#Man in Tweed

[brodingles]

Had to let some complicated emotions out. Have some doodles.

[doverstar]

was today years old when discovering that the eleventh doctor wears leather trousers. his trousers are made of black leather. Black leather with the ends rolled up and I. have no idea what to think-

[incomingalbatross]

Pet gets her first phone as a present from Zero at the end of Between Jobs. However, given that Zero himself didn't have one earlier, it's reasonable to assume he got his own first phone at the same time, so that he'd have a way of communicating with her.

And, given that, it's also reasonable to assume Athelas is the one who picked out and set up both their phones.

[tweedfrog]

Ok I've been thinking abt it some more and maybe the Alicent/Criston/Gwayne scene is meant to represent an inversion of normal relationship dynamics in the same way other relationships Alicent has are inverted?

There's a post going around by Mylestoyne talking about how Alicent/Otto are a father and a daughter who act like a husband and a wife while Alicent/Viserys are a husband and wife who act like father and daughter.

With Gwayne he's been away at the Hightower for years and theyve barely seen one another. Their whole interaction on screen in ep 3 is Alicent mentioning that she's happy that they are together "even briefly" and him insulting someone she's close to and then he kisses her hand and walks away.

Meanwhile Criston and Alicent have spent half their lives together, and they bicker at small council meetings and she bosses him around like an older/younger sibling. Except they're actually fucking. And then he embarasses her by asking her for a favour while she glares at him (annoying brother behaviour methinks)

So you've got Alicent in another inversion of normal relationship dynamics with a Brother who gets a Lover's parting and a Lover who she treats more like a Brother.

[strohller27]

No really

when I said

I was taking

screencaps of him

every 0.0053 seconds

i wasn't actually joking

help me lads I'm trapped in here it's been hours

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

"I couldn't find the spot where Frank had hidden the bag with the clothes. You can't imagine how cold I was until I found them."

Vincent Price as The Invisible Man

The Invisible Man Returns (1940)

[a-finnish-janitor]

Alan wearing clothes from Alan Wake 1 and Alan Wake's American Nightmare - Writer's Journey videos

[waugh-bao]

[hawnks]

Continuation of this

Pietro clutches at her skirts, but reels back obediently when she smacks his desperate hands.

“Please, my sweet,” he begs, trailing after her, resisting the urge to grab her again. “Please talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Kelsi doesn’t deign to look at him, simply storms through the estate — a historic castle that had been rather beautiful before her death — hunting down any scrap of her old life.

Her satchel and carpetbag are still in the downstairs closet, exactly where she left them. Even the contents is untouched, a few crumpled receipts and an expired granola bar buried inside.

She grabs both, and the big, red rain coat. Pietro always used to hide candies in the pockets; she stops herself for checking for one.

When she emerges from the closet, he’s directly behind her, so close she can see the tears budding in his eyes, not yet fallen. She doesn’t soothe him—she won’t.

The kitchen is dilapidated. She can’t find anything edible, only food so spoiled it can hardly be considered food at all, and a staggering amount of coffee grounds. Maybe he’d been surviving on caffeine alone, these past years.

“Please,” he tries again. “Kelsi, please?”

“You know my thoughts, Doctor.” She pushes past him, up the stairs to the second floor. The boards creak miserably under her weight, untreated, in poor condition. “I am very, very, very upset with you.”

Despite the derelict condition of the rest of the castle, her room could almost be considered clean. There’s a fine layer of dust on most of the surfaces, but it’s clear that the bedding has been washed somewhat recently, the curtains beaten to get rid of the worst of the residue buildup.

Her wardrobes contents is different, although not how she would expect. New clothes, garments shes never seen before, are hung amidst the rest. They’re soft to the touch, don’t show the signs of deterioration and rigidity that come with neglect.

Pietro had regularly washed each each of them by hand, ironing them carefully before returning them to their rightful place. He wasn’t sure why. During the first few months, he thought she should be comfortable, when she returns. Soon enough he hardly thought at all. It was more of a ritual, a lower-brain habit, to tend to her things, to hunt for any remnants of her scent among the items, to imagine her, vital and alive in these spaces.

She understands this, somehow, without a word. Another exhibit of the madness that consumed him in her absence. Grimacing, she starts shoving fistfuls of fabric into her bag, indiscriminately.

At the bottom, tucked away in the corner, is a pair of boots. Pretty, but functional, fine, embroidered details and treated leather.

The night before she died, she’d complained about her feet aching. They’d surveyed the entire surrounding woods, an arduous endeavor that left her exhausted, sore. He’d gifted her a warm balm, of his own recipe. Awkward as he placed it into her hands; he’d wanted to rub it into her tender muscles himself, she could see the desire in him. But it was a line neither of them had ever broached, a delicate, tremulous thing.

He’d pulled her out of deadly mires. She’d plucked poison barbs from his skin. They’d both risked their lives and reputations for each other, again and again. They knew one another better than anyone. At times it seemed like they could read each other down to the flickering soul.

And yet, there was another distance impossible to broach. Not due to lack of courage, but careful sensibility. It required investigation, a steady hand. Whatever it was between them, it often felt as fragile as spiders silk.

Now it was snapped, forever.

Kelsi shoves into the boots, swallowing down her distaste. It was this, or go barefoot on her journey. She snaps her bags closed. She’s ready to be gone.

Pietro stands in doorway, preventing this.

His head is bowed, fearful of her gaze, but even hunched his height is imposing. She always thought of his as a sproutish man, lean and lanky, but facing him now she’s not sure she could beat him, physically.

“Can you please—“ he bites his lip. “Can’t you be very, very, very upset with me here? Where you’re safe? Where I can see you?”

Kelsi just breathes for a moment. She’s so incensed her rage has surpassed physical revile; she’s only focused on undoing what’s been done, now. “No,” she tells him.

She takes a step forward. And another. They’re toe to toe, and she can almost feel his heart beating, a rabbit-quick pulse. His cheeks flush.

He presses himself into the doorframe, letting her pass. Yielding.

He falls in stride behind her. “Dearest, please. Things are not as you remember them.”

“I know,” she snaps. “You did that.”

His fingers brush her sleeve, cautious but beseeching. “Where are you going?”

“To get them out. I will extract them. Somehow.”

It takes a moment for her to realize Pietro is no longer right behind her. He’s paused in the center of the lobby, staring at her. His expression is hard to decipher, agony and confusion and something without a name.

“You can’t,” he says. She can barely hear it.

“I’m certain I’ll find a way. If there’s any trace of them left in me, I will pluck it out.”

“You can’t,” he says again, louder. “You’ll die.”

She shakes her head. “I already did.”

The great door was never her first choice for access. It’s twice her size, and so heavy she has to throw her entire weight against the wood to budge it. Pietro is saying something to her, but she can’t make it out, too focused on escaping his madness to try.

Finally, the door rocks open.

On the other side is a giant, bloodwasp.

The creatures, roughly the size of a toddler and infinitely more dangerous, had all but vanished from the estate and its surroundings after Pietro’s carnivorous plants took root. Kelsi hadn’t seen one for years after she moved in.

She’s certainly not prepared to deal with one, now.

In her shock she doesn’t hear the click of the bullet in the chamber, but the sound of it firing her knocks her to the ground.

The wasp falls too, dead, a perfect shot through the eye.

Pietro rushes to the door, shutting it quickly. Beyond him, Kelsi spots the thrumming bodies of at least three more wasps. Who knows what their numbers are, how many lurk outside.

Pietro sinks to his knees at her side, bundling her up with an arm around her shoulders, a look of ardent concern on his face. In his other hand, the revolver is still steaming.

“I meant to tell you that the roads are no longer safe,” he says, “but you wouldn’t listen. Now, let’s talk about this like civilized adults.”

But he makes no move to release her. Simply holds her there, against his chest, reveling in skin that’s warm again.

Weakly, Kelsi asks, “Dr. Pragma, where did a scholar learn to shoot like that?”

[madtomedgar]

Feeling deflated about the state of domestic wool and yarn production lads

[dp-op]

[castintothepod]

Cuz baby

You are my annnngeeeel

[tweedfrog]

If GRRM had gone to see a different Robert Taylor movie as a kid we may have gotten a red haired ashara dayne and also had ASOIAF set in Old Valyria

[macospersonalhell]

thinking of making a Bioshock tma AU. this in fact appeals to only me and maybe one other person.

[atlas-affogato]

I got a nice coat and a good blazer from the thrift for less than 10 bucks, I'm winning

[recitedemise]

Interesting. As great as his love is for all things Weave, Gale can't say he's leant toward spells more clerical. He's dabbled in all sorts, of course, even sampling in flavors tremendously necrotic, but thatching up wounds and mending back flesh? Well, that, admittedly, was more Jenevelle's thing. It's why he's here today, a slight flutter in his chest as the apothecary nears. He's been hurting, aching, his chest still pink with the freshness of his scar, and gritting his teeth has done wondrously little. No. It's time for magic. A healing touch.

"A lovely little place, this. Oh, but you came enthusiastically recommended--well, in a manner of speaking, of course, though should any dour-faced clerics come sauntering in at all, I would appreciate forgetting I ever said that." Jenevelle, he means. Gale walks in, feeling the rippling Weave off every sun-lit corner. He smells all manners of herbs, the air thick with the smell of earth and green, but the latent magics calling to his orb... The potency seems a bit comparable to her. "Ahem. I hear you're quite the aspiring practitioner of magic. Always pleasant to see. Your wares feel considerably better than the usual fare I would find scattered about--though I may require something a bit more...'tailored.' And I hear you're quite the seamstress." / @miidnighters ♡'d.