Now selling a John Blanket! Inspired by John Watson, on my own design. The blanket is reversible and has a basketweave/boxed pattern down the middle, with cables on the left side and panels on the right!
Why you should buy it:
warm and cosy
soft and snuggly
reminds you of your favourite army doctor
acrylic (no wool allergies! Easy wash! No cotton-shrinking!)
supports a struggling uni student
lap sized! 33in (84cm) wide.
can be machine washed (hand wash/delicate cycle) and dried (delicate cycle). Handwashing is just fine if you love it that much.
heavy and snuggly. Nothing near a weighted blanket, but the yarn is thick and the blanket weighs (on estimate) just over one and a half pounds or 760 grams.
reversible. No matter which way you turn it, the cables will be on one side with the panels on the other, so both sides are pretty!
Asking Price - 185 USD. Price breakdown:
Yarn - 75 USD
Needles - 15 USD
Supplies - 5 USD
Labour - 90 USD
Considering the hours of work put into this, I’m paying myself well below minimum wage, but this is for several reasons. A) I know the yarn may get fuzzy. Acrylic does that when it’s soft. B) handmade goods are never perfect. And lastly, C) I’m a struggling uni student who can never afford to buy fan merch, so I wanted to make it semi-affordable.
Paid through Paypal, shipping not included. Please send me a message if you’re interested!
I put way too much time into this. I calculated the most common pokemon types(Water 124 -> Normal 97, etc.) as well as most common birth dates(averaged each day over the 12 months), and most common first name initials in order to put this together. So, the more common your birth day and first initial, the more common your pokemon types!
I also mixed in some blanks in the secondary types to be more realistic, as well as took out a lot of the super uncommon letters to give people a better chance of being dual typed, because that’s more fun!
There is a pretty likely chance you’ll get a typing that doesn’t currently exist in pokemon, and that’s fine! I wanted this to be somewhat vague, and up to personal interpretation. If you get a non existing type combo, you can be creative and try to come up with what pokemon you’d actually be! :)
Anyway, I hope people enjoy this since I put so much effort into it to make it “accurate”. haha
“We are at a lap dance. It’s a celebrity lap dance, which is where celebrities of all shapes and ages sign autographs for cash prices. It’s sort of like going to a strip club, except they don’t stuff cash in your underwear. But that’s… kind of it. […] They love [Leia] and I’m her custodian, and I’m as close as you’re gonna get. She’s me and I’m her.” – Carrie Fisher
“So this is one of those things we go to… at least once a month. Kind of a mini Comic-Con. Carrie resisted these lap dances for years. But… it’s amazing. You see these thousands of people behind me? They line up in 9 in the morning, they’ll stay here until 9 o’clock at night just to have two seconds with Carrie.” – Carrie’s assistant
Just a ficlet I decided to write for y’all a couple weeks back when, for some torturous reason, my dash was flooded with first Johnlock kisses in the form of ficlets and fan art.
It’s a bit out of season, but I never let that stop me. Here’s payback.
Enjoy (I hope).
They’re just seconds away from
beginning the countdown in the lounge of 221B when it happens: John
hears a pop, and almost immediately afterward smells smoke. The
origin of both of these things is the kitchen, which currently
contains one stroppy detective (one holiday is bad enough, but two so
close together are evidently enough to kick him over the edge from
man-child to full-on-toddler) and certainly a headache for John. His
brow furrows, and he gives his guests a cursory glance before
resigning himself to abandoning them to make sure the whole place
isn’t about to become warm and bright with more than holiday cheer.
No one else has taken notice; the
atmosphere is relaxed. Even Mycroft, holding court over Lestrade,
seems to be enjoying himself. Lestrade doesn’t even seem to mind; to
the contrary, he seems rather focused on Mycroft’s face and whatever
bit of political intrigue he’s just become privy to. Mrs. Hudson is
squiffy, flushed with mirth and pride over having just told Molly
Hooper a story so racy that the younger woman’s face is bright pink,
her lips pursed as though either holding in laughter or a lemon
slice, perhaps both simultaneously. All seems well, for now at
least, as the year flips like a coin. Anyone’s guess how it’ll
Sherlock pokes his head out of the
kitchen, coughs, and demands, “John!”
“Oh Christ, Sherlock,” John
grumbles, already headed in that direction. He’s feeling warm-bodied
and slow from all the champagne he’s consumed, and he only manages to
feel resigned, perhaps even borderline amused that whatever Sherlock
is destroying, it had to happen right now, in the
face of all the festivities. Metaphorical, and most certainly
As John crosses the threshold into the
kitchen, glancing around for a dead toaster or perhaps a
Frankensteinian blender-flamethrower hybrid, he hears them start behind
Sherlock, standing closer to the left
door than John had expected, takes him off guard by catching his
wrist and signaling quickly for him to stay quiet.
John fails. “What–”
Sherlock shoves him gently against the
wall beside the frosted glass. John stares at him, utterly confused
as Sherlock enters into his personal space in a way he–audacious as
he is–has never done before.
The comforting voices of their friends
chorus together, the words becoming a blur now because Sherlock is
looking at him with a question in his eyes, swallowing nervously.
John stares back, frozen, certain his face is a mirror of his
Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple
bobbing in his throat. He’s rapidly beginning to look uncertain. It’s
an expression so rare on his face that it hits John right in the
bottom of his stomach, which answers with a nervous flutter.
John, on autopilot, has reached out
without even realizing it. His hand curls into the front of
Sherlock’s shirt and pulls him closer. The gesture feels familiar
because he’d done this once before, yanking Sherlock down to eye
level to yell some sense into him after he’d pulled a stunt that
could have gotten him killed.
“Happy New Year!”
Party horns are blown for a moment, and
then they’re all singing Auld Lang Syne and laughing at something,
probably Lestrade, if one were to theorize based on past experience.
Sherlock has been incrementally closing
the gap this whole time. John feels the lock of hair over Sherlock’s
forehead brush his own skin–he’s that close. John’s heart is
pounding; this really is what it looked like on the tin, is really
happening. His lips are dry and it is too late to do so much as lick
them. Their eyes close and John tilts his head up, the tip of his
nose deliberately brushing Sherlock’s, and then their lips touch.
It’s the lightest press, not
questioning, but loaded. John still has his hand fisted in Sherlock’s
shirt and he can feel the man’s whole body thrumming like a live
wire. Sherlock opens his mouth very very slightly and John feels the
wet part of his friend’s inner lower lip as it catches the dry edge
of his own. He gasps a breath even as Sherlock pulls back a hair’s
breadth, giving him room to breathe. He’d sort of forgotten to keep
doing that over the last twenty seconds or so. He immediately pulls
Sherlock back in again and the brunet’s long arms come up to brace
against the wall for support, caging John in. This second kiss begins
with breath and parted lips. It’s braver. It’s time and the
discarding of long-held patience. It’s finally.
Their tongues finally slide together,
and John is dizzy with want. He also knows that if this goes on any
longer, he won’t be fit to go back out into the lounge. Sherlock
indulges the kiss for another long moment, then pulls back slowly,
Their eyes meet. They grin at each
other, and it’s both humorous and affectionate. John clears his
“What did you blow up?”
The kitchen around them is definitely
“Nothing of yours,” Sherlock
John’s hand is still wrapped in the
front of Sherlock’s shirt. He runs his thumb over a button and
murmurs, “Do we make that distinction?”
Half of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up
again and he counters with, “Nothing important, then.”
Their friends are drunk enough and
celebratory enough that they probably have at least one more minute
before anyone thinks to come looking for them. One glance toward the
kitchen and the smog emanating from it might satisfy their curiosity
for an additional three quarters of a minute, even.
“Nothing that can’t…wait,”
Sherlock reassures as he draws back in, and then they’re kissing
We’re kissing, John
thinks with equal measures of amazement and relief. “Happy New
Year,” he murmurs against his friend’s lips, only just containing a joyful laugh.
“The happiest, John,”
Sherlock murmurs back.
John feels Sherlock’s fingers brush
lightly against his cheek as though he’s acknowledging the smile that wants to bloom there even though John’s lips are otherwise occupied.