#moriadlock

This week’s fic list will be

OT3/Polyamory themed!

Thank you so much for the ask! As expected, rambling about one of my fave ships proved just as much of a delight as I’d hoped. Rambling is the right word, though, so I hope at least some of this makes any sense…

002 | sendme a ship and I will tell you

When or if I started shipping it.

I’m not entirely sure, but fairly recently. I believe I saw one or two posts about it, started pondering the dynamics and then – as I’m wont to do when pondering – wrote one or two tiny ficlets to play around with the ship. It got me hooked.

My thoughts:

This is the dark and unholy triad of fun and games. Jim, Irene and Sherlock have soooo much in common, but are still different enough to work together. Rather than shying away from their own darkness reflected in the others, there’s deep respect and admiration. (I mean, I think that in canon, Sherlock DOES try to shy away from it, at least initially, but for this to work he’d need to embrace it, so.) Also, this is without a doubt the sexiest Sherlock pairing, and the best dressed too.

What makes me happy about them:

Snark! Games! Sexy times and DEAR LORD JUST SO MUCH FLIRTING. Also, they just look so stupidly good together, I just can’t.

What makes me sad about them:

Well, Jim being dead (OR IS HE?) makes me sad about all of the pairings he’s involved in. Also, I think that they are very likely to hurt each other very badly. They’re all so invested in the various masks they wear, and eventually that’d cause some nasty problems. But hey, maybe they’ll work it out. (LIKE I’M DYING TO WRITE AN ANGST WITH A HAPPY ENDING THING NOW, CHRONICLING THEIR EPIC, TWISTED AND DARK AS FUCK PATH TO HAPPINESS! Betrayal! Misunderstandings! Jim’s ‘job’ getting in the way of just about everything, and everyone is an idiot. John is Shocked. (He really isn’t, he just disapproves.) DEAR LORD JUST SO MUCH FLIRTING.)

Things done in fanfic that annoys me:

Sadly, there’s no enough fic for me to have picked up on any particular and annoying trend. Though that lack of fic in and of itself annoys me…

Things I look for in fanfic:

I look for fic, period. Beggars can’t be choosers. But I suppose I prefer it to be… a little bit dark, because really, but waaaay playful too. This is a fun ship for me, not a tragic or angsty one (although a tiny bit of angst never hurt nobody). All three of them treating it as a game – Irene and Jim more as a matter of seduction and manipulation, Sherlock as a cerebral exercise. Lots of banter, lots of pretending to pretend to care – but deep down they are genuinely and absolutely fond of each other, and they can’t quite hide that. I also like the fic to be sexy in style, rather than substance, if that makes any sense? To me, Sherlock is just never as excited about sex as he is puzzles and games, and while Irene, and to a lesser extent Jim, do enjoy the grinding of bodies, they are happpy enough to play other games with their favourite sleuth. Also, Jim and Irene ganging up on Sherlock in the best ways possible.

My kinks:

For this pairing in particular? Um. Power play ALL THE TIME because they’re each convinced they’re the top dog. I mean, I enjoy BDSM but I just don’t see how it’d work with the three of them, because while I think Sherlock and Jim might well play at submissiveness in other settings, they will not here. Neither of them is willing to submit to either of the other two, and as for Irene… how about no, puppy? And since I’m not into actual non-con (as opposed to pretend non-con, where everyone involved knows that the reluctance is feigned for the sake of the scene) that makes most of my usual kinks not work for this pairing. I think my main Moriadlock kink is the cerebral banter, them playing up the UST for all its worth, and did I mention DEAR LORD SO MUCH FLIRTING? Casual-but-not-actual-casual touching is of course a go.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each others:

Oh, I ship Jim with just about everyone, and if he can’t be with Sherlock (or Sherlock and others, in any of the several Sheriarty+ configurations I enjoy) I’d be equally happy to see him ride off into the sunset (or the atomic blast – it really seems more likely… ) with Sebastian. But really, Jim having ANYONE is a major turn-on for me, so yeah.

As for Sherlock, I only actively ship him with Jim (and their potential thirds) but I’m quite happy for him to end up with only Irene – though maybe that doesn’t count – or John and Mary in another happy threesome. Or Janine! I do adore Janine, although they made one hell of an uncomfortable couple – but that’s because Sherlock was faking it. Let him be real, and there’ll be fireworks, I tell you! I love Molly, so I’d love to say I’d be happy for the two of them to end up together, but I don’t actually think Sherlock will be able to offer Molly what she wants in the long run. She can do better, really. (You can date me, Molly. Really. We’d be great!)

My happily ever after for them:

Sherlock -- The Art of Death

Sherlock Holmes / Irene Adler / Jim Moriarty

Dying Is an art, like everything else I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.

 -- Sylia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” 1966

Irene Adler + James Moriarty + Sherlock Holmes

I danced a tango with my hubris high on youth; we swept across the dance floor to subjective truth.

But there was no harmony there, no reason for coexistence… Nothing to span the distance, now.

I tried a shanty with the fool to find my pace, anything from puns to jests to intertwine our ways…

But there was no loyalty to hope and funny the need for mercy, how it makes us bleed all mercy, now…

Now the melody’s void of sympathy cause that shit’s in byte size bits on YouTube, so tell me: what am I supposed to do?

When the malady’s no remedy till we reach the lowest absolute and necessity will finally force something through what’s walling you…

Do we even know who we are? Living like all life is forfeit, like we can just go redefine it regardless what we broke.

From this list:

14. ‘You’re supposed to talk me out of this’

‘You’re supposed to talk me out of this. Not just-’

Sherlock watches them exchange glances as his fingers start on the buttons of his shirt. Irene is wearing pure white underwear under a translucent gown, standing with a hip pushed to the side, the tip of her crop brushing the floor. Jim is framed behind her in an armchair by the wall, always in the background but impossible to ignore, cut against the decor in a suit as black as midnight. Irene’s red lips curve upwards; Jim’s head tilt to the side is condescending.

‘I told you,’ he drawls to her, and Sherlock hates and loves the thrill of anticipation in that sound, in this scene, in the air that hangs over them like clouds full of storm. ‘He can’t help himself.’

‘Oh, but he’ll learn,’ she says, turning her eyes back his way. ‘We both know he’s a clever boy.’

‘Hardly a boy,’ he says, because he can’t help himself.

And they both smile, because he is and they know it. His voice betrays him, even when it’s deep, and sure, and resonates too loud in this room that’s so very still. Because they know how to wait, and sit; predators both, while all he can do is flick buttons open with a show of irritation. A boy who doesn’t know how to play this game. He may know the rules, but he is not adept. He doesn’t yet fit.

She advances slowly, heels clicking softly on the floor, dragging the flat end of the crop down the skin he’s exposing too fast. His fingers reach the last button and hesitate. She presses ever so lightly against his solar plexus, making his pulse flutter and drawing his gaze inexorably to hers.

‘What do you think, Jim?’ she says, and it’s remarkable, he thinks, how she can split her attention so perfectly between the two of them. She waits for Moriarty’s permission, and still looks at him with the focus of a lioness having chosen her kill. He’s aware of the snake waiting, coiled, against the wall; will never allow himself to forget he’s there. But he has to deal with what’s in front of him first. He leans ever so slightly into the push of leather, and is rewarded with a flare of her eyelashes. ‘He wants to play.’

‘Then play,’ comes the response, and she laughs. A gentle sound; a far-off roll of first thunder. She walks around him, dragging the crop down the line of his ribs, the small of his back, the upper part of his inner thigh. He draws a long breath in, and closes his eyes to avoid the darkness waiting in the corner. That’ll come later. Lightning always strikes eventually.