victorian mores

Why do we still make huge analytical posts with evidence that Johnlock is real, they literally called each other “Sherlock” and “John” in the victorian times and they also made a fuss about it so that we wouldn’t miss it

“Since when do you call me John?”

“You ‘d be surprised.”

Sherlock’s answer makes zero sense in a platonic context and using the first names in victorian times meant romantic / sexual intimacy why do we still bother 

Timing is Everything

The famous Cleveland Street scandal, which involved the discovery of a homosexual male brothel by London police, began in July 1889. Sex between men was illegal; clients faced persecution and social exclusion if found out.

Arthur Conan Doyle met Oscar Wilde at a publisher’s dinner in August 1889, during the height of the Cleveland Street scandal. Conan Doyle liked Wilde; afterwards he called it “a golden evening.”

The Sign of Four appeared in print in February 1890. In the story, John Watson, previously a bachelor, is presented with a potential (and eventual) wife.

The Picture of Dorian Gray was published in July 1890; the original version contained a reference to the Cleveland Street scandal. The novel was later used against Wilde at his trials for the text’s allusions to homoeroticism.

When you realize that BBC Sherlock only has one instance of two women talking to each other in its first two seasons, and they’re talking about clothes:


When you realize that the original Sherlock Holmes books, written in the Victorian era, had more black people than BBC Sherlock

  When you realize that BBC Sherlock only has LGBTQ+ characters to use as punchlines

When you realize that BBC Sherlock turned Kitty Winter, a feminist icon who threw acid on the man who sexually abused her, into a reporter who tries to seduce Sherlock in order to use him to further her career

When you realize how problematic BBC’s Sherlock is:

3

I swear I’ll draw something else. I SWEAR.

A random Ripley appears! I hope she is in fact the one with Cabal’s Ruin right now. And speaking of that cloak… I like thinking that it looks like a void in space. I mean, in a world just BRIMMING with magic, a magic devouring cloak would be a weird black hole. An out of place device that drinks the natural world around it. Also, I mean, let’s just give Percy something that’s blacker than black so we can just role with this Victorian goth kid persona.

And then some Vex and Percy because this slow burn is how I wish to die.

My gift to @a-whole-lasagna for the @frukgiftexchange 2017! One of your wishes was “A Victorian or Edwardian-era setting”, so I went with Victorian (and their wonderful clothes~). I hope you’ll like it and that you had fun during the Holidays! (ノ^ω^)ノ♥ ゜・。。・

Now the fanfic~


Title: Je t'aime

Pairing: FrUk

Summary: After accompanying his mother to the opera and meeting a mysterious man with the looks of an angel, Arthur could not take that smooth and melodic voice out of his head. Human AU. Victorian setting.

———

London, England, 14 May 1853…

It was a cold and rainy evening when Arthur Kirkland found himself standing in front of Theatre Royal. It had taken all of his mother’s patience to convince him to change into his best clothes and accompany her to the opera. As the younger brother, it was his duty to take care of the house and look after his mother while his brothers were out of town taking care of the family’s business. After his father had passed away the previous year, Arthur and his older brothers had made a vow to work hard and make their mother happy again.

Keep reading

Yo! @bitchii-usa - remember that time you listened to classical music and got distracted by period V/B?
Guess what I love AT LEAST as much as vegebul? 
Drawing period clothing.

If anyone ever writes a fic like this and doesn’t make a “Pen is mightier than the Sword” reference I will be all the disappointment. 

I’ve made some more progress on the book I’m currently obsessed with, London and the Culture of Homosexuality, 1885-1914 by Matt Cook, and have made a couple posts about it here and here. Now I have my next longer meta brewing (!!)…but in the meantime, here are some updates:

(if you’re not keen to see more posts like this, I’ll tag everything related to this book “london and the culture of homosexuality” so you can avoid it if you like)

1) The Sins of the Cities of the Plain was a pornographic (homosexual) novel published in 1881. It follows the memoirs of a young male prostitute, John Jack Saul, who is “paid to set down his experiences by a client“, who just happens to provide an address in Baker Street, which was really the address of a friend called William Sherlock Scott Holmes Potter. The book talks about doing the do in Belgravia and picking up men in Regent’s Park, as well as the joys of having sex with guardsmen/soldiers. It did not mess around: one of the chapters is literally called “The Same Old Story: Arses Preferred to C*nts”. So. It was pretty gay.

2) The Criterion Bar on Piccadilly Circus attracted all kinds of men, including guardsmen, for meetings of a more intimate nature. According to Cook’s research, it was considered to have “a subcultural reputation for homosexual activity” and was a “great centre for inverts”, according to some 19th century contemporaries. (“Invert” was another derogatory term for homosexual.) I’m sure there’s no need to remind you that this is where John Watson and Mike Stamford meet up before Stamford introduces Watson to the love of his life Holmes. 

3) Turkish baths were considered to be very gay (many other homosocial spaces developed similar reputations).

4) Articles in popular fashion magazines like Modern Man “bemoaned the damage done to the fashion for buttonholes by [Oscar] Wilde’s penchant for green carnations”.

This, in an article titled: “Judging a Man by His Button Hole.

Originally posted by bumblebee-cuttlefish

WHAT COULD IT MEAN

More to come ;)

Adrinette Month Day Three

Miraculous Switched? I uh… they swapped a little further than expected. Like, literally the miraculous of their enemies by the end of Season One. I changed a bit of their designs - more flared out tailcoats for Adrien and a slightly different coloration and points for Marinette. Also, the fur around the neck to obscure her miraculous much like how some wild animals will have thicker fur around their neck to protect it from attackers. Hm… Hawkmoth!Adrien might need a cravat… though, I need to stop myself from making him Victorian instead of something more modern. Maybe not slick back hair in the future… hmm…

More from my Dragoncon 2016 costumes…Sunday night,The Parasol Protectorate!  A book series by Gail Carriger, introduced to me by the lady playing Alexia in the photos.  I was Ivy Hisselpenny, a lady described as “only-just-pretty, only-just-wealthy, and possessed of a terrible propensity for wearing extremely silly hats.”  I had a Victorian ballgown from previous years, but I really wanted a walking suit.  I had picked up some very loud stripey fabric from a costume sale years ago and never used it.  It proved to be just the thing for the very silly Ivy.  And of course, there was a very silly hat.

Ivy, Alexia, and Madame Lefoux.  I used the Truly Victorian Tail Bodice, waterfall overskirt, and four-gore underskirt with almost no devations.  That’s unusual for me, and should tell you how good these patterns are.


Bustle Shot!

And of course, Ivy’s very silly hat.  Yes, that is a wolf puppy wearing a top hat.  Photos by @artandrhinos

Consuelo Vanderbilt, the elegant young Duchess of Marlborough in fancy dress for the famous Devonshire House Ball of 1897.

Consuelo is pictured dressed as the wife of the French ambassador to the court of Catherine the Great. The magnificent and tight-laced gown Consuelo is wearing conceals the fact that she is seven months pregnant with her first child.

A Most Unsuitable Arrangement

Watson snorted and jolted awake, running a hand over his face.

‘Please tell me that we have arrived,’ the doctor grumbled.

‘Just about,’ Holmes replied, not looking away from the passing London streets. The early morning fog wound around each building as their carriage rolled along the cobblestone.

‘Our wives will certainly be glad for us to be home,’ Watson remarked idly. ‘Though she never wrote it in her letters, Mary did hint at being worried about us.’

Holmes hummed distractedly.

‘How did Mrs Holmes seem? Married not yet three months and you called away for a case in Scotland. I can’t imagine it was an easy decision for you to take it.’

‘Why would it not be?’ Holmes finally turned and looked at his friend, a frown on his face. ‘I agreed to this marriage arrangement under the condition that she understand my work comes first.’

Watson shook his head. ‘She’s your wife, Holmes. You need to understand that now there is another person in that little world you inhabit and you need to have a care how you treat her.’ He furrowed his brow in thought. ‘Did you write to her at all during this case? Reassure her of your safety?’

Holmes rolled his eyes. ‘How many times must I tell you, when I am on a case, I have no need for distractions, especially of the ‘marital’ kind. She knew this when she agreed to the arrangement.’

‘Bloody hell, Holmes! A whole month without a word from you? You never sent her a letter or anything? Not so much as a telegram? She must think you dead!’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Watson.’ Holmes waved him off. ‘If she were so inclined to think so, I am sure either my brother or your wife would assure her of my continued existence. Why should I be expected to waste valuable time doing such an unnecessary, domesticated chore?’

Watson gaped at him, then grimly shut his mouth and shook his head. ‘You’re a fool, Sherlock Holmes. A bloody fool.’

oOo

It was just past 7 when Sherlock strode through the front door of his Baker Street home. Having dropped Watson off at his house beforehand and witnessing Mrs Watson rush outside to welcome her husband home with a warm smile and open arms, Sherlock had spent the remaining ten minutes ride fighting down an unfamiliar sense of foreboding and the stranglehold of guilt.

Perhaps he should have taken a moment or two during the case to send word to his own wife. He barely knew her beyond what Mycroft had told him when he’d drafted the contract, but as their first few months of marriage passed he found himself contemplating the mystery of her. Shy, a bit bumbling, not at all the sort of woman he’d expected his brother would force him to marry. But the inheritance her late father had left her, on the condition of her marrying, was enough to keep him happily solving crimes until a ripe old age, should he live to see the day. And she would be free to do…. well, whatever it was a woman of society did. Embroidery, gossip, and other such ridiculous frippery, he’d assumed, bracing himself for a life of mindless chittering.

Yet, to his surprise, she had slid into his life with ease, leaving him to his experiments and cases, but nearby with a cup of tea or some bread before he knew he needed it. She quietly read or scribbled in that journal of hers while he sojourned into his Mind Palace. She listened as he talked himself through his cases and experiments. She offered the occasional question that, on more than one instance, had led him to the right conclusion.  

She had been perfectly attuned to what he’d needed in a companion. But truth be told, he knew very little of her. And until this moment, he’d never considered it a bad thing.

Tossing his coat over the banister, he strode down the hall. Upon entering the lounge, he found it practically undisturbed from how he’d left it. His violin rested on the table, his music sheets scattered haphazardly about, his books and notes on his experiments were in disarray on the coffee table.

Nothing in the room spoke of another person living here. In short, there was nothing to warrant the growing sense of unease in his gut. His wife’s things were relegated solely to her room and her timidity prevented her from encroaching on what she considered his space. Yet there was something amiss in the empty room that sent a foreboding rolling over him.

Sherlock spun on his heel and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door at the top was cracked open and he shoved it open, letting it bang against the wall, and came to dead stop.

He had not been upstairs since they’d been married. The only time they had shared a room, his bed, had been their wedding night. But he had slipped out while she slept. When she came to him the next morning and said she would take the upper room for herself, he had assumed she was as uncomfortable with their arrangement as he was and wanted her own space.

His heart pounded and his hands clenched into fists at his side as he took in the room: bed was made and hadn’t been slept in for at least four nights and a thin layer of dust had settled on the nightstand and bureau. He stormed over to the wardrobe and flung open the doors, staring in growing horror at the empty rack.

She hadn’t given him space because it was what she wanted; no, she’d done it because she thought it was what he had wanted.

Watson had been correct.

He was a fool.