BUDAPEST, by director Joss Whedon, executive producer J. J. Abrams, with Jeremy Renner as Clint Barton and Scarlett Johansson as Natasha Romanoff.
“Your mission was to intercept the target, Agent Barton. Not to fall in love with it.”
“I pull the trigger, I make the calls.”
New Fair Tales of the Day: Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (Germany), 500 previously unpublished fairy tales were discovered. The tales, which date to the 1800s, originally were collected by a historian named Franz Xaver von Schonwerth, “a contemporary of the Grimm brothers.” Now selected tales have been introduced to the world in a book published by Erika Eichenseer, a cultural curator in the Bavarian region of Oberpfalz.
Eichenseer says the fairy tales aren’t just for kids: “Their main purpose was to help young adults on their path to adulthood, showing them that dangers and challenges can be overcome through virtue, prudence and courage.”
Clearly, as evidenced by one tale of a maiden who escapes a witch by transforming herself into a pond. The witch then lies on her stomach and drinks all the water, swallowing the young girl, who uses a knife to cut her way out of the witch.
game of thrones | racebent - house stark ;; winter is coming.
idris elba as ned stark.
viola davis as catelyn stark.
john boyega as robb stark.
michael b. jordan as jon snow.
jessica sula as sansa stark.
amandla stenberg as arya stark.
michael ajao as bran stark.
tyree brown as rickon stark.
“Outliers (Trace)” by Canadian artist Maskull Lasserre is a series of shoes that have been modified to leave realistic animal footprints. Lasserre has been using the shoes to leave animal tracks in cities in Canada and America since 2011.
I really need this shit in my life.
Wonder if the artist realizes there is a market for these?
…given that I already walk on my toes habitually, a pair of these with wolf paws would be about perfect.
… I want the bear boots. <3
I want these! So much omg. Wolf ones, preferably.
okay, you know i want from cbs’s sherlock holmes, and am content to dream of if the opposite is all i’ll get?
holmes as bipolar, canonically bipolar, who never remembers to shave or eat or sleep when he’s up, doesn’t think either of those things matters when he’s down, who dresses in whatever’s on the floor, (even if it’s expensive because mycroft holmes has bought it all, he leaves it on the floor anyway), who rides the subway like an addiction and who loves new york with the passion you only feel for a lover lost, (because he can’t ever go back to london, he’s been run out of that town forever), who lives in a filthy apartment filled with books, genuinely filthy, too, not artistic, with tobacco ground into the carpet and rats he’s not allowed to shoot living in the walls, and he sits in there with his hands in his hair and those track-mark scars on his arms and listens to new york streets and he is the city. he is new york, no bones about it.
and watson, she wears thousand-dollar dresses left over from the days when she had money, and says, “no, put pants on,” when holmes tries to come to breakfast in his boxers, rolls her eyes at his creased clothes and his messy hair and his stupid accent, always thicker in the mornings, old-money english with new york fraying in around the edges, and yeah, she was a surgeon, but her daddy always took her to the gun range, and he took her hunting, too, and she can hit you from twenty, thirty feet without even blinking, took her to martial arts and fencing, too, and if you think joan watson can’t knock you the fuck off your feet you are very much mistaken, and she was a surgeon, she held life in her hands and that was a thrill she can’t replace, can’t replace until she meets the scruffy englishman who loves the words that spill from her lips, loves that she listens and how loyal she is and how she takes precisely none of his shit, and he’s her only friend and she’s his, and somewhere beneath their feet, the heart of new york beats and their feet move to that beat, him ahead, shouting, but only for a moment, because she can out-run him and out-fight him in a second and he knows it, loves it, but he’s shouting and all she can do is answer that call, slide the safety off, get ready for the thrill of the chase.
and i can always, er, write it, if it disappoints me, i suppose.
speaking of shit i want from elementary that i’m never going to get
joan watson’s a former surgeon; we know this. she left in disgrace; we know this. and i want it to be a fucking sexual harassment case that went the wrong way for her—i want it to be one of those fucked-up wrong awful situations where one of her superiors was hitting on her incessantly, assumed she wouldn’t tell anyone, hot young girl like that, how’d she even get into med school to begin with, c’mon baby loosen up a little, and she grit her teeth and ignored it until the day he laid a hand on her, squeezed her ass while she was scrubbing in or ran a finger up her leg under the table in a meeting. and she decided she was going to nail his fucking ass to the wall, because of course she did, because watson will be watson will be watson, that burned-deep sense of right and wrong, that fierce, unrelenting loyalty to doing what needs done, only she didn’t expect in this fucking day and age to get told she was making it up. she expected to be heard, or at very least acknowledge, not drummed out of medicine with a few well-placed lies and a lot of boys club bullshit, and she is so fucking angry that she sees stars, sometimes, just thinking about it.
and see, that’s the first thing about holmes that draws her—it’s not that he’s brilliant, though she’ll come to appreciate that, to rely on it, to trust it. no, the first thing about holmes that draws her is that he sees the work, first last and always; is that he abhors liars even though he is one half the time, not because of any moral reprehensibility but because they get in the way of him doing his job; is that there are no fucking politics. she knows holmes looks at her and sees what she’s capable of and nothing else, and after the living hell that was her last work environment that’s a breath of fresh air, even if it’s a breath of fresh air that comes along with the stench that makes the apartment unlivable sometimes.
i want joan watson to have trust issues, and i want joan watson to have a chip on her shoulder the size of all five boroughs, and i want joan watson to walk with her head held so high that her neck hurts at the end of the day. i want joan watson to have fought the system and lost, but come out swinging; i want joan watson to wake up every day and know she might have something to prove to the world, but she doesn’t have shit to prove to herself. i want joan watson to walk with sherlock holmes, not behind him, and i want joan watson to be fighting crime because she was saving lives, because she’s not going to be stopped doing the right thing just because some review board with an antiquated idea of what’s acceptable decided to turn a blind eye. i want the real story of a real woman who is dealing with the real shit so many woman go through every day and who isn’t cowed by it, not even close, who finds her lot thrown in with a brilliant, insane, unpredictable mess of a man and says i can work with this.
Oh. Except, except - if I were writing, maybe, yes, all of that, because it’s so razor-clear and so sensible and so right, but when I’m wishing, someone did die on that operating table, a man did, but - well. But she looked down at the face staring back up at her and she knew that face - from newspapers, from television, from anything - and she knew who he was and she knew that he had no business and no right walking through her city unguarded and free, knew that it was down to him that so many people other couldn’t, and even more couldn’t walk free and careless, and she knew no one official could lift a hand to stop them. And Joan Watson - Joan Watson read every vigilante superhero comic she could get her hands on, and she read the deconstructions and picked the holes in the holes, and her mother begged her out of the military but she still has some of the instinct of a soldier, and she knew by seventeen that the legal system was broken enough that she didn’t wnat to join the police force, but that desire and that childhood dream never left her, and this man does not deserve to be living free and if he walks away tonight then he will only take more people’s lives to pieces, and she holds lives in her hands every day too and she’s always done everything she could to keep them inside someone’s skin, but she is never, never once unaware of how much risk is riding on her steadiness and surety. And usually it’s a caution - not a fear, because steadiness and surety she can provide as easily as she can provide the cells of her skin, but a caution - usually it’s a reminder that what she does is vital, that she does things that others couldn’t. And this time, well, it’s still a reminder that she has a chance and power that many don’t, but this time it’s all temptation -
and Joan Watson does not end up side by side with Sherlock Holmes rather than Moriarty by an accident of chance or timing or by fear of the breaking of laws; when she finds herself crisscrossing the alleyways of her home, her city in pursuit of those who’d savage and feed on the people who bring that city to life rather than to siphon that glory into her, when she risks her life and freedom to bring the dangerous down, and she does it smiling sharp and thrilled enough to cut the wind, she’s not doing that with anything she hasn’t carried with her for longer than she’s carried her earliest memory, and all Sherlock Holmes did was unlock it. And she’s fighting alongside loose cannon Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes who’ll commit four felonies to catch a murderer, Sherlock Holmes who knows and likes more criminals than your average crime lord, Sherlock Holmes who has more than once caught a murderer by inviting him out for a drink and scanning him over and hitting a button on the phone in his pocket - she’s fighting next to him rather than this series’ Lestrade or Sally Donovan for a reason too. Because to Joan Watson, right and wrong are about what you do and why you do it and how hard you try, and legal and illegal are about what you risk by doing it.
And there, before Sherlock Holmes but with everything that he lets her let loose still bottled up inside her waiting, looking down at an unrepentant killer helpless with his guts open under her hands, with the ever-increasing lack of faith in the workings of the world soaking into her and her throat still sore from screaming about how it should not be this hard to hammer someone for putting their hands on her - with all that, well. A patient dies on the operating table. And when she thinks back, she cannot remember ever exactly making that choice in so many words, but she thinks about hearing his heart stop on the monitors and she knows that it wasn’t an accident either.
And no one ever learns that but Sherlock Holmes.