#i can see her so clearly in my mind

[ageless-aislynn]

Why'd you have to leave so soon? Why'd you have to go? Why'd you have to leave me when I needed you the most? 'Cause I don't really know how to tell you without feeling much worse I know you're in a better place, but it's always gonna hurt

[bethrnoora]

do u think allison gordon and peter strahm's ex wife ever explored each other's bodies

[ghouljams]

Here's cowboy!Ghost's "guest" house on the Price family ranch

[isagrimorie]

In season 2 Hotch is suspicious and worried that ‘Is that Legal’ Emily Prentiss is a pawn Strauss placed in the BAU.

Prentiss is the last person troubled by Elle Greenaway's 'questionable' shooting. Spies are built with moral ambiguities. But Hotch didn't know that.

(Pre-London Emily tried to reset her life. And succeeded before Ian Doyle re-entered her life. Post-London!Emily realized and learned she could 'live' with her moral ambiguities.)

[doctorwhoarchive]

as someone who absolutely adored Sam/Melissa in Scream 5 while most everyone else was hating on her and her acting, I’ve been thinking about this for a while and can honestly write a whole dissertation on this SO

Melissa was never a bad actress in 5. I’d argue it all comes down to how Sam was written and that she was intentionally a little more stoic. And then, as soon as Melissa had more input on the character and fought to give Sam more complexity in 6, suddenly everyone loved her and was praising her for “getting acing lessons”. Someone doesn’t just improve their acting that much in the few months timespan between when 5 came out and 6 was filmed, she was always that good!

The real reason I’m writing this though is because there’s a certain subtle aspect of Melissa’s acting that I’ve never seen anyone talk about before, but it might just be my favorite thing about her portrayal of Sam. MELISSA’S BODY LANGUAGE ACTING IS INCREDIBLE AND IT’S TIME WE SPEAK ABOUT IT!!

Maybe it’s just the mental illness in me that sees the same things I do in her, but a lot of little things she does/the way she carries herself stick out to me and I love it so much. The way she crosses her arms like she’s closed off whenever something particularly bad or uncomfortable is happening (she does this in shrine scene when Tara catches her talking to Billy, at the police station after Gale is attacked, and in 5 when she begins to tell Tara about finding the diary), the way her leg bounces when she’s nervous/anxious (like when she’s talking to Danny after the ladder scene), the way she fiddles with her hands (like in the scene right after she’s attacked in the hospital in 5), it all really catches my attention and it’s so subtle but perfect.

Melissa’s crushing it as Sam, and was way before everyone finally started appreciating her performance in 6. When I see her do those things I’m like!! I do those exact things too! It may not be a big deal to anybody else and they may not even notice it, but I notice it and absolutely love it and feel seen by it. It just feels like Melissa really put the time, effort, and thought into Sam and her mannerisms to make her a more well-rounded character, and I just think we all need to talk about it more.

[wyvernquill]

Finally some more Dreamling Anastasia AU!

(Obligatory link to the masterpost with all the other posts in this AU - it's also pinned at the top of my blog!)

So, it's been... a while... but I've recently finally got some motivation to write a bit more of this. Apologies to everyone really looking forward to the finale/resolution - I've decided to go all the way back to the start of the story, instead. I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!

(Tag list: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-kingdom - since it's been a, uh, really long time, please let me know if you're no longer interested in this AU/fandom and don't want to be tagged anymore, I won't mind! On the other hand, if someone else would like to be tagged in future updates, please let me know!)

---

“Sister… it’s me.”

The man on the dilapidated theatre’s stage shrugs a heavy, moth-eaten velvet coat off his narrow shoulders. It crumples into a dark semi-circle around him, releasing a dramatic cloud of dust.

“Dream… of the Endless~”

.

“Ah. Hm.” A somewhat fussy older gentleman in the empty space usually reserved for the audience adjusts the small circular glasses on his nose, grimacing in a polite and distinctly English way - which he has, once, after first coming to this realm and taking this form, spent hours practising in the mirror - while checking a long list in front of him. “Mr… Carter, was it…?”

“Oh, please.” The man on stage flicks back his white-streaked bangs. “Call me Hal.”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Hal.” The gentleman purses his lips. “That was… not, er. Not terrible, I suppose. And we’re pleased to note that you appear to have… brought your own cloak.”

“Don’t get used to it. Zelda and Chantal only let me borrow it for the audition.”

“Well, it is a lovely cloak. Only, ah, while Dream of the Endless was known to have quite striking eyes, I do think that, perhaps a little less eyeliner…”

“I could tone it down, I suppose, but I really think the performance would lose something without the makeup.” Hal sighs melodramatically. “I can sing and dance too, if you need it for your… what is this audition for, actually? Play? Music hall show? Ooo, one of those moving pictures?”

“Er.” The gentleman fidgets with his cane, grass-green eyes flickering around the empty theatre. “Well-”

“Thank you, Hal.” The younger man beside him interrupts with a winning smile that only barely covers the boredom and frustration lining a rather ruggedly handsome face. “We’ll let you know.”

“Hm.” Hal, clearly enough of an old hand in the acting business to know a polite “you’re not getting the role, piss off” when he hears one, frowns, and bends down to gather up the borrowed cloak, stalking off towards stage exit right with his head held high, not deigning either of the two men with even one more look.

“...I really do not think this will work, young Robert.” The older man mutters, decisively striking through Hal Carter’s name on his list. It is the last. “None of them look even remotely like him. And the voice-”

“I know, Gil. I know.” The younger man, Hob - only Gilbert is proper and precise enough to call him Robert - rubs at his temples, as if to stave off a headache. “They never manage to get the voice right, do they.”

“Ah, if it were only that…” Gilbert sighs, setting the list down. His eyes are soft and unfocused, seeing far into a past that has long since been razed to the ground. “His Lordship, he… he had a certain air about him, you understand. An otherworldly strangeness. He was the dream-maker, and dream-made, and to look at him was to gaze upon infinity.”

A soft scoff.

“Even if we claim that he has been greatly reduced by being turned into a meagre human - no offence, dear friend - as long as he does not have some spark of endlessness about him, nobody who has ever met him would fall for the ruse. And we are attempting to con his family. I simply cannot see any viable path to success.”

Hob does not respond, for a moment, picking up one of the flyers on their table.

It reads:

.

SEEKING Actor, slender, pale, tall, dark-haired, in the 20-40 age range to play the role of Dream of the Endless (method actors preferred). Generous pay and further benefits await. Auditions each weekday at 6pm at the Old Whickber Street Theatre, Soho. Ask for Hob and Gil.

.

“We’ll find him.” Hob insists. “The perfect pretender. He’s out there, I just know it.”

“We are not the first fools who have attempted a, a caper of this sort.” Gil points out, almost gently. “None of the others ever succeeded.”

“Yes. Well. None of the others managed to find and correctly identify the late Dream’s own pouch of genuine dream-sand on sale at the black market.” Hob shoots back, gesturing at the cord just barely peeking out from under Gil’s collar. (They’ve decided it would be safer if Hob comes into contact with the sand as little as possible, and Gilbert has taken to carrying it as closely to his heart as he can manage.) “It’s hard evidence, Gil, it’s a sign, it’s our chance - and it might just be enough. The trick with a good con is really making it look like you’re giving the mark exactly what they desperately want… and there’s nothing in the world Death of the Endless wants more than to have her brother back.”

.

(She wants it so desperately, in fact, that she’s offering immortality to any sentient being who manages to procure Dream for her.

And, well.

There’s nothing in the world Hob wants more than to live forever…)

.

“Your word in- or, well, kept out of Destiny’s ears, young friend.” Gil sighs, collecting his lists and notes and the remaining flyers, tucking them into his coat and reaching for his cane. “In the meantime, how about we go down to the public house and have a bit of a snifter to wash away the memories of all those atrocious performances, eh, my lad?”

“Best idea you had all day, Gil.” Hob grins, clapping a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “Are you buying?”

Gilbert raises one grey brow. “At the risk of provoking a joke regarding my non-human status: in your dreams, Robert.”

Hob laughs; and, together, they step out into the winter night, old snow crunching under their shoes and new flakes beginning to drift, gradually, down from the sky.

.

.

.

It has been a decade since the end of the Endless’ reign.

Ten years since humanity tore Destiny’s book from his hands and burned it.

Ten years since Destruction abandoned his siblings, hiding away in his own, separate exile. 

Ten years since Despair’s first aspect was killed, and another took her place.

Ten years since Delight went mad with grief and became Delirium…

.

And ten years since Dream of the Endless was captured, bound, turned human, and killed.

.

People still whisper about it. Still speculate, trade gossip and hearsay back and forth. Some insist that the Dream King yet lives, hidden away, turned human, just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to return to his siblings.

It’s a lovely legend, Hob supposes. A fitting end and non-end, for the Lord of Stories, to live on in one… but that’s all it is. A pretty tale, which will breathe new life into a myth only for as long as it’s being told. It isn’t true…

…but now, ten years later, Hob and Gil will damn well make it so.

.

.

.

Ten years is also, coincidentally, all that a man a few streets down from the old theatre can remember of his life.

Ten years since he was found, naked and emaciated and bleeding, in a ditch next to some countryside road in East Sussex.

Ten years of fighting his way through a life in poverty, with no family, no friends, no-one to care for him, except perhaps the birds.

Ten years of strange and haunting dreams, blurred faces calling out to him with names he can never remember later but knows are his; ten years of waking every morning with tears on his face and a longing for someplace - and someones - he wishes he could remember; ten years of a woman’s voice begging him night after night to come home to her, to them.

.

Ten years of being much too busy starving and freezing and barely surviving to spare even a single thought to the dying legends of the Endless.

.

This man turns his face up to the sky, snowflakes catching in his dark hair and on his coat like stars glinting in the night; and he shivers, his breath clouding mist-white in the air, curling thin arms around a narrow torso.

(For a moment, just a moment, his eyes glow dark and infinite, a mirror to the night sky and the endless universe beyond.)

And then, he ducks his head down into his scarf, shivers again, and continues on through the snow.

Ten hard years have taught this man better than to waste his time standing about and daydreaming.

[maliciousalice]

Hear me out (or don't... it's fine I'm just venting and mean) yeah um I don't believe Chakotay was saved in Prod*gy s2.

[salempie]

Hi! Thank you so much for the feedback about my Elka art! I really appreciate it. And now the question : What would Elka's mental world look like? I was wondering what you could suggest about this. It always seemed to me that the symbol of her world would be a mirror

Well actually my boyfriend and I had an idea for Elka's brain world we called "Elka's Ever-after!" I need to write down some big document for all the ideas we had about it but for now [should put a tw for like, idk, I think Elka would be an alcoholic as an adult. Theres a vague reference to that here? I mean Bobs Bottles exists so--]

It was a little 50s sitcom-type world, all in black-and-white and such, complete with it's own laugh track! Mostly it would be a representation of the "perfect" life she had always wanted for herself (the one she had pictured in all her years chasing after Nils and their predestined relationship (that as a child she conveniently ignored meant it was doomed to fail)), all with its own dandy Nils stand in, "The Husband," and their two darling regret children. The "plot" of the brain world (in the sense that, if someone were to go into it the "goal" of the world in order to "fix her issues") would be to disrupt this, although perfect, entirely fabricated life Elka, or rather "The Housewife," had made for herself.

The Housewife is stuck in a miserable marriage she pretends is perfect, but the signs are there. The cigarettes, the empty bottles, the constant misfortune written on the calendar on the fridge, the non-stop bad news on the television and the radio and the newspapers. It's obvious things are bad. But Elka is too proud, and far more than that, too resigned to what she sees as her predestined fate to even attempt to change anything. So she just tries to make sure everyone else thinks it's all as perfect as she always told them it would be, even in her own brain world.

She cant change the miserable future her visions showed to her, so why bother even trying? She feels helpless. Her visions are more in control of her own life than she is. There's a lot that I'm skipping for the sake of not rambling on and on, but the end of her world, I think, would be set in her childhood home (rather than the "perfect" home The Housewife lives in.) A little child Elka sitting in the dark of her living room in front of her TV, playing her first vision on loop. The start of all her issues, the beginning of the end of any control she felt over her life. It's mentioned she has a vision of a puppy getting run over in the Li-Po doc and I take that as being one of if not her first vision, so of course she's upset. Giving her the remote to the TV would be symbolically showing her that she is in control, that she doesn't have to just do whatever her visions say, that she has a choice in her life, that she doesn't have to just watch it all happen.

Heart! I could go a LOT into the intricacies of how it all plays out (and I will if you'd like but it would just be a written play-by-play of how I think going through the world would be (complete with bossfights!) from the perspective of Kitty and Franke since they're the ones going through her mind in my and my boyfriends Au!), with all the symbolism and whatnot, but this answer is already long enough.

All in all I have thought about this a lot (,'. Though I do think mirrors could really be a big thing for her. A lot of her issues, including not feeling in control, I also think would stem from her mother treating her precognition as a parlor trick. I think she would see a lot of her mother in herself (and father too for that matter. I figure Barney is the one who cheated (though mostly because of Mable's unhealthy obsession with bad predictions, not that that is an excuse) and I also figure he and Elka were close due to them both being psychics and having their unique precognition. So him leaving would put a lot of strain on her.) and hate that, so mirrors could be a fantastic symbol of that.

[citrus-sours]

Curly laughing after Jimmy finds the gun that Anya hid, litteraly right under his nose. I have to wonder if it's an ironic laugh, laughing at himself, how he he misses things in plan sight. Right in front of him but not wanting to look. Rarrrgh dead pixels and shit brother. I think about curlys laugh so fucking much the only other moment that holds a candle for me is Daisuke's blood trail from the vent and knowing despite his injuries he still persisted because he was so fucking scared for his coworkers. His friends. And also Jimmy using his empathy against him and manipulating him and convincing him he's the only one who can save them, who can fix this in that moment.

[sexynetra]

hello! i was planning on drawing the rawnsyf characters, but i don't really have a clear idea of what every character looks like. do you have any examples of what the characters would wear on a day-to-day basis?

OMG WHAT THATS SO SWEET 😭 😭 😭

For Marcia I generally imagine her in like preppy pastel 2 or 3 piece sets that have a kind of 50’s meets 90’s vibe, very reminiscent of her premiere episode yk? Skirts and sweaters and matching tops. She also of course has her matching workout sets that she wears all the time :)

Anetra I think is a little harder to pinpoint, I don’t think her style is as distinct. I generally imagine her a little more on the light grunge side, like big t-shirts and cargos and flannels and leather jackets, but I also think she’s still figuring out herself and her sense of style so there’s definitely more wiggle room with the way she presents herself haha — just definitely not hyper femme and retro like Marcia

I hope this is helpful somewhat!!! Lmk if you want any other characters and also omg I am still kvelling this is so incredibly sweet I am HONORED that you want to draw my girls 🥹🥹🥹

[thedailyvio]

Day 253

[bookshelf-in-progress]

It's a good sign I'm recovering from my creative slump that I was able to brainstorm a story that makes me laugh.

[nejackdaw]

Thinking about Celann and his ever present grief at the life he could have had, he and his wife and (he always hoped) their daughter. A life where he was a father--he'd hardly ever wanted anything more than that. So full of love he was ready to burst and needed somewhere to put it, wanted a life with his favorite girls.

Thinking about how the ever present desire haunts him no matter how deep he buried it. It keeps coming back, relentlessly, this anguish that he threw it all away. He could have had exactly what he wanted and he was stupid enough to abandon it all, and for what? Because he was upset? But then he always remembers how hollow he felt after the incident, like if you rapped him with a knuckle you'd hear he was just a shell. He forgives himself, then, remembers how wrong everything felt, and he thinks about all the time he spent desperately trying to make everything feel right again.

Remembers when he realized he was the problem, what needed to be fixed. Removed.

He abandoned the life he had and every dream he'd ever held close because he wasn't him anymore. Celann would never have killed anyone, would never have done... that. He was some other Celann, different, trying to make himself fit in the life of a man that no longer existed. And so he left.

And he has no right to ache so badly at the thought of what he gave up, no right to ache at the loss of a family (of two families, but he starts thinking that and breaks every time, so he's gotten good at simply skipping over the thought) when he was a killer--an adept one, a practiced one--that could mangle and maul and kill and do it again and again. What right does he have to still want that happy little dream?

But the dream is a ghost and it haunts him, is there every time he's out on a supply run and sees kids playing around the marketplace, sees women cradling infants and fathers carrying sons on their shoulders. (He reminds himself of the blood on his hands, is scared he might stain them with it if he reaches out to touch them.) It's there when he has a bag and his axe hanging from his hips and finds a girl crying for her mother, lost and separated, jostled by the crowd.

It's there as he calms her, kneeling on wet and gritty stone, hovering between her and the flow of the crowd so they give her space. He lifts her and holds her against his side with one arm and something in him weeps, feels something soft in him as her tiny weight settles and she starts chattering at him about the groceries she and her mother came to buy.

They weave their way through the marketplace as they help each other--she tells him where he can find what he needs, and he silently curses the nords and their height as he tries to peer over shoulders to catch a glimpse of the woman she described--and that cold weight that's usually settled in his chest, his grief and remorse, lightens with every step. She's warm through his sweater and splutters indignantly every time the ever changing wind blows her brown hair into her mouth and he laughs, quiet and warm.

They check places she's already been, in case her mother doubled back looking for her, and take detours so Celann can fumble to place newly acquired groceries in the bag beneath her, unwilling to hold her over the side with his axe and equally unwilling to put her down, awkwardly shifting her weight as she laughs at him. He's silly for buying such expensive things, she tells him, and he light heartedly tells her Skyrim is silly for not having the things he used to use in High Rock. The revelation he hasn't always lived in Skyrim excites her to no end, and the rest of the trip is a Q&A of the sort only a small child can provide.

He feels warm inside, in his chest, where usually he feels vaguely cold at best, and for a moment he's reluctant to relinquish her when they finally find her mother, guided by the sounds of panicked calls of her name. There's a fond sadness as he sets her down on the stones again, and the woman looks at him oddly for a moment before the look turns knowing, though he's sure the conclusion she reached is slightly off.

She quietly asks if her daughter reminds him of her. He stands there silently for a moment, looking down at the little girl as she rifles through the things her mother's found.

He tells her yes.

[laniidae-passerine]

decided that in my own personal canon, Santiago’s maker looked similar to Louis, simply because Ben Daniels stated that Santiago was very likely in love with his maker. and wouldn’t it be some kind of torture to fall in love with the man who murdered your first vampiric love? to then watch him fall in love with another, who bears an eerie resemblance to that first love? to be witness to something tender and affectionate blooming, every moment a memory of how none of those you’ve adored have ever wanted you back? it would be agony. it would be torture. god, you would just hate them to pieces, loathing even as you loved them. and you wouldn’t know peace - not until the whole pack of them learnt the horror of love, just as you have.

[gracemarkss]

trying to gather my thoughts on unruhe. something about this exchange is so vital to me…about how scully maybe isn’t as natural a seeker as mulder. about how her work as a pathologist is focused on “how” rather than “why”…whereas mulder’s profiling is the inverse. a woman is dead and a man killed her and no amount of probing the inner workings of his psyche, his dreams, his nightmares will remedy that situation. discovering the why doesn’t bring about any deeper sense of justice or peace. because really, no why could ever really explain the mundane horror of a woman’s abduction and murder. if anything, it just more starkly reveals the ugly simplicity of the human capacity for cruelty.

but i also love how later, she leans on the why. she channels mulder and his profiler brain. schnauz even picks up on it (“great. now they got you talking like sigmund freud,” in reference to him calling mulder freud during his interrogation). she asks him why he does it. why her. why this. why did his sister kill herself. why did his father do what he did. part of it’s to keep schnauz talking but it’s also another example of how she reaches for him, even metaphorically, in moments of fear and difficulty.

i also love how this episode, with its themes of unrest and strife and trouble, focuses on scully. mulder is usually the more restless character, always searching and seeking and chasing and moving. but scully is just as, if not maybe even more so. her mother’s remaining daughter. her father’s disappointment. a catholic to her bones, even as she lapses. a woman in a man’s job. who imagines a life to be a husband and kids and big sunday dinners, but who can’t stop following the mad man in the basement. who always insists she’s fine, who locks it all away, who chafes and squirms and explodes in impulsive incendiary bursts. who is always always trying.

there are just some things we don’t or can’t look too deeply into. if god is real, or why the woman in front of us is dead. scully will dig and scrape for proof and explanations for many things, but some interrogations aren’t worth the effort, or the fear of what might be found. some things just are, and they’re too big to move or change or overcome. women die because men kill them. what the hell does it matter?

[witchofthemidlands]

tales of the tardis is enough for me, it is, it really is, after all those years, jamie & zoe finally got their memories back & if that's the last we see of jamie mccrimmon that was fantastic, it was more than enough, there is & now will always be a conclusion

but

if i had to bring any classic who companion back to new (new?) who it would be jamie, it would always be jamie because the idea of jamie meeting a modern doctor sends me just a tad feral, just a a little bit balls to the wall feral.