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a Sherlock critique meme

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Any works related to any adaptation of Sherlock, or cross-overs featuring Sherlock characters as the main characters may be posted here.

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Working Title :Johnlock 1/2

This is crap and also posted at the rant post. Why does it suck and why does it keep trying to veer off into dubcon?

Warning: Dubcon, Reichenbach

It took John two hours a stupidly long time to notice. Moriarty was attempting to frame Sherlock and nothing else had been on the radar.

It was not until Sherlock was sulking at Barts' that he had time to go to the toilet. The finding thick impersonal rubber where there should have been sensitive flesh did not register at first. John looked down distractedly to see a black tube around his penis connected to snug ring around his scrotum by a combination lock. Nothing constricted or pulled but it was firmly affixed to his prick as a light tug showed.

Survival instincts from Afghanistan and Sherlock made him take care of his aching bladder as his mind boggled. When he went to bed last night there had been nothing on his body but his pyjamas. Somehow over the course of the night this contraption had been put on him. Under normal circumstances he would have immediately suspected that Sherlock was running an insane sociological experiment on him but after Moriarty’s visit to the flat he did not feel so secure.

Done he returned to the lab ready to tell Sherlock to get this thing off when the phone call that Mrs Hudson had been shot came. Nowhere in what followed could John find time to berate Sherlock for his lack of respect for John’s body or possessions.

John was a competent GP if somewhat bored and divorced from his colleagues and patients. Over the last three years he had slowly got used to Sherlock’s death. Every day he thought less about him less and it hurt a little less to suddenly be reminded. Slowly he stopped seeing Sherlock in every tall, slim man he saw and came to except the Sherlock had really died. The holes in his life Sherlock had left were filled with the monotony of work; dulling the pain with hours of shifts as he moved from a locum position to full time.

Mycroft’s implicit confirmation that the chastity belt had been fitted by Sherlock helped to ease the transition out of active mourning. Mycroft’s refusal to provide it the combination to the lock and his active interference in John’s attempts to get it removed cut John off from what remain of his and Sherlock’s life.

Today he was working on emergency appointments; his last appointment of the day was a walk in who gave his name as Eukleides Morris and his address as one of the stock homeless addresses. The man who entered his room after he called was stooped with a thick head of bushy white hair dressed in old fashioned worn looking clothing. Something about him seemed familiar to John but it was a feeling he had grown used to ignoring over the last few years.

Eukleides complained in a deep croaking voice of a chronic smoker. His broken baratone narrating the indignities of life on the streets in an oddly soothing manner. His only true medical complaint was a gimp leg that bothered him during the night. Inviting Eukleides to take off his shoes and roll up his trousers John turned to gather the necessary gubins to carry out a full examination.

When John turned back to face the man his griseled and worn patient had disapeared. In his place a tired and haggered Sherlock grinned at him. Fear ran ice cold through his veins. He thought he had got over this. It was no time to be halucinating his best friend was alive. He blinked hoping the delusion would disipate in to the vague sense of familiarity that had been bothering him since Eukleides walked in to his room.

When he opened his eyes the vision was looking at him concern creasing his brow. Panic bubbled and he felt himself grow faint. Please not now was his only thought as he tumbled over the edge into oblivion.

Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2


Eukleides was gazing down at home still wearing Sherlock's face, head cradled in the man's lap his smell oddly fragrant for a rough sleeper. "John say something. I haven't broken you have I?" the vision said in Sherlock's petulant upset voice. "I thought you were a solider." Sherlock's voice disappeared in to the furious buzzing filling John's ears as it became clear that this really was Sherlock.

He reared out of Sherlock's lap. "You bastard," he spat throwing a fist at the manipulative tosser. His fist was caught between two iron tight hands. "Take it off." he pleaded.

Sherlock released his fist to wrestle him down to the ground. Superior strength and reach removing the advantage of John's training. "No," Sherlock murmured his voice an silky tone as one hand snaked down between their bodies to cup John's captive dick. "It's kept you mine without concern for 3 years." Sherlock's fingers twisted painfully around John's balls, "No one wants a man who can't even take his dead boyfriend’s chastity belt off."

Footsteps outside the door interrupted whatever else Sherlock might have gone on to say and his hand released its painful grip in John's balls to clasp at the back of his head pulling him into a determined kiss. John heard the door open as his touch starved traitors body relaxed into Sherlock a sick sense of relief filling him as he felt Sherlock alive and well. The startled gasp and the door slamming closed barely registering as he moaned into Sherlock's eager mouth balls hot and heavy against Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock wormed a leg between John’s pushing up almost painfully into the juncture between John’s legs as he ground his wrists together. To John’s horror arousal fizzed through his body and pressed up in to Sherlock with a moan. He could feel Sherlock smirking against his mouth. "Definitely not taking it off." Sherlock said drawing off from the kiss.

Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:11 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:26 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:17 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:21 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:34 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 05:06 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Working Title :Johnlock 1/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:24 pm (UTC)(Expand)
(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-06-16 04:42 pm (UTC)(Expand)


I've already posted it, but I'd love a critique for future reference. I don't want to repost the whole fill, since it's five parts, but here's the link:

Re: Fill?

I'd say overall very good. Better than most. I do have one thing:

This line: "Droning on like he's reading from a script he doesn't quite believe in." Sort of hangs out there - it doesn't really make any sense, given that you say previously that John's voice mail is the same, and how comforted it makes Sherlock feel. If he'd changed it, as he does later, that would be something to remark upon, to make it seem off or unusual, but it's an emotional hit with nothing behind it; a line that stands out for craft but doesn't mean anything. You do a great job tying it all together later, but that's the one that stands out.

Your writing is solid, with good word usage and good craft. The emotional through-line is solid and works all the way through. I like the way you used the phone calls to track Sherlock's timeline, his emotional journey. I think perhaps Sherlock stabbing Moran in an alley was a bit OOC, but that's just preference on my part, I think. I'd have liked to see a bit more of John's reactions to the constant hang-ups a little earlier on, though he did pass it off as a prank and change his number eventually, I think that either would have happened earlier, or he would have pushed the issue earlier. But that's nitpicky bullshit on my part and you're free to ignore it.

I'd be happy to read another fill of yours anytime, though. Good work.

Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:13 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:06 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:15 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:21 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:32 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 05:54 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 06:22 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 06:23 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 06:21 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 09:12 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-19 05:14 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-19 05:18 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 07:25 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-18 08:37 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Fill? - goseaward, 2012-06-19 01:35 am (UTC)(Expand)

WARNING vagina dentata 1/2

a/n It was meant to be horror and I think I sort of failed on that, so if anyone could point me in the right direction while rubbishing my SPAG I'd be very grateful.


She knows it's time when she wakes with a slow pulse in the base of her pelvis: an aching, tight coiling feeling, like there's an organ there and it's drained too close to empty for comfort. As if it's wanting to be filled.

Irene likes to think of it as hungry.

She slides out from under the silk sheets, rubbing the spot a few inches below her navel absently as she stretches. Kate blinks up at her from where she's still in bed, half asleep, and Irene smiles at her without realising it. She's thinking that Kate has seen where her hand is, and knows what it means. It's a pity - the sheets have slid down and one of Kate's breasts is showing, round and delicately pale, soft. Kate is delightfully sensitive and Irene knows the precise places around her nipples that draw out the best gasps.

There's no point in risking anything now, though. Not when even as she pads into the bathroom there's another faint stir, a gentle clenching stretch. The hunger swells; Irene tips her head back into the water pouring from the shower and thinks that it's going to be a long day.

There is nothing planned; she goes shopping for a couple of hours, though doesn't find anything that catches her attention for long. The pulse low in her pelvis is stronger now, irregular and resonating. It itches in a slow way. She shifts absently through sleek black dresses and red corsets, waiting for the time to pass. When she bores of clothes she calls on an acquaintance and they have lunch together: Irene eats scallops in wine and glistening pink and cream pastries, then goes out afterwards to buy two little boxes of macarons: one which she eats immediately, because she is impatient, and one for Kate, because Kate adores them.

The rest of the afternoon is wasted on another acquaintance; still, it passes the time until finally it is evening and she heads back home. Kate isn't there, but then Irene is perfectly capable of touching up her own makeup - particularly when it's for such an inelegant event as this.

She puts on a dress she never really liked, leaves the macarons on the table and calls a cab. The thing is stirring as she sits in the back seat, hand just below her belly - it can tell, somehow. Irene imagines that she can feel it uncoil in anticipation. She can't, but that anticipation is still more than enough to make her feel heady with excitement. She licks her lips, delicate, and can't stop the wide smile, eyes dancing, as she pays the cab driver.

From there on in it's easy. She's never had a problem picking up strangers; it's only a matter of choosing which one. One man in an inviting target: not too bad looking but arrogant, drunk and without friends close enough to watch him. He moves off before she's given a change to corner him and the tightness in her body squeezes. Soon though there's another man, rude and loud in his misogynistic boasting - and worst of all he's not stupid, at least not compared to the average. He follows her eagerly and kisses her without finesse, trying to dominate, lacking skill. He unzips her dress and what could have been charming, flattering greed is instead crude and puerile. Irene barely notices; she can feel a secondary pulse, feel muscles moving and shifting into position; there is no other sensation she can liken it to, but underlying it all the raw desire is familiar. She takes the man's cock in one hand and with the other strokes herself, fingertip pressing in ever so slightly. Not too much. The man only stills to watch for a few bare seconds before pushing her down, climbing on top as he kicks away his clinging underwear. The words spilling from his mouth might as well be lines from cheap porn parodies, but she doesn't care. She's so hungry, perhaps thirsty, and she tilts her hips up as he pushes in. At the same time she grabs a hold of his t-shirt he'd pulled off and holds it to his open mouth.

It doesn't silence the scream, though it does muffle it.

WARNING vagina dentata 2/2

She grips his hips with her legs, holds on to his arms so that he doesn’t hit her in his flailing. There is a bloom of intensity deep in her, a beautiful sensation of fullness and of slaking a thirst, of standing still and letting the sun warm exposed skin, hot and powerful.

Irene takes advantage of a momentary lull in struggling to flip them over; the man’s face is pale shocked and tense, lined in pain. She cants her hips and drives him deeper. He tries to pull away, fingers weak, but he can’t now that he’s in. She can feel the small tugs he makes inside of her attempting escape, as well as the clinging strength that renders them futile.

Eventually he falls still apart from the occasional twitch; Irene wonders whether it’s some sort of hypnotism, perhaps a secreted drug. She rocks, breasts rubbing against his chest, riding through the little groans and pained gasps. The sated feeling is creeping up, comfortably full. Irene taps the man on his cheek and he blinks at her as if waking. He whimpers.

Irene shushes him and leans back. That earns another pained, cracked groan and he jerks forward to stay close. Blood starts to ooze out over their legs, staining the cheap duvet.

“Almost over, love, almost over,” Irene whispers into the man’s ear. He’s clinging to her as she sits in his lap. “You just need to pull out now.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” he says, desperate. “God, please, I can’t, oh god.”

“Hush, of course you can. Just try a little harder.” The muscles in her clench then, just for a second: perhaps on purpose, perhaps by change, but he sobs out a messy breath and pulls.

He is, evidently, the sort of person to tear a plaster off quickly and in one go. Irene stumbles as she’s pushed off his lap, slipping off of the bed and into a crouch which she rises from quickly. In morbid curiosity she hasn’t yet managed to resist she turns to look at the man closely, taking a step closer to his curled form around the edge of the bed.

His flaccid cock is coated in slick red, blood pulsing from the furrows running down its length. The wounds themselves are ragged: small pieces of flesh are half torn off, skin peeling back around them to uncover more raw and glistening surface. There are two long cuts, one on each side and in some places half an inch deep. She can’t see much more – his arm is in the way – and she turns, taking a tissue out of her handbag to wipe herself with it. Then she dresses.

The feeling in her body is full and warm; previously it had been achingly hungry. Irene can’t help but wonder what it was that satisfied it – she hopes distantly that it isn’t blood. It is definitely not come. This man will not be doing that for a long time yet, if ever.

Perhaps it is something less material. Irene takes one last look back before she walks out, smiling.

Re: WARNING vagina dentata 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-20 07:03 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: WARNING vagina dentata 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-20 07:20 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: WARNING vagina dentata 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-20 08:50 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: WARNING vagina dentata 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-24 11:57 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: WARNING vagina dentata 2/2 - (Anonymous), 2012-06-25 01:55 am (UTC)(Expand)

CRITIQUE ME: Quid Pro Quo (Mycroft/Sherlock), incomplete

Warnings: Vaguely dubious consent, underage (Sherlock is 14ish)

As noted in the header, this is not complete, but I've been beating my head against this fic for the better part of two months and I'm just flat out stuck. This was originally intended to be a follow up to another fic, so be warned that there are a few references to previous events.

My main concerns:

1. Character voices
2. Pacing of the action
3. General writing quality (I know I repeat certain phrases like I have a verbal tic)
4. Am I in this too much? DO I GET IN THE WAY OF THE PORN? D:
5. This might be a side-effect of having held onto this for so long, but at this point, I'm rather bored. I was hoping to say something with this, I guess, about Mycroft's character or their relationship or SOMETHING and I... haven't.


"Mycroft, what's the [MATHS PROBLEM]?


He turned the page of his notes, continuing his transcription as Sherlock resumed his hurried scribbling. It was easy enough to tune out the scratch of his pen, the sound swallowed up into the background as Mycroft converted his shorthand to something more legible.

"Mycroft, what's [MATHS PROBLEM]?"

"[SOMETHING SOMETHING] and---" He glanced up sharply. "Why are you bombarding me with maths problems?"


Ah, of course. The hated horror of homework. He should have known. Mycroft made a brief note on his cuff in pencil before turning back to his still sulking brother.

"I've no intention of doing your homework."

"Not even---"

"No, Sherlock. Now hush. I've no time for your temper tantrums today. I'm quite busy."

Whatever rejoinder Sherlock had prepared for him came out as a frustrated growl as he flopped back on Mycroft's bed. As was so often the case, Sherlock permitted him nearly two consecutive minutes of silence before groaning melodramatically. Mycroft didn't bother to look away from his notes. Better to deny him the satisfaction.

The groan sounded a second time, louder and, if possible, even more irritating.

"What is it now, Sherlock? Are you having a fit? Shall I send for a medic?"

With a quiet chuckle, he jotted down another cuff note. It wouldn't do to forget his little rendezvous later.

"You could do it for me, you know," Sherlock said.

"I could," he agreed, "but I won't. You're perfectly capable of simple arithmetic."

"I could make it worth your while."

There was no need for Mycroft to turn to know Sherlock was smirking. It was evident from the tone he'd taken, the smug little imp. He feigned interest in his notes, savoring the huff of frustration Sherlock failed to hold back. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sherlock rolling off the bed, bare feet silent on the carpet of Mycroft's bedroom. His hands came down on Mycroft's shoulders a moment later.

"Are you listening, brother?"


"We both know what you were after last Sunday tea." His voice had no right to be that low or that smooth, Mycroft reflected. Never mind the heat of Sherlock's thin, clever fingers working loose the knot of his tie. "Punishing me."

"You’d have let me have it, too, you greedy little slut."

The playful dip of his fingers beneath the collar of Mycroft's shirt was confirmation enough. He nipped at Mycroft's earlobe, more viciously than was perhaps necessary.

"You spoilt me, you know. Dirtied me up. Ruined me, Mycroft."

"Oh, let's not be dramatic."

Sherlock's hand withdrew, halting its gentle exploration. Mycroft swiveled to face him. "You're not the least bit penitent, are you."

"You wouldn't find me half as fascinating if I were." He favored the boy with a smile, privately delighted by the slight widening of his eyes. He dropped his hand to Sherlock's hip, stroking absently over the sharp lines of his pelvis. "Well? I was under the impression you wanted to exchange."

Re: CRITIQUE ME: Quid Pro Quo (Mycroft/Sherlock), incomplete

He pitied the boy, really. He was already all aflush, his pains to hide it beneath a veneer of coquettishness notwithstanding. When he climbed into Mycroft's lap, he couldn't help a smile. Sherlock responded in kind, arms twining about Mycroft's neck to steady himself. He bit his lip, prettily. Such an obvious affectation should have seemed garish---entirely too artificial to be at all appealing---but it was a pleasing affectation all the same.

Mycroft slid the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's mouth, catching on one of his sharp little teeth.

"Go on," he encouraged. "Suck."

Sherlock's face flooded with red for the briefest second before the pink tip of his tongue flicked out, wet and tentative against Mycroft's thumb. He pushed it a little deeper, pleased at the utter lack of resistance as Sherlock's mouth closed softly around the digit. Suction followed moments later, accompanied by soft, suckling noises that sent his cock swelling.

He slipped his thumb free, gently brushing away the lingering saliva along Sherlock's bottom lip.

Sherlock batted at his hand. "I can do it myself, Mycroft."

"I've no doubt." He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands over his abdomen. "I think I'll have you naked, now. Eyes on me."

There were few sights more pleasing than the tremulous striptease of a boy forced to watch you watching him undress. Sherlock performed with stiff-necked pride, beginning with the buttons of his shirt until he stood bare in front of Mycroft, naked as the day he was born and infinitely more intriguing. He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock hard, not at this stage. It was the thrill of obedience, coupled with the possibility of insubordination; the mild perversion flavored with a deeper taboo.

Sherlock liked this, even if he was too proud to admit it.

"Closer now, pet."

Sherlock held back, wary. "What for?"

"Don't worry; you'll enjoy yourself, I'm sure."

He caught Sherlock by his soft, slim hips and tugged him forward. It was almost too easy to flip him round and the boy bent over all on his own, arse presented in vulgar delight. Such a smooth, plump bottom. Sherlock responded with a sharp intake of breath at Mycroft's hands spreading his cheeks wide.

He blew lightly over the exposed hole, eliciting a delicious, full-bodied quiver. The barest touch of his lips made Sherlock jerk away.


"How did you imagine I'd get you wet enough to take my cock, you silly boy? Now do as you're told and behave."

Sherlock sunk back to his former position, aided by Mycroft's hand planted firmly on the small of his back. Mycroft dove back in immediately, trailing wet little kisses over his brother's pink little hole and running his hands up and down the backs of his long, slender thighs. The way Sherlock was responding, he wouldn't even need his fingers. The flicker of Mycroft's tongue along his cleft and the light nosing over his perineum were making him unfold without difficulty.

He spat and Sherlock reared up. "That's revolting, Mycroft."

Mycroft ignored his outburst and pressed him back to the desk. The gob of saliva was already slicking its way down the curve of Sherlock's arse. Mycroft spread it with his tongue, licking and laving, harder now. Sherlock wriggled atop his desk, breathing hard and shaking with every pass of Mycroft's tongue over his wet little hole. He was so lovely like this. It was a wonder he hadn't considered it before.

Mycroft used both thumbs to spread his pucker wider. It gave easily under the pressure of his fingers, exposing a soft, pink centre. He let just the tip of his tongue slip inside, fighting the urge to smile when Sherlock gave a jerky press back toward his face. It was almost too easy to sink his thumbs into Sherlock, both at once.

"You're ready for me now, aren't you," he remarked, pleased by the ripple down Sherlock's spine as he fought not to roll his arse into Mycroft's hands. "Ready to sink back onto my prick. Admit it."

Can you please critique my fic?

I'm writing an epistolary fic on the meme, and I would love to get your honest opinion on it. It's my first time writing something only in texts, and I'd like to know how I'm handling the format.

English is not my first language, so please be brutal when SPAG is concerned.

I'm also not british, so brit-picking would be greatly appreciated.

Also, I would love to know what you think of my characterization, about the cases, the relationship...anything.

Re: Can you please critique my fic?

A link would be nice, right? ;)

Re: Can you please critique my fic? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-27 03:49 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Can you please critique my fic? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-27 04:10 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Can you please critique my fic? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-27 04:20 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Can you please critique my fic? - (Anonymous), 2012-06-27 04:56 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Looking for a bit of advice/critique of my WIP

It's meant to be a largely funny piece involving some character/relationship introspection, but instead it's the other bloody way around.

Basic premise is it's established relationship Mycroft/Lestrade and Mycroft takes Lestrade up to visit Mummy Holmes for a week. This turns out to be not a good idea.

I'd be sincerely appreciative if someone even took the time to just read the first chapter (of two, currently) and give me some feedback as to whether it's... you know, well written, in character, interesting, etc.

I've posted it up on AO3, here's the link:

Trying to work on third chapter, but the plot is beginning to feel stale, and I'm wondering if I shouldn't cut it down from 7 chapters to about 4/5.

Any advice/criticism you could give me would be gratefully received! Don't feel like you need to sugar-coat it: I'm an editor, I understand the need to cut, revise, etc. Whether or not I actually do it in my work without prompting is another matter...

(Also, "Show deaddss"? Mycroft, what are you smoking?)

Re: Looking for a bit of advice/critique of my WIP

Okey-doke! Characterisation etc seems fine to me - it's funny, it's sweet, the dialogue is great.

1) The main problem seems to be that there are way too many words - did you realise that there are nearly two thousand words just describing the car journey? It's hard to pick out obvious sentences to delete as they're all good, but I think you really need to be brutal in pruning them away so that the important ones can stand out.

Take the beginning. That's a great first sentence, but the rest of the first three paragraphs is forgettable and distracts from that lovely opening hook. If you delete them (apart from the first sentence) and start the second paragraph with 'The night Mycroft returned from Cornwall, dinner had been a quiet affair', then it's much punchier. The necessary bits of information can be slipped in later.

2) I'm not sure about POV - are there a couple of slips into omnniscient narrator? 'and he should probably start from the beginning' and 'And, shut up, he had every right to be a dramatic ponce about it'. Is he addressing the reader? Sorry, I'm not great at the technical terms. Anyway, something about it feels odd.

3) Minor points - 'babe' is an unlikely term of endearment for Brit, 'Ay' is a bit too regional for a Londoner, and you've put 'fourties'.

Good luck! You have my sympathy; I hate murdering darlings.

Losing Hope

Can someone please take a look at this ( and tell me what's wrong with it? Especially the rape scene.

Re: Losing Hope


1) As you're writing an AU, you need to have a bit of exposition at some point explaining the rules of your universe. What's the significance of wings, and how do they affect the story? A good rule of thumb with fantasy elements like wings is to leave them out unless the add something significant to the story.

2) The main problem with the rape scene is that it seems to be completely unmotivated. Especially for a character like Sherlock with very little sexual experience in canon, this seems completely out of character and you need to do a lot of work to make it seem convincing.

Secondly, why are there no consequences? John could easily press charges, and I would expect Sherlock to have some feelings about it after the fact.

Again, as with the wings, what is this adding to the story? What are you trying to accomplish with it? If it's not working, you can always just cut out a scene.

3) People who read a fic for a pairing tend to prefer happier endings. This fic would probably be more popular if you removed the rape scene and removed the John/Sherlock tag.

Re: Losing Hope - (Anonymous), 2012-07-02 07:09 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Losing Hope - (Anonymous), 2012-07-02 11:01 pm (UTC)(Expand)

pokemon x sherlock 1/2

a/n: fic takes from anime and game canon. Main concerns: pacing, characterisation, and how accessible the fic is if you've barely played/watched


Greg eyed the sad bundle of feathers nestled between the wall and what he hoped was a replica Marowak skull. Nurse Joy had had a ladder installed when it became obvious the recalcitrant Murkrow residing on her storeroom shelf was both liable to injury and unwilling to vacate, but finding structures that would support the bulk of his body had been difficult since evolving into an Arcanine. If he did risk resting his front paws on the top rung, he'd probably just get a Wing Attack for his troubles. He directed his question at John instead, “What has he got for us, then?”

“You'll have about as much luck getting it out of him as I did,” John said. He had lined up a Full Heal and Super Potion next to the padded pallet that Nurse Joy had bought when her newest recruit had taken it upon himself to look after Sherlock. Greg liked John – he was as Scrappy as Stoutlands came – but he had an ability to use man-made items and a willingness to attack humans that Greg didn't like to think about too deeply. Well. Suspected willingness. They never quite figured out what happened to that cab driver. “Got hit with a Confuse Ray, and he's been moping ever since.”

“Hurt himself, did he?” He thought he saw Sherlock's feathers shift slightly.

“Flew into a tree.” Under the concern, John sounded annoyed. Sherlock had probably flown off like the mad berk he was. “Thought he'd fainted, but he had no trouble flying into his little corner when we got back, the git.”

“You Got Away Safely carrying him on your back?” Greg guessed.

“Just a Zubat.” John shrugged it off. Which it probably was for him, but Greg had always been crap at pinning the bastards down long enough to get in a good Flamethrower. “How's Officer Jenny?”

“Mostly annoyed, I think,” Greg said. He could just make out the sound of her voice from where she was talking with Nurse Joy in the lobby. It was a little higher than usual. “Professor Birch is a little shaken though, so the faster you can find that Treecko,” he raised his voice slightly, “the better, to be honest.” Officer Jenny's pitched upwards sharply in goodbye. “And that's my cue to leave.”


Sherlock hated being Confused. It was disorientating. Poison he normally quite liked for its intensifying effect on colours, but combined with being Confused it was beyond miserable. He passsed the time between mistaking the bark of a tree for John's fur and being carried into the PokeCenter in a muddled purple haze. He roused himself enough to drag himself up onto his shelf; high enough to avoid Lestrade's questions, but not high enough to not feel like the earth was pulsating beaneath him. Lestrade and John's conversation registered vaguely, but weren't loud enough to do more than to twinge at the edges of his mind. Nurse Joy picking him up though, that was simply jarring.

“Hush,” she soothed, and Sherlock let his mind shut down rather than listening to Nurse Joy natter on mindlessly as she worked.

The first conscious sensation he felt was the hard steel of the surgical table beneath him. The first visual input his brain interpreted was John, elevated on a stool, and staring at him stonily. Sherlock gathered his wings around him and headed him off, “I wasn't being reckless.”

“What – yes, you were, Sherlock,” John fired back. “You can't just fly into battle like that. Hold a Persim berry, at least,” he said, naming a berry that cured Confusion.

“I had a Sitrus berry.” Sitrus berries restored 30hp in a pinch. “I knew the Zubat had Poison Fang. Being Poisoned was an acceptable risk. I didn't just flutter in like a Beautifly; really, John, give me some credit.”

pokemon x sherlock 2/3

“Uh-huh. And did it ever occur to you that it was holding a Scope Lens?”

Ah, that would have explained how the Zubat had dealt so much damage. Air Cutter had a high critical hit rate, but not that high. “I had suspected,” he lied.

John looked unimpressed. “I know you think that you can faint, be revived, and have everything turn out fine, but you are very much mortal, Sherlock.”

Sherlock combed some of the feathers on his chest flat rather than answer.

“Right. Well, then.” The corners of John's mouth curled, and he looked away. When he looked back, he asked, “did you manage to achieve anything, then? Apart from being badly Poisoned?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said evasively. Interesting. Sherlock never remembered feeling quite so disorientated when he'd experimented with Poison Barbs. Perhaps he hadn't used them enough. “I need more evidence.”


“No,” Donovan said flatly. She stretched the not-inconsiderable length of her body and her tail across the entrance to the Lab. Sherlock looked at her, unimpressed, from where he was perched on John's back, before neatly soaring over her head. “Oh, for - ” John was very, very glad Liepards did not learn Glare. She twitched her tail aside. “You may as well go in as well. Might stop him from destroying the place searching for something shiny.”

Inside, Sherlock was not trashing the lab. He was flying in a slow, round circuit of the lab. Officer Jenny and Professor Birk gave John destracted smiles as he padded in, but remained talking in the corner. John could see what Greg had meant by Professor Birch being concerned, he had never seen the man so pale. As John drew level with Greg, Sherlock swooped down and landed neatly on John's head. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock settled himself, but didn't bother saying anything. Upon pointing out that there was plenty of ground Sherlock could land out, Sherlock had once distractedly said, “you're more comfortable,” to the great interest and pointed looks of Donovan and Anderson. John wasn't convinced. John suspected Sherlock simply liked forcing Lestrade to look up at him.

“Who had the Lab cleared of evidence?” Sherlock grumbled in Greg's direction. No sooner had Greg opened his mouth before Sherlock said, “Who was on forensics – no, don't tell me, it was Anderson, wasn't it.”

“Well, if you had gone to the Lab yesterday before running off after some footprints into a Zubat, you would have been able to see the Lab for yourself before Anderson had ID'd all the evidence.”

John tilted his sharply. Sherlock shut up for a blessed moment as he flapped to remain upright, but John could guess at what Sherlock was thinking. Anderson really did have unfortunate front teeth for a Raticate. “There was no evidence of forced entry,” Sherlock said slowly.


“And the Pokeball was completely intact?”


Sherlock was silent. “Right. Find me when you've got something worth my time.” Sherlock shifted in a way that indicated he was about to leave.

“Yeah, you're going to have to give me more than that.” Greg eyed him and added, “I'm not above using Fire Spin to trap you, if I have to.”

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock snapped. “Lead Officer Jenny down the path that John and I took through the forrest – it'll lead to a dead end surrounded by thickets. Find someone with Headbutt – even Anderson will do – and Headbutt the trees. It wasn't stolen; Professor Birch simply needs to learn to not to leave a bag with a Pokemon inside it lying around when he goes wandering off. In all likelihood it heard a wild Pokemon, escaped its Pokeball, and has been quite happily lounging about whislst you lot have remained her, mired in paperwork. Are we done?”

“And the Zubat?” Greg asked.

“A red herring,” Sherlock replied testily. “Are we done?”

“Yes, fine, well done,” Greg said, weary. “Thank you.”

pokemon x sherlock 3/3 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-01 04:10 am (UTC)(Expand)
Okay I'm stuck. This WIP has been giving me trouble for weeks because I'm not fond of where I accidentally started taking the story. Jim's personality didn't quite come out the way I meant for it to. Any crit/advice is welcome

Oof, 14k is a lot to look at! Can you narrow it down a bit?

(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 08:41 am (UTC)(Expand)
(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 12:37 am (UTC)(Expand)
(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 08:44 am (UTC)(Expand)
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(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 07:20 pm (UTC)(Expand)
(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 07:43 pm (UTC)(Expand)
(no subject) - (Anonymous), 2012-07-03 08:25 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Anon from Rant post

I'm the anon from this post here:

The story I think this is too similar for to my liking is coloredink's "Sleep Hath Its Own World" ( In my story, John is an artist and one day begins to paint portraits of a man (Sherlock). The paintings then come to life at night.

Anyway, it's around 4600 words long so I feel kind of bad posting the whole thing here, so feel free to TL;DR this...

The Paper of His Skin 1/7

When he was ten, John's grandmother gave him an artist's tool kit.

It came in an old and heavily-polished wooden box. It had a golden clasp that clicked into place when pressed against with both thumbs. John's thumbs were too small and too weak to close it at the time, so he had to get his grandmother to do it. She didn't mind.

Inside, John's grandmother had filled it with charcoal and graphite sticks, with pastels and coloured pencils, with watercolours and acrylic paints. There were wooden paintbrushes, their bristles clean and soft against John's skin. There was a pad of sketching paper, and two small stretched canvases. Everything was crisp and new and colourful.

“This is for grown-up artists, my love,” John's grandmother had told him as he sat in her lap. His hands were buried inside the wooden box, scattering graphite sticks and paint tubes. They rattled around the bottom of the box, rolled from one end to the other. John giggled.

“None of the other children are as lucky as you are,” John's grandmother told him. “None of them had grandfathers who loved to paint like yours did. None of the other children will grow up to be famous painters like you.

She told him, “None of them will ever make their grandmothers as proud as you make me.”

“My little artist,” she called him, and kissed him on the cheek.

John's father took the kit away from him that night, before dinner.

John cried and followed his father down the hallway to the cupboard. His father shoved the box away, up on the top shelf where John couldn't reach it. Even if he pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen down the hallway, even if he stood up on his tiptoes, he wouldn't be able to reach it.

“Stop crying,” John's father yelled at him. “Painting never did my father any good and it won't do you any good, either.”


Ten years later and John is standing in his mother's kitchen again.

He stands perfectly still in his pressed black suit and shiny shoes while Harry cries against her mother's shoulder. There's a small crowd of people behind him pretending not to notice. They pick white, wiry dog hairs off their black trousers and off the hems of their black dresses. The dog weaves through their feet, tail wagging.

“There's something for you,” John's mother says a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “In the cupboard. I think he left it for you.”

Harry watches, leaning against the wall as John drags the wooden box off the top shelf in the cupboard, standing on his the tips of his toes. The contents rattle inside as John lowers it down to the ground. John bends over the box, flicks open the clasp and looks inside.

Everything is the same as it was ten years ago. And at the same time, everything is different.

John closes the box and snaps the clasp shut with one thumb.

“How come you didn't say anything?” Harry asks him. He blinks at her shoes, and she continues. “At Daddy's funeral. How come you didn't say anything?”

John pauses. He thinks about it and can't come up with an answer. Instead, he looks back down at the wooden box and says, “Thanks, Dad.”

John grabs the box and leaves.


In between classes, John sketches in the park.

He sketches the children playing, the mothers pushing their baby prams, the old men feeding the ducks at the pond, and the dogs chasing after balls and flying discs. He draws the trees, the benches, the fountain, the buildings on the opposite side of the street. He shades in the brickwork with the edge of his graphite stick. His fingers leave dark smudges across the page.

John gives them silly, simple little titles. “The Running Dog”, or “Laughing Children”. One he calls “Incredibly Pregnant Woman”, and another he calls “Old Man Pretending to Be Asleep”.

He signs his name in the corner.

The Paper of His Skin 2/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:29 am (UTC)(Expand)
The Paper of His Skin 3/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:29 am (UTC)(Expand)
The Paper of His Skin 4/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:30 am (UTC)(Expand)
The Paper of His Skin 5/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:30 am (UTC)(Expand)
The Paper of His Skin 6/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
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Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 02:34 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:28 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - augustbird, 2012-07-15 03:42 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:31 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 05:20 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: The Paper of His Skin 7/7 - (Anonymous), 2012-07-15 01:34 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Untitled Scifi

I'm wondering if there is anything redeemable about this snip-it. It started off life as the entrance to a dub con, power play Sherlock/John PWP but it now wants to keep all the sex and add casefic on top, which scares me.


The badlands, frontier sectors, half-explored, half-virgin land and location of all the wars currently engaging the Alliance; not somewhere Sherlock knew much about. He had never understood the expansionist thrill or seen the interest in barely inhabited planets with their crude governments. Mycroft would know exactly where John had been posted but Sherlock was not interested. All he cared was why John had come to London, Area 1, Sector 1. He had no connections to the Sector 1 and the man was not an idiot, he would have known of the prejudice against soldiers in Sector 1. Raised on Lothian, Area 4, Sector 10 and educated on Queen Mary, Area 1, Sector 4; almost anywhere would make more sense than Sector 1. John was an interesting puzzle. A doctor and a soldier; with some training he would make the perfect assistant. Strong, controlled limbs belied the average facade. Not handsome but cute. He would be adorable around Sherlock's prick. Yes, John Watson would be perfect provided he showed up tomorrow.


New, New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service, oldest surviving police service in the Alliance. The Met is the amalgamation of the old earth national police services, themselves an amalgamation of the old local constabularies. A bad lot on the whole; concerned only with their masters problems. The vast majority of Area 1's populace found themselves at the mercy of independents of which Sherlock was one of the best and the only one consulted by Scotland Yard.

The best of the lot was Detective Inspector Lestrade; reminiscent of an overly loyal dog he owed his fealty to Mycroft. Mycroft’s interests lay towards the expansion and security of the Alliance and rarely coincided with the caseload of his pet Detective, which suited Sherlock’s purposes.

Lestrade might have been the best but he was still remiss. The body at his feet could have been avoided if any attention had been paid to the previous six deaths but they were workers. Evelyn Monroe mattered. The wayward daughter of Montague Monroe, owner of the largest shipping fleet in the Alliance, Evelyn Monroe reveled in visiting the places polite society pretended did not exist. In those dark and hidden places she had, in her arrogance, run into a monster preying on young workers. Now after ignoring Sherlock’s warnings for months, Lestrade expected Sherlock to find him.

“Not an easy death.” John spoke, looking up from his examination of the body. “Rushed, I’d say. Her neck was snapped early in his play.” Sherlock came to look at the body for the first time. “Normally, this kind of damage would be just the beginning.”

“Her bodyguards interrupted him.” Sherlock said letting his hands rest lightly on John’s shoulders. “He broke her neck before escaping.”

“Escaping, how?” Lestrade’s question was tinged with frustration. “There’s only one entry point.”

Sherlock despaired of the Met at times, “The vents, Lestrade.” He sighed. “Come along John. There’s nothing more to see here.”

Re: Untitled Scifi

I'd say there's far too much info dumping and exposition. The basic rule with exposition is you only tell people information when they need to know it for the purposes of plot.

The premise seems ok but what you've written is essentially a blurb for your story: 'in a world where...' not the story itself. Get your world building and plot out through dialogue and action and if you have to info-dump break it up a bit more and try not to front load it so much.

Possibly helpful link:

More specific comments:

Dialogue ends with a comma before the tag, not a full stop.

"Not an easy death,” John spoke...

"Her bodyguards interrupted him,” Sherlock said...

You have some tense swapping in some of the exposition.

I also have trouble believing Sherlock would ever think of anyone as cute...

WARNING: Don't read if participating in Sherlockbbc fic swap 1/?

I honestly don't know what to think of this. It was the best among a list of 'prompts' that I really had an issue writing. I'm not saying it's crap because I'm looking for...whatever...but it isn't my best work. It was like pulling teeth for me to write this.

It's a very very Third Star AU(a movie that I did not like and had several issues with.) and discussion of sherlock's return--with molly working for moriarty.

I use a speech to text program and have made as many corrections as I can in regards to this.

Just be honest. Considering what the prompter wanted, and the way they worded their request...I tried to match it.
Loss of Verse
2,126 words
Warnings: Character death.

Sherlock hadn't shut up from the moment they left the flat. John knew that he knew. And Sherlock knew that he knew that he knew. And round and round the issue like a poisoned pill.

John and Sherlock. Poetry to madness. 

But the poetry lost a verse. And the madness gained a voice.


Sherlock had researched about the body of water. The land that it surrounded. He researched sand, shells, and the movement of air. 

He researched 'till his "hardrive" was overloaded. 'Till it began to burn and smoke. For he couldn't. He just couldn't allow...

"It was a dark and not-at-all stormy night" Sherlock whispered. 

John jabbed his elbow into Sherlocks ribs. Sherlock let free a mock grunt of protest and turned to watch John.

"It's not as--"

"Boring?" John interrupted.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the ground, the fire, the sky and the stars. They settled on the blacked waves. "No. It's not"

"You didn't know" John tucked his hands beneath his head "did you?"

Sherlock shifted, his bare feet digging into the blanket beneath him.

"Dead men tell no tales."

Sherlock stopped breathing. He tried to stand in a fluid and controlled movement, but his feet were tangled in the blankets and his thoughts were curled into a ball. He stumbled, then recovered as he marched towards the water.

"You know" John called after him "if you'd said that it'd be just bloody, fucking 'that's Sherlock'." John tried to sound humorous, but  bitterness stained his tongue. 

John began to stand.  Pain made him close his eyes, he wavered in the feel of it. A hand pressed against his shoulder.

"Let the fuck go." John pulled from the grasp and stared at his feet. "There's always, always an excuse for you. John turned "always!"


"Don't. Don't you dare." John stood, clad in his worn jumper and his worn  pyjama  bottoms and his worn body. "Not now. It's the only thing I've asked of you. The only thing. See, I understood." John scrubbed his hand through his hair "when you came back, when you told me why, I understood. I didn't get angry. I didn't stop speaking to you like Mrs. Hudson. I didn't punch you like Lestrade."

"No." Sherlock's voice was steady, quiet and firm.

"Why won't you tell me? Because you were wrong? Because he won, in some bizzare way, in the end?"

"Because I trusted her." Sherlock gazed past John's shoulder. He could barely see the faint outline of dunes that he'd carried John down. 

"Oh" John mocked"Is that supposed to make me feel bad for you? Poor, lonely, 'sociopath' Sherlock had his feelings hurt?" 

Sherlock blinked his eyes towards John.

WARNING: Don't read if participating in Sherlockbbc fic swap 2/?

"You always pout and moan.  'John I can't go to the Tesco.' 'John, it's so tedious' and  John do. Every. Fucking. Thing. For. Me! John, I can be a heartless bastard because I don't understand!" John wavered and fell to the ground.

Sherlock moved with ease and kneeled into the sand. He reached his hand out. 

"I said get off me!" John pushed Sherlock's hand away, making Sherlock lose the balance he had and fall back slightly.

John fumbled in his pyjama bottoms and pulled out an amber bottle. He twisted the cap off, raised the bottle to his lips and took a deep drag of the syrupy liquid. "Do you know how easy you have it? Really? Do you know how much of a lie you are? A lie." John pressed the bottle to his lips again 

"John, st--"

"No! I could do it now."

Sherlock trembled. He wanted to reach out and grab the bottle, pull John towards him, hold onto something. He sunk his hand into the sand.

"I could swallow it all. So easy. So painless. Just 'slip away'" John studied the bottle "because that's what you want. You want me in your arms. In our bed. You want to encircle this witherd, wasted, worthless body in your arms. You want to whisper; 'goodbye' and 'I love you' and 'I'll never forget you John' as I stare in your eyes." John replaced the cap and shoved the bottle back in his pocket. "Right? For all your scoffing at romance and tenderness and storybook endings. That's what you want."

Sherlock dug his fingers in the sand, feeling each grain as they embeded themselves beneath his nails.

"From the moment I came to our flat, and replied to your first goddamn text to hand you your own bloody mobile. It's always been what you  want. You've always been able to act exactly as you want."

Sherlock breathed deeply "and people hate me for it."

John rolled his eyes. "No. They hate you because you manipulate them. Because you insult and degrade them. Because you frighten them. Because you experiment with them even though you know how dangerous  it is. Because you invent stories about them. Because you mock them." John rubbed at the flannel of his pajama bottoms "and because you enjoy it. Because it's all for your benefit. Because it's all pretend."

Sherlock lifted his fist from the sand, tried to count the grains as they tumbled and fell. He examined the dusting left upon his skin. "At least I don't dishonor the memory of-" He'd never been slapped. No, that isn't the truth. He'd been slapped before. However, the slaps he'd received had been from shock or disgust. From incensed clients and suspects. From Sally Donovan(though he always admired her for that). Never had a slap had such crippling power. 

Sherlock didn't raise his hand to touch his cheek. He raised his eyes to John. For the first time, for the very first time he felt ashamed. For Johns face had distorted into one of such shame and anger and hurt. Sherlock never knew such emotions could be brought forth so tangibly in someone.

John tried to stand. He fixed his knees beneath him, curled his fists, straightened his arms and pushed. But he'd been sitting to long. The drug had smoothed had veins, his body was just too weak.

"It felt like it though. It was, then. I couldn't understand." 

John laughed "Couldn't understand?" John bent his elbows and laid, stomach down. "I fell in love, Sherlock." Despite all the story-tales, despite the romantic notion; it can happen more than once." John turned his head, his eyes moved from Sherlocks hand up to his face "It happened to me. I loved her. When you degrade her, you degrade me."

Sherlock stiffened "I would neve--"

John folded his hands together and placed his chin on them  "Do you remember the kid with the two different coloured eyes?"

"Heterochromia iridum"

John frowned "That was his name?"

"No, idiot, the different coloured eyes. That's the name."

John snorted.


"I'm trying to have a serious conversation and you correct my grammar."

"I didn't correct your grammar, I provided the name of the disorder..."

John shot a hard, frustrated look at Sherlock.

"Go on"

"So, Heterochromia iridum"

Sherlock smiled.

OP - (Anonymous), 2012-08-20 12:12 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: OP - (Anonymous), 2012-08-20 01:02 pm (UTC)(Expand)
OP - (Anonymous), 2012-08-20 03:19 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 1/?

I've been kicking this around for a while without much luck. My original plan was to have one more scene after what I'm going to C&P below, but now I'm kind of thinking that with a little rearranging, what I have now might be sufficient and actually better in the long run. I'm feeling a bit lost. This isn't really my kink and so I'm not sure if I'm already getting repetetive or if I'd be okay to go another round.

Any criticism at all is welcome. Thanks. :)


"We missed you at dinner."

"Sod off, Mycroft."

"It's actually quite amusing," Mycroft says. He leans against the door frame and observes the Sherlock-shaped lump huddled beneath his brother's blankets. "Seeing that you're the one who lost control of your bladder all over my favorite herringbone trousers. Yet somehow, I'm still to blame."

There's no indication that Sherlock has heard, but he knows the boy well enough to differentiate between the instances in which he's truly being ignored and those in which Sherlock only wants him to think he can't be bothered to pay attention. This is, without a doubt, one of the latter.

"Mummy's all worked up, thinking I've something terribly wrong with me. Medically, you know. She won't be pleased if she finds out you're in here having a sulk."

She'll be even less pleased if she ever finds out what he plans to do, but Mycroft keeps that to himself. Relations with Sherlock proceed, as ever, on a strictly need-to-know basis.

"You antagonized me," Sherlock mumbles, much as a child might say, 'You started it'. "You ruined my experiment. With malicious intent."

"Perhaps," Mycroft acknowledges, "but not by pissing on it."

"Might as well have done."

"I take it you won't be joining us for coffee in the sitting room, then. Shall I tell Mummy you're ill?"

"Tell her whatever you want."


Sherlock finds him relaxing in the garden with Goethe and a mug of tea the following afternoon.

"I've figured it out. Figured you out."

"Oh, yes?"

"At first I thought you were angry."

"You did ruin a perfectly serviceable pair of trousers," Mycroft remarks, without bothering to glance up. He hasn't been reading for the last dozen pages, but he continues to turn them, one after the other, in a perfectly-timed pantomime. Sherlock does so hate to be ignored, particularly by him. "Most people would be angry."

"I thought you were angry," Sherlock repeats, voice strained, "but I was wrong. You enjoyed it."

"Is that a deduction or merely wishful thinking?"

Sherlock stares down at him contemptuously. Goethe goes the way of yesterday's trousers, tossed aside and in all likelihood ruined after its collision with his afternoon tea. Such a flair for the dramatic, his baby brother, and never willing to give an inch. Mycroft makes no move to stand, adjusting himself ever so slightly and letting his gaze stroke the placket of Sherlock's trousers. He flushes, predictably, and his mouth twists in an angry scowl---he hates to be found predictable even more than he hates to be ignored.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You would have retaliated, if you were angry."

Mycroft shrugs. "Unless I was biding my time, waiting for the right moment to strike."

"You had ample opportunity."

"Impulse breeds suspicion, Sherlock. Make note of that. It may serve you well in the future."

He hardly pays attention to the dialogue, too focused on watching, waiting for all those tightly-held seams to unravel and burst open right before his eyes. Sherlock’s irritation is palpable, the crackle of electricity igniting the air around them. Sturm und Drang, Mycroft thinks. There's sweat beading on Sherlock's brow and down the exposed curve of his neck.

He’s so painfully, dreadfully obvious in his anger. Mycroft would be ashamed to call him brother if it didn't make for such a delightful game.

Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 2/?

"You enjoyed it, you pervert," Sherlock says, with absolute conviction. "You were half-hard in your trousers before I even finished. You didn’t even wash up after. I listened outside the bathroom door. Running the tap might have been sufficient to fool Mummy, but it isn't enough to fool me." He clucked in disgust. "Your sheets must reek of it."

Mycroft gives him a long stare of consideration. Childish, defensive, and more than a little amateur, but on the whole, quite correct. Mycroft mentally assigns him half marks for the effort.

"You'd let me do it again," Sherlock says.

Mycroft smiles. "Developing a taste for it, are you?"

For once, Sherlock declines to answer, though the twitch of his hand, ever so slightly toward his flies, is answer enough. It’s almost too easy, but Mycroft is lazy with the summer heat and craving the indulgence. Easy or not, the results have been more than satisfactory thus far.

He had been pleasantly surprised the evening prior, when Sherlock had backed him into a corner, murder in his eyes and all of him thrown into vibrating rage. His cock swells at the memory of it, Sherlock's hand braced on his chest and the other tugging out his flaccid prick, pink and soft and lovely, before he aimed it at Mycroft's trousers and soaked him with a hot stream of piss that he'd trailed all down Mycroft's trouser leg, where it had soaked into his socks and finally into the hall carpeting.

Mummy had caught them half a second after Sherlock had tucked his cock back into his pants and shrieked.

"Mycroft had an accident, Mummy," Sherlock said, smug.

It hadn't been far from the truth. It had been an accident. Oh, letting the air into Sherlock's fermentation chamber had been entirely deliberate, if not painstakingly calculated, but exposing himself, to Sherlock of all people, had been completely unintentional. Of all the possible outcomes Mycroft had anticipated, the reality ranked rather far down on his list. Latent alpha male tendencies, he supposes. An urge to mark one's territory.

Sherlock shifts his thighs apart with a bare foot. "Did you masturbate after?"

"Did you?"


He says it so viciously, Mycroft feels obligated to humor him. He hasn't quite let go of the hope of a repeat performance, even factoring in the inconvenience of Sherlock having discovered his dirty little secret. At fourteen, Sherlock still shows too much on his face, and Mycroft can follow his thought process as easily as if it were being diagrammed before his eyes, greedily taking in every micro-expression and shift in posture, each step in the sequence bringing Sherlock closer to giving him what he wants.

When Sherlock pulls out his cock this time, it's more than a little swollen. He can see a soft roundness to Sherlock’s belly where his shirt leaves him exposed.

"You must be incredibly full," Mycroft remarks, and Sherlock quavers. "You've not gone since last night, have you? It must ache terribly."

At the word, the tiniest bead of fluid dribbles out of Sherlock's cock, leaving a damp spot on Mycroft's leg.

"Let's have it, then," he says, gently. "We wouldn't want you to mess yourself, now, would we?"

Sherlock gives a quiet whimper before the floodgates tear open in an erratic gush. His trousers only get a sprinkling this time, the bulk of it splashing onto the crisp, tailored linen of his shirt. Trickles of piss are diverted around Mycroft's collarbones and down his sternum in swirling eddies. It seems to go on forever with Sherlock wavering on his feet, pulse after pulse hitting Mycroft's front.

He slumps forward at the last, catching himself on the lattice and bringing his cock flush with Mycroft's face.

Mycroft leans up to take it in his mouth, forcing Sherlock to throw out his other hand to steady himself as Mycroft suckles at the head of his cock, tasting while the mess of his shirt grows tepid next to his skin. He curls a hand around the back of Sherlock's thigh, keeping him close, and gives an encouraging squeeze. He's rewarded with the barest trickle of hot fluid on his tongue and a pained noise from Sherlock as he forces the last bit of it free.

Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 3/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:24 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:24 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:43 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:49 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 05:32 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 01:20 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:57 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-27 08:36 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 03:55 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-27 08:42 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 10:32 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 4/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 04:00 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Mycroft/Sherlock, pisskink WIP 1/? - (Anonymous), 2012-08-26 11:11 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Molly/Irene 1/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex

Yeah, idk, posted this on the rant meme and now I'm thinking of posting it but I want to polish it. Also, should I add another scene wrapping things up, or not? Any critique welcome.


Being kidnapped is such a terrible bother. Irene really doesn’t know why she lets herself, sometimes. Not even if it is for a favour. Her back, legs and arms are aching – really, she’ll have to have words with dear Jim about how to properly kidnap a girl – and her hands are cuffed behind her back. She would tug at them – check the quality of the restraints, how hard it would be to get out of them – but she’s a little too groggy to do much more than retreat into her mind and plot. She does wish Jim wouldn’t use so much chloroform – she knows her eyes must be bloodshot as anything and her general appearance… well, bordering on ordinary.

She’s still breathing. That’s a plus. She arches her back, pressing into rough carpet and sighing ever so slightly. At least it’s not concrete, although she shan’t be staying here for very long so she doesn’t much care either way.

The first thing she sees is the cell. There’s no other word for it – it’s a police cell fitted out with cheap, yellow carpet and rusted iron bars. A genuine smile curls her lips. It’s a perfect example of his attention to detail and flair for the dramatic. The cell is about 6 by 8 feet – her measuring a remnant of her childhood spent in America. All she can see outside is a long, concrete corridor with several doors interspaced at uniform intervals. Directly opposite the bars in the cell is a ‘window’ that Irene knows Jim (or perhaps one of his assistants) is lurking behind. Such a voyeur.

She absorbs all this information in a few seconds, and almost immediately turns her attention to the delightfully unexpected addition to her cell. If there’s one good thing she can say about Jim, it’s his taste towards the surprising. He did so love to shock and astound people. Often by popping them in Semtex, but occasionally by doing lovely things like giving her a little present to amuse herself with.

The present is a very pretty young woman, her cupid face still slack in unconsciousness, but flickering every so often with a brief grimace as if she knows where she is. Irene is almost certain she doesn’t, but oh, it will be delightful watching her find out. She’s almost too excited at the thought of playing the part, pretending to be a sympathetic ear, but there’s no such thing as ‘too’ in her line of work.

The older woman – only by just a decade, it looks like, despite Sherlock’s rude assertions – shuffles over (and fuck the carpet burns) to the darling sleeping beauty, She leans back on her calves when she reaches the girl, tilting her head both to the side and forward to properly study the sweet thing.

And, oh, she is a sweet thing. Up close, her face is even more like a heart, rounded cheeks so fucking adorable that Irene almost wants to eat her up, and definitely wants to own her. She’s got a soft little mouth that the older woman just knows will look gorgeous rounded in a surprised ‘O.’ Her hair is a mousy kind of brown – slightly lighter than Irene’s own – and swept back from her face in a conservative pony-tail that screams virgin and they are going to have so. Much. Fun.

Irene’s tongue swipes across her own mouth in unconscious anticipation, before she bites down on her bottom lip. She takes a second to savour the mental images of red, raw marks striped across the girl’s back, pink mouth gaping open, nearly as glazed as her eyes (although she doesn’t have a colour yet, she knows, hopes, they will be brown,) barely smothered whimpers and groans and oh, please, stop.

Then she takes in a deep breath, smothering her growing excitement from the sheer anticipation and… the play begins.

Molly/Irene 2/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex

“Wake up, you have to wake up!” Good, her voice is the right mixture of pleading and terror. She makes sure her eyes are suitably wide – blown with arousal as they are, she can pass it off as fear. “Please,” a little bit of a sob, for added affect; she can see the girl’s eyes fluttering, “Get up!”

It takes a little bit more than that, but with a few more pleas and butts of her head against the girl’s shoulder, her eyes eventually flutter all the way open. “Oh!” the girl gasps, as if she were a Disney princess waking from an eternal sleep. Irene can feel arousal like a tight coil in her stomach. This will be beautiful. “Oh,” she repeats, “I don’t… W-where are we?” The stammer – so unexpected, dear God – is almost her undoing. She wants her now. But her desire is slightly dimmed by the genuine look of terror in the girl’s chocolate eyes. Irene doesn’t go in for rape; she’s been around long enough to see women (some would call them whores, but they are people whatever their career) utterly destroyed by it. She’s been in a few tight spots herself. Not a lot of them, though; due to her work she usually called the shots, but there were enough idiots in the world who thought no meant yes and that they could take an all-muscle, lithe woman wielding a riding crop and pure, instinctive anger.

So she waits, keeping her dominance under wraps, and pretends to be just as scared as this poor girl.

“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. She can guess, and be correct, but there’s no fun in that. “I was half-unconscious when they brought me in. The only thing I heard was…” She shivers and shakes her head. The girl looks even more terrified, breathing coming in short, shuddering pants. She needs to start building trust – she has a good framework already, but… “They mentioned a name. Sherlot, I think it was, or something like it.”

“Sherlock?” the girl whispers. “Why would they… I don’t know anything about him.” She’s well and truly afraid now, her eyes almost black due to her dilated pupils.

“Shhhh,” Irene soothes her, sliding in so she’s pressed upon against the girl. She’s delightfully warm against Irene’s skin, but shivering and shaking with fear, “It’ll be all right. I don’t think they’re going to do anything to us… What’s your name, pet?”

The girl doesn’t seem to notice the endearment, or, if she does, isn’t fazed by it. “M-Molly Hooper.”

“Molly,” she rolls it around her mouth, imagining pushing against the girl and whispering it into the shell of her ear along with all the filthy things Irene wants to do to her and watching as her cheeks become filled with red as she squirms... Oh, yes. Molly is an excellent gift, even if she doesn't know it. But she will. “My name's Irene, Molly; Irene Adler.”

Anyone interested in giving crit to a Moriarty/Moran fic? tw: spanking, daddy kink (1/?)

I've finally received an invitation to make an AO3 account and I wanted to post at least one fic I wrote but I don't have a beta to go over my work. Plus, I think I have a bit of a hard time grasping the characters and doing dialogue.

English is not my first language, so if anyone could critique this (SPAG, britpick, advice, anything) I'd be much appreciated! Don't be afraid to be completely honest and tell me what's horrible.

This is pretty much PWP with tw for spanking, daddy kink.


Jim knew he shouldn’t be touching, he had been warned against it but he was a curious lad and he couldn’t help but let his hands wander. He touched the bulky green bag, letting his fingers dance across the rough fabric and feeling the hard edges of what it concealed inside. Suddenly a noise was heard outside, his spine got rigid and his fingers quickly retreated, his whole body trembled in alert for a second, eyes fixed on the door as if he waited for it to be slammed open and a strict figure come out for him in anger, fully knowledgeable of what he had been doing behind the closed door.

That moment, however, never came. He backed away from the bag for a few minutes before he reached it again, resuming his touching. He finally released a resolute sigh and grinned to himself as he opened the bag and revealed the content inside of it. He had always thought of touching it but Sebastian never let him do it, too dangerous for him, he said. Jim was already dangerous for himself but that didn’t mean he had ever had gun training, much less with a sniper’s rifle. But he did want to touch one. He was mesmerized when he first saw one in action and Sebastian made it seem like yielding one was an art. His skilled fingers always knew where to touch even when he wasn’t looking, his hands caressed it and took care of it like it was his lover and Jim loved watching that.

He took one of its parts from inside the bag and carefully brought it close enough for his eyes’ scrutiny. He stared at it for a while before he took another part from the bag and stared at both of them, wondering if he’d be able to put all parts together. However, before he could spare another thought the door flung open and Sebastian really entered the room this time. Shocked, Jim let the metal parts in his hands fall on the floor and his eyes widened scared at Sebastian’s face, seeing an angry expression form on his face as he processed the information of Jim disobeying him, touching his rifle and letting parts of it fall on the floor.

Jim stumbled backwards when Sebastian lunged forward, his knees turning into jelly as soon as Sebastian’s hands encircled his wrists, gripping him hard. He immediately started spouting and babbling for forgiveness.

“Please, please… I’m sorry-- I didn’t… You have to forgive me…” he cried in a faked alarmed voice and Sebastian gripped his wrists with more force.

“That’s what you deserve for disobeying me, don’t you think?” Sebastian hissed in an irritated tone before tossing him onto the floor. Jim felt a dull pain when he fell on his back but he didn’t voice it out. “What did I told you about touching my rifle?”

Jim’s eyes trailed back to Sebastian’s and he gulped.

“Do you like to get punished?” Sebastian growled with menacing eyes and Jim shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from him. “No? I’m starting to think you do. What did I told you?”

“I…” Jim stammered with his mouth, his breath quickening as he felt at loss of what to say and ended up closing it.

Sebastian eyed him for good measure before turned on his heels and sat on the sofa. “Come.” He looked at Jim still on the floor and patted his lap. Jim swallowed dry and got up until he was in front of him. “You know what to do.” Sebastian sighed in annoyance and yanked him by his wrist, making him lay across his body, his front settled along Sebastian’s thighs.

Re: Anyone interested in giving crit to a Moriarty/Moran fic? tw: spanking, daddy kink (2/?)

“You know what comes next, don’t you?” Sebastian’s firm voice accompanied his fingers tracing Jim’s spine and Jim shivered involuntarily.

“Yes” Jim nodded. “Sir.” He quickly added when Sebastian’s hand slid along his bottom.

“That’s not quite it, is it Jim?” he felt the strict tone reverberating in his ear and just as the right answer came across his mind his whole body tensed when a strong hand slapped against his arse, leaving a burning sensation with pain flourishing briefly at the contact like an electric shock. Before Sebastian got the chance for another slap, he said it loud in a hurry.

“Yes, Daddy!” The hand that was going to spank him again, rested again his bottom soothingly.

“And what do you know it comes next?” Sebastian’s voice came low and rough in his ear, making his thoughts mushy. He always loved that tone in Sebastian’s voice.

“Punishment.” He muttered under his breath, arousal prickling along his stomach as he rolled the word off his tongue.

“Why do you deserve punishment?”

“Because I touched your rifle when you said you didn’t like anyone touching it and you explicitly told me not to, also because it could be dangerous. I’m sorry… Forgive me.” Jim licked his lips nervously.

“While I do like how obedient you are now, you still deserve punishment for what you did. I can’t have you walk off on things just because you apologized.” Sebastian caressed his hair, voice filled with a sweet laced tone to it.

Jim let a little whine out from his throat. “Please…” he begged even though he didn’t mean it. He looked over his shoulder to see Sebastian looking at him with his lips curved a little bit upward.

“How many do you think you deserve?” Sebastian looked pensive for a while before his gaze focused again. “How about fifty?”

Jim stared at him with a pleading look. “Please, Daddy not--” his voice was cut off with a yelp when Sebastian’s hands collided against his arse roughly again. “Daddy…” his breath hitched in his throat and his whole body tingled with arousal, he felt his groin twitch in interested despite his arse didn’t especially like the abuse. It hurt but he wanted more.

“You are not counting, Jim.” Sebastian slapped him across his bottom again.

“One!” Jim started counting immediately.

“Two!” this one felt particularly harder.

“Three!” he gasped, hands clutching the nearest pillow.

“Four!” he squeezed his eyes shut trembling.

“Five!” Sebastian’s hand stroked his abused skin through the fabric of his trousers. The only sound in the room was Jim’s ragged breath.

“Hmm” Sebastian mused after a few seconds. “I don’t think this is a real punishment if you can’t feel it on your skin. Up.” He ordered.

Jim gingerly pulled himself up again, his knees protesting a bit from the uncomfortable position he had been. He quickly disposed of his trousers and was on his way to finish unbuttoning his shirt when Sebastian gripped his hands for the third time.

“Leave it on. What I really want you to take off are these.” Sebastian tugged down on his pants and helped him getting out of them. Jim suddenly felt very naked to the other man’s eyes in his obvious state of arousal, so he kept staring at his discarded pants, pretending to be embarrassed. He felt his eyes linger on his front with a smirk pulling up his lips and then rest again at his face. “Lay down again.” And Jim did.

“It isn’t even red yet, much less pink.” Sebastian snorted. “All that whining, I actually thought I was doing some work.” He stared at the firm, round muscle covered in smooth pale skin in front of him and cupped it in appreciation.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Jim spoke softly, the touch on his arse making all the nerves on his back very alert and sensitive.

“We still have time to fix this, don’t we?” Sebastian kissed the pale skin, feeling it tremble under his lips. “Don’t forget to keep counting.”

Jim nodded at the order and gripped the pillow in his hands again, waiting for another blow. “Six!” He moaned hotly when it finally rippled against his skin.

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