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 The Procedure @ AO3


A couple StrexCorp doctors help out at the Night Vale branch of Planned Parenthood.

The procedure turned out to be a lot messier, using the Desert Bluffs methodology.



(And then there's Dreamwidth.  Poor neglected completely superior Dreamwidth.  I give up hope that fandom will migrate here, because I am part of the problem.  sigh)

merripestin: (Default)
The Discernment of Spirits on AO3
 
John was supposed to bring the suspect back to this hotel room to look at some fake Ming Dynasty pottery.
 
Sherlock wasn't expecting John to run into Sarah, finish off the case, and bring her back to the hotel for sex.
 
John wasn't expecting Sherlock to bug the room.



I know, all I ever post here anymore are fic links.  Not likely to change soon either, as Semester has begun and other ugliness is grinding down all my cope.
merripestin: (Default)
 Comorbidity on AO3
Sherlock/John.  Oral sex, figging, necrophilia.
Previously known as "What the fuck did I just write?"

One night in the shower, after John found out about Sherlock's... kink, he impulsively wrenched the handle around to cold.
 
It was worse, when it was John.
It was better, when it was John.
 
(no actual dead people or sex therewith)

 
merripestin: (Default)
 London Orbital on AO3
 
"I’m driving first," Sally said. “Guv can take over after me. If we’re all still mad enough to be at this after that, John can drive third shift. Then the freak, if we decide we can risk it."
 
"John doesn’t drive," said Sherlock.
 
"Then what’s John along for?" Sally protested. Which Greg reckoned had to be just Sally trying to wind Sherlock up. She knew better. All night in a car with Sherlock was bad enough. All night driving round and round the M25 looking for a killer, with Sherlock deprived of John Watson, sounded like a new circle of hell.



merripestin: (Default)
 Umbrella Defense on Ao3  
 
Five universes where Mycroft Holmes saved his little brother (in five 221B’s).
 
Including zombies, wizards, 1984, and a boy on a diet.


 
Meanwhile this migraine just keeps hanging on behind my eyes, occasionally sending a spike through my brain to remind me it's there, and the perscription ibuprofen is not helping very much, but I'm afraid to go back to the vicodin, because it sometimes made me throw up for hours.
merripestin: (Default)
Tangent to a Surface on Ao3

 John and Greg up against a wall, after a case.  Casual, yeah, casual sounds perfect.
 
"Grinding, eh? My day," Greg said against the side of John’s head, “we called this a dry hump."
 
"Frottage," John corrected, adjusting his angle.
 
"Oh, hark at the posh lad," Greg mocked, and rocked a little bit, like he thought this was going to be subtle.

 
I often wish AO3 didn't use "relationship" for both "sex between these people" and "here's the relationship this is really about," because I never know how to tag stuff like this.  This is like that time I wrote Giles/Ethan porn that was actually all about Giles being miserably in love with Buffy.  Except this is upbeat, verging on fluffy.  

Also, I was going to post this like, two hours ago, but I was all,  "Fuck, how do you titles?"  Still not happy with it.
merripestin: (Default)
 Coming Home to Lochdubh

After No Man Is an Island, Isobel brings Hamish home.

Before he’d been ashore five minutes, someone started telling him he really had to see to old Anna, did he know what she’d been at, up in that cottage of hers?  And someone else asked what he meant to do, Hamish, about the bicycles, Hamish, shouldn’t he see to that, Hamish, as it was a living disgrace, Hamish, really it was.  The air was salt and chill on his skin and he was tired and sore, and they’d wear a man to death with their schemes and their feuds and their pet problems, and he loved the place like it was the whole of the earth.  He felt like Lazarus.

 

A fic that is almost certain to get fewer reads than even the Talisman slash (which itself has fewer reads than the One Foot in the Grave femmeslash (!)).  But it is finished which makes it better off than all the other little fuckers messing with me these days.

merripestin: (Default)
snrk, I'm actually amazed that it took an entire week for somebody to complain that Safe Distance's ending is disappointing because Sherlock and John never had anal sex.

I mean, aware as I am of the weirdness of privileging anal as the ultimate consummation (because it's the closest thing to PiV, I suppose)  I do enjoy the fantasy of awesome soul-merging penetrative sex, probably because I've spent my entire life marinating in heteronormative male sexuality (or as we call it, sexuality).

But that's exactly what this story wasn't about.  

If I'd put in a scene of anal for this particular version of Sherlock and John during the time period of the story, it would probably have ended with John in a coma, having asphyxiated after triple-bagging his cock and then attempting to stretch a condom over his entire body, headfirst.



On the other hand, somebody did finally notice which ACD story it was based on (or possibly everyone did, but everyone else thought it was too obvious and were to embarrassed for me to mention it.)

merripestin: (Default)
Safe Distance on AO3

The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It's a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder? At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.

This week Chapter 11
John at eighty would be tiny and gnarled. His taste in clothes would finally suit him. His gold would have faded to grey, and the little lines on his face would collapse into ravines. He would look out from under white eyebrows just as fierce, but twice as wry.

And he had just given that, that wonderful, terrible, doubtless hugely annoying old man, to Sherlock, to keep.

Given the events of this week, I'm adding a trigger warning for this chapter: there is an explosion, and someone is injured.

This brings to its end my experiment in posting chapter by chapter instead of posting the whole fic when I finished it in February. OMG.  falls over, screams, dies

Tiny text is tiny again.  Why is pasting text into dw so WEIRD?"

merripestin: (Default)
Safe Distance on AO3

 


The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It's a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder? At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.

 

This week Chapter 10

"Do you know? Do you even know?" John whispered. He drew back enough to look up at Sherlock's face. "You are phenomenal."

Sherlock's mouth tilted up only on one side. "That's the point, John, it wasn't-- "


John stood, crowding Sherlock against the side of the table. "Shut up. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you. You're a fucking phenomenon. You -- " he shook his head, grasping for words. "You're like, I dunno, vaccine. Cubism. You're silicon fucking chips. Never mind. You do know. Lack of self esteem isn't one of your problems."

I just know everybody's at the con and nobody's going to read it...

 (We shall see if I have managed to strip out all the weird formatting this time.  Why this is so hard, I don't know.)
merripestin: (Default)

 

 Safe Distance on AO3

The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It's a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder?  At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.

 

This week Chapter 9

The world was vivid. A sharp edge of shattered collarbone announced itself to his hand so that he could shift his palm to keep pressure in place so it wouldn't turn and break through skin. John's hands were hot and rock solid, keeping their work stable as they got a stretcher under the man. He rose in perfect unison with the medics, as if unfolding, unaware of muscles in his legs or any effort. They were a single creature as they got into the ambulance, the man they were moving not jarred at all. John saw Sherlock, standing there, staring, as they went by. John saw everything.




Stupid work, getting in my way all day...





merripestin: (Default)

 

 Safe Distance on AO3

The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It's a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder?  At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.

 

This week Chapter 8…in which Sherlock solves the case, and things get very bad, very fast.
 

Sherlock's head was surprisingly hot in his palm.  Sherlock was wearing that cologne that smelled to John vaguely like green tea, odd but very pleasant.  Sherlock's shirt was blue so dark it was nearly black and so smooth it looked like the fabric might have been shaved from some solid block instead of woven.  The base of his throat was pale and heaving with breath.  His face was amazing.  He seemed beautiful and alien, eyes nearly silver, and the complex curls around his head seemed outlined in light. 

 


The hardest part of posting this on a weekly schedule has been  waiting all these weeks to post this chapter.

merripestin: (Default)
 
The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It's a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder?  At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.
 
This week Chapter 7
John stood there very straight, very still, looking kindly and pleasant.  He was rubbing the knuckles of his index and middle fingers past each other in a way that meant he had about seven minutes more patience before his temper flared.   Sherlock saw within a minute that there was nothing decisive on the gun, but decided to use about five more of those remaining minutes just to enjoy this.  There were parts of seventeen types of deadly weapons scattered on Way's workbench, and John was quietly standing there being the most dangerous object in the room. It was very, Sherlock thought happily, like being in a relationship with a small amount of manganese heptoxide.  Except that John smelled very nice.


Very little time for polishing this week, so hope I didn't miss too many tyops.
 
merripestin: (Default)
  Safe Distance on AO3

The mother was apparently poisoned, the son seems to have killed himself playing Russian roulette. It’s a murder and a suicide. Or is it a suicide and a murder?  At least the case is distracting John from the fact that sex with Sherlock was probably a mistake right from the start. John will learn to cope, one way or another.

This week Chapter 6

John’s submission, so carefully judged, so wholly deliberate, was faintly frightening, like a block of C4 pressed into his hands, but John’s shocking pliancy lasted exactly as long as he wished it to, and then he became immovable, bedrock. It was like living with a particularly charming shear-thickening fluid, or possibly a very personable rheopectant. Yes, that was John, highly explosive, kissable oobleck. 


more than halfway through now.

merripestin: (Default)
 Safe Distance on AO3

Somehow John had never been taught the appropriate way to act when your best friend came back from the dead.  But Sherlock is back, and they’ve got a case — a suicide and a murder (or possibly vice versa).  John will learn to cope, one way or another.

this week: Chapter 4 …

Sherlock's eyes and mouth suddenly went round, the way they did when his genius careened round some hairpin turn of logic and crashed into a conclusion.  With his curls a mess, barechested in John's bed, the familiar blissed-out expression suddenly had implications that made John feel extremely odd.  "Dimmock's Russian roulette case!"  Sherlock shouted, sitting up fully.  He snatched the mobile away from John.

Later they interview some elderly bridge players, and Sherlock settles on a playlist for sex.


Stupidly busy at work, but gave this a last polish and posted it.

merripestin: (Default)
 
Somehow John had never been taught the appropriate way to act when your best friend came back from the dead.  But Sherlock is back, and they’ve got a case — a suicide and a murder (or possibly vice versa).  John will learn to cope, one way or another.
 
this week: Chapter 3 …
 
Sherlock moaned, no other word for it, and his hands now clutched at handfuls of the back of John’s jumper.  His mouth pressed and moved gently around John’s invading tongue like he wanted it there, right there.  He was just barely sucking on it.  He might have been the taller one, the one leaning down, but his mouth over John’s was soft and entirely receptive and christ, riding John’s tongue.

Now we've reached the porny bits.  Yay porny bits.  


merripestin: (Default)
Posted at AO3

(12K) Once Upon a Time, Rumplestiltskin/Belle, Explicit

Belle is there, in his house, a fortune un-earned.

Until his will crumbled, he would pretend to be what she thought he was, what she thought she wanted. He’d lay his mangy hide down at her feet and let her hands soothe him and pretend not to be rabid and broken.




Its a silly show, but Rumplestiltskin fucking owns me right now.


Also, I've been more or less living on #antidiogenes, and it is FUCKING MAGIC.  Write ALL THE WORDS!!!  

merripestin: (Default)
 So, the antidiogenes chat this weekend was utterly fab.  I'm more or less useless at human interaction because, well, who'd want to talk to me, but I managed to sign in both yesterday and today, and it really was very nice.  The focus was really on a 30 minute word-war every hour, after which people posted their favorite sentences (which was absolutely the best bit).

I'm trying out that thing everybody on the planet says is the Productive Way To Get Words Written, where you write a first draft at breakneck speed and don't sit there and futz with the words all the time.  

I produced 7000 words over the weekend.  I like maybe 50 of them.  

It just isn't as. . . joyful as writing in my usual way where I wriggle around in the sentences and drown in the words and play with everything forever.  On the other hand, it's less shamingly hatefully awful than sitting there staring at a blank page and producing nothing at all.  I suppose the real question is, can I actually later go back and turn any of the stuff I produced into palatable story?  

It does not particularly help that what I'm chipping away at now is an immensely long casefic with all kinds of problems, such as the need for actual plotting, and I don't know why I'm even writing it except for my lifelong devotion to the sunk cost fallacy.

Of course, with the semester heading for me at gale force, complete with one class in a format I was not prepared to teach and just found out I was doing a couple days ago, I may well disappear up grading's ass in a few weeks and not reappear until school shits me out again after finals.
merripestin: (Default)
Title: Drouk
Author: Alma Anor
Reader: [personal profile] merripestin 
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John (also Jim/Sherlock, Jim/John)
Rating: E 
Warnings: Non-con, Dub-con, Torture, Omegaverse.  
Length: 2:01:00
Summary: While Sherlock and John are being held prisoner by Moriarty, John goes into heat. Jim chains them up just out of reach of each other and plays with John himself. 
 

Seriously, do not ignore the warnings.  I can't believe I did this.

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