#so i wrote something

[allamaiqbaloo]

summary:

Jiang Wanyin finds that he wants to laugh—a dry, mirthless laugh, but a laugh all the same—at the shared ordeal of he and Lan Wangji: two single, what still feels to be barely adult men, left to raise boys not their own, and as with most of his life’s misfortunes, his brother, not to his astonishment, is to blame.

Or: Jiang Wanyin mourns and gains a family somewhere along the way.

rating: t

words: 12.000

[maeamian]

If you saw me agreeing with being annoyed about wasted helium in a fictional context and were like "I bet she has some more helium based anger in her life" good news LAPD fucked up a raid on a medical facility they thought was a pot farm and flat out ruined thousands of gallons of the stuff.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[littlelightfish]

This... this is a whole different kind of psychic damage here. When nightmares got Marcille, we get to knew that her's biggest fear is outliving her friends. This isn't even canon probably, but look at this. This isn't a "I don't want my friends to die" kind of dream. This is a "I'm terrified of loosing my daughters, of something killing them, and being incapable of stopping it" kind of dream. It's so simple yet it explains perfectly the whole of chilchucks character. He loves, he cares, deeply. But he, or doesn't acknowledges, or doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

Besides that. Someone had to wake him up after this. Imagine the devastation in this man after he wakes up. He just saw his three little babys murdered corpses (or maybe he saw them die, wich isn't better). He would possibly not talk about it, and that would worry the hell out of the party, because we'll, they see him all down and only one of them knows what he saw. Imagine being the one to pull him from that nightmare. Seeing this man, usually so composed, fuking staring with tears and terror in his eyes to the composes of what you can only assume are his daughters. It would be heartwrenching.

Idk, I love this man so much...

[iid-smile]

you've always been interested in how nanami was part danish. it was only a small percentage, but the genes were obviously strong, still standing two generations later. he wouldn't consider himself bilingual in the language, especially since he only knows a few words here and there. he can say hello, he can introduce himself, but that's about it. or that's what he lets on anyways.

his secret comes to light when you snuck up on him while he was moving furniture around the house.

you don't doubt his strength, and he's not all that clumsy to get hurt, but accidents can always happen. just a little bit of skin managed to get caught underneath a surface. you were close to approaching him, but at that moment, he had a small slip of the tongue.

"kraftedeme..." he mumbles under his breath. if there's one thing you know, what he said definitely wasn't anything nice.

you're not all that heartless to not check up on him before you investigate, looking at him with the most innocent expression you can pull off. "so... what does that mean?" this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. you've never heard him verbally swear, but for him to do it in a different language was even better.

usually, nanami knows when something's up, or when you're planning on teasing him, but this time he doesn't even know he's said anything out of the ordinary. "what does what mean?" he questions.

"cra- crafdeme... kraftdem..." you only had a barely audible sample to go off on, but it's already clear enough what you're trying to pronounce.

"don't say that, love." conflict runs over his features, clearly concerned over you picking up on his use of foul language. he's been way too confident in your lack of understanding. "you weren't supposed to hear that."

him avoiding your gaze was something he never did, unless it was under one condition. he's flustered. "why?" you try your best to stay within his line of sight, holding onto his hands so he can't escape or walk off anywhere. "just tell me what it means!"

he won't be able to leave until he tells you, and that's not going to happen for a long while. what a mess he's gotten himself into.

[emmyrosee]

Could you maybe do smth like cuddling with sukuna

👉👈

Backs facing each other, you gently nudge his legs with your foot, smiling as you’re able to wiggle it between his calves. He traps your foot between his legs, and you giggle when you try to pull it back.

“I’m on insta, fuck off,” he grumbles, but you hear the annoyed smile in his voice.

“I wanna snuggle,” you mewl.

“Yeah, and I want to see how this dude makes this garlic bread.”

You slip your own phone off the nightstand and open your message app, clicking his name and quickly typing.

SENT I want attention, boyfriend 🫶🏻

You hear him snort and blunt nails briefly scratch down the sole of your trapped foot, making you try to tug it back and squeal in surprise. “You want attention?” He begins, letting go of your foot so he’s able to turn on his side and spoon you from behind, body contorting to be straight curled behind you. “Well let me tell you something- I always give you my damn attention. You just can’t live without it.”

You practically purr as he loops his arms around you, tugging you closer and letting his warm hands slip under your hoodie, warm touch on your tummy relaxing you. “You’re right,” you hum. “I just want you all to myself all the time. Not my fault you give in.” He hikes up his voice to offer you a mocking “mi meh mi meh mi”’s. You call him a brat in reply.

“If you won’t let me scroll on my instagram, scroll on yours so I can watch,” he demands.

“I can’t, I follow naked anime men.”

“Im sure you’re joking, but so help me god if you go on Instagram and there’s a naked anime man, I’m blowing up your phone.” You offer him a laugh and slip out your phone to scroll, relishing in the little kiss he plants to your jawline, then adjusting his head to be able to watch your timeline with you.

You can’t help but grin as you feel one of his feet prod to try and get between your legs, mimicking how yours was just moments ago.

[sun-turner]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín/Zhúzhī-láng, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín & Zhúzhī-láng Characters: Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Zhúzhī-láng, Wēn Qíng (Módào Zǔshī), Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn Additional Tags: Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín-centric, wen ning is a goth icon you cannot change my mind, featuring suibian as one of zhuzhi-lang's snakes, also featuring:, The Nightmare Before Christmas - Freeform, mouse bones, wen ning's bellybutton piercing, Gratuitous Blushing, and a lovely walk in the park, also they're roommates, (obligatory oh my god they were roommates), Coldhands - Freeform, let's make that a tag Summary:

"Is that candy?" His roommate's eyes were suddenly fixed on the orange mixing bowl sitting atop the fridge.

"Yeah, I bought some just in case. We don't usually get trick-or-treaters, though. Want some?"

Zhuzhi slowly turned his head back to face Wen Ning. His dark eyes were glittering with interest, brows drawn together somewhat nervously, like a shy child. He nodded.

Wen Ning smiled and pushed his laptop away, getting up to retrieve it for him. Not expecting anyone else to be home tonight, he'd put it out of reach of the mice, which was also out of reach of anyone else in the house. Zhuzhi took two candy bars, one to unwrap and one in his pocket for later, and murmured his thanks.

Sensing he was about to leave again, the words came out of Wen Ning's mouth before he had time to consider how they'd be received. "Wh-why don't you come sit on the couch? We could, um. E-eat more. Candy. Ha. I have movies?"

-

Wen Ning has no plans for Halloween. Neither does Zhuzhi, his reserved and quiet roommate. Might as well not have plans together, right?

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[allamaiqbaloo]

summary:

Jiang Wanyin finds that he wants to laugh—a dry, mirthless laugh, but a laugh all the same—at the shared ordeal of he and Lan Wangji: two single, what still feels to be barely adult men, left to raise boys not their own, and as with most of his life’s misfortunes, his brother, not to his astonishment, is to blame.

Or: Jiang Wanyin mourns and gains a family somewhere along the way.

rating: t

words: 12.000

[lonesome-dreamsss]

his handprint may be burned into your skin but it's still the gentlest touch you've ever received.

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."

[technically-human]

To relive a death

@williamvapespeare commissioned me to draw anything with the boys being gentle to each other and Edwin comforting Charles in general, so we went with this!

The idea of a character who is dead having to go through it once a year is very dear and near to my heart (how many dead blorbos do you have, I hear you ask. Too many) but at least these two have each other

[sexy-sapphic-sorcerer]

Holmes and Watson / Tristan and Isolde

BBC Radio 4's Sherlock Holmes, The Devil's Foot (radio drama transcript) /// Granada's The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Red Circle /// Metafictional Monday: Tristan und Isolde, @teaformrholmes /// Brayton Polka, LIEBESTOD: On Love and Death in Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde", p. 246 /// The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, Vincent Starrett /// BBC Radio 4's Sherlock Holmes, The Devil's Foot (radio drama transcript)

[poorlydrawninstarsandtime]

the humble conkroch

[id in alt]

[gayafsowhat]

Eepy hours