no shame no shame no shame
Deanonning because like I don't even have this shame thing what are you talking sbout NO SHAME HERE
Prompt: WEEERRECOOOOOCCCCCK http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=41374155#t41374155
Title: Why the Fuck Does This Need a Title it is Like it is Sherlock is a Giant Penis
Pairing: A penis/healing cock
Fandom: BBC SHerlock
Genre: CRAAAAAAAAAAACK
A big TY to all of #BakerStreet for the inspiration for this crack
In Which Sherlock is the Mighty Shercock Defender of the Meek, But Really He's Just a Giant Dick ((HAHAHA I MADE A FUNNY)
On a lonely rooftop high above the city streets of London, a proud silhouette framed against the night sky, stands Sherlock Holmes. He is all that stands between the embittered hearts of the city's people and the crime that threatens its very bones.
The light, bright and yellow that snaps to life illuminates just a hint of the cruelty that haunts his home. It throws a shadow behind him, echoing the shadow that the light halos out from.
Its proud head, beautiful round balls and thick shaft are the beacon of hope in this ugly world. It is police commissioner Lestrade's cock, but it is the perfect metaphor of their hero's form. Sherlock feels his foreskin flapping behind him in the breeze.
His city needs him once again and he lets himself flop over, tumbling head over balls to land, cat-like on the globulous orbs onto the streets themselves.
He is Shercock and the criminals of London are not going to stop themselves.
In Which Sherlock is Recalcitrant and No One is Surprised
"Sherlock, hold still, I'm supposed to rub this cream on you!" Sherlock rolls away, an air of irritation mirrored in the throbbing of his vein. John gets a flash of it every time it comes into view until he runs into a wall, just barely misjudging his path into the kitchen. He flails helplessly for a secound and John sighs long sufferingly, approaching him like he would a child in the midst of a temper tantrum. Which, well, not far off.
"Look, if you don't want to have this be a permanent thing you need to stop wiggling around so I can take of you," he says, quiet reasonably he thinks. If the sudden disdainful arch of Sherlock's, uh, body, is any indication to go by, he doesn't agree.
John sighs, again and pops off the cap of the tube in his hand. Sherlock lets him close this time, before rearing back and giving him a face-full of balls for his effort. John's knocked back, spluttering loudly, the tube spraying across the walls. John stares up at the ceiling where the evidence of Sherlock's first . . . reaction to suddenly becoming a were-penis is still decorating the paint job. Sherlock has already gotten himself unstuck from the doorway and rolled triumphantly from the room. John gives the empty tube a rueful look and sighs, again.
"I have no idea why they thought that would be enough, anyways."
In Which Shercock Misses Opposable Thumbs, but in a Pinch Opposable Johns Will Do
Communication, along with a great many things that bring on that dull ache that John is so very familiar with, is quite the problem in Sherlock's new form. Sherlock has tried to make his intents and his thought very clear, and while John could easily understand, for instance, dripping disdain, more complex ideas were a lot harder to get across. So, John and he had taken to experimenting.
John had tried putting a pencil in his urethra but that had just been uncomfortable for all parties and it had mirrored Sherlock's sad drooping and simply fallen out to roll forlornly across the floor. They'd both watched it go in silence, which now that John thinks about it is kind of an odd thought. Can Sherlock even see?
Anyways, all this is why John isn't really surprised when he goes to investigate the startling lack of crashing and banging Sherlock is now prone to create in the living room and finds him hunched over his mobile, foreskin sagging dejectedly from his thin frame. (He's still just as tall and skinny in this form as he is real life and John wonders if he's uncut in real-life as well, before squashing the thought ruthlessly. Not the time.)
John grimaces and goes over to him, laying a hesitant hand against his . . . 'back', if you will. John still has to fight against all his baser inhibition yowling at him to get away, don't touch that, what are you, some kind of pervert, but he carries gamely on. Sherlock looks so completely dejected that it'd be like a kicking a puppy if he didn't.
John grimaces when the full implications of that simile hit him.
Sherlock's body heaves once underneath his hand, a parody of a sigh. John sighs himself and plops down next to him on the floor and picks up the phone.
"Alright then, assuming you can see this, I'm going to hover my finger over the keys and you nod once for the first letter, twice for the secound and so on, if that's the key you want, shake back and forth if I'm wrong."
John can't be quite sure but he thinks that would be a belligerent look he'd be giving him in a more human form. John smiles patiently at him and hovers a finger over the one key. Sherlock slowly sways from side to side and John's smile morphs into a beam.
A half an hour later and of course, of course it's the chicken heads, he went through all that effort to text John to check on his chicken heads. John's life has never been so surreal.
In Which Shercock Should Really Know Better
"Damnit Sherlock, I told you I told you not to drink all that tea before the full moon, this is absolutely disgusting." John doggy paddles gamely as Sherlock bobs past him, the dark curls of his pubic hair sticking in stringy lines to his balls. They crash into each other and for a moment John goes under and oh God, queen and country no one should be subject to this.
The tiny slit below the door is slowly draining the tiny bathroom of yellow liquid, all of it spilling out into the hall. They'd tried to get him to the toilet in time, and well, they'd managed it but by that point the five pots of tea he'd drank before his change had already taken their toll. The force of the coming onslaught had almost been enough to take the toilet off its anchors.
Ten minutes of gagging and retching and doing his level best to keep his head above. . .water. . .later and they're finally free, John can finally reach the door knob and let them out, the last few feet of liquid splooshing out into the hall.
"Mrs. Hudson is going to murder us," John says around the shallowest pants. Sherlock just hops past him out the door and goes to try to make another pot of tea. Which he can't do, but John still gapes at him incredulously when he trails after him to find him trying.
Here There Be No Dragons, Anderson
Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a beast in a castle on a hill whose spires were but a dot to the people who lived in the valley below. Now this beast, it was a noble beast. It was the law of the land, the people's guidance. All looked up to his grand wisdom and appreciated his sharp honesty.
But not one of the village folk had ever seen him in person. His proclamations were all given on a low lying cliff three quarters of the way down the mountain by his assistant, a small man whose dusky skinned marked him as from an exotic land.
"Dragons are extinct, yo and no lowly hedge-witch can say different. We ain't sendin' out no troops after smoke my friends." Such were the important proclamations that were made atop the TownCliff and HedgeWitch Anderson had raised his fist in anger and struck off to make his dragon-discovering mark on the world.
But that is a tale for another day.
This, here, this is the tale of the Cock of the mountain, the great and all powerful Shercock who ruled from behind the iron curtains and kept all the petty lives of his subjects in hand. His figure was great, tall and proud with an erect length of nearly eight meters tall he towered over those few who gazed upon his mighty visage.
But even great rulers are struck down with maladies from time to time and Shercock, for that was, indeed the beast's name, was no exception.
"Gasp!" His assistant, the town crier from the exotic lands gasped. "What is this affliction, good master! It smells like smegma, yo."
And Shercock simply sighed out his nose.
"Bring me a doctor," the man-penis insisted.
"Yeah ok, whatever," and his assistant unobtrusively disappears presumably to do as he asks.
And by all the gods in heaven does he deliver.
For it is the great, the elusive John Watson himself that he brings back to the castle, who braves the great hike up the slopes of Mt. Londan.
"Wow you're a giant phallus," he says, nobly. Shercock sighs loudly, his breath bringing about the coldest winter the world has ever known.
"Yes, thank you, I'd noticed. Is that your great diagnoses? Because if it is, I think perhaps I'll need to look for another obscure cameo character to speak my words for me."
"Hey, hey, I'm getting out of here, yo, I need a vacation. I don't need this shit you are disgusting, boss. I am going to Hawaii." And the exotic town crier left to try his hand at human trafficking.
And John Watson eyed the man-penis with a critical eye, the eye of a born doctor, the greatest of us.
"You've got mono," he pronounces, and his word was thus made law.
"Hmph, naturally," the man-penis sniffs, sucking snot up into his single hole, his most efficient body not needing separate ones for eating and peeing and hearing and breathing like most mortal men. "It was necessary for me to know if I could even /have/ it. Family issues, you'll understand."
"Uh, okay." John Watson says.
Many miles away Mypenis sneezes loudly and shoots precome all over Anthetits.
"My apologies," he says. "My brother must be speaking of me, again."
"It's quite alright," Anthetits says and uses the tissue app on her Blackberry to clean it away. "He's researching that time you skipped school because you snogged Lady Sally in the washroom." Mycock sputters indignantly and immediately cuts off Shercock's spending for the month in retaliation.
"Anyways," Shercock says back in the here and now. "I simply need to know how to fix it."
"Ah, right," John says impassively as he unzips his pants. "Well, lucky for you I just contracted a case of the Healing Cock." And great rays of light shoot from his scrotal area, bathing the room in an ethereal glow.
"Why else would I have you here, John," Shercock says, blandly and then they have sex that rocks all the known worlds.
Happily ever after,
The End.
And yes, that does mean that one of those is not mine and of course lovely lizzledpink made lovely art and I lol for the rest of my life
Prompt: WEEERRECOOOOOCCCCCK http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=41374155#t41374155
Title: Why the Fuck Does This Need a Title it is Like it is Sherlock is a Giant Penis
Pairing: A penis/healing cock
Fandom: BBC SHerlock
Genre: CRAAAAAAAAAAACK
A big TY to all of #BakerStreet for the inspiration for this crack
In Which Sherlock is the Mighty Shercock Defender of the Meek, But Really He's Just a Giant Dick ((HAHAHA I MADE A FUNNY)
On a lonely rooftop high above the city streets of London, a proud silhouette framed against the night sky, stands Sherlock Holmes. He is all that stands between the embittered hearts of the city's people and the crime that threatens its very bones.
The light, bright and yellow that snaps to life illuminates just a hint of the cruelty that haunts his home. It throws a shadow behind him, echoing the shadow that the light halos out from.
Its proud head, beautiful round balls and thick shaft are the beacon of hope in this ugly world. It is police commissioner Lestrade's cock, but it is the perfect metaphor of their hero's form. Sherlock feels his foreskin flapping behind him in the breeze.
His city needs him once again and he lets himself flop over, tumbling head over balls to land, cat-like on the globulous orbs onto the streets themselves.
He is Shercock and the criminals of London are not going to stop themselves.
In Which Sherlock is Recalcitrant and No One is Surprised
"Sherlock, hold still, I'm supposed to rub this cream on you!" Sherlock rolls away, an air of irritation mirrored in the throbbing of his vein. John gets a flash of it every time it comes into view until he runs into a wall, just barely misjudging his path into the kitchen. He flails helplessly for a secound and John sighs long sufferingly, approaching him like he would a child in the midst of a temper tantrum. Which, well, not far off.
"Look, if you don't want to have this be a permanent thing you need to stop wiggling around so I can take of you," he says, quiet reasonably he thinks. If the sudden disdainful arch of Sherlock's, uh, body, is any indication to go by, he doesn't agree.
John sighs, again and pops off the cap of the tube in his hand. Sherlock lets him close this time, before rearing back and giving him a face-full of balls for his effort. John's knocked back, spluttering loudly, the tube spraying across the walls. John stares up at the ceiling where the evidence of Sherlock's first . . . reaction to suddenly becoming a were-penis is still decorating the paint job. Sherlock has already gotten himself unstuck from the doorway and rolled triumphantly from the room. John gives the empty tube a rueful look and sighs, again.
"I have no idea why they thought that would be enough, anyways."
In Which Shercock Misses Opposable Thumbs, but in a Pinch Opposable Johns Will Do
Communication, along with a great many things that bring on that dull ache that John is so very familiar with, is quite the problem in Sherlock's new form. Sherlock has tried to make his intents and his thought very clear, and while John could easily understand, for instance, dripping disdain, more complex ideas were a lot harder to get across. So, John and he had taken to experimenting.
John had tried putting a pencil in his urethra but that had just been uncomfortable for all parties and it had mirrored Sherlock's sad drooping and simply fallen out to roll forlornly across the floor. They'd both watched it go in silence, which now that John thinks about it is kind of an odd thought. Can Sherlock even see?
Anyways, all this is why John isn't really surprised when he goes to investigate the startling lack of crashing and banging Sherlock is now prone to create in the living room and finds him hunched over his mobile, foreskin sagging dejectedly from his thin frame. (He's still just as tall and skinny in this form as he is real life and John wonders if he's uncut in real-life as well, before squashing the thought ruthlessly. Not the time.)
John grimaces and goes over to him, laying a hesitant hand against his . . . 'back', if you will. John still has to fight against all his baser inhibition yowling at him to get away, don't touch that, what are you, some kind of pervert, but he carries gamely on. Sherlock looks so completely dejected that it'd be like a kicking a puppy if he didn't.
John grimaces when the full implications of that simile hit him.
Sherlock's body heaves once underneath his hand, a parody of a sigh. John sighs himself and plops down next to him on the floor and picks up the phone.
"Alright then, assuming you can see this, I'm going to hover my finger over the keys and you nod once for the first letter, twice for the secound and so on, if that's the key you want, shake back and forth if I'm wrong."
John can't be quite sure but he thinks that would be a belligerent look he'd be giving him in a more human form. John smiles patiently at him and hovers a finger over the one key. Sherlock slowly sways from side to side and John's smile morphs into a beam.
A half an hour later and of course, of course it's the chicken heads, he went through all that effort to text John to check on his chicken heads. John's life has never been so surreal.
In Which Shercock Should Really Know Better
"Damnit Sherlock, I told you I told you not to drink all that tea before the full moon, this is absolutely disgusting." John doggy paddles gamely as Sherlock bobs past him, the dark curls of his pubic hair sticking in stringy lines to his balls. They crash into each other and for a moment John goes under and oh God, queen and country no one should be subject to this.
The tiny slit below the door is slowly draining the tiny bathroom of yellow liquid, all of it spilling out into the hall. They'd tried to get him to the toilet in time, and well, they'd managed it but by that point the five pots of tea he'd drank before his change had already taken their toll. The force of the coming onslaught had almost been enough to take the toilet off its anchors.
Ten minutes of gagging and retching and doing his level best to keep his head above. . .water. . .later and they're finally free, John can finally reach the door knob and let them out, the last few feet of liquid splooshing out into the hall.
"Mrs. Hudson is going to murder us," John says around the shallowest pants. Sherlock just hops past him out the door and goes to try to make another pot of tea. Which he can't do, but John still gapes at him incredulously when he trails after him to find him trying.
Here There Be No Dragons, Anderson
Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a beast in a castle on a hill whose spires were but a dot to the people who lived in the valley below. Now this beast, it was a noble beast. It was the law of the land, the people's guidance. All looked up to his grand wisdom and appreciated his sharp honesty.
But not one of the village folk had ever seen him in person. His proclamations were all given on a low lying cliff three quarters of the way down the mountain by his assistant, a small man whose dusky skinned marked him as from an exotic land.
"Dragons are extinct, yo and no lowly hedge-witch can say different. We ain't sendin' out no troops after smoke my friends." Such were the important proclamations that were made atop the TownCliff and HedgeWitch Anderson had raised his fist in anger and struck off to make his dragon-discovering mark on the world.
But that is a tale for another day.
This, here, this is the tale of the Cock of the mountain, the great and all powerful Shercock who ruled from behind the iron curtains and kept all the petty lives of his subjects in hand. His figure was great, tall and proud with an erect length of nearly eight meters tall he towered over those few who gazed upon his mighty visage.
But even great rulers are struck down with maladies from time to time and Shercock, for that was, indeed the beast's name, was no exception.
"Gasp!" His assistant, the town crier from the exotic lands gasped. "What is this affliction, good master! It smells like smegma, yo."
And Shercock simply sighed out his nose.
"Bring me a doctor," the man-penis insisted.
"Yeah ok, whatever," and his assistant unobtrusively disappears presumably to do as he asks.
And by all the gods in heaven does he deliver.
For it is the great, the elusive John Watson himself that he brings back to the castle, who braves the great hike up the slopes of Mt. Londan.
"Wow you're a giant phallus," he says, nobly. Shercock sighs loudly, his breath bringing about the coldest winter the world has ever known.
"Yes, thank you, I'd noticed. Is that your great diagnoses? Because if it is, I think perhaps I'll need to look for another obscure cameo character to speak my words for me."
"Hey, hey, I'm getting out of here, yo, I need a vacation. I don't need this shit you are disgusting, boss. I am going to Hawaii." And the exotic town crier left to try his hand at human trafficking.
And John Watson eyed the man-penis with a critical eye, the eye of a born doctor, the greatest of us.
"You've got mono," he pronounces, and his word was thus made law.
"Hmph, naturally," the man-penis sniffs, sucking snot up into his single hole, his most efficient body not needing separate ones for eating and peeing and hearing and breathing like most mortal men. "It was necessary for me to know if I could even /have/ it. Family issues, you'll understand."
"Uh, okay." John Watson says.
Many miles away Mypenis sneezes loudly and shoots precome all over Anthetits.
"My apologies," he says. "My brother must be speaking of me, again."
"It's quite alright," Anthetits says and uses the tissue app on her Blackberry to clean it away. "He's researching that time you skipped school because you snogged Lady Sally in the washroom." Mycock sputters indignantly and immediately cuts off Shercock's spending for the month in retaliation.
"Anyways," Shercock says back in the here and now. "I simply need to know how to fix it."
"Ah, right," John says impassively as he unzips his pants. "Well, lucky for you I just contracted a case of the Healing Cock." And great rays of light shoot from his scrotal area, bathing the room in an ethereal glow.
"Why else would I have you here, John," Shercock says, blandly and then they have sex that rocks all the known worlds.
Happily ever after,
The End.
And yes, that does mean that one of those is not mine and of course lovely lizzledpink made lovely art and I lol for the rest of my life