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All literature, highbrow or low, from the Aeneid onward, is fan fiction. […] Through parody and pastiche, allusion and homage, retelling and reimagining the stories that were told before us and that we have come of age loving—amateurs—we proceed, seeking out the blank places in the map that our favorite writers, in their greatness and negligence, have left for us, hoping to pass on to our own readers—should we be lucky enough to find any—some of the pleasure that we ourselves have taken in the stuff that we love: to get in on the game. All novels are sequels; influence is bliss.

Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along The Borderlands, Michael Chabon. (via the-library-and-step-on-it)


(via harperperennial)


Fucking twat, John thinks, crossing the room. I ought to dump that entire cylinder of who the hell knows what right on that curly mop of yours.

But he doesn’t. What he does do is dig his fingertips under Sherlock’s lapel until he can worm his way under the fine wool of his jacket, the silk sliding across John’s fingertips. Sherlock’s chest is firm, smooth under his hands, and John can’t resist skimming his fingers down until he encounters the rounded edge of Sherlock pectoral muscle. Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t look up from the eyepiece of the microscope, but John can see his neck has broken out in gooseflesh, and Sherlock’s nipple is suddenly hard under John’s fingers.

John gives it a playful tweak.

"Careful!" Sherlock snaps, but John can see his ears go pink.

"Like that, did you?"

"You know I did. It’s distracting me. Stop it."

John chuckles, leans close until his breath stirs the curls over Sherlock’s ear. “Then solve it, genius, and there’ll be more where that came from.”

(Source: gingerbbatch)

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