A Quite Ponderous Revelation (Sherlock/John, NC-17)
This Story Doesn't Want To Have Sex (Sherlock/John, PG-13)
The Mysterious Case Of The Stolen Money (Sherlock/John, Boeing NC-17 Globemaster III)
Inspector G. Lestrade: Vampire Hunter-Hunter (Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Molly, R)
Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Who Farted (Sherlock/John, R)
He Who Watches (Sherlock/John, NC-17, Horror)
Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17)
Where Is My Food? (Sherlock/John, Scorpion Universe, R)
The Reichenbach Sting (Sherlock/John, Scorpion Universe, R)
The Meaning of Scorpion Life (Sherlock/John, Omegaverse/Scorpion Universe crossover, NC-17)
A Touching Moment (Johnlock Drabble, NC-17, F-14)
Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Why Are There So Many Dicks In His Mouth (Drabble, NC-17)
Series: Portentous Omens And Ominous Portents
Part I: Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of John's Butt (Sherlock/John, NC-17)
Part II: The Darker Knight (Sherlock/John, R)
John And Sherlock And Sex And Meat And Meat And Glistening Beautiful Meat (Sherlock/John, NC-17)
Two Ships Pass In The Night (Sherlock/John, NC-17, K-21)
Moriarty, James. “Love In The Labyrinth: A Deconstruction Of The Baker Street Incident.” Journal of Post-Modern Film 42.1(2013):80-107. Print. (Sherlock/John, NC-17)
Series: Supernatural Ghosts
A Spooky Cemetery (Sam/Dean, R, 1/?)
A Cross to Bear (Gen, Case Fic)
I Did Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)
Hard Seas, Wet Oceans
- Current Mood: blank
Summary: The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais.
The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais. Ginny, her maid of honor, smiled supportively as the bride turned and faced Ron, who stood in stunned awe of his future wife.
Hermione wore a full traditional wizard bridal gown, which to a muggle would have looked like a normal wedding dress several centuries out of date, except with magic. It boasted an impossibly long flowing train that moved, serpentine-like, of its own accord. A fairy seamstress had sewn precious gems into the fabric, which itself was woven from dragon silk. Hermione was glad her dress came from a dragon and not a spider’s butt. Spiders are gross.
If she had done her research she would have learned that, though technically some garments have been constructed with spider silk, none are commercially available. Instead, most commercially sold silk is made from caterpillars; more precisely, the larval stage of Bombyx mori, the silkworm moth, or alternatively but less commonly Bombyx mandarina, the wild moth from which B. mori was domesticated. But she had been too busy learning about werewolves and planting tiny screaming babies into dirt.
The music faded. Ron’s fingers trembled as he pulled the veil back from Hermione’s rosy face. The two locked eyes, and Hermione bit her lip and grinned.
“We are gathered here today,” began the stately wizard clerk--priests are not generally welcome at wizard weddings--who was officiating, “to celebrate this wizard marriage between Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.”
From the audience Hermione’s mother loudly blew her nose.
“As is traditional,” the officiator continued, “both parties will now express their vows with magic fireworks, because we wizard folk have neither shame nor any sense of practicality.”
Hermione pulled out her wand and gracefully waved a spell in front of the wedding altar. A thousand shooting stars rained down from the sky, and then, to the delighted oohs and ahs of the audience, burst into red flames, spelling out “I LOVE YOU RON” before turning into diamonds and raining down on the wedding. All wizard diamonds are ethically-sourced and cruelty-free, but only because gnomes aren’t considered people.
Ron gulped. He nervously raised his wand and jerked it around a couple of times. A tiny red heart puffed into the air, smelling faintly of goblin farts, before dissipating.
“Wait,” he said. “I can do better.”
He waved his arm again, more frantically this time. A spark of white light burst from his wand before it snapped in half with a crack.
“It’s okay,” comforted Hermione, grabbing his hand and holding it in hers. “I’m marrying you, not your wand.”
The redness in Ron’s cheeks cooled, and he put his broken wand away.
“Do you, Ronald Weasely, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wizard-wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in curses and hexes, in this world and the next, and the astral plane, and in that space between worlds where everything has too many eyes, until death or irrevocable transformation do you part?”
Ron squeezed Hermione’s palm. “I do.”
“And do you, Hermione Granger, take this man, through all that same awful stuff, to be your lawfully wedded wizard-husband?”
The question hung in the air with such weight that Hermione felt it in her chest.
Did she . . . ? Yes. But there was still time left to take care of some unfinished business.
She gently touched the amulet of interlocking rings that hung at her neck. Ron’s expectant expression faded from view as time twisted around her, flinging her back decades as she waved her wand to displace herself from her own wedding.
Hermione was no longer standing at the altar, but rather in a richly appointed bedroom not that far a distance from her ceremony, but some years ago in the past. The room wasn’t large, but it was impeccably furnished in a way that bespoke both class and importance. A great four poster bed loomed in one corner. It was a bed Hermione was intimately familiar with.
She heard a gasp behind her.
“Hermione!” cried a woman’s voice. “I swear, I will never get used to you doing that.”
Hermione laughed gayly--things were about to get very gay indeed--and turned around to greet her friend.
“Hello again, Margaret!” she said brightly to the middle-aged woman who sat pen in hand at her desk wearing only a dressing robe. Hermione twirled in her wedding gown, showing off.
“Ah,” said Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, somewhat resignedly. She set down her pen and stood up to admire her visitor. “So the day has finally come. You look amazing.” She said this smiling, but Hermione registered the slight sadness in her eyes.
Hermione grabbed her hand and held it in hers. Margaret’s grip firm as iron, but her hands were soft. Hermione missed that softness.
“I suppose I can’t keep doing this,” Hermione said, lowering her eyes from Margaret’s visage. “Not after tonight.”
Margaret chuckled and hugged Hermione close. “What are you talking about? If there’s any sadness, it’s only regret that I can’t be there.” She raised a pale brow. “You came here last week and that was two years after you married.”
So it was. Hermione laughed and drew Margaret in for a kiss. One hand cupped the Baroness’ face as the other slid around her waist.
“I do get around, don’t I?” she teased. “So why don’t you help me out of this dress?”
Such a bold request would have made others blush, but Margaret had done this dance many times and was not easily flustered. Yet, Hermione's delicate features and boundless curiosity charmed her. She silently led Hermione to the bedside.
With a graceful flick Hermione tossed her bouquet on the nightstand, turning her back to Margaret so she could unzip her dress. Shivering, her dress slid off, exposing her bare flesh.
“Young lady,” Margaret began, her robe falling from her shoulders as she pulled Hermione down on the mattress. “I am extraordinarily patient provided I get my own way in the end.”
The guard posted outside the Prime Minister’s door knew that this sort of thing happened from time to time. His job, he had been instructed quite clearly, was neither to pass judgement, nor attempt to understand exactly how such things were possible.
Nevertheless, it bothered him when it happened. His buddy Anthony was in the Queen’s Guard and always went on about tourists and the like trying to get a rise out of him. Well, Anthony didn’t know the half of it. Try keeping a straight face when a room away the Prime Minister is getting horizontal with a very vocal magic lady.
“Maggie, I can barely stand it--oh!” A girlish voice shrieked.
“I've got a woman's ability to stick to a job and get on with it when everyone else walks off and leaves it,” came the Prime Minister’s voice.
The guard tried not to imagine who the other woman could be. But it was hard--occasionally literally, but mostly figuratively.
“Yes, yes! Now that’s how you pay a bedroom tax.”
Ms. Thatcher sure was having a good time. Despite his best efforts this led to him to ponder what the Prime Minister looked like naked, which he found suited him less.
“Be gentle, dear. That’s not the Falkland Islands down there.”
The guard tried to think of all the ways into 10 Downing Street as the other woman piped up.
“Oh god, fuck me like a family of six on a housing waitlist!”
He had concluded that dealing with tourists sounded brilliant and wondered if Anthony couldn’t get him a transfer into the Queen’s Guard when he heard the doorknob turn.
A petite brunette wrapped in only a sheet stepped into the hallway.
“I’m afraid Ms.Thatcher will be requiring a new bed,” she said, matter of factly.
The guard dashed inside to investigate. The Prime Minister lay asleep in the great bed, or what had been a bed--one of the posts had cracked in half, and the canopy was ripped open. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes and no small number of rubber toys, many of which would not be invented for decades, and some of which would not even be legal for a few more years. Though he would end up leaving the service altogether within a month, the toys and the brief glimpse of Hermione would feature prominently in the guard’s dreams for years following.
After verifying that the Prime Minister was merely asleep and perfectly safe, he closed the door behind him. The young lady, however, had vanished.
“We have code sixty-nine,” the guard said, activating his radio. “Again.”
As much as Hermione dearly loved Margaret, tonight was special, and she required further . . . satiating. She wanted someone new this time. All of time and space belonged to her, and with her unprecedented mastery of magic she was definitely getting some historical dick tonight.
Touching the time turner again, she arrived in early sixteenth-century Germany. A quick detour yielded a skirt and bodice filched from a manor wardrobe. With a little wand work she altered her bodice to reveal more of her decolletage than was in fashion at the time. She matched it with some partlets and a kirtle, but, dissatisfied with the effect on her bosom, fashioned an invisible brassiere from the raw ether to perk up her breasts.
Satisfied, she made a visit to Wittenberg University, drawing eyes by showing perhaps a bit too much ankle, and waited until the man she was seeking came by.
“Hey there,” she cooed in perfect German as a monk passed through the university gates, oblivious to her charms. “Feeling like confessing your sins?”
“Excuse me,” he said brusquely, pushing past her.
Hmm. Hermione adjusted her bodice to reveal even more cleavage, though it was now clearly anachronistic in comparison with the flat, square necklines popular at the time. Sacrifices had to be made, she thought. An alluring figure was more important than historical accuracy when it came to matters of the flesh.
“What I’m trying to say is, let’s do it Adam and Eve style,” she said, leaning forward. “Because your serpent is tempting me.”
“My dear, I don’t quite think you understand what you are--” Martin Luther began to protest, half-choking as Hermione’s fingers crept upward and groped the monk’s holy stones.
He stiffened with shock, then stiffened otherwise. Hermione grinned wolfishly and whispered, “I’ve got ninety-five theses, but your dick ain’t one.”
Martin began to waver in the face of Hermione’s powerful perfume, concocted from the blood of a vixen in heat. “I don’t understand,” he warbled, face flushed.
“I want you to nail me up against the door of the All Saints’ Church,” said Hermione breathily, her hand now on Martin’s undeniably stiff member of The College of His Pants.
“This is . . . most inappropriate,” Martin gasped out, struggling to fight the air of magical seduction that was helped along by years of chastity. It was much easier to deny the charms of the flesh when the flesh wasn’t grabbing him down there. Also when the flesh was riddled with syphilis--that helped too.
“I tried to fuck Pope Leo X, but I think he likes boys,” Hermione mentioned casually before pulling Martin’s finger in her mouth.
“That,” said Martin emphatically, grabbing Hermione around the waist as he made up his mind, “is just one of the many ways we hold a difference of opinion.” He pulled her deeper into an alleyway where the eyes of a casual passerby would not reach them. His hands were all over her; a few minutes later she had ripped her bodice open and lost her underwear somewhere in the dirty grime of the neglected alleyway.
She pulled down his pants and found him now fully erect.
“Here I stand,” he said. “I can do no other.”
It was over all too soon.
“I’m so sorry,” said Martin ashamedly, staring down at his feet. “I’ve been celibate for so many years . . .”
“Whatever,” said a rather cross Hermione. She tightened her bodice with a tug. “I’m sure you can buy an indulgence for it.”
Hermione looked around the darkened alley futilely, then sighed and raised her wand. “Accio panties!”
“Maybe we could meet again sometime?” asked Martin hopefully.
“Nah,” Hermione said, touching her necklace. That was the last he saw of her.
Martin Luther having left a sour taste in her mouth, literally, Hermione flung herself even further back in time. Maybe it was wrong of her to seduce another man like that on her wedding day--but inwardly she knew that infidelity knew no gender. She desired the comfort of a woman, and she knew just who would give her what she needed.
Using her time-turner, she brought herself to the palace entrance. The sun beat down on her forehead, and the sandstone floor burned her feet through her stockings. Perhaps it would have been wise to change into more appropriate period attire. A shirtless, bronze-skinned soldier stood in front of her, his hand on his sword.
“You may not pass,” he commanded in accented Greek.
“Listen here,” Hermione bristled. “Do you know who I am? I can turn your ass into a toad so fast you’ll think it’s the plagues come again. I am at ‘hide your firstborn’ levels of giving a fuck today.”
“I, ah, I recognize you, great priestess,” said the guard, who, at this moment--though they were separated by thousands of years and a continent--would have felt great kinship with Margaret Thatcher’s personal guard.
“Though your dress is strange, I know you,” he continued with great trepidation that would prove to be entirely warranted. “But I cannot let you pass. The Pharaoh is indisposed and has said that none may interrupt.”
“I don’t have time for this,” snapped Hermione, gripping her wand.“Mutatio rana!” she exclaimed, zapping the guard with a spell.
The guard was now a toad.
“Ribbit,” he said, and hopped away.
Hermione stormed through the great double doors to the Pharaoh's personal chambers. There were other guards present, but having witnessed her powers they seemed much less inclined to stop her.
“Cleopatra!” she yelled, barging into the Pharaoh's bedroom. “I’m wetter than than the flooding of the Nile during the season of Akhet and I could use a festival of fulfillment right now, if you know what I mean.”
She paused. “Oh.”
Entwined on the bed before her was the woman Hermione was hoping to see and a man who was not the Pharaoh.
“Hermione,” said Cleopatra from the bed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “I see that.”
“This is Julius,” Cleopatra continued. “He and I are kinda . . . well, we have an arrangement.”
“Hi there,” greeted Julius with a wave.
Hermione scratched her chin.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I think I forgot to check my timeline.”
“No no,” Cleopatra said, motioning for Hermione to come forward. “It’s quite alright.” She glanced at Julius, who nodded. Julius was down for anything. “You could join us if you like.”
Hermione looked at Julius, then back at Cleopatra. Julius seemed like a cool dude.
“Sure, why not,” Hermione said, her mood very much improved since her lackluster three minutes with Martin. She stripped out of her 16th-century dress. “Let’s make history.”
Several hours later the limbs of three exhausted bodies lay tangled on the mattress. Julius really was down for anything. Damn.
“Wow,” said Hermione after she’d finally caught her breath. “I really needed that.”
“You’re welcome back anytime,” said Cleopatra, head resting on Hermione’s breast.
Julius ran his calloused hands over Hermione’s lithe frame.
“Veni, vidi, vici,” he whispered.
“So you did,” she said, rolling out of bed. “I haven’t seen anyone come like that since Vesuvius.”
Julius furrowed his brow, not understanding.
“Oh right,” Hermione said, chuckling. “Give it a few years. Trust me, it’ll be pretty clever.”
“You are a strange woman,” he said, eyes skimming over her body. “I hope you will join our bed again someday.”
Hermione stretched languidly and picked up her wand. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to go now. There’s somewhere important I have to be.”
Before departing, she turned to Julius one last time.
“I don’t usually do this, because meddling with the timestream is dangerous,” she said. “But really, with the workout you gave me it would be a damn shame for anything to happen to you.”
Hermione picked up the time turner. “Seriously though, don’t trust anyone named Brutus.”
Her cravings satisfied, Hermione made a quick detour back (or forward, depending on your point of view) to 10 Downing Street to reclaim her dress. Margaret helped her shimmy back into the gown, and put up her hair (Margaret could have been a hairdresser if she wanted, but her mother never would have allowed it). A dash of judicious magic restored Hermione’s smudged makeup, and, upon checking her reflection in the mirror, a second spell pulled the dried semen out of her hair.
“Are you ready?” asked Margaret, standing behind Hermione as the young witch gazed upon herself. Hermione adjusted her bouquet and took a steadying breath.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I think I am.”
Margaret patted her back, and Hermione caught her eyes in the mirror.
“Until our next meeting,” she said softly, facing her friend. She touched the time turner once more, and was gone.
Hermione had calculated her return to the wedding perfectly. As she reappeared at Ron’s side there wasn’t so much as a twitch to betray her adventures.
She looked into Ron’s adoring face, the time-turner dangling innocently from her neck.
- Current Mood: crushed
Journal of Post-Modern Film 42.1(2013):80-107.
Love In The Labyrinth: A Deconstruction Of The Baker Street Incident.
Author(s): James Moriarty.
Department of Philosophy, University of Durham, Durham, North East England.
In which I, the author, endeavor to make sense of celebrated documentary filmmaker Sherlock Holmes' greatest work, that most insidious of cult hits--The Baker Street Incident. With his film Holmes transformed how we think about cinematography, and indeed, the definition of truth itself. In this paper I explore the themes and subtext contained within, culling research from journalists and noted Holmes scholars to encourage viewers to draw their own interpretations as to the film's meaning.
This story is a gift for Just_Juan_Friend as part of the sherlock_rant meme holiday fanfiction exchange. Happy holidays, Just_Juan_Friend. I took great joy in writing this.
The prompts I chose were the following:
1) John discovers Sherlock building a fucking machine in the basement.
3) Go wild.
It's very likely I went overboard on prompt 3.
Read on AO3.
- Current Mood: calm
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Female!Sherlock/John, Sherlock/John
Word Count: 8,364
Warnings: violence, drug use, cats
Summary: A series of gruesome murders has London in terror, and it's up to Sherlock to find the killer, this time without John's help.
I wrote this story as a gift for innie_darling as part of the Holmestice fic exchange. The prompt I chose was:
For m!John/f!Sherlock, I really want to know how genderswapping Sherlock changes the dynamics in 221B. Without the "I'm not gay" defense, what answer can John give people curious about why he's not with his flatmate? What are the assumptions Sherlock has to fight against, and do they affect John as well? Is Sherlock still working with Scotland Yard? Is she a former junkie? Casefic would be great here, but is absolutely not a requirement.
( Read more...Collapse )
- Current Mood: accomplished
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Word Count: 248
Warnings: dubcon, Omega!ScorpionJohn, Alpha!ScorpionSherlock, rape rape
Summary: Sherlock is an Alpha Emperor Scorpion living in a terrarium with John, an Omega Emperor Scorpion.
Sherlock was an Alpha Emperor Scorpion living in a terrarium with John, an Omega Emperor Scorpion. Sherlock was hungry, but there was no food around. He chittered and emerged from beneath a pile of peat to see what John was up to. John was in heat, releasing pheromones that made him vulnerable to sexual assault by horny Alphas looking to mate. The pheromones made Sherlock twitch in anticipation of the unwanted sexual contact he was about to perpetrate.
“Sherlock,” John said, looking up as the larger scorpion crawled toward him. “I am afraid. Please have gay scorpion sex with me before those other Alphas find me.” Sherlock nodded and proceeded to consensually rape John, taking special care to be gentle as though that made things better. John cried tiny scorpion tears from each of his eight eyes as he wriggled in pain, but ultimately gave in to what he knew was his life’s destiny.
After the rape, they shared a cricket for dinner. John noticed that Sherlock was oddly silent; he seemed preoccupied.
“Do you ever worry that our lives are a meaningless string of ambiguously consensual sexual encounters?" asked Sherlock suddenly as he looked up from studying the husk of a terrestrial isopod.
"No," said John, who as a scorpion did not understand the basic tenets of morality.
Sherlock was quiet again. Then,
"I am glad we are not intelligent enough to comprehend our actions, as then we could no longer hide the magnitude of our depravity from ourselves."
- Current Mood: chipper
Because I Could Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)
Word Count: 1,790
Summary: “I'm so tired of fighting ghosts!” yelled Dean, unnecessarily loud over the eery silence of ghost combat. He and Sam had found themselves in a graveyard, fighting spirits yet again. This seemed to happen to them a lot, probably because they were semi-professional supernatural ghost hunters.
Sam nodded, his flannel shirt and muddied boots conveying the appropriate amount of rugged masculinity needed for this activity. “Yeah, this is starting to get old.” He launched a punch at what he believed was a ghost's face (it was hard to tell with ghosts), but his fist soared through the specter and collided with a tombstone instead.
“Dammit," Sam cursed, clutching his throbbing knuckles. "Fuck these ghosts."
“What, really?” asked Dean. A female ghost winked at him before unhinging her jaw and diving for his flesh. He ducked just in time but glanced over his shoulder to get a look at her derriere as she soared past him. The ghost could have been male--to be honest it didn't really matter. Dean was very lonely.
“No, not literally,” sighed Sam, exasperated. A ghost tried to bite his arm but luckily the ghost had poor eyesight and missed. “They don’t have, like, genitals. I think.”
Maybe the brothers were seeing things, but it seemed as though more and more ghosts were materializing with every passing second.
Sam paused from ineffectually fighting the apparitions to reflect on how they got there, and came to the conclusion that the demon they'd asked for directions had lied to them. This didn’t look like Seaworld at all.
The ghosts swooped down on the brothers in attack, their ghost jaws widening like black holes.
“Careful, Dean,” said Sam as the ghosts surrounded them. “Whatever you do, don't let them bite you.”
“I know,” said Dean, rubbing a suspicious bite-shaped mark on his left arm. He hid the wound behind his back before Sam could notice.
A ghost grinned at them, bearing his ghost teeth like a Cheshire cat.
“Oh, we’re not going to bite you,” it said as it pulled out a ghost sword, its fellow ghosts following suit.
"Well shit," Sam cursed. “I knew I shouldn’t have killed all those swords yesterday.”
“It's okay,” said an unnamed female character, who was also in this story. "I'm here to help." A ghost lunged toward her, sword at the ready, but she was written out of the story before the ghost could reach her.
“This is super fucked up,” Dean cried, clearly touched by the poignant loss of someone important enough to have a speaking role.
“Supernaturally fucked up,” countered Sam.
A ghost took a swipe at Dean’s head with its ghost claws, narrowly missing. “I am so done with this lifestyle,” Dean said. “As soon as we finish up here let's agree to never fight ghosts again."
"Okay," said Sam, who had given up punching ghosts and was now hiding behind a stone monument. “Seaworld doesn’t even have tombstones,” he grumbled.
Just then, a lumpy ghost in a houndstooth fedora floated up behind him and brought down his sword, nearly cleaving Sam in two. Lucky for Sam, the ghost had poor hygiene and his ectoplasmic scent gave him away. Sam rolled out of striking range in the nick of time, but the sword managed to slice a couple of buttons off his shirt.
Sam quickly righted himself as fury swept through his bones.
“Alright you guys,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Time to bring out the big guns.”
He pulled out a flask of holy water and lobbed it at a nearby mausoleum. The flask shattered, splashing the searing liquid onto three angry ghosts. They screamed as they melted into puddles of ectoplasm.
One particularly large ghost stopped in his tracks. “Whoa! Time out!”
Sam raised an eyebrow while Dean leaned against a withered tree for support.
“What the hell, guys?!” said the big ghost, glaring at Sam. “Was that holy water?”
Sam flashed them an innocent look. “Yes?”
“Not cool,” said a skinnier ghost, throwing down his ghost sword. "You're not playing fair."
Dean limped over to Sam, his arm hanging leaden at his side. Sam hoped he hadn’t scraped it on a rock or anything. He’d left his first aid kit in the Impala.
“Sam, I need to tell you some-” Dean began.
“Not now,” Sam hushed him. "The ghosts are talking."
“Damn right we are,” said the big ghost. From his appearance Sam was able to tell he had been a Roman centurion when he was alive. Standing next to the the centurion was a WWI aviator and a Victorian prostitute.
“Holy water kills us,” the centurion said with a wounded expression. “Again. Some of us go to double hell.”
The ghost aviator who had bit Dean leered at the older Winchester and winked. Dean grit his teeth and gripped his arm defensively.
“Whatever,” said Sam, indignantly. “You guys had swords.”
“What, these?” asked the centurion. He poked Sam with its sword. It went right through him without so much as piercing his flesh.
“Ghost swords can’t hurt you guys,” said the ghost. “I thought you knew that.”
"Sorry." Sam scratched his head, looking sheepish. "I forgot."
The centurion opened his arms in welcome. “We love you guys,” he said. "You two are, like, celebrities in the afterlife." A ghostly businessman floated through a gravestone to give Sam a high-five. It didn’t work because he was a ghost, but it was the thought that counted.
The centurion nudged the ghost beside him dressed like an 19th-century prostitute.
“Hey Lucy,” said the centurion, nodding toward Sam with his head. “Show the boys the story you wrote about them.”
Lucy blushed. Ghosts don't actually possess any color, so no one noticed except her.
She floated silently over to Sam, a thick sheaf of ghost papers in hand.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sam and his new ghost friends, something was happening to Dean. His left hand had frozen into a claw shape and his veins pulsed black against his skin. His face contorted in pain as his arm continued to stiffen.
“On the ghost internet--the aethernet,” Lucy began, speaking softly and delicately, her eyes downcast with embarrassment, “we like to write fanfiction about you guys.”
“Really?” asked Sam, curious in spite of himself.
“Oh yes,” said the ghost writer. “I personally like to write about how you two are ghosts who come to terms with your feelings for each other.” She handed Sam a piece of ghost paper. Sam squinted at it. Ghost script was hard to read.
“But we’re not ghosts,” he objected.
Lucy shrugged. “We don’t really care about characterization. And turning you into ghosts makes it easier for us to relate to you."
Sam frowned and read the story.
“Ghost Sam and Ghost Dean floated on a mountain of dead living people they had killed with their ghost jaws. It had been a tough battle, with Ghost Dean almost stumbling into a salt circle. The incident nearly gave his brother a heart attack, but ghosts don’t have hearts.
As they recovered, something inside of Ghost Sam compelled him to open up to his brother. The thing inside him was feelings.
‘Nearly losing you made me realize I love you,’ he said, his ghostly form shaking with emotion. ‘Romantically.’
‘God, I feel the same way,’ said Ghost Dean. ‘Really makes me wish we still had genitals, but we're ghosts now.’
They embraced and spent a passionate evening rubbing their ectoplasm together.”
“This is terrible,” said Sam when he was finished. “That’s not us at all!”
“But this is how you act in my head,” said Lucy.
“Wait, do you even have a head?” asked Sam, looking up from the story. He paused for a moment. “How do ghosts have thoughts?”
Lucy's ghost lip quavered and she began to cry.
“Shame on you boys,” said the centurion, glaring at Sam and Dean. He turned to his fellow ghosts. “Let’s attack them with our surprisingly effective ghost bites!"
“Sam,” groaned Dean, clutching his arm. “I can’t go on.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sam, warily eyeing the ghosts as they began their advance.
“I’ve been bitten,” said Dean. “By a ghost.”
"Shit." Sam looked at his brother's arm, now completely paralyzed by the bite. "This is bad, Dean. You know what happens when a ghost bites you.”
“Yes,” said Dean, his voice breaking. “I’m going to turn into a ghost.”
Sam shook his head. “What? No. Being dead turns you into a ghost. Ghosts aren't werewolves, dude.”
Dean cocked his head, puzzled. "Then what’s happening to me?”
“When a ghost bites you, you turn into the object most desired by that ghost when it was alive,” said Sam, as if that were obvious.
"Oh." Dean examined his new form. “Well, that explains the wings.” Dean had turned into a Fokker D.VII biplane.
He revved up his engine and flew at the pack of ghosts, his twin 7.92mm machine guns blazing. He knew this was the end. To save his brother's life he would sacrifice himself in a final blaze of glory.
“Goodbye, Sam,” he screamed over the whine of his propeller. “I’ll never forget you!”
Sam ran after his brother in an attempt to stop him. “Dean, no! Don't do this!”
In one final act of martyrdom, Dean crashed into the mass of assembled ghosts. A fireball erupted from his fuselage, knocking over dozens of ancient gravestones with the force of his impact. This accomplished absolutely nothing as ghosts aren’t flammable.
Sam looked on in horror.
“I’m coming for you, Dean!” He cried, charging into the confused ghost army.
Suddenly Castiel appeared, blocking Sam's way.
"Sam, wait," Castiel said, lifting up his hand.
"Fuck off," said Sam. Whatever Castiel had to say, he didn’t want to hear it.
"You can’t save him," Castiel said, his face mournful. "Dean's gone." He tried placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder but Sam shrugged him off.
“Whatever,” said Sam, beginning to tear up. “I’ll claw my way to heaven and bring him back. Or hell. We do this shit all the time.”
Castiel shook his head. One look at the angel’s expression and Sam knew he'd really lost Dean for good.
"Why?" Sam demanded, heartbroken. “Why can’t I save him?”
"Because," said Castiel, his face grave. “Planes don’t have souls.”
- Current Mood: depressed
Two Ships Pass In The Night (Sherlock/John, NC-17, K-21)
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Word Count: negligible
Summary: This is a quick fill for the following kink prompt:
John and Sherlock are in a safe, sane, and consensual relationship. One is a sub, the other is a dom (you get to choose who). They use a safeword. They communicate before and after trying anything new. They do after-care. And they're madly in love and very happy with their life.
One day, someone notices bruising on the one who is the sub, and grows concerned. They contact the police (or perhaps it's one of the Yarders who notice), and they decide to hold an "intervention," wherein John and Sherlock are spoken to separately.
What follows is the most embarrassing conversation of John & Sherlock's lives. It's eventually revealed that yes, they're fucking, and yes they're in fact kinky as hell, what's it to you? They're grown adults and they had an adult conversation about it and their safeword is "cabbage," ffs.
You can read the original prompt here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.c
- Current Mood: anxious
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Word Count: 3,243
Warnings: references to sexual trauma, rape/non-con, graphic violence, meat
Summary: This is a fill for the following kink prompt:
Sherlock loves John in a romantic way, but he's never really been into sex (past abuse or relationships are okay) and him and John start dating. Eventually it leads to sex, and Sherlock goes with it because he's afraid John won't stay with him without sex. After months of sex, John finally figures out that Sherlock didn't really want it. So John tries to convince Sherlock that he'd never leave Sherlock and that sex isn't important.
You can read the original prompt here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2
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- Current Mood: accomplished