davekatzdefensesquad

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i was so sad, i drew a little bat so i wouldn’t be sad. and now i am no longer sad.

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It’s interesting how diseases rip through schools at incredible speeds despite being in an arguably modern, clean(ish) environment. I wonder if it has something to do with the whole “you need a doctor’s note to excuse your absence of even one day” combined with the average price of going to a doctor, the lack of education on things like “you’re still contagious even after the fever goes away”, and the overwhelming message of “if you don’t struggle through it, you’re a failure!”

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Went to the penis store to see what they had. Shouldn’t have gone to the penis store.

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Just looked up poliotics. ... HUGE mistake . who did all that?

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its incredibly funny to me that the rest of the internet thinks tumblr is some sort of internet deadzone but every reference they make can be traced back to this website somehow. they dont think they’re quoting a tumblr post from 2011 but they are. they think they came up with goncharov but don’t know it started with a fucking shoe

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On writing sexual tension

⊹ standing too close. like just barely not touching. why are their shoulders breathing on each other??

⊹ conversations that sound normal but feel like foreplay. “pass the salt” has never been so loaded.

⊹ one of them says something flirty and the other freezes for 0.2 seconds like “oh.”

⊹ eyes dropping to lips and then—back up. with effort.

⊹ holding eye contact just a little too long. like... are they gonna kiss or duel??

⊹ unintentional physical contact that lasts one second too long and now they’re both broken

⊹ a hand on the small of the back. that’s it. that’s the tweet.

⊹ tension so thick that other characters start noticing like “hey are you two okay?” (they are not)

⊹ “accidental” sleepovers. “oh no there’s only one bed.” yeah. suuuure.

⊹ biting back a smile. biting back a moan. biting anything really.

⊹ one of them walks away and the other has to physically restrain themselves from watching the hips

⊹ lots of sighing. frustrated sighs. horny sighs. “i want to kiss you but I’m emotionally unavailable” sighs.

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thought too hard about MRI machines today and had this come to me in a vision

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The desk is in prison for conspiracy charges against the president after writing the Epstein files

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introduction to the uncensored picture of dorian gray edited by nicholas frankel / bbc sherlock - the abominable bride / 221b by vincent starrett / a scandal in belgravia - bbc sherlock / first page of the original manuscript for “the adventure of the three students” by arthur conan doyle / the reichenbach fall - bbc sherlock / sketch of the closing wilde trial scene in illustrated police news, 5/4/1895

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best r/shittyfoodporn post ever. this thing is like a son to me

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male entitlement in academic spaces is so boring. can’t tell you how many times i’ve been in a class and a girl gives a short, insightful analysis, and then a dude raises his hand and says “jumping off of that…” then says literally the same thing she said but longer and worse.

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SHERLOCK: UNAIRED PILOT

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flight

He steps out of the car. The sky is lightening, slate gray.

 The plane waits on the runway. He looks at it, and is struck with a wave of déjà vu, overwhelming, nauseating. Behind him, the driver has turned off the car. The engine clicks in the cold air.

John and Mary are standing together. They are looking at the plane, and neither turns at Sherlock’s approach. There is a man in a black suit with them, a CIA agent, no doubt. Sherlock is irrationally glad it is not the man he remembers from the Adler case.

 He draws closer, holding himself in check, carefully blank. His eyes sweep over the pair of them. They look tired. Unhappy.

John meets his gaze, swallows. “MI6 was waiting at my house when I got home last night,” he says. He makes a terrible attempt to smile. “Kind of thing that seems like it would be a lot more exciting than it actually was.”

 "Given your near-constant need to embellish and exaggerate on your blog, I’d have thought you were already well aware of the disconnect between fiction and reality,“ Sherlock murmurs.

 "Joking, then,” John says, his face still approximating a smile. He nods. “Good. That's—that’s good.”

 A retort dies on Sherlock’s lips. He cannot seem to maintain the fiction that all is well, cannot go on bantering with John as if this is not the end. He’s already done this. Doing it again is tantamount to torture. He looks past John, stares hard at the plane that is to take him away.

 "Sherlock,“ John says. His shoulders are hunched against the wind. "Mary and I talked last night. After.”

He does not want to hear this. There is no reason to hear this. Obviously, they’ve talked. They wouldn’t be standing here, in the cold, if they hadn’t talked. Mycroft has already told him about the deal that’s been cut, about the new identities and the new lives and the official pardons. It is all logical and sound and fine but he does not want to hear it again, and he certainly does not want to hear it from John Watson’s mouth.

 So he tunes out the words that John is saying, instead takes the time to look his fill, to memorize all of the curves and planes of his friend’s face. There are laugh lines around his eyes, deeper now than when they first met, and although he is not laughing now it is easy to remember the times they have laughed together, laughed well and loud.  He’s never laughed quite the same way with anyone else as he laughs with John Watson. Their association has left its mark on John’s skin. This pleases him.

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