Since a few of us have started up/resurrected Dreamwidth journals I noticed (along with @anglofile) that there was no specific Mystrade community there.
So there is now 🙂 – mystradefans
Feel free to join if you’re over there. I’ve made it an open community and I plan on being very hands off, I just thought there should be a Mystrade comm for folks to publicise fics etc.!
Anybody fancy co-modding?
Oh of course – this won’t show up in the tags because I am a Tumblr-eebil…
Taging a bunch of people instead (apologies for tagging/not tagging you depending on which you’re upset by!)
@egmon73 @mottlemoth @lavenderandvanilla @bigblueboxat221b @green-violin-bow @ngaijuuyan
okay but the only reason Irene Adler is like That is to highlight (a) what ‘dinner’ means (b) that Sherlock is sometimes tempted by ‘dinner’ and © he doesn’t want ‘dinner’ with someone like himself
also her portrayal throughout the history of Sherlockian adaptations has been wildly sexualised for no reason and she makes John Watson jealous as hell
also I am Sick [smacks countertop] and Tired [smacks countertop] of this thing in fics where people make Sherlock insult/make fun of John’s clothes. John actually has pretty exceptional taste and seeing as Sherlock does too, and knows how to look for it, there is no Doubt in my Mind that Sherlock appreciates a man who knows about good taste in clothes and lookin sharp as fuck. Jumpers included.
Presumably someone’s already written a MasterChef Professionals AU?
Mycroft Holmes, reclusive development chef with a reputation for harsh words to those who don’t carry out his instructions well enough to bring his culinary vision to life. He’s been out of normal service for a few years so it’ll be a challenge to cook in front of Marcus, Monica and the food critics; but the real danger is his perfectionism, the way he beats himself up when he can’t deliver. He’s very controlled, and likes the challenges where he can prepare and practice obsessively.
Greg Lestrade, who’s worked himself up within the industry from potwasher to sous chef of a five-star restaurant in Mayfair. His life outside cookery has fallen apart: his wife’s left him, sick of the hours and his obsession with the job. He’s easygoing, friendly, but a little experimental in his cooking – his favourite challenges are the invention tests, because he can just wing it…and to be fair, it usually pays off.
Mycroft and Greg get at cross purposes on the first day, when Greg tries to chat while they wait behind the scenes, and Mycroft frankly says he has no interest in talking. (Unbeknownst to Greg, Mycroft is feeling so sick with nerves he can hardly stay calm.)
Has anyone written one???? I need to read
Mycroft steps into the kitchen to refill his glass of wine, carrying Rosie’s beaker with him. The little girl is getting tired. They should do Sherlock’s birthday cake soon so that she can go to bed.
John and Lestrade are just opening another couple of beers.
“Well why not?” says John with quiet amusement. “It’s just like you’re on your own, really, isn’t it.”
“Um, not really,” snorts Lestrade. “That’s sort of the point. Ugh. Nope. Too creepy for me.”
Back turned, Mycroft pours the wine.
“Oh come on,” snorts John. “Aren’t you even a bit curious?”
This is one of my FAVOURITE all time stories, which I long ago left my ration of one (1) kudos on and probably never comment enough because it’s creepy when someone does that so often (right? That’s what my brain tells me, anyway). But it’s soft and lovely and the very last scene is just gorgeous and, like so much of Greenie’s work, settles my mind. ❤
IT’S NOT CREEPY, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
i witness pictures of a “relaxing” woman and i think: it is funny how they see us. in the movies under the shower, the actress stands with shaved legs, leaning into the water, opening her mouth with a sensuous sigh. our sleepovers are supposed to come with bras and tight panties, laughing our painted lips over pizza you don’t see us eat. we take walks in the park in good heels, look excellent after running, always have a gentle smile on our pristine faces.
an artist draws a piece about how women alone don’t have to be sad that they’re alone, they should relish in it, which i thank him for giving me permission to do. the result of his work is half-nude ladies draped like linens over their couches, flashes of thigh gaps and open lips, breasts swelling pleasantly, a yawn and and stretch that shows off her hipbones.Â
the only evidence i have that i’m normal is considered comedy. our reality is comedy. lying in bed under three covers, bra off but sweater on, laptop positioned directly under lack of a chin: that gets a laugh. in the movies, the quirky girl in a cute-ugly but somehow flattering pajama set gets caught at the supermarket and it’s a nice romantic scene where we find out how awkward it is for her to exist without makeup, without her best effort to please sexually. she sees her boss or her cute friend or whatever else makes us laugh and cringe and the next time we put on “real clothes” before we go out shopping.
the real world exists somewhere outside the picture of women. we come home and strip off our bras, but instead of that being a still image of a delicate female stepping away nude, it’s a moment of our peacefulness. the narrative so often stops here, us heading our improbably slim legs to the bedroom. but instead our breasts don’t always hang evenly, instead some of us do not have breasts, instead we swipe a hand over our tired faces and smear our makeup but are too lazy to take it off. our bodies crack and crunch and do not stretch like a cat but instead in weird directions, we rush out our breath and slouch and barely keep our eyes open. we lie with our thighs touching and our stomachs hanging because it’s comfortable. we sling ourselves undainty over whatever will support our weight. our showers consist equally of staring into the void as of unflattering angles while we wash; our bodies never come pre-shaved and for some reason our underarm hair is really persistent or our leg hair is dark and shows even after shaving or maybe both. our sleepovers mostly feature netflix and wine, getting food on our faces, eating until our stomachs make round pleased hills, talking trash and swearing up storms more than we paint our nails. we don’t go to the store in cute-ugly clothes, we go because we forgot to buy tampons or we dropped all our rice on the ground or because we’re human and we need supplies to survive.Â
there is a very strange body-positive rule where somehow, we always end up under the slogan “beautiful.” our loneliness, our adulthood, our moments where were are not even being judged – i should remind you that those are beautiful too. but the truth is that you don’t need to be beautiful. and these moments in particular, that belong to you: they’re yours, they don’t need to be told that they exist in some plane of desirability. who cares if they’re ugly, if they’re truly self-serving and unflattering and indelicate. when you are home, you are finally human, returned to skin that itches in awkward places and ugly habits and it’s okay. they won’t show you a version of that without laughing about it, but we are real, we don’t keep ourselves perfect in even our peaceful moments. it’s okay. i know you might be worried what happens if you get a partner or roommate and they learn you live this way, that you’re messy and forget to brush your teeth sometimes and get food all over the place when you eat and i’m telling you: you’re not unusual. you’re just human, and these moments aren’t somehow shameful. they’re not untouchable and unspeakable because they’re not pretty. because instead they’re human.
we aren’t here to be watched, and we don’t need your approval.
we weren’t created to always please. sometimes we get to take a break from beautiful.
Green Violin Bow 