Spelled The Way It Sounds

“Fuck you carrying that around for, Johnny?” 

Sebastian’s voice comes out of the darkness just behind his right shoulder and John jumps, drops the photograph in the reddish-yellow sand. There’s a breath of laughter that ruffles his short hair, two fingers trailing down his spine. He can just feel it through the body armor and John shifts, a little, resettles the gun against his hip. 

“Leave off, Moran.” John shrugs to dislodge him but Sebastian’s hand is nowhere near his shoulder.

“Mm.” The man leans over him, gazing gray-green and level into the night. “Didn’t exactly answer my question, Johnny.” He bends down in one swift predatory motion, plucks the picture from the ground. Weighs it in his palm. John’s hand comes up, fast, and grabs it; Sebastian chuckles.

“It’s a postcard, you illiterate tit.” But John keeps his voice soft, and there’s no malice in it. Sebastian settles down into a crouch beside him, their arms just touching. “From a mate of mine in the colonies. Thinks he’s clever, he does. Moved over there just before I shipped out.” 

“Kinda mate we talking, Johnny-boy?” He can tell that Sebastian is leering.

“You can fuck right off, Basher.”

A snort, and how a snort can sound that pleased is what John wants to know.

“That kind then.” John shrugs; there’s a glint of teeth beside him. “Had a few of those myself. One in particular. Planning on following him, then?”

John looks down, then up at the stars that are so bloody bright in the Afghani sky, brighter than he’s ever seen them in London.

“No money. Got myself stuck out here instead, patching up young idiots like you.” John tries for casual and fails. “Anyway he’s not much interested in me. Went over there muttering about the swarming habits of bees on the great plains. Pretty clear where his interests lie.” He knows he sounds bitter, but it’s almost midnight and he doesn’t care. 

A short silence, and Sebastian shifts his weight again until they’re leaned together knee and hip. His fingers come up to brush the nape of John’s neck. He swallows, closes his eyes, and Seb settles his hand more firmly against suntanned skin.

And John leans back. 

seekingsherlock:

Stranger: Sebastian sighed and shook his head, reaching out and curling his hands around John’s sides, at the bottom of his ribs. “Don’t lie, John. Really, there’s no fuckin’ point and you know it.” He strokes his thumbs over his sides, letting him feel the fabric rub back and forth on his ribs to let him remember there was no slick, constricting fabric there, nothing to worry about. “Just breathe.”

You: John pulls in half a breath, then a whole one, letting his body remember that it /can/ now, that his ribs are no longer halted in their expansion. “Doing my best. I don’t want to do this.”

Please come back. Contact is Shayvaalski. You were brilliant. 

Please. 

turifer asked: A friend was dubious about John/Seb so I just sent her a link to Outsong saying look, this is what got me started down this (rather odd) road, and look, here are a few more good john/Seb stories. I'm sort of hoping to get her hooked, because I feel a little alone in my John/Seb feels. Even most of my brain (which is primarily John/Sherlock) is weirded out, but I can't help it!

Ahahahahahaha my headcanon infects other people like a plague. Fingers crossed that she too finds that she Can’t Stop Won’t Stop Sebastian/John. 

Guess what I’m doing. 

nympheline:

continued from part 1.

*****

Cold fingers hold out a hot flannel, press it near John’s cheek as John remains absolutely still except for his raised eyes in their swollen purple sockets. John stares at the wet white flag and at the man holding it, and John can’t quite believe it when neither one fades from view. Because John, John doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. He wears it in his hard gaze and hard jaw and hard words, and everyone with even a vestige of self-preservation knows to nod and smile and get the hell out John’s way.

But the stranger—Sebastian, John reminds himself, his name is Sebastian—his mouth morphs through smiling and grimacing and sneering so quickly that he might have three people straining inside him, jockeying for position until they all agree on the one thing they’ve been saying over and over to themselves and they push the words past the stranger’s lips without his approval: “I miss him.”

John can’t help it. “I don’t. He was a pyscho and a bastard and he—” and suddenly his mouth is too full of spittle and his throat is too empty of words. “He made my life very difficult,” he finishes lamely, and takes the flannel.

Sebastian holds onto it too long, then lets it fly in John’s face as John tugs. “Yeah, well yours weren’t no pot of blooming roses, neither.”

Yours wasn’t a pot of blooming roses, either, John thinks reflexively, and ignores. “Yours dressed like a tit.”

“Yours dressed like a ponce.”

“Yours killed hundreds of people.”

“Yours was too lazy to kill anyone.”

“Yours had a really annoying voice.”

“Yours was rubbish at the violin.”

“Yours,” says John, eying the week-old bruising at Sebastian’s jaw and wrists, the pale pink stripes over his chest, “fucked like an amateur.”

“Yours,” says Sebastian with cutting pity, “didn’t fuck you at all.”

(Source: aharddayswork, via boxoftheskyking)

boxoftheskyking:

John/Sebastian Appalachia ‘verse smut.

Under a cut so you can easily scroll on by!

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boxoftheskyking:

andthebluestblue:

boxoftheskyking:

andthebluestblue replied to your post: shayvaalski: andthebluestblue: …

OKAY FINE what do you want drawn?

I would like John and Seb. Because there is bloody nothing. If there is a bit from Many Roads or from Appalachia that you want to draw I will probably cry with happiness and then propose. So. Fair warning.

I feel like I should be saying I WILL TOTALLY TAKE PROMPTS, GUYS but a) I have yet to meet anyone who does NOT take prompts, so it seems pointless and b) if you wanted shitty drawings with captions mostly made up of swears I’m pretty sure you can all hold a pencil, you guys have that shit covered

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Oh my God.

Because you have been so good to me, I’ll let you help plan the wedding.

That was my proposal. It is non-negotiable.

YOU CAN’T MARRY HIM

I AM GOING TO MARRY HIM

This is for J. I did my best and tried to keep my attempts at dialect (which I googled) to a minimum, and I hope you like it, darling, and that I didn’t mangle things too much. John and Seb, in the mountains.

boxoftheskyking:

hollydiggity replied to your post: Seb/John fluff piece which isn’t as fluffy as I’d imagined

this is perfectly fluffy because it’s seb/john which is never going to be like hearts and rainbows and kittens. it’s lovely. it makes me want a john of my very own to love me and rub my back when i cough. also makes me want more of this universe :)

I am glad. I kind of like John Fails At Being Stoic as a narrative trope. Obviously.

And yes, this is a universe that could be expanded. ahem ahem.

Sebastian groans out Jim’s name, and John is frozen in a mix of horror and fascination (so it’s true and Jesus Christ), his hand gone still, Seb shuddering with aftershock beneath him. He’s about to do—something, shove the tall man off the bed or land on a punch on that impassive scarred face—but the breath Sebastian pulls into his lungs is ragged, almost a sob, and his hands are covering his eyes. John’s neck bows, forehead come to rest against Seb’s collarbone.

“Fuck you, Johnny, get off.” His voice snarls and catches in his throat. John doesn’t move. Sebastian doesn’t make him. Slowly their bodies rearrange themselves, skin shifting against skin, knees locked together beneath the sheets. The room is very quiet. One of Seb’s hands moves to grip John’s wrist; the other stays where it is but more loosely.

“Nothing is happening,” says John, low, and Sebastian scrapes out a laugh but does not argue.

rainbrolly:

be-tkah:

There are a thousand and fifteen reasons he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be here — yet he can’t bring himself to care. John has the same vacant stare that Sebastian feels in his own eyes, he can taste the hollowness inside this man, a kindred spirit a mile away, across the ocean of the coffee table. For once they don’t talk, no bitingly sarcastic words and ego filled half-jokes; they simply sit in silence and listen to the sound of the rain on the skylight of John’s new and frighteningly empty flat. Not alone.

I’m just going to leave this here. And not even apologise. 

Just some John and Seb feels, don’t mind me. 

(Source: brawlish)

everhaunting asked: Be still my beating heart. The noises I made were just this side of embarrassing.

Apparently the correct way to get me to write things is, in fact, to flatter me. 

I will see what I can do. 

Anonymous asked: Sorry, if it came out a little unclear. It definitely was a compliment. :D

Hee! I figured. I am terribly flattered, I did not actually dare to hope people would like them so much. 

Anonymous asked: I just read your John/Seb and I was just wondering. What did I ever did to you that you had to go and break my heart like that. ;)

Ahaha. If it helps, when I write the two of them I am also breaking my own heart. Constantly. 

(But thank you. I think.)