ingrid

Heading Out :D

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 11:51:07 GMT

Getting ready to head out for a bed and breakfast weekend with my girl. Fireplace, king-sized bed and jacuzzi. There's also an excellent restaurant downstairs.

*nods*

YEP. See you gators later! :D :D :D

(PS: If anyone want to write me some Holmes/Watson bed'n'breakfast snuggly fic, I WOULD NOT COMPLAIN. :)

PPS: Thanks to everyone for their recent comments on my fic. I'll be chatting with you guys individually in the comments when I come back. *loves*

SH Kink Fill: The Wrong Man (R - L/W, H/W)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 17:22:13 GMT

Oh, SH Kink Meme, why can't I quit you?

Title: The Wrong Man
Pairings/Characters: Lestrade/Watson (unrequited), Holmes/Watson (implied)
Word Count: 1,363
Warning: Unhealthy obsessiveness.
Summary: For sherlockkink prompt: Pining!Lestrade. For some reason, Lestrade has taken to picking on Watson. Neither Holmes or Watson can work out why, and it's getting out of hand - maybe Lestrade arrests Watson for something not even worthy of a reprimand?

~*~

It starts when Lestrade is forced to wait for Holmes inside Baker Street, sitting like a frump at her tea biscuits while Doctor Watson takes up his writing, more or less unconcerned by just how rude the infuriating bugger is being ...again.

God forbid he, an Inspector of Scotland Yard, should be a moment late after a moment's notice, Lestrade thinks bitterly, shifting angrily in his worn chair. Then again, the rules of time and space certainly don't apply to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

While Lestrade fumes, the doctor is neatly working at his desk, his face the picture of serenity. His eyes are focused on the paper as his elegant handwriting covers page after page, seemingly without effort. Lestrade watches him, examining his profile which is admittedly very handsome and something inside of him suddenly sparks in a very indecent way.

He should turn away, reprimand himself for such thoughts, but he finds he can't. All he knows is that he's been left out of whatever game Holmes is playing and there's nothing else to look at besides the pretty Doctor.

Holmes' pretty doctor.

Watson pauses in his writing - some thought has escaped him. He nibbles on the end of the pen, his teeth scraping at it with a hint of tongue and Lestrade pulls at his collar which has suddenly grown a size too tight.

Watson looks up at the Inspector and smiles sympathetically. "He'll arrive eventually. He always does."

His eyes are so blue, Lestrade thinks. He wipes damp palms on his pants and shrugs. "I suppose so."

The doctor returns to his writing and Lestrade keeps staring, not really caring if he's noticed. Would serve Holmes right to have his prize looked at so while he's off doing God knows what. Not that the doctor minds; he seems happy to exist in the mere orbit Holmes provides without any recompense besides Holmes' snideness and this angers Lestrade in a deep, primal way.

He suddenly wants to grab Watson and shake him, hit him perhaps -- anything to undo his infernal calm. See some sadness in those sweet features ... some kind of pain blurring his eyes ... and Lestrade shifts again, the throb between his legs making him restless.

Finally, Lestrade gets up and storms to the study door. "Tell him I've gone back to the Yard. I can't be here any longer."

"Are you sure?" Watson calls after him, but Lestrade is already gone, his heart pounding with every quick step away from the madness that grips him.

He thinks he's lost his mind. He knows he doesn't care.

~*~

The consulting detective and the doctor arrive on the scene before Lestrade does. He feels his mouth pinch with ire and he pauses his men at the curb, watching as the doctor kneels down and examines the corpse, pulling aside various items of clothing as he tries to locate the cause of death.

Watson's long coat curves and clings to his backside as he sits on his haunches and Lestrade's tongue goes dry with want. His fingers curl against the desire to smooth his hands all over the man's body and rage flares again as Holmes kneels down beside Watson, his palm resting on the small of the doctor's back.

Lestrade finds himself storming forward, yelling. "What are you doing to my crime scene?"

They both glance up at him in surprise, which Holmes masters first. "Solving it for you, what else?" he replies with a snort. "Nice of you to show up."

Lestrade ignores him and turns on Watson. "Why are you touching that body? Who gave you leave?"

And there is it. A blink and hard swallow, followed by a crestfallen look and a harsh thrill curls hotly through Lestrade's belly. "I'm ... I was just ..."

"Yeah, yeah. You were just following his orders. Enough of that, Doctor. What you're doing is against the law and I've had enough of you running roughshod over my job. Clarkey!" Lestrade yells to his Sergeant. "Put this one in the darbies and take him in. I'm done with this."

It's enough to shock Holmes even and Lestrade's pulse thrums like a drum in his neck, watching the doctor being cuffed, his face flushed, his expression frightened.

Holmes, on the other hand, is furious. "What the devil are you on about?"

"You need to learn your place," Lestrade replies, his entire body quivering with arousal. "You work for me, not the other way around. Maybe next time you'll think twice before leading your man here down your own careless path." He tilts his head at Clarkey, who holds Watson's elbow with a distinct air of sheepishness. "Get him to the yard. No bail until morning."

"What?" Holmes cries, his cheeks salt-white with rage. "You're not leaving him in there alone overnight!"

"He'll be fine," Lestrade says through grit teeth. "Now tell me what you see here, then get out."

"Go to hell," Holmes replies and strides to Watson's side, tucking his arm through the doctor's bound one and snatching his cane away from Clarkey, who looks relieved rather than otherwise.

Lestrade watches them go and the quicksilver throb in his chest fades, leaving deep shame in its place. He can't believe what he's done, can't believe how much he enjoyed seeing the doctor's unhappiness and he's quite sure Holmes is going to eventually figure this out and kill him.

Which would serve him right, but ...

God almighty.

~*~

Somehow Holmes finagles his way into the yard next to Watson. Lestrade isn't surprised, but he's annoyed that he has to watch both of them from the far end of the police side instead of just Watson alone.

Watson looks upset, prettily so, and Holmes has absolutely no qualms about caressing him, whispering closely in his ear, even pulling Watson's head down to sleep on his shoulder.

The inspector finds himself shaking with jealousy and an even greater desire to hurt the doctor, to tear him out of Holmes' grasp and do terrible to things to him until he's broken and weeping under his hand. This is a horrible thought, like nothing he's ever known before. Nausea thickens in his stomach, sitting atop a sharp spike of desire and he can't stop staring.

There has to be some name for this illness that's gripped me, Lestrade thinks desperately, unable to takes his eyes off of Watson, who is curled up against a surly-looking Holmes. For a second Lestrade's afraid that Holmes has seen him watching but scoffs at the notion.

What does it matter? Watson belongs to Holmes, that much is obvious. Not that the cold-hearted man gives a damn, except ...

Lestrade closes his eyes and tries to swallow past a tight throat. He's acting abominably, he knows it and it has to stop. Abusing an innocent man is no way to deal with frustration and as for the ache between his legs, he can deal with that in an alley with a hired hand, if he must.

Determined, Lestrade orders the guards to release Holmes and Watson. They obey, then jump back as Holmes furiously motions them away from his sleeping companion. "Wake up. Time to go," Holmes says, gently shaking Watson's shoulder. "Come on, sleepy."

Watson blinks and peers at Holmes. "Morning already?"

"Something like that," he say, holding out his arm for Watson to take and together, they walk out of the yard. They see Lestrade at the gate and Watson immediately looks away, unwilling to meet the inspector's gaze.

Holmes isn't quite as perturbed. He leans in toward Lestrade's ear. "Never again," he whispers. There is murder in his tone. "Or else I'll show you what an honest sadist does."

Lestrade inhales sharply, but doesn't reply. He watches them walk away, the doctor's stiff gait in time with Holmes' patient stroll and the anger drains away somehow, even if the desire isn't fully quenched.

But, there are other places to get that taken care of, certainly.

God help him.

~*~
end

FIC: Breathe (Extended Version - PG-13)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 23:19:19 GMT

Title: Breathe
Verse: Movie'09
Genre: Gen/Close Friendship/Angst
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,197
Disclaimer: Fair use, baby!
Summary: For the WWParty prompt: Holmes & Watson, in some kind of traffic accident. Extended to a full-length fic per med_cat's request. Holmes deals with the aftermath of an unexpected survival.

xXx

There was a rainstorm that night. Cobblestones slick, the carriage wheels sliding in odd ways and I remember turning to Holmes and asking if he thought it was safe to be out.

I never finished the sentence.

Breathe.

The world blinked away in a heartbeat. I don't remember anything except waking up in a twisted funhouse of a carriage, the walls crushed over us. Everything was backwards, the leather seat was atop me, pinning me down as surely as a butterfly in a box and Holmes ...

My God ...

My dear Holmes. He was free, but bent at an unnatural angle. For one black second I thought his back had been broken, but no, it was his arm that was not right, dislocated possibly, throwing off my perspective. Blood trickled from his lips and I struggled to free my own arm. I had to touch him, feel his pulse, examine what I could while I could.

Thrum.

I ignored the blood on my own hand as my fingers crawled to his throat. A pulse, weak but present, thrummed beneath my touch. Hesitantly, I pulled down his lip and felt a rush of relief when I saw the source of blood was inside his mouth and not a less-forgiving place. I pushed aside his hair and checked his ear as well as I could while around us, a nervous crowd had gathered.

I heard the shrill tones of the women, the authoritative arguments of the men and finally, the fire brigade, ordering people away before they went to work with the scrape, scrape, scrape of the crowbars at what once was the carriage's ceiling.

I saw legs then, confusion while arms flailed around me, snatching at my shoulders. I pushed them off and mustered my voice as best I could. "Him first!" I yelled, shoving their arms toward Holmes. "Careful of his left arm. Gently!"

Sink.

Eventually, they had him. I was next and my energy was sapped to point where I felt next to nothing as they tugged me out. One of the firemen whistled at the sight of me before gathering the stretcher underneath, placing me in the waiting Maria. I felt chilled and numb, my lips were slippery with copper. The chill turned into euphoria, and I dreamed I was floating. For a strange moment, I thought I was hovering above the scene, staring down at myself being placed next to Holmes who was awake by then.

I was ... sleeping. Holmes was staring, his face stark white in the gloom of the vehicle and he was fumbling for my hand ... my shoulder ... me. "Watson?"

I tried to say something, but I wasn't there. Or I was there, but I was above me, somewhere. How like Holmes to immediately realize that I was gone. "Watson! Come back. Watson, please. Don't leave me. Please ... breathe, my dear. Breathe. "

Breathe.

A heaving expansion of my lungs and I fell back to earth beside Holmes.

Alive.

~*~

Whisper.

I awoke to the smell of antiseptic, the busy whispers of hospital. My mouth was perfectly dry making it impossible to speak. I opened my lips silently, surprised when I was gently propped up and a glass was tilted to my mouth, sweet water sluicing over my swollen tongue.

Grateful to my nurse, I opened my eyes. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to see Holmes sitting beside me on the bed, his good arm holding me fast. His face was bruised, his lip swollen and his injured arm sat freely in a dark sling. To any passing bystander, he must have looked dreadful.

To me, he was a glorious sight. "More?" he asked, holding up the glass.

I nodded and he helped me take another sip. "Thank you," I rasped, wincing as he helped me back beneath the blanket. "My God. I certainly didn't see that coming."

"I should have," he replied darkly. "The weather was wretched. Not exactly a difficult deduction to assume we should have waited until the worst had passed before attempting pursuit."

"We'd never have had a chance to catch him if we hadn't," I reminded Holmes, watching as he moved to a waiting chair with difficulty. "It was worth a try."

His dark eyes examined me closely, a parade of warring emotions flashing through them. "It was not worth your life." His mouth set in a tight line and he glanced away from me. "You don't remember what happened, do you?"

Uncomfortable, I pulled the blankets higher. "I remember directly after the accident, checking you and hearing them pull the roof off before they took you out. They retrieved me and then ..." I paused, unsure of how to relate my strange experience, not knowing if I wanted to. "Things grew confused for me from that point on."

Holmes' long fingers clutched at the chair's arm. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never seen him look so distraught. "You died," he said shortly. "You weren't breathing. I felt no pulse." With a hiss, he raked trembling fingers through his wild hair. "You were gone. It's only by the grace of Fate that you somehow returned."

Looking down, I examined the edges of the blanket. "It's not unknown for an patient to temporarily cease before suddenly returning to existence. The heart and lungs may stutter on occasion and restart of their own volition, I've witnessed it myself."

"You died," he repeated harshly, as if trying to impress a disinterested observer with a blasphemous horror. "And it was my fault."

"Oh, Holmes ..." I began, but he waved me silent.

"I have things I need to reassess," he said. He was very pale, his brown eyes filled with an angry sorrow. He inhaled before smiling weakly at me. "But not now. For now, let us recover and get out of this wretched place. I find myself longing for our Nanny's care, as sour as she is."

I nodded. Misgivings filled my chest, but Holmes seemed in no mood to listen. Instead, I held my tongue and tried to return to sleep with limited success. Eventually I fell into slumber, strange visions of flying filling my dreamscape. A great cemetery was stretched out before me in shades of gray and Holmes, he was curled beside a tombstone, shivering in the dirt. I tried to reach him, tell him that it was all right, but my voice refused to work.

With a start I awoke, disturbed. Even worse, Holmes was no longer sitting beside me. A doctor was puttering through the room, reviewing my chart. "Good morning, Doctor Watson," he said. "You are much improved since you were brought in, I must say. What do you think of heading home soon? Your flatmate left this morning, against orders, but he was well enough."

"Nothing against your excellent care, sir, but I would like to leave here as soon as possible," I said, pushing myself up to sit, ignoring the sharp pains in my bad leg.

"If you can walk steadily, you can go," he said, sitting down and checking my vitals. "Be careful of the carriage you pick this time. I must say, it's truly a miracle you have suffered no major damage. I was told it was quite the wreck."

Damage.

I remembered Holmes' pale sorrow and shook my head. "It was."

~*~

To my surprise, Lestrade arrived as I'd finished dressing. He offered me the assistance of his officers and the Yard's vehicles to get me home which I accepted gratefully, knowing that Holmes had probably requested as much.

There are few comforts that compare to arriving at home after an unpleasant experience. Warmth, all-enveloping, surrounded me the moment I stepped in the door - the smell of dinner cooking, Mrs. Hudson's gentle embrace, even Gladstone's happy whine made me forget much of my pain.

The landlady guided me into the study, which, to my great surprise, had been thoroughly cleaned. "He asked me to do it this morning and no, I don't know what's gotten into him either," she says, helping me out of my coat. "But I wouldn't complain if I were you."

"Indeed," I said, not willing to tell her that the sight bothered me rather than otherwise. I accepted her help in sitting and smiled when she patted my shoulder and told me my favorite dinner was on the stove.

"Try to convince him to partake as well," she said as she left. "Or I'll feed it to the dog."

"She would," said Holmes, entering the study from his bedroom, dragging his document tin behind him with his good arm. He squeezed my shoulder in greeting before heading to sit down in front of the fireplace. The tin's lid was popped open and without a cursory glance, he began to toss reams of files into the fire.

Burn.

"What are you doing?" I cried, nearly falling from my seat.

"Cleaning house," he replied nonchalantly. "No need to get yourself in a dither, my dear."

"Those are your cases," I said, cursing my inability to rise easily so I could stop him. "Those are your life."

"Hardly." Another priceless folio was fed to the flames, much to my horror. "There is much more to life than this foolishness, as I've recently discovered."

I gestured helplessly at him. "Please desist from destroying any more of those, I beg you. For my sake, Holmes. If you must be rid of them, give them to me to care for instead."

"I've given you far too many cares," he muttered angrily, but with an exasperated sigh, he put the lid back on the tin. "If you insist, I'll place this in your room. I have no desire to see it again."

With a huff, he hauled the box away and I was left there to gape after him, shocked.

Later he returned, carrying the dinner tray, carefully spooning out portions, first for me, then for himself. Settling in, he ate as I'd never seen before, carefully and completely, wiping his mouth once done. "Starving is stupidity," he said at my amazed expression. "I used to think that denial of the senses would sharpen them to the point where the slightest intrusion would be noted more easily, supposedly honing me into the deductive machine I've become." He threw his napkin onto the tray. "What a ludicrous waste."

I pushed my food aimlessly around my plate, my appetite dulled by Holmes' strange behavior. "I agree that denying yourself the necessities of life aren't the wisest choice but you must admit that your extraordinary skills have been a source of more good than otherwise."

"Good?" he asked sharply. "Is it good to kill your dearest friend in pursuit of a common criminal, one of thousands, all of whom would never be caught if I'd deny myself unto death?"

"You did not kill me, Holmes."

With an angry gesture, he lit his pipe and puffed on it. "Technically, I did. Thank God my lesson wasn't a permanent one. I have been given another chance, I will not waste it on nonsense." His tone softened at what must have been the most woebegone expression on my face. "But enough arguing. You aren't fully recovered yet. Let me help you to bed and tomorrow we'll forge ahead to a happier life."

Sighing, I let him take my plate and assist me to my feet. Slowly and with great care, he walked me to my room, even going so far as to help me remove my shoes. He spoke in such a friendly, easy tone, I was almost lulled into a sense that all was well, if a little odd, with him but my heart knew better.

This wasn't Holmes. This was some wounded facsimile of the man I understood so well and I was at a loss at how to fix the situation, beyond giving him time.

As tenderly as a parent, he tucked the blankets around me, even catching my hand in his and squeezing it. "To a new day. Sleep well, call if you need me."

"To returning to our life," I said, my tone meaningful. "The life we've always known."

His smile was rueful, but he nodded as if to appease me. A few moments later, the violin played, a very soft, sweet tune, obviously meant to lull me to sleep. It hurt my heart to hear it but I understood. If our positions had been reversed ...

Eventually, Holmes' musical ploy worked and I slept, but again, those disturbing dreams assailed me. Holmes, stretched out over a fresh grave, his eyes dull with madness and grief, staring at a colorless sky. How I wanted to shake him, rouse him but I could only watch him fade from my sight.

I've had many nightmares in my life, but few were as upsetting as this. Perhaps, in his own strange way, Holmes was right. Except, as always, he'd taken it too far. What he needed, as always, was a case ...

A case he couldn't resist.

~*~

Days passed and Holmes stuck to his new-found 'normality' with the air of a man determined to reform himself in spite of all the odds against it. I said nothing, choosing to accept this state of affairs on the surface, but plotting all the while beneath.

I created a good opportunity one afternoon after taking Lestrade into confidence. He agreed that Holmes was merely suffering from the unpleasant aftershocks of the accident and needed to be roused 'round as soon as possible.

Leaving the house at noon, I stayed out for two hours and returned limping heavily, without my cane. I sat next to Holmes in our common room, pulling off my gloves with a pained expression. "This is a devilish city we live in, my friend."

His eyes turned hawk-like, but his demeanor remained cautious. "Where is your cane? You shouldn't be talking walks without it."

"Stolen, as I strolled down the street," I replied shortly. "As were my army medals, which I were taking in to have cleaned. Too bad the bastards didn't steal my memories of war away with the rewards, that's all I have to say."

His cheek twitched and I purposefully kept my eyes averted. He was still keen enough to read me if I looked at him straight on. In spite of that, I sensed the emotions warring hotly within him and I couldn't be sure which side was winning, so I went on. "I shall miss the cane," I said quietly, stealing a glance at him. "Strange, but it always eased my heart to know that it held a sword within its center."

Holmes' fingers curled into fists. His mind, it seemed, was once again made up. "Stay here. I will retrieve your things."

"But what about your new life?" I asked innocently. "No, my friend, don't go back to a business you no longer have the stomach for. Maybe the Army office will take pity on a poor veteran and replace the medals some day. I honestly don't have a need for them and as for the cane, a plain ash one will do."

He peered at me curiously. A very slight smile curved his lips. "Your martyrdom is impressive." He pulled on his jacket and hat. "I'll be back soon. Call up tea for us if you can, old boy."

"Holmes! Come back!" I called out after him, half-heartedly. I smiled as I rang for tea. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson wouldn't appreciate the reemergence of the old Holmes, but I anticipated his return with a pleased smile.

A return that was much faster than I assumed it would be. He came back half an hour later, my cane and medals in hand. Laid them on the settee and faced me squarely, his hands on his hips, a frown lining his face.

"Lestrade hadn't even hidden them yet," he said accusingly. "Honestly, Watson, you must pick your co-conspirators with a little more diligence."

I felt the color drain from my face. "Holmes ... I ..." I exhaled wearily. "All right, I'm caught. I'm very sorry, Holmes, but you must admit that this newfound disdain for your life's work isn't right. Surely it doesn't have to be all or nothing - you can finish your supper and solve cases. Why, you've just proven it."

"If you call that a 'case' ..."

"You know what I'm saying," I interrupted. "There is no reason to abandon your work. The accident was just that, an accident. As for my 'death' ... there is something I didn't tell you." I paused, waiting as his eyes grew wide with curiosity. "I do remember being placed in the van beside you and you begging me to come back."

"Impossible," he breathed. "You were not alive. Your heart had stopped"

"And yet I saw it all. I don't know why or how, but all I know is that when you asked me to return, to breathe, I did so as I obviously had no desire to leave your side yet no matter what the risk." I looked at him meaningfully. "I wish to stay at the side of a very sloppy, careless, consulting detective, the greatest one that's ever lived. I have accepted the downsides to this relationship long ago, Holmes. If you were change the rules merely on my account, it would be the greater sin than having a messy sitting room and heading out to chase robbers in the rain."

A long moment of silence followed. Holmes sat down heavily in his chair, rubbing his sore arm. "I don't want to take your presence for granted any longer. The guilt I felt when I thought you were gone ..." He grimaced horribly.

"By all means, feel free to keep the sitting room clean," I added cheerfully, trying to rouse him from his reverie which looked too close to one of his black moments for my liking. "But don't disavow the one thing that makes you not only great, but who you are. Don't you realize that I couldn't abide losing you in that manner?"

Understanding dawned on him then, for as great a mind he possessed, his emotional self was often much slower to follow. "I see," he said. "I suppose I could temper my methods in a less drastic way."

"I have complete faith that you can," I replied enthusiastically. "As well as file your papers properly."

"Oh, those are yours," he said carelessly, but there was a smirk lurking behind the words. "I have a few other tins to drag in there to keep that one company. Your room will be growing a little smaller, I think."

"Holmes ..." I said warningly, but I couldn't help but smile, my heart at last free enough to finally ... breathe.

~*~
end

Gakked from everywhere!

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 00:12:11 GMT

Comment with a pairing (you can comment with more than one!) and I'll tell you:

1. When I started shipping them
2. What I think their challenge is
3. What makes me happy about them
4. What makes me sad about them
5. What moment I wish had never happened
6. Who I'd be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other
7. My happily ever after for them

This includes BSG 'ships, Star Trek, Star Wars, XF, and you know, the others. ;)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 13:09:03 GMT

No, I haven't seen the movie yet. *glares at world*

But this fic Six Impossible Things by irisbleufic (Alice/Hatter, non-explicit) makes me awful happy.

Man, Delicious is being totally ass today. Not that my last 200 bookmarks are anything but SH porn, but still ...

Speaking of SH, wave_of_sorrow hit my making out kink here. Now with extra repression!

Writer!Watson is my new default here. Because he's a writer! And a war hero! And a doctor! And a crimefighter!

Whoever thought it was better to turn this character into a buffoon should be cracked with Watson's cane for eternity. And not in the fun way.

What else? I dunno, coffee and do some work. Nice day today, I think going out and enjoying it might be something to do.

Yes, He Is

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 00:25:44 GMT

This is RDJ posing for one of the endless PR shots for Sherlock Holmes.

The jacket he is clutching like a man in love?

Is JL's "Watson" jacket as used in the film.

RDJ, I fucking love you. I see what you're doing there and I appreciate it more than words can say. I hand you a lifetime of props. Thank you.

The Myth of Constructive Crit

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 16:36:55 GMT

It's important to establish trust and understanding, and make sure everyone agrees on what level of criticism is going to be constructive for a particular writer. So the truth is, Random Q. Internet can't know what's constructive for me. By definition then, what they give me isn't concrit. )

OMG, THIS.

In short, Random Reader has no idea what I need as a writer. There are certain things I could possibly appreciate as useful in unsolicited commentary, maybe. There are other things that only make me want to cockpunch Random Reader through the monitor and make me all Grudgey McGrudgeson in their direction for the rest of my fannish life. (I have a memory like an elephant for stuff like this, btw. Other things, not so much.)

This isn't to say that Random Reader should stay silent about what they'd prefer to read and why and there's no reason they shouldn't express their opinions in public as much as they want. But this is not the same as assisting the author with their personal writing goals. Opinions belong to the reader, the giant grain of salt is the writer's and all is good.

%^%

Speaking of writing, I filled this prompt: 1) Someone preys on Watson's old injuries...outsider or Holmes, whichever the muse favors.. I was half asleep when I did it, could have used more description but ...

I like writing promptfic. Less pressure for some reason.

Currently I have a fanmix in the embryo stage, a bunch of drawer fics that I might sort through for completion and beta, another chapter to put down in my other place and ... I have no idea. Stuff.

Oh, yeah, and work. Ooops.

Keep on coming home ...

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 02:28:58 GMT

Jude Law is on SNL tonight. I'll probably watch tomorrow as old fangirl is old and she doesn't stay up past midnight at home for anything but the end of the world and that's just to get drunk enough not to care.

I sure hope there's a Holmes parody though. I hope it runs along the lines of Jam!Watson except that Jude Law kills Jam!Watson with his cane.

Because he totally would. ;)

--

I posted another prompt fic to the party at watsons_woes.

Holmes and Watson are in a traffic accident. Make it gut-wrenching, please

Not sure how gut-wrenching, but it's kinda grue. I hope. Hee, oh, how I've been corrupted.

Read something today about how RDJ reiterated that he believes Holmes is gay and that did something very wonderful for my pride. Although I now have Sinead O'Connor's "Jealous" running through my head and I end up annoyed at Watson.

I kinda wish they kept that scene where Holmes asks Adler to be his new partner. Feeling so bad for him makes me sad. :( I keep having these terrible visions where Watson insists he comes over to dinner once a week at the wife's and doesn't notice that poor Holmes is pretty much dying by inches until he drops dead from misery over the boiled chicken.

*sigh*

---

Just got me a copy of Rachael Yamagata's "Elephant". "Over and Over" is too pretty.

Watson: Messed Up To Infinity

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 03:33:43 GMT

I'm watching the Russian Sherlock Holmes series on YouTube. It has an early Hotson who is convinced that Holmes is a serial killer of some kind and gets all weirdly excited about it. "Stamford, man, he's so magnetic and I like him so much AND he's a crazy serial killer who is stalking me! I gonna put on my underwear and box him tomorrow! YEAH!"

Oh, Watson. YOU UNHOLY MESS. You *are* psychologically disturbed and we love it.

watsons_woes (http://community.livejournal.com/watsons_woes/) is having a Birthday Prompt Meme for this weekend. It's not a kink meme necessarily, although I do have a kink for fics like this one that answer my prompt: "Holmes has to solve Watson's murder.

Yeah, I'm awful. I also put up a Gladstone gets the poodle next door pregnant prompt. WHAT? Stop judging me!

What would they be called anyway? Buloodles? Pulldogs?

I filled a sick!Watson is comforted by Holmes in a wacky way here. Because sick Watson is what it's all about, obviously.

cries

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 20:49:30 GMT

Lost Boys actor Corey Haim dead at age 38.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. :( :( :(

So Very Wrong ...

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:47:34 GMT

Holmes cocaine habit - in Beanie Baby form. Note the Crying!Watson and tiny plushie syringe.

Oh, fandom. OH FANDOM. I never thought the likes of you would make me happy again.

In other news: read a boring kidnap!fic today. How in heck's name that's possible is beyond me but it happened. Someone write me an exciting one, please? AND NO, NOT YOU, RAP.

All right, off to do some work from the desktop. Yes, I'm working again, but it's only until the end of March. And then I'm telling my bud to hire himself a damned office manager because that's what he needs. But will Mr. Crabs ever do it? Probably not.

Here, have some pretty Watson icons. Clean and simple, just the way I like 'em.

FICLET: A Study of Birds (Holmes/Watson - PG-13)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 14:35:24 GMT

Title: A Study of Birds
Pairing: Holmes/Watson 2009
Rating: PG-13
Words: 543
Disclaimer: ACD wrote 'em, Guy Ritchie loves 'em almost as much as we do.
Summary: A quickie inspired by this pic. Because, yeah, it begs for it.

He can listen to Watson's voice forever.

Especially when he's speaking so softly, sitting on the floor besides Holmes, who is stretched out over his tiger rug. Watson's legs are folded up a little awkwardly on the Persian pillow, his knee brushing against Holmes hip. He's holding the broken handle of one of Holmes' magnifying glasses, setting a screw into the hole and twisting it out, over and over again.

In a half-whisper, Watson speaks of his dream the night before, still futilely working on the handle. "There were birds," he says. "Flying all about our flat. Every color and kind. I asked you what sort of experiment you were performing and how you got them all inside."

"Mmm," Holmes nods, steepling his fingers. He can't stop staring at Watson's face. His hands. The perfect white of his collar pressing against the tan skin of his neck. His mouth ...

Watson grins shyly, his eyes still on his 'work'. "You were sitting in your chair. There were birds atop your head and you kept claiming that you were just as mystified as I."

"I'm sure I was. What then?"

Watson shrugs. He plays with the handle a little more. "We had tea. I think. It was odd."

Not quite the truth, Holmes thinks, seeing Watson concentrate even more closely on his own busy fingers. He's avoiding something and Holmes wonders what dream birds are supposed to mean, according to men who believe in such things.

It doesn't matter. He reaches up to pluck away the broken handle, capturing Watson's hands in the process. Watson is flustered by the gesture, flushing warmly and biting his lip. His hands flutter like birds within Holmes' grasp and when he pulls Watson down to kiss him, the doctor doesn't resist.

It's somewhat awkward, Watson bent over him at an odd angle before struggling to swing his leg over Holmes' waist, straddling him. Better then and he leans in, his mouth tenderly moving over Holmes' throat, his fingers playing with the buttons of his bracers.

Lazy, languid kisses follow as there's no hurry. Watson makes a face at the condition of Holmes' wrinkled shirt, not exactly at its freshest. Holmes chuckles at him and cups the front of Watson's trousers, making him jump. They laugh then and kiss more heatedly, the back of Holmes' head aching from being pressed against the hard bone of the tiger's skull.

He pulls back and tilts his head toward the bed, which, oddly enough, is covered with pages pulled from Audubon's book of ornithology. Watson shrugs and they get up with some effort before falling onto the bed, sheafs of paper crunching beneath them.

"I see where these dreams of mine come from," Watson whispers against Holmes' jaw. "It's your mess that inspires them."

"And a very interesting mess it is too," Holmes replies, rolling atop Watson who is haloed by bluebirds and brown sparrows, ravens and eagles.

Beautiful.

"Indeed it is," Watson says, and their interest in talking wanes all together.

~*~
end

OKAY, YOUR TURN, PEEPS. Give me some domestic fic, right now!;)

God Loves Me In Wonderful Ways ...

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 00:15:59 GMT

Yeah, so these aren't

MY FUCKING ASS, THEY AREN'T.

Thanks, God. I can go to the other place happy now.

Various ...

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 15:40:37 GMT

I normally don't recommend cleaning products, but Kaboom Tub and Tile Cleaner is a blessing to those of us who are breathing impaired and have Tubs From Hell, that are next to impossible to clean properly.

There are no fumes, a pleasant smell and that shit does what it's supposed to do - cut through the creepy slime and gray layer that you can't seem to scrub away without bleach bombing. Seriously, if you have asthma or sensitive lungs/noses and have learned to live with a 'less than clean' tub, this is for you.

---

Spring is showing up on time this year. Yay. Not looking forward to my yearly bouts with allergies but so far, so good. I have more energy, not as depressed, want to do more than sit inside and read porn.

Although the porn I'm reading these days is HIGH FRICKEN QUALITY, OMG. (Oh, Watson. Where have you been all my life?)

I still have the writing bug. The ideas, they just keep invading my brain. I owe some readers schmoop after my last horror and I'll be happy to oblige -- except I have this craving to write a billion word whumpfic where Blackwood wins and well, you all know what follows that ... H/W TORTURE!!! IMPRISONMENT!! AND SEXY, TERRIBLE TORTURE!!!)

Okay, okay. I'll control myself. There will be no TORTURE!!! YAY!TORTURE!!

Damn it.

xXx

Back to the shower scrubbing. *sigh*

FIC: Ouroboros (Holmes/Watson - NC-17 - see warnings)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 01:19:08 GMT

Title: Ouroboros
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Angst (see warnings)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Non-con, rough sex, general unhappiness.
Summary: For the sherlockkink fill: During their time in jail after the whole fail!boat incident, some of the male inmates want to take turns with Watson. Holmes has to save his bff by claiming what is rightfully his.
A/N: Didn't torture my betas with this one. Also, it's not schmoopy in the slightest because this prompt didn't inspire that in me.

xXx

There are four on one side, six on the other. Ten fellow prisoners in total and from their leering stares at Watson, their intention is clear. Three can be disabled by myself, two by Watson, perhaps, considering he is unarmed and exhausted.

The guards are uninterested. Or perhaps I should say they are interested, but in another way.

Watson is oblivious. He drinks water from our shared cup and stares balefully at the bars, blaming me for his troubles. He is thinking about the bad impression he is making on his future in-laws, not realizing that he is two minutes away from a violation that he will not recover from.

Like circling dogs, the inmates shuffle closer. I can smell sweat and cheap tobacco, dried urine and stale clothing.

I have one minute to make a decision.

It's a terrible one, but from the look in their eyes, my choice is being made for me.

With a single quick movement, I grab Watson's arm, right under his bad shoulder and haul him to his feet. He hisses with pain and irritation, trying to yank his arm away. He fails. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Shut up," I order and drag him toward the back area, where there are walls surrounding places that aren't completely open. Poor design, I think, but it is better than here in the middle of the yard.

Furious, Watson pulls away and I kick the calf of his weak leg, hard enough to surprise and keep moving him to the back. His expression is one of horror, as I alone know his weakness outright. "Holmes! Damn you, let me go!"

The inmates - and the guards outside - follow us cautiously. They are surprised at my actions in a dumb animal sort of way and this is precisely what I am counting on. It's hard -- horrible -- but I shove Watson into the wall, face first and when my hand pushes on the back of his neck, holding him like a lamb in the slaughter trough, he starts to fight me in earnest. Cursing and kicking, calling me names and it breaks a part of whatever soul I have left to twist his bad arm behind him, disabling him completely.

The fury fades. Shock and a terrible expression of betrayal line his handsome face. "Holmes, please stop this. Whatever you're doing, please stop."

"I'm merely taking what's mine," I say loudly enough for the brutes to overhear and they take another step closer, their bleary eyes focused on us to the exclusion of everything else. "Be quiet and it'll go easier."

"What will go easier?" he gasps and then it hits him. He's struck silent for a long moment, perhaps remembering that yes, we've done this before, in our apartments, many times by last count. But then there was fighting and unhappiness so we'd stopped, hoping to save our friendship at the very least, until that too wasn't working. He then thought that moving out might ... might ...

"Don't do this," he whispers and he's shaking, his trembling hand reaching back for me, with small pleading pats and tugs on my coat. "Holmes, think."

"I've thought and here's my conclusion," I whisper against his neck.

It's easy to unfasten his pants, I've had practice. I hate this, I hate myself, especially as I'm hard and he's not. I only have saliva to ease my way inside. I bend him as much as possible and force myself in without kindness, making Watson cry out in pain.

The watchers take a step back at my action. Some of them look distressed. The officers outside the gate hurry away, suddenly not quite as interested.

Watson is helpless under me, exhaling violently with every thrust and I close my eyes, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. I let myself ramble, about how tight he feels and how he'll miss this and that he'll be begging me for more soon enough.

Lies. Maybe. Probably.

I finish with one last, hungry thrust and it's over, for both of us. Watson slides down the wall, making wounded noises. The inmates look at him, then at me, their expressions telling me they are frightened and no longer aroused. One by one they fade away back into the crowd and I wish that the Hell I don't believe in would rise up from below the ground and swallow me whole.

From the look on Watson's face, he's wishing the exact same thing.

I stumble back to the bench. For some reason he comes and sits beside me, looking as if nothing has happened, except for the fine tremors of his hands -- a twitch of his cheek.

His future bride retrieves him. Lestrade retrieves me. I then take a carriage ride to hear about how hell has come home to roost.

xXx

He's home when I arrive at Baker Street. He sits ramrod straight in his chair, perfectly dressed and groomed, his cane over his knees.

There is murder in his eyes.

I turn away from him. I hear the ssshfft of his sword being drawn before feeling its razor edge at my throat. I sway on my feet, wondering if I could just fall into it but Watson's hand stills, then draws away. He cannot kill me outright, even after all I've done and this hurts me more than anything else.

"Why?" he asks, hoarsely. "Tell me why."

"Because if I didn't, they were going to," I reply. I focus on the sword still hovering. I draw it up with my palm, clenching my fingers around it. It bites into the skin and Watson slaps my now-bloody hand away. "There were ten of them. The guards weren't going to stop it. You wouldn't have survived it. It was the only way I could think of to distract them. I'm sorry."

The sword falls away. His hand is on my shoulder then, turning me around. There are tears in his eyes -- there are tears in mine. "I'm sorry," I repeat, over and over, like a tuneless song. "I thought it was better that way. I couldn't let them do that to you. I'm the devil you know, aren't I, Watson?"

"Yes," he rasps and with one word, I am forgiven, for this much at least. He leans his forehead against mine. His breath is wavering hot, his voice thick. He's struggling, as am I. In this moment, we are hopelessly lost. "These things that keep happening because of my presence. I can't stay here, Holmes. I have to leave, the sooner the better."

"I know that."

Lies. Again. Maybe.

"We're going to kill each other. I couldn't live with myself if that should happen."

"I understand."

His arms go around my waist. I return the embrace, burying my face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat. We are linked like the Ouroboros, the snake that eats its own body by the tail, as if it doesn't know that by devouring its other half, it's only killing itself.

I am the head of this snake, he has become the tail. But my Watson no longer wishes to be devoured and thinks that leaving will save us both. He's is certain he can save us.

Cupping his face with my bloody hand, I kiss him. He returns the kiss, but only for a second before pushing me away. "Are we done here?" he asks suddenly. He's very pale. "I have to pack."

"We're done," I reply. I wipe my hand on my sleeve. "I have some things to attend to."

"I'll see you later then."

He leaves me. It seems appropriate. It seems like the only truth we've shared in a very long time.

xXx

end

FIC: Tales of Dr. John H. Watson, Scourge of Two and One-Half Continents

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 00:27:27 GMT

Title: Tales of Dr. John H. Watson, Scourge of Two and One-Half Continents
Author: ingridmatthews
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,204
Genre: Erotic tales ala Delta of Venus
Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Watson/many horny others
Summary: Watson amuses a sick Holmes with tales of his sexual encounters past. Possibly part of a series. Because Watson has a lot of hot stories to tell.
A/N: I couldn't ask for a better beta than numb3r12 and my RL friend "L". All leftover errors are mine.

(let the good doctor tell you a tale...)

Feedback is always appreciated.

Watson: Scourge of Two 1/2 Continents!

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 20:37:21 GMT

Latest fic sent off to betas. ::: snugs poor betas :::

It's an NC-17 Watson fic wherein he spends an evening amusing a sick Holmes with tales of his sexual exploits over the years, ala Anias Nin in Delta of Venus. I only got as far as three tales, as the BSDM ones I had in mind were too similar, although I might do another one with the 'outtakes'. (Let's just say that silver hairbrushes should *never* go to waste.)

In other news, I just received my copy of Game Change and will be settling down to an evening of dirty, juicy political wank which makes me happy. Mmmm, tasty.

What's up with you guys? :D

FIC: Proper Conclusions (Holmes/Watson - NC-17)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 23:22:03 GMT

Title: Proper Conclusions
Author: ingridmatthews
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Words: 587
Summary: A quick fill for sherlockkink. Prompt: Watson makes a deduction that pretty much solves a case and Holmes is so fucking turned on. Rough, breathy, quick, ~CANT FIGHT THE DESIRE~ sex ensues.

~*~

This is the third body in as many days and it's not a pretty sight as the killer is one of the more deranged specimens of the species. His signature is peculiar - dismemberment followed by sewing the bodies back together in new and interesting ways.

A doctor, of course, Holmes thinks and since Doctor Simons has been the only link between all these victims, it's quite elementary who the culprit is. He's about to close the case right then and there when Watson leans in to more closely examine the sutures.

He takes the magnifying glass from Holmes' hand and stares at the long lines of catgut covering the body. "They're upside down," Watson says finally. "No trained doctor would stitch in this direction."

Holmes bends over the corpse and follows Watson's line of vision. "But who ..."

"Someone who's had a mirror view of many operations, standing across from the surgeon," Watson interrupts. "It's Simon's assistant, the Millard fellow. I'd bet my life on it."

Holmes' mouth drops open. Lestrade, who's been standing silently to the side the entire time is wide-eyed. "Well," Lestrade says, impressed. "That's some set of skills you've developed there, Doctor."

Watson blushes. He enjoys the praise and is prepared for a few kind words, but he's not prepared for Holmes grabbing his arm and practically dragging him away, so quickly he can hardly keep up. "I need to speak to Watson," he yells back to Lestrade, his voice hoarse, as if his mouth has suddenly turned desert-dry.

For a moment Watson wonders if Holmes is annoyed with him but he's soon relieved of that notion when Holmes presses his back to the wall of a nearby alley, his hands scrabbling at Watson's belt, brown eyes huge and set within a flushed face.

"Oh my God," Holmes breathes, biting at Watson's neck. He moans loudly and Watson can only stand there in aroused surprise, letting Holmes desperately ravage him with his mouth and his fingers - oh lord - everywhere they shouldn't be with half of Scotland Yard on the other side of the street.

"You're magnificent," Holmes gasps, rutting against Watson who is torn between falling to his knees and running away as fast as he can. "I thought there might be no one else like you in this world and now I know for certain."

And oh, but that does it. Watson closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the stone. He vaguely senses Holmes dropping down and seconds later a sloppy, hot mouth surrounds his prick, working it with perfect, sweet sucks and pulls.

Holmes moans and Watson dares to look down. Sees his partner's hand working himself, with those eyes staring up at him and he's utterly undone. He arches twice and comes with Holmes still groaning around his cock as he swallows, as if unwilling to let go.

Eventually, they straighten themselves out and Watson tries to glare at Holmes but the look the detective bestows on him is so outright adoring, it's hard to be angry. "So I take it you're not mad about the stolen thunder?"

Holmes laughs, his eyes bright as stars. "Completely to the contrary, my dear. This is going to go down as my favorite case of all time."

~*~
end

Oh, Holmes. You slut. ;)

Conversations You Never Thought You'd Have

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 19:51:50 GMT

Today the Sproglet was running around in his Batman outfit. And thus, this was heard yelled from the bathroom:

Sproglet: 'Scuse me, I have a question!

Me (in the living room): Yes?

Sproglet: Does Batman take off his cape when he poops?

Me: YES! YES, HE DOES!

Sproglet: Oh, okay. Are you sure?

Me: YES!

God help us all.

~*~

I might have to fill some prompts for a certain kinkmeme today. Maybe.

Beta Request - Come To Me My Pretties

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 20:28:14 GMT

To all the Sherlock Holmes peeps on my flist, a request. (I put this up on the Beta Post on holmeswatson09 but figured I'd spread it around.

I need a typo/grammar/awkward construction wrangler on a regular basis. I tend to lose/repeat/misuse words. Occasional consistency issues (night turns suddenly to day a lot in my fic. IT'S MAGIC! :)

I have a tough skin for beta-whipping and write mostly fluff, with some pretty dark stuff coming in once in a while. None of it is currently that long, typically under 5,000 words, usually much less. If you are available for read-overs, let me know. (If you don't want to respond to the post, my email is lexluvsclark @ gmail . com) :D

In return you get beta credit, or not if you don't wish to be associated with OMG THATFIC. Which totes might happen.

Okay, personal ad over.

Go look at this SH art and and this and revel in the fact that WE HAS THE BEST SKETCH ARTISTS IN ALL FANDOMS.

~*~

I'm done shoveling and want pizza. I suppose this is a good thing. Speaking of snow, I can't believe the incredible response I received for my last fic. Whoa. Everyone wants to hide from the blizzard, huh?

I do not blame you. Nope. Anyway, thanks! You guys rock.

~*~

I have a couple of dozen fic ideas on the brain and now over 25,000 words of unfinished SH fic in my Google Docs. OY VEY. This hobby is the worst, YOU CAN NEVER BE FREE.

FIC: Do No Harm (Holmes/Watson - R)

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 00:52:14 GMT

Title: Do No Harm
Author: ingridmatthews
Fandom: 2009 Movie'verse mixed with Bookverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Genre: Angst/Romance/Fluff
Rating: R (for sexual content)
Words: 2,287
Disclaimer: Probably Fair Use by now. I still didn't create them.
Summary: Some cures can't be found in a doctor's office.
A/N: Inspired by being housebound in all this snow.

Cut to my LJ: (a month after he moves in)

Feedback and hot chocolate are always appreciated! Stay warm, bbs. :D

Sherlock Freakin' Holmes, Yep.

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 18:54:50 GMT

The responses to this SH secret on F!S crack me up. Especially this one:

People have been writing bad Sherlock Holmes fanfic/pastiches since before Guy Ritchie was born. I'd be willing to bet that there's even 100 year old rapefic hidden in somebody's attic somewhere.

This is funny because it's trufax. And only makes me wish I could read about the Secret Society of Sherlockian Dames who met in an attic once a week to trade off their notebooks full of porn, rapefic and WatsonTorture. Probably some sketch artists as well. Oh, and cosplayers! Stealing their brother's clothes and acting out fic for fun and great justice! (Fuck you, world, not letting me vote. LOOK AT WHAT I'M DOING!)

Great-Granny's Sherlock Holmes Whumpfic/Tentacle Porn and Cosplay, FTW!

It's also true that Sir Arthur C. Doyle himself thought that his Holmes stories were rabble-pleasing shlock and kept trying to get out of writing more (so he could concentrate on more 'serious' work) but the rabble rebelled and he was forced to keep bringing the guy back to life.

Look, the books may have that quaint Victorian language, but they're not Ulysses. Even its author knew it was fun for fun's sake.

Fortunately the fandom, for the most part, is more grateful than snotty about the fresh blood. It's just that after a century of badfic mixed in with the good, you'd figure no one would be surprised anymore. :D

---

More proof that You Can Find Anything in Fandom.

There are Watson/Murray 'shippers and fic. The mysterious orderly who carried a badly wounded Watson away, miles and miles through enemy lines to safety, probably half-killing himself in the process.

And what do I say to this? WHOO! and YAY! and Why The Heck Do I Look So Surprised?

This might end up badly for me, however. Because my friend know I can take that shit and run with it, far and wide. *squees*

Recs: Cosplay, Movies and Such

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 22:44:07 GMT

Two gorgeous young ladies performing some red-hot n' sweet Holmes/Watson cosplay.

YOU GALS KNOW HOW TO MAKE ME HAPPY. (And I just typed 'how' as 'hot'. Hello, Freud.)

I'm writing so much H/W in my Google Docs. I mean, like 20,000 words of stuff. I'm finding that the gen is impossibly slashy. It's ridiculous. *loves my stash*

---

Speaking of slashy, Nickelodeon is showing one of my favorite movies of all time, Drumline which has some scenes in it that are so "OMG, THEY ARE GOING TO KISS AND THEY SHOULD" that it takes your breath away. Not to mention the awesome marching band moments.

There is very little or no slash fic for this film. This makes The Goddess Slashia VERY UNHAPPY.

So, next Porn Battle and Yuletide, this is going in my request batch. It's been too long.

Along with Miss Congeniality. Although there are a couple of pieces of fic for it, this, the SLASHIEST OF GIRL POWER FILMS.

It's a very gay day today, my friends. Enjoy it. BTW, Johnny Weir was ROBBED. The fact that homophobia is rampant in MEN'S FIGURE SKATING? Yeah, we're just taking over the world, aren't we? *middle finger to planet*

Star Wars and More

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 21:25:06 GMT

The Sproglet is currently obsessed with Star Wars - *brushes away tears of joy* - and was playing this game today:

Sproglet: My name today is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Don't call me anything else, okay?

Me: You got it, Obi-Wan.

Sproglet: I have to go fight next to Anakin now. See you later!

Me: Have fun!

Sproglet comes back five minutes later, looking dejected.

Me: Uh-oh, did you lose the battle, Obi-Wan?

Sproglet: No. Anakin is kissing Padme. AGAIN.

Awwww. But nothing an ice pop couldn't fix. ;)

----

Sherlock Holmes, yeah. Co-dependent Victorian addicts in love and fighting crime, TOGETHER.

Fanvid Rec: Please Don't Leave Me by brittanyksduh. Pretty much what the entire movie was about. Pretty much what the entire awesome slash is all about.

Fanart: Gladstone and the Tiger Rug Get An Eyeful. Like a demented Calvin and Hobbes that have seen WAY TOO MUCH. pyromagnus is one fine artist.

Fic Rec: A Secret History by moony. Beautiful and funny and did I mention, amazing? This is the Holmes and Watson I want to write and read about, forever.

Holmes of the Dead by Taleya. A Zombie!Holmes fic that is gorgeous and sad and brilliant. YUM.

---

Okay, more Olympics later. These aren't thrilling me as much as four years ago. That weird homophobic vibe - directed at Weir - I've gotten from the men's skate competition has left a bad taste in my mouth.

I mean, they all wear sparkles and can break your jaw with their thighs, motherfuckers. Stop being so holier than thou.

*sigh* I just don't feel good about this year at all.

Okay, I'm not that mad at the Olympics anymore

lexluvsclark@gmail.com — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 00:43:41 GMT

Yeah, Xue Shen and Hongbo Zhao, you *really* need to stop turning me into a pile of mush at your gorgeous, in-love, married selves skating so beautifully.

There's something so amazing about pairs skaters. Especially when they are MADLY IN LOVE. He looks at her like she's a giant jar of cookies. She just smiles at him so cutely. And then, they toss each other around. Oh, guh.

*squeal*