#john* ... WHATEVER

[keplerspacecraftofficial]

electing to believe this is what griddlehark looks like to everyone else

[itsdefinitely]

i've noticed a pattern

[yooo-lets-go]

Ghostshipping

[paper-lilypie]

so Oswald’s dad totally isn’t the FNAF 4 Freddy mask bully right. right?

[mizushibart]

suits.

[wombywoo]

retired 🩶

[inkiedraws]

I got so distracted with drawing the pose i forgot how couches work.

[felsicveins]

It's not NOT confirmed (?)

Bonus:

[words-writ-in-starlight]

listen I expected literally Nothing from the D&D movie okay, like I can't make it clear enough that I expected the most soulless money grab with a good cgi budget imaginable, I went in having already gone through every stage of grief and landed on acceptance and LISTEN

I fucking CRIED during this dumb RPG movie. it wasn't just "not terrible" it was objectively good with a clever plot and compelling characters and sincere emotional beats. this movie loves D&D so fucking much and it NAILS the "a bunch of goobers try to be cool and accidentally discover The Power Of Friendship And Also Great Violence" classic D&D party vibe. their barbarian's last name is fucking Kilgore and my entire family cried in the theater.

I hope they make twelve of these motherfuckers.

[contact-guy]

Part 7, the final comic in my SIGN OF THE FOUR chapter. (Part one), (part two), (part three), (part four), (part five), (part six).

The context for this conversation is: Holmes has had no work from Scotland Yard due to rumors about his and Watson's relationship. He responded to this with excessive cocaine use and then working himself unhealthy on the one case that came along; Mary Morstan's. Meanwhile, Watson befriended Mary, who is also gay, and realized that a lavender marriage with her could make him and Holmes safe, as well as granting her more freedom. Watson has not yet told Holmes of his decision.

(This is part of the Watsons sketchbook series!)

canon scene under the cut, which is achingly poignant in its own right:

“Well, and there is the end of our little drama,” I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. “I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.”

He gave a most dismal groan. “I feared as much,” said he. “I really cannot congratulate you.”

I was a little hurt. “Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?” I asked.

“Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.”

“I trust,” said I, laughing, “that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary.”

“Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week.”

“Strange,” said I, “how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour.”

“Yes,” he answered, “there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe,—

Schade dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf, Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

“By the way, à propos of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul.”

“The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

[potato-lord-but-not]

ARTHUR LESTER AND HIS THREE BOYFRIENDS DOODLES 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ okeay weell… half of them are just John and Oscar but w h a t ever

[babsi-and-stella]

Marsha Hunt photographed by John Vaughan, 1968.

[tojisun]

price patting his lap with a soft smile and quietly rumbling, “c’mere love. won’t you give me a kiss?”

or him doing that thing where he adjusts himself on the couch so he tugs you closer to him—chest to chest—so you don’t fall.

or how he maps his hands along your back, digging just enough to give gentle massages, while you nuzzle your face on the column of his neck.

or just how you feel him talking so it’s lulling you to sleep and john notices so he talks quieter, softer, until he’s got you dozing off and just before you fully slip into your slumber, you feel his lips brush against your temple.

[deadpoets]

DEAD POETS SOCIETY (1989) dir. Peter Weir

[marttapav]

brainrot 🤤🤤

[idontwikeit]

No, no, no… you've got it all wrong… you can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen - it's not gasps and blood and falling about - that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all - now you see him, now you don't that's the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back - an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death.

-Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead

for @annevbonny