theme by loveabadgirlme

I'm Char and I'm from England where the BBC comes from. I'm currently doing Stage Management in Cardiff. Enjoy my blog, leave your sanity at the door please, we don't want it.
I ship everything. EVERYTHING. Even contradictory ships. Even threesomes and more. In fact, especially threesomes and more.. ORGYYYYY!

For I am a Pirate King

A writer for the new york times interviewed a series of people who had survived jumping off the golden gate bridge. Every person she interviewed admitted that about two thirds of the way down, they realized that every seemingly meaningless problem that caused them to jump was fixable.

Every single one.

posted 1 year ago  »   via: ibelonginnarnia | © waste-it-dreaming  »  reblog


It isn’t unusual for Sherlock or John to find unwanted pictures of them circulating the internet on articles or websites; moments of obliviousness snapped by wayward photographers who gain pounds for managing to photograph the elusive Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

“Sherlock,” John laments one day, “they’ve got me at Tesco yelling at the chip-and-pin machine!”

“A Kodak moment,” Sherlock teases, unbothered, as he continues to rosin his bow.

John huffs. “Yes, except the machine is blocked out by a head of lettuce, so it looks like I’ve just got a bone to pick with a vegetable.”

At this, Sherlock comes over and examines the photograph. He’s in stitches. John finds nothing funny about it and refuses from then on out to not read The Sun.

When they find a newspaper-bound photo of Sherlock pulling a disgusted face at a cup of coffee made incorrectly, it’s John who brays in amusement. After that, Sherlock always scopes buildings and streets for at-the-ready lenses on anonymous cameras.

There is an instance - just one - where they learn the identity of one of the many people who had documented them. It arrives in an envelope with a letter gushing over how the artist adores “the blog” (John’s, obviously) and thanks the two men for a job well-done. They mention that theirs was a moment captured at a market in spring. Sherlock skims over the otherwise dull artistic commentary on the complimenting colours and lighting and curiously takes the paper out.

It is not a glossy photograph taken with a ridiculous expensive camera used mostly for amateur photography of flowers in gardens. It’s a hand-drawn memoir to the two men, uncoloured and unpenned; simply graphite pencil on sketch paper. Sherlock criticises the lack of texture on his coat and a million other minute details. John compliments the artist and praises how they captured Sherlock’s face.

“Got your cheekbones right,” he teases with a smile. Sherlock frowns. John is quick to say, “But, I meant your expression.” He looks away from flesh-and-blood to his penciled copy. “It’s very… you,” he says, unable to explain it any other way (and electing to ignore and never, ever comment on the light flutter he feels in his chest at the light quirk of Sherlock’s lips, smiling wistfully, almost hopefully, in the slightest, most secretive way).

“The sixteenth of April,” is all Sherlock says - easy deduction based upon the clothes - before losing interest and suggesting the drawing be made into kindling for the fire. John rolls his eyes and tucks the drawing away in his desk drawer. It doesn’t see the light of day for some time; unseen by peeking eyes of different shades of blue, and unheld by spidery digits nor callused fingertips.

It’s when he’s reaching for his gun three days after Sherlock’s death that John unexpectedly finds the peaceful artwork lying under cold, lethal metal.

John forgets the gun and chooses instead to sit in his chair and study the drawing. He ghosts his fingertips over the Sherlock drawn on the paper, careful not to smear the precious pencil lines of Sherlock’s features seared forever in his memory; never to be seen in life again. He struggles to recall what was being said to make their drawn faces so calm and struggles to remember when they came upon the drawing, or who drew it, or what had been said, only that somehow Sherlock knew it had been the sixteenth of April.

Three teardrops stain and crinkle the paper. John treats the art as if it’s made of fine china and locks it safely in a frame, which he places carefully on his bedside table. He wistfully stares at the art, even strokes a finger on the glass above Sherlock’s well-captured cheekbone, then finds sleep under the warmth of Sherlock’s serene graphite smile.

  -  writing  -  look at that drawing  -  LOOK AT THAT  -  GUH  -  sherlock  -  now you're just a post that I used to queue  -  that's my queue  -  7404  -
posted 2 years ago  »   via: ibelonginnarnia | © loobeeinthesky  »  reblog


Some people have these like fandom specific blogs and then there’s me:

posted 2 years ago  »   via: ibelonginnarnia | © brasspumpkin  »  reblog

Hello, fellow Merlin BBC fans!

Hello fandom of Merlin BBC alias our sister fandom!

I have to ask you a big favour.
We all know that next week Merlin BBC will start again with the fifth season and we are all glad for that. We all know that there will be enormous Merlin spam on tumblr and we don’t mind that at all.

I would like to ask you a courtesy, to avoid the tags:

arthurian legends
arthurian legend
arthurian literature
king arthur

So that the arthurian fandom can have too some tags to spam a little bit about arthurian legends, without having the posts overwhelmed by Merlin BBC posts.

Thank you for you attention and I am really begging you.

posted 2 years ago  »   via: ibelonginnarnia | © valvertgift  »  reblog



Two scientists walk into a bar

The first says “I’ll have some H2O.”

The second says “I’ll have some H2O, too.”

Both of them receive water because the bartender is not irresponsible enough to serve concentrated hydrogen peroxide as a drink.

posted 2 years ago  »   via: ibelonginnarnia | © screenburned  »  reblog