Fill - Royal (1/?) - please read warnings
anonymous
June 6 2011, 00:34:55 UTC
Sort of John/Sherlock? Warnings for non-consensual semen feeding and Sherlock basically being creepy.
Stage One: Collection
It takes Sherlock forty-two days. Almost every day, when he has a quarter hour to spare, he washes his penis to remove any contaminants, and then he fits a vinyl blood donation bag (liberated from Bart's) over the glans. Then he lubes his right hand and strokes his shaft until he reaches completion.
At first he tried internet pornography. Useless. Several of the video clips he watched actually rendered him unable to climax. He has an easier time understanding murder motives.
Sometimes Sherlock tries fantasising. He pictures the person he loves most (John), deduces what he looks like naked (an absurdly simple feat), and imagines him performing sexual acts (with Sarah, solo, with Sherlock). It's not as stimulating as he has been led to believe. He keeps getting distracted by the bullet exit wound in John's shoulder (the one John still hasn't let him see, not once), the way John grimace-smiles when he's adjusting to discomfort, the way his dominant left hand is less sure than his right. Sherlock wants to text John at once with a clever inference about his masturbation habits, or an observation that will make John smile without pain, or a pointless order he knows John will obey. None of which helps Sherlock stay focussed on the task at hand, though he's perfectly capable of texting one-handed.
A few times, Sherlock has tried fantasising about other people. Picturing Moriarty gave him a frisson of interest. Then he remembered John's face in that parka hood and gritted his teeth and felt himself go flaccid.
He once tried picturing Anderson on his knees, begging to taste Sherlock's semen and being denied. That cut his ejaculation time almost in half. But Sherlock felt so disgusting afterwards that he decided it wasn't worth it.
Most of the time, Sherlock lets his mind drift a bit.
He thinks of worker bees secreting royal jelly and feeding it tenderly to their chosen monarch: the larva bathed in the pearlescent gel, the mature queen still eating the fruit of her subjects' glands.
He thinks of John eating the toast and tea Sherlock made for him several weeks ago. Of seeing the thin layer of butter cut in the instantly recognisable pattern of John's teeth. Of the milky Darjeeling that glazed his lower lip.
When Sherlock is nearing climax, he thinks of releasing a full bladder. He thinks of blowing his nose. He thinks of sustaining a G3 on his violin.
One way or another, he manages.
Afterwards, he seals the sample and adds it to the row of bags in the frigidaire. John won't throw it out. These days, John doesn't even bother to ask.
Re: Fill - Royal (2/?) - please read warnings
anonymous
June 6 2011, 02:14:32 UTC
Stage Two: Cookery
Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson he needs to borrow her cookbooks and a jam jar for an experiment, but he makes certain to sound unconvincing. He bites his lip and stammers something about John's favourite foods. Then he pretends not to watch her face light up in an understanding smile. "Of course, dear, let me know if you need any tips. I used to make the best jam tarts in town."
She won't mention this "experiment" in front of John.
He sends John to Cardiff to gather data on someone Sherlock claims is a murder suspect. In actuality, the man is a tiresomely non-violent small-time crook, but Sherlock can't let his blogger get bored. Sherlock leaves his phone in the pocket of Mrs Hudson's apron so he can feel it buzz against his hip when John texts to say things like All I see under shirt cuff is ink on wrist. Hands are well washed, as one would expect of a murderer and Did he kill victims with a leaky pen? Should I reconsider asking him to sign fake petition? Please advise and Answer me, you git.
Sherlock puts the washed jar in the oven to sterilise it, along with the jam sugar. Then he pours the thawed contents of his sample bags into a saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly. As his earlier experiments proved, coagulated semen still liquefies normally after freezing. As it cooks, it grows whiter and more opaque. He adds the warmed jam sugar, which contains the necessary pectin, and feels the mixture thicken against his spoon.
Timing is tricky. As the books instruct, Sherlock takes a teaspoon of the jam and plops it onto a cold plate on the table. He leaves the hot grey-white globule there while he stirs. It looks fairly jam-like. He dabs it with one finger. Slight wrinkling on the surface - yes, it's set. He removes the saucepan from the stove at once, using the spoon to skim off the greyest bits that have risen to the top.
He decides to pour the jam right away, since it doesn't contain any solid fruit that could float to the surface. It pours more smoothly than he expected. He covers the jar with waxed paper before sealing it.
He does lick the spoon, of course, as he has always done. Not that he needs to. He already knows it will taste sweet and mild, much like the pineapples and wheatgrass and celery he's been living on, with a bitter salty edge that actually enhances the sweetness.
John texts Broke into his basement. Windows all covered in black paper, had to rip it. Did you know he has a printing press? and Sherlock forgets the jam and spends a few minutes grinning madly at his phone. Counterfeiters are dull - Sherlock knows where he could round up half a dozen of them in an afternoon. But he only knows one man who would break into a murder suspect's house for an adrenaline rush and a chance of making Sherlock happy.
Try to get a clear pic from outside basement window. Will meet you at hotel. SH He almost forgets to take the apron off before he leaves.
Re: Fill - Royal (3/4) - please read warnings
anonymous
June 6 2011, 02:36:18 UTC
Stage 3: Forgery
Timing is tricky. Sherlock has picked the day Mrs Hudson leaves on holiday. The jam jar appears in the kitchen that morning with one of Mrs Hudson's hand-written labels affixed ("Tasty Surprise Spread") and a note, also in her handwriting. Almost forgot to leave this for you! It's an old family recipe, delicious on toast - and there's an extra batch of biscuits for both of you boys if you can guess deduce the ingredients. ♥
"Oh, good. We're out of jam," says John, waiting for the kettle to boil. "Looks a bit odd, though, doesn't it? I wonder what gives it that whitish-grey colour."
Sherlock thoughtfully makes enough toast for both of them.
Re: Fill - Royal (4/4) - please read warnings
anonymous
June 7 2011, 05:28:39 UTC
Stage Four: Consummation
John is reading headlines aloud, as he sometimes does, but Sherlock can't hear a word over the frantic buzz of his own thoughts.
John glances up at Sherlock with a gleam in his eye, sharing a joke of some sort. Sherlock returns his small, warm smile.
John's posture is relaxed, or as relaxed as it ever gets. His jumper is apianly striped. His hair is damp from the shower. The butter knife in his left hand, spreading a generous whitish glob over the toast, trembles in a way that indicates nothing except a recent lack of excitement. (Sherlock will have to find a new case soon, something dangerous.)
Sherlock's own hands are trembling on the edge of the stove. He bought their new tea kettle primarily for its highly reflective surface, but he can't bear to look away from John now. John's left hand is raising the slice of toast on which that marvellous globule quivers - quivers like it's alive, like it's writhing in anticipation of John's mouth - and something in Sherlock's lower abdomen is quivering as well.
John takes a bite.
His head jerks a little. "H'm!" he says, mouth full. He frowns at the toast in his hand.
"You don't like it?" Sherlock asks and instantly hates himself for sounding so small, so weak. John must have noticed by now how Sherlock is staring, how he's almost leaning on the stove for support. And yet no, he hasn't noticed.
"'S not bad," John mumbles, chewing. "Bit odd is all." And he swallows.
Sherlock swallows reflexively too, watching John's throat move. He feels a tiny damp spot in his underwear. His penis must have leaked a drop of preseminal fluid.
"Sort of reminds me of that durian fruit that one client of yours gave you, remember?" John remarks, inspecting the remaining glob, which now holds the scallop of John's bite and traces of his saliva. "Much sharper, though - a harsh sort of flavour. Not Mrs Hudson's usual fare. Try it."
"Possibly later."
"Don't know why I bother," says John good-naturedly. "One of these days I'm going to get a proper breakfast into you, I swear."
John finishes his slice of toast, jam and all. Sherlock feels tears pricking his eyes. He can't remember ever being so happy. He pictures his body's secretions being broken down inside John's digestive system, added to John's muscle and fat and short clipped fingernails. He has an absurd, childish image of a larval John, fed on nothing but sweet pallid jam, imprinted on Sherlock's scent, growing up into a perfect dangerous fuzzy yellow queen/colleague/helpmate/friend.
Which he already is, of course. That's why it's so absurd.
Could Sherlock's fluids really have such an imprinting effect, like pheromones? Or could his hormones have a perceptible influence, bringing John's biochemistry into synch with his? Unlikely, but not implausible. Worth testing over an extended period of time. Possibly with fresher samples, though the jam will always be Sherlock's favourite. He's put everything he is into that jam.
"I think this stuff is growing on me," John remarks, nibbling the last crust. "Wouldn't hurt to have some milk for the tea, though. Since you don't seem to have anything on at the moment -"
"Milk," says Sherlock. He only realises how low and deep his voice is when John looks up in surprise. "I'll get some."
Stage One: Collection
It takes Sherlock forty-two days. Almost every day, when he has a quarter hour to spare, he washes his penis to remove any contaminants, and then he fits a vinyl blood donation bag (liberated from Bart's) over the glans. Then he lubes his right hand and strokes his shaft until he reaches completion.
At first he tried internet pornography. Useless. Several of the video clips he watched actually rendered him unable to climax. He has an easier time understanding murder motives.
Sometimes Sherlock tries fantasising. He pictures the person he loves most (John), deduces what he looks like naked (an absurdly simple feat), and imagines him performing sexual acts (with Sarah, solo, with Sherlock). It's not as stimulating as he has been led to believe. He keeps getting distracted by the bullet exit wound in John's shoulder (the one John still hasn't let him see, not once), the way John grimace-smiles when he's adjusting to discomfort, the way his dominant left hand is less sure than his right. Sherlock wants to text John at once with a clever inference about his masturbation habits, or an observation that will make John smile without pain, or a pointless order he knows John will obey. None of which helps Sherlock stay focussed on the task at hand, though he's perfectly capable of texting one-handed.
A few times, Sherlock has tried fantasising about other people. Picturing Moriarty gave him a frisson of interest. Then he remembered John's face in that parka hood and gritted his teeth and felt himself go flaccid.
He once tried picturing Anderson on his knees, begging to taste Sherlock's semen and being denied. That cut his ejaculation time almost in half. But Sherlock felt so disgusting afterwards that he decided it wasn't worth it.
Most of the time, Sherlock lets his mind drift a bit.
He thinks of worker bees secreting royal jelly and feeding it tenderly to their chosen monarch: the larva bathed in the pearlescent gel, the mature queen still eating the fruit of her subjects' glands.
He thinks of John eating the toast and tea Sherlock made for him several weeks ago. Of seeing the thin layer of butter cut in the instantly recognisable pattern of John's teeth. Of the milky Darjeeling that glazed his lower lip.
When Sherlock is nearing climax, he thinks of releasing a full bladder. He thinks of blowing his nose. He thinks of sustaining a G3 on his violin.
One way or another, he manages.
Afterwards, he seals the sample and adds it to the row of bags in the frigidaire. John won't throw it out. These days, John doesn't even bother to ask.
Reply
Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson he needs to borrow her cookbooks and a jam jar for an experiment, but he makes certain to sound unconvincing. He bites his lip and stammers something about John's favourite foods. Then he pretends not to watch her face light up in an understanding smile. "Of course, dear, let me know if you need any tips. I used to make the best jam tarts in town."
She won't mention this "experiment" in front of John.
He sends John to Cardiff to gather data on someone Sherlock claims is a murder suspect. In actuality, the man is a tiresomely non-violent small-time crook, but Sherlock can't let his blogger get bored. Sherlock leaves his phone in the pocket of Mrs Hudson's apron so he can feel it buzz against his hip when John texts to say things like All I see under shirt cuff is ink on wrist. Hands are well washed, as one would expect of a murderer and Did he kill victims with a leaky pen? Should I reconsider asking him to sign fake petition? Please advise and Answer me, you git.
Sherlock puts the washed jar in the oven to sterilise it, along with the jam sugar. Then he pours the thawed contents of his sample bags into a saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly. As his earlier experiments proved, coagulated semen still liquefies normally after freezing. As it cooks, it grows whiter and more opaque. He adds the warmed jam sugar, which contains the necessary pectin, and feels the mixture thicken against his spoon.
Timing is tricky. As the books instruct, Sherlock takes a teaspoon of the jam and plops it onto a cold plate on the table. He leaves the hot grey-white globule there while he stirs. It looks fairly jam-like. He dabs it with one finger. Slight wrinkling on the surface - yes, it's set. He removes the saucepan from the stove at once, using the spoon to skim off the greyest bits that have risen to the top.
He decides to pour the jam right away, since it doesn't contain any solid fruit that could float to the surface. It pours more smoothly than he expected. He covers the jar with waxed paper before sealing it.
He does lick the spoon, of course, as he has always done. Not that he needs to. He already knows it will taste sweet and mild, much like the pineapples and wheatgrass and celery he's been living on, with a bitter salty edge that actually enhances the sweetness.
John texts Broke into his basement. Windows all covered in black paper, had to rip it. Did you know he has a printing press? and Sherlock forgets the jam and spends a few minutes grinning madly at his phone. Counterfeiters are dull - Sherlock knows where he could round up half a dozen of them in an afternoon. But he only knows one man who would break into a murder suspect's house for an adrenaline rush and a chance of making Sherlock happy.
Try to get a clear pic from outside basement window. Will meet you at hotel. SH He almost forgets to take the apron off before he leaves.
Reply
Timing is tricky. Sherlock has picked the day Mrs Hudson leaves on holiday. The jam jar appears in the kitchen that morning with one of Mrs Hudson's hand-written labels affixed ("Tasty Surprise Spread") and a note, also in her handwriting. Almost forgot to leave this for you! It's an old family recipe, delicious on toast - and there's an extra batch of biscuits for both of you boys if you can guess deduce the ingredients. ♥
"Oh, good. We're out of jam," says John, waiting for the kettle to boil. "Looks a bit odd, though, doesn't it? I wonder what gives it that whitish-grey colour."
Sherlock thoughtfully makes enough toast for both of them.
Reply
The details in this are glorious. Can't wait to see how it ends. =D
Reply
I think I like it thought.
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John is reading headlines aloud, as he sometimes does, but Sherlock can't hear a word over the frantic buzz of his own thoughts.
John glances up at Sherlock with a gleam in his eye, sharing a joke of some sort. Sherlock returns his small, warm smile.
John's posture is relaxed, or as relaxed as it ever gets. His jumper is apianly striped. His hair is damp from the shower. The butter knife in his left hand, spreading a generous whitish glob over the toast, trembles in a way that indicates nothing except a recent lack of excitement. (Sherlock will have to find a new case soon, something dangerous.)
Sherlock's own hands are trembling on the edge of the stove. He bought their new tea kettle primarily for its highly reflective surface, but he can't bear to look away from John now. John's left hand is raising the slice of toast on which that marvellous globule quivers - quivers like it's alive, like it's writhing in anticipation of John's mouth - and something in Sherlock's lower abdomen is quivering as well.
John takes a bite.
His head jerks a little. "H'm!" he says, mouth full. He frowns at the toast in his hand.
"You don't like it?" Sherlock asks and instantly hates himself for sounding so small, so weak. John must have noticed by now how Sherlock is staring, how he's almost leaning on the stove for support. And yet no, he hasn't noticed.
"'S not bad," John mumbles, chewing. "Bit odd is all." And he swallows.
Sherlock swallows reflexively too, watching John's throat move. He feels a tiny damp spot in his underwear. His penis must have leaked a drop of preseminal fluid.
"Sort of reminds me of that durian fruit that one client of yours gave you, remember?" John remarks, inspecting the remaining glob, which now holds the scallop of John's bite and traces of his saliva. "Much sharper, though - a harsh sort of flavour. Not Mrs Hudson's usual fare. Try it."
"Possibly later."
"Don't know why I bother," says John good-naturedly. "One of these days I'm going to get a proper breakfast into you, I swear."
John finishes his slice of toast, jam and all. Sherlock feels tears pricking his eyes. He can't remember ever being so happy. He pictures his body's secretions being broken down inside John's digestive system, added to John's muscle and fat and short clipped fingernails. He has an absurd, childish image of a larval John, fed on nothing but sweet pallid jam, imprinted on Sherlock's scent, growing up into a perfect dangerous fuzzy yellow queen/colleague/helpmate/friend.
Which he already is, of course. That's why it's so absurd.
Could Sherlock's fluids really have such an imprinting effect, like pheromones? Or could his hormones have a perceptible influence, bringing John's biochemistry into synch with his? Unlikely, but not implausible. Worth testing over an extended period of time. Possibly with fresher samples, though the jam will always be Sherlock's favourite. He's put everything he is into that jam.
"I think this stuff is growing on me," John remarks, nibbling the last crust. "Wouldn't hurt to have some milk for the tea, though. Since you don't seem to have anything on at the moment -"
"Milk," says Sherlock. He only realises how low and deep his voice is when John looks up in surprise. "I'll get some."
Reply
And it's a good thing that's the last sentence, because right there? Right there is where my eyes went "o.o" and my brain imploded.
The imagery here is lovely. (Aww, little larval John. XD) Sherlock is loveably freaky here. Wonderful job! =D
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This is at once creepy, gross and funny. You did a great job. It's a very engaging story.
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BRB, LOLing forever.
This is pure genius, anon!
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Uncertain applause
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