wwillywonka

[wwillywonka]

oupy 👍👍

[wwillywonka]

TMP Spocko with his fuckass bob

[wwillywonka]

UPDATE - she's a rainbow (and i am a difficult man) - Chapter Two

In the past, the Hatter teaches Alice how to wield the Vorpal Sword. In the present, Alice returns to London. In which instance does she feel more like herself?

ao3 link

snippet below!

She is standing on her practise mat across from him, surrounded by the precisely cut marble statues and intricately manicured hedges of the White Queen’s gardens. The castle of Marmoreal, with its marble pillars and tanzanite trim stands proudly nearby. Cherry blossom trees line the cobblestone path that leads up to the decorated silver doors from the sandy, mountainous desert beyond. The circular towers, some of which look like upside-down chess pieces, are like wedding cakes slathered in buttercream, glistening in the cool morning light.

(Alice recalls a day she spent on the beach as a child when she realised she could make her own little castle-like structures. She simply gathered the wet sand in her palm and let it drip down atop itself until little spires formed. Margaret looked over from where she had her nose stuck in a book and remarked that such play was such a horrible waste of one’s time). 

The Hatter settles back on his own practise mat, rough leather boots falling heavily onto the rubber with the weight of the man’s burdens, of the importance of these training sessions. He holds his longsword firmly at his hip, elbow bent and angled forward as he prepares to strike. He bows, and Alice rushes to mirror him, struggling slightly with the unfamiliar weight of the Vorpal Sword in her hand, posture stifled and awkward. Hatter makes no comment but catches her eye, his irises a deep shade of grey. 

He strikes. 

Their blades meet, the sound of metal clashing against stronger metal filling the courtyard and echoing off the ceramic chessboard-patterned tile under their feet. Hatter grits his teeth, throwing the front of his sword towards her chest. Alice ducks, twisting her upper body away from him, before jumping upwards and lunging forward. He parries, blocking her easily. Clink! She swings, he dodges. Clank! He flits about with the grace of a hummingbird, the faded, verdigris colours of his form blurring in Alice’s vision. 

“Faster!” he calls, circling about her and darting once again out of the reach of the Vorpal Blade. “Stop holding back!”

With a groan of frustration, Alice swings her weapon over her head, remembering only as the thing is arched halfway toward Hatter’s face that one should never lead from behind. One of Hatter’s plaid-gloved hands darts out and pushes at the blunt side of the blade as he sprints away leftwards. Alice loses her balance, and her foot catches where ceramic meets grass. With a cry, she tumbles backwards, falling on her backside as the Vorpal Sword noisily clatters away. 

The air around them, which seemed only seconds ago to buzz with the energy of their exercise, has entirely stilled. The Hatter stands a little ways off under the shade and falling petals of one particularly large cherry blossom tree. He looks not the least bit ruffled (well, any more than usual, that is), the only sign that he was just engaged in battle being his slightly quickened breath. Panting, he swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, removing his hat and placing it under his arm. He lets out an exasperated huff and walks over, the storm in his eyes clearing.

He is so very like a flame, Alice thinks, the way he literally, physically changes colours depending on his circumstance — a contained flame, bright blue at the centre, especially in his turquoise coat. That deceiving colour, usually reminiscent of ice and clear skies and the patient calm at the middle of the ocean, is in truth the hottest part of any fire. This thought is only emphasised by how, as he towers over her, the ends of his auburn hair are haloed by the early morning sun. 

“That is the fifth time I’ve bested you, my dear.” He extends a hand and Alice takes it, more than a little embarrassed as he helps her stand. “And that is only counting today.”

She steadies herself, acutely aware of the armour’s weight pressing into her from all sides. With every step, it rattles against her like the rusted wheels of a carriage on crumbling concrete. She is grateful for the linen tunic (as scratchy as the material is) protecting her skin from the chainmail hauberk; she can already feel bruises blooming where elbow joint meets muscle. 

Taking in an unsteady breath, she brushes herself off self-consciously, even as the tattered ribbon of her companion’s hat flutters disorderly in the wind. “I’m sorry, Hatter. It’s only - Well, I didn’t want to hurt you.” Idly, she begins picking the dirt out of her hair. 

(Watching herself through her memory, the older Alice wants to shout at herself. She was such a shy little thing back then).

Hatter raises a bushy eyebrow at her. “Do you think you could , really? Because, so far, I’m wondering if perhaps Mally was right.”

He pulls a red handkerchief from the depths of his coat and begins to polish his sword, the “H” engraved on the golden, ivy-decorated hilt flashing in the sunlight. “Maybe you aren’t the Alice after all.”

[wwillywonka]

[wwillywonka]

TWIN PEAKS | 2.06 — “Demons” (1990)

It’s all right, Audrey, I’m right here. Audrey, I’m right here. I prayed.

[wwillywonka]

[wwillywonka]

remember kids

[wwillywonka]

genuinely so scary that you can't access the page on the ssc website that guides you through changing your sex designation. so so fucking scary. they are already making our lives harder. they are already taking what little resources we have.

[wwillywonka]

we should call it this again

[wwillywonka]

Kyle MacLachlan photographed by Frank W, Ockenfels, 1989

[wwillywonka]

The one thing men in the 1700s did right was have long hair they tie back into a low ponytail with a little ribbon and also have a few stray strands at the front. Almost everything else they did that century was inexcusable though

[wwillywonka]

DOCTOR WHO The End of Time: Part 2 | Jan 1st, 2010

[wwillywonka]

eyeshadow was popping

[wwillywonka]

the cultural boogeyman of the faker is such a convenient lie for ableism. Waste your time fighting about who does and does not deserve help, and maybe you wont realizes that there was never any help to begin with. The is no epidemic of malingerers taking up resources they don't need, there is a lack of resources for disabled people

[wwillywonka]

I have nothing more to say.

[wwillywonka]

Commission

[wwillywonka]

STAR TREK: VOYAGER // S2E13: Prototype