Stop Him

Really cool tutorial about drawing (and how not to draw) East Asian eyes from @_ket2 on Twitter that I thought people would find useful!  I really appreciate it as an East Asian person myself, and often frustrated by some of the uniform ways we’re represented in illustrations (reposted with permission). 

John & Sherlock in a Gay Bar

Down with this Ship by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid), 10 k, mature. Sherlock takes John dancing at a gay bar … for a case, supposedly. He expects John to be embarrassed by the outing, but Sherlock has never been so wrong about something. Bi-John in full club gear is a sight to behold!

Ridiculous by professorfangirl (lizeckhart), 6 k,explicit. A bit of plot, but mostly sex. John looks ridiculous in the outfit Sherlock makes him wear undercover to the gay bar, but remains so competent, ever the coiled and waiting warrior. Hot and then sweet sex when they get home and John throws him up against the wall.  A little bit of red pants. ;) Good character study of both of them. (Locked to AO3 users.)

 Strictly Business by milverton, 14 k, explicit. Classic cute Johnlock. John and Sherlock enter into a “sex only with no strings” relationship, but of course, those pesky feelings do follow. Love it. Bonus birthday lunch with Harry and friends, and a trip to a gay bar. Yum.

Time on my hands by Mildredandbobbin, 7 k words. Sherlock decides to experiment with his sexuality, and discovers gay bars. When John finally moves back into 221b, and discovers that Sherlock is picking up men for sex, he can’t not offer to be one of them. Lovely, and lyrical, this work has the feel of an inevitable pull of fate. So beautifully told from Sherlock’s point of view. (Locked to AO3 members.)

Yours by lookupkate, explicit, 3 k. John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case. John gets hit on and Sherlock gets jealous. Gay sex ensues. Hot Toplock.

Dancing Home by May_Shepard, 6 k, explicit. John Watson loves to dance. He’s always loved it, even if he’s never said so. This is a fantastic look at John’s stealth lovelife with men, all the times he danced with someone special he could never acknowledge, crashing together in his mind as he dances with Sherlock at that gay bar on his Stag Night. Thumbs up – just incredible!

The Only Hope for Me is You by alexabarton, 11 k, explicit. It’s the last weekend before school starts and Sherlock Holmes is out on the pull. John Watson is starting a new job and a brand new life after the break down of his marriage. It’s only meant to be a one-night stand until it all turns a little bit complicated. Teenlock. John is much older than Sherlock.

The Gay Bar Scene that never was by MadSophHatter, 1 k, teen. The gay bar scene from The Sign of Three as I envisioned it. Featuring a confused Sherlock, halfnaked men, sexy dancing and John who is absolutely not jealous.

We’re Going To A Gay Bar by CommunionNimrod, 8 k explicit. Without a case, Sherlock is being driven out of his mind with boredom. He is also being driven out of his mind with his desire for his flat mate and best friend, John Watson. Since he can have neither, he needs to find another way to silence his mind and occupy himself that doesn’t end in turning back to drugs. The night takes them to a nearby gay bar.

For a Case by ckerased, 2k, teen. Sherlock convinces John to come to a gay club with him to get information for a murder case. When Sherlock begins getting a bit too friendly with one possible witness, John intervenes.

With Me By Your Side Always by janescott, 2 k, mature. John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case. Everyone starts hitting on John, but he thinks they’re just trying to get to Sherlock through him. Meanwhile, Sherlock is fuming.

Whisper Game by astudyinrose, 11 k, explicit. John is on his stag night at a gay club a few weeks before he ships out to Afghanistan…when he meets Sherlock Holmes.

Inertia Creeps by chucksauce, 3 k, explicit. John should’ve known something was up when he came home one evening to Sherlock pacing before the windows only to pivot on one heel and pin him with a stare. That didn’t mean, however, that he was prepared to show off his thespian chops by pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend in the middle of a gay bar for the sake of a case.

By the Pale Moonlight by alexxphoenix42, 5 k, explicit. Sherlock notices that once a month, John gets tarted up, slips off to parts unknown, and stays gone till the next morning with nary an explanation. Sherlock can’t resist a mystery of any stripe, but certainly not one that involves JOHN.

Denial by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, 4 k, gen. “Imagine john and sherlock going to a gay bar for a case and the bartender/manager recognizes sherlock and is all like, ‘Sherlock!! I haven’t seen you in years! How are you? Is this your boyfriend?‘” Or, what happens when denial finally gets too hard to maintain.

The continuing Adventures of Devil John

Work in Progress

After Sherlock Holmes died, he and the spirit of John Watson spent some time bumming around as ghosts. It was Sherlock's idea of course. He still loved the world and there were things that he had left to do. The freedom of going unseen and delving into mysteries that none had been able to solve filled him with glee, and John, who had been with him constantly through the latter years of his life as his body had failed him more and more, couldn't begrudge him his enthusiasm.

The only thing that gave John pause was Sherlock's chosen form. An old man's body had never seemed to fit Sherlock whose spirit was never old, but John was still surprised when he took Sherlock's hand to help him out of his body, and he pulled out the form of an eleven year old boy, curly-haired and smiling with one missing tooth, and scratches on his knees. It did seem to fit his personality, wild and mischievous. It looked so appropriate as he manipulated the air making channels of cold and heat that caused the bees to fly in complex spirals and shape forms like helices and starbursts. It also fit the ghost who liked to pull Mycroft's toupee off of his head at inappropriate times. A prank that had his spirit rolling on the floor in laughter and also left a smile on the edge of Mycroft's face who looked almost as if he knew that Sherlock was there. Then again, he probably did know about it given the fact that Sherlock had written extensive notes in his lifetime about his haunting by the demon spirit of John Watson. Mycroft would have inherited the notes, and his mind was never one to be limited by what everyone else 'knew' was true. Sherlock's form was wholly appropriate to his person, but John had hoped for more, and in this form John couldn't get himself to do more than give him a hug and a peck on the forehead from time to time.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5116694/chapters/11771549#main

Academic Elitism: an institutional issue

Sorry for being so rant-y lately, but the elitism of university has been a problem for me from the exact moment I accepted my scholarship with a signature and a handshake in high school. (The scholarship was later revoked due to state up-fuckery, but that’s another story, and I was already in too deep by the time they told me).

My parent’s house was only an hour north, my younger sister had already claimed my room, but I was excited. I was in the furthest dorm building, because that’s where the scholarship kids went, it was like a poor kid diversity hall, every few doors was someone from a completely different background, but we were all poor except our Swedish RA, and there was an odd pride in that. We all had various scholarships: robotics, dance team, nerds like me, etc. (not the football or hockey athletes though, they had their own dorm next to the library for… reasons, lol).

But being the last hall, it wasn’t actually full, most of us had entire rooms to ourselves, often whole suites; our hall was co-ed, but rooms were only occupied at every-other, staggered down the corridor. Only the front two halls were used, the back two closed off for construction or codes or something. We had to hike up the hill for dining halls, which was fine until snowdays that shut the whole campus down (and I mean west Michigan ones, with 4+ feet of powder and ice underneath). I had an old computer my dad got me for graduation and I didn’t know it was old until my peers started calling it a dinosaur. I had to use the library computers to write and print papers, and most places I went, I ran into the other scholarship kids. We didn’t talk much, just a head bob here and there, awareness at our similarities and an annoyed spite at being thrown together this way. It was lonely for everyone.

I had a purple flip phone I’d gotten only that calendar year (2009) and was still learning to text with (abbreviations? instant messaging? what?). My roommate had come down from Alaska to live near her dad, we’d talked in the summer, but I never saw her. I moved my things in and her stuff was on her side, I texted her about going to turn in paperwork and when I came back, there was a note on my bed and all her things were gone, she couldn’t do it, had never been away from home for even a night. She left a few mismatched socks and a bag of junk pens that I resented for years. 

Social media was mostly a way to talk to people across campus and exchange homework and party times/locations. We posted over-edited photos of our food and still jogged with our mp3 players and ipods. But within two years, I had to trade in my computer three times and upgrade to a smartphone to keep up with the expectations of communication. Professors would cancel classes by emails an hour out, and if I was on campus, I simply didn’t get the message, running between classes with 19 credit hours and three jobs. Work would call in or cancel my appointments (tutoring) and I needed to be able to communicate at the rate of my peers, so though it wasn’t something we could easily afford, my parents let me get the smartphone and my dad helped me find computers that could keep up with writing papers and researching without having to go to the lab, which saved so much time. 

There was little understanding for my suffering. I didn’t have a car, I had to call my parents and organize a time to get home or take the train which was more expensive than waiting around on an empty campus. They were often things that even the wealthiest students had to deal with, but there were so much more of them for us, more stress, more problems, more solutions, more consequences, and in some ways, more determination.

I spent plenty of breaks holed up in my room, but when the swine flu/H1N1 outbreak happened, guess where they quarantined students?

In our hall. 

Not the back one that was closed. In the room attached to my suite. 

After half a semester alone, suddenly strangers shared my bathroom. I never saw them, I would just hear the formidable click of the bathroom lock followed by the shower. A week later I got a blue half-sheet note in my mailbox about quarantines. The other kids were as pissed off, as we watched kids escorted in with blue masks and were told to just get cleaning wipes from the front desk –they ran out in a week. 

We were the recyclable students, brought in to trade scholarships for university grade averages. Many of my friends were struggling with scholarship qualifications and gpas (which only encouraged my continual obsessive perfectionism and involvement). 

We were expendable. 

I didn’t understand the elitism then, or I did, but I’d twisted it in my head from years tossed between private and public schools. I was an invader, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I wanted to be. I understood that I didn’t deserve it, that I had to work harder to stay. I completed Master’s coursework for my Bachelor’s degree, finishing two BA programs (anthropology and English: creative writing) and 2 minor programs in philosophy and world lit, lead several campus groups and volunteered with honor’s societies. I spent hours on campus every day, running home just to go to one job or the other. I slept about four hours a night and I still romanticize it because I loved it. And I was good at it. It was a closed system, easy to infiltrate, easy to watch and observe and follow, to feel protected from the world, but there were always ways that I came up short. 

I didn’t have leggings or Northface fleeces or Ugg boots or name brand anything (except a pair of converse I got in 8th grade from my Babcia). I had old high school sweats and soccer shirts, hand-me-down clothes from sisters and cousins that mix-matched a style I thought was unique but I now understand screamed I don’t really belong here. Example: I went to propose an independent study to a professor I really admired and I panicked about what to wear. I still cringe at the memory, gahhhhhh, but I pulled on what I thought was a decent dress because it had no rips or stains or tears and though I’d picked it up from a clearance rack, it was the newest thing and therefore the best. But in retrospect, it was definitely a “party” dress, I grabbed a sweater, hoop earrings that had always been beautiful in my neighborhood, and heels I never wore otherwise, and presented my idea. This old professor was just like “um…did you dress up for me?” Clearly spooked by red flags and I realized my mistake. Saved by quick thinking I clarified “no, I have a presentation later,” and being a familiar face in the social sciences department, I let him assume I was dressed up as something. I just went in my sweats and t-shirts after that, got a haircut that tamed the wavy frizz and learned the importance of muted tones, cardigans, and flats.

I made a lot of interesting friends in the process, people who also stuck out from the American Academic culture: exchange students, older (non-traditional) students, rebels, and other poor kids. But that also meant that we all evolved during our time there, so friendship was quick and fleeting as we adapted or dropped out or remained oblivious, lost in our studies and dreams of changing the world or our lives. 

I had no idea how to approach the dining halls because I could only afford the bronze plan that was included with my room+board scholarship. I could enter the hall ten times per week, with four included passes to the after-hours carry-out (this was an upgrade from the free high school lunch I was coming from). I met other kids on this plan and their dorm rooms had fridges and microwaves and shelves of ramen and mac’n’cheese. Mine was sparse, my fridge had jugs of water from the filtered tap in the common room, and though it had a shared kitchenette, it always smelled bad or was being used and the nearest grocery store was Meijers which was a 15-20 minute drive from campus. I used so much energy dividing up my meals and figuring out how to sneak food from the hall for later or just learn to not eat, which is another story involving malnutrition, broken bones, and the American Healthcare System.

We like to summarize the college experience with fond struggles. I went back to my old high school to watch my younger sisters’ marching band competition that first year (it’s MI, and they were good). My old art teacher (not much older than we were but she felt so much older at the time, also her maiden name was Erickson and so was her fiance’s so she didn’t “change” her name and that blows my mind to this day), anyway, she stopped me to ask how school was going, and I was not prepared to be recognized in anyway and stammered out something like “oh, yeah, stressful. Fun, cool, yeah,” like the eloquent well-educated student I was. And she said, “oh, I loved it, don’t you love it? Everything’s so charming, and being poor? Oh man, it’s hard for a while, but it’s so good to go through.” 

I was dumbfounded at her reference to poverty as a thing to go through when you’re a student. I again had to remember that I was infiltrating places where people weren’t just marginally more well-off than I was, but far beyond, in a place where they couldn’t comprehend an alternative, couldn’t conceive of surviving poverty, of not having a reliable place to fall if you mess up, parents who couldn’t support you if things went wrong, who couldn’t save you from having to drop out if scholarships were canceled because the money just wasn’t there.

Talking with my parents never worked, and I recently found this video by The Financial Diet about Boomer shame in being poor, where many Millennials were united by it and it was #relatable. But all this is to say that there are so many layers and ways we develop in higher education that are often overlooked by the romantic nostalgia of the elite expectation. What we demand from education vs. what it offers us in return is rarely equal for students coming from poverty, and it starts with that first sacrifice of looking at money and deciding it has to be worth it to do something bigger, and that education is a necessary piece of that goal.

Now I live near Brown University, I’ve been to Harvard when we lived in Boston and recently took a trip to Yale with bold expectations. I am friends with several people who work at these places and I hear the same things: so many students are in a place where their obsessions are considered more important than the larger world, an argument that Shakespeare is a woman is more important to prove than the greater issues of sexism in society as a whole, while others are trained to look at data and the world as a pocketable fact-book, going to conferences and  week-long summits and then off to D.C. to make important decisions about places they’ve never been to, for people they’ve never met, about problems they’ve never experienced.  

It’s not new. It’s not romantic. It’s not nostalgic. It’s just sick. 

I was horrified at New Haven. I have read so many social science reports and papers and experiments and academic bullshit that has come from professors at Yale with a big badge of ivy-league validation. So much of this research was focused on homelessness and culture clash and socio-economics in America, as that was my “dissertation” that got me discounted master’s classes for my BA in Anthropology. Anyway, my point was that I thought this noble, proud university that put out so much research was going to be situated in something of a utopia, where their research is put into practice. Obviously, I was wrong, but I didn’t expect how wrong. (I had also started reading Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House, so… there’s another thing).

My observations were validated by employees of ivy-league schools, who have watched over the past 2 decades as they grow more and more reclusive, hiding away from the public except through a few, probably well-intentioned, outstretched hands that do little to contribute to the world outside the university itself. These ivory towers are built by poaching: environments, observations, resources, research, and yeah, even students.

I love academia. I will sit in a library for hours just pulling down tomes (and putting them back in their proper locations like a dork) and drawing connections just for fun. But right now, I’m a bit bitter and spiteful and angry. 

When something like Coronavirus sneaks up on us, we have a tendency to throw the most expendable people under the bus as quickly as we can, and all I can think about is my shadow of a suite-mate sneezing and coughing with swine flu for two weeks, at how I refused to use my own bathroom and listened to my hall-mates’ advice about showering at the rec center a mile away as we all collectively locked our bathroom doors and were left there by the university to get sick without insurance to help with any foreseeable costs.

It’s not the same now, they’ve rebuilt the entire section of the campus, it’s odd to see it, I wonder where they put the expendable kids. Or maybe they don’t accept them anymore. I’ve worked in college admissions since then, and it is a scary industry of politics and preference and hidden quotas and image-agendas. Not all schools are industry monsters, but when you’re expendable, they sure do feel like it, whether you graduate summa cum laude with two degrees, six awards, and five tasseled ropes around your neck or not. 

I wish I had a positive message. I wish I was in a place to help people who feel expendable or like they can’t keep up with communications because of technology or language or network or environment. But I don’t have much right now. For all its posturing and linear progression, academia needs to create profit. All I can do is yell about this existing.

If you are feeling expandable in university, I can tell you you’re not alone. I can let you rant about all the small ways your peers don’t get it, whether its an accent they shit on or ceremonies you don’t have the right clothes for or textbooks you share with a friend to cut costs but then they hoard them. I can relate to you about guilt and that sneaking panic that fills you with anxiety at night as you question yourself and wonder if it’s worth it at all, if it’s necessary, if it’s okay to be expendable to follow something that feels bigger. I can validate your doubt and tell you that you’re not actually expendable, you’re a bridge. 

I’m sorry it still works like this. I wish we figured out how to change it by now, I wish I had secret shortcuts to tell you about, that there was more accountability or hope, but I’m not seeing it lately. I hope you do. <3

At first I thought this was a photofake! Prayers for those affected. 

Mount Taal in the Philippines, suddenly erupting this afternoon, Jan 12th 2020.

It is now in the Alert 4 with possible hazardous eruptions within days. Several neighboring provinces are experiencing red haze and ashfall. Its last eruption is 1977.

With what's going on in the world, please pray for the Philippines too.

(I don't own the photos, credits to the owners)

📷 | Arden Pimentel Photography, De Qui

Story: Devil John

Fandom: Sherlock

WARNING! - Not even a little PC

Excerpt:

Breathing in he smells familiar scents: The elegant dust which settles on the bookshelves and drapes. The odd chemical tang of one of Sherlock's forgotten experiments. The chalky taste of bone. The traitorous smell of cigarette smoke.

He catches his image in the mirror. His face is dark, shadowed, threatening. His black eyes shine like moonlight on an obsidian knife. He doesn't look human.

Black Dragon's Blood burns when it goes down, but it settles in John's bones as a warm heat that glows like anger. He feels dangerous.

He frowns, and the darkness grows deeper. John realizes then that he is controlling it. It must be one of the effects of being a supernatural creature. He is a demon, after all. Things should be different, like breathing. He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He breathes in anyway just for the silky feel of it.

When he crosses his arms, darkness closes around him like smoke, with only his eyes shining through. His very thoughts have the power to manipulate matter. He wants to investigate it. Discover all of the things that he can do, but suddenly, he realizes that he is not alone.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair. He was so still and so quiet that John didn't notice him at first. John wonders if he has seen him, but Sherlock never turns around. Has Sherlock fallen asleep? No, his eyes are open, and his hair has been freshly groomed. What is he waiting for?

He's wearing the white shirt that he wore the day he met John and Mary in the restaurant. The shirts that he buys for himself are tight, the buttons almost popping across his chest, the nipples peeking through. Mycroft bought this shirt. It looks modest in comparison. John floats closer.

Sherlock seems to wake then. He sits straighter in his chair before rolling up his sleeve. It is only when Sherlock reaches over to pick up a bit of rubber tubing that John notices, on the table beside him, a syringe. The empty bottle next to it reads. DIAMORPHINE HYDROCHLORIDE. John growls.

Continued on AO3

Watch: Jesse Williams is done with these excuses

Devil John 9 - Killer

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

“I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of the frustration. I'm tired of being alone and returning to this ******* place. I want Sherlock here, now. Tell me how to do it.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Do you think that there is any other reason that I would call you after the last time?”

Moriarty frowned. “Johnny, you're asking for my help. Would it hurt to be just a little civil.”

“I haven't broken your neck yet. I think I'm doing pretty well. So tell me, do you know a way to make this happen, or is calling you just a waste of my time?”

“Oh I know. Believe me Johnny, I know how to get him here.”

“How?”

“It's simple, love. Sherlock has to die.”

“Time is passing faster above, but...not that fast. It will still be a long time before he dies a natural death.”

“Then, Johnny my dear, you need to help it along. You need to kill him.”

“Kill Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. If you want him. He's already promised you his soul. You only need to kill his body in order to claim it.”

“But...kill him? I don't know. Perhaps I should wait...”

“You said you didn't want to wait. Besides, the more time that you give him, the more chance he'll have to find a loophole to get out of his bargain. You can't. Trust. Mortals. Clever things, they're always plotting. Give them a couple years and they will find a way trick themselves out of a bargain. Sherlock is yours to take, to own, to use as you will. Why wait when you can have him now?”

On AO3

Some goofs are kind of artistic... | Lunatics! Project on Patreon

Official Post from Lunatics! Project: It would seem Georgiana is on the wrong layer in this file (she's on the "Freestyle Proxy" layer). But it's kind of a cool effect. Might have to use it for something in the future. Also don't mind the invisible billboards!

Georgiana is a ghost, visiting from the Freestyle plane, where she was not supposed to be!