since we're exploring variations on sexuality anyway
anonymous
May 12 2011, 22:51:25 UTC
Sherlock isn't gay, straight, asexual, bisexual, demisexual, etc.
He's storm-sexual.
Whether that means he only feels sexually attracted to people while there's a storm raging, or he only feels sexually aroused by storms themselves, or generates storms when he's sexually aroused, that's up to the filler, though some loving sex during a thunderstorm would be nice.
Sherlock has been feeling the charge in the air all evening. At first it made him pace distractedly about the flat, picking up a toxicology journal and laying it down unperused, leaving half-empty cups of tea on every surface. His flatmate kept scowling at him. ("If you're at loose ends, there's plenty of cleaning up to be done
( ... )
So he rides it out. He rides out the crackle of adrenaline at every sudden clap. He rides out the maddening, thundering purr that rolls over him again and again. He's breathing fast, almost whimpering, when he feels it reaching its crescendo. This is what the storm has been winding him up for, this is what it's been building to, this terrible peak, this. He sees white lightning behind his eyelids. It's the heart of the storm. He's there
( ... )
OP Re: Fill! (2/2)
anonymous
May 15 2011, 03:15:27 UTC
THIS IS GORGEOUS! You took my daft crack prompt and made it poetic and epic and sensual and mythic and glorious and bloody fucking hot! YOU ARE A DIETY. *bows in awe and amazement*
Re: Fill! (2/2)
anonymous
May 18 2011, 05:08:03 UTC
Storms are sexy and so is this fill! Excellent! I hope you post this to AO3. Very nice and I'm usually happier to bookmark on an archive rather than the meme. I'm especially fond of John's stunned yet accepting reaction. I really think this does need to be a thing. I'm glad that Sherlock wishes to take John into the storm with him.
FILL: I Still Dream of Organon (1/3)
anonymous
June 9 2011, 08:20:00 UTC
Author!Anon from preceding comments: Finally! Thanks, nonnies, for welcoming a second fill after that lovely piece above. Hope you're up for another vignette of a Sherlock aroused by storms. (My apologies to Kate Bush for slightly misappropriating her lyrics in my title. -_^ )
--
Had he grown up in a dry climate, he may never have discovered he had a libido at all. It's as if low-pressure systems allow repressed parts of himself to rise up with the humidity, like strange smells in a familiar house.
Pit, pat. Sherlock flings wild handfuls of cool water into his face. Gravity slides them back down through his hair, down the edges of his face and jaw, off his eyelashes, nose, chin, in tepid drops. Pat, pit: they hit the sink like the first heralds of a summer storm, fat with the promise of downpour. Sherlock shakes his head vigorously and raises it to stare into the spattered mirror.
It's no use now, really, and it's rather a half-hearted protest to splash one's face when being wet feels so deliciously rain-like. He blinks at his
( ... )
Re: FILL: I Still Dream of Organon (2/3)
anonymous
June 9 2011, 08:21:55 UTC
It's another thirty seconds or so before a deep shockwave booms through the little room and sets Sherlock gasping. Hard damp heat twitches higher inside his pyjama bottoms. He lowers a palm to it. Presses. Grasps. Sighs.
The sky continues rumbling softly, sweet torture, like a lover murmuring chocolately seductions. Sherlock hitches his hips into the not-enough, into the more, give me more. Looking up, he sees that his face has gone fully flushed and that he's biting a white line into his lower lip. It edges his teeth like lightning.
Ohhh, if he could just ravish himself and finish this off, he would. But this is the storm's dance: the floodgates of lust hinge not on his own actions, but on the ebb and flow of water, light, and sound. It's a mixed blessing… for all the control it takes away, it yet gives something back that Sherlock has never been able nor wanted to name. Something to do with mind and body, perhaps… the mind grown too… too heavy, yes, to fly from the body bereft
( ... )
Re: FILL: I Still Dream of Organon (3/3)
anonymous
June 9 2011, 08:22:49 UTC
There. There. He kisses and tongues the mirror and his gaze is falling open and shut indiscriminately, catching glimpses of the rain-clouds of his hair, the lightning of his cheekbones, the pools of his pupils where raindrops seem to land and ripple wider, wider. He exhales summer humidity and sees it condense until it's dripping cool under its own weight. Rain… rain… thunder crawls through him from groin to breath and he wails softly, not enough, it's so still and stagnant in here, but there's a little window angled above the loo and so he's undoing the latch, pushing it open and tugging at his unbearable hardness and oh, there, the wind gusts in and tumbles across his skin, lustrous whirls smelling of pavement and earth that lift up fine hairs on his arms and legs; more, he groans and tugs off his pyjama bottoms and kicks them away, naked to the wind and the…
He's storm-sexual.
Whether that means he only feels sexually attracted to people while there's a storm raging, or he only feels sexually aroused by storms themselves, or generates storms when he's sexually aroused, that's up to the filler, though some loving sex during a thunderstorm would be nice.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
So storm-sexual isn't really a thing? I think it needs to be a thing. (Mycroft must agree, he gave me "wind frefront")
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Would it be terribly crass to beg for a follow-up exploring this thought?
Magnificent. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be frolicking naked in the rain.
Reply
Sheepish peep: this prompt inspired me, too... hope I don't step on your toes if I post a second fill?
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
--
Had he grown up in a dry climate, he may never have discovered he had a libido at all. It's as if low-pressure systems allow repressed parts of himself to rise up with the humidity, like strange smells in a familiar house.
Pit, pat. Sherlock flings wild handfuls of cool water into his face. Gravity slides them back down through his hair, down the edges of his face and jaw, off his eyelashes, nose, chin, in tepid drops. Pat, pit: they hit the sink like the first heralds of a summer storm, fat with the promise of downpour. Sherlock shakes his head vigorously and raises it to stare into the spattered mirror.
It's no use now, really, and it's rather a half-hearted protest to splash one's face when being wet feels so deliciously rain-like. He blinks at his ( ... )
Reply
The sky continues rumbling softly, sweet torture, like a lover murmuring chocolately seductions. Sherlock hitches his hips into the not-enough, into the more, give me more. Looking up, he sees that his face has gone fully flushed and that he's biting a white line into his lower lip. It edges his teeth like lightning.
Ohhh, if he could just ravish himself and finish this off, he would. But this is the storm's dance: the floodgates of lust hinge not on his own actions, but on the ebb and flow of water, light, and sound. It's a mixed blessing… for all the control it takes away, it yet gives something back that Sherlock has never been able nor wanted to name. Something to do with mind and body, perhaps… the mind grown too… too heavy, yes, to fly from the body bereft ( ... )
Reply
Oh, and the rain, the sweet, sweet rain ( ... )
Reply
Leave a comment