It's official. That Bilbo/Thorin/Beorn thing I'm working on is now a 10,000-word PWP.
Your word for the day, should you choose to accept it, is baculum
. (That word doesn't actually appear in the story. You can't just throw Latin around in Tolkien fic. The concept certainly does, er, come up.)GOOD OMENS EXCHANGE 2015 IS OPEN FOR SIGNUPS!!!
I have co-modded this beast for 11 years now! Tendy-one!
Which is much to short a time to spend among such excellent and admirable fans. I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.
I can't isolate a good excerpt from "Honeypot," the Bilbo's Raging Bear Kink fic yet, since, like I said, 10k PWP.
So have an excerpt from "The Ginger Bush League," which is a Sherlock AU heist caper sex farce (with Sherlock/John as the brilliant detective and his bodyguard-cum-lover-cum-sidekick and Irene/Mary as the brilliant criminal and her own.)
“Wait a minute,” Mary said. She had thought the matter of Irene’s duplicity had already shown all its layers in this instance, and found herself exhausted, furious, and yet a little relieved at the revelation that there might be another revelation still. She rather peevishly found herself wishing that Irene might stop revealing things that didn’t involve taking off her clothes. It was getting on towards bedtime. “Our real
object? Wasn’t that the--”
“Yes, and we’ve that well in hand, you can be sure. But I found that the hound on our trail was no ordinary mutt. You might have heard of that detective who’s gone all viral? A Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“The one with the hat?” Mary said dubiously.
“Rather more than meets the eye. Not that what meets the eye is objectionable,” Irene said, arching an eyebrow.
Well, Irene had never claimed to be a gold star lesbian. Tin star, perhaps. Possibly zinc, or a nickel-plate alloy.
“You think he was getting close?” Mary asked incredulously.
“Oh, I know for sure he was,” Irene said. “He got quite a bit too close. And he’s very close even now.” Irene took Mary’s arm, and led her down the hallway to her windowed playroom, and pointed through the glass. Mary gasped - there was a man in there, bound quite thoroughly to one of Irene’s deluxe leather chairs (for their was no reason for her very well-paying victims to ever be uncomfortable in ways they didn’t wish to be, not when Irene’s art depended so much on very specific discomforts). But this one? A client, or a prisoner? He was a thin but well-built man wearing nothing but pricey black pants, artfully - and effectively bound - black ropes, and a black hood over his head. He had pale skin and long limbs, and absolutely none of the tell-tale signs of the terrified.
“How much does he know?” Mary asked.
“Oh, I would imagine nearly everything at this point,” Irene said.
“So . . . then, shall I?” Mary asked with a little sigh as her muscle memory started to shape the gun that was not in her hand.
Irene huffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh heavens, Mary, sometimes it’s so tedious
that you’re a former assassin. You keep turning into that hammer that thinks every problem it sees is a nail.”