Archive for June, 2014

I’ve been thinking of you as fandom’s drunken, chain smoking fairy godmother for a while now.

Regrettable decisions and miraculously clear STI test results for all! *showers broad spectrum antibiotics and bottomless glasses of water to rehydrate after last night upon you all*


Pru, can you be my drunken, chain smoking fairy godmother?

*prepares whiskey and cigarettes*



‘a fuckin grenade rogers are you shittin me right now’

based on this

caffeine fueled morning doodles lets do this

I know I’m so very late for this but have you watched the kdrama “I’m sorry, I love you” ? It aired in 2005 and let me tell you, this one will destroy you with all the angst.

As I avoid melo type dramas, I probably skipped that one on purpose, but for the anons out there who seem to crave emotional destruction, this sounds like a good pick!

What was The Scene for Least of all Possible Mistakes? It is one of my favorite fics and I reread it pretty often.

I still love this scene the best of the entire story. 

Mycroft is the definition of self-possessed, unmoved, endlessly calculating and hypothesizing and considering. George will never win an argument with him if she gets tricked into discussing the relative merits of their mutual points of view; all she can do is draw the boundaries beforehand so he’ll know how close he can tread. She’s always been clear about this, about never needlessly demanding his full attention, but when George asks for it, she expects it, and she waits for his eyes to meet hers.

“What happened?” she asks, because Mycroft looks like he’s been through the wars, face sagging with exhaustion and ashen. “Is Sherlock really all right?”

He takes a fortifying drink. “We argued.”

“You always argue,” George points out, because they do, and she thinks that most of the time, they enjoy it on some sick level.

“We do,” Mycroft admits, and his smile is bitter as he says it. “He was…off balance. Surprised by his own reaction, I think.”

George frowns a little, plucks the tumbler out of Mycroft’s hands and sets it aside. “By — what? His reaction to Irene Adler’s death?”

“He was upset, more than he wanted to give away,” Mycroft says, and without the glass he cards his right hand into her hair, thumb pressed on the soft skin behind her ear, watching her mouth. “I told him caring wasn’t an advantage.”

George says, “Okay,” because there’s not much else to say to that.

Mycroft likes to imagine himself more emotionally adept than his brother, so maybe this is just another chapter in his managing nature: convince Sherlock his feelings are irrelevant to protect him from the ache of them. But that doesn’t change the way there’s a voice in her head that protests,but, and how something in her throat drops all the way to the well of her stomach, her eyes feeling suddenly hot and hurt.

She’s still anchored to him, by his hand in her hair and their lives intertwined, how six hours ago they were opening presents with his mother, and George has to swallow around the fight she wants to start. She’s on her knees in front of him in a house she thinks of as home, now, and her heart’s been fragile in her chest for hours worried for his brother. What does he mean? Why’s he told her this?

“He asked,” Mycroft goes on, and he’s searching George’s face now, his own expression deepening into pain, “what would I do, if it were you on that mortuary slab — would I appreciate him feeding me platitudes.”

Her hurt transmutes into worry. “Mycroft.”

“What would I do,” he says, low and with a razor edge. “What could my brother know of it. He deduced her once, and she surprised him. He’s infatuated with the idea of her.”

George smiles for him, wavering.

“It’s Sherlock,” she points out gently. The maybe one deduction was enough is implied.

“I deduced you, the first time we met, when I was looking at your furious back as I was walking toward you,” Mycroft retorts, the rumble in his voice unsoftened by the lassitude of alcohol on his tongue. “I knew the whole of you in a glance.”

“What makes you so different, then?” George asks, and she doesn’t even know whose side she’s arguing anymore, whether they’re talking about Sherlock and Adler or Mycroft and George, if they’re having a conversation at cross-purposes. She feels heavy and dense with everything unsaid, sore, fearful suddenly. “What makes us different?”

Mycroft laughs, his fingers in her hair turn into a fist.

“If it was you in the morgue, Georgiana, I wouldn’t have been standing in the corridor smoking a cigarette,” he tells her in a hush, his voice a rasp of considered horrors. “I would have burned down the hospital.”

“Poor hospital,” George murmurs, and Mycroft’s face goes unsettlingly dark, still. George takes his other hand, his free hand, and puts it over the faint, rabbit-hearted patter underneath her breast, through the thin weave of her sweater. “But I’m here, I’m fine — see?”

Sherlock is all explosive declarations, dashing around with his coat flying, fiery and ferociously present; Mycroft’s bursts of kinetic energy are all internal, locked behind deadbolt and key and iron-clad self control in his head, beyond the muscle and bone. George sees it sometimes, the interiors of him, through the pinhole camera of Mycroft’s pupils, blown wide open and close, when they’re in their bed and telegraphing all sorts of secrets. He’s not cold: he’s a barely contained wildfire, the kind of dangerous that’s too cool to flare up and misstep.

“Her face was a mess,” Mycroft says, those same dangerously soft vowels rushing out of him — ripped open and confessing — fingertips hot on her skin. “He identified her by her measurements. What would I have done?”

“Hopefully sent everyone out of the room before you pulled off the rest of the sheet,” George tells him, trying for light and falling terribly short, because she can imagine it, too: the belly of Bart’s, the church next door, Smithfield restaurants rollicking a street over, and Mycroft Holmes dragging the white sheet down her neck and clavicle, over her breasts and the curve of her belly — a nauseating parody of their living hours.

“Could I have walked away from you the way Sherlock did,” Mycroft says, not really a question, and too deep into his own thoughts to hear her now. “Or would I have sat with you and searched for your heartbeat — like I am now.”

George swallows, dry throat clicking. “It’s not going to happen to me.”

“You run with Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft contradicts, back in abrupt focus. “And you sleep with me — your entire life is like the first chapter of a disaster story.”

The glare is reflexive, and so is the way it makes her dig in her heels, the way George shoves at Mycroft’s knee to press in her point as she says, “Ilive with you. I intend to keep on doing it.”

His eyes are very black as he says, “I should tell you to leave me.”

“I wouldn’t go,” George shoots back, because she recognizes this now, the recursive back and forth, the way he just needs to underline and dot his Is, review all the things he already knows for sure. “My birth control pills are here and I like making you do my mother’s tax. You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

That surprises a laugh out of him, something startled and genuine, and those hands on her pull her up, drag her nearer, so that when he says it, it’s kissed into her mouth:

“Georgiana, you are the most impossibly difficult thing I have ever known.

[KDrama uninitiated] CHALLENGE ACCEPTED *queues everything*

Go with god, foolish soldier.

Ladies Night at the Boom Boom Room, please. It is near and dear to my heart! Well, really all of Bell Curve, but you know…


The fourteenth time somebody said, “Wow, Dr. McKay! You’re actually here!” and then laughed ruefully and said, “I guess I owe John some money, huh?” Rodney was basically ready to storm into the nearest room with a telephone and give Sheppard a piece of his mind.

“My God, McKay,” Rodney heard as he was weaving through the disbelieving crowd toward the phone just outside the room, kicking aside balloons and stomping over gaudy gold streamers and PARTY LIKE IT’S 1995 banners. “You’re actually here.”

And when Rodney wheeled around, hands searching for the nearest heavy object, he saw it was Norton in all of his salt-and-pepper, elegantly academic disapproval, and Rodney felt his shoulders slump.

“Norton,” Rodney said primly.

“McKay,” the man replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Are you, ah–” Rodney searched around for something to say that wasn’t “Stop distracting my TA, you jackass!” or “I hate you! And your stupid tweed patches!” “–enjoying the party?” he finished lamely.

Norton rolled his eyes which made Rodney snap, “What?” which made Norton say in his nasal, New England voice, “Oh, nothing, just feeling crushing sympathy for John,” and that, of course, made Rodney say, “Please! I’m not the one who’s working him until his fingers bleed. I’ve seen one-hit-wonders move down charts slower than you’ve got him working on his thesis!”

Then it all got kind of ugly in a snooty, academically one-upping way, until finally Norton said, “You’re monopolizing his time! Or have you forgotten that his primary role is that of a student?”

“John’s right where he should be,” Rodney snapped, “bent over my desk!”

Norton’s eyes bulged.

“Grading papers!” Rodney squeaked, eyes huge and cheeks blazing. “I meant grading papers! I meant bent over my desk grading papers!

“I think I know what you meant!” Norton said, horrified. “Oh my God, McKay! I have to worry about hisvirtue now, too?”

Rodney flapped his hands. “Firstly, as if John has virtue, and secondly, it’s none of your business, and thirdly, from every draft of his thesis I have possibly stolen from your desk I’ve seen nothing but stellar work from a stellar student who–”

“I thought I told you to stop breaking into my office,” Norton said, annoyed.

“–is more than handling his responsibilities,” Rodney finished, almost serene, if it weren’t for the fact that his heart was about to beat out of his chest because insulated as he’d been for the past two weeks, he’d kind of forgotten that John wasn’t just some really hot guy who had magically appeared in Rodney’s apartment. There were rules and politics and conflicting loyalties here, and then there was that thing about the Air Force that Rodney wasn’t about to touch with a ten-foot pole.


East Coast Gazette has a terrible editorial focus and tends to use a lot of ALL CAPS but TOTALLY NOT BECAUSE OF HARRY POTTER. Stories in progress as well as snapshots will be listed in the "box full of snapshots" below, website archive for stories and assorted tomfoolery is glitterati.

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