Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Prompting: Part VIII
Giggles at the Palace
Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post

+Anon posting is most definitely allowed, but not required.
+All kinds of fills are accepted! Fic, art, vids, cosplay, interpretive dance--whatever. Go wild! :D
+Keep things neat! Read prompts before you post to see if something similar has already been done, and while you are encouraged to prompt as much as you like, try to fill as well.
+Please do not re-post prompts unless the last time they were prompted was on an older part. Simply put: ONE posting of each prompt per part.
+Until further notice, RPF (real person fic, i.e. fic involving the actors themselves) is not supported at this meme.
+Depending on the rate of activity, there may or may not be a prompt freeze when a part reaches 2500 and 4500 comments.
+However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. Also at 7000, a new part will be posted, and all prompting should happen on the new part.
+Multiple fills are encouraged! :) Just because a prompt has already been claimed or written by someone, do not be afraid to offer up a second fill.

There's a link to this at the bottom of the post. I ask that if the part you wanted isn't up yet, just wait and one of the archivists will get to it, but please, once it is up, please make sure you post your fills there according to the guidelines. DO NOT skip out on doing this because it seems like too much effort.
Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! The mod would be happy to explain.

Your mod for this meme is snowishness. If you have any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme feel free to send a PM or contact me via the page-a-mod post.

Guys, I will only put in one reminder about this.
Think before you prompt about the way you are asking. It isn’t difficult, and it will only take a minute or so of your time.

That said...
This is a kink meme. As such, there will be prompts that could offend you in a number of different ways. Not every prompt will have a trigger warning, and not every prompt will rub you the right way. If you have an issue with a specific prompt, feel free to bring it up in a discussion that takes place off the meme. However, flaming will not be tolerated regardless of origin.
You have rights to an opinion, of course, just as you have the right to scroll right past a prompt that you dislike.

Remember, guys; Be civil, be friendly, but don’t be shy!

Delicious Archive - Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod
Check the Sticky Post to find a list of all the prompting posts.
Flat View of This Page
Love Post - Rant Post - Chatter Post
Sherlock RPF Request Post
Overflow Post

  • 1
Dear, sweet, kind John has an unbelievably filthy mouth during sex. Like, make-a-sailor-blush, hardcore porno, even-the-devil-is-impressed, filthy mouth. Immediately after orgasm he turns back into dear, sweet, kind John. Sherlock is shocked/aroused.

i am also shocked/aroused.

please, god, let this happen!







I'm so on it, like Dimmock watching Sherlock bend over at a crime scene. Word. Give me a day.

Question for OP

Does OP have any objection to (mention of) puppy-play, pony-play, and fisting?

OP here.

Not at all! In fact, those sound like quite dirty subjects for dear, sweet John to bring up in bed!

i'll take this, but uhm...can i make it so that sherlock hears john having sex with someone else, and is shocked and aroused?

i just haven't been able to get sherlock and john fucking yet in my fic world.

i know. i know.

i'm trying!

OP here.

I really prefer Sherlock/John. Someone said they'd take it above, but there's no reason we can't have multiple fills, is there?

Also LOLing because hello, we know each other! ;D Funny running into you in this fandom. I'll give you a clue who I am: check your twitter.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (1/?)

WAT IS THIS I feel like some sort of smutty troll. I’ve never…
Well anyway. I’m not any of the other anons who said they’d have a go at it, and of course I don’t mean to interrupt their flow, but…anyway.


–adjective (dirtier, dirtiest)

1. soiled with dirt; foul; unclean: dirty cups.
2. vile; mean; sordid; contemptible: to play a dirty trick on someone.
3. unfair; dishonest; unscrupulous; unsporting: a dirty rumour.
4. obscene; pornographic; lewd: she told a dirty joke.

Antonyms: clean, moral, upright, John Watson (exception defn. 1. in cases of criminal chase terminating in rubbish skip)

Really, the man wears jumpers, for a start. As much as John likes to complain about people assuming he’s some sort of caricature of a ‘nice person’, his fashion choices do send certain signals in modern society that even Sherlock can pick up on.

But beyond that there are other reasons why John Watson cannot be considered dirty. He has fought for Queen and country; taken a bullet for England and barely complained about it, even to his therapist. His ethical code is sound and he’s as brave as he is loyal, especially when it comes to protecting those he loves. Sherlock likes to think he’s now barreled his way into a place on John’s ‘loved’ list, and he has evidence to prove this going as far back as John turning down Mycroft and shooting a cab driver for him.

John only ever gets mean when his frustrations are pushed to the limit by Sherlock, and even then he becomes more irritable than antagonistic, and he never lets the mood go on for more than a few minutes. His usual method is to simply remove himself from the situation or premises rather than endure outright confrontation.

John Watson is so nice, in fact, that he is a man even ex-lovers speak fondly of, as a grumpy Sherlock finds out on occasion when he runs into people like Sarah randomly at the supermarket (“I must say I do miss certain things about John. How’s he doing these days? And how are you, Sherlock? Sherlock? Where are you goi– well, it’s nice to see you too.”) or when Billy at Angelo’s is feeling particularly talkative and just has to mention for the umpteenth time the one fantastic evening he had with John that left him “positively ruined for other men”. Is his world really so boring that some romantic intercourse would ruin him forever? Sherlock has to wonder.

In any case, these are the facts, well observed and studied by Sherlock Holmes. Thus, it is simply the natural order of things that his flatmate is a kind, honourable, and unequivocally clean sort of person.

Despite how it may sound, Sherlock Holmes does not have a problem with this nor the desire to change it. Not one bit. This is because a clean John Watson is predictable. Safe. Secure. Exactly the way a consulting detective needs an assistant to be.

Whoever Sherlock manages to annoy, John politely placates. If Sherlock messes with a crime scene, John puts things back together as best he can for the benefit of the other investigators. When Sherlock spills mysterious substances on the carpet, John cleans them up (though not without a great deal of complaint). Sherlock can throw his dirty socks on the floor and count on John to be there to pick them up, put them in with his own laundry, and maybe even hoover afterwards. Most importantly, when Sherlock is bored, John will entertain him in some way, usually with an argument.


There is also the issue of their inevitable relationship.

Sherlock is sure it will begin sometime soon now that he’s finally managed to wheedle John down to single-and-eligible status. Having accurately deduced the often-absurd sexual proclivities of half of Scotland Yard, he is quite frankly glad John Watson is the man he is, because they are obviously ideal for each other. With his low libido, Sherlock doesn’t think he could tolerate some strange costumed intercourse in a train toilet or a mystery multiple-partner sex dungeon. John wouldn’t be like that. He’s just...simple enough for Sherlock Holmes to tolerate having sex with with as minimal effort and disgust as possible so that John’s needs are taken care of and they can stay together as a perfect pair.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (2/?)

Which is why their first (actually, second) kiss comes with as much surprise as is possible for the consulting detective.

Their evening, it, begins with crap telly, finger-typing blog entries, a bit of sulking, and more than a few longing looks. Altogether a normal evening in 221b Baker Street.

It’s 11 o’clock and John has just finished his shower and is back down to brew Sherlock a final cup of tea for the evening, knowing Sherlock will probably be up half the night anyway so he can probably use the caffeine. John’s dressed in sleep clothes, an old shirt with a hole in the neckline and a pair of shorts, and his blond hair lies on his forehead, still a bit heavy and damp. Sherlock is propped up on the sofa not really listening to the chatter in front of him when the kettle whistles and John starts to fuss with a cup and spoon. He then turns off the lights in the kitchen and leaves Sherlock in only the glow of their small lamp and the television.

“Good night, then,” he says, moving next to Sherlock, and Sherlock looks up at him. Then the detective stands quickly, and because John doesn’t move back (he’s holding a hot beverage after all) he’s close enough to feel the heat of the doctor’s body. They’re standing closer together than John has told him time and time again is normal for normal people. Sherlock both hopes and assumes that there’s a high percentage chance that John will correctly interpret this as a rather unskilled Sherlockian attempt at seduction.

John places the tea on the small table behind him, not breaking their eye contact. Then John’s hand reaches up to grasp the back of Sherlock’s neck and he’s leaning up and their lips are trying to find each other. There’s a bit of an awkward chuckle from John as they try to move at the right angle and then their lips are touching.

It’s soft, gentle. So much like John. Surprisingly, it’s not all that unpleasant, either. His lips taste faintly of toothpaste. When they break apart, he sees John’s kind face smiling at him as if he’s just been given the best gift in the entire world. Then he’s moving in again, this time coaxing Sherlock’s mouth open ever so slightly. When they come apart this time, their breaths are heavy and their mouths are open. Then Sherlock hears it.


He’s surprised, and backs away with a slightly indignant expression that ends up quickly buried under another strong kiss that’s now got the full length of John’s body behind it. It’s strong enough to back him into the furniture, hitting the end of the sofa and the new ottoman before his back collides with the patterned wallpaper. John’s practically attacking him, now, though it’s still careful and precise. Sherlock can count on one hand (one finger, actually) the number of times he’s been kissed before, and it certainly didn’t compare to this. It was Mummy, after all.

“Oh yeah,” Sherlock hears John mutter between slips of the tongue. Sherlock doesn’t possess his skill but he’s good at replication, and he tries his best to duplicate the movements John is showing him as he delves into his mouth. He thinks he should be more revolted by how unhygienic this exchange of saliva and bacteria is, but all he can think is how good it feels. He lets his hands go to John’s head from where they’ve been hanging uselessly at his sides.

Suddenly John makes a hungry sound, and Sherlock’s being pulled back from the wall and pushed in an entirely new direction. They’re still kissing, but it’s like John’s hands can’t figure out what they want to try to take off of Sherlock first and his feet can’t figure out where they want to take them. The detective’s own hands are grasping at the top of John’s faded green shirt as they make it across the room, missing the table and ending up against the bookshelf. Solid, steady John has a leg thrust obscenely between Sherlock’s, but he still utters the command: “Open your legs.”

Sherlock lets out a soft noise in response, relaxing and letting John’s hand replace his leg to run boldly up his inner thigh. It stops, teasingly, just before the junction where his legs meet.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (3/?)

“Mmm,” John inhales close to Sherlock’s neck, pulling them as close as possible together with his other free hand. “Did you know I could smell you all night?”

Offended is the first thing he feels, wondering why John would imply that he’s anything other than perfectly hygienic. But then John continues.

“You were so turned on, weren’t you? Thinking about me when you were reading that magazine, watching telly. That thick, heavy smell of sex.” His hand pushes up against the rising sign of Sherlock’s arousal. “You wanted it so desperately. Still do, I know you do. Come on, then, show it to me.” The fingers of John’s dominant left hand struggle to shove Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms down over his thin hips because he’s not getting much help from stunned Sherlock to move his shirt out of the way. John only has two hands after all, and one of them is busy holding Sherlock right where he wants him.

Sherlock is still going over what John just said to him (did he really just say those things to him?) so he doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed as he’s freed from the confines of the garment. Not that he has anything to be embarrassed about, it’s a perfectly normal biological reaction and it’s a perfectly adequate size. However, it’s greeted with a “That all you got? Oh I don’t think so.”

“John, what-” he manages to choke out before John’s finger is on his mouth as if to silence him, spreading some of the moisture left over from their kiss over his bottom lip. John’s body is following the path his pyjamas have taken, dropping down. Sherlock almost accidentally knees him in the face in an effort to try to kick the bottoms off of his foot where they risk eventually tripping him, but John luckily manages to catch his leg firmly.

And then John is…God, he’s…

Sherlock cries out as if in agony, and hopes Mrs. Hudson or the neighbours don’t fear the worst. He can’t help it; the wet heat of John’s mouth is unlike anything he’s ever felt, unlike anything his uncreative imagination has come up with. Sherlock’s eyes are large and wide and open, but he doesn’t dare look down at what John is doing because he’ll probably lose it right then and there. Luckily (unluckily?) the sensation quickly stops because John is talking again, rubbing him off with his left hand and kissing and licking everywhere his hand doesn’t cover, as if committing every inch to memory.

“Love your hard cock in my mouth, love sucking it. I want to taste you. You’d give me loads, wouldn’t you? Think it would be too much for me to swallow?” Sherlock’s eyes clench tight and he whimpers, feeling the hot breath as John talks against his skin.

What’s happening? What’s happened to his John? Clean John?

He doesn’t know, but he’s so turned on that he has to struggle to keep his wits about him and soon even those simple questions have a hard time forming in his hormone-flooded brain. He can feel his leg being manhandled out of the way and sees his pyjama bottoms thrown behind them to land on the light fixture. Then John is back up and they’re kissing again, trying to maneuver towards what Sherlock assumes will be the armchair. When they miss it, John’s arm finding only air, they stumble into the kitchen. John’s kisses are so heated and enthusiastic that half the time they miss his mouth entirely, sloppily covering other parts of Sherlock’s face. It should be unpleasant, Sherlock thinks, and yet he’s still rock hard.

“Next time I’m going to slide my cock between your slick lips, ohhh yeah, open wide, just like that-” John’s fingers are in his mouth now. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s following the indecent atmosphere and he licks at them, which doesn’t seem to displease John in the slightest. “Fuck deep into your throat. You’d take it for me, because you’re all mine.”

Suddenly the combined weight of their bodies finally hits the kitchen table with a crash, sending expensive chemistry equipment and cutlery and dishes flying onto the floor and Sherlock swears he can hear an all-too-polite tapping on the wall from Mrs. Hudson below as he scrambles to find purchase on the table.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (4/?)

John’s got him flipped over now onto his front, indecently exposed, and his own scientific notes are crumpling under his hands. His dressing gown is flipped up like the skirts of some Victorian lady and John’s warm hands are running boldly over his backside. He dips a little as John presses against his back, trapping him on the table as he nibbles at his ears.

“But not tonight.” What? Oh right, they were talking about the oral sex. “Tonight I’m going to stick my fingers up your hot arse, feel your hole clench around them.” Sherlock whimpers. “Gonna have to slick you up, nice and wet. Got anything for me to use?” Sherlock’s brain is slow to comprehend but when he does finally understand that they’ll need some sort of lubrication, he gropes around what’s left on the table. Nothing. There was probably only olive oil anyway, wherever that had rolled off to. “Damn,” John sighs. “Hold that thought. Don’t you move. Keep that pretty arse in the air for me.” Abruptly the weight is off him and his back is cool. He hears the quick padding of feet and then only his heavy, shocked breathing in the room as he trembles on the table.

John is back quickly before he has the chance to lose any of his resolve, and he doesn’t know what he’s brought with him because he can’t see that well in the near darkness. But then he’s hearing John’s “Good boy. Good boy,” and there’s a wet finger slipping inside him.

He’s not prepared for that at all, but he can’t help but push back onto it. It makes a loud, but broken sound bubble up out of him.

“Let’s see if we can’t find that spot that makes you squeal, huh?” Sherlock has an annoyed moment, he doesn’t squeal, except for when he does when John quickly follows his one finger with another and crooks them with doctor precision against his prostate. Sherlock's no longer worried that he’s struggling to adjust, because he’s literally struggling to simply breathe.

Maybe this is what he needs. He doesn’t have time to think about anything; he’s just made to go along for the ride.

“You’re leaking all over. You just can’t help it, can you? You getting harder?” John asks as he reaches around his front to grab Sherlock in his other hand, stroking smoothly and firmly, moving in quick strokes around the head with deft, practiced fingers. “How do you need it? This enough for you? Tighter?” John doesn’t wait for an answer, not that Sherlock’s in any condition to give a proper one, but he does get a moan out of it when he tightens his hand anyway.

God, it’s good. He’s begging now, he’s sure of it. Babbling, of course, but he’s sure John gets the idea.

“It’s okay, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Just a minute, my consulting detective.” The fingers leave him and he can hear the sound of something tearing. Momentarily he rejoices in the thought of easy cleanup because certainly everything else in the whole flat will be positively destroyed. Then there’s an object of significant size against him, running up and down, teasingly, between the pale cheeks of his arse. ‘Get on with it,’ he thinks.

“Hmm…so nice. Whose prick do you want inside you, huh?”

“John,” he gasps.

“Whose?” John repeats.

“Yours! Yours! Please, John,” Sherlock responds, not even lucid enough to worry that he may sound like he’s been transplanted from a sleazy porno film.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (5/?)

“Come on, then, put it inside you. Rock back onto me, that’s it.” Sherlock shoves his body back, and tries to reach with one hand to grasp John’s hip at the right angle. It seems John is too desperate as well for he takes pity on him, finally pushing into him in one slow, careful, but determined stroke. “Yeah. Love watching your tight arse stretch around my cock. Beautiful. Just beautiful. I bet you’d take anything I gave you. I could put my whole hand inside you and you’d let me.” Sherlock whines, letting his forehead drop to the table as he winces a little as John bottoms out. That’s inconceivable. It’s uncomfortable as it is, just taking John. He’s too full, and it feels entirely too strange. But already John’s moving now, and all he can think is that he’s making love to John.

At last. That’s what he wanted, what he’s always wanted.

He can do this.

“That’s it. Relax, let me in. That’s it, come on,” John’s voice is a constant stream of smutty encouragement, “bounce on it for me. So gorgeous. So gorgeous.” Abruptly, John changes his angle just so and brushes up inside him in a way that makes him shiver and makes goosebumps form on his skin. “Love sticking it in you nice and deep. How long can your legs hold you up if I keep plugging you up over and over again just like this?” Does John actually want these ridiculous questions answered? Sherlock isn’t sure, but he can’t be bothered to do anything but make humiliating, nonsensical noises with every thrust.

“You lovely, dirty little thing. I wish I could fuck you for hours. In and out, just like this. My prick disappearing into your tight hole until you’re filthy and I’ve come inside you so much that it’s dripping out of you for hours.”

“Yes,” Sherlock finally manages to gasp out in encouragement, and the simple word seems to energize John even further for he grasps Sherlock’s dark hair in one hand, groaning loudly into his neck.

“I can’t hear you, who do you belong to?” he asks. His thrust moves Sherlock so hard that he’s forced to use all of his strength to hang on to the edge of the table. The wood is making red marks in his fingers as they grab desperately at it.

Good God. Sarah, Billy, everyone…he'd been so, so wrong. It wasn’t that John Watson was pure and nice. It’s not that when you’re with him you’re rocked gently by the romantic waves of John Watson. No. You’re destroyed by a bloody John Watson tsunami.

“Y-you, John, of course you!” he cries. John pulls out suddenly and flips him over, hoisting him up onto the table as if he’s weightless doll and not a fully-grown 34-year-old man. Back inside him almost instantly, it feels just as good, though the different angle takes a bit of getting used to. Sherlock’s yell is toneless, only air.

“I can’t decide how I want to come. You’re just so pretty. I want it all over your face,” John’s hand covers his cheek and Sherlock tries to get a taste of it but it passes too quickly, “and your hair, too. Or maybe between your thighs, or all over your prick. That would make it slide so well.” Sherlock cries out a small broken cry at the perfect, confident pressure when John grabs his cock firmly, and strokes him where it’s trapped and rubbing between their bodies, sliding easily against the sweat on John’s stomach. Sherlock’s hands have pushed John’s shirt up to his underarms, so it’s skin against skin.

Then the hand is gone and Sherlock looks through half-lidded eyes to see John tasting his fingers and chuckling at the wail that emerges from Sherlock as a result.

“But no, tonight it’ll be deep inside you, I think. Because you’re all mine and you’re so good at taking it. Such a pro.” Sherlock can’t help but want it, to be marked by John in whatever way he wants to do it. What does that say about him? He should be above this sort of behavior.

“You love it, don’t you? You’re enjoying it?” John asks, breathlessly. He can’t possibly expect an answer to all these questions, Sherlock thinks, even though the answer should be obvious even to his untrained deductive mind. He is a doctor, after all.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (6/7)

“Oh, fuck!” There it is again. How can this be? Noble John. John who wears jumpers and shoots bad people and who is a bit daft sometimes but only because compared to Sherlock's massive intellect everyone in the world is a bit daft. John, the only one of the masses to mean anything to him, is not nice at all, he’s…he’s depraved and yet Sherlock’s loving every bloody second of it.

It’s hard not to be speechless while bent into a pretzel shape, engulfed by strong arms that are damp and clasping his back in a death grip, and being pounded into hard enough that it’s making loud noises as their skin connects. All he can do is hang on. He can’t even keep his head up; instead he’s leaning into John, their hair mixing together, John’s damp breath on his shoulder.

Still talking, Sherlock realizes. He’s still talking.

“You! Oh god. Oh god! Taaaake it. Ye-ees…” It’s not that obscene, but it’s enough to at last send Sherlock over the edge. His mind goes delightfully blank for that brief second of selflessness as his whole world contracts down to the pleasurable centre between his legs and he’s exploding and drained and feels like he’s just re-created the beginning of the universe. The noises he’s probably making he’s sure are embarrassing, but he can’t dwell on it because John’s speech has degraded to a simple litany of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” with every thrust that has just about managed to completely shove the table into the cupboards.

Sherlock.” John finally groans, high and blissful, stilling in him momentarily before riding out the aftershocks. Soon there’s just the sound of their combined breathing, like they’ve run a marathon. The room is hot and damp, they must have increased the temperature a good few degrees, and they’re both covered in sweat and red marks that might just bruise in the future. John is making soft, content noises now against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock wonders when John will notice how badly Sherlock’s legs are still shaking against him.

“That was…that was…wow,” John says, almost reverently. They kiss, a romantic kiss this time, which Sherlock tries to respond to with as much enthusiasm as he can muster even though he’s exhausted. John finally allows Sherlock’s legs to drop so he can pull out gently and slowly, and he stumbles away a step as he turns to discreetly dispose of the evidence in the bin under the sink. Then he comes up with one hand to Sherlock’s face. “You’re so wonderful.” He steps close to stand between Sherlock’s legs that are drooping lazily over the edge of the table to kiss him again.

FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

When they break apart again, Sherlock can see from the dull light coming from the living room that John’s blushing. The doctor doesn’t meet his eyes as he rushes to grab the small blanket from over the armchair, returning to drape it over Sherlock’s shoulders. For his part, Sherlock slides bonelessly from the table into the chair that was hastily kicked aside, his silk dressing gown and wrinkled shirt dirtied and stained. It’s a good thing the chair is still close because there’s no way Sherlock will be able to stand anytime soon. Collapsing in on himself like a broken-down machine, he sits in a stunned silence. John is busy resetting the kettle like nothing is out of the ordinary.

“Tea?” he asks. “Yours has probably gone a bit cold.”

“Tea?” Sherlock replies in a small voice. That’s what he has to say, after all that? John frowns at him.

“Are you alright? Wasn’t too…rough or anything was it? Does it hurt? If there’s anything… I mean, you can tell me. I won’t be upset.”

“Wha-” He gapes at John like he’s some sex creature from another planet that has temporarily replaced his John Watson. How else could he explain what just happened?

“You must be a little sore. Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Or at least the sofa. Nice cushion there that you can sit on.” He helps Sherlock stand and carts him off to the living room like a sick hospital patient. When he’s placed on the sofa, Sherlock suddenly has a brief moment of inspiration.

“If you…give me a minute, I’d-” he waves his hand to John’s back and considers how best to not be outdone with this dirty game, now that he’s finally getting his breath back. “I wouldn’t be opposed to sitting on your-” John stops in his tracks, “sitting on you.”

Did he do that right? Innuendo?

John spins around. “Good grief, Sherlock,” he replies, cheeks flushing. “Really, that’s dirty, even for you.” He laughs, shaking his head, then disappears into the kitchen.

It is at that moment that Sherlock decides John Watson is indefinable.

Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

Oh, that is SO INCREDIBLY HOT, I can hardly COPE. And Sherlock only even kissed once before, and now John just fucks him so THOROUGHLY, and with such DIRTY TALK... GUH!

I want more of this John and Sherlock. Yes!

Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

“I wouldn’t be opposed to sitting on your-” John stops in his tracks, “sitting on you.”

Oh, the innocence of this is adorable! For him, that is VERY dirty talk! :-)

I wouldn't mind seeing him do that...

Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. *sound of a brain overloaded with sexy*

Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

oh, this was great.

John spins around. “Good grief, Sherlock,” he replies, cheeks flushing. “Really, that’s dirty, even for you.”


Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

HOLY COW! Fill=HAWT! ...yeah.

Re: FILL: Dirt·y –adjective (dirtier, dirtiest) (7/7)

Oh God, oh my God, what is air, I need my bunk stat. *wanders off in a daze*

OP here. (Anonymous) Expand
Re: de!anon author here (Anonymous) Expand
  • 1

Log in