#ellebrittany

[strangelock]

He has stilted memories of toy soldiers; model figurines with their static faces; masklike – the aquiline lump of plastic at the apex of the groin; the unassuming smoothness, the hardness, the lack of detail or definition. His action man is a perfect androgyne, perpetually flaccid; and the female, too, is impervious, impenetrable and sterile – they are sexless and as such their bodies simply were not made to meet, and so they would do no such thing. And so he would not divvy about with other bodies in this way.

from The Body is Rude by ElleBrittany (1,089 words)

Character study of a repulsed ace!Sherlock. Vivid language related to this repulsion that may squick some, as the author warns. This Sherlock may take things to the extreme, but I still related to some of his thoughts, or a version of them, like this one. I haven't run into some of these topics before in fanfic.

[thatworldinverted]

A Study in Repression

Fandom: Sherlock Author: ElleBrittany Pairing: Sherlock/John Rating: NC-17

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/604968/chapters/1090468

-A scorching, scorching hot exploration of Sherlock, his addictive nature, and the introduction of John as a variable. There was a lot to appreciate in this fic: the chemical correlations between drugs and sex are always intriguing, and Sherlock, as a recovering drug addict, struggles here both to give in to his sexual urges, and to keep from going out of control.

He thought of John. Of course he thought of John. The shower was overhot as usual, small room filling with puffs of wet vapor, triggering the memory of the first time he’d been touched only three nights ago. Three nights ago. It seemed like an eternity. Another strange side effect of this new drug. Sherlock was usually meticulous when it came to dates and times – and yet now he couldn’t even remember what day it was. He knew it couldn’t be Saturday because Lestrade and company hadn’t intercepted the dead cat. He also knew it couldn’t be Friday because John went to work on Fridays and John wasn’t at work because his leather oxfords were propped up behind the front door. So it was Thursday. Thursday. He said the word a few times, gagged on it; it spilled from his mouth like bile. The nuances of language had always eluded him; sometimes words put a weird taste in his mouth. A bad taste in his mouth. Not John. He said the doctor’s name a few times, liked the way it forced his jaw open with his lips slightly puckered. It didn’t put a weird taste in his mouth. He liked the way John tasted; soapy, sweet, salty. Wanted to taste him again. At the core of your being you are, and always will be, an addict.