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My pronouns are..

Found 4 results

  1. In this example of British humour, comedians Ellie White and Natasia Demetriou roasts the Ariana Grande aesthetic as, well, somewhat age-play-y. See for yourself. E&N Sexy Baby.mkv
  2. downwest6

    Eastenders next week

    Next week on the BBC soap Eastenders, the character Nancy Carter will wet herself: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2016/01/26/eastenders-spoilers-nancy-carter-tamwar-masood-split_n_9076918.html
  3. Note: Here's a Sherlock fic I wrote ages ago. Never had a place to post it, so hope you guys like it. Seems a shame to let a fic gather dust! I've had a thing the last little while for John's PTSD leading to bedwetting, which started when I read a story called "Not Talking About It" by plainjane . Check it out. I couldn't find any other stories like it, so this story is along the same lines, and therefore I appologize for similarities. I just wanted to write a version for myself that didn't ship John/Sherlock, and was just a friends one. I'm not much for them as a pairing, and as I never really thought I would have a place to share this I didn't mind the storyline being close. Thus, whether she sees it or not, thanks to plainjane for the great story to spring off of. ***** A Case of Cold Sheets Sherlock had waited a full month and a half. A full, horrible, agonizing six weeks before returning to London after the news of his death had splashed across front pages all throughout the city. He had made sure the assassins were well out of the area. He had gotten people to tail John and Mrs. Hudson while he was away. Sherlock had learned quickly that during the first week John had been living elsewhere, staying with Lestrade, who took some time off work and could be seen puttering about in his back garden. Sherlock assumed that the arrangement probably had something to do with safety. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sister for two weeks while things calmed down. After the first week John had gone back to Baker street, Mrs. Hudson returning shortly after. John had initially, for that first little while back at Baker street, appeared to have made every excuse to leave the house, making restless trips to pace the rows of books at a nearby library, or sit for hours on end in coffee shops and parks. And then he stopped leaving. He left less and less, and by the time Sherlock had set a day to return, his sources told him that John had not left the house in about two weeks, not even to poke his nose out the door. He was worried. Initially, he wanted to stay away even longer. Well, not wanted, thought it necessary more like, but John was frightening him. And that was precisely why he found himself on the familiar doorstep of 221B baker street. Mrs. Hudson was out. He had made sure. He only wanted to see one person first. One person. John. John, the main person he had pretended to die to save. Been prepared to die to save … had it not been for Molly. He knocked on the door. No answer. Oh well. He had a key. He slid it in the lock, and turned it. It clicked, albeit slightly more stiffly than Sherlock had remembered it. Ordinarily John had oiled the thing every two weeks at least because it had a tendency to get jammed. Another bad sign. Sherlock walked up the stairs, feeling a shiver go down his spine, a strange, stirring feeling rise up within himself. Home, this was home, and in moments he would see his best friend in the world. His only real friend in the world. How would John react? Would he be furious? Would he break down and cry? Would he be relieved? Sherlock never really pretended to understand emotion, entirely, but John was a highly emotional person compared to many Sherlock knew. This made him interesting to Sherlock, somehow. Also a little frightening, but in a good way. The door on the landing was open. The telly was on. He walked upstairs, softly, anxiously. John was not looking at him, but Sherlock felt a strange sensation - a prickling feeling around his eyes. A dry feeling in his throat. Fear? No … it was almost like sadness, but coupled with joy. A melancholy sort of ache. It was relief, maybe, at seeing John, but he looked different somehow. Although Sherlock could not get a full glimpse of him because he was lying on the sofa under a blanket. There were some boxes in the corner, unmarked, but the end of a rubber coil of tubing could be seen sticking out. Sherlock’s experiments. The rest of the flat seemed untouched. It was early morning, and the sun was shining through the windows. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow,” said John without looking up, obviously believing it to be Mrs. Hudson at the door. His voice was tired, and a little gravelly. “Given the circumstances, I thought I’d come back early,” said Sherlock, trying to control the sudden tremor that was in his voice. That had never been there before, or at least not recently. Not since the semtex vest and John standing there, wide eyed by the pool. Like a man in a dream, John froze, his whole body tensing, and then he sat up slowly, as though he could not believe what he was hearing. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest, and he turned his head away from the sofa back. He stood up, and silently the blanket fell in folds at his feet. He stared. And then a choking sound escaped his throat, and Sherlock took a hesitant step forward. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to John, not knowing what to do, or what to say. “He threatened to kill you and Mrs. Hudson if I didn’t … if I didn’t … Molly helped me fake it and figured out the best angle and … John, I’m so sorry. I had to keep it secret until the assassins had left.” “Prove it’s you!” John said suddenly, his fists clenched, knuckles white. He seemed afraid … afraid to believe it really was Sherlock. But why? Why would he be frightened? Frightened to go through all the emotions again if he found out he had been wrong? Sherlock paused. Taking in John’s appearance. Unkempt, unshaven for a few days. Long sleeved baggy white shirt; stained, unwashed. Pyjama trousers, clean. Not even wrinkled. “You had toast and jam for breakfast - you can see by the small stain on the lower right side of your t-shirt. The shirt is unwashed - the stain could have been from yesterday but I don’t think so because it’s still a bit sticky and damp from where you tried to wash it out with a cloth. Rings under your eyes - you haven’t been sleeping - no wonder. But there’s something else you’re hiding - I can tell by the way you are fidgeting. Your pyjama trousers have been changed recently - these aren’t the ones you wore to bed - your t-shirt obviously was what you slept in, and for a few nights because it’s got sweat stains around the armpits. Nightmares maybe? Weather’s too cool to account for sweating from heat, and no sign of a runny nose or medicines on the counter so you probably aren’t sick. That leads me to the subject of pyjama trousers, which you had to have worn to bed because of the chill - although evidently a different pair than these - because you wouldn’t go to bed in a long-sleeve and just boxer shorts. But how do I know you didn’t wear this pair to bed? Synthetic material - would wrinkle easily - but these ones are crisp. They are too long for you tend to step on the hems. The floor is dusty and dirty and not a hint of that on the edges of the trousers so obviously they are a clean pair. What happened the last pair? Were the others too cold? Perhaps, but I doubt you were cold because you aren’t wearing a sweater. Did you spill jam on them? Unlikely because in addition to the spot on the front of your shirt, there’s also a spot of jam on your right elbow from leaning on the table as you ate, thus your lower half would have been under the table. And now you’re starting to look nervous, and your right hand is shaking, a sure sign of duress - are you hiding something? Although given the situation it could be my sudden reappearance -” “You fucking bastard!” John said, voice broken, tears now streaming down his face. “Enough already, I know it’s you!” Sherlock took a step back, worried, shocked by John’s loud, angry tone. Well, maybe not shocked, considering. Alarmed, more like. The stood there silently. Sherlock was baffled by the next event. John started to sob with gusto, and before Sherlock could say anything he had limped forward (limping again, what was that about?) and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his dripping nose onto the shoulder of his jacket. “Y-You f-fucking b-b-b-astard!” gasped John, although this time with relief, and after what seemed to be a very long couple of seconds consideration, Sherlock lifted his arms and wrapped them around John. An old memory, long ago, of when Mycroft broke his working model of a steam engine he had built from scratch had come to mind. He had been eight years old, and he’d cried when he saw the crushed pieces, and his mother had come upstairs to see what the shouting was about. She had told Mycroft to go downstairs, and then she had taken Sherlock into her arms and held him close, telling him it would be okay, and rubbing his back. Not knowing entirely how to handle the sudden rush of emotions from John, Sherlock did just what his mother did years ago, and gently began to rub John’s back, hoping to God that it calmed him down. To his amazement, and utmost horror, John only sobbed louder. Frozen there and having no clue what he did to make that worse, Sherlock froze and just waited, and in about ten minutes, John had at last fallen silent. He hiccoughed slightly, and then, seeming to realize what he was doing, pulled himself roughly away and wiped his eyes roughly with his sleeve. “Right,” said John, looking a little bit nervous, plucking at the hem of his shirt, “right, you’re back. Yeah. Sorry about that.” “John … it was quite a shock,” said Sherlock, not surprised John had done what most normal humans do and melted completely at the sight of someone they thought was dead (despite the fact that Sherlock only sort of understood it). “I do not blame you.” “Well … good.” The two just looked at each other, and for a moment, Sherlock smirked. John suddenly broke into a watery grin, and then they were laughing, and neither really knew why because the situation wasn’t funny. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was relief making them this way. Perhaps it was that they knew no other response but to laugh after all of the pain they had been forced to go through. *** Sherlock thought everything was well. He was back. He and John were reunited. They’d spent hours talking, even playing a couple of games of chess despite Sherlock finding it boring and John having no chance at beating him. He’d tried to ask John about the limp, but John was evasive of the subject. Sherlock could not say he wasn’t surprised. Really, John had thought his … as he put it, to Sherlock’s surprise (and quiet delight at the term)… best friend died, after all. He hadn’t done any cases for a while either, and had taken time off work. They went to bed in the early evening, not long after a short walk to the shop by Baker Street to get a few scones for the morning (the weather had warmed considerably, to John’s evident pleasure). Despite the good humour, John looked positively exhausted, and turned in without fuss. Sherlock naturally lay awake a long time. Midnight came. Midnight went. He still couldn’t sleep, so he went to go set up his experiments again. He was just beginning to reinstall the heating coil on one of the devices when he heard a small sound come from upstairs, like a moan lost in the wind. He paused, thinking he had imagined it. He resumed tweaking the coil just as he heard it again. It was a name. His name. Sherlock, drifting eerily through the night. It was John who was calling his name, for John’s was a voice he knew anywhere. Sherlock flicked on lights as he went through the flat, and he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He heard a rasping breath, filled with fear, and he threw himself up the stairs. He entered John’s room, the darkness pressing in on him. He reached for the switch on a lamp and the room filled with a warm glow, illuminating the thrashing figure of John upon his bed. The sheets were tangled around him, and he had terror written across his face. “Sh’lock!” John gasped, still in the midst of a nightmare, his words running together. “No, not now … Soldier down! Kit - kit ge’my kit!” Sherlock wasted no time. He knew John would be upset he’d seen him like this, but quite frankly, Sherlock was quite sure he’d forgive him considering whatever twisted nightmare he seemed to be having. John kicked away the covers, and took in a rattling, sickening breath and grabbed his shoulder. He gave a cry of fear, and Sherlock felt his stomach twist with unexpected worry as a dark stain spread over the front of John’s pyjama boxers and onto the sheets. For a moment, Sherlock considered just leaving to spare John the embarrassment, but then he saw the tears rolling down John’s face and the white knuckles clenching the fabric of the sheets on either side of him, a low animal-like hiss of pain escaping his lips. “John, wake up!” Sherlock said, reaching for John’s good shoulder. He had barely shaken him when John sprung onto his feet, standing up in just his socks and boxers upon the damp mattress, a wild look in his eyes, half crouched. Before Sherlock could dodge him John had leaped at him and had his forearm over his throat as he pinned him to the plush carpet, panting, tears still streaming from his face. “John!” choked Sherlock, his back throbbing from where it had slammed against the ground. “It’s me! Sherlock!” Gasping for air as John bore his weight down on him, Sherlock watched as the recognition slowly spread across John’s face. First, it had been filled with anger - fighting instinct. Then, confusion … hurt … and now it was with fear. John let out a sobbing, hitching breath and removed his arm, going momentarily limp with his face falling onto Sherlock’s chest, a hand clutching the fabric of his dressing gown. And then John sat up so sharply he might have been electrocuted, and he scuttled away from Sherlock, his back against the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. The embarrassment on his face was evident. The dampness from John’s boxers had spread through Sherlock’s pyjama trousers. “Oh God,” muttered John, his hands clutching his hair. “Oh God I’m so sorry.” “John, relax,” said Sherlock, getting up and sinking to sit in front of John, cross legged. “No no, did … did I … on you?” “You wet the bed just as I woke you up,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. “So no, you didn’t do it on me, to be precise. Besides, John, I really don’t care. Of all the hundreds of people in the world, you would have been the one I would mind the least if they wet themselves on me. Besides, it was a perfectly rational response.” “Rational?” said John incredulously, looking almost like himself for a moment. “Perhaps not, actually,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Rather, a perfectly natural response to an irrational state of mind brought on by a bout of terror. Although I rather think you have a better reason than most in having a nightmare. John took a deep shuddering breath. “Look, Sherlock, can you just go?” “You say that and yet you don’t seem to want me to,” said Sherlock. “Yeah, well, you’re wrong.” “I’m not. Just like I’m not wrong to say that this is not the first bad nightmare you’ve had as of late. Nor the first time you’ve wet the bed.” “Okay, the first part makes sense - I have looked pretty tired as of late. But the second -” “Really? I thought you were paying attention earlier? You’d changed your pyjama trousers, but not your shirt. Given all the other variables I noticed earlier - and especially the plastic sheet just visible on your bed - it’s obvious that you -” “Stop it, okay?” Sherlock was alarmed by the sudden hurt in John’s tone. “I get it. I can’t fool you, so stop it.” “Alright.” To his amazement, a few tears escaped John’s eyes, who scrubbed them away angrily. “John …” he began, unsure of what to do. “It’s just that I thought it all stopped,” John burst out angrily, as though he’d been dying to say this very thing for weeks but not known how. “I t-thought it stopped!” “The nightmares?” “No, well, partly,” John started. He looked away and he shook his head. Oh. “The bed-wetting, it used to happen before?” “Just another symptom of PTSD I guess,” John said bitterly, looking ashamed, but almost relieved to be telling someone about it. Perhaps he was less afraid to talk of it after believing Sherlock to be dead for so long. “Before I came here … I … it used to happen about two to three times in a month. With the nightmares. Fear response, obviously, not that it makes it any less mortifying.” “It’s worse now, isn’t it?” said Sherlock, feeling a sudden, powerful wave of guilt. “When I … when I faked my death. It came back, didn’t it? It got worse. John nodded, his face screwed up slightly. “When did it start up again?” “ After a couple of days of staying with Lestrade, you know, because they were worried to leave me alone after,” choked John after a moment, but it was clear he needed to tell someone because after the first few, the words came bursting out. “I just wanted to disappear I was so bloody embarrassed. I’m a grown man - I should be able to sleep the night without wetting myself like a little kid!” “How did Lestrade take it?” “God, he was so bloody nice,” muttered John, looking like he hated himself more than anything.. “Of course he found out - I mean, pretty hard to hide the nightmares - and the result of them … well. But he didn’t mind. He said it wasn’t surprising considering … what I’ve been though, and what just happened. Or what I thought had happened. See, before I just dreamt about … about Afghanistan, and now, when I dream about that place you’re there too. You’re s-standing on a building, and I could save you if it isn’t for the sniper with his gun trained right on my - my shoulder, and all the while other men are going down but I’m not, at least at first. And every time I try to save you. And every time I get shot … a-and you’re lying t-t-there, eyes o-open!” Sherlock watched as John started to break, as the sobs wracked his body, as words failed him. Sherlock tried to think of all the things he could do, but again, the only response he could think of had been his mother’s. He crept over to where John was sitting, damp and sobbing by the bed, and he put an arm around him, and he pulled him close. It seemed to be what John needed, for he gripped the front of Sherlock’s pyjama shirt, as though it alone was tying him to an earth that was spinning out of control. The proof he needed to convince himself Sherlock was back - that he was real, and not some figment of his imagination. Sherlock let him cry, even though his shoulder grow wet and the sniffling was right in his ear, and John was still damp from the accident he’d had. Yet, somehow, Sherlock didn’t find he cared much, which was unusual for him. He usually liked to be far away from people, but right now, he felt sorry for John. In fact, his heart ached for John’s sorrows, and if he could, he would have done anything to take them from him. To bear the burdens that were so firmly on his shoulders. It was a fairly new feeling, one he’d only gotten once or twice with Mycroft when something had gone disastrously wrong for his brother, which granted, was not often. It made him wonder if it was the feeling his mother had gotten all those years ago when something went wrong for either Sherlock or Mycroft and she had held them those seldom times they’d cried. Maybe it was what people called love - the love you feel for family. Perhaps John was family to Sherlock because his own was so distant … so dysfunctional. Mycroft too controlling, his mother too naive, his father too caught up in his own projects. And John, was Sherlock his family too? Sherlock had a suspicion he was. At last John settled down, and he wiped his eyes. They shared one last, small glance. No words were exchanged, just a sort of nod. John went to the bathroom to have a shower. Sherlock stripped the sheets from the bed and put on new ones - even though John hadn’t asked him. But Sherlock felt his pain, a sensation that he wondered if he would ever get used to, and found that the only way he could ease it was by making John’s life a little bit simpler. Besides. He had pitched himself off a building in front of John, or at least so it had appeared. He thought he rather owed him.
  4. I remember a clip of a girl peeing herself on a TV show that I believe was called "Housecall".. I think it was a british show. She was standing with a few other guys and the guy was talking while she was peeing, though I don't think anyone noticed. Does anyone have this clip? I can not find it on the site though I believe it was a very old clip.