The Posh Boy Loves The Dominatrix

[See upper-left sidebar for all things Adlock]

[sexedplus]

This isn’t what I usually write about, but I think it’s important.

[kuttithevangu]

Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit

“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.

In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.

…

When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.

Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.

The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)

All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.

Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.

But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”

Lessons From a Lifetime of Animal Voyages

There is an animal-size hole at the center of modern life. Some of us will search the world to fill it.

[roriferis]

got curious, here's the author (Sam Anderson) and Walnut from this 2024 article/podcast

(more pictures of walnut at the link)

[cumberbatchcom]

Benedict Cumberbatch and Sadie Sink for Prada Re-Nylon 2025.

Prada will be colaboring with National Geographic CreativeWorks on a series of four documentary films featuring the actors.

[nhtmcat]

Benedict Cumberbatch talks about Sherlock and Martin Freeman

Interviewer: Sherlock, anyone knows Sherlock? Obviously, it has been wonderful, but you had said that being in Sherlock that was magic. Why do you think that?

BC: Um… It was a lot of things. It was Martin. It was a modern era take on it. It was Steven… first of all, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss took something they were obsessive fanboys over with total respect, and they crafted a modern version of it with huge (amount) details, hugely rewarding loyalty towards the original stories, but with a very witty plot twist. And I think it was also, you know, it was the dawn of Twitter, and this guy was on the internet, and John Watson was blogging. And I think there was a synchronicity where television became, you know, it was pre streaming. It was sort of a water-cooler moment made digital. And I think that's why it went global. And I, I don't know, maybe it was the part that had just been waiting for me at the right time as well. I just loved it. It was just a heck of a thing. And again, the mental geek a bit. He had to be in the digital space the equivalent of the computers. He had to have an AI speed so that he was speaking as fast as most people think, but very quickly. And that was an acting challenge, and also to some extent having him work on this character, how that fits in society now, where you have asexuals, autists, whatever those, you know, you know, whatever theories of those kinds of wonderful superpowers are, you know. And I think that spoke to a lot of people, that he had a superpower. And socially incredible also such a lot of people take pleasure of other people being vicariously rude or straight, or direct.

Interviewer: No filters for him.

BC: Yeah, no filters for Sherlock. And I think that is a part of his appealing. He's brilliant. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, brilliant mind.

Interviewer: What was the first time you walk around the street without being unnoticed?

BC: Oh, you know, it was a particular type of hair, which I don't normally have. You know, I have dark hair and I don't usually have it that long. When I just stepped out of some, you know, pre-production, it literally was that I'd go to the hairdressers and come out, dyed and with the shade, and people literally crack it and sort of, oh, Sherlock! It’s him. It was the first time. And I remember when we were making it, Martin was already very famous from the Office. And when we kind of spent time with each other, started all sorts of, you know, people would sort of go, oh, this is Tim Canterbury! ‘Yeah, yeah, I mean, he's being younger than me, doesn't he? Yeah, yeah…’ He just joked about it.

Interviewer: He's such a fun and nice guy.

BC: Yeah, he's great. He's very funny. One of the funniest human beings I've ever met. And just so inventive and brilliant. And he filled that role with so much nuances and care. He's a precision artist, he's technically brilliant, but he's also a musician I mean, he's got jazz in there as well as every other kind of music. He's wonderful to work with, and like I said, I think that was very early in my answer, that was a huge part of it - that chemistry - that I liked to be there really well.

Red Sea International Film Festival, Q&A, 10 December 2024

[francesca-wayland]

Happy 2025 ❤️

[francesca-wayland]

Happy birthday to you!!! 🥳🎊🎉🎂🎈

Thank you!!! 🥰

[cutterpillow92]

Fifty-seven. Sorry, what? Fifty-seven of those texts - just the ones I’ve heard. How thrilling that you’ve counted.

@giftober 2024 | day 17: Phone call/Text

Sherlock, A scandal in Belgravia (2012)

[francesca-wayland]

I asked CharGPT to write an Adlock fic 😅

Title: A Dance of Shadows

Irene Adler stepped into the dimly lit room, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor. She glanced around, noting the precision with which every piece of furniture had been arranged, the bookshelves stocked with volumes she was certain Sherlock had barely cracked open. The faint scent of tobacco smoke lingered in the air, a testament to his presence, even in his absence.

The door clicked shut behind her, and she allowed herself a moment of silence, her thoughts adrift. Her gaze fell on the empty armchair near the fireplace, the one where Sherlock would often sit, his eyes flickering with calculated intensity as they dissected cases or engaged in their unique, intellectual duels. She hadn’t seen him in months, not since their last encounter—a game of wits that had, for the first time, ended in something more. Something dangerous.

She moved to the center of the room, her hands trailing over the surface of the mantle. Her fingers paused over the single photograph of the great detective. It was a candid shot—a rare moment when Sherlock’s guard had slipped, captured mid-laughter, his lips curled in the faintest of smiles. For a man so intent on understanding the universe, he remained a mystery in her own mind. A challenge. An obsession. A dangerous one at that.

Before she could contemplate further, the sound of the door unlocking echoed through the room.

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room, his eyes flicking immediately to Irene. His expression was unreadable, but there was something more beneath the cool exterior—a recognition, an awareness, that both unsettled and intrigued her.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Sherlock said, his voice clipped, but not without a hint of something deeper, something unspoken.

Irene met his gaze, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “I wasn’t sure I would come at all,” she replied, her voice low, deliberate. “But then again, I never could resist a challenge.”

Sherlock took a step forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying her every movement with the intensity only he possessed. “You’ve always been good at keeping me on my toes. But don’t mistake that for vulnerability.”

Irene tilted her head, the challenge in his words igniting a spark of something both familiar and dangerous. “Vulnerability?” She stepped closer, her heels quiet on the floor. “Is that what you see in me, Sherlock? I thought you prided yourself on knowing people.”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed in his characteristic posture, a signal of his guardedness. “I know you, Irene. Better than you think. And I also know what you’re after. Whatever game you’re playing this time, it won’t work.”

Her smile deepened, and she moved closer still, the distance between them closing with every step. “You know me, do you? Then you must also know that I’m not after anything, Sherlock. Except perhaps… a little amusement.” She stopped directly in front of him, her breath mingling with his, her eyes daring him to find the truth she was so carefully concealing.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered, just for a second, before he recovered his usual composure. “You’re always hiding something, Irene. The question is… what is it this time?”

Irene’s hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her touch lingering for just a moment too long. “Isn’t that what makes it interesting?” she whispered.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. There was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—something that neither logic nor deduction could explain away. He straightened, taking a step back, as though shaking off the strange tension between them.

“I don’t need your games, Irene,” he said, his voice firm but betraying a faint crack in its usual detachment. “I don’t need you.”

Irene’s heart skipped a beat. His words stung, but she could see beyond them—into the turmoil beneath. She knew that behind that icy exterior, Sherlock was just as vulnerable as the rest of them. And that was precisely why she had never been able to let him go.

“You don’t need me,” she echoed softly, her voice tinged with both sadness and amusement. “But then again, neither do I need you, Sherlock.” Her eyes softened, but only just. “We’re both too clever for that, aren’t we?”

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unspoken things. Irene could feel the walls between them growing taller, but there was something else now—a flicker of something deeper. Something that neither of them could deny, no matter how hard they tried.

Sherlock broke the silence first, his voice quieter than before. “What do you want from me, Irene?”

She tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. “What do you want from me, Sherlock?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer again, his expression darkening. “The same thing you’ve always wanted. A challenge.”

Irene’s lips parted in a half-smile. “And what do you think you’re going to do with it when you catch me?”

He paused, his brow furrowing. “You don’t get caught,” he said, almost to himself. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to catch me, Sherlock.”

His eyes locked onto hers, an unreadable intensity in his gaze. “Then what do you want?”

Irene took a breath, her chest rising slightly. “Maybe I just want to see what happens when two people like us… collide.”

Without warning, she leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek, a soft touch that seemed to suspend time itself. She pulled away before he could react fully, her breath warm against his skin.

For a long moment, Sherlock stood frozen, his mind whirring as he processed the complexity of the situation. But then, as if making a decision, he closed the distance between them, his hand catching hers with a surprising gentleness.

“I don’t know what this is, Irene,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet intensity. “But I’m not walking away this time.”

Irene met his gaze, a spark of something that was neither triumph nor defeat, but something in between, dancing in her eyes.

“Neither am I,” she whispered, her voice just above the silence.

And for the first time, the game was no longer about winning or losing. It was about two brilliant minds, two souls tangled in a web of shadows, finally understanding that perhaps the greatest mystery they would ever solve… was each other.

[francesca-wayland]

From Chapter 31 of Sui Generis.

You have my number.

Sherlock came to such an abrupt halt that his body jerked, but his mind raced on, before all his thoughts culminated with one word: Moriarty.

And since someone wants to hear from you, I thought I should text.

A split second later – just long enough for Sherlock’s abdomen to flood with dread and his mind to produce a single, terrible image at the implications of the text, that image materialised in crystal brilliance on his phone.

Minutes before, Sherlock had been wanting to see a picture of Nero, but this was the real-life version of ‘be careful what you wished for’ from the fairy tales—which given who had sent it was perversely appropriate. Sherlock had wanted to see a photograph of his child as proof Nero was safe. Now he had a photo, but it only proved the opposite.

[francesca-wayland]

It’s pretty crazy that I chose this image from the internet to represent Nero almost twelve (!!!) years ago, and now I have a baby boy that looks sooo similar 😳

[incilerden]

[francesca-wayland]

This is 68 Castro St. in San Francisco! It’s famous locally for its Christmas decorations:

[transfaguette]

my fellow Americans you have to let yourself feel hopeful about the future under a Harris/Welz administration. Yes, even when you have criticisms of them. Yes, even when some of their decisions disgust you. You have to stop waiting for a messiah to come in and fix everything and be a perfect flawless savior. because that is obviously never going to happen. There is a very real chance to greatly improve public schools and healthcare and disability services and environmental policies and anti discrimination laws. You are allowed to want this. You have to want this, or else you resign yourself to hopelessness.

[jaegerisim]

Some of yall needed to hear this

Credits to @/mattxiv on Instagram

[spale-vosver]

"Don't vote to teach the Democrats a lesson!" Great thanks my Jewish disabled queer ass will just die then

[stoportotouch]

sorry i was researching the author of a victorian book about raising children and now i'm fascinated by her. clear my schedule we're talking about lydia maria child.

[stoportotouch]

"show a baby nice things" got it

[stoportotouch]

wuh. hbuh.

[usa2024election]

I'm seeing a lot of the same arguments and thoughts about this election as we had in 2016. I don't want to see that repeated. Neither do you. So we have to come together and vote in record numbers. We defeated MAGA once. We have to do it again.

[luisonte]

Te lo has buscado Flunfis

[mori-esque]

love the environmental storytelling of the other string having been retied together to indicate that he has done this before and learned nothing

[afloweroutofstone]

I know that everyone on here is an anarchist or Marxist or whatever else that traditionally does not care about this, but the damage that the Supreme Court has done to the US administrative state over the last five days (Loper Bright, Jarkesy, and Corner Post) is large enough to significantly alter the course of the 21st century, for the worse. It is massively easier for the wealthy to block a government regulation today than it was at the start of last week. It's an obscure set of policy reforms to anyone who's not a lawyer, but they've been a key goal of the right-neoliberal agenda for longer than any of us have been alive.