Drawing an angel face makes you lose your mind (Angel Castiel) ..Colored Pencils Giotto

Misha on the relationship between Cas and Dean

these are colorblind glasses. im about to take a walk around the neighborhood and experience colors like normal people. wish me luck, updates to come.

the trees. holy shit the trees. theyre different colors. like, a million different colors

grass….. it looks so soft… so green…

after laying in the grass for about an hour staring at the autumn leaves and laughing at how blue the sky is, i have some insight to share:

why the fuck do you people buy red cars like i had no idea how bright and obnoxious they looked

there are BERRIES on the trees. like bright red. id never noticed them because they blended in. a new problem has arisen now: how the fuck do you people keep yourselves from trying to eat them they’re so tempting looking

the fallen leaves are so beautiful and colorful and you all are heathens for stepping on them just to hear the crunchy sound they make

rainbows. let me tell you about rainbows. i see rainbows as various shades of brown and yellow, plus some blue. vaguely purple.

a few days ago, i saw a rainbow in these glasses. it had just finished raining and then the sun came out, and my friend and i scrambled out the door.

i saw green. red. orange. real, actual violet.

i cried. i cried so hard. i saw every color - something i never thought would happen in my life. imagine living your life without knowing something so beautiful exists, and all of a sudden it appears before your eyes. theres no way to prepare for it. the rainbow only lasted for five minutes before it disappeared, but every with second i stood there i became more amazed at how beautiful this world actually is, i just had no idea.

This is so pure

Kids Who Die

by Langston Hughes

This is for the kids who die, Black and white, For kids will die certainly. The old and rich will live on awhile, As always, Eating blood and gold, Letting kids die.

Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi Organizing sharecroppers Kids will die in the streets of Chicago Organizing workers Kids will die in the orange groves of California Telling others to get together Whites and Filipinos, Negroes and Mexicans, All kinds of kids will die Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment And a lousy peace.

Of course, the wise and the learned Who pen editorials in the papers, And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names White and black, Who make surveys and write books Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die, And the sleazy courts, And the bribe-reaching police, And the blood-loving generals, And the money-loving preachers Will all raise their hands against the kids who die, Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets To frighten the people — For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people — And the old and rich don’t want the people To taste the iron of the kids who die, Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power, To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together

Listen, kids who die — Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you Except in our hearts Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field, Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht But the day will come — You are sure yourselves that it is coming — When the marching feet of the masses Will raise for you a living monument of love, And joy, and laughter, And black hands and white hands clasped as one, And a song that reaches the sky — The song of the life triumphant Through the kids who die.

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome man. they write novel length fics that are sometimes even better than some published bestselling books written by professional writers. like fanfic writers are professional writers to me and they gift us their masterpieces for free. they give us something we can look forward to after a long day. something from which we can seek comfort when life is hard. something that can be our own little getaway. in a world of capitalism, despite everything, they give us all of these for free. like holy fuck. shout out to every fanfic writer. I wish all fanfic writers a very ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. I thank you from the bottom of my heart’

Because someone is on the ball, Turner Classic is playing (among other WWII films) The Great Dictator today.

If you haven't seen it, please do. It was produced by Charlie Chaplin in the late 1930s, when it became clear that the war was going to happen, and came out in 1940 after it had started. Essentially, Chaplin realized that his famous mustache was about to be usurped forever by a fascist, and that fascist was going to kill a lot more people in the future than he had already.

It's a parody, made before the worst horrors of the Nazi regime were known to the general public, so there is discomfort here (if you've seen Disney's Der Fuhrer's Face, you'll get the idea), but the movie ends with Chaplin essentially saying "fuck it, no one else seems to be speaking out about this and I'm going to use my platform to do that."

For context, this character is a Jew who has been mistaken for the dictator (for obvious mustache-related reasons), and has been sent onstage at a rally to give a speech. Instead of trying to impersonate Hitler, he says what he really thinks. And keep in mind, Chaplin was coming out of semi-retirement for this. It was the first time most people had ever heard him speak, and this is what he said:

The lovely @khorazir generously bid on me for FTH 2024 and gave me an amazing prompt that immediately excited me: combine Martin's characters Chris from The Responder and John from Sherlock and let them meet each other. The 1st ideas came quickly, but in the end it wasn't until September (!) until I finally knew what exactly I wanted to do.

What if John never properly disposed of the gun he shot the cabbie with?

(template)

Thanks to @meandhisjohn for her encouragement when I was doubting myself and was stuck. This is probably the most complex thing I have ever done. 🙈

spn fic: tall grass (57k, post-series, dean/cas)

“I think we should have a garden,” Cas says.

Dean looks up from his beer. He hasn’t had that much to drink, but Cas still has a vague look of unreality about him, a splash of living color that doesn’t fit in the bunker’s echoing stillness. Dean didn’t hear him coming. A lot of the time, Cas is so unobtrusive it feels like Dean has the bunker to himself, with Sam away.

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “A — garden?” he repeats.

Cas raises his chin a fraction, that look that communicates his intent to be completely unreasonable and absolutely refuse to acknowledge it. “Yes,” he says. “A garden.”

“Why?” says Dean, at a loss. And then, as it occurs to him: “Where?”

“I like gardens,” Cas says. “Here. Outside.”

“You like gardens.” Sweet Jesus. “Cas, remember that whole thing where we live in a secret bunker? You think having a tidy row of — begonias by our front step won’t tip people off?”

“I never said it would be tidy,” Cas objects. “Or anything about begonias.”

Keep reading on AO3.

Well, I'm late to the party, but better late than never. Slow burn, indeed. Go read this, if you haven't before. Right now. Go.

I WILL TRY (TO FIX YOU)

'Tears stream down your face … When you lose something you cannot replace …' - Coldplay (Fix You)

John's hands were shaking as he turned the screws.

His eyes were blurry. He wiped the tears away in frustration. He needed to focus. Push down this feeling. This despair.

His hands were furiously working to put the pieces back together.

To put all the pieces in their right place …

Did he even have all the pieces?

He couldn't say for sure …

He had collected everything he could pick up and find from the pavement outside of Bart's. Searching diligently before the crowd had even begun to form. His heart had shattered as he watched Sherlock dive from the roof. A moment where it seemed like he might float and then, John closed his eyes.

He had raced to the spot. Fighting with the adrenaline surging through his veins to push everyone back, to collect everything shattered. Hoping that nothing would get kicked away, or swiped for spare parts by a petty harvester. Panic. Primal. Fear … Praying to all of the gods that he hadn't missed a screw! Or lost everything to a shattered hard drive … he couldn't even think about that yet! One of the homeless network had handed him a piece. And then another.

By the time he had made it home to 221b he was a wreck. Two more had shown up to bear him what they swore was the last part of the puzzle!

If only it was all here …

If only it was all still workable … ?

When pieced lovingly back into its right orientation …

But the thing he was dreading most … was the possibility that Moriarty had done something to wipe out the circuitry? A complete Electromagnetic Pulse to clear the system of its magnificent programming and memory … just before Sherlock had … ?

John swallowed.

He couldn’t think about that possibility. He had to hope!

His mind’s eye pictured the way Sherlock had fallen … ? Jumped? Jumped. Yes, he had jumped. It had not been a blast that knocked him off the roof. It had not been a terrified running away from the inevitable … no. He would still be in there …

If it worked …

The form before him was slowly taking shape. Beginning to look once again … like the beautiful genius he had come to know and love … over the past two years spent together.

John was a modified human as well. Many clockwork parts had been used to repair his destroyed shoulder. And his gammy leg. But Sherlock …

Sherlock had uploaded the whole of himself into an artificial body two years ago …

His mind yet young … even when his body - a remnant of ages past - had failed him. So he had built a new form … and kept himself alive inside of it.

And that was how John had met him.

In a lab.

At St. Bart’s.

The day of the upload.

(continued under the cut)

Posted on Ao3 - I Will Try (To Fix You) by helloliriels

To the people in the OTW Tumblr Inbox asking about how the OTW is responding to the American Election.

This is a separate post (and not a response to a specific message) because we all need to see it.

Folks have been asking Support (through the form) as well as the other social media mods, and we have now been given the following to tell you.

<3 Mod Remi

Addendum - to the folks in the notes/askbox worried about server things

Keep building community. Download fics you don't want to lose (which is always a good idea, regardless of the current regime).

Do what you can with what you have.

<3 Mod Remi

When We Were Young by Calais Reno

Chapter One: The Hero of Reichenbach

John and Sherlock met at school, and were a bit more than friends. But they didn't stay in touch afterwards. Life goes on, and when John returns from Afghanistan, he takes a position at Barts as a trauma specialist, working in the Emergency Department. As he reports for work one day, a man jumps off the roof of the hospital. John's world tilts on its axis.

Tagging people who seemed interested - please let me know if you'd like to be notified when a new chapter posts - or if you'd rather be surprised. 😉

Thank you for reading and reblogging!

@fossakit @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear

@daltongraham @ghostofnuggetspast @binx72

It's 3 pm on a sunday. I could be

And instead I'm embedded. In my bed.

I have done nothing to warrant getting unwillingly tackled by an unoptional two hour nap. This is not fair.

It's like when you ignore Windows update too long and it forces an update.

All I've done for weeks is chilling and having hobbies.

A match made in heaven, thanks to the generosity of @totallysilvergirl and all of the other amazing writers and artists (like @khorazir @chained-to-the-mirror and @bluebellofbakerstreet, featured above) who contributed to this project.

When the Rose Speaks is stuffed full of fantastic stories, poems, art, story-poems, and it's a treat to retreat to my reading nook with every evening.

Thanks to all the Sherlockians--editors, contributors, purchasers, readers, promoters, cheerleaders, and anyone I've missed--for this absolutely lovely project!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Additional Tags: Boys In Love, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ducks Summary:

A little something to chase away the cobwebs.

An inexplicable little spat and a loving, accepting reconciliation.

Apply this 525-word fluff to your injured heart to accelerate healing.

Keep reading

Sherlock fandom.

I was determined to write the fluffiest flash fiction ever after the devastating events of late, but my muse decided that you'll need tissues instead. Apologies, but I think it'll have a cathartic effect.

Let Me Comfort You

John’s ascending steps speak volumes to Sherlock. They are heavier than normal. Something must have happened at work. His watch tells him that John is ninety-five minutes early. He never leaves before his shift is over, unless Sherlock texts or shows up with a case.

The moment John appears in the doorway, Sherlock knows. A patient has died, and not an old one. Melissa, six years old, leukaemia. They had hoped she would make it through the year. 

One last Christmas.

He’s in front of John before he collapses in Sherlock’s arms. John sobs like his heart is breaking, and Sherlock guesses that it literally is. The girl had been so brave, according to John. He had encountered her when her parents took her to A&E before they knew about her condition. A broken wrist and a cut over her eyebrow, which John mended easily. 

Melissa had asked for him when she came back for her treatment. John represented safety, and he was allowed to visit her by the haematologist-oncologist.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock murmurs and kisses his temple. “It went faster than expected?”

“Yeah,” John says, his voice is rough. “Infection.”

Sherlock tightens his grip and strokes John’s back. 

“What can I do?” he asks, hoping there is something that can ease John’s despair.

“You’re doing it, Sherlock,” John replies and buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

It’s a bit uncomfortable, since John’s face is damp with flowing tears, but Sherlock couldn’t care less. He’s determined to endure whatever John needs him to. His throat thickens and he has to clench his jaw to keep from crying too. He needs to be strong, just as John has been for Sherlock so many times. It is his turn now. 

“Bath?” he suggests.

“Christ, that would be wonderful,” John sighs.

Relieved, Sherlock steers John to sit in his chair, while he sorts out the bath.

Sherlock fills the tub, adds vetiver-scented soap, and finds four jar candles. He places two of them at the far end of the tub and the other two on the sink. The flames flicker a bit when he whirls around to gather soft towels, their pyjamas bottoms, t-shirts, and clean pants. Before he returns to the sitting room, he turns off the light, so that the candles are the only light source in the bathroom.

John is resting his head on the back of his chair, his eyes closed, but he isn’t sleeping. Sherlock strokes his hair and beckons him to come with him. John walks like a zombie, and even lets Sherlock undress him. Sherlock’s heart clenches. John’s clearly out of sorts when he’s this pliant. 

John makes no effort to get into the tub, and Sherlock strips quickly, seats himself and reaches for John to help him in. The deep sigh John releases when he’s enveloped in Sherlock’s arms, makes Sherlock almost euphoric with relief.

“This is just what I needed, Sherlock,” John murmurs after a few minutes of tranquil silence. “You’re lovely.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks flush, and not from the hot water. John’s praise always does that.

He starts humming and isn’t paying much mind to what tune exactly. 

“Bach’s Lullaby,” John murmurs. “Are you going to sing me to sleep, love?”

“I wasn’t aware actually,” Sherlock responds quietly. “Would you want me to sing to you?”

“Always,” John assures him.

He turns his head and kisses Sherlock’s cheek.

“I love you,” Sherlock says softly and bends down to catch John’s lips.

“Me too, sweetheart. So much,” John whispers.

He starts to tremble and hides his face in Sherlock’s neck again.

“Shh, my heart. I’ve got you,” Sherlock soothes.

He rarely uses endearments, John’s name is enough, but this occasion clearly calls for it. John holds on to him for dear life, and Sherlock starts humming again. This relaxes John considerably, and Sherlock asks if John has any song requests.

“You don’t have to,” he mumbles.

“Let me comfort you, John. Please.”

When John stays silent, Sherlock starts to sing. He knows it’s one of John’s favourites. One that’s soothed him on more than one occasion.

When you're weary Feeling small When tears are in your eyes I will dry them all

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Oh hey random storytime:

My mother had a dog of a fairly unusual breed, the kind breed whose existence I hadn't even heard of before the breeder became a family friend. This specific dog was a zero brain cell masterpiece specimen, so while he was fucking stupid, he had an impressive enough pedigree that it would have been a waste to not take him into dog shows, maybe win a few prizes and have him sire pups.

Anyway, this one time we were at a smaller dog show, not really an amateur one but definitely not a huge international event. It was held outdoors on a football field(?), and not only was my mom's dog the only one of his breed in the show, they had somehow completely forgot to include him in the show's schedule. We had come all the way over here to show off a dog that didn't have a time, judges, or ring for him anywhere in the plans.

So while my mother isn't the type to Demand To Speak To The Manager when something doesn't go her way, everyone was in the agreement that the fuck-up was on the show runners' side, and they were very apologetic about such an unprofessional mistake. And they did manage to find a show ring with a slot to squeeze him in, just before the next breed was about to start.

So they made a quick announcement in the ring just before the scheduled breed was going to start, and into the ring went the breeder and mom's dog. And while they were doing their little lap, surrounded by a mostly quiet, uninterested audience, I heard some random kid's faint voice asking

What happened to that one?

And it suddenly hit me how funny this whole situation must look like with no context. Mom's dog or his whole breed were not on the printed out leaflet schedule of the show, in this specific ring or otherwise. If someone showed up now, or somehow otherwise missed the announcement (which wasn't even broadcasted in any way, just yelled out over the crowd by one guy), holy shit they would be confused.

The dog breed that was booked on that spot was samoyeds. My mother's dog was a peruvian inca orchid. Imagine being at a dog show in the right place at the right time, 100% expecting to see one of those fluffy clouds on the left, and out walks the motherfucker on the right.