Jonas Lie (1880 - 1940). Anchored Boats, 1919. Oil on Canvas. 30 x 44¾ in. (76.2 x 113.7 cm.)
PLEASE SHARE THE WEALTH FRIEND
Oh, hello. I’m sorry to get your hopes up (believe me, I KNOW how difficult it is to find good femslash Holmescest), but I don’t currently post my fanfiction. However, as Sherlock would say, I’m [very very] flattered by your interest.
#one thing i rly dig is the extreme aesthetic contrast between his public life and private life #at least during some eras #he just looks so dad but then you know he’s gonna appear on a stage in a few days in a tattered frock coat and heavy eye makeup #entertainers in general are so bizarre to me when i think about it #at least the ones who are down to earth and normal behind the scenes [x]
I find it fascinating that the gap between his public and private lives widened in proportion to his age. In the early part of his career they were virtually indistinguishable; what with Angie and his tendency to wear his costumes as everyday clothes and his bright ochre hair, it was difficult to tell where Ziggy Stardust ended and a real person began (which played hell with his psyche, as he has said himself). It’s only later, and especially after his marriage to Iman, that he begins to put up barriers between his life and his art. (And thank goodness, or he’d probably have offed himself one way or another by now.)
ASEXUAL AND AROMANTIC ARE NOT THE SAME THING NOW SAY IT WITH ME
Honestly, the most upsetting thing about Snape is that you get glimpses of this little kid that nobody took care of, like you never see him being cared for, not by any adults anyway, and he’s just this kid at first, this angry lonely kid, and then it’s like he was too old for that, he has to take responsibility for his life that he fucked up before he even got started, bc, bc it all goes back to this little kid that nobody—no guardian—ever put any effort into, and that’s just so
Don’t speak. Just leave. (BBC Sherlock, TEH)
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If anybody ever tries to tell you that Shakespeare wasn’t bisexual, I want you to read them this poem.
Sonnet 20, William Shakespeare (1609)
A woman’s face, with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion—
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.
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In no particular order.
So cute! ♥
Dear Sherlock writers,
When I said I wanted a fanfiction in which Sherlock has to deal with Mycroft’s death, all this speculation that Mycroft is going to die next season in canon was NOT what I meant.
Please don’t kill my only reason for watching this clusterfuck of a show. Thank you.
The Wizarding World of Harry Potter- Diagon Alley
Well, yesterday was a festival of Mycroft, wasn’t it?
It’s like a guilt hangover, sometimes. This show is so terrible, and yet I spend all this time on it because of one asshole in a three-piece suit.
Ah well. That is my downfall: hyper-dignified, power-hungry, well-dressed arseholes with fatal flaws. (Or, in this case, pressure points.)
The Diogenes Club
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