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Untitled Part 1

John swooned gently backwards as the white arms with a texture resembling that of spongy Wonder Bread wrapped around their slender body. "Ooh, Mr. Holmes, Ooh," they quavered out in wondrous tones, their eyelashes fluttering softly (like the wings of dead butterflies, not to get emo or anything) as they took in the glorious image of their savior, the rescue from their hell of asexuality. Yes, listeners, you heard right—this Sexy White Detective, as pale as the fucking moon, has rescued them from their anti-gay sufferings, shown them the light of anal sex, and finally swept them off their feet. "Please, put your erect marble rod of flapping flesh and healing inside my forbidden puckered hole of pleasure," they whispered softly, their own rippling flab pressing against Sherlock's flat, muscular one (he probably had an eight-pack, or something. Don't they always? In fanfiction? I don't know.)"Yes," he groaned out in a husky voice, his changing-color green-blue-brown-hazel-dick orbs staring deeply and gently into John's dark almond-shaped eyes, "I will take you in the most manly, masculine fashion ever seen and known to mankind. And I will leave my fandom-famous, ridiculously tight magenta shirt on.""How did this become a clothes-ripping fic," John cries out as they are cavorted to the bedroom, carried bridal style (as befits traditional heteronormative values) to an imaginary bedroom, where crimson red sheets, rose petals, and probably illegal French wine awaited. Damn those French wines. "Those shirts are so expensive!""So are you," Sherlock rumbles in his deep bass baritone, as deep as the fuckin' Mariana Trench or something, damn. "But I'm willing to pay the full price.""Are you suggesting I'm a prostitute," John cries out in outrage, his society-driven hatred of empowered women in sexual positions making profit off of so-mentioned sexual position naturally leading him to interpret the message as an insult to his degraded masculinity which in some audiences could be found naturally arousing.

"Yes," he groaned out in a husky voice, his changing-color green-blue-brown-hazel-dick orbs staring deeply and gently into John's dark almond-shaped eyes, "I will take you in the most manly, masculine fashion ever seen and known to mankind. And I will leave my fandom-famous, ridiculously tight magenta shirt on.""How did this become a clothes-ripping fic," John cries out as they are cavorted to the bedroom, carried bridal style (as befits traditional heteronormative values) to an imaginary bedroom, where crimson red sheets, rose petals, and probably illegal French wine awaited. Damn those French wines. "Those shirts are so expensive!""So are you," Sherlock rumbles in his deep bass baritone, as deep as the fuckin' Mariana Trench or something, damn. "But I'm willing to pay the full price.""Are you suggesting I'm a prostitute," John cries out in outrage, his society-driven hatred of empowered women in sexual positions making profit off of so-mentioned sexual position naturally leading him to interpret the message as an insult to his degraded masculinity which in some audiences could be found naturally arousing. "I won't have sex with you for money!""I'll pay you," Sherlock thinks, which is clearly not hard because he is a Sociopathic GeniusTM and nothing escapes him, man we love glorifying mental illnesss, "seventy million dollars.""Sherlock we don't have that kind of money!" John yells in outrage, imaginary dollar bills rippling gently before his eyes before being incinerated, because they got semen on them because Sherlock paid them this money so he could debauch John's backdoor. Backdoor is a metaphor for anus, by the by. "Where would you even get it!""My brother," he rumbles, like the thunder of an encroaching (enroaching? approaching?) storm which hails dicks which sadly flap their way like animate sea creatures to the nearest penetratable anus, which hopefully are not all too common all around London (although I haven't been there so you wouldn't know) as he swept John away to his Sexy Sex Bedroom of Le Sex.