Kradam Sherlock Holmes for aesvir
A crossover with my steampunk universe!
I had little inkling, as Holmes and I gave our coats to Mrs. Hudson at the door that November afternoon, that we were on the point of becoming embroiled in one of the greatest adventures—not to say challenges—which my friend should ever have to face. "There's someone to see you, sir," she said. "I've put him in the sitting room: a nice young gentleman."
He rose as we entered the rooms: dressed well but with no especial elegance, the high leather boots of a huntsman and a sword, knife, and pistol slung on his hips; but Holmes started with surprise and paused on the threshold.
"Sorry for barging in on you without an appointment," our visitor said.
"In such a matter, no apology is necessary," Holmes said, waving a hand back to the chairs. "I hope you will forgive my pipe, if I open the window? Your case presents several interesting aspects—my lord."
"It's just Mr. Allen," the young man said, automatically, and then said, "Wait, how do you know anything about—"
"Unworthy of explication, sir," Holmes said, but I knew better than to expect that to be an end of it; Holmes liked nothing better than to demonstrate his gifts, and the more unsuspecting and astonished the audience, the better he liked it. "You have only lately put back on your personal armament: your sword hangs so that it must scuff the top of your boot, which as yet is only lightly marked; your weapons have been cleaned in the last two days. I can hardly call it a deduction to conclude there is only one matter which would explain such an alteration, and yet bring you to me, rather than to His Majesty. How many attempts have there been upon the king's life?"
And then it was my turn to startle, as I understood from what Holmes was saying who our visitor must be—Kristopher Allen. The king's favorite.
Mr. Allen seated himself again, without those usual exclamations which were Holmes' delight; but if Holmes' conclusion were true—and I could not doubt it, seeing Allen's troubled expression—no one in such a case could argue with his preoccupation. "Three, I think," Allen said. "Or none, if you listen to—"
We were here interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, knocking upon the door. "I beg your pardon," she said. "But Mr. Holmes, there's another—there's someone else to see you, and he insists I bring him up."
"I think you must say we are engaged, Mrs. Hudson," I said, but Holmes raised his hand and sat abruptly up.
"Mrs. Hudson, how should you describe our visitor?" he inquired.
"Why, he's—just an ordinary —" Mrs. Hudson paused, as if withholding the term gentleman. "That is to say, he is—" She came again to a halt. I was staring at her, quite astonished, for she is ordinarily both the most observant and the most vigilant of landladies, and not only because Holmes' clientele had direct bearing on the regularity of our payment of the rent. "He's—tall?" she ventured, after a moment, doubtfully.
"Thank you," Holmes said. "Pray show him up—Mr. Allen, I beg your indulgence."
She vanished back out the door, and Holmes surprised me by rising from his chair, and setting aside his freshly-lit pipe; I followed his example in standing, as Mrs. Hudson showed the new visitor up: a most nondescript gentleman—I cannot even now say what I thought he was wearing, or how his face looked.
"Oh, so now you're interested," Mr. Allen said, as Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her; he too had risen to his feet.
"I'm interested in you behaving like an idiot," the gentleman said. "You went to a detective?"
"If I may beg Your Majesty's pardon," Holmes said, "Mr. Allen was on the point of laying before us the cause of his fears for your safety."
I spent a moment utterly cringing on Holmes' behalf. Quite apart from the impossibility of the King's simply wandering into our sitting-room on Baker Street, the last thing which anyone could call our sovereign is nondescript; the man before us bore not the least resemblance and could not have been mistaken for His Majesty under any circumstances.
The man paused, and raised an eyebrow at Mr. Allen. "Don't look at me," Allen said, with a shrug.
"There is no fault in the obscuration charm, Your Majesty," Holmes said. "But when I cannot say anything of a man's health, occupation, or condition in life, on seeing him before me, I know I must be barred by sorcerous means."
"Wonderful, that's all this needed," the man said, and flicked open the buckles of the cloak at his throat, swinging it off. With it, as a veil, came away the enchantment, and our sitting room seemed abruptly smaller and more drab in the unmistakeable presence of royalty: it was indeed the King, taller than all of us and astonishing in a velvet suit of deep midnight blue trimmed in silver, and his eyes starkly outlined in kohl.
He crossed the room in a few strides and dropped himself into a chair by the fire, and waved a hand glittering with rings in permission to us all. "All right, you might as well go ahead. So I don't get continually harassed about it." He shot a glare at Mr. Allen, who showed not the least remorse but only smiled at him, with gratitude and so much evident affection that the King's own expression softened, almost unwillingly.
I am not ashamed to say I felt a certain shakiness as I took my seat again, almost warily, but Holmes only steepled his fingers and fixed his gaze upon Mr. Allen, outwardly at least as composed as before any less illustrious client. "Then let us begin," he said, "with this morning's incident. I believe it occurred shortly before breakfast?"
"I'm pretty sure I'd remember an attempt on my life before breakfast," the King said. "Unless you're talking about—"
"Adam!" Mr. Allen said. The King laughed, throatily, in a way which defied all innocent interpretation. Though pink with embarrassment, Mr. Allen turned to Holmes and said, "It was the breakfast, I'm pretty sure."
Holmes nodded. "Pray continue."
Kris on Adam in Details for wagacca
Kris picked up a copy in the airport. He still hadn't gotten over the whole hey I know that guy thing—much less the even weirder hey I am that guy part—and it was kind of funny to have Adam staring out at him from the cover with one eye. Not that the pose or the makeup or anything didn't look like the real him, it did, only Kris kept expecting him to tip his eyebrow up and turn, or say something, or just generally be a real person instead of just flat on the cover.
Kris grinned at the James Dean pic, and then he turned the page and sort of flailed the magazine half into the air before he managed to flop it back down on his tray table in a supremely cool way. There was something weird about it. The girl was hot, sure, but in kind of a—not in the way he liked, anyway, though he wasn't sure why. Adam was the one who—he was so into it, with his, and his tongue, and the way the girl was looking out at him seemed to be saying don't you wish you were me.
He folded it up under his arm and took it with him instead of leaving it in the seat pocket, but to make up for that, he texted Adam about it after they landed, to make it a joke: saw u on details. nakd girls now? what!
Adam called him, laughing. "19 wants to broaden my marketing appeal to straight men," he said. "So tell me, target audience, how am I doing?"
"Uh," Kris said, "is the idea to make the target audience stop being straight men?"
"I don't know if it's their idea, but I'd take it," Adam said, and then his voice got sly. "Are you saying it has that effect?"
"It's trying," Kris said, and they laughed together, ha ha, and then Kris stuffed the magazine in a really deep drawer as soon as he got back to his apartment and told himself he wasn't going to take it out again. Ever.
Bradam hollywood sign for yeats
"Come on!" Brad said, tugging. Adam did have the vague thought, through the glow of the pot haze, that maybe this wasn't the best idea after all, but Brad was already scrambling over the fence, and he was wearing those ridiculously hot short-shorts, so Adam helped boost him over and jumped for the top.
"How much is bail for this, do you think?" he asked idly, as they crept up behind the sign.
"We are not going to be jailed," Brad said, with great dignity. "We are going to make a glorious countercultural statement, simultaneously revitalizing and reclaiming a cheap and shopworn marketing symbol—"
Brad went on for a bit like that. Adam listened dreamily—he loved when Brad got his rant on—and then somewhere between the "revolutionary footage" and the "millions of hits" it started to sink in, and he stopped creeping and said, "Baby?"
"Yes?" Brad said.
"We don't have a camera with us," Adam said.
Brad stopped. "Oh," he said, after a moment. Then he sank down to the ground and slumped back against the graffiti-covered base of the Y, dejected.
"We could just have sex on the sign for fun," Adam offered.
Brad was a little inclined to mope, but Adam could be persuasive.
Lambliff gaga concert for lexiloumarie
(haha I wrote this before I saw the Gridlock backstage videos so it is dude!Tommy characterization)
His security showed up before the last song and told them they needed to leave, which was possibly the most horrible thing Adam had ever heard—he couldn't stay to the end? He'd seen the stalkerazzi fans snapping photos, but it hadn't been crazy or anything, and who the fuck cared—so someone grabbed his ass in the crowd; they did that in bars, too, and he wasn't sitting at home hiding from it—
"Adam, we really need to get you out of here," Geoffrey said again, patiently, and Adam made a last protesting noise and gave in, because as much as this sucked, he wasn't going to be that awful diva to someone who was working for him.
So he let them lead the way out and backstage, to hang out in some dressing room waiting while they could hear the awesome concert still going out front, and Adam might possibly have done some sulking in a corner until Tommy came out of nowhere, squirmed under his arm, and shoved another drink in his hand. Adam knocked back a couple healthy swallows and sighed.
"Dude, it's so fucking worth it," Tommy said. "We're fucking backstage at Gaga! Shit, man."
"I know, I know," Adam said wistfully, tilting his head to hear the distant strains of Bad Romance. "It's such a fucking killer song. I wanted to see what she'd do, after the video."
"What the fuck ever," Tommy said. "Do you need a blowjob? Will that make you quit moping?"
"Yes?" Adam said, cautiously. "Is that a trick question?"
Tommy rolled his eyes and tugged Adam over to the couch in the corner and shoved him down on it, swung one of his legs up, and then got on between them. Adam leaned back on his elbows and watched fascinatedly while Tommy unbuttoned his pants.
"Fuck, you're big," Tommy said, which was in fact absolutely the way to Adam's heart, and then Tommy really did put his head down to suck Adam's cock into his mouth, getting at least a good three inches of it, wet and sloppy and fabulous. Then Danielle said, "Adam, what the fuck!" laughing, and Adam belatedly remembered they weren't in private, but then he remembered he didn't fucking care, because he was getting a blow job.
"Oh my God, this is a really good blow job," Adam added, as Tommy sucked some more of him. Adam watched Tommy's pink mouth slide down around him and thought how amazing it was going to be to have this on tap while touring the country, and Tommy glanced up and raised one pointed eyebrow at him, and Adam said, "Okay, yes, there absolutely are compensating factors," and let his head roll back against the arm of the couch.
kradam volunteering at shelter for nufsinna
Kris did a double-take when the Mustang pulled up in front of the lot with all the stacked-up boards, and double-taked some more when Adam got out in jeans and combat boots and jogged up, smiling. "Give me a hammer or something, sure," he said cheerfully, and put an easy arm around Kris and dropped a kiss on his temple. "Why not?" he said, when Kris did the are-you-serious-why-what-how thing.
"You know," Adam said, while they worked together, "if the sets aren't up, you don't get to go on stage."
"When did you have to build your own sets?" Kris said, skeptically.
"You think someone was trekking out to the desert to build them for me?" Adam said.
"I think anyone with a stage would let you sing on it," Kris said, and Adam got all soft-eyed and tugged Kris in for a quick nuzzling hug.
"How did you even know I was doing this?" Kris said.
"I keep my ear to the ground," Adam said. "That, and your PR people got it on Good Day LA."
Kris still didn't get why Adam had pretty much blown a whole free day on Kris's official do-gooding press junket. "Hmm, well, it was this or Wii Fit in my living room, and this way I get to see you," Adam said. "Also, you're buying me dinner after."
"I'm going to be way too sore to go to a restaurant after this," Kris said, wincing as they lifted a beam into place.
"I'll come up with something else, then," Adam said cheerfully.
Tommy and Kris shove Adam into a dark room. No talking necessary. They're in control and Adam doesn't mind. for binkleywtf
The second the private jet got to cruising altitude, Adam's entourage—Kris wasn't sure if really it was an entourage anymore, it was getting to posse levels—were out of their seats and breaking out the recreational substances, starting with vodka and up through the baggies of pot—"purely medicinal," Adam's publicist announced—to a skittles-colored pile of pills in a bowl. On the other hand, they also broke out a mammoth box of brownies—yeah, that's what made Adam groan in protest—and stacks of barbeque and Kobe beef sliders still hot from Spago's, so it wasn't like there was cause for complaint.
Kris didn't even care about it; wasn't like he hadn't ever taken a few hits off a bong, it was just—okay, it was like drawing a line, was the thing: the line everyone always wanted to draw, with him on one side and Adam on the other.
Cale and the guys got plates of barbeque and chatted some, but after a while the dance music got louder, and they mostly drifted to the bedroom suite in back. Yeah, Kris could have fought the current and stayed, but it wasn't his scene, and there were three really pretty boys all busy making up to Adam, anyway.
So he drifted to the back, too, and noodled on his guitar while they talked a little about the set, and then he thought about catching some sleep—still seventeen hours to Manila, freaking crazy. Adam's stuff had colonized the dresser in the one actual bedroom, but Kris figured he had equal rights to the mattress, so he took off his shoes and sprawled out, shutting his eyes and letting himself feel the hum of the engines, thirty thousand feet off the ground.
"Is this the quiet time corner?" Adam's bassist said, wandering in with a joint. He stuck it in his mouth while he clambered onto the bed and sprawled out casually next to Kris. "Hi, I'm Tommy," he added, yawning. "Are you Adam's or Kris's?"
"I—am Kris," Kris said.
"Ohhh," Tommy said, in a knowing way. "Adam's, then."
"Uh?" Kris said, half laughing, and then Adam poked his head in and said, "Hey!"
Tommy waved a hand, drawing smoke-scribbles in the air. "I found your boy! Want some?"
"Mm, yeah, give it," Adam said, and sat down on the bed and leaned over to take a drag from Tommy's hand. He sat up again to take off his boots, and crawled up the bed and squirmed himself in between, half on top of them, and tipped his head back smiling at Kris, squeezing his thigh with one warm hand. "You disappeared! Were we too loud? I know the entourage has gotten kind of out of control."
"Nah," Kris said, feeling stupidly happy, and put a hand in Adam's hair. Adam hummed and arched his head back into the stroking. Tommy gave him another drag, and Kris said, "Hey," and bent for one himself, drawing in the sweet, spicy smoke. He settled partway down the bed and relaxed into the pillows, drawing Adam's pliant head back against his shoulder.
Tommy squirmed next to him, taking off his belt and tossing it on the floor, and then he reached down to take off Adam's, too. "Here, baby," he said, and Adam drowsily lifted up his hips, making it easier. Kris went for Adam's shirt without thinking—some kind of possessive thing, like a kid trying to show off he was allowed to do that, too.
But by the time he'd figured that out, he had the shirt half up, Adam was raising his arms to let it get pulled off, and Tommy was working on getting Adam's jeans open. Adam laughed a little, breathlessly. The sound hit somewhere deep down, something Kris wanted, even before Tommy kissed Adam on the mouth, quick and affectionate, and slid down the bed to drag off his jeans.
Adam licked his lips and opened his eyes to look up at Kris, part-apology, part-question. Kris brushed his fingers against Adam's mouth, breathing hard for a moment, and then he bent down to kiss him.
It was easy. Too easy; it didn't feel like crossing a line. It was just Adam's mouth, warm and soft under his, his fingers smoothing over Adam's shoulder, and then Adam clinging on to him, hard, and making little noises into Kris's mouth while Tommy bit his thighs, kissed him, licked him, black shock of his head trailing over Adam's stomach. Kris pushed Adam down into the pillows and kissed him, harder, and put his hand down to touch, to feel, Tommy's tongue sliding over his fingers while they teased Adam hard together.
"Oh my God," Adam said, his hips rising up, helplessly. "Kris. Tommy."
Tommy giggled, lifting his head from Adam's—cock, that was Adam's cock wet and shiny from his mouth, and Adam sprawled wide and shivering under them. "I thought you were straight," Kris said.
"That doesn't mean I can't suck cock if I want to," Tommy said, and took another long lick up Adam's dick.
"Please want to?" Adam said, pathetically, and Tommy laughed and kissed his thigh and said, "Baby, you know you're beautiful. Do you want a turn?" he asked Kris, and Kris swallowed and slid down the bed, because yeah, he really did, and okay, maybe Tommy had a point after all.
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