East Coast Gazette

These were WAY too good for me to pass up:

• Okay: Clark, Lex, the Conner universe has to deal with another universe’s Clark/Lex daughter who has daddy and power issues.

“Well,” Conner said, slumping down into the cafe seat, demoralized, “Geoffrey said, and I quote, ‘oh, fuck no‘ to the threesome.”

“I knew it,” Lena muttered, “what a pussy.”

Sighing, Conner leaned back, hitching an arm over the back of his seat and looking across the table, studying Lena’s fine features: the sweet bow of her mouth and her dark auburn hair, gleaming in a dash of bangs, dark lashes that fringed her green eyes.

Wincing, Lena said, “I know. It’s weird.”

“Really weird,” Conner agreed.

“It’s kind of like I used to wonder what I’d look like if I were a guy,” she said, cupping her hands around her iced coffee. “And…now,” she said slowly, “I guess I know.” Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, “What size pants do you wear?”

Conner knew enough about women to know that the answer to that question was, “Bigger pants than you do.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, staring at him intensely.

When Bart and Tim from the Justice League had delivered a seriously-put-out girl with dark red hair and Luthor authority in her voice, Lex had gone straight to the phone and started a shouting match with Bruce Wayne which, presumably, was still happening. Clark had gone into the other room to have a lie down, but not before scheduling some sort of weird, inter-dimensional family meeting for later that evening. Conner had taken stock of the situation and his weird sort-of-sister and said, “Okay, so we’re going to go down to the coffee shop until you guys straighten this out,” and Lena had said, “Yeah, bounce bitches,” and Clark had yelled after her to watch her language, young lady.

“So,” Conner said, trying to change the subject, “what are your version of mom and dad like? Same? Different?”

Shrugging, Lena took a sip of her coffee before saying, “Oh, you know, mostly the same — Clark and Dad are still freaks of nature. Bart still hits on me — ”

Conner choked on his latte.

” — Geoffrey’s still afraid to touch me in public because he thinks Dad’s going to have him killed, etcetera etcetera.”t

“So,” Conner said, voice dry as tinder, “basically same old.”

“Yup,” Lena agreed, glaring out the coffee shop window into the afternoon downpour. “Man, they better figure out how to get me out of here before Dad and I have to have the ‘I don’t need a chastity belt’ conversation again.”

• Or all the newspaper/trash articles on Conner and Geoffrey’s relationship.

ISLE OF PALMS, S.C. — LexCorp heir Conner Luthor and his longtime beau Geoffrey Archer were spotted by eagle-eyed paparazzi, enjoying the sun and fun on a secluded Isle of Palms, S.C. beach. Paps caught photos of the duo lounging on the white sands and baking clams — unsuccessfully, it seems, watch out for those flames, Conner! — at night, as well as sharing a steamy kiss in the waves. The notoriously reclusive Luthor scion is famous for his standing policy never to discuss his relationship — but who needs pithy adjectives when a picture is worth a thousand words? Things are steaming up in the Old South. The pair was later spotted window shopping and cozying up in a corner booth at Slightly North of Broad — love is still in the air for this longtime couple! When approached by a TMZ.com reporter about what keeps their relationship so fresh, Conner said, “Liquor. Tons and tons of liquor.”

• Eureka starts again soon. Whatchya gonna do about that, eh? Huh, huh? [This is a challenge, for those that are too drunk to figure it out. ;)]

Jack was man enough to admit that he wasn’t man enough to deal with John Sheppard on the warpath — hearsay though it was, the last time the guy had lost his temper an alien planet (God, Jack thought, I hate this town) had lost a few continents. John Sheppard, Jack knew, was not a guy to be fucked with.

It turned out that was true on two levels.

“McKay, you have to understand,” he said reasonably, “I can’t let you kill him.”

McKay clearly disagree.

“I clearly disagree,” he snarled back, pointing a very large and tantalizingly shiny weapon at Herman Rothschild — poet, artiste, experimental weapons designer for the U.S. military and maneater.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Do you really think this is a fair punishment for you know, accidentally hitting on John?”

“Oh, sure,” Rodney said, furious, “because someone can ‘accidentally’ manufacture a gay bomb and set it off while locked in a room with someone else’s significant other.”

Frowning, Jack turned to Herman. “Did you do that?”

Flushing, Herman said, “There was only a 56 percent chance it would work.”

“And a 100 percent chance I was going to kick your ass for it!” Rodney shouted. “He’s still feeling up nurses in the medical ward — and they’re probably enjoying it!”

Jack sighed. “I hate this town.”

• Gibbs and DiNozzo undercover in a gay bar. (Also, Dear Whoever Wanted This: You and I are clearly soulmates.)

Gibbs had drawn the line at leather pants.

“I still think they would have been a good idea,” Tony whispered, lips close to Gibbs’ ear, and Gibbs looked over Tony’s shoulder into the grinding crowd and figured every other pervert in the room thought it would have been a good idea, too.

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs snapped, “no boyfriend of mine would be allowed out in public dressed like a streetwalker — capishe?”

Tony pouted. “Killjoy,” he said, and whirled around to the bar, glitter in his eyelashes. “I’ll have a blowjob, please,” he told the bartender, and Gibbs muttered, “Oh, for crying out loud — !”

“On BJ, coming up,” the bartender said, all business, and grinned. “I’ve never seen you guys around here before — new in town?”

Leaning over the bar, Tony bent over dramatically. Gibbs took some time to growl at everybody advancing on them, which he recognized defeated the ultimate point of the sting but he felt he had to draw the line somewhere: yes, Tony was pervert-bait, no Gibbs didn’t have to like it.

“Well,” Tony confided in the bartender, “new on the scene.”

“I see,” the bartender said, smiling, handing Tony his shot. “Here you go.”

Winking, Tony purred, “Thanks, handsome.”

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs growled.

The bartender, a man with excellent self-preservation instincts, laughed, “I go by John, actually — but it’s nice to meet you both.” He winked, moving down the bar, “Anyway — welcome to the Boom Boom Room; ladies night is Thursdays.”

More forthcoming!

• What would Rodney do in your situation (cat shit maturity level amorous roommate) and how would John remedy the situation?:

“..The point is, my roommate won’t leave me alone,” Rodney finished, just as John clicked ctrl+p and heard his printer purr to a start.  “Are you even listening to me?” Rodney demanded.

“Yes,” John lied, and spun around in his desk chair.  “The way I see it, you have three options to shake your amorous roommate.”

Rodney looked intense.  “Okay,” he said.

“You could tell them you’re already seeing someone,” John said, and added, “Okay, so that’s kind of out of the window,” when Rodney snorted loudly.  “Number two, you could tell them you just got out of a really bad relationship — ” brightening, Rodney opened his mouth before John cut him off ” — and no, I will not call you pretending to be your ex.”

“Jackass,” Rodney said, scowling.

“Or, three,” John finished, “you could tell him you’re straight.”

Rodney threw a calculator at him.  “I am straight!”

This time, it was John’s turn to snort.

•  Naruto visits Suna to see how Gaara is dealing with losing his beast and discovers that with his tragic past, his gothboy looks, his emo attitude and his stampede of fangirls, Gaara is Suna’s version of pretty-boy Sasuke! The tragedy, the horror!

Naruto suspected there was something foul afoot in Suna.  Gaara, who’d never been really keen on going out anyway, seemed less inclined to step foot outside the Kazekage offices than ever, despite the fact that the only things to eat in the entire building were the near-rancid instant curry-rice packages in the basement vending machines.  On day two, after Naruto had eaten all of them and stolen all of the candy from all of the scribes, he put his foot down and asked what the hell was going on: even if Gaara didn’t want to go out, it didn’t mean no one could come in — and so far, he’d refused even RAMEN delivery.

“I may have told my people some things,” Gaara said finally, sounding close enough to shifty Naruto might not even call it monotone.

“Like what?” Naruto hollered over his grumbling stomach.

“There were some problems,” Gaara answered, almost squirming.  “I told them something to solve the problem.”

Naruto narrowed his eyes.  “What was the problem.”

“There were women following me,” Gaara admitted.  “It was bothersome.”

Later, when Naruto returned to Konoha, he’d spend nearly a month trying to get Kakashi for being a bastard before he caved and just told Iruka-sensei, who proceeded to kick Kakashi out of their not-shared-at-all-nope-we’re-single house and set pages of his favorite Icha Icha book on fire.

“That’s what you get, you pervert!” Iruka shouted out the window, still furious and cold to Kakashi’s very real weeping.  “I cannot BELIEVE you told Gaara to say he had herpes to scare away GIRLS.”

More forthcoming!

Apparently — without my knowledge — Amorous Roommate and I had a fight today, one so intense he felt compelled to report to me that he considered never speaking to me again.  And then, right after he said, “At least you’re not my girlfriend,” he made me read our horoscopes, because he felt they accurately predicted this argument, which I still do not remember having had, and definitely not one bad enough to warrant him going off and sulking like a big motherfucking teenaged girl for three hours.  This proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that (a) he has the maturity level of cat shit and (b) he is cat shit.  I like the guy, but I swear to God.  There is a thin line between friendly cohabitation and me rubbing week-old raw chicken on all his utensils and I’m getting to the second one.

But folks: I am bored and frustrated so!

Comment fic time!

Now I know that comment fics won’t work as well in this blog format as it does on livejournal, so I’m asking for (a) your patience (b) not to post your prompt 23948893473974 times (you know who you are) because it will just make me hate you, a lot and (c) to come up with one sentence prompts from the following fandoms: SGA, NCIS, Eureka!, mountain of anime, etc. etc., anything I have written for before.

Bear in mind, I reserve the right only to write the ones that entertain me the most, which doesn’t mean I hate you, it just means my wrists hurt.

Annnnd GO!

Or else:

Title: Strictly on a Need to Know Basis
Rating: PG
Summary: “For fuck’s sake, Gibbs — is this some kind of exchange program that I don’t know about?”

Fast and unbetaed and totally irredeemably dumb.

I write (silliness) in moments of extreme stress, and given that my flight to Seattle is tomorrow afternoon, I’m feeling fairly justifiably stressed.  I’m equal parts scared and psyched here, folks, but I think in the last hour I’ve been tilting more toward “scared” than psyched, which is not awesome.

Also!  Those of you who are Seattle natives or live nearby, if you don’t already have my phone number, drop me a line at rageprufrock at gmail dot com and let me know if you want to hang out — I’d love some company on my first few days in the Emerald City, and well, basically anytime at all.  I love: smut, bars, and long walks on the shoreline and also talking about televised gay.  Come on people, be my friend.

Title: Highly Classified and very Hush Hush
Rating: PG
Summary: “Damn the man,” DiNozzo whispers.

SGA has Marines — NCIS polices Marines. You didn’t honestly think I wouldn’t eventually find some way to make the two plots hold hands and fake it, did you? Happy reading!

(1) Let’s get it right out there: I am loving NCIS still. There is love and then there is big shiny-ass omg second half of third season SGA love. The way I feel about NCIS right now is how I felt when I first saw Ark-Echoes-The Game — yeah, you see? YEAH.

(2) Title: Endearment
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s only unfortunate that the two don’t intersect the way Tony wants as well.

Happy reading!

And if you would like the meta relevant to this story proceed to

(3) Like I said, I figured out why I’m slightly freaked out by Gibbs and DiNozzo. In fact, I wrote a whole long-ass spiel about it. (more…)

FORGIVE ME FANDOM, FOR I HAVE SINNED. IT HAS BEEN ONLY TWO DAYS SINCE I LAST MADE STORIES ABOUT GAY BROTHERS. D:

NCIS snapshot: hurry up and wait

(more…)

SGA, to me, is like that boyfriend you found putting a carton of eggs into your dishwasher and then you threw him out in his underpants and chucked his shit at him successively through your bedroom window because that was how furious you were with him and does he know it’s going to cost you $300 to get that God damned washer fixed? Does he even care? And then you shout stuff like, “Go fuck yourself I hope you get raped by alley cats!” and shut the window sash extra hard.

But then like, four days has passed and nobody has woken you up in the middle of the night to tie you up to the headboard or asked you to make chocolate dipped strawberries or asked if you could spike a peach and if you could could they do it with a fifth and no, of course I’m not afraid of alcohol poisoning. And nobody has brought you light up pens with fuzzballs on the end at work or sent you naughty text messages with all the words spelled wrong and in all-caps or watched Blue Collar Comedy with you late at night and never judged you for braying like a donkey and saying, “Oh, God, I know!” at the “You know you’re a Redneck if…” jokes and you realize your LIFE IS BEREFT without his stupidity.

Yeah, that’s how I feel about SGA — which explains why I’m trying to gorge myself and utterly failing — has nobody been writing in the last month? COME ON GUYS.

Snapshot: (from a larger work to come) Septpartite

(more…)

I’m not kidding! This never would have happened if only she’d been working on her Islam paper as she purportedly was supposed to! Guys I was innocently doing work and possibly playing Boomshine obsessively!

Mike had woken up feeling like he’d ODed on crystal meth and started hitting on Ryan Seacrest or something — and if the state of full-body soreness was any indication, he must have been hitting on somebody who hit back. It was a 7 a.m. Monday morning call, and so he didn’t feel that out of place stumbling into the lot with enormous Elizabeth Taylor sunglasses on clutching a bottle of Naked Pomegranate punch — fur-lined hood pulled tight around his face in an effort to keep out the rest of the world.

(more…)