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I've been neglecting my Merry Month submissions. Last year I had 14 and I've only done 6 this month. So have another of Jeeves & Bertie.
Title: Almost Special
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Rating: Mature for masturbation
Word Count: 250
Summary: Bertie has a hangover but they are out of Worcestershire sauce. Jeeves offers a temporary substitute.
( Read more... )
Title: Almost Special
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Rating: Mature for masturbation
Word Count: 250
Summary: Bertie has a hangover but they are out of Worcestershire sauce. Jeeves offers a temporary substitute.
( Read more... )
Title: Timing
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Rating: Teen
Length: 150
For: MMOM [Merry Month of Masturbation] Day 2
Notes: Parody of the opening of Chapter 1: Jeeves Exerts the Old Cerebellum of The Inimitable Jeeves.
( Read more... )
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Rating: Teen
Length: 150
For: MMOM [Merry Month of Masturbation] Day 2
Notes: Parody of the opening of Chapter 1: Jeeves Exerts the Old Cerebellum of The Inimitable Jeeves.
( Read more... )
Title: Acidic
Fandom: Carmilla [book, J. Sheridan Le Fanu]
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Laura/Carmilla
Warning/Notes: Frottage. Vampires.
Poetic form: Spenserian stanza x 4.
Length: 272
No. of lines: 36
Prompt: Acidic
Also: 100 Fandoms .052: quell and Day 27: 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation.
Summary: Laura cannot rid herself of the memory of the vampire Carmilla.
( Read more... )
Fandom: Carmilla [book, J. Sheridan Le Fanu]
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Laura/Carmilla
Warning/Notes: Frottage. Vampires.
Poetic form: Spenserian stanza x 4.
Length: 272
No. of lines: 36
Prompt: Acidic
Also: 100 Fandoms .052: quell and Day 27: 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation.
Summary: Laura cannot rid herself of the memory of the vampire Carmilla.
( Read more... )
Title: Sign of Life
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Poetic form: Burns stanza (x 6)
Length: 300
No. of lines: 36
Rating: Teen
For:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mafief
Also for: 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation - Day 10
Summary: After Afghanistan, but before Holmes, Watson wanders about London at night.
Prompt:
In the cesspool with idlers and loungers he drains.
An eleven and sixpence in hand for his pains.
And there’s no one to hear if he cries or complains
in a room on the Strand.
In the night, to escape all his burdens and banes,
he sets forth on the land.
Through the city he wanders without purpose or aim,
by the shops, ‘cross the parks, along streets he can’t name.
Every night is a novel, each day much the same,
And he watches them all.
There, the reveler, the deviler, and crown prince of shame
amidst peddler and stall.
As he surveys the river, he grieves he can’t paint.
Then he’s lost ‘round the docks with its brine and its taint.
There he spies a young sailor, feels something quite faint
in his moribund frame.
But the seaman’s a ghost: there he is, there he ain’t.
as the fog lays its claim.
The next night it is Limehouse. He breathes its perfumes
of the spices in rices and vices in tombs,
navigating by lanterns which hang like the plumes
in an opium den.
There’s a lad, he’s quite something, the pose he assumes
makes a corpse think of sin.
He returns to his rooms more alive than fatigued
and throws off the mantle of dreamer bereaved.
No mistake, there’s an ache, an old friend, he’s intrigued,
so he spits on his palm.
And he thinks of the lad and the sailor un-leagued
and applies the wet balm.
As he strokes, he remembers what once made him tick,
resurrected by lust, a young dog, an old trick.
He imagines it all, from the tight to the slick,
free from blot, free from strife.
And he thinks as he watches the lurch of his prick,
‘Not a bad sign of life.’
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Poetic form: Burns stanza (x 6)
Length: 300
No. of lines: 36
Rating: Teen
For:
mafiefAlso for: 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation - Day 10
Summary: After Afghanistan, but before Holmes, Watson wanders about London at night.
Prompt:
In the cesspool with idlers and loungers he drains.
An eleven and sixpence in hand for his pains.
And there’s no one to hear if he cries or complains
in a room on the Strand.
In the night, to escape all his burdens and banes,
he sets forth on the land.
Through the city he wanders without purpose or aim,
by the shops, ‘cross the parks, along streets he can’t name.
Every night is a novel, each day much the same,
And he watches them all.
There, the reveler, the deviler, and crown prince of shame
amidst peddler and stall.
As he surveys the river, he grieves he can’t paint.
Then he’s lost ‘round the docks with its brine and its taint.
There he spies a young sailor, feels something quite faint
in his moribund frame.
But the seaman’s a ghost: there he is, there he ain’t.
as the fog lays its claim.
The next night it is Limehouse. He breathes its perfumes
of the spices in rices and vices in tombs,
navigating by lanterns which hang like the plumes
in an opium den.
There’s a lad, he’s quite something, the pose he assumes
makes a corpse think of sin.
He returns to his rooms more alive than fatigued
and throws off the mantle of dreamer bereaved.
No mistake, there’s an ache, an old friend, he’s intrigued,
so he spits on his palm.
And he thinks of the lad and the sailor un-leagued
and applies the wet balm.
As he strokes, he remembers what once made him tick,
resurrected by lust, a young dog, an old trick.
He imagines it all, from the tight to the slick,
free from blot, free from strife.
And he thinks as he watches the lurch of his prick,
‘Not a bad sign of life.’
