20th Anniversary Celebration #14
Sep. 24th, 2017 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tarotgalCard 2 in the TOS’s redesigned major arcana was fanfiction. Did you know I have more than 890 stories on my realm’s fanfiction page? Did you know I run a comment meme on my journal every year in April? I’m definitely a multi-fandom fangirl at heart.
I wasn’t able to put any fanfiction into the collection because of the legalities. But I can certainly share some with you now! Unfortunately, I don’t have any finished. But here are parts of my latest two projects:
Pairing: None (Gen)
Sam wonders what Dean's thinking when he shivers like that. Is he thinking of the horsemen on their asses? Is he thinking things would be better if Sam just says yes... or if Dean does? Is he thinking that this isn't a great time to be driving through the midwest?
“ahhhh-KUHFtchhhhh!” Yeah, probably that last one. “hah...” And you'd think that having been born and raised in Kansas, Dean would be immune to something like ragweed. “hahh-IHKkkktshhhhhh!” But in fact it's just the opposite.
According to what Sam could glean from the last motel room's crappy selection of television stations while Dean was in the shower, the ragweed's particularly bad this year. It's even making Sam's nose itch and tickle a little, and he hardly ever sneezes. Dean's hayfever makes up for Sam's shortcomings in that department, though. Sam's never known anyone to sneeze as much as Dean does, even though he takes medicine for it and showers twice a day. He's got the softest hypoallergenic pillow money can buy. He even blows his nose when he feels a tickle coming on, to try and get ahead of the thing. But there's no driving some of these sneezes out. Once they get deep in there, irritating, there's no stopping them.
And it's not like Sam can say a couple verses of Latin or toss some salt to get rid of them. Sam's helpless against them, just like Dean is.
“hahh-Ihguhshhhhhhh!”
Sam hates feeling helpless, just watching his brother get worse and worse with every sneeze. “Hey, why don't you let me take over for a while?”
Dean pauses in the rubbing of his nose with a tissue. He's taken to keeping a box right in his lap. As long as balled-up tissues didn't slide under the gas or brake pedals, it seems like a useful arrangement. What would be more useful though, in Sam's opinion, is for Dean to pull over and let Sam with his strong constitution have a turn behind the wheel. However, Dean's answer is to crank the car radio up a notch and pretend he hasn't even heard the offer.
Not a good sign. On his best days, his hayfever makes Dean sneezy and miserable. He stands in motel room showers, rubbing his red nose until the urge to sneeze passes and the hot steam soothes. But on his worst, Dean's sneezy and irritable and frustrated, not that Sam can blame him. He wishes he could take them from Dean, use some sort of transference hoodoo or something. Because at least then Sam might be sneezy but at least he'd feel good about sparing his brother all of that. And, just like hunting, Dean's the better between the two of them at care-giving.
The number of times he looked after Sam over the years is impossible to count. Dean had always been there with a cup of syrup when Sam's throat was scratchy. Dean had stayed up many a night to hold cold compresses to Sam's feverish forehead. Dean had driven him home from school when Sam had stomach flu. Dean had stolen blankets and pillows from motels to keep Sam warm and comfortable in the back of the Impala. And he'd even surrendered his sleeve a couple times so Sam could smother sneezes into them and keep them quiet so Dad wouldn't be bothered by them. Then there were the times he watched Sam's back on a hunt. And the times he covered for him with Dad. Or the time—
“ihhNgstshhh!”
Sam watches Dean's knuckles scrub his nose, rings flashing as they catch the sun through the dashboard. “Dean, you don't sound—”
Without even looking over at his brother, Dean turns the radio up a little more.
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Greg
(Continuation of my "series" in which John has a sneezing fetish, Sherlock is asexual, and Greg lives with the two of them)
John took the damp washcloth off Sherlock's forehead and felt the skin below. It was still considerably warmer than John would have liked. He bent his fingers, stroking them across the forehead gently, wiping away any stray drops and pushing back a curl or two. Standing beside the couch where Sherlock was lying and John was sitting, Greg took the washcloth from John's hands without a word. He walked into the kitchen and ran cold tap water over both sides. Then he wrung it out and wet it again, just a little. It was colder when he walked it back to them, and John was closer to Sherlock, leaning over him. “You know, you could kiss him now,” Greg said. “I wouldn't tell if you did.”
John looked up, startled, and moved back, sitting up straight to remove the temptation. “I know.” In his feverish and heavily medicated state, Sherlock wouldn't wake up. He'd never know, never have to know. And it wasn't as though John hadn't thought about doing it before. He looked down at Sherlock, at those beautiful lips just below a nose that was almost as red as the lips were. “But I would never do something when he was asleep that I wouldn't do when he was awake.”
Greg handed over the cool washcloth, and John folded it and laid it on Sherlock's forehead once more. “Ta. Besides,” John said, running his hands through Sherlock's hair, watching the curls fall back into place. “That's not our thing.” He looked up at Greg and smiled softly. “That's our thing, right?”
If John wasn't mistaken, Greg blushed a little at that. The detective replied with, “As much as you want, any time you want.”
“How about now? Now would be lovely.”
Greg moved close, bending over, tilting his head, pressing his lips lightly at first. But when John kissed back in that needy, hungry-for-more way of his, Greg did not hold back. The kiss went stronger, deeper, longer. In fact, John was fairly certain they might be able to keep it up forever. Without breaking the kiss, John reached up and found Greg's hand. He tugged. Without breaking the kiss, Greg slowly moved to the side and sat down on the couch beside John. He squeezed John's hand back.
“UhhhgHURCHH!”
At the sound of Sherlock's wonderful sneeze, John moaned into Greg's mouth, moving toward him as an involuntary rush of lust instantly seized him. Greg pulled back, chuckling lightly. John felt terrible to break this off with Greg. The kiss had been marvelous. On any given day, it would have made John intensely happy to start with a kiss like that and progress to love making with the detective. On any given day, he never would have started something serious with Greg only to abandon him a minute later.
But on any given day, Sherlock Holmes didn't have the flu.
“Uhhhhh... uh Hurchhuhhhh! Snfff!”
Nearly undone already, John melted, leaning forward weakly into Greg's arms with a flush in his own cheeks this time.
Whispering into John's ear and rubbing John's back, Greg soothed him, “It's all right. Go to him now. He needs you.”
John reached down, his fingers ghosting over Greg's lap, feeling for and immediately finding the erection in Greg's jeans that matched the one in his own. “Yes, but you need me too. And I need you.”
Greg chuckled again. “The way you take care of Sherlock, he'll be comfortable and back to sleep within the hour. We can need each other then.”
“uhhh uhhhh HITCHUHHH! Sniff! Sniff! Johd? Sniff! I deed tissues.”
“See? He needs you and he needs tissues. Go do your thing and take care of him.”
John wasn't used to feeling torn between his two lovers, but he knew Greg was right this time. So John nodded into Greg's chest and leaned back. With a deep breath to center himself, he turned in place to face the part of Sherlock that stuck out from beneath the blankets. He pulled a tissue from his pocket. “How are you feeling, love?” He folded the tissue over Sherlock's nose and didn't even have to ask him to blow; Sherlock just did. “Any better?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Feelidg hot.”
“Okay. That'll be your fever. ” John folded down one of the blankets and lifted up another, letting some fresh air under it before laying it lightly back down on Sherlock. “Better?”
“Y-eh yes. Uh uhhh HTCHHhhhh!”
Still Around and Still Writing is available for purchase! Its 448 pages are packed full of sneezes from some of my favorite stories to excerpts from unfinished pieces to drabbles to my own personal thoughts about each piece.
Want to win a free, signed copy from tarotgal? If you’re at least 18 years old, feel free to enter the drawing. The drawing closes on September 24, 2017 at 20:00 Eastern.
Thanks for celebrating the 20th Anniversary of TOS with me!
I wasn’t able to put any fanfiction into the collection because of the legalities. But I can certainly share some with you now! Unfortunately, I don’t have any finished. But here are parts of my latest two projects:
Untitled Supernatural Story Excerpt
Pairing: None (Gen)
Sam wonders what Dean's thinking when he shivers like that. Is he thinking of the horsemen on their asses? Is he thinking things would be better if Sam just says yes... or if Dean does? Is he thinking that this isn't a great time to be driving through the midwest?
“ahhhh-KUHFtchhhhh!” Yeah, probably that last one. “hah...” And you'd think that having been born and raised in Kansas, Dean would be immune to something like ragweed. “hahh-IHKkkktshhhhhh!” But in fact it's just the opposite.
According to what Sam could glean from the last motel room's crappy selection of television stations while Dean was in the shower, the ragweed's particularly bad this year. It's even making Sam's nose itch and tickle a little, and he hardly ever sneezes. Dean's hayfever makes up for Sam's shortcomings in that department, though. Sam's never known anyone to sneeze as much as Dean does, even though he takes medicine for it and showers twice a day. He's got the softest hypoallergenic pillow money can buy. He even blows his nose when he feels a tickle coming on, to try and get ahead of the thing. But there's no driving some of these sneezes out. Once they get deep in there, irritating, there's no stopping them.
And it's not like Sam can say a couple verses of Latin or toss some salt to get rid of them. Sam's helpless against them, just like Dean is.
“hahh-Ihguhshhhhhhh!”
Sam hates feeling helpless, just watching his brother get worse and worse with every sneeze. “Hey, why don't you let me take over for a while?”
Dean pauses in the rubbing of his nose with a tissue. He's taken to keeping a box right in his lap. As long as balled-up tissues didn't slide under the gas or brake pedals, it seems like a useful arrangement. What would be more useful though, in Sam's opinion, is for Dean to pull over and let Sam with his strong constitution have a turn behind the wheel. However, Dean's answer is to crank the car radio up a notch and pretend he hasn't even heard the offer.
Not a good sign. On his best days, his hayfever makes Dean sneezy and miserable. He stands in motel room showers, rubbing his red nose until the urge to sneeze passes and the hot steam soothes. But on his worst, Dean's sneezy and irritable and frustrated, not that Sam can blame him. He wishes he could take them from Dean, use some sort of transference hoodoo or something. Because at least then Sam might be sneezy but at least he'd feel good about sparing his brother all of that. And, just like hunting, Dean's the better between the two of them at care-giving.
The number of times he looked after Sam over the years is impossible to count. Dean had always been there with a cup of syrup when Sam's throat was scratchy. Dean had stayed up many a night to hold cold compresses to Sam's feverish forehead. Dean had driven him home from school when Sam had stomach flu. Dean had stolen blankets and pillows from motels to keep Sam warm and comfortable in the back of the Impala. And he'd even surrendered his sleeve a couple times so Sam could smother sneezes into them and keep them quiet so Dad wouldn't be bothered by them. Then there were the times he watched Sam's back on a hunt. And the times he covered for him with Dad. Or the time—
“ihhNgstshhh!”
Sam watches Dean's knuckles scrub his nose, rings flashing as they catch the sun through the dashboard. “Dean, you don't sound—”
Without even looking over at his brother, Dean turns the radio up a little more.
Untitled BBC Sherlock Story Excerpt
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Greg
(Continuation of my "series" in which John has a sneezing fetish, Sherlock is asexual, and Greg lives with the two of them)
John took the damp washcloth off Sherlock's forehead and felt the skin below. It was still considerably warmer than John would have liked. He bent his fingers, stroking them across the forehead gently, wiping away any stray drops and pushing back a curl or two. Standing beside the couch where Sherlock was lying and John was sitting, Greg took the washcloth from John's hands without a word. He walked into the kitchen and ran cold tap water over both sides. Then he wrung it out and wet it again, just a little. It was colder when he walked it back to them, and John was closer to Sherlock, leaning over him. “You know, you could kiss him now,” Greg said. “I wouldn't tell if you did.”
John looked up, startled, and moved back, sitting up straight to remove the temptation. “I know.” In his feverish and heavily medicated state, Sherlock wouldn't wake up. He'd never know, never have to know. And it wasn't as though John hadn't thought about doing it before. He looked down at Sherlock, at those beautiful lips just below a nose that was almost as red as the lips were. “But I would never do something when he was asleep that I wouldn't do when he was awake.”
Greg handed over the cool washcloth, and John folded it and laid it on Sherlock's forehead once more. “Ta. Besides,” John said, running his hands through Sherlock's hair, watching the curls fall back into place. “That's not our thing.” He looked up at Greg and smiled softly. “That's our thing, right?”
If John wasn't mistaken, Greg blushed a little at that. The detective replied with, “As much as you want, any time you want.”
“How about now? Now would be lovely.”
Greg moved close, bending over, tilting his head, pressing his lips lightly at first. But when John kissed back in that needy, hungry-for-more way of his, Greg did not hold back. The kiss went stronger, deeper, longer. In fact, John was fairly certain they might be able to keep it up forever. Without breaking the kiss, John reached up and found Greg's hand. He tugged. Without breaking the kiss, Greg slowly moved to the side and sat down on the couch beside John. He squeezed John's hand back.
“UhhhgHURCHH!”
At the sound of Sherlock's wonderful sneeze, John moaned into Greg's mouth, moving toward him as an involuntary rush of lust instantly seized him. Greg pulled back, chuckling lightly. John felt terrible to break this off with Greg. The kiss had been marvelous. On any given day, it would have made John intensely happy to start with a kiss like that and progress to love making with the detective. On any given day, he never would have started something serious with Greg only to abandon him a minute later.
But on any given day, Sherlock Holmes didn't have the flu.
“Uhhhhh... uh Hurchhuhhhh! Snfff!”
Nearly undone already, John melted, leaning forward weakly into Greg's arms with a flush in his own cheeks this time.
Whispering into John's ear and rubbing John's back, Greg soothed him, “It's all right. Go to him now. He needs you.”
John reached down, his fingers ghosting over Greg's lap, feeling for and immediately finding the erection in Greg's jeans that matched the one in his own. “Yes, but you need me too. And I need you.”
Greg chuckled again. “The way you take care of Sherlock, he'll be comfortable and back to sleep within the hour. We can need each other then.”
“uhhh uhhhh HITCHUHHH! Sniff! Sniff! Johd? Sniff! I deed tissues.”
“See? He needs you and he needs tissues. Go do your thing and take care of him.”
John wasn't used to feeling torn between his two lovers, but he knew Greg was right this time. So John nodded into Greg's chest and leaned back. With a deep breath to center himself, he turned in place to face the part of Sherlock that stuck out from beneath the blankets. He pulled a tissue from his pocket. “How are you feeling, love?” He folded the tissue over Sherlock's nose and didn't even have to ask him to blow; Sherlock just did. “Any better?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Feelidg hot.”
“Okay. That'll be your fever. ” John folded down one of the blankets and lifted up another, letting some fresh air under it before laying it lightly back down on Sherlock. “Better?”
“Y-eh yes. Uh uhhh HTCHHhhhh!”
Still Around and Still Writing is available for purchase! Its 448 pages are packed full of sneezes from some of my favorite stories to excerpts from unfinished pieces to drabbles to my own personal thoughts about each piece.
Want to win a free, signed copy from tarotgal? If you’re at least 18 years old, feel free to enter the drawing. The drawing closes on September 24, 2017 at 20:00 Eastern.
Thanks for celebrating the 20th Anniversary of TOS with me!
