#kassafrassa

[fuckyeahmhawkefenris]

post/18097917606

https://www.tumblr.com/mhawkeandfenris18plus/749489293572063232/kassafrassa-its-ok-ok-fenris-you-can-smile

[missl0nelyhearts]

Blondtea.

Kas and Shimmy's teas. Part 3.

[missl0nelyhearts]

Turn and Face the Tiger Eye.

Kas and Shimmy's teas.  Part 2.

[tseecka]

KASSIE COME ON SKYPE I WANT TO FLAIL AT YOU

[tseecka]

BUTTS that's a prompt that is the best prompt

Sherlock had never really thought about the human body before. 

Well, that's a lie--he's thought about it plenty, actually, in a physiological sense. The congealing of blood in certain mediums, the look of flesh at 4, 8, 24, 36, 48 hours after death, the way bruises form pre- and post-mortem--but never in an objective sense.

No. Objective is the wrong word--objectifying. He's never thought about the human body as a thing to be objectified. That is, until he's hoisting John along the pavement one night, stumbling drunk the both of them, and John almost falls flat on his face as he swivels his head to watch a pretty blond in a mini-skirt strut by. "God, those are nice," he whistles, and Sherlock looks about curiously.

"What are?"

"Tits, mate!" John shoves him playfully, almost sending them both toppling with the effort. "Her tits, god Sherlock, even you can't be that much of a machine!" Sherlock frowns, his brow knitted, and John lets out a raucous ale-scented guffaw.

"Oh, come off it. You may think sex is a waste of your time 'n energy, but you're still a man, you gotta have...whatchacallit, urges, yeah?" Sherlock thinks about correcting him, numerous articles on sexualities outside of the homo/hetero dichotomy coming to mind, but the details are fuzzy and he'd hate to get it wrong, and besides, John is right. "So, which are you--tits or arse?"

Sherlock frowns in puzzlement--he's neither, really, as a male he has no breasts to speak of and his arse is rather flat and nearly nonexistent--but then he realizes what John is asking, recalls an episode of American TV. 

"I...don't know," he confesses, confusion colouring his voice. And then suddenly, he can't stop thinking about it. 

Sherlock Holmes knows a lot about a lot of things, but the one thing he's always known every little detail about is himself. Yet suddenly, there's a gaping hole in his knowledge--is he a tit-man, or an arse-man? He's never bothered giving it thought, never bothered compartmentalizing the human body into its separate distinct parts and examining his sexual reaction to each, but now John's planted the seed and he can't let it go. 

He's slapped more times in the next few weeks than he's ever been before, mostly due to his research--he spends inordinate amounts of time at the park, usually, because there is where people go jogging and the motion of jogging puts both tits and arse into sharp focus. People catch him staring, call him names, and it wouldn't be as frustrating if he were getting anywhere with it. 

John's forgotten the conversation entirely, but Sherlock can't put it from his mind. The thought burrows into his brain like a leech, sucking his brainpower from other more important tasks. Two weeks later, and he still doesn't know. 

Until, that is, he catches John at home just after a shower. John's got a towel slung low about his waist, and the curves and lines of his backside show just above the cotton, and Sherlock's eyes are drawn. The dimples just about his hipbones, the way the towel swells and then falls, the subtle shift of muscle and flesh as John moves about the flat completely oblivious. 

He finds himself staring, even after that, when John's in jeans or a nice pair of trousers--there's one pair, black, that he usually wears when they go out to the theatre, and Sherlock starts buying tickets to more and more shows just so he can see John in them. He stops going to the park; he starts dropping behind John when they stroll down the street, under the guise of being distracted by an incoming text. 

It takes him another couple of months to really make the connection, when John stumbles in one night roaring drunk and collides with Sherlock in the kitchen, and their mouths are suddenly hot and pressed together and Sherlock has his hands full of John's backside, and, oh yes. He is definitely an arse-man. 

[tseecka]

Art by Kassie. 

Click the Read More to read some old-as-balls Legion drabblefic

[tseecka]

KASSIE

I'M SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO GET THIS DONE

I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT IT UNTIL JUST NOW

SO IT'S VERY LATE AND DELAYED AND I'M SORRY BUT I HOPE YOU LOVE IT ANYWAYS