#John Alison

[dagerlin]

John Alison. 1980

[faulknercore]

Saw (2004) characters as eyeshadows !

[saintlyrena]

[claraoswalds]

DOCTOR WHO (2005-)

[motheroftheantichrist]

Okay, but the bathroom trap from Alison Gordon's perspective is insane. Imagine you and your daughter are being held at gunpoint by a kidnapper. Your husband can save you-- his wife and mother of his child-- himself, and his own daughter by giving a quick and painless death to a complete stranger. Instead he spends several hours playing twenty questions with some random twink while you desperately fight your way out of an unwinnable situation by the power of pure rage. This is why she fucking left you, Larry.

[diemydar1ing]

zeppelin forever ❦

[n1rvana34]

she's gets it 🙏

[rarilee33]

Doctor Swap au part 4- more of the cast, Cecilia post-trap (she doesn't become an apprentice).

Lindsey swaps with Amanda, Adam lives via Lindsey rescuing him from the bathroom, and becomes an apprentice. Along with Lindsey he accompanies John to England for the au version of X. Allison Kerry swaps with Alison Gordon. Parker swaps with Zep.

part 1 part 2 part 3

[featherwhiskered]

finally drew most of my designs! rejoice!

[itscalledsawpollscuzyousawpolls]

Whose most likely eat cardboard

Adam

Lawrence

Amanda

Alison

Diana

Detective Tapp

Detective Sing

John

Daniel

*you know that one headcanon where lawrence starts smoking after adam dies so that he can feel closer to him?

**if my husband sawed off his foot because I WON a fight with a kidnapper and then acted surprised when I asked for a divorce i’d eat a cardboard box in front of him too

[stastrodome]

Fun Facts. 100% verified.

Ariana Grande got her start in a Bangles tribute band called The Grangles.

According to University of California professor of psychology, Alison Gopnik, "The four saddest words are I have a podcast".

With the help of AI graphics, 20th Century Fox has developed a print of The Devil Wears Prada which automatically updates to "ensure Anne Hathaway's make-over outfits are less hilariously outdated".

Just months before he died, Pope John-Paul II told his American Cardinals he thought the character of Jen from Dawson's Creek was "sadly misunderstood".

The official cocktail of Massachusetts, the Cape Codder, is really just a vodka-cran with clams and a Parker House roll.

[honey-coloured]

Currently in love with the idea of “haunting the narrative”

+ king of literal haunting:

*Also Athena Liu from “Yellowface” would totally fit here

[showmethesneer]

Specifically @ the person who came up with the headcanon that Bender and Alison are twins. Fucking galaxy brain. I can't find the post right now but you are so right and you should say it and as an 80s movie aficionado, brat pack brat, and Breakfast Club fanatic in particular, i am so fucking obsessed with this headcanon. Sidenote: I have personally watched Andrew McCarthy's documentary Brats no fewer than 3 times in the past 10 days. I cannot recommend it enough.

So, since delving back into this world of 80s movies, I stumbled upon someone's very simple headcanon about Bender and Alison being twins and have now fully incorporated into my belief system. No one can fucking convince me otherwise at this point. It's so true, it's so real, that I see no other explanation. And when I told my sister, she tried to challenge this theory, but I have been shooting her down with a real like legitimate explanation every single time. These two share a single set of abusive parents, and the abuse manifests in two distinct ways. Bender is physically and verbally abused. Alison is ignored and neglected. These twins don't necessarily hang together in social settings, like in school, but you can't tell me that their chemistry and kinship is not totally off the charts. These two know each other and they are sincerely a part of one another.

Case in point: the part where, when Bender throws the soda can in the air and Alison catches it like without looking. These two are siblings. And then my sister goes but "you know there's a hole in your theory because he says to her 'I've seen you before' and you wouldn't say that if you were siblings." I said "no no no no no you are so wrong, you are overlooking the most important thing here, they are siblings and that is their inside joke. That is the way he teases her in public for her gothy, in the shadows persona. She tries so hard to not be seen and he's calling her out on it in a teasing way."

Furthermore, why is she hiding in the shadows and slinking around in the background? Because she has learned from her parents that if you are loud and obnoxious like her brother is, you will get your ass beat. Because that's what she has seen them do to him. So she adopted her stealthy in the shadows creeping around persona as a defense mechanism because of the physical abuse that her twin brother was suffering at the hands of their parents. I'm just saying it all clicks.

Everyone please watch Brats and revisit all the old brat pack movies. Class (1983) and St. Elmo's Fire fucking slap so much harder than I remembered the first time around.

[phramboise]

— gold dust woman :: lieutenantjohnpricexfemalereader

heart’s blood in ink piece, part II

tags and warnings: heavy substance use; blood, scars, death. this is more of an addiction piece than it is cod fan work, this is vivid imagery. none of this is romanticising.

wordcount: 1.1k

There’s a biro on the bedside table, and some napkin that she found that he put in her pocket, with nothing to write down in her language of inarticulate phrases. Should she wake him? What would she say if she does so? What would a dying person say? Would an apology of someone who kills herself deliberately be accepted? She should just let him sleep, that’s the better thing to do. There’s no fixing it anyway. Maybe she’ll writhe and hiss and that’ll be ugly. She doesn’t want him to remember her like that, she doesn’t want him to remember her at all. He’ll blame himself; he’ll make a mess out of it. Death feels futile until it comes. Somebody should’ve slapped the fact to her face, when dead there’s no him. Or it would be better if she were to be intoxicated now, it hurts to feel yourself dying.

Feels different. Feels heavier than grave. She should clean off her filth, she figures as much. Gets up and picks dusty ziplocks that she swiped in haste under their bed, wipes the glass table clean. Useless prospectuses and an ashtray turned upside down for her bedside carafe. Ash in the bottom of the bottle. Crystalline, her sybarite hair in morphs he loves best. Demure, a defatigable ennui. Puts on his favourite dress. She apologises, she cries silently. Then she washes her face, puts a bit makeup on. Forces herself to throw it all up so maybe she’d have another day without thinking of death, nothing comes out. Health is a hefty burden in her heart tonight. Has he ever seen a dead girl lying on his side?.. she puts on some more colour. They were supposed to go on a winter holiday this season. The dog has her vet appointment tomorrow.

He’s sleeping, she heads downstairs.

Swallow it down, there’s a clot down at her throat and it’s not of guilt this time. This one is physical, copper and iron, cocaethylene and dried blood, hints of cologne and sweat. Caramelised tobacco, blood scabs. They mix, scented lotion itches on her track marks, pooling some ill-warmth on red splotches of her wilting skin. She doesn’t remember the last time she had a dream. She doesn’t recall a REM sleep. She doesn’t remember the last time her hands were steady enough to hold the needle up to the insides of her elbow to inject it proper. She tries to settle with the veins of her hands, misses once, wastes one; pokes the vein through, wastes another. It melts in everywhere but the right places, it boils inside. Feels it swell, sees the thinned blood pooling under her skin instantly. She can’t be slow enough; she can’t be precise. Steady. Keep her hand still. She can’t find her clean straw, and saline spray is out. Her peripheral is blurry, and her skin is prickling hot, whisper-thin warm linen clings to her and she’s conscious of her breathing as it wheezes through snivels. She’s far too gone to cook and draw it anymore, -the latter try surely went straight to her brain- and everything in her tells her to just lay down, go back to his side to shake him to hold her through withdrawals. It’s not some impulsive want anymore; it’s a strangling need. A call, which she has no freedom to deny, a pull towards the ugliests of deaths. Fingertips grow colder as pearls clog veins, and some thunderclaps at the side of her brain. Nsaids were always a bad idea; now she literally feels the blood in her skull as it tingles her nape.

She sits at the base of the stairs. Knowing that the sun won’t shine this bright in one instant, it’s her eyes that are this sharp, stark white. It’s so white it almost buzzes at her ears; she won’t hear if she’s to make a sound. It’s funny how she prays. She thinks she wants to pray; she thinks she wants to redo it over. Relive it all from the start, and not do anything. Nothing to herself, nothing for herself. She wishes the thorny roses would caress, not wound his tender hands, she wishes that he would not drown in melancholy that is her. She wishes that a rain would wash away what she has rotted inside of him, that the flowers she could not bloom in would sprout within inside. She wishes so much for him that she forgets herself. She wishes he would always laugh. She wishes so much for him that she forgets herself; she loves herself when she wants him.

Hugs her knees to her chest. She thinks her mouth is making whispers up to the ceiling, her mind choosing words to make her seem faithful somehow. All that goes is a whine, and a hiss that living don’t speak.

It starts in her stomach, up to her heart. Nadir of her life, the tingling on her nape ivies around her arm, not letting go as she shakes it off. The horror and the wonder, yet she waits calmly for it to vanish for only a minute.

It will be over soon.

—

The flame of the candle had reached the end of the wick and began to drift like a drunkard struggling to stand. The last glow before it went out was a weak flutter. The candle goes out and the smell of paraffin reaches her nose for the last time with the rising smoke. She wiped her tears, sent a postponing mail to the vet, filled the dog’s food bowl for the morning, turned to head for the stairs to lie down next to him again.

No one slaps the death to her face; it’s herself that does it. Few steps intertwining, a limp body that thuds onto the parquet. A silent plea, one single tear, not a last breath but ragged gasps and her kind of snaste. She wanted it to be him, to decide for her, leave her no freedom. He’s the kind to lose the bets, bets on losing hands. One tight grip on her heart is what robs her the last bit of freedom to decide when and where to die. Harsher than a slap, hurts more than a needle through infected wounds. At least backlofen soothes the muscle. Each inch of her is burning, but at least he’s not here to see it. She couldn’t make it upstairs, laid on a proper position, ready. Now her mascara is ruined too.

;

Tomorrow morning, he’ll wake and find her on the ground. Solid and steady, not warm anymore. He won’t be angry for she didn’t keep her pinky promise, didn’t call him when she needed; he’ll feel he should’ve come over somehow. Her thought is the thorn that burgeons and rends, and her face is the very essence of the rose in his restless dreams.

Tonight, she spares him a sleep.

;;

I was about to give to ends for you to pick, the other was slightly happier. Then this happened. Thank you to you two anonymous angels who commented on heart’s blood in ink, and one other when I posted it for the first time- for this is just for you. I hope you’ll reach to me again to tell me what you think of this, if this is as expected, or if it’s moving if not. Lots of love 🤍

[wormhabitat]

looking at community cast pics on pinterest is my new hobby actually