cortexiphanolivia

[cortexiphanolivia]

Fringe Rewatch: 73/∞

↳ 2.06 Earthling

#rip Lance Reddick #what a great actor and great guy

[cortexiphanolivia]

Thank you @havedeniability and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!

Tumblr this is so funny this is my post with the most notes ever and you’re like “wow kiddo! Way to try! Gold star!!”

Here’s some fun facts about one of my favorite stories being told in Hamilton: this is Ariana Debose, who plays a special role within the ensemble known as The Bullet. She’s killed for suspected espionage right after You’ll Be Back, and is the first one to die (not counting Hamilton’s mother or cousin who hangs himself). After this moment, she becomes an omen of death. At the beginning of Stay Alive, she carries a shot that narrowly avoids hitting Hamilton. In Yorktown, she helps Laurens kill a redcoat, shakes his hand, then Laurens is the next to die. In I Know Him, she’s the one bringing the message to King George about John Adams and symbolically heralding the impending doom of Hamilton’s political career. During Blow Us All Away, she’s the one who tells Phillip where to find George Eacker, (and flirts with him! Phillip is literally flirting with death!) then Phillip is the next to die. In Your Obedient Servent, she brings the desk on stage and hands Burr the quill to write the first of several letters that will eventually lead to Alexander Hamilton’s death. During the final duel, she again catches a bullet (fired by Burr), and if you watch her, she gets closer and closer to hitting Hamilton while he’s doing his soliloquy until Eliza pops onto stage. At this point, The Bullet is stopped by other members of the ensemble, the time freeze is abandoned, and we all know what happens‬ next. (soure: JC Payne)

#thank you #5 reblogs #tumblr milestone

[cortexiphanolivia]

When I Dream in the Gloaming of You

What are we? The thought comes unbidden, then lingers, hovers unspoken in his mind.

Clara’s seated next to him on the stone steps of what used to be called Westminster Palace (now the First Reformed Assembly of London, or some such thing). Well, she’s seated next to and a step higher than him, so that her head’s at just the right height to rest on his shoulder. It’s the day of the coronation of Her Majesty Elizabeth the Fourth of England- or was it the Sixth, he always did confuse the two- and his credentials had secured them both a prime seat here on the steps to watch the grand fireworks display in her honor. Clara had slipped her arm through his at the start of the spectacle, scooted in tight and tuck both of her hands under his for warmth.

The fireworks are impressive; the lights choreographed with music. Dozens of bubble machines stationed along the banks of the Thames threw bubbles into the sky to refract and reflect the flashes of color. If he looked at her now, The Doctor knows just how the gold would shimmer across Clara’s face; how the deep purples would paint around her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks; how the brilliant pink would be reflected by her softly parted lips. He doesn’t look.

Friends, his mind so helpfully supplies. You’re friends. He turns the word over in his mind, examines it with a detached, academic interest. Clinical. He knows it won’t fit, he’ll discard it for being too small, too ordinary a word to describe the one hundred and fifty or so petaseconds of feeling behind it.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighs and presses her body closer. She tips her head back, not towards the sky but towards him. Her nose, chilly at the tip, slides up along his neck and and nuzzles behind his ear.

“Yes, it is.” he tries to say, though nothing comes out other than puffs of breath in the cool air. Her own breath is warm on the cold, slightly damp skin of his neck, and she presses a kiss into the loose skin just below his jaw. Then another, slow and soft and over and over again.

It’s him, he thinks, the young one. Always handsome and silly and charming, how many hearts did he win, I forget? Maybe she can still smell him there.

She blinks and her eyelashes tickle the shell of his ear. “It’s you,” she says, bright an chipper, like she can read his mind. Of course she can.

He turns to look at her, finally, nudging her forehead with his chin so she’ll lift her face and he can see her properly. There they are, the colors flashing across her skin like dancing makeup; beautiful, rich, deep, sparkling colors, though still pale in comparison to such a canvas.

“What are we,” he says, this time out loud, though barely. He notes, perhaps bitterly, that it sounds more like a plea than a question. Unintentional but honest.

Clara smiles. He hates when she does that. Despises it. It’s too much. Too cheeky and too dimply and too bright. And her eyes, her eyes are always the worst. How do they crinkle just so at the corners like that, but still manage to look so wide?

It’s witchcraft, maybe.

She kisses the down turned corners of his mouth first, a hand placed on either cheek to guide him, as always, where she wants him to go. Then she kisses him full on the lips. She kisses softly and unhurriedly, mouth closed in the softest pucker, just as she had kissed along his jaw. Her fingers busy themselves in the too long hair that curls behind his ears and for a long while The Doctor doesn’t move.

Kiss her back, old man! comes the chiding from inside his mind. Right. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

Inside her mouth tastes of strawberries and lavender milk and the air around his childhood home after a storm. How is it that you taste like a place you’ve never been, he thinks. How is it that I can have this?

His hands settle just above her hips, holding but not gripping, and not wandering. She makes little sighing noises in the back of her throat, hums contended “mmm”s like she does after she’s taken a bite of a particularly good chocolate. They’re noises he files away in the good parts of his memory, the parts that don’t fade from one millennia to the next. From one life to the next. It’s all too precious, too tender, not to keep. It aches to imagine letting go.

Their kisses slow gradually, to light lazy nips, playful bumps of noses, and eventually Clara turns back to face the fireworks, her head again on his shoulder. He kisses her still; on her forehead just above her eye, then higher along the hairline.

“What are we?” she repeats his words back to him, her tone that of a primary school teacher asking a question to which she already knows the answer.

“Forever,” he answers.

When he wakes up he can still feel her, sweet and fresh and creamy on his tongue. The dream fades faster than he can reconstruct it, dissolves like tissue paper in the rain, impossible to salvage. All that remains is the taste of home, and a hint of sparkling brown eyes, and a word: Remember.

He wishes he could.

#just watched heaven sent and hell bent and I’m in my feels about #whouffaldi #dreamy sigh

[cortexiphanolivia]

SQUID GAME + foreshadowing

#excellent gifset #poor ali I was so mad #squid game

[cortexiphanolivia]

Happy Whouffaldi New Year!

#happy new year #whouffaldiedit

[cortexiphanolivia]

When I Dream in the Gloaming of You

What are we? The thought comes unbidden, then lingers, hovers unspoken in his mind.

Clara’s seated next to him on the stone steps of what used to be called Westminster Palace (now the First Reformed Assembly of London, or some such thing). Well, she’s seated next to and a step higher than him, so that her head’s at just the right height to rest on his shoulder. It’s the day of the coronation of Her Majesty Elizabeth the Fourth of England- or was it the Sixth, he always did confuse the two- and his credentials had secured them both a prime seat here on the steps to watch the grand fireworks display in her honor. Clara had slipped her arm through his at the start of the spectacle, scooted in tight and tuck both of her hands under his for warmth.

The fireworks are impressive; the lights choreographed with music. Dozens of bubble machines stationed along the banks of the Thames threw bubbles into the sky to refract and reflect the flashes of color. If he looked at her now, The Doctor knows just how the gold would shimmer across Clara’s face; how the deep purples would paint around her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks; how the brilliant pink would be reflected by her softly parted lips. He doesn’t look.

Friends, his mind so helpfully supplies. You’re friends. He turns the word over in his mind, examines it with a detached, academic interest. Clinical. He knows it won’t fit, he’ll discard it for being too small, too ordinary a word to describe the one hundred and fifty or so petaseconds of feeling behind it.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighs and presses her body closer. She tips her head back, not towards the sky but towards him. Her nose, chilly at the tip, slides up along his neck and and nuzzles behind his ear.

“Yes, it is.” he tries to say, though nothing comes out other than puffs of breath in the cool air. Her own breath is warm on the cold, slightly damp skin of his neck, and she presses a kiss into the loose skin just below his jaw. Then another, slow and soft and over and over again.

It’s him, he thinks, the young one. Always handsome and silly and charming, how many hearts did he win, I forget? Maybe she can still smell him there.

She blinks and her eyelashes tickle the shell of his ear. “It’s you,” she says, bright an chipper, like she can read his mind. Of course she can.

He turns to look at her, finally, nudging her forehead with his chin so she’ll lift her face and he can see her properly. There they are, the colors flashing across her skin like dancing makeup; beautiful, rich, deep, sparkling colors, though still pale in comparison to such a canvas.

“What are we,” he says, this time out loud, though barely. He notes, perhaps bitterly, that it sounds more like a plea than a question. Unintentional but honest.

Clara smiles. He hates when she does that. Despises it. It’s too much. Too cheeky and too dimply and too bright. And her eyes, her eyes are always the worst. How do they crinkle just so at the corners like that, but still manage to look so wide?

It’s witchcraft, maybe.

She kisses the down turned corners of his mouth first, a hand placed on either cheek to guide him, as always, where she wants him to go. Then she kisses him full on the lips. She kisses softly and unhurriedly, mouth closed in the softest pucker, just as she had kissed along his jaw. Her fingers busy themselves in the too long hair that curls behind his ears and for a long while The Doctor doesn’t move.

Kiss her back, old man! comes the chiding from inside his mind. Right. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

Inside her mouth tastes of strawberries and lavender milk and the air around his childhood home after a storm. How is it that you taste like a place you’ve never been, he thinks. How is it that I can have this?

His hands settle just above her hips, holding but not gripping, and not wandering. She makes little sighing noises in the back of her throat, hums contended “mmm”s like she does after she’s taken a bite of a particularly good chocolate. They’re noises he files away in the good parts of his memory, the parts that don’t fade from one millennia to the next. From one life to the next. It’s all too precious, too tender, not to keep. It aches to imagine letting go.

Their kisses slow gradually, to light lazy nips, playful bumps of noses, and eventually Clara turns back to face the fireworks, her head again on his shoulder. He kisses her still; on her forehead just above her eye, then higher along the hairline.

“What are we?” she repeats his words back to him, her tone that of a primary school teacher asking a question to which she already knows the answer.

“Forever,” he answers.

When he wakes up he can still feel her, sweet and fresh and creamy on his tongue. The dream fades faster than he can reconstruct it, dissolves like tissue paper in the rain, impossible to salvage. All that remains is the taste of home, and a hint of sparkling brown eyes, and a word: Remember.

He wishes he could.

#this time of year gets me in my feels for some #whouffaldi

[cortexiphanolivia]

Michael C. Hall as Dexter Morgan in Dexter, Season 1 Episode 1

#the first season of dexter was amazing #i hated the show by the end ngl I hate watched s7 and 8 #were those the last 2? #idk #may check out the reboot at some point I guess #wonder if Harrison and white-shirt-black-bra serena joy are gonna pop up #gifs #dexter

[cortexiphanolivia]

Your turn.

#txf #fox mulder #dana scully #msr #gifs #🖤

[cortexiphanolivia]

Top 10 IMDb best-rated episodes: DOCTOR WHO (2005-)

All of time and space, everything that ever happened or ever will… Where do you want to start?

#the fact that turn left isn’t on here #or the doctor dances #or the doctors wife #or the zygon inversion #or extremis/pyramid/lie of the land #i think only 2 or maybe 3 of these would make my top 10 #god I miss making gifs of doctor who #dw

[cortexiphanolivia]

I did that job once.

#rose really always tried to get to know the service workers #i love that they included that detail about her it’s so realistic considering her background #dw #rose tyler

[cortexiphanolivia]

TOLKIEN WEEK Day 5 | Free Choice — Forehead Touches/Kisses

#lotr #gifs #amazing job op

[cortexiphanolivia]

You’re all the same, you screaming kids. You know that?

#thissss was so good 🥺 #💙💙 #doctor who #twelfth doctor #zygons #i don’t have a favorite but he’s my favorite #q

[cortexiphanolivia]

THE X-FILES (1993 - 2018)

1x01 | Pilot 7x22 | Requiem 9x22 | The Truth 2008 | I Want To Believe 11x03 | Plus One

#💖 #the x files #msr

[cortexiphanolivia]

Look how far I went for fear of losing you. 

#this time of year is whouffaldi time for me #idk why they’re christmas and new years to me <3 #whouffaldi

[cortexiphanolivia]

Christopher Eccleston as the Ninth Doctor

DOCTOR WHO: SEASON 1

#he was so delightful #dw #ninth doctor #gifs

[cortexiphanolivia]

colors in film • BLUE

While blue conjures images of sky and sea, it’s also the color of bravery and dedication. Blue represents introspective journeys and symbolizes wisdom and depth of understanding. But blue is also a symbol of depression and the depths of the human psyche. Blue stands for serenity, rather than passion, and it’s the color of all that’s constant and unchanging.

#gorgeous #movies #oh roy batty 💙 #gifs

[cortexiphanolivia]

Today’s aesthetic: Tumblr blogs where the username is a reference to one fandom, the owner’s avatar is a character from a second, unrelated fandom, their incredibly overdesigned theme is based on a third fandom, and none of their recent posts have anything to do with any of them.

#well well well