donutsweeper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
donutsweeper) wrote2011-02-20 10:58 pm
donutsweeper) wrote2011-02-20 10:58 pm
Entry tags:
4 Kink Meme fills (2 kink, 1 crack, 1 schmoop)
I decided to claim some fills I did for the Sherlock Holmes kink memes. These are rated R or NC-17 and the first two should be considered triggery for various different reasons. For the moment, this is friends locked, I may or may not change that later.
Title: Making Plans
Word Count: 379
Prompt: Moriarty masturbates to thoughts of Sherlock. Specifically, to the really creepy, fucked-up things he wants to do to Sherlock to break him. The more twisted Moriarty's fantasies are, the better. Seriously, I want to be squicked out and horrified, and Moriarty's getting off on it because he's just that creepy!
Jim kicked off his shoes and leant back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk as he let his mind wander.
Which would be better, humiliation or pain? Which would be more satisfying?
Hurting Sherlock would be fun, but breaking him... the mere thought made Jim almost giddy. How much could Sherlock take before that beautiful mind of his shattered? If those lips never spewed forth vile accusations and curses, but instead were employed for better purposes? They were too perfect to be used for anything but sucking cock. And that tongue. The mere thought of it flicking against his shaft made his dick sit up and take notice.
What would be best? To lock Sherlock into a fucking machine and sit nearby, watching it pound into him time and time again, for hours and hours as it kept Sherlock on the verge of orgasm but without ever able to achieve release? Or to force the orgasms, making him come over and over until he was shaken and spent and coming dry? Jim flushed at the thought. Both had their appeal.
Although, fucking machines were so impersonal. And where was the fun in watching without participating?
If anything was going to penetrate that perfect ass it should be him. But, to prep first or not? Tearing into Sherlock, truly claiming him, had its appeal, but then he'd have to worry about infection cutting short their time together and ending the fun. Watching Sherlock squirm as he slowly opened him up, finger by finger, could be interesting. How long would it take before he worked up to a fist?
Fisting Sherlock, now that had potential. Sherlock the ventriloquist's dummy, screaming on command. Sherlock the marionette, limbs dancing as Jim pulled their chains. Sherlock the doll, wearing nothing but come and lace.
Sherlock, the pet, begging to be fucked, asking to be collared, pleading to be marked by whip, by tawse, by cane, by switch, by cat-o-nine-tail, by cigarette, by knife. The thought of carving his name into Sherlock's pale skin. Jim shuddered in delight and began stroking himself, imagining the way Sherlock would scream as the knife pierced his skin over and over. A perfect canvas, just waiting for Jim's marks. Waiting for Jim.
Life was good.
Title: What Dreams May Come
Word Count: 378
Prompt: Moriarty is fantasizing about Sherlock (fucking him, torturing him, whatever) and having a nice, slow wank. Although this one was written first, it could be considered a sequel to Making Plans.
Jim leans back in his chair, his thumb running up and down his dick as he pictured the scenario in his head. This time he has Sherlock on his hands and knees, chained to the floor, his pale arse bare just asking to plowed into. But not yet. First, he has to show Sherlock his place.
"I'm going to make you beg," he says out loud.
Of course begging will be hard with that ball gag, no wait... not a ball, a dildo. A used dildo. First Jim'll fuck Sherlock with it, then shove it in his mouth. Those pretty lips, stretched impossibly wide around it. Eyes big and dewy, filled with pain but still defiant. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't defiant.
Sherlock on all fours, hands scrabbling, trying to find purchase, but the floor is too slick with sweat and semen and the chains too tight. Bronze chains, ones that will stand out against his skin. Chains around his wrists, another around his neck and... nipple clamps. Nipple clamps with weights on them, the weights swinging with every movement, causing little pain filled grunts that can just barely be heard from behind the gag.
He has his dick out now and strokes it, humming to himself as he pictures Sherlock's back, white skin with red welts from the tawse - Jim's always loved marks left behind by the heavy tawse - the ribs poking out ever so slightly and..hmmm, a mark of ownership. Sherlock is his, and only his. But how?
"A brand!" The idea comes to him suddenly and he pops up in the chair, enthralled at the idea, his nostrils flaring at the imagined smells of burning his name into Sherlock's side, permanently claiming him, and he comes stronger and harder than before, shooting semen onto the desk, barely missing Moran, waiting patiently on his knees until Jim needed him.
"Moran?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I need to design some brands. Fetch me some paper."
Jim smiles faintly at Moran's slight look of fear before he responded, "Yes, sir."
"But first," Jim says as Moran made to rise, "Lick me clean."
"Yes, sir."
Ah, Jim thinks as Moran gets to work, Before long he'll have Sherlock trained for this. It's only a matter of time.
This one is a crackfill. On the meme there is a joke that Mycroft is in charge of the CAPTCHA, which led to the prompt "Has anyone else noticed that sometimes CAPTCHA lets you through when you haven't typed what it says, just something vaguely close? Yeah, Mycroft's getting distracted."
Title: Distraction, aka the secret behind the CAPTCHA
Word Count: 65
BopΓ sedgwit
"Ha! Let them try to get that one right!"
bopt segdwit
"Nope! I don't think so! Try again!"
purtoply delisiouc
"I rather like that one. What do you think, John?"
purtoply delisiouc
"Correct! Ohhh, John.... What are you..."
QtÖbovy sewrutt
"John."
Qtoboy sewrutt
"Good enough. Yes. More. Yes."
klds dfloj
"So close. So close. John."
stupid captcha
"Fine. Yes, bed. Now. Let's go."
And, last that I'm claiming for now, this is Sherlock Holmes book!canon, a schmoopy ficlet to cheer up one of the mods.
Title: The Burden
Word Count: 578
It was the early hours of the morning when Watson finally made his way home. He let himself in as quietly as possible, knowing Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed. Pausing before the stairs he sighed, seventeen steps shouldn't seem like much, but after days like this one when....
Best not to think about that.
Progress up the steps was slow, but he did his best to keep his step soft, on the off chance that Holmes was asleep it would be better not to wake him. Please, he let a prayer go heavenwards, let him be asleep.
"Good god, old man, what happened to you?" Holmes called from the doorway of the sitting room.
So much for his prayers, Watson thought with a sigh. There would be little chance of him getting to bed without incident now. "It has been an exceedingly long day, Holmes. If you don't mind-"
"What happened to your eye?" Quickly ushering Watson into the room ahead of him, Holmes shut the door, preventing Watson any means for an easy escape to his own bedroom.
"A slight altercation, that's all."
"That is by no means all." Holmes grabbed Watson's chin, and with a surprising tenderness tilted his head to get a better look. Although already slightly swollen, the bruising had quite obviously yet to fully emerge. "This will look quite ghastly in the morning. You're lucky there was no damage to the occipital lobe."
Watson merely shrugged in response.
"What happen?" he repeated, his tone more demanding.
"Nothing I didn't deserve. Truly, Holmes, there is no great mystery to be solved here. Let it go," Watson said as he tried to move away.
But Holmes did not loosen his grip, he forced Watson to look him in the eye as he said, "The mystery is why you think you could ever do such a thing to deserve receiving a blow such as this. It would have required actions that you are incapable of, my dear fellow."
Unable to turn away, Watson lowered his eyes instead. "It was my fault," he explained. " I thought I might save her, but in the end my skills were not enough."
"Influenza." He didn't ask, knowing full well how a particularly virulent strain had been sweeping through London these past few weeks. "You yourself said the medical community was at a loss with how to combat-"
"Do not throw my words back at me, Holmes. You have no knowledge of the particulars of this case. I should have acted sooner! If I only had-" but Watson's words were cut off when Holmes pulled him forward into a gentle kiss.
"Watson. Dear, Watson. You are always so ready to take the blame for things going wrong onto your magnificent shoulders, even when you have done everything without your power to make those things right. Come, I know after a day like today that pressure must make you feel wretched, let me ease your burden."
"Holmes," Watson replied, less as a protest and more as of a sigh.
"I beg of you, Watson," Holmes said, his pupils dilated and he kissed Watson again. "Permit me to do this for you. Please?"
"How could I refuse such a request?" A smile teased at his lips as the ache in his chest finally began to lessen. It may still be hours before he would get to bed, but he was quite sure it would be time exceedingly well spent.
Title: Making Plans
Word Count: 379
Prompt: Moriarty masturbates to thoughts of Sherlock. Specifically, to the really creepy, fucked-up things he wants to do to Sherlock to break him. The more twisted Moriarty's fantasies are, the better. Seriously, I want to be squicked out and horrified, and Moriarty's getting off on it because he's just that creepy!
Jim kicked off his shoes and leant back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk as he let his mind wander.
Which would be better, humiliation or pain? Which would be more satisfying?
Hurting Sherlock would be fun, but breaking him... the mere thought made Jim almost giddy. How much could Sherlock take before that beautiful mind of his shattered? If those lips never spewed forth vile accusations and curses, but instead were employed for better purposes? They were too perfect to be used for anything but sucking cock. And that tongue. The mere thought of it flicking against his shaft made his dick sit up and take notice.
What would be best? To lock Sherlock into a fucking machine and sit nearby, watching it pound into him time and time again, for hours and hours as it kept Sherlock on the verge of orgasm but without ever able to achieve release? Or to force the orgasms, making him come over and over until he was shaken and spent and coming dry? Jim flushed at the thought. Both had their appeal.
Although, fucking machines were so impersonal. And where was the fun in watching without participating?
If anything was going to penetrate that perfect ass it should be him. But, to prep first or not? Tearing into Sherlock, truly claiming him, had its appeal, but then he'd have to worry about infection cutting short their time together and ending the fun. Watching Sherlock squirm as he slowly opened him up, finger by finger, could be interesting. How long would it take before he worked up to a fist?
Fisting Sherlock, now that had potential. Sherlock the ventriloquist's dummy, screaming on command. Sherlock the marionette, limbs dancing as Jim pulled their chains. Sherlock the doll, wearing nothing but come and lace.
Sherlock, the pet, begging to be fucked, asking to be collared, pleading to be marked by whip, by tawse, by cane, by switch, by cat-o-nine-tail, by cigarette, by knife. The thought of carving his name into Sherlock's pale skin. Jim shuddered in delight and began stroking himself, imagining the way Sherlock would scream as the knife pierced his skin over and over. A perfect canvas, just waiting for Jim's marks. Waiting for Jim.
Life was good.
Title: What Dreams May Come
Word Count: 378
Prompt: Moriarty is fantasizing about Sherlock (fucking him, torturing him, whatever) and having a nice, slow wank. Although this one was written first, it could be considered a sequel to Making Plans.
Jim leans back in his chair, his thumb running up and down his dick as he pictured the scenario in his head. This time he has Sherlock on his hands and knees, chained to the floor, his pale arse bare just asking to plowed into. But not yet. First, he has to show Sherlock his place.
"I'm going to make you beg," he says out loud.
Of course begging will be hard with that ball gag, no wait... not a ball, a dildo. A used dildo. First Jim'll fuck Sherlock with it, then shove it in his mouth. Those pretty lips, stretched impossibly wide around it. Eyes big and dewy, filled with pain but still defiant. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't defiant.
Sherlock on all fours, hands scrabbling, trying to find purchase, but the floor is too slick with sweat and semen and the chains too tight. Bronze chains, ones that will stand out against his skin. Chains around his wrists, another around his neck and... nipple clamps. Nipple clamps with weights on them, the weights swinging with every movement, causing little pain filled grunts that can just barely be heard from behind the gag.
He has his dick out now and strokes it, humming to himself as he pictures Sherlock's back, white skin with red welts from the tawse - Jim's always loved marks left behind by the heavy tawse - the ribs poking out ever so slightly and..hmmm, a mark of ownership. Sherlock is his, and only his. But how?
"A brand!" The idea comes to him suddenly and he pops up in the chair, enthralled at the idea, his nostrils flaring at the imagined smells of burning his name into Sherlock's side, permanently claiming him, and he comes stronger and harder than before, shooting semen onto the desk, barely missing Moran, waiting patiently on his knees until Jim needed him.
"Moran?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I need to design some brands. Fetch me some paper."
Jim smiles faintly at Moran's slight look of fear before he responded, "Yes, sir."
"But first," Jim says as Moran made to rise, "Lick me clean."
"Yes, sir."
Ah, Jim thinks as Moran gets to work, Before long he'll have Sherlock trained for this. It's only a matter of time.
This one is a crackfill. On the meme there is a joke that Mycroft is in charge of the CAPTCHA, which led to the prompt "Has anyone else noticed that sometimes CAPTCHA lets you through when you haven't typed what it says, just something vaguely close? Yeah, Mycroft's getting distracted."
Title: Distraction, aka the secret behind the CAPTCHA
Word Count: 65
BopΓ sedgwit
"Ha! Let them try to get that one right!"
bopt segdwit
"Nope! I don't think so! Try again!"
purtoply delisiouc
"I rather like that one. What do you think, John?"
purtoply delisiouc
"Correct! Ohhh, John.... What are you..."
QtÖbovy sewrutt
"John."
Qtoboy sewrutt
"Good enough. Yes. More. Yes."
klds dfloj
"So close. So close. John."
stupid captcha
"Fine. Yes, bed. Now. Let's go."
And, last that I'm claiming for now, this is Sherlock Holmes book!canon, a schmoopy ficlet to cheer up one of the mods.
Title: The Burden
Word Count: 578
It was the early hours of the morning when Watson finally made his way home. He let himself in as quietly as possible, knowing Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed. Pausing before the stairs he sighed, seventeen steps shouldn't seem like much, but after days like this one when....
Best not to think about that.
Progress up the steps was slow, but he did his best to keep his step soft, on the off chance that Holmes was asleep it would be better not to wake him. Please, he let a prayer go heavenwards, let him be asleep.
"Good god, old man, what happened to you?" Holmes called from the doorway of the sitting room.
So much for his prayers, Watson thought with a sigh. There would be little chance of him getting to bed without incident now. "It has been an exceedingly long day, Holmes. If you don't mind-"
"What happened to your eye?" Quickly ushering Watson into the room ahead of him, Holmes shut the door, preventing Watson any means for an easy escape to his own bedroom.
"A slight altercation, that's all."
"That is by no means all." Holmes grabbed Watson's chin, and with a surprising tenderness tilted his head to get a better look. Although already slightly swollen, the bruising had quite obviously yet to fully emerge. "This will look quite ghastly in the morning. You're lucky there was no damage to the occipital lobe."
Watson merely shrugged in response.
"What happen?" he repeated, his tone more demanding.
"Nothing I didn't deserve. Truly, Holmes, there is no great mystery to be solved here. Let it go," Watson said as he tried to move away.
But Holmes did not loosen his grip, he forced Watson to look him in the eye as he said, "The mystery is why you think you could ever do such a thing to deserve receiving a blow such as this. It would have required actions that you are incapable of, my dear fellow."
Unable to turn away, Watson lowered his eyes instead. "It was my fault," he explained. " I thought I might save her, but in the end my skills were not enough."
"Influenza." He didn't ask, knowing full well how a particularly virulent strain had been sweeping through London these past few weeks. "You yourself said the medical community was at a loss with how to combat-"
"Do not throw my words back at me, Holmes. You have no knowledge of the particulars of this case. I should have acted sooner! If I only had-" but Watson's words were cut off when Holmes pulled him forward into a gentle kiss.
"Watson. Dear, Watson. You are always so ready to take the blame for things going wrong onto your magnificent shoulders, even when you have done everything without your power to make those things right. Come, I know after a day like today that pressure must make you feel wretched, let me ease your burden."
"Holmes," Watson replied, less as a protest and more as of a sigh.
"I beg of you, Watson," Holmes said, his pupils dilated and he kissed Watson again. "Permit me to do this for you. Please?"
"How could I refuse such a request?" A smile teased at his lips as the ache in his chest finally began to lessen. It may still be hours before he would get to bed, but he was quite sure it would be time exceedingly well spent.