rory writes fanfics

what exactly did happen the “last time” Moss left the soldering iron on??

come check it out on ao3

"Moss!" Roy cried as he came in through the door to the basement, dropping his bag and rushing to the fire, which roared in the corner of the room, incredulously taking in the sight of a very undisturbed, curly-haired coworker. "Moss what happened?"

"Oh, hi Roy, how was lunch?" His seemingly undisturbed workmate answered cheerfully, typing away at his keyboard.

"MOSS bloody hell you caught my desk on fire!"

"I did?" Moss knit his eyebrows together before moving his chin with a sharp turn, his lovely nest of curls bobbing on his head. "Wow a fire,"

"wow? WOW? You've got to be fucking-" Roy grumbled as he found the fire extinguisher on the other side of the basement office, reading the instructions and finally pointing the nozzle to the base of the fire, "CALL 999 Moss,"

"Right! Do you think they'd mind me phoning them? I could always send an email," Moss pecked at the phone before Roy slammed his hand on the younger man's desk.

"For Jesus' sake, Moss, the fire's out now," Roy dropped the fire extinguisher and growled at his newly singed, blackened and melted PC before turning his sharp glare to his colleague.

"You look angry," Moss said quickly, hands folded in his lap, adjusting his tie and looking up through his glasses with wide brown puppy-dog eyes.

"You're damn right I'm angry," Roy grumbled, his voice low and sharp, sending shivers down Moss' spine, and he sniffed at the air. Roy had sweat through his thin layer of deodorant (main ingredient Aluminum Phosphate, he should tell him to change it, it was known to cause ovarian cancers)

"Are you listening to me, Moss?!"

"What?"

"You could've died Moss," Roy growled, standing to the side of Moss's desk and leaning forward, arms braced on either sides of his swivel chair, leaning in and whispering in a deep dark voice, "Get over the desk, now," Moss's breath caught, his eyes glowing with fear.

"Wh-what?"

"You heard me, over the desk, pants down,"

"But- Roy I-" The Irishman snarled, grasping him by his tie and flipping him over his desk, in one swift moment his trousers and pants were around his ankles, his long legs exposed, his arse a pale shade of brown, and Roy growled, placing a possessive hand just at the top of it, thumb brushing across the cleft of it, his eyes dark and glowing.

"You act like a child, I'll treat you like a child," Moss shivered, gooseflesh rising on his exposed buttocks as his glasses were smoshed into the desk.

"But- Roy!" He cried helplessly, a dark blush rising on his cheeks.

"No Moss. You've earned this,"

Roy smirked as he unlooped his belt, the buckle clattering as he pulled it into a loop.

"Count and say thank you, Maurice,"

"Yes, sir," Moss whimpered, pulling himself up onto his elbows, wriggling on his toes and shifting from side to side, bound by his pants around his ankles, sock braces on full display as he squirmed.

"Settle, Moss," The scruffy man gave a warning smack with the palm of his hand and Moss tucked his head between his shoulders, his dark curls brushing against the table top, his cheeks flushed. Roy had spanked him before, but never with the belt! Wouldn't it hurt? He didn't have much time to think before-

SLAP!

The IT proffesional reeled forward, gasping at the sharp sting that radiated on his bum in a thick pink stripe across the pale cinnamon skin as it jiggled from the impact.

"Moss," Roy pinched his afflicted skin in a twist, sending tears blurring into his eyes, his glasses fogging before they clattered to the floor.

"One! Thank you, sir!"

"Good boy," Roy rubbed a small circle across his right cheek, thumb barely touching the burning skin before standing and pulling his arm back again.

"Ah! Ow! Two! Thank you, sir,"

He squirmed and his eyes grew blurry as the number grew, his arse now decorated with some nasty welts, and Roy's callused palms gave each a delicate rub, and Moss felt hot tears on his cheeks, his curls bobbing with each smack.

"Nine! Nine, sir, thank you!" He cried, his voice thick and mottled with tears as his feet tried to fight, his legs fidgeting and his arse burning with heat. Roy rolled his shoulder and pulled back one punishing blow and Moss sobbed, "T-ten! Roy, thank you, sir," his cheeks now soaked with salty liquid. Moss was quiet, his breathing ragged and his hands grasping tight to the lip of the desk, his keyboard shoved to the side, his eyes clenched shut in anticipation of the next blow.

"Shh, come here, darling," Roy sat in his swivel chair and pat his knee, tugging a weeping Moss into his lap, minding his sore bum and wrapping his arm around his hip, a sweet little nose tucked into his neck, his soft textured hair resting on his shoulder and Roy smiled to himself, rubbing a soothing circle on his back. "You did so good for me, such a good boy," Moss sniffled and cuddled closer, hands grasping to his t-shirt, tear tracks drying, and he rubbed his itchy cheeks on the lapels of Roy's jacket.

"Now, what did you do to earn all that?" Roy pulled his shoudlers back and looked him at seriously, trying not to coo at his weepy brown puppy eyes.

"I- I left my saughtering iron on and that's bad,"

"Yes, Moss, good, that's very bad and are you going to do it again?"

"I'm bad." Moss whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground and his nose twitching with silent sniffles. Roy tutted and grasped his chin, bringing their faces closer, his eyes glowing with a dark seriousness that sent an involuntary shiver through Moss.

"You, Maurice, are not bad. You just can't do that again, love, you could've gotten hurt," The doleful man nodded and tucked his nose back into Roy's shoulder.

"I love you, Roy,"

"I know, Moss. I love you too."

"Are we homosexuals, Roy?" His sweet peppy voice had returned and Roy laughed, patting his back, his warm bum resting on his knee.

"I don't think there's a word for what we are," Roy ran his palm across Moss's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm sorry I started the fire, Roy,"

"You're forgiven Moss, now take some deep breaths, that's it, good boy," Moss sucked in a wobbly breath and smiled slightly, feeling bashful, loved and a bit sore.

"Can I have some milk now?"

this is a preview of a fic I’m writing, because I see a ton of “Q is a Holmes” but slim to no “Q is Sherlock”, so I thought I’d give it a go because I have a huge Bond kink. if anyone has any suggestions????

"Ah, 007, hello, I'll be with you in a moment," James Bond stood in the doorway of the abandoned lab, sharply dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo, black bow tie hanging untied around his neck- watching his bespectacled outfitter as he worked, "Any problems with the latest equipment?" Q offered, still quite engrossed in something or another on his bench. The blonde man in black only smirked, hands in his trousers pockets, shiny black shoes clacking across the cement floor of the garage. 

AHHH finally!! this is my first request!! sorry it got so fluffy, I’m in a terrible mood and needed a bit of cheering up.

31. lies

221b was quite a sight when John came through the door that afternoon- papers everywhere, experiments toppled over, glass shards in the rug, and three-wait, four new holes in the wall. Frustration bubbled in his stomach as he stepped over a puddle of tea? And made his way into the sitting room, expecting to find his boyfriend flopped on the sofa or his chair. He wasn’t there. 

“Sherlock?” John set the shopping bags on the floor of the kitchen, not in any mood to try to clear off the bench, where his mobile still lay. Oh, shit, he must’ve forgotten it.

35 new messages from dorkface;)

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?” No response. In fact, the flat was utterly silent. Sherlock’s coat was on the rack by the door, his shoes tucked under the coffee table, he hadn’t left. John’s frustration instantly became worry. Hell, why was he worried? Sherlock was always ignoring him, making messes, what was new? Something. Something was wrong. “Sherlock?” He asked into the hallway, knocking on the bathroom door. No answer. He opened the door to Sherlock’s room. Empty. Okay, this was strange, and John’s nervousness was becoming hard to ignore. He knocked on the bathroom door again.

“John, please go away,” Sherlock’s voice was squeaky, soft and broken and fearful, like a child’s. John’s eyes widened and he knocked again.

“Sherlock, the flat’s a mess, what’s happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong, just go. Away!” Sherlock was desperate, pleading, and John was having none of this. Screw respecting privacy. Something was wrong.

“I’m coming in Sherlock.” The door was thankfully unlocked, and the shorter man gasped at the sight of Sherlock huddled in the clawfoot tub, huddled into a ball. “You’re wearing my jumper,” John observed, the cream knit stretching across his broad shoulders, the sleeves comically too short. “Sherlock, why’re you wearing my jumper?” John said calmly, sweetly, as if talking to a frightened animal.

“I can take it off. It was for an experiment.” John stepped closer and knelt by the side of the tub, Sherlock curling in on himself seemingly impossibly tighter. John carded a hand through his trembling curls, smiling to himself at their delicate, feathery softness.

“An experiment?” 

“Testing, erm, fiber strength in scottish wool.” Sherlock poked his eyes above his arms, looking at John with widened, glowing blue eyes, like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

“Sherlock, that’s a lie. You know all about wool strengths or whatever, I’ve read the blog.” John murmured, brushing his palm across his lover's cheek as he continued to pet his hair, digging his trimmed fingernails into his scalp a bit, the world’s only consulting detective almost purring at the touch. “I forgot to tell you I was going out, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” Sherlock swallowed, looking down, flushing with embarrassment. John smirked, his gaze never dropping from Sherlock, watching him with intense love. 

“You were in your mind palace, love,” John leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Well, I did, and it’s fine.” 

“Do I need to put a tracker on my phone so you can know where I am?” John smiled, indigo eyes glowing.

“I can always call Mycroft.”

“Yeah, right, love that.” John rolled his eyes and Sherlock bit back a laugh. “So, my jumper, huh?”

“Well, you weren’t using it. And it- it smells like you.” John smirked and kissed Sherlock chastley on the lips before standing and offering a hand. 

“You wanna sit on the couch and complain while I clean the flat?”