you know why I’m here.” You said and he sighed in resignation, burrowing his head in his hands and running them through his hair. You felt terrible adding stress onto him, he looked ragged, like he hadn’t slept in days. The bags under his eyes were so dark, they almost looked like deep bruises. 

“Yes… You want a manuscript…” his normally soft voice sounded hoarse and you wondered if he had eaten or drunken anything at all that day. “I’m almost done with the first draft… would you like to come and see?” He turned his laptop towards you and you started reading what he had so far. 

All seemed well and good at first. The characters were believable and the premise, though a bit cheesy, was definitely acceptable for the genre. The further you read, the more you noticed large gaps in his writing. Whole paragraphs seemed to be missing and sentences ended midway. Dialog was left unfinished and by the time you reached the end of the first chapter, it was a mess. You could already feel the inevitable headache you were going to get from editing for him. 

“Uhm…”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not my best work.” 

He tried to smile, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. You reached out to him and held his hand, rubbing your thumb in reassuring circles on his palm. “You’ve worked hard on it, still. What’s got you so hung up though?” 

He got a little flustered at your question, nervously running his hand through his hair and looking to the side. Writing such a topic with no experience in it was proving to be difficult for him. He could research all he wanted and consume all the media he could to aid him, but there was just something missing. His lack of knowledge was showing and he wasn’t sure how he could keep being composed about his failure so far. He gestured at the screen and shrugged, trying to get his message across without using words; but, when he saw your confused expression, he had to speak. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” he finally admitted. “I want to write this so badly, but I don’t know how to… describe the scenes the way I want to.” 

You sat back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest and nodding. You could only imagine the difficulty he was having in producing the quality content you were sure he was used to coming up with. With deadlines looming above your head, you needed at least a chapter to submit to the publishing house so they knew actual work was being done. You sighed, trying to think of ways to jump start his creativity. The gloomy atmosphere of his office didn’t seem help. The lights were dim and the curtains were all drawn. It didn’t feel like a place that could invoke the imagery he was going for. “Let’s move somewhere.” you suggested finally. “Do you have a room with lots of sunlight? Maybe a change of mood will help.” 

“Ah… there’s the sunroom..” he said. “But I don’t know if just changing where I am writing will help the situation. If it hasn’t gotten done here, I doubt it will anywhere else.” 

“Just try it.” you encouraged, already unplugging his laptop and taking it with you. “It’s so gloomy in here, even I’m getting depressed just sitting around. Come on, which way is it?” 

“Ah… this way.” He said, shamefully shuffling out from behind his desk and showing you the way to the sunroom which overlooked a rather well manicured garden with a variety of flowers in full bloom. You marveled at the bright, airy feel of the room and took a second to really appreciate his choice in decor. 

“Wow, would have never pegged you as the kind of guy who gardens.” You teased, flopping onto the couch he had in there and lounged in its plush confines. Looking through the glass ceiling, you watched a few clouds drift by while Simeon got comfortable in a recliner in the corner of the room. You could tell he was still a bit frustrated, but you knew getting him some sun would do him good. 

“Well, when I don’t have any pressing deadlines, being with the plants helps relieve stress. It’s unfortunate that I cannot give you a tour this time.” 

“There’s plenty of opportunities in the future. They’re not going anywhere, and neither am I. You know I’m going to keep hounding you until your manuscript is finished.” 

He chuckled, nodding and opening up his laptop. You let silence pass between the two of you, going back to watching the clouds while the sound of his fingers flying across the keyboard lulled you into a daydream like state. You grabbed onto one of the large, decorative pillows he had on the couch, clutching it against your chest while you made up stories in your head about the clouds above. If you weren’t so stressed about turning something into the publishing house so soon; it would have been a perfect, calming afternoon. 

The clack of the keyboard stopped after a little bit. Whatever inspiration Simeon had when he entered the room seemed to have fizzled out and he was stuck in yet another rut, writing one word and deleting it over and over again. You sighed, turning to watch him as he gnawed on his thumb, mumbling to himself. 

“What’s not working?” You asked, your curiosity piqued. 

“Just… this scene… it’s not working. I can’t envision it.” He grumbled. Looking up at where you were laying on his couch, clutching onto the pillow, he was suddenly struck by a brilliant plan. The worry lines on his forehead disappeared and he broke out into a slight smile when he realized how he could get his creative juices flowing. “Help me… I need inspiration.” 

You sat up straight, ready to assist in any way you could. “Okay, what do you want me to do?” You asked. 

Simeon squinted, in the right light, you looked similar to the main character he had written. His plan could work if you reenacted the scene he had in mind. The issue was actually explaining the scene to you in a way that didn’t make his body feel overheated. He was already playing with fire by writing such a lewd book, pushing his limits further felt like he was sliding right down a slope heading towards a great fall. There was no other way, he reasoned. As long as I do not defile her, it’ll be fine. Taking a deep breath, he got up from where he was and walked over to you. 

“I need you to…. Uhm… Well.. how do I say this… I’m having trouble writing a love making scene and I need some… visual aids.” You blinked, processing his request and then looked him up and down, feeling your whole body heat up at once. You were sure you had kept your crush on him a secret. To have him ask you so suddenly to provide visual aid for an explicit novel felt like too big of a jump for you to comprehend. “Oh… Oh no, no, no. You don’t have to do anything with me.” He said, gesturing wildly when he saw you pointedly stare at his crotch. “You can just pretend that this is the ‘lover.’” He took the pillow from your arms and laid it on the couch. 

You didn’t know if you should have felt relived or disappointed that he wanted you to reenact a sex scene with a pillow and not him. It was all quite a bit to take in, but the desperate pout on his face was something you couldn’t ignore. And both your jobs were on the line. You sighed in resignation. “Okay, okay… But only because we have deadlines coming up.” You said. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” 

Simeon smiled for the first time that day, hurriedly moving back to his computer and preparing to take notes on what you were doing. “I’m ready when you are.” he announced once he opened up a separate document. 

“You sure you don’t want me to just, you know… do you?” You asked, cocking an eyebrow as you started to undress. It was embarrassing for sure; but part of you relished in seeing Simeon so flustered when it came to the nature of lewd things. You wondered why he had bothered submitting such an outline at all when he wasn’t familiar with how to write erotica; but his determination to branch out to other genres had won you over in the end. It just fell upon your shoulders to show this man how it was done. 

“I… No… I can’t. I need to write.” He stuttered. Do not defile her, do not defile her. Her womb is sacred and not something you can toy with… Even if he wanted the first hand experience, he still had rules to abide by. 

“Alright, whatever you say. You’re the boss.” You shrugged, unbuttoning your blouse. “Don’t forget, part of the sexiness is in the tease.” You explained, taking your time to sway your hips side to side as each button came undone. Trying to seduce a pillow was so much more boring than trying to seduce Simeon. The things I do for this job… 

You made sure to waggle your ass as you peeled off your pants, tossing them to the side along with your blouse. There was something thrilling about being in a room made of glass. Any woodland creature that decided to come visit his garden at that moment would also get an eyeful of your progressively bare body. The rush of having Simeon watch you as you stripped had your heart racing. 

At the very least, you knew your efforts weren’t in vain. You could hear the furious clacking of the keyboard as you gave the pillow in front of you a sultry look. As lame as it all was, it was still rather arousing to know you were being watched by the man who you had crushed on for so long now. “Alright… sir. I’m going to need you to lay down. You have a problem that only I can take care of.” You said to the pillow. You tried hard not to laugh at how ridiculous the scenario was. It wouldn’t do to break the mood, especially when you could tell Simeon was definitely getting some writing done. 

You got back onto the couch, straddling the pillow between your legs once you were in nothing but your underthings. Licking your lips, you pretended that Simeon was under you and not the decorative cushion. If you closed your eyes, you could almost feel his lean body under your own, squirming in discomfort as you took control of the scenario. There was just something about how gentle and soft spoken he was that made  your heart flutter with the need to dominate him until he was a flushed, moaning mess. 

Using that fantasy in your mind, you slowly started to gyrate your hips onto the pillow, throwing your head back and moaning. “Oh yes…” You breathed, pleasantly surprised at the stimulation you got from the friction of your panties rubbing against your spread core. You hummed, content with the thought of Simeon holding onto your hips to keep your steady. If he wanted to watch, then you were going to give him the best show available. 

You grasped at your breasts, teasing your nipples through the fabric of your bra until they were sensitive little buds that made you gasp. As you continued to grind against the pillow, you could feel your essence starting to flow, no doubt you were going to leave quite a substantial wet mark on the pillow if you continued. You wanted to pause and warn Simeon of what was about to happen; but when you turned and saw the look of concentration on his face, you didn’t dare break his focus. 

He’ll just have to deal with it later… You figured going back to that happy place in your mind where the writer in front of you was actually under you. Closing your eyes, you imagined what it would be like to hear him moan as you pressed your heat against his cock. Surely he must sound absolutely angelic when he cums. Pushing slipping your hands under your bra, you pushed the fabric away, peeled it off your skin and threw it into a random corner to pick up later. “You have no idea how hot you look right now.” You purred, looking down at the cushions below you, wishing you had something sexier to talk dirty to; but you would have to make do with what you had. 

Leaning down, you grabbed a pillow to act as your ‘lovers’ head and started to kiss it. It was so hard to ignore just how disappointing it was to make out with a lump of fabric and not the beautiful man in the corner who was so engrossed with his writing, you might as well have been invisible to him. You could only use your imagination to fantasize about how soft Simeon’s lips must be. He always took such good care of his skin and he had an ethereal glow about him, as if he was blessed by the sun itself. You moaned into the pillow, hating the rough canvas you were pressed up against, but at least your pussy was getting something out of how much you were humping the pillow. 

You came up, gasping for air after having half smothered yourself with a pillow and glanced over at Simeon again. Even as he was furiously typing, you could see that he was at least a little affected by the show you were putting on. Good, I would have hated myself if he’s not even a smidgen turned on by this. You smirked, looking down at your ‘lover’ and pretended to whisper sweet nothings to them before getting off the couch. 

Simeon made a small sound of protest when he saw that you were no longer straddling the pillow, but he quickly shut up when he saw that you were divesting yourself of your panties. “Oh… carry on.” He mumbled, going back to his document, though his eyes continuously flicked up towards you to make sure he was capturing the moment properly. 

Feeling your bare pussy rub against the rough fabric of the pillow sent shivers of pleasure up and down your body and you moaned, riding it harder than before. The stimulation was great, but it wasn’t enough. Really, you wanted to have Simeon buried balls deep in you and not at his computer. However, your priority was your job and that meant sticking to what you had to work with. “Fuck…” You groaned, clenching your inner walls around nothing and wishing that you had at least a toy to fill you up and give you something to ride. 

You ground against the pillow, your essence soaking the fabric and leaving a sizable wet mark, but you didn’t care. It was all the stimulation you could get and you were going to work it for all it was worth. One hand went back up to your breast, rolling your pert nipple between your thumb and forefinger, whining at the mixture of pain and pleasure you were giving yourself. “Yeah… you like watching me touch myself, babe?” You asked no one in particular; but truthfully, you hoped Simeon was really enjoying what he saw and heard.. 

His fingers on the keyboard never ceased moving as he vividly described the scene before him. He was so wrapped up in his work, he didn’t even notice himself getting hard. There was too much to write and no time to think about the attention the rest of his body was asking for. He licked his lips, his gaze constantly going back and forth from the document to your body. You were acting out the scene so well, he couldn’t stop writing; he needed to record every detail. You were everything he had imagined his main character to be; effortlessly confident, commanding in the bedroom and dripping with sex appeal. Even if it was a spur of the moment suggestion, he had no regrets considering he was getting so much more writing done in the last half hour than he had in the past two months. 

Your breathing came out in short little pants as you tried to chase a release that just wouldn’t come with so little to work with. You reached between your legs to fondle your sensitive clit, groaning loudly as you made love to yourself. You didn’t know how long the scene was supposed to be, but your thighs were getting tired of riding an inanimate object and you just wanted to get off now. 

“Mm fuck.. You feel so good…” You breathed, closing your eyes and imagining Simeon sliding inside of you. The first pass must feel so good. You fantasized about lowering yourself onto his cock slowly letting him savor every inch that entered you. In your head, his bright blue eyes glittered in lust, watching his dick disappear into you until your hips met and he would moan at the feeling of being completely buried in you. “Yeah… just like that…” You moaned, rubbing circles at your clit while your inner walls clenched rhythmically at air. 

You went back to dragging your pussy across the fabric of the pillow smearing your essence all over to get as much out of the scenario as you could. Your fingers rubbed your clit harder, pushing you ever closer and closer to release. “Oh… Oh… I’m so close…” You whined, announcing your climax mere seconds before it happened. The last push you needed was looking over at Simeon and seeing him completely engrossed in what you were doing. His fingers frozen on the keyboard and his comfortable pants with a rather impressive tent in them. 

“Fuck. Simeon.” you cursed, cumming all over the pillow. Your fingers slowed their pace around your clit, rubbing your labia back and forth as you rode out the orgasm. You fell forward onto the pillows beneath you, still slowly humping them while you let the initial high pass and the afterglow set in. It wasn’t until the haze of pleasure passed that you realized you had called his name while getting off on his couch in front of him. 

Simeon swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way you called his name. Everything had gone smoothly until you had cried out for him while in the throes of your climax. He had stopped everything he was doing just mere moments before you did that; and now, he didn’t know if he had the mental capacity to continue with what he was writing. 

For once, he was tempted to throw away whatever celestial blessings he had to take you and be the real reason why you screamed his name. 

Shoving the indecent thoughts to the back of his head, he turned back to his document, writing a sentence and erasing it, repeating the action over and over again while his brain looped the beautiful image of you as you came on his couch. Now, he noticed the tightness in his pants, the obvious boner he sported as a result of such an experiment. But, he couldn’t be mad at it. He had achieved a groove in writing and he was sure he could finish the draft you needed in time.

Simeon let you rest a bit and gather yourself together on the couch. No doubt both of you were aware of the slip, but he could pretend it didn’t affect him as much as it did. Eventually, you had the courage to look back up at him, only to find him busily typing away at his computer. Sighing, and running your hand through your hair amused that he could stay so calm, you got up and started to get dressed. “So, I’m guessing moving somewhere else worked?” you asked, keeping your tone light. 

“Hmm… yes.” He agreed, half paying attention to what you were doing. He couldn’t bear to look at you while you were exposed and waited patiently until you were fully clothed until he made eye contact and spoke to you again. “I definitely got some good notes in. I’ll just need a little more time to flesh out some of the filler scenes and I’ll email you the draft in a couple of days.” 

You let out a laugh, surprised that he was able to focus on work still after what he had just witnessed. He truly was as innocent as he presented himself to be sometimes. “Alright, well. I’ll look forward to reading it.” 

“Will you be back?” he asked, looking at you with hopeful eyes. “You were so helpful, I think I might need more help for the rest of the book.” Not, like I want to see something like that again… No, I just need it for research purposes… 

“You know I’ll be back.” You laughed heartily, ruffling his hair. “I have to bother you at least once a month to make sure you’re on schedule to finish.” 

Simeon slouched into his chair and let out a soft laugh in relief. “Of course, how could I forget.” In his mind, he was already planning new scenarios for you to play out. There would be much more research to be done, and supplies to be obtained before your next visit. But, all those things could wait. For now, he closed his laptop, noticing how low on battery it had gotten.Time had slipped by him, the sun already well on its way past the horizon. “It’s getting late…” He commented, trying to change the subject to something a little safer than the masturbation session you just had in front of him. 

“Yeah… I’ll get going and let you work in peace.” In a moment of bold recklessness, you stepped forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “See you next time, babe. Can’t wait to see what you’re gonna make me do for you.” you teased, giving him a coy wink before showing yourself out.

As soon as the door was firmly shut, Simeon let out a deep sigh, laughing out loud at the predicament he had put himself into. He wanted to quit everything and dissolve into the ground. He wanted to continue writing and see your body writhe in pleasure. He wanted to also defile you and sate himself inside of you. Most of all though, there was a growing darkness within him, one he didn’t even notice just yet; and that part of him craved to see you put in your place to beg for him like the god he knew he was. 

Pushing all his desires down and curbing his lust for the time being, he moved his computer back to his office and let it charge for the rest of the evening. His mind still swirled with the image of your exposed body riding that pillow in the sunroom. The early evening sunset made your body glow with an almost angelic light; and for once, he felt jealous of an inanimate object.

Quietly padding back into the sunroom, he looked at the soiled cushion; feeling a surge of heat rush through him when he saw the wet spot you had left behind. Licking his lips, he approached it like it was a wild animal, tentatively poking at it. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend to still feel your warmth lingering on the fabric. He could feel shame rising up in him as he laid down on the couch, rested his head on the pillow and took a deep breath, memorizing the scent of your arousal. 

His hand reached down between his legs, slipping past his pants and to his hard length that needed his attention. Turning his head to smother his moans and to surround himself with your unique smell, he teased and pleased himself, putting himself in the scenario you had played out just mere moments ago. 

“Oh… oh fuck…” He groaned surprised at how little effort it took to make him cum and ruin his pants to the thought of you bouncing on his cock and calling his name. He was quickly falling down the deep end of temptation and he could feel the darkness of sin encroaching. 

The scariest part was the fact that he didn’t care at all. 

[hoodoo12]

The Music of Sherlock Holmes

Several years ago, I was involved in the Sherlock fandom. It continues to regularly appears on my dash, and I am happy people are still into it. I personally some of my best writing was for the fandom. Below the cut please find a story I wrote for it. I was never in the Johnlock camp, so you won’t see that here. What you will see is a character study of John Watson, and how what he must put up with living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes. 

It is horror. There is death. And more than  a nod to Lovecraft . . .

Enjoy!

Sherlock kept strange hours. That wasn’t anything new to his flatmate. The detective didn’t care a whit about proper etiquette regarding when it would be appropriate or not appropriate to play his violin, and that wasn’t new to John either.

But lately, lately, the middle of the night serenades were a bit too much to bear. The tunes weren’t melodious. They were barely music at all, all screeching strings and wild notes, played with frantic fingers and a ferociously sweeping bow.

Many times John crept down the stairs and listened outside his flatmate’s bedroom door. He always meant to knock, but as if Sherlock could sense he was there, the noise would cease.

John wasn’t sure what was going on, and during the day Sherlock kept to his room, barely exiting for any length of time.

However, when John happened to notice that the cup Sherlock set on near the sink—tea courtesy of John, of course—had bloody fingerprints on it, he jumped up from his chair and rushed forward to catch his flatmate’s sleeve before he disappeared behind his door again.

If it proved that he’d been watching the detective like a mother hen, he didn’t care.

“You’re bleeding,” the doctor said, as if Sherlock didn’t know, or hadn’t noticed.

John took Sherlock’s wrist and maneuvered his hand around to examine the raw fingertips.

“The blood feeds the strings,” Sherlock answered. He said this plainly, as though it should be obvious, and not at all cryptic or worrying.

John sighed and didn’t rise to the bait of asking him to clarify. “Sherlock,” he admonished, “you need to give that violin a break.”

That startled the other man. “No! I cannot!”

“Sherlock—“

“I cannot, John. I cannot.”

The repetition of denial was odd, with its solid emphasis on “cannot” instead of the more expected, stubborn “will not”. The conviction behind the words was undeniable. John tried a different tactic.

“Well, the music you’re playing is certainly something different. Are you composing?”

At the pseudo-praise and sincere query, Sherlock relaxed a minute amount.

“No . . . these compositions aren’t mine. An envelope arrived with handwritten sheet music inside. Not a full score—pages of the sonata are missing. But the note attached to them insinuated that perhaps I could fill in what had been misplaced, and that is a mystery I cannot ignore. I have done my best, and will continue to try.

“To my personal failings, I don’t read much German, so I have only been able to translate a portion of the note.”

“Let me take a look. I know a bit of German myself, I could help—“

“No!” The interruption was immediate and sharp, even more so than the refusal to stop playing.

“Sherlock—“

The detective twisted his wrist out of the doctor’s grip, and retreated to his room. The door slammed shut, and the lock engaged, signaling the finality of the conversation.

John sighed and wondered what he should do.

That night the music was worse than before. John wasn’t aware a stringed instrument could produce such grating, harsh sounds. He pulled a pillow over his head and hoped exhaustion would claim him.

He did not see hide or hair of his flatmate for several days following. The midnight music had continued, but even John with his untrained ear could tell they were less powerful and stuttery in their execution. Was Sherlock succumbing to his own fatigue? Was the detective finished with whatever compelled him to keep playing night after night?

It was near ten in the evening now. John wondered if his flatmate had eaten anything in these past days. With a sigh of resignation, he put the kettle on and went about preparations for tea. While he waited for the water to come to temperature, he grilled a cheese toastie. If Sherlock declined both, at least he would have done his part as a concerned friend.

With plate and cup in hand, John went to Sherlock’s door. He used his knee to rap on it, and to his surprise, it swung open several inches. He’d expected it to be closed and locked, and stood for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to enter.

When Sherlock made no acknowledgement of his door opening, John pushed it wider. No complaints about the door, and then no complaints about the room being invaded.

The room was dim but not pitch black. After several moments, the streetlights outside provided enough light for John to see by. Colors were muted, but not completely washed away. It was chilly; John figured it was due to an open window.

John found Sherlock sprawled face down on his mattress. John paused for a moment, to determine his flatmate was both alive (the slight rise and fall of his chest was evidence) and sleeping (the deep and regular pattern of breath showed that). From the unkempt state of the bed and the smears of blood in various places on the sheets, it was obvious he’d continually opened the wounds on his fingers without bothering to attend to them. The detective himself was also scruffy and unwashed.

Carefully and quietly John set the food and drink on the bedside table. When Sherlock still didn’t move, he even more carefully and quietly crossed the room to the desk and music stand near the far window.

Papers were scattered haphazardly across the wooden desk. The sheet music that Sherlock had mentioned was on the music stand; John could see that the staff and notes were faded, and where his friend had scribbled in new ones. Some he’d simply filled in to make the original more legible, others he had crossed out and added other notes altogether.

There was no name on the arrangement.

John turned his attention to the papers on the desk. They were yellowed, brittle, and a few had the same disturbing smears and smudges that adorned Sherlock’s sheets. The cramped foreign words had been written in a spidery hand, and John strained to read any of it.

What little he could translate made no sense, and a dull ache started in his brow.

“It’s not that there’s no light, you know.”

John jumped. “Jesus, Sherlock!”

Sherlock was sitting on the bed now, watching him with hooded eyes. He didn’t say anything more, until John prompted,

“What do you mean, it’s not because there’s no light?”

“That headache that’s brewing,” he replied dismissively. “You were rubbing your forehead like you do when you’re getting a headache.”

John hadn’t been aware he’d done that.

“It’s what the words say, John. Even if you can’t read them all, they wiggle into the deeper crevices in your brain. The primal side of you, the lizard brain, senses the danger, even as your higher faculties do not.”

That dull ache hadn’t dissipated, but it hadn’t grown worse. John wondered, briefly, if it was because he wasn’t looking at the paper any longer. Then he chided himself that that was ridiculous.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, irritably.

Sherlock didn’t get up. “The music, John. The music is the key. It creates its own symphony—no, discord! Cacophony! It uses horrid noises that worm through to our time, our space! Every night it makes its attempt! Perhaps the night is easiest for it to traverse the stars, slipping through the dark matter to our atmosphere, but that is a puzzle I have no energy or resources to devote to right now. It hates its place, it hates our harmony with our world, it wants to come here and—it doesn’t want to take over, per se, that’s a human trait and it is beyond the scope and breadth of humanity. It wants to fill our space with the same dissonance it must live in—“

The detective’s voice had grown in timbre and urgency. John snapped,

“Sherlock! That’s enough!”

He’d been in the military; he knew how to override other voices and shut them down.

Sherlock complied, in part.

His voice lost its pitch. It did not lose its fervor.

“Herr Zann was so close, John,” he whispered. “He almost succeeded in closing the gate! But he stumbled—I don’t know if he lost his concentration, or a string broke, or—“

John glanced down at the paper in his hand again. A name at the bottom caught his eye, “Erich Zann”. Obviously the man who wrote these notes and probably the music. Obviously the man who had become Sherlock’s obsession, and somehow managed to tip his friend dangerously close to the edge of collapse and what sounded like insanity—

Who this man was meant nothing right now. John had to calm Sherlock down; get him to eat something, bathe, and actually sleep instead of this catnapping that he’d been doing. He’d use force or prescription drugs if he had too; Sherlock was plainly distressed.

He dropped the paper and turned back to Sherlock completely.

“Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get you up. A shower will help, and then we’ll talk about all this—“

A deep thrumming sensation made the hairs on the back of John’s neck rise. It wasn’t a sound, not really, just a feeling, just a suggestion of sound that took up residence in his ears. Then came a slight pain, like diving too deeply underwater without equalizing the pressure in his head. That pain quickly escalated and John clapped his hands to his ears and doubled over.

“It’s here!” Sherlock cried.

His flatmate’s voice sounded far away.

In a flurry of movement Sherlock was out of his bed, knocking John off balance in his rush to scoop up his violin and throw back the curtains of the window. He set bow to strings, and countered the thrumming with his own noise.

Walls and doors had shielded John from Sherlock’s previous nightly musical endeavors. Now he suffered the full force of the abuse Sherlock whetted out to the instrument: squeals and shrieks and notes that couldn’t possibly have a name or position on the scale. John alternately howled and grit his teeth and struggled to right himself.

The sounds continued, even as he made it to his feet. The noise that Sherlock produced clashed with the unearthly noise that flooded in from the window. Both sounds collided inside John’s head, until he could no longer separate one from the other.

What could make such horrific, unnatural sound in the center of London? With the mattress at the back of his knees for support, John turned to see.

The cityscape, with its the familiar tops of buildings and light pollution, was not there. In its place outside the open window was a yawning blackness, too solid to be the night, too full of flitting shapes and visions to belong in this universe. Impossibly, the silhouette of Sherlock furiously sawing at his violin was visible against the nightmare outside.

Something in John’s mind, something with the strongest survival instinct possible, turned him away. He fell backwards onto the soiled bed, the disharmony seeping in and filling in all the spaces between his cells, and he knew no more.

When he awoke, he couldn’t open his eyes immediately. He cried out, panicked, and rubbed at his face. His eyelids had been crusted shut. After he picked them open, John recognized the dark brown flakes under his fingernails.

Blood.

His cheeks were stiff from the dried blood. Both sides of his neck were coated in it too; he’d hemorrhaged from eyes and ears. The sheer amount of it stuck him to the sheets. He carefully peeled himself off so he could sit up.

Sherlock’s room was filled with sunlight. A breeze ruffled the curtains, and over the din of traffic, John could hear birdsong.

Sherlock was not in the room.

The detective was not in the flat. With growing dread, John searched every room, and then searched them again. Then he tripped down the stairs to pound on Mrs. Hudson’s door. He ignored her shock and questions as to why he was coated in old blood and demanded to know if she’d seen Sherlock go out.

She hadn’t, but he knew that. He’d found his flatmate’s jacket and wallet and mobile phone in their customary places upstairs. Sherlock never left the flat without them.

Wearily, and still ignoring his landlady’s worry, he climbed the stairs again. He made his way back to Sherlock’s bedroom and sank onto the bed.

He would never have the skills Sherlock had. He would never have the brilliance. He scanned the room and tried to put it all together: the papers from the desk and the sheet music were scattered. Sherlock’s violin was in one piece, but looked worse for wear with a crack in the bridge, scorch marks like it had been burned along the lower bout, and dark, blood-stained strings. The bow had been splintered; its horsehair frayed.

There was no evidence of the detective—no fibers from torn clothing, no drops of blood, nothing to point to where he had been spirited away to.

“You stupid fool,” John said aloud, to no one. “You should have let me help. The man wrote his music for a viol, not violin. It was right there in his notes! And you, you with your stubbornness, you with your refusing to let me plaster your fingers—the blood on the strings, the blood on the strings was enough to throw it all off, to tip the balance—and now you’re gone and I’m . . . I’m . . .“

He realized he was shouting with a cracked voice, and weeping.

Sherlock was gone. John would never even come close to what he had accomplished. He didn’t have the resilience Sherlock had, confronting this thing night after night. He had never picked up a stringed instrument in his life, but knew if he were to carry on what Sherlock had attempted to contain, he would have to try.

And if—when—he failed, he could only hope that he would meet up with the Consulting Detective again.

fin.

[storybycorey]

Five Times Mulder Openly Admired Scully’s Breasts (pt 3)

Author: storybycorey

Rating: PG-13 (Part 3)

Timeline: Season sixish/sevenish

Summary: see title ;)      Part Two can be found here.

Third

You liken midnight stakeouts to a teakettle awaiting a ‘whistle’, to a piece of bread awaiting a ‘pop’.  Time crawls more slowly than a snail across the sidewalk when you sit there counting the seconds.  

At least in the other situations, you walk away with a mug of Earl Grey and a piece of toast (if you’re lucky, even some strawberry jam).  With a stakeout, the most you can hope for is a stiff neck and a headache.

You’re two hours and about twelve suggestive remarks in (somehow they all seem suggestive when he’s sitting just inches away at midnight) when you finally decide to pick up the magazine the last pair of agents left behind.  A typical woman’s publication, nothing you’d be caught dead purchasing at the grocery store, but one more minute of that rough, velvet voice and the way he says the word ‘combustible’, and you’re going to lose it.

“Hush, Mulder, I’m reading,” you tell him when he starts in again, though reading is a vast exaggeration considering the dim light and banal nature of the material. But it’s enough to shut him up, and that in itself is priceless.

He excuses himself to ‘get some air’ (fuck men and their ability to relieve themselves so easily), while you’re just grateful to take a deep breath without filling your nose with his scent.  You wonder how Skinner would react if you requested not to be assigned any more stakeouts with Mulder, because they turn you into such a desperate mess.

You flip through the pages of the magazine as though there’s a purpose to your actions, as though you’re an actual woman who has an actual interest in these sorts of things (it startles you to realize how far from that place you’ve come).   A perfume advertisement catches your eye—shiny, happy couples having the shiny, happy time of their lives—the image makes you want to both gag and cry.

The unused sample is still intact, and as you peel away the wrapping, you remember the days you wore perfume every day, experimented with scents, tried to determine which would attract the right kinds of men.  You realize that somewhere along the way (could you pinpoint the day if you tried?), the right kinds of men became one man—one who says ‘combustible’ in a way that makes your knees weak.  

You spread the scent on your wrists, a dab behind the ears, and, feeling bold, in the shadow of your cleavage.  Let Mulder squirm for a bit smelling you, you think.  

You crumple the evidence and place it in your pocket, feeling suddenly a bit foolish as he slides back into his seat.  He tries to be subtle, but the crinkle above his brow and the tilt of his head give him away—he knows what you’ve done.  From the corner of your eye, you watch him lick his lips (goddamn it—it was him that was supposed to squirm, not you), but he goes no further.

“I’m surprised to see you reading that trash,” he ponders.  

You raise an eyebrow in his direction. “There’s nothing wrong with brushing up on my feminine wiles, Mulder.  This career does a pretty decent job of eradicating them.”

He chuckles, and you assume the discussion is complete.  But then in a voice that makes ‘suggestive’ look like child’s play, he murmurs, “On the contrary, Scully.  I think your feminine wiles are in fine working order.  Quite exemplary, in fact…”

You suck in your breath and curse yourself for being so continually affected by him.  You should have known he wouldn’t let it drop.

Reaching across the console, he gently takes your arm, then slowly brings your wrist to his nose.  “Putting on this perfume was an excellent display of feminine wiles, wouldn’t you say?” Oh lord.

You feel his nose as he presses it to your tender skin, as he closes his eyes and inhales.  You think you may be trembling.  “It’s just…it was just a sample from the magazine,” you whisper, as if you had no part in it finding its way onto your body.  

“Very nice…,” he says, and you breathe a sigh of relief when he finally lets you go.  You don’t care what Skinner has to say; you cannot keep doing this.  “But I never feel like perfume reaches its full bouquet on just the wrists—not enough body heat.  Did you put it anywhere else?”  Oh my god.  What in the hell were you thinking pulling that sample from the damn magazine?

“Umm, Mulder, I don’t think…,” you stammer, but for some unearthly reason, you keep going, “Behind my ears…I… I put it behind my ears…” Your feminine wiles have nothing against the persuasion of his masculine ones.

“I thought so…,” he responds, already leaning toward you, already invading your space (he invades your space daily, but never has he done it at midnight in a dark, cramped car while investigating your feminine wiles). His hands land on your shoulders, and your neck tilts invitingly toward his nose (your body has finally gone rogue, you realize), and his hot breath is there there there, behind your ear, in that spot that makes you whimper if you’re not being careful.

And you’re trying to be careful, really you are, but when his nose brushes your skin, the slightest squeak escapes your throat before you’re able to catch it.  “Mmmmm,” he responds, “Smells even better, just as I suspected,” and again, you’re sure he’s going to be done, that he’ll finally leave you alone.  

But when can you ever be sure of anything when it comes to Mulder?

Instead of retreating, that nose slides its way down the slope of your neck.  Slowly.  You grip the fabric of the seat so tightly, your hands cramp.

“But I’m picking up on the scent elsewhere—am I wrong?”  You don’t think he actually expects an answer, because his nose is still heading in the precise direction of ‘elsewhere’, and you honestly worry you’re going to pass out.

“Muldd…,” you murmur, but then you close your eyes.  Maybe this is it.  Maybe this is when it finally happens, the culmination of this thing around which the two of you have been dancing for seven long years.

The stubble from his chin brushes the sensitive skin of your chest, and you shudder.  You’ve forgotten how to breathe.  He’s hovering there, nose pointed directly into the shadow that slips down into your blouse, where you so foolishly swiped that scrap of paper just moments ago.  What were you saying earlier about not feeling like an actual woman?  Scratch that—you feel more like a woman now than you’ve ever felt in your whole damn life.  

Seconds, minutes, hours pass (how are you supposed to keep track of time with him there?), his harsh breaths the loudest and most arousing sounds to have ever filled your ears.  His fingers trail from your shoulders, down along your arms to land at your waist.  Your own fingers are hard at work, trying to convince your brain they should twine through his hair, they should pull him close and bury him there, in the place you’ve imagined him too many times to count.

“Scully,” he breathes, and your back arches toward him in invitation. He’s about to RSVP, you’re sure of it, his breath getting hotter and hotter, closer and closer… Oh Jesus Christ, just another inch….

A loud ‘crash’ slices its way through the thickened air like a knife.

He jumps back, the moment destroyed. “Shit, I’m sorry…,” he mutters, “I’m sorry,” and, seconds later, barrels out of the car.  It takes you a few deep breaths to realize he’s in pursuit (you were on a stakeout, remember?).

Coming to your senses, you follow behind.  His words keep time with your heels on the pavement: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

You wish he’d stop so you could tell him.

I’m not.

to be continued.... Part 4 can be found here