Hello! You can call me Sebastian. I'm 19 year old who is pan and genderqueer, and I blog about consulting criminals, Sherlock, Cabin Pressure, Doctor Who, Supernatural, Avengers and sometimes other random stuff, like Star Trek and Star Trek TNG. Though Mostly Sherlock. Feel free to drop me an ask! ((especially if you're from MA because I swear there is no one in this fucking state)) I love hearing from people. Hugs to you all!
3- Tony shakes his head, chuckling, voice fondly snarky. “You need to wait till I’m around to get in touch with your inner bastard, babe.” The End – MF~Anon [Giving BBC Sherlock/Avengers a wobbly trial run. Possibly sucking like a motherfucker, but well-meant, nonetheless, Noots.]
2- “Steve, darling, what’ve you done to my study-buddy’s squeeze?” Tony asks as Steve enters with John slung over his shoulder. Face flushed from dangling over Steve’s back, John’s still giggling and trying to sing. As Steve gently eases John off his shoulder and onto the sofa, Sherlock rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “He didn’t bother to tell John he metabolises alcohol too rapidly to get drunk.” Steve looks a perfect cross between guilty and amused. (TBC)
1- Steve came down the stairs with heavy steps, humming a tune that was popular amongst American soldiers more than half a century in the past. A second voice joins in, singing instead of humming, slurred words breaking off into giggles after only a few words. Jarvis’ smooth voice asking if Steve needs assistance happens at the same time that two dark heads lift from where they’d been bent over a 3D schematic. Steve politely thanks Jarvis, but says he can handle it just fine. (TBC)
Dammit, I miss your askbox, Noots. I finally saw the Avengers, but I will have to see it at least once more to be anything but shite at writing them. I may have to fall back on the last list of ships just to get something fucking done! Just didn't want you to think I'd scarpered off for good. RL might try, but it's not going to succeed in keeping me away forever. Count on that shite.
A gift basket appears with a tag that reads: "Thanks for the follow! ~Aenonnymoose." Inside are sweets and assorted trinkets. If you're interested in the occasional gift basket of ficlets - and it's fine if you're not - send an ask with your favourite fandoms to us at the Aenonnymoose tumblr. ---- (Sure I've already visited your inbox, Noots, but I wanted to share the intro ask with you, anyhow. Feel free to work up another ship list for me, too. I bloody well love a challenge. ~ MF-Anon)
It sounds brilliant!
Oh dear. A new ship list. Well, here we go (I hope you’ve seen avengers, haha)
5- He didn’t say a word when she fumbled her purse off the worktop to fetch a condom, but she did see a brief expression of surprise. She didn’t say a word when he came gasping another’s name, but she’d almost expected it. Molly came with tears in her eyes, but wasn’t sure who they were for. Sherlock whispered, “I’m sorry, Molly,” into her hair as they held each other afterwards. Both dressed again, he kissed her gently, touched her cheek, and she nodded as if he’d spoken again. “I promise.” END
4- “It’s more difficult than I thought it’d be,” he said. Molly considered what an understatement that must be; how thoroughly he’d planned, anticipated, how little escaped him. She leaned forward slowly, drawn, offering. He didn’t meet her halfway, but he didn’t pull back, and when her lips touched his she heard a tiny sound in his throat that might’ve been anything. Sherlock’s mouth tasted of recent coffee and not-so-recent cigarettes. His hands were tentative, then bold, but never rough.(tbc)
3- He half sighed, half snorted scoffingly. “Months. I can’t return till they’re all dealt with.” Molly gave a soft, sympathetic sigh, bent to kiss his head very lightly. “Tell me what I can do.” He was still for a long moment, then, “Take care of him as much as he’ll let you.” Head lifting, eyes red-rimmed but dry, his voice cracked on an added, “Please?” Nodding, not sure how she would do it, Molly’s voice broke in sympathy, “I will. Promise.” His other hand lifted, fingers at her cheek. (tbc)
2- Sherlock looked at her hand first, then up at her face again, but she didn’t move. She waited. It took him nearly a minute to ask hoarsely, “How is he?” Looking pained, Molly told him the truth. “Not good, but better than he was.” Nodding, Sherlock lowered his head, but chose to rest his forehead on the back of her hand. “But he’s alive,” he whispered. Not thinking, Molly stroked sun-gilded ginger curls with her other hand, wasn’t thrown off, and asked, “How much longer till it’s over?” (tbc)
1- Molly returned hours after her shift for her mobile, gasping as she rounded the end of the workstation to see Him sitting there, knees drawn up to his chest, not-blue/not-green/not-gray eyes unreadable. A man dead to everyone but Molly six months ago. Hair dyed ginger-gold, skin sunburnt, he scowled at her. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” She whispered. His lips tightened. “Last minute decision.” Putting her bag down, she crouched down next to him. “What do you need?” ~MF-Anon
Jim came to with a headache, sore neck, and hands tied behind him with his own £200 tie. Standing above him was Sherlock’s jumper-wearing lapdog, John Watson. Only there was some mistake. The jumper was gone, there was a tear in the blue button-down, all three of Jim’s hired thugs were out cold and trussed up elaborately with their own belts and shoelaces, and the look on ‘boring’ Dr. Watson’s face belonged to a very fucking pissed-off Captain Watson. “I thought you were a genius, Jim?" ~MF-Anon
Hey, Noots. I think you somehow found it, but I started a tumblr to put the anon stuff in so I can fucking FIND it when I want to fondle the fics. (It's 'aenonnymoose') You are my motherfucking foremost patron of the art, just so you know, and I sort of consider these YOURS, so if you object let me fucking know, okay? It didn't THINK you would, but hey, I'm not a fucking psychic, right? I'll still be haunting your askbox, Noots. Not even going to stop till you fucking tell me to. ~MF-Anon
Yup I found it XD I think it’s a fantastic idea!
And I don’t think I will ever want you to stop haunting my askbox, you fucking fantastic person!
(7) “I need it,” Sherlock whispers. Lestrade tightens his arms. “We’ll get you sorted, I promise. C’mon.” Arms still about him, Lestrade walks Sherlock slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room. Murmuring promises and reassurances, he ends up sitting on the sofa, Sherlock curled up against him. Eventually the trembling eases - Sherlock either passes out or falls asleep – and Lestrade checks that his pulse isn’t too wild or slow, that he’s breathing alright, and then just holds on. END
(6) “I know,” Lestrade agrees soothingly, hands laid upon Sherlock’s shoulders, one going up to his hair, ignoring that it needs a wash, ignoring everything but a brilliant soul in pain and need. “But the drugs only make it worse after, Sherlock. You KNOW that.” So slowly, he gently reels Sherlock in until his arms are around that too slender frame, which is trembling so hard it’s a bit alarming. “We’ll figure out something,” he whispers as he guides Sherlock’s head down to his shoulder. (TBC)
(5) Lestrade can almost feel Sherlock’s desperation. It’s instinct that has him across the kitchen reaching out. At first Sherlock bats his hands away, startled, almost frightened. Lestrade softens his voice, moves more slowly. “Easy, now. It’s me. You know me. C’mon, Sherlock,” he murmurs. Close up, Sherlock’s eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot, and the tension in him is more obvious. “You don’t understand,” he repeats, but this time in a rough, low voice that cracks on the last syllable. (TBC)