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[sticky post] Fic Masterlist

BBC's Sherlock

Stand-Alone Stories

A Quite Ponderous Revelation (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

This Story Doesn't Want To Have Sex (Sherlock/John, PG-13)

The Mysterious Case Of The Stolen Money (Sherlock/John, Boeing NC-17 Globemaster III)

Inspector G. Lestrade: Vampire Hunter-Hunter (Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Molly, R)

Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Who Farted (Sherlock/John, R)

He Who Watches (Sherlock/John, NC-17, Horror)

Delta/Epsilon/Laridae Universe

Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17)

Scorpion Universe

Where Is My Food? (Sherlock/John, Scorpion Universe, R)

The Reichenbach Sting (Sherlock/John, Scorpion Universe, R)

The Meaning of Scorpion Life (Sherlock/John, Omegaverse/Scorpion Universe crossover, NC-17)


A Touching Moment (Johnlock Drabble, NC-17, F-14)

Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Why Are There So Many Dicks In His Mouth (Drabble, NC-17)

Series: Portentous Omens And Ominous Portents

Part I: Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of John's Butt (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Part II: The Darker Knight (Sherlock/John, R)

Prompt Fills

John And Sherlock And Sex And Meat And Meat And Glistening Beautiful Meat (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Two Ships Pass In The Night (Sherlock/John, NC-17, K-21)


Moriarty, James. “Love In The Labyrinth: A Deconstruction Of The Baker Street Incident.” Journal of Post-Modern Film 42.1(2013):80-107. Print. (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Downpour (Sherlock/John, NC-16.5)


Series: Supernatural Ghosts

A Spooky Cemetery (Sam/Dean, R, 1/?)

A Cross to Bear (Gen, Case Fic)

I Did Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)

Original Fiction

Hard Seas, Wet Oceans


A Quite Ponderous Revelation (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Aug. 13th, 2014

Downpour (Sherlock/John, NC-16.5)

Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-16.5 (NC-17 if you squint)
Word Count: 5,776
Warnings: orb-con, sex that looks like rape but isn't thought could be interpreted as such (interpretive rape)
Summary: Sometimes it rains, sometimes it pours. (Usually it just rains.)

Author's Note: This is a gift for watdaughter written as part of the johnlockgifts exchange. My giftee wanted a "getting-back-together ficlet/Crossdressing and genderplay," specifically with John in women's lingerie. I hope this does the job.

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Sherlock Holmes, Class 3 Illustrious Investigator, was trying very hard to be a Class 3 meteorologist.

It’s going to rain, he thought. His supporting evidence: the drooping, charcoal-colored sky hovering overhead (a pitch-black cloud would have been cause for alarm, but if one had formed it was nowhere near); the thickening air and damp, clinging chill; the fact that it had rained every day for the last two-hundred and forty-two years. And it was already raining. But that clue seemed almost too obvious.

Unsatisfied, he pulled his orb out of his coat pocket. It activated instantly, recognizing his hand. He was a man of precision, and acting on a hunch alone posed too great a risk to the work. He was rooting out dissidents in ward five and would be counting on sufficient rain cover to conceal his movements. His orb couldn’t work with any reliability if the sky dried out.

“Update forecast,” he commanded. The orb’s glassy surface rippled out from its center, pulling data about its environment much like Sherlock had, though its prediction accuracy made it the superior weatherman. When it had finished crunching the available indicators—location, temperature, humidity, dew point, moon phase, barometric pressure—it produced a ding.

“Rain for the next twelve-hundred years,” the orb announced emotionlessly.

Sherlock nodded. His assessment was correct then. He’d check the orb once more after he reviewed his work briefing, just to be sure.

Halfway through downloading the report, it buzzed, alerting him to a new message. He frowned, gripping the orb a little tighter. If this was Lestrade checking up on him—may she be exalted until the end of days, Sherlock corrected himself—he’d tell her he was thinking about jumping again. That hanging threat was his only recourse from the hovering. Dying would slow his productivity.

He opened the message and saw that his suspicions were unfounded. The sender wasn’t the director, but instead someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone he’d never expected to see again.

Sherlock held his breath as he played John’s message.

“Sherlock, listen, it’s John. Has it really been, what? Three—four years? God, that seems so long. Look, I really hope this is the right orb. You have no idea how hard it was to track you down. You’re not listed in any directory and I had to pay a guy just to—nevermind. What I called to tell you is I’m back in the City for a while. I was hoping we could get together sometime for lunch, or supper even. Your choice. It would be nice to reconnect after all these years. Please say yes. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t. I want to hear how you’re doing. Drop me a line when you get a chance, okay?”

Sherlock’s finger traced the orb’s circumference counterclockwise as he rewound the message and played it back several times, each instance revealing a little more of the portrait he’d let fade with age. John sounded older (expected), but his voice had lost that edging uncertainty Sherlock remembered. The war must have mellowed him.

He shuttered his eyes and thought of the last time they’d seen each other. He’d run through this scene a thousand times before, by why not once more? They were in their apartment. John was facing the bed. His voice rose determinedly as he talked of enlisting, even as Sherlock, unable to articulate a compelling counterpoint, had begged him not to.

“I’m enlisting,” John had said, calmly packing his suitcase.

“I beg you not to!” Sherlock had begged. Looking back, he could have been more creative.

He’d been standing in the doorway, blocking John’s exit from the bedroom. He had tried goading John into arguing with him—that tack that usually worked—but John had heard this number enough times now to catch on. Sherlock’s strategy was (supposed to be) simple: stall John long enough the war burned itself out, therefore eliminating the problem. The conflict couldn’t last forever. He just needed more time.

Already resembling a soldier, John marched past him carrying a single suitcase, then, as though compelled to by some invisible force, returned to brush a weak kiss against his cheek. It was cheating, Sherlock thought. If this was to be their last hurrah, he deserved a kiss that at least acknowledged what it was they were so casually throwing away. As it were, the one he’d been offered just didn’t feel like goodbye.

It had been raining then, too.

More than five years had passed since John left, and it had been just as long since they’d spoken. Before now Sherlock didn’t know if John was even alive. He’d heard rumors of John’s whereabouts, but nothing verifiable. His own research, bits and pieces of intel he’d collected from Lestrade (may she be exalted until the end of days) had dead-ended some two years ago. In the meantime work had become a diversion, distancing him further and further from his search while honing him into a well-oiled machine. But his mechanics were complicated, and probability stated even the most efficient machines break down with enough wear.

It was the orb that noticed his hands were trembling.

“Initializing earthquake protocols,” it chimed, launching a search for viable shelters nearby.

“Ah, no, that won’t be necessary,” Sherlock said quickly. He purged the offending thoughts and the trembling ceased. “Sometimes my hands shake when I become . . . emotional.”

“Initializing ex-boyfriend protocols,” his orb chirped eagerly.

Sherlock frowned.

“Cancel,” he commanded. Then: “Hold on. What exactly are those protocols?”

“All messages from sender Dm. Lt. John Watson will be deleted. Any numbers from this sender will be blocked. Automatic counseling appointments and location tracking are optional sub-protocols. Would you like to initiate at this time?”

“No.” He wondered what kind of person would warrant those protocols.

The orb waited to receive instruction. Sherlock paused. “Send message to John as follows: ‘John, hey, this is Sherlock. It’s great to hear from you. Yes, we should catch up. I’m occupied at the moment—work-related, it would bore you—but I . . . I think I’d like to see you as soon as this evening, if you’re free. How does Patrice’s in ward six at around five-thirty sound? You remember Patrice’s, don’t you?’”

The orb blinked: message sent. He released the air he’d been hoarding and immediately felt lighter.

Now, to think. If all went as planned, he’d wrap up the job by four, leaving him with an hour to freshen up and practice whatever needed practicing. Small things, like smiling, had hindered the work. He would need to relearn them if he was seeing John tonight. He was cutting it close, time-wise, but he didn’t know how long John would be in the City and thought it stupid to waste even a day. John had already deserted him once. There was no reason it couldn’t happen again.

He checked the weather forecast: rain for the next thirteen-hundred years. Figured.


The informant’s intel was accurate and Sherlock’s weather assessment had proved correct. He was able to infiltrate the hideout with relative ease; as usual, the traitorous collaborators were woefully unprepared. His orb was able to draw sufficient power from the surrounding rain to cloak him from view. The cameras would have only displayed a slight ripple as they recorded his passage.

Once inside, he’d been more than a match for any of the men individually. One by one, he cleared each room with methodical precision. Upon locating his assignments he scanned each of them for evidence of treason—and he ensured he always found it. By necessity this had to be done after the target had been dispatched, but simply being within the building was proof enough of complicity. “Proof’ was really more of a guideline, anyway. As for the men, they carried no identification, and none of them could afford an orb—even if they had been of high enough standing they could not have borne it—but several wore the cross-and-triangle tattoo now popular amongst traitors and renegades.

“It’s done,” he told the orb when he’d finished. The last one standing had been interrogated then disposed of, though Sherlock learned little from the traitor he did not already know or suspect. He put on a pair of gloves and left the building through the front door.

The work complete, Lestrade—may she be exalted until the end of days—would expect a detailed report in addition to Sherlock’s oral summation within the day. For now it would have to wait. John had accepted his supper invitation, so time was of the essence if he was to look presentable.

He motioned at one of the many peace officers manning the fortified security checkpoint at ward four, and when the guard looked at him askance, flashed his orb in annoyance. This was effective at getting him into the building. In the changing room he undressed and stepped into a shower, pulling the curtain closed around him. He’d stored his orb in a locker, more so for his own privacy than for its safekeeping.

Once clean, he dried and clothed himself, spending more time in front of the mirror than strictly necessary. It had been a while since he’d taken a serious interest in his appearance, and he was surprised to see how much he’d aged. Time had done work on his face. The drugs, he admitted, may have helped it along. Well, it wasn’t as though he could exchange his face for another one, even if they had threatened him with it on several occasions.

He adjusted his collar and roughed up his hair the way he was sure John remembered it, his coffee-colored curls lifting from his head as they dried. The length suited him. He noticed flecks of blood on his scarf and remembered this checkpoint lacked laundry service. He carried it to the trash and reluctantly tossed it into the bin.

“Another one, sir?” asked an attending guard on his way out. He must have noticed it was missing. Sherlock had seen the guard here before.

He shrugged. “‘Fraid so. Something always has to splatter.”

The guard sympathized. “Have you considered just buying a red scarf instead?”

Without warning, Sherlock leaned forward and clapped the guard on the shoulder. The man jumped. “That’s genius!”

“Thank you, sir,” said the guard as he recovered. “I’m glad I could . . .” Sherlock didn’t hear the rest, his back already turned.

The time was five past five. A quick orb check confirmed it was raining. There was less of it now, no longer coming down in sheets. Satisfied, he caught a cab to Patrice’s. On the way, he reflected.

These were the facts: he’d lived with John for two years before it fell apart. John was not his first, but he may as well of been. He knew he was in love; he’d had all the symptoms. It made sense he'd likened it to getting high. John was a dopamine drip, and of course Sherlock gave himself too much.

By year one, things started downhill. John had grown restless. At thirty four years old he wanted a different life. Sherlock agreed. There was no richness in routine. He just assumed that life would include him. At the time the war began Sherlock was still consulting for Internal Defense at his brother’s request. Mostly spying, then. He did it because his mind needed the work. John, he just wanted to help people. His talents were wasted at the clinic.

The cab entered ward six through Vehicle Inspection. Once past the gates, he directed the driver to park two blocks from Patrice’s. Two blocks were enough time to clear his head. He paid the fare, got out of the cab. Brought out his orb, checked the weather. Sucked in a breath. The rain picked up again.

“Is Sherlock emotional?” the orb asked suddenly. “Please confirm source of tremor.”

He looked down—his hands were shaking. Not an earthquake.

“Sherlock is fine. Source has been identified and contained. Disregard similar readings unless instructed otherwise.” He didn’t like that the orb was learning him. It was started to look for signs of life in places it shouldn’t.

Patrice’s was filled only a third to capacity when he arrived, probably due to the rain. Good. A quiet atmosphere produced better conversation. He disregarded the hostess and scanned the establishment for John, then realized he had no idea what John looked like now. Something akin to panic gripped him. What if it had been so long that they failed to recognize one another, unaware they were both standing in plain sight?

His panic subsided when he heard a familiar voice calling him.


He looked around the restaurant for its source. John stood up from a corner booth, shorter than he’d remembered, and enthusiastically waved him over. He wore an olive-green dress uniform, and his beard (beard!) was trimmed close to the skin. A matching cap was tucked under his right arm. His hair was cropped short, hugging the shape of his head.

Sherlock tried to greet him and settled for simply “John.” It was all he could manage at the moment.

John grinned.

“Get on over here so I can hug you, dammit,” he said, motioning Sherlock toward him with greater gusto. Sherlock’s stomach bottomed out as he closed the distance. If he couldn’t restore himself soon he’d be useless by the end of the evening. John would have to carry him out of the restaurant. Supper would become a scene out of a bad romance novel.

When he got to the booth John met him around the side of the table and they embraced.

“Good to see you,” John murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s been too long.” Sherlock knew the feeling. He wanted to say something similar in return but found that all he could do was be held. John seemed happy to oblige, so maybe that was okay.

The hug ended far too early but then Sherlock had always operated on his own schedule. He shrugged off his coat and plunked down opposite John facing the window, the coat cast to the edge of the seat.

“How have you been?” they blurted at the same time, too excited to behave themselves.

Sherlock laughed and put up his hands, now sorted from earlier. He had this. “You first. My stories can’t possibly top yours. You’ve lived your fair share of adventures now."

“Well, I can’t say that’s a lie,” John said, relaxing into his seat. “I was on active duty in the central combat zone for over eighteen months. Half of that in the Lingerie Corps.”

Sherlock nodded. “I noticed the stripes. Congratulations.” He’d recognized the prestigious L-Corps gold brassiere pinned to John’s shirt-breast—a mark of distinguished service. His uniform glittered with other decorations, earned under extreme conditions no doubt, but that one stood out proudly. So John had found his purpose, then. Sherlock was genuinely glad.

“Volunteered after the insurgents took out Camp Donovan,” John continued. “I got a promotion to Damsel First Class after about a month, then a battlefield commendation to Dame Lieutenant after Biscay. After that, well, things just took their course.”

The waiter brought them their menus.

“Anyway, you look like you’ve been busy,” John said, nodding at Sherlock. He assumed John was referring to the circles under his eyes. “What’s Mycroft got you doing now? Still consulting for Internal Defense?”

“In a sense. I’ve been promoted.”

“Hah! So they finally realized they couldn’t run the place without you.” John looked over his dinner options, but Sherlock could tell he'd already made up his mind. Back when they came here more frequently, John's regular was the Shepherd's Pie.

“I suppose you still can’t tell me what you actually do there,” he added, pretending to be reading the menu.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, delivering his best smile. “I’m afraid I’d have to kill you.”

“I’ve had enough of that lately,” John said, pushing the menu to the edge of the table. Sherlock chastised himself for saying something so stupid.

"It wouldn't really interest you anyway," he amended, setting his down as well. "It's all administrative work these days."

The waiter came by and took their orders. Sherlock was having mutton. As he’d predicted, John asked for the Shepherd’s Pie.

"If you've been promoted, that means you're taking orders directly from Lestrade now," John wondered aloud.

"May she be exalted until-"

"-the end of days." John grinned and they both chuckled. Their feet ran into each other beneath the table, but neither retreated. It was beginning to feel like old times.

John caught up on current events over supper. He wanted to know if the City's police force was still as ineffective as ever. It was. He asked if wards thirty-three through thirty-seven were really just as poncey as he’d remembered. Even more so. He was shocked to see the going price of an umbrella—what the hell had happened to the economy? The war. They joked the weather (still raining) and the lack of good Shepherd’s Pie outside the perimeter, laughing until their stomachs hurt. An older Woman seated across the room shot them a dirty look when she knew they were looking. John smiled and waved.

Eventually, inevitably, the conversation turned serious. Sherlock learned that John had saved his commanding officer's life after their convoy ran over an IED—he’d had to amputate in order to free the man from the truck—and that the whispers he'd heard about the army pulling out of the poorly controlled eastern arena were correct. He also learned that John tried to contact him, but after endeavoring for months by mail with no response he'd given up. Sherlock was stunned. He hadn’t received even a postcard, taking the silence to mean that John had moved on, figuratively or literally.

Late into their meal, John reached over and cupped his hands, which to Sherlock’s surprise were entirely still.

“I’ve got a commendable discharge if I want it, Sherlock. With full honors. I going to take it."

Sherlock’s orb buzzed from under his coat. He ignored it. "But the war."

John shook his head. "I've made as much difference as I can over there. I'm ready to come back now.” His leg inched closer under the table, and their knees touched. "I was hoping we could give us another go. If you wanted."

It took Sherlock a moment to understand what John was offering. He'd wondered if this might happen but thought it premature to prepare for it.

“John,” he spoke carefully, shelving every impulse. “You’re not making this easy for me. I've been operating these past five years under the assumption that you wouldn't be coming back." He didn't want to say 'I thought you were dead.' It seemed melodramatic, with John now sitting in front of him.

The waiter brought them their check. Sherlock handed the him a payment stamp before John could protest.

“I need to process this,” he said after the waiter left, watching John’s face for a sign of, what? Disappointment? Regret? He wasn’t sure. “I can be a friend, but anything more is . . . too complicated right now. I’m not the same person I was before. You might not like who I’ve become.” An understatement.

“I doubt that,” John said, but he withdrew his hands. His expression hadn’t changed. “You’ll always be a mystery to me. But I understand your apprehension to start over. I left on bad terms. That’s not an easy fix.” He looked at the wall, then turned back to Sherlock and grinned. “Hey, at least we’re here, still enjoying each other’s company after all this time. That’s got to count for something, right? It’s a goddamn miracle either of us are still alive.”

Sherlock smiled, a real one this time, but inside it felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “True.”

They stood up. John embraced him again before they left.

“Hey,” he said after pulling away, his hand lingering on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything. Literally anything. You have my orb coordinates. I’ll be in the City for at least a week. Longer, if I put in a request for an extension. Let’s do supper again before I go. Promise?”

“I promise,” Sherlock said, relieved he was even able to. “Take care of yourself, John. We’ll see each other . . . soon.

He left Patrice’s, starting in the opposite direction as John, who was now racing to catch the next northbound train to ward nineteen. Sherlock had his own arrangements. He'd buy another scarf at the shopping district in ward two, as the ward six market had since closed, and finish that report for Lestrade, may she be exalted until the end of days. That buzz during dinner was another friendly reminder the work was never really quite over.


He progressed through each ward in descending order, relying on muscle memory to take him in the right direction as he lost himself in his head. There were still a great many people out enjoying the evening, but most passed him by in blur. He slowed when he reached the checkpoint to ward two, careful to nod a hair deeper to the pregnant officer policing the entrance.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she warned as he held up his orb. The couple in line beside him stared in envy, clutching their City-issued IDs.

The shops of ward two glittered like gems as Sherlock strolled down the promenade. A small group of Women, orb bearers probably, tittered in his direction, but none were bold enough to comment. What they were after didn't interest him.

A couple blocks further he proceeded into the garment quarters, catching the eye of the peace officer guarding the quartered off Women's section. He looked down. Staring would have been inappropriate. He hadn’t earned his right to shop there.

He tried on several scarves, deciding on a red one as had been suggested. He’d taken so many risks that day it only made sense to keep going. A mirror check had confirmed it flattered him.

Hitting the streets, he thought about how much John’s appearance had changed when his own hadn’t evolved much at all. Regardless of whatever mental scars he’d accumulated, his army career had left him with straighter posture, improved muscle tone, and a commanding presence that Sherlock found very . . . effective. Confidence was attractive, and so was a troubled man. He was naturally drawn to problems. He couldn’t pretend it hadn’t aroused him in some form when John talked about the war. The work had fucked him up, or maybe he'd always been this twisted. Some things didn’t need an investigation.

The night grew on, and the din of nightlife had faded to low murmurs. By now there were few people hanging around outside. Most of them had retired for the evening, heeding the City’s suggested curfew. Probably about time to get a cab. If he’d been smart he could have used his orb to-

His orb. He hadn’t realized it was buzzing. Hoping it was John, he fished it out of his pocket and read the warning just in time to hear the first scream.

Sherlock looked up to see the reaper cloud spreading like an inkblot just a couple of blocks away, a chaotic black mass swallowing the weaker clouds around it. A siren sounded nearby, spooking a cat out from under a cheap City housing unit. The static charge hummed over his exposed skin, and every hair, even the ones he didn’t know he had, stood on end. It would have been quite funny if it wasn’t also so utterly horrifying.

There was a second scream, then a third. He squinted and witnessed two small, wriggling shapes being sucked into the air, then realized those were people. He felt the pull and knew that if he didn’t start running now he would be next.

He turned and fled, every step a small struggle as the reaper cloud drifted toward him, a terrible, unfeeling monolith. Meanwhile the orb continued to buzz in warning, sending vibrations into his palm again and again. The warning would have made little difference to someone standing beneath the cloud when it formed. Not even an orb could predict when and where it would arrive. Everything after that was reaction.

As the cloud loomed overhead, he approached an intersection. A lone taxi pulled around a corner, and Sherlock waved, desperate to flag it down. Sensing the driver had no plans to stop, he picked up his pace and threw himself against the hood of the cab right as it tried to pass.

He smacked the windshield and went tumbling to the ground. The driver stopped and opened his door, the plan achieving its intended effect.

“Oi mate, are you nuts?” the man yelled in a panic. Sherlock resiliently pulled himself to his feet. The driver stared at him and shook his head. “Come on, get in then.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time, barrelling into the passenger seat with such force he bounced against the leather. The driver dipped back into the carriage and hit the gas, speeding away in a squeal of burning rubber.

“221B Baker Street, ward twelve,” Sherlock gasped out, head falling to the side as he concentrated on recouping his breath.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Cuttin’ it a little close there, ‘doncha think? You’re damn well lucky I stopped.”

This was true. If he’d been on the ground any longer the reaper cloud would have taken him. It only took what it could lift, and to be outdoors and unsecured when the cloud arrived spelled certain death. People, animals, trash, anything lightweight with poor foundations—all were fair game. The City’s transport fleet was supposedly safe, but the cabbie wasn’t about to test fate.

Live with the rain, die by the rain. A quote from some philosopher whose name he couldn’t recall. The line made more sense to him now.

Only when they’d gotten far enough away from the Cloud to have reasonably passed the reaping zone did Sherlock look out the window behind him. The Cloud had begun to contract, a sign it was returning into the sky. The public probably wouldn’t know how many people had been taken until the City issued an official report the next day, but he wouldn’t be among them.

When the cabbie dropped him off he didn’t even ask for the fare. “Hey, take care of yourself, mate,” was all he’d said before driving away. People were telling him that a lot lately. Another sticky note for the fridge.

He closed the door and was met by a cold, empty hallway. Mrs. Hudson was probably already asleep. Good for her. Upstairs felt even lonelier. He considered finishing his report, but the thought of it made him sick. Life suddenly seemed too short to waste on traitors and their tattoos. What he needed right now was John.

He reached into his coat pocket to pull out his orb, then realized he was already holding it. He ignored the seven messages from Lestrade, may the bitch be exalted until the end of days, and drafted a new one.

“John. It’s Sherlock. I’ve been thinking about what you said at Patrice’s. About wanting to start fresh. Can you spend the night? I really, really want to see you. Actually, I think I need to.” He could feel his hands shaking but this time the orb didn’t mention it. “I’m in ward twelve now. 221B Baker Street. Please come.”

The message sent. He received a response within less than a minute: “I’m on my way.”

Good. Yes. John was coming. The energy this gave him was enough to overcome any doubts about composing his report. He would finish it, get it out of the way so he could see John uninhibited. Drinking would put him in the right mood. No coke, not tonight. There was only about a gram left anyway. His high would be over before it began.

He tugged the cork out of a half-empty bottle of port and went to pour a himself a glass, then thought, why dirty another dish? He swigged the wine right there, feeling dangerous and sexy even as some escaped the lip and dribbled down his chin. On the wall the clock ticked eleven-forty-four. There was still time left before his report was officially late. He paced the room, drinking and dictating while his orb took notes. Six kills, no new intel, it rained. Done. He signed the report with “fuck you” and told his orb to send. Then he laid down on his bed, thought of John, and waited. At some point he finished off the port.

When his orb buzzed he shot out of bed and rocketed down the stairs to the front door, moving just as fast as he’d been when he was running from the reaper cloud. He opened the door, and when he saw who it was, flung himself at John like a ragdoll.

“What have you been drinking?” John asked, laughing as he caught him. He may have also been a little concerned. He was still wearing his uniform, though he’d left the cap at home.

Sherlock giggled and pressed closer. “Booze.” He saw no need to elaborate.

“I can see that. There’s some on your chin. Hey, mind if we go inside? It’s wet out here.”

Sherlock tugged him into the building. “Upstairs.”

They bounded up a story, John’s hand cautiously supporting Sherlock’s back in case he fell. Really, he was fine. John underestimated him.

A quick tour of the apartment led them to the bedroom.

“This is where I think,” Sherlock said as John followed him inside. “I guess I also sleep here, but that’s just not as-”

John pushed him onto the bed and kissed him, his mouth hot and bullying. Sherlock’s first instinct was to pull up his knees and shove away, but John had his lower half pinned pretty good despite the height difference. When he realized he couldn’t move, he grew hard, moaned, and told himself this was normal. Then he told himself to shut up because John was rolling off of him. It left Sherlock feeling weightless, like without John he’d float away.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” John said, almost but not quite regretful. “Was that too much? It’s been a while.”

Sherlock caught his breath for what was probably the hundredth time that day. “You’re fine. That was . . .” He struggled to find the right adjective. “Exhilerating.”

John nodded and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt. “Good. Because now I’m going to fuck you, just like that.”

He climbed back on top of Sherlock, who welcomed his return with a kiss just as mean as the one John had given him first. The beard won him over when he discovered it could provide additional friction. As John rutted against him he did his best to struggle, just enough so that John restrained him but not enough to scare him into stopping. It comforted him that despite how long they’d been physically separated, their bodies still fit each other just as they did five years ago. Few things were as reliable.

Overheating, he removed his own shirt, fingers stumbling over themselves (buttons had to have been invented by virgins), then helped John with his. Underneath John was wearing his L-Corps designation brassiere, designed to neatly hug his pecs. Sherlock slowed down to touch it, not entirely sure it was safe for him to do so.

He looked up. “Can we . . . ?”

“It’s fine,” John said, pulling his belt from the loops. “You have my permission.” His pants dropped away to reveal an officer’s garter belt and stockings, along with regulation panties that were barely able to restrain their contents. Sherlock shuddered and tried not to touch himself. He was already so close and they’d barely done more than kiss. He should have drank more wine.

“Please, fuck me,” he whined, arching his hips forward. “Please.”

“Call me your pretty, pretty princess and I will,” John joked. He left the bed briefly to look for lubricant and found it in Sherlock’s bedside table, along with a pack of cigarettes. “Very original.”

Sherlock’s pants came off and John kneeled over him, feet planted on the floor. “Let me know if I’m being too rough, okay?” Sherlock nodded but had no real intention of complying. Pain had a way of intensifying things into memory, and he wanted to memorize this moment in its entirety.

John smiled and bent down to kiss him again. It was softer this time, perhaps out of guilt for what he was about to do. He groaned and gripped John’s back, encountering the band of his brassiere. His fingers slipped beneath it, testing its strength, and he wondered what it would be like to wear one. As the kiss wandered to his neck Sherlock couldn’t help himself, and lifted his head to peek over John’s shoulder. He glimpsed under the band and and slammed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t blink away what he’d seen: a small cross-and-triangle tattoo, about the size of fingernail, freshly red and inked over John’s left shoulder.

Somehow the room seemed to grow darker.

He fell backward onto the mattress, almost like he’d been dropped. Above him John had righted himself and was lifting Sherlock’s hips, pushing forward, inside of him. The presence felt horribly unfamiliar, like someone had snuck in and taken John’s place. He shot up, breathing quickly. The force of it pushed John out of the way. Sherlock stood. His limbs felt flimsy, like a cheap doll’s.

“What’s wrong?” John asked immediately, reaching for him. “Are we moving too quickly? I can—fuck, Sherlock, your hands are shaking. Here, let me see you.”

On the nightstand Sherlock’s orb was blinking a dull, angerless red. He covered it with a hand before John could notice and shoved it into a drawer.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m fine. I’d just forgotten to check the weather.”

John looked at him like this was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. Sighing, he gathered Sherlock to his chest.

“I promise I’m not going anywhere,” John murmured. He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. “This isn’t like before. I’m staying for good this time.” Sherlock nodded, but didn’t respond.

Outside it was still raining.

He Who Watches (Sherlock/John, NC-17, Horror)

Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,281
Warnings: meat
Summary: "The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!" (Matthew 6:22-23)

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Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17)

Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17, 1/3)

Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Argentina, Sri Lanka, frequent references to rape
Notes: On an Earth where women don’t exist, there are three genders: men, double-men, and laridae (colloquially known as ‘seagulls’), a scavenging seabird that lives near the ocean.

This story takes place in a sub-alternate universe where the major world powers encompass the United Kingdom, The People's Republic of Argentina, and Federated States of Sri Lanka. Due to the scarcity of natural resources, war is frequent, and relations between the United Kingdom and the Argentine republic are strained. Discussion of Sri Lanka is forbidden under section 1067.3 of the United Kingdom’s penal code.

Please leave a comment if you have any questions or would like to write in this universe and need help with world-building.

Summary: When a serial murderer leaves behind a trail of coded signatures in his wake, our heroes find themselves caught in the steamy center of a terrorist plot that threatens the very fabric of consent. Case fic.

seagullock (2) resized

Hermione Granger Fucks Her Way Through History (Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Multiple, NC-17)



Author: buttsnax
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Multiple
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,071
Warnings: (See trigger warnings.)
Notes: This was a challenge for me to write as I am very much afraid of wizards. I felt, however, that in order to grow as an author I would have to confront my fears, unlike the cowardly wizard, who needs only brew a potion of +5 fear resistance. While it was a struggle, now that the story is complete I can look upon it with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that I have triumphed and made something beautiful with my labor: a sense of satisfaction that the lazy sorcerer will never understand, as he conjures his wants and wishes directly from the ether with no regard for the laws of conservation of mass or energy.

I have tried to approach the subject from as much of a neutral point as possible, but I must admit that I think it is only natural to hold a slight bias. After all, there is a reason private aircraft licenses have a stringently enforced minimum of 35+ hours of flight time. But of course Mr. Fancy Robes over here thinks that just because he can fly with a few spoken words and a vial of fairy dust he's just as good!

Summary: The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais.


The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais. Ginny, her maid of honor, smiled supportively as the bride turned and faced Ron, who stood in stunned awe of his future wife.

Hermione wore a full traditional wizard bridal gown, which to a muggle would have looked like a normal wedding dress several centuries out of date, except with magic. It boasted an impossibly long flowing train that moved, serpentine-like, of its own accord. A fairy seamstress had sewn precious gems into the fabric, which itself was woven from dragon silk. Hermione was glad her dress came from a dragon and not a spider’s butt. Spiders are gross.

If she had done her research she would have learned that, though technically some garments have been constructed with spider silk, none are commercially available. Instead, most commercially sold silk is made from caterpillars; more precisely, the larval stage of Bombyx mori, the silkworm moth, or alternatively but less commonly Bombyx mandarina, the wild moth from which B. mori was domesticated. But she had been too busy learning about werewolves and planting tiny screaming babies into dirt.

The music faded. Ron’s fingers trembled as he pulled the veil back from Hermione’s rosy face. The two locked eyes, and Hermione bit her lip and grinned.

“We are gathered here today,” began the stately wizard clerk--priests are not generally welcome at wizard weddings--who was officiating, “to celebrate this wizard marriage between Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.”

From the audience Hermione’s mother loudly blew her nose.

“As is traditional,” the officiator continued, “both parties will now express their vows with magic fireworks, because we wizard folk have neither shame nor any sense of practicality.”

Hermione pulled out her wand and gracefully waved a spell in front of the wedding altar. A thousand shooting stars rained down from the sky, and then, to the delighted oohs and ahs of the audience, burst into red flames, spelling out “I LOVE YOU RON” before turning into diamonds and raining down on the wedding. All wizard diamonds are ethically-sourced and cruelty-free, but only because gnomes aren’t considered people.

Ron gulped. He nervously raised his wand and jerked it around a couple of times. A tiny red heart puffed into the air, smelling faintly of goblin farts, before dissipating.

“Wait,” he said. “I can do better.”

He waved his arm again, more frantically this time. A spark of white light burst from his wand before it snapped in half with a crack.

“It’s okay,” comforted Hermione, grabbing his hand and holding it in hers. “I’m marrying you, not your wand.”

The redness in Ron’s cheeks cooled, and he put his broken wand away.

“Do you, Ronald Weasely, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wizard-wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in curses and hexes, in this world and the next, and the astral plane, and in that space between worlds where everything has too many eyes, until death or irrevocable transformation do you part?”

Ron squeezed Hermione’s palm. “I do.”

“And do you, Hermione Granger, take this man, through all that same awful stuff, to be your lawfully wedded wizard-husband?”

The question hung in the air with such weight that Hermione felt it in her chest.

Did she . . . ? Yes. But there was still time left to take care of some unfinished business.

She gently touched the amulet of interlocking rings that hung at her neck. Ron’s expectant expression faded from view as time twisted around her, flinging her back decades as she waved her wand to displace herself from her own wedding.

Hermione was no longer standing at the altar, but rather in a richly appointed bedroom not that far a distance from her ceremony, but some years ago in the past. The room wasn’t large, but it was impeccably furnished in a way that bespoke both class and importance. A great four poster bed loomed in one corner. It was a bed Hermione was intimately familiar with.

She heard a gasp behind her.

“Hermione!” cried a woman’s voice. “I swear, I will never get used to you doing that.”

Hermione laughed gayly--things were about to get very gay indeed--and turned around to greet her friend.

“Hello again, Margaret!” she said brightly to the middle-aged woman who sat pen in hand at her desk wearing only a dressing robe. Hermione twirled in her wedding gown, showing off.

“Ah,” said Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, somewhat resignedly. She set down her pen and stood up to admire her visitor. “So the day has finally come. You look amazing.” She said this smiling, but Hermione registered the slight sadness in her eyes.

Hermione grabbed her hand and held it in hers. Margaret’s grip firm as iron, but her hands were soft. Hermione missed that softness.

“I suppose I can’t keep doing this,” Hermione said, lowering her eyes from Margaret’s visage. “Not after tonight.”

Margaret chuckled and hugged Hermione close. “What are you talking about? If there’s any sadness, it’s only regret that I can’t be there.” She raised a pale brow. “You came here last week and that was two years after you married.”

So it was. Hermione laughed and drew Margaret in for a kiss. One hand cupped the Baroness’ face as the other slid around her waist.

“I do get around, don’t I?” she teased. “So why don’t you help me out of this dress?”

Such a bold request would have made others blush, but Margaret had done this dance many times and was not easily flustered. Yet, Hermione's delicate features and boundless curiosity charmed her. She silently led Hermione to the bedside.

With a graceful flick Hermione tossed her bouquet on the nightstand, turning her back to Margaret so she could unzip her dress. Shivering, her dress slid off, exposing her bare flesh.

“Young lady,” Margaret began, her robe falling from her shoulders as she pulled Hermione down on the mattress. “I am extraordinarily patient provided I get my own way in the end.”


The guard posted outside the Prime Minister’s door knew that this sort of thing happened from time to time. His job, he had been instructed quite clearly, was neither to pass judgement, nor attempt to understand exactly how such things were possible.

Nevertheless, it bothered him when it happened. His buddy Anthony was in the Queen’s Guard and always went on about tourists and the like trying to get a rise out of him. Well, Anthony didn’t know the half of it. Try keeping a straight face when a room away the Prime Minister is getting horizontal with a very vocal magic lady.

“Maggie, I can barely stand it--oh!” A girlish voice shrieked.

“I've got a woman's ability to stick to a job and get on with it when everyone else walks off and leaves it,” came the Prime Minister’s voice.

The guard tried not to imagine who the other woman could be. But it was hard--occasionally literally, but mostly figuratively.

“Yes, yes! Now that’s how you pay a bedroom tax.”

Ms. Thatcher sure was having a good time. Despite his best efforts this led to him to ponder what the Prime Minister looked like naked, which he found suited him less.

“Be gentle, dear. That’s not the Falkland Islands down there.”

The guard tried to think of all the ways into 10 Downing Street as the other woman piped up.

“Oh god, fuck me like a family of six on a housing waitlist!”

He had concluded that dealing with tourists sounded brilliant and wondered if Anthony couldn’t get him a transfer into the Queen’s Guard when he heard the doorknob turn.

A petite brunette wrapped in only a sheet stepped into the hallway.

“I’m afraid Ms.Thatcher will be requiring a new bed,” she said, matter of factly.

The guard dashed inside to investigate. The Prime Minister lay asleep in the great bed, or what had been a bed--one of the posts had cracked in half, and the canopy was ripped open. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes and no small number of rubber toys, many of which would not be invented for decades, and some of which would not even be legal for a few more years. Though he would end up leaving the service altogether within a month, the toys and the brief glimpse of Hermione would feature prominently in the guard’s dreams for years following.

After verifying that the Prime Minister was merely asleep and perfectly safe, he closed the door behind him. The young lady, however, had vanished.

“We have code sixty-nine,” the guard said, activating his radio. “Again.”


As much as Hermione dearly loved Margaret, tonight was special, and she required further . . . satiating. She wanted someone new this time. All of time and space belonged to her, and with her unprecedented mastery of magic she was definitely getting some historical dick tonight.

Touching the time turner again, she arrived in early sixteenth-century Germany. A quick detour yielded a skirt and bodice filched from a manor wardrobe. With a little wand work she altered her bodice to reveal more of her decolletage than was in fashion at the time. She matched it with some partlets and a kirtle, but, dissatisfied with the effect on her bosom, fashioned an invisible brassiere from the raw ether to perk up her breasts.

Satisfied, she made a visit to Wittenberg University, drawing eyes by showing perhaps a bit too much ankle, and waited until the man she was seeking came by.

“Hey there,” she cooed in perfect German as a monk passed through the university gates, oblivious to her charms. “Feeling like confessing your sins?”

“Excuse me,” he said brusquely, pushing past her.

Hmm. Hermione adjusted her bodice to reveal even more cleavage, though it was now clearly anachronistic in comparison with the flat, square necklines popular at the time. Sacrifices had to be made, she thought. An alluring figure was more important than historical accuracy when it came to matters of the flesh.

“What I’m trying to say is, let’s do it Adam and Eve style,” she said, leaning forward. “Because your serpent is tempting me.”

“My dear, I don’t quite think you understand what you are--” Martin Luther began to protest, half-choking as Hermione’s fingers crept upward and groped the monk’s holy stones.

He stiffened with shock, then stiffened otherwise. Hermione grinned wolfishly and whispered, “I’ve got ninety-five theses, but your dick ain’t one.”

Martin began to waver in the face of Hermione’s powerful perfume, concocted from the blood of a vixen in heat. “I don’t understand,” he warbled, face flushed.

“I want you to nail me up against the door of the All Saints’ Church,” said Hermione breathily, her hand now on Martin’s undeniably stiff member of The College of His Pants.

“This is . . . most inappropriate,” Martin gasped out, struggling to fight the air of magical seduction that was helped along by years of chastity. It was much easier to deny the charms of the flesh when the flesh wasn’t grabbing him down there. Also when the flesh was riddled with syphilis--that helped too.

“I tried to fuck Pope Leo X, but I think he likes boys,” Hermione mentioned casually before pulling Martin’s finger in her mouth.

“That,” said Martin emphatically, grabbing Hermione around the waist as he made up his mind, “is just one of the many ways we hold a difference of opinion.” He pulled her deeper into an alleyway where the eyes of a casual passerby would not reach them. His hands were all over her; a few minutes later she had ripped her bodice open and lost her underwear somewhere in the dirty grime of the neglected alleyway.

She pulled down his pants and found him now fully erect.

Martin grinned.

“Here I stand,” he said. “I can do no other.”


It was over all too soon.

“I’m so sorry,” said Martin ashamedly, staring down at his feet. “I’ve been celibate for so many years . . .”

“Whatever,” said a rather cross Hermione. She tightened her bodice with a tug. “I’m sure you can buy an indulgence for it.”

Martin winced.

Hermione looked around the darkened alley futilely, then sighed and raised her wand. “Accio panties!”

“Maybe we could meet again sometime?” asked Martin hopefully.

“Nah,” Hermione said, touching her necklace. That was the last he saw of her.


Martin Luther having left a sour taste in her mouth, literally, Hermione flung herself even further back in time. Maybe it was wrong of her to seduce another man like that on her wedding day--but inwardly she knew that infidelity knew no gender. She desired the comfort of a woman, and she knew just who would give her what she needed.

Using her time-turner, she brought herself to the palace entrance. The sun beat down on her forehead, and the sandstone floor burned her feet through her stockings. Perhaps it would have been wise to change into more appropriate period attire. A shirtless, bronze-skinned soldier stood in front of her, his hand on his sword.

“You may not pass,” he commanded in accented Greek.

“Listen here,” Hermione bristled. “Do you know who I am? I can turn your ass into a toad so fast you’ll think it’s the plagues come again. I am at ‘hide your firstborn’ levels of giving a fuck today.”

“I, ah, I recognize you, great priestess,” said the guard, who, at this moment--though they were separated by thousands of years and a continent--would have felt great kinship with Margaret Thatcher’s personal guard.

“Though your dress is strange, I know you,” he continued with great trepidation that would prove to be entirely warranted. “But I cannot let you pass. The Pharaoh is indisposed and has said that none may interrupt.”

“I don’t have time for this,” snapped Hermione, gripping her wand.

“Mutatio rana!” she exclaimed, zapping the guard with a spell.

The guard was now a toad.

“Ribbit,” he said, and hopped away.

Hermione stormed through the great double doors to the Pharaoh's personal chambers. There were other guards present, but having witnessed her powers they seemed much less inclined to stop her.

“Cleopatra!” she yelled, barging into the Pharaoh's bedroom. “I’m wetter than than the flooding of the Nile during the season of Akhet and I could use a festival of fulfillment right now, if you know what I mean.”

She paused. “Oh.”

Entwined on the bed before her was the woman Hermione was hoping to see and a man who was not the Pharaoh.

“Hermione,” said Cleopatra from the bed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I see that.”

“This is Julius,” Cleopatra continued. “He and I are kinda . . . well, we have an arrangement.”

“Hi there,” greeted Julius with a wave.

Hermione scratched her chin.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I think I forgot to check my timeline.”

“No no,” Cleopatra said, motioning for Hermione to come forward. “It’s quite alright.” She glanced at Julius, who nodded. Julius was down for anything. “You could join us if you like.”

Hermione looked at Julius, then back at Cleopatra. Julius seemed like a cool dude.

“Sure, why not,” Hermione said, her mood very much improved since her lackluster three minutes with Martin. She stripped out of her 16th-century dress. “Let’s make history.”


Several hours later the limbs of three exhausted bodies lay tangled on the mattress. Julius really was down for anything. Damn.

“Wow,” said Hermione after she’d finally caught her breath. “I really needed that.”

“You’re welcome back anytime,” said Cleopatra, head resting on Hermione’s breast.

Julius ran his calloused hands over Hermione’s lithe frame.

“Veni, vidi, vici,” he whispered.

Hermione grinned.

“So you did,” she said, rolling out of bed. “I haven’t seen anyone come like that since Vesuvius.”

Julius furrowed his brow, not understanding.

“Oh right,” Hermione said, chuckling. “Give it a few years. Trust me, it’ll be pretty clever.”

“You are a strange woman,” he said, eyes skimming over her body. “I hope you will join our bed again someday.”

Hermione stretched languidly and picked up her wand. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to go now. There’s somewhere important I have to be.”

Before departing, she turned to Julius one last time.

“I don’t usually do this, because meddling with the timestream is dangerous,” she said. “But really, with the workout you gave me it would be a damn shame for anything to happen to you.”

Hermione picked up the time turner. “Seriously though, don’t trust anyone named Brutus.”


Her cravings satisfied, Hermione made a quick detour back (or forward, depending on your point of view) to 10 Downing Street to reclaim her dress. Margaret helped her shimmy back into the gown, and put up her hair (Margaret could have been a hairdresser if she wanted, but her mother never would have allowed it). A dash of judicious magic restored Hermione’s smudged makeup, and, upon checking her reflection in the mirror, a second spell pulled the dried semen out of her hair.

“Are you ready?” asked Margaret, standing behind Hermione as the young witch gazed upon herself. Hermione adjusted her bouquet and took a steadying breath.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I think I am.”

Margaret patted her back, and Hermione caught her eyes in the mirror.

“Until our next meeting,” she said softly, facing her friend. She touched the time turner once more, and was gone.


Hermione had calculated her return to the wedding perfectly. As she reappeared at Ron’s side there wasn’t so much as a twitch to betray her adventures.

She looked into Ron’s adoring face, the time-turner dangling innocently from her neck.

“I do.”

Moriarty, James. “Love In The Labyrinth: A Deconstruction Of The Baker Street Incident.” Journal of Post-Modern Film 42.1(2013):80-107. Print. (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Journal of Post-Modern Film 42.1(2013):80-107.

Love In The Labyrinth: A Deconstruction Of The Baker Street Incident.

Author(s): James Moriarty.
Department of Philosophy, University of Durham, Durham, North East England.

In which I, the author, endeavor to make sense of celebrated documentary filmmaker Sherlock Holmes' greatest work, that most insidious of cult hits--The Baker Street Incident. With his film Holmes transformed how we think about cinematography, and indeed, the definition of truth itself. In this paper I explore the themes and subtext contained within, culling research from journalists and noted Holmes scholars to encourage viewers to draw their own interpretations as to the film's meaning.

Author's note:

This story is a gift for Just_Juan_Friend as part of the sherlock_rant meme holiday fanfiction exchange. Happy holidays, Just_Juan_Friend. I took great joy in writing this.

The prompts I chose were the following:

1) John discovers Sherlock building a fucking machine in the basement.
2) Artist!AU.
3) Go wild.

It's very likely I went overboard on prompt 3.

Read on AO3.
The Case Of The Severed Foot (Female!Sherlock/John, R)
Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Female!Sherlock/John, Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,364
Warnings: violence, drug use, cats
Summary: A series of gruesome murders has London in terror, and it's up to Sherlock to find the killer, this time without John's help.

I wrote this story as a gift for innie_darling as part of the Holmestice fic exchange. The prompt I chose was:

For m!John/f!Sherlock, I really want to know how genderswapping Sherlock changes the dynamics in 221B. Without the "I'm not gay" defense, what answer can John give people curious about why he's not with his flatmate? What are the assumptions Sherlock has to fight against, and do they affect John as well? Is Sherlock still working with Scotland Yard? Is she a former junkie? Casefic would be great here, but is absolutely not a requirement.

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The Meaning Of Scorpion Life (Johnlock, Omegaverse/Scorpion Universe crossover, NC-17)

Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 248
Warnings: dubcon, Omega!ScorpionJohn, Alpha!ScorpionSherlock, rape rape
Summary: Sherlock is an Alpha Emperor Scorpion living in a terrarium with John, an Omega Emperor Scorpion.


Sherlock was an Alpha Emperor Scorpion living in a terrarium with John, an Omega Emperor Scorpion. Sherlock was hungry, but there was no food around. He chittered and emerged from beneath a pile of peat to see what John was up to. John was in heat, releasing pheromones that made him vulnerable to sexual assault by horny Alphas looking to mate. The pheromones made Sherlock twitch in anticipation of the unwanted sexual contact he was about to perpetrate.

“Sherlock,” John said, looking up as the larger scorpion crawled toward him. “I am afraid. Please have gay scorpion sex with me before those other Alphas find me.” Sherlock nodded and proceeded to consensually rape John, taking special care to be gentle as though that made things better. John cried tiny scorpion tears from each of his eight eyes as he wriggled in pain, but ultimately gave in to what he knew was his life’s destiny.

After the rape, they shared a cricket for dinner. John noticed that Sherlock was oddly silent; he seemed preoccupied.

“Do you ever worry that our lives are a meaningless string of ambiguously consensual sexual encounters?" asked Sherlock suddenly as he looked up from studying the husk of a terrestrial isopod.

"No," said John, who as a scorpion did not understand the basic tenets of morality.

Sherlock was quiet again. Then,

"I am glad we are not intelligent enough to comprehend our actions, as then we could no longer hide the magnitude of our depravity from ourselves."


Because I Could Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)
Author: buttsnax
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,790
Warnings: ghosts
Summary: “I'm so tired of fighting ghosts!” yelled Dean, unnecessarily loud over the eery silence of ghost combat. He and Sam had found themselves in a graveyard, fighting spirits yet again. This seemed to happen to them a lot, probably because they were semi-professional supernatural ghost hunters.


“I'm so tired of fighting ghosts!” yelled Dean, unnecessarily loud over the eery silence of ghost combat. He and Sam had found themselves in a graveyard, fighting spirits yet again. This seemed to happen to them a lot, probably because they were semi-professional supernatural ghost hunters.

Sam nodded, his flannel shirt and muddied boots conveying the appropriate amount of rugged masculinity needed for this activity. “Yeah, this is starting to get old.” He launched a punch at what he believed was a ghost's face (it was hard to tell with ghosts), but his fist soared through the specter and collided with a tombstone instead.

“Dammit," Sam cursed, clutching his throbbing knuckles. "Fuck these ghosts."

“What, really?” asked Dean. A female ghost winked at him before unhinging her jaw and diving for his flesh. He ducked just in time but glanced over his shoulder to get a look at her derriere as she soared past him. The ghost could have been male--to be honest it didn't really matter. Dean was very lonely.

“No, not literally,” sighed Sam, exasperated. A ghost tried to bite his arm but luckily the ghost had poor eyesight and missed. “They don’t have, like, genitals. I think.”

Maybe the brothers were seeing things, but it seemed as though more and more ghosts were materializing with every passing second.

Sam paused from ineffectually fighting the apparitions to reflect on how they got there, and came to the conclusion that the demon they'd asked for directions had lied to them. This didn’t look like Seaworld at all.

The ghosts swooped down on the brothers in attack, their ghost jaws widening like black holes.

“Careful, Dean,” said Sam as the ghosts surrounded them. “Whatever you do, don't let them bite you.”

“I know,” said Dean, rubbing a suspicious bite-shaped mark on his left arm. He hid the wound behind his back before Sam could notice.

A ghost grinned at them, bearing his ghost teeth like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh, we’re not going to bite you,” it said as it pulled out a ghost sword, its fellow ghosts following suit.

"Well shit," Sam cursed. “I knew I shouldn’t have killed all those swords yesterday.”

“It's okay,” said an unnamed female character, who was also in this story. "I'm here to help." A ghost lunged toward her, sword at the ready, but she was written out of the story before the ghost could reach her.

“This is super fucked up,” Dean cried, clearly touched by the poignant loss of someone important enough to have a speaking role.

“Supernaturally fucked up,” countered Sam.

A ghost took a swipe at Dean’s head with its ghost claws, narrowly missing. “I am so done with this lifestyle,” Dean said. “As soon as we finish up here let's agree to never fight ghosts again."

"Okay," said Sam, who had given up punching ghosts and was now hiding behind a stone monument. “Seaworld doesn’t even have tombstones,” he grumbled.

Just then, a lumpy ghost in a houndstooth fedora floated up behind him and brought down his sword, nearly cleaving Sam in two. Lucky for Sam, the ghost had poor hygiene and his ectoplasmic scent gave him away. Sam rolled out of striking range in the nick of time, but the sword managed to slice a couple of buttons off his shirt.

Sam quickly righted himself as fury swept through his bones.

“Alright you guys,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Time to bring out the big guns.”

He pulled out a flask of holy water and lobbed it at a nearby mausoleum. The flask shattered, splashing the searing liquid onto three angry ghosts. They screamed as they melted into puddles of ectoplasm.

One particularly large ghost stopped in his tracks. “Whoa! Time out!”

Sam raised an eyebrow while Dean leaned against a withered tree for support.

“What the hell, guys?!” said the big ghost, glaring at Sam. “Was that holy water?”

Sam flashed them an innocent look. “Yes?”

“Not cool,” said a skinnier ghost, throwing down his ghost sword. "You're not playing fair."

Dean limped over to Sam, his arm hanging leaden at his side. Sam hoped he hadn’t scraped it on a rock or anything. He’d left his first aid kit in the Impala.

“Sam, I need to tell you some-” Dean began.

“Not now,” Sam hushed him. "The ghosts are talking."

“Damn right we are,” said the big ghost. From his appearance Sam was able to tell he had been a Roman centurion when he was alive. Standing next to the the centurion was a WWI aviator and a Victorian prostitute.

“Holy water kills us,” the centurion said with a wounded expression. “Again. Some of us go to double hell.”

The ghost aviator who had bit Dean leered at the older Winchester and winked. Dean grit his teeth and gripped his arm defensively.

“Whatever,” said Sam, indignantly. “You guys had swords.”

“What, these?” asked the centurion. He poked Sam with its sword. It went right through him without so much as piercing his flesh.

“Ghost swords can’t hurt you guys,” said the ghost. “I thought you knew that.”

"Sorry." Sam scratched his head, looking sheepish. "I forgot."

The centurion opened his arms in welcome. “We love you guys,” he said. "You two are, like, celebrities in the afterlife." A ghostly businessman floated through a gravestone to give Sam a high-five. It didn’t work because he was a ghost, but it was the thought that counted.

The centurion nudged the ghost beside him dressed like an 19th-century prostitute.

“Hey Lucy,” said the centurion, nodding toward Sam with his head. “Show the boys the story you wrote about them.”

Lucy blushed. Ghosts don't actually possess any color, so no one noticed except her.

She floated silently over to Sam, a thick sheaf of ghost papers in hand.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sam and his new ghost friends, something was happening to Dean. His left hand had frozen into a claw shape and his veins pulsed black against his skin. His face contorted in pain as his arm continued to stiffen.

“On the ghost internet--the aethernet,” Lucy began, speaking softly and delicately, her eyes downcast with embarrassment, “we like to write fanfiction about you guys.”

“Really?” asked Sam, curious in spite of himself.

“Oh yes,” said the ghost writer. “I personally like to write about how you two are ghosts who come to terms with your feelings for each other.” She handed Sam a piece of ghost paper. Sam squinted at it. Ghost script was hard to read.

“But we’re not ghosts,” he objected.

Lucy shrugged. “We don’t really care about characterization. And turning you into ghosts makes it easier for us to relate to you."

Sam frowned and read the story.

“Ghost Sam and Ghost Dean floated on a mountain of dead living people they had killed with their ghost jaws. It had been a tough battle, with Ghost Dean almost stumbling into a salt circle. The incident nearly gave his brother a heart attack, but ghosts don’t have hearts.

As they recovered, something inside of Ghost Sam compelled him to open up to his brother. The thing inside him was feelings.

‘Nearly losing you made me realize I love you,’ he said, his ghostly form shaking with emotion. ‘Romantically.’

‘God, I feel the same way,’ said Ghost Dean. ‘Really makes me wish we still had genitals, but we're ghosts now.’

They embraced and spent a passionate evening rubbing their ectoplasm together.”

“This is terrible,” said Sam when he was finished. “That’s not us at all!”

“But this is how you act in my head,” said Lucy.

“Wait, do you even have a head?” asked Sam, looking up from the story. He paused for a moment. “How do ghosts have thoughts?”

Lucy's ghost lip quavered and she began to cry.

“Shame on you boys,” said the centurion, glaring at Sam and Dean. He turned to his fellow ghosts. “Let’s attack them with our surprisingly effective ghost bites!"

“Sam,” groaned Dean, clutching his arm. “I can’t go on.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Sam, warily eyeing the ghosts as they began their advance.

“I’ve been bitten,” said Dean. “By a ghost.”

"Shit." Sam looked at his brother's arm, now completely paralyzed by the bite. "This is bad, Dean. You know what happens when a ghost bites you.”

“Yes,” said Dean, his voice breaking. “I’m going to turn into a ghost.”

Sam shook his head. “What? No. Being dead turns you into a ghost. Ghosts aren't werewolves, dude.”

Dean cocked his head, puzzled. "Then what’s happening to me?”

“When a ghost bites you, you turn into the object most desired by that ghost when it was alive,” said Sam, as if that were obvious.

"Oh." Dean examined his new form. “Well, that explains the wings.” Dean had turned into a Fokker D.VII biplane.

He revved up his engine and flew at the pack of ghosts, his twin 7.92mm machine guns blazing. He knew this was the end. To save his brother's life he would sacrifice himself in a final blaze of glory.

“Goodbye, Sam,” he screamed over the whine of his propeller. “I’ll never forget you!”

Sam ran after his brother in an attempt to stop him. “Dean, no! Don't do this!”

In one final act of martyrdom, Dean crashed into the mass of assembled ghosts. A fireball erupted from his fuselage, knocking over dozens of ancient gravestones with the force of his impact. This accomplished absolutely nothing as ghosts aren’t flammable.

Sam looked on in horror.

“I’m coming for you, Dean!” He cried, charging into the confused ghost army.

Suddenly Castiel appeared, blocking Sam's way.

"Sam, wait," Castiel said, lifting up his hand.

"Fuck off," said Sam. Whatever Castiel had to say, he didn’t want to hear it.

"You can’t save him," Castiel said, his face mournful. "Dean's gone." He tried placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder but Sam shrugged him off.

“Whatever,” said Sam, beginning to tear up. “I’ll claw my way to heaven and bring him back. Or hell. We do this shit all the time.”

Castiel shook his head. One look at the angel’s expression and Sam knew he'd really lost Dean for good.

"Why?" Sam demanded, heartbroken. “Why can’t I save him?”

"Because," said Castiel, his face grave. “Planes don’t have souls.”

Two Ships Pass In The Night (Sherlock/John, NC-17, K-21)
Author: buttsnax
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: negligible
Warnings: communism
Summary: This is a quick fill for the following kink prompt:

John and Sherlock are in a safe, sane, and consensual relationship. One is a sub, the other is a dom (you get to choose who). They use a safeword. They communicate before and after trying anything new. They do after-care. And they're madly in love and very happy with their life.

One day, someone notices bruising on the one who is the sub, and grows concerned. They contact the police (or perhaps it's one of the Yarders who notice), and they decide to hold an "intervention," wherein John and Sherlock are spoken to separately.

What follows is the most embarrassing conversation of John & Sherlock's lives. It's eventually revealed that yes, they're fucking, and yes they're in fact kinky as hell, what's it to you? They're grown adults and they had an adult conversation about it and their safeword is "cabbage," ffs.

You can read the original prompt here:

Read more...Collapse )


The F-14 “Tomcat” is an air superiority fighter designed to be an improvement on the F-4 Phantom. The F-14 is equipped with variable geometry wings that can change in terms of total sweep from 20° to 60°. This may be the most recognizable feature of the F-14.

The F-4 phantom cannot be trusted, as ‘phantom’ is another name for ghosts and ghosts both envy and hate the living. Do not trust ghosts. If a ghost offers you something, you should say no. Treat all ghost bites with first aid and holy water immediately.

Armament-wise, the F-14 was designed to be extremely versatile. In addition to an internal 20mm M61 Vulcan cannon, the typical loadout was one AIM-54 Phoenix, two Sidewinder missiles, and two Sparrow IIIs. Though the F-14 was designed to handle multiples, the Phoenix missiles were rarely used.

Do not ever, ever have sex with a ghost under any circumstances, no matter how hot they are: Ghost herpes is incurable and you are stuck with it for life and unlife.


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