The Escapist

٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶ ♥

watson.

shear-lockcombs:
So I came up with this great idea for a fake beard using fiber mascara and I realized there were no tutorials out there for this already. So I made one myself. It works really well and is very realistic!!
here are some links to some fiber mascaras as well as the type I used (I’m sure you guys can find one at a cheaper price though)
here is the absolute best crossplay makeup tutorial I highly recommend it
~~I’m so sorry for my handwriting I did my best I swear~~
splay

justaholmesboy:

the fave team of babs uwu

cumberlocked:

“You are truly magnificent, John. I could hardly have hoped for a better hunting partner.”
vampire sherlock and werewolf john, for halloween, and this month’s letsdrawsherlock challenge!

hoursago:

i am having a very hard time drawing anything that isn’t completely stupid

weird-mad-hot-alive:

Martin freeman + Amanda abbington
Amanda looking at Martin

zenpencils:

MAYA ANGELOU ‘Phenomenal Woman’

captainamericasamazingass:

YEAH I BET YOU DO CAP

seki0930:

For let’s draw Sherlock challenge.:D
Original by Norman Rockwell.

kaciart:

requiodile:
kaciart:
Katy had wanted Steve wrapping himself in Bucky’s HC Jacket.
-
minumi: maybe there;s a small part of him that thinks, Bucky’s things were slightly more comforting when they used to drown him. Because as is, it just reinforces the fact that he still wasn’t strong enough to protect him
Steve finds that his shoulders are too broad, that the collar of Bucky’s spare jacket can’t fasten at the top unless he rucks the heavy navy fabric up about his neck like the little cape his show managers had tried to convince him to wear, and that he’d refused.
Bucky wore the jacket over several layers of clothes and padding—Steve can barely squeeze a bare arm down a sleeve without the seams threatening to burst. There’s a hollow ringing in his chest, at this, and it settles into a strange relief that’s quickly dispersed when he manages to close the fasteners from the waist up, only to discover that his chest is too broad for the straps to reach across once he reaches his lower ribcage. His torso is too long, and the ends of the sleeves flutter not quite to his knees, from where the jacket has flopped down and away from his back.
He pulls the jacket up about his neck like a towel, and presses his face to the rough wool and cotton—it’s probably been a week since Bucky wore this last, and his scent lingers; something like pine and gunpowder and wet brick and the hot tang of tar and blood, from that time that Bucky hauled him off of the asphalt with a split lip when they were 14, and pried his bruised jaws apart to pry a chunk of gravel out from between his teeth.
Y’gotta stop eatin’ up the sidewalks, Stevie, you’re leavin’ potholes everywhere for the little old ladies to trip and fall in. I swear, someday I’ll be gone for more than a couple of hours, a day, even, and I’ll come back and see you’ve eaten up the whole street and left none of it for me! What’ll folks do then, huh, dumbass? They’re gonna be sloggin’ around up to their necks in the muck and I’m gonna hafta jump in an’ swim to stop you from drownin’, you bein’ so short and all. Hey, listen t’me, Steve, you better shoot up soon, so your hair’ll be pokin’ out and I’ll pull you out like one of ‘em turnips.
It’s been two days. Steve isn’t drowning, so much as he’s watched the grime and earth roll in and swallow up a man standing on an edge alone, up his ribs, his cheeks, his brow—he’s watched his heart sink into a grave of gravel and cold powder, with sunshine and gold swept under the darkened waves like the rising tides on the beach at Coney Island, after sunset.
Out in the distance, he looks up through the wavering glass at the moon and curves his gaze up and back towards the shore and sees the lights glitter and smear in the encroaching dark—like shadows in reverse, sparks in iron clouds, like Bucky pressing a grubby lemon sweet into his palm, like sneaking up in the back alley of a nickelodeon to watch a funny through a hole bored in the wall, being pressed up flush against each other to see and tasting Bucky’s apple breath on his lips, imagining he could feel the vibrations of the audience’s laughter through the mortar and brick as the hero plummets off of the train and tumbles down, down, down, and—
Down, and—
Down, except—
Except the hero keeps falling, spiraling away into the shocking whiteness with the laughter until the screen pops and fizzes into pockets of dead space and flickering finality.
The whiteness fades; the laughter doesn’t, and Steve jerks when he realizes it’s coming from him—it escapes in ugly, choking cries, like when he’d been sick with another bout of pneumonia and Bucky’d just cracked a desperate joke, the kind that rattled the bones along his spine and brought the rust back up his throat and let slip stinging bitterness down Steve’s dark lashes.
“P-pretty funny, Buck.”
No.
This is not how it’s supposed to work. I’m supposed to give you feels and cackle from my corner of the internet - you’re not supposed to turn it back on me.
Wehhh
My heart hurts reading this - I read it right when I woke and I was like D:/ nope….back to sleep. Gonna look at puppies and kittens next time I wake and THATS HOW MY DAY WILL START.

hannibals-cuisine:

I love the silhouette of the old Sherlock Holmes behind him

This is my favorite photograph of Benedict Cumberbatch, but all I can ever do is try to picture who the hand belongs to. It always turns into some kind of Johnlock (or trying to figure out how the woman was even posed to get that weird wrist angle) and I needed to sketch it.