tashastark1

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The year is 2056. The 30th doctor is David Tennant. He took over from David Tennant. His companion is played by David Tennant. The villain is David Tennant as David Tennant. The showrunner is David Tennant. You hear a knock on the door. It's David Tennant. He gives you a pocket watch. You open it and remember who you are. You were David Tennant all along.

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I started studying the basics of philosophy. I am currently reading A Brief History of Thought: A Philosophical Guide to Living by Luc Ferry, and it's pretty good for beginners! ​​

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The aesthetic of Sixteen Candles by John Hughes

1984

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Mystery Inc. but it’s the 1890s

Who had late Victorian Scooby Doo on their 2024 bingo card? Hmm?

The idea came to me when I was thinking about Sherlock Holmes and then remembered the iconic mystery solving gang hehe

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(via DT Asylum VK)

It looks marvelous.

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Dean first saw her in the semi-darkness of a club in a small, hot town with a sunny name, where he and his family were hunting a group of vampires from Minnesota.

She's got wonderful, lively eyes in the color of a young, deep forest. But deep at the bottom of these eyes, in the shadows of the forest, the sadness so acknowledged was hidden. 

He bought her a cocktail, and they got to talking. She had such a strange name: Buffy. In the next two hours, they discussed parents and younger siblings, which were like a pain in the ass, but you'd do anything for them. They're even discussing music.

Everything but the issue that brought him to this town.

The next day, Dean was fighting a particularly strong vampire when suddenly a lock of blond hair flashed behind him, and the vampire crumbled to dust.

Green eyes and hazel eyes met, recognizing each other and realizing how much they had in common. Loss. Fear for loved ones. A responsibility too great for such an insanely young human. The darkness that hugs their shoulders promises to return soon.

They did not even know how much they would have in common a few years later.

They never saw each other again, but texts from time to time, 'Hey, I'm OK, what's up, you?' 'hunting w my dad in Oregon, btw, remember arguing about the wendigo?'

He came to Sunnydale again a few years later. Sam was already in college. Alone with his father, Dean felt increasingly devastated. Albeit still desperately cocky and young.

But instead of a city, he found a massive sinkhole. The air was knocked from his lungs. Only by an effort of will, as always, as his father had taught him, he coped and hid his emotions. Moves on.

Until the following Christmas, a postcard arrived from Rome.

'I saved the world, Dean'.

She's going to be okay.

And one day, it would be his turn to save the world from disaster.

 

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Crimson Peak concept art by Guy Davis

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Inspired by how easy and good in three days I organized a writing sprint, today I started a sprint writing and reading on lectures about climate change and ecological urbanization. Walks through articles, reading 'the climate book', making notes, going deeper and enjoy, honestly!

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The Fall of the House of Usher 1.08 | The Raven (2023)

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“Love of a Lifetime” - Coco Rocha as Juliet, Roberto Bolle as Romeo photographed by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue magazine (December 2008)

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Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between...the drowsiness...and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police.

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Well, we all have a face

What we hide away forever,

And we take it out and show ourselves

when everyone is gone

Billy Joel — Stranger

•••

Natasha is a professional spy. She has worn masks all her life. Whether it's for work or her own safety, she does it so easily, as if at the snap of her fingers. La femme fatale or girl next door, pretty fool, penitent sinner. A flick of eyelashes, a raised eyebrow, just a subtle change in body language—and a new mask is on.

Over the years, she'd had to change hundreds of masks. Maybe more. She doesn't count. She looks into the cracked and dirty mirror in just one another trashy hotel in Budapest and doesn't know who she's looking for there.

There have been so many masks over the years that Natasha has forgotten who's the woman behind all of them. Who the real Natasha is. It seems that all those masks have rubbed against her skin forever.

Sometimes it seems to her that there is nothing underneath. The real Natasha is simply does not exist. She's a blank sheet ready to put on any personality you need. A faceless puppet, pulled by the strings by the Dreykov.

And then Natasha meets Barton.

He is absolutely impossible, really. His face is just too sincere and plain for a spy. It terribly shows all emotions so clearly.

Barton makes Natasha laugh a lot; Barton teases Natasha; Barton plays tic-tac-toe with her; Barton watches the Budapest on fire with her.

Barton looks at her and sees something she does not see.

Barton tells her old jokes and Natasha laughs, throwing back her beautiful head, laughs for the first time in years. They're each others shoulder to lie on. The back to feel safe.

Natasha looks in the mirror of trashy hotel in some godforsaken town while Clint sleeps in the next bed. For the first time in years, Natasha sees a woman behind all those masks. She's finally find her in his eyes.

The real Natasha, the one who is she with Clint.

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Sherlock Holmes was an otherworldly creature indeed. I am no man of superstition, although I vaguely remember my grandmother’s tales of daione sìth. Holmes did not distinctly resemble any of the fair folk, these light, ethereally beautiful golden-haired men and women, and yet somehow he gave the same impression. His smooth, almost catlike movements reminded me of cait-sìth and, in all honesty, during investigations he often was the very picture of a predator pursuing the prey or cat playing with mice. I could easily imagine him in the highlands of my homeland, windy and boundless, as to my mind he had the soul of Scottish winds, but I also understood perfectly well that there was no place for him anywhere except in London, hustling and bustling and pulsating with life, crimes and mysteries.

He was not completely detached from the human world, basically having an excellent understanding of human affections, related to the motives of crimes, such as love or envy, though his knowledge clearly came from prolonged observation rather than from personal experience. He was wise enough to seek my aid when something eluded his understanding, which I prefer to consider as a sign of trust on his part.

He was too theatrical or too aloof at times — traits that I mostly attribute to the eccentricity inherent in genius. He also aged much more slowly than me, but this could easily be associated with our slightly spreading ages and his lack of habit of taking anything too personally, which I am often guilty of. Although in the decade we knew each other, I turned almost half gray, and he remained largely the same, except for a couple of new wrinkles and heavier bags under his eyes.

His voice was the voice of a siren or ben-varrey and he had a natural gift of instantly capturing the attention of everyone in the room with the help of said voice and some kind of internal magnetism, which made people instinctively trust him and obey him.

And yet my favourite of his many noble traits I dedicated myself to immortalise was perhaps his benevolence. With such a mind, such power, it would be too easy to use it for evil, something we had unfortunately seen too many times. His gaze on me which I felt quite often was never heavy or insolent and had not ever bothered me. Clients — those at least who seemed nice and did not irritate him immediately — he treated with kind patience, amiable interest and generous if sometimes mannered hospitality, being rude not out of intention to offend, but simply out of his energetic, eccentric nature.

“I am afraid I have accidentally enchanted you, my dear friend", he suddenly said, somewhat sadly and apologetically, one quiet evening on Baker Street. “That kind of devotion that you show to me cannot be expected from any man under normal circumstances.”

“That kind of devotion,” I thought to myself ruefully later that night, “has nothing in common with sidhe’s enchantments.”

This is my first attempt to capture Jeremy Brett's magnificence, and I feel like I haven't done him justice, so there will probably be other takes. Also first attempt in publishing something on Tumblr and nearly first — in writing in English, so feel free to point out any mistakes.

Following a long and good fandom tradition, I consider Watson to be Scottish, hence the writing of almost all the creatures mentioned in Scots.

The cat-sith, whose existence I learned about unacceptably late and did not change anything much, is hunting in the Scottish wastelands. It has an unhealthy addiction to corpses, so it is recommended to distract him with games and riddles, as well as warmth. Doesn't remind you of anyone? However, while writing, I mostly thought about the classic sidhe, adjusted for, uh, almost everything.

I don't know myself whether he is a magical creature, think what you want. To be honest, being portrayed as a magical creature seems unfair to Holmes as a character — part of his charm for me is precisely the fact that he is human, an outstanding human being.

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The way he looks at him

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I've noticed that I get especially good-quality sleep when I experience these complex narrative dreams.

Today's:

- In my dream, I was both a vampire hunter and a vampire woman who was looking for a gang to enslave them. I visit a tavern in a small town and make an effort to get to know the owners, a kind married couple.

- that I am an explorer/naturalist (I suppose), and that I have arrived on a mountain somewhere in order to search for the habitat of some endangered elephants! I ascended a hill and emerged into a broad valley dotted with towering trees, gorgeous rocks, and a river. Elephants were really strolling along the river, and there was also the sound of a horn from somewhere I couldn't see. There are not enough words to describe how wonderful the image was: a beautiful detailed landscape that was truly breathtaking. After that, I get into my car and recorded my observations in my journal.

I have no idea where my brain gets it all from, but I'm so damn grateful for it