z
zeldathemes
nothing is ever forgotten
~wexa~24~croatia~
wannabe writer. serial shipper. cinephile. british at heart. general enthusiast. daydreamer by choice. as-of-recently-employed scientist. hopeless wanderer.

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  #bbc sherlock    #hiatus  

butterflyrogue:

- Are you real?

- Are you?

Are we… in the same world this time?

Jefferson and Alice meet in Storybrooke after close to forty years of being separated (and remembering every second of it).

[yeah, sure, you could call it AU. I don’t wanna cause it’s canon for me] ✿◡‿◡✿

  #casually rebloging my own gifset cause i'm in that mood again    #jefferson    #ouat    #the mad hatter    #every now and then i like to make up stories and pretend i'm jefferson's true love  

inessentialhouses:

Happy Birthday, Jimmy Stewart
→ MAY 20, 1908 - JULY 2, 1997

"I’ve sort of gotten into the habit of looking for the vulnerable guy, the guy who makes mistakes, the guy who can’t figure things out all the time but keeps at it."
Against the glossy, escapist backdrop of Depression-era Hollywood — a bright and glittering place densely populated by debonair leading men with strong jaws, commanding voices, and larger-than-life personalities — Jimmy Stewart was an anomaly: thin and gangly with the posture of a rag doll, strange-sounding and awkward, like a character actor who bumbled accidentally into leading man roles. The jarringly natural pre-war Stewart seduced the most popular glamour girls of the screen with little more than some well-timed self-deprecation and insecure declarations of love drawled slowly, his fumbling aw-shucks-that’s-fines winning over the likes of Carole Lombard, Joan Crawford, Claudette Colbert, and Jean Harlow — women whose characters were usually courted by Hollywood’s more stereotypically masculine stars, self-assured, broad-shouldered men whose sweet nothings were confident and smooth. This stark contrast and Stewart’s relatable boy-next-door persona endeared him to his audience, and to this day Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor and premier model plane enthusiast remains one of the most recognisable figures in the history of film.

It’s important to remember, of course, that Mr. Stewart went to war, and like so many others came back changed. His most famous and beloved character, It’s a Wonderful Life's George Bailey, is infused with a rich undercurrent of regret, cynicism, and pain, while his later roles with Alfred Hitchcock — though not outright villains — are complex characters with ambiguous moral compasses. The post-war Jimmy Stewart became skilled at adapting his slow-talking type to a variety of roles, but in the eyes of the public he remains the everyman, the bachelor, the patriot, the grandfather in houndstooth, forever immortalised by the very medium he loved and admired.

"That’s the thing, that’s the great thing about movies. If you’re good and God helps you and you’re lucky enough to have a personality that comes across, you’re giving people little, little tiny pieces of time — pieces of time that they never forget."

  #jimmy stewart    #darling    #♥  

May the 4th be with you!

  #may the fourth    #star wars  

crazyandsexy:

braveheart—clara:

Happy Easter everyone! Have a lovely Easter weekend!

  #happy easter    #ten is for tennant    #doctor who  

seen captain america the winter soldier yesterday. I just… I can’t… the final fight… and the end credits scene… nope… *dead*

sebastiaaaaaaaaaaaan <3

  #sebastian stan    #you're killing me!    #just gtfo with your stupid face and your teary soulful eyes and your little pout and your heartbreaking acting skills    #captain america: the winter soldier    #♥♥♥ MOVIES!!  

wilfsantlers:

idk man i feel like the Moffat era of Doctor Who is like the Umbridge era at Hogwarts

…you mean like, it still has that special magic and wonderful things and pretty stuff and you love being a part of it, but there’s also this mean, grey-haired person behind all the crap that’s been going on lately.


oh, my tumblr friend, you are so right! <3

  #doctor who    #moffat rant  

A Study in Pink vs. His Last Vow [1/2]

  #omg!    #bbc sherlock    #the feels are on  
  #arctic monkeys    #mUsIc i ♥  

Rape culture is when I was six, and
my brother punched my two front teeth out.
Instead of reprimanding him, my mother
said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?”
When my only defense was my
mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.
Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”
As if it was my sole purpose, the reason
six-year-old me existed,
was to not rile up my brother.
It’s starts when we’re six, and ends
when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man
is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to
not “rile him up.” Right, mom?

Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,
my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.
He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,
with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”
When I used to be my father’s hero but
will he think I was asking for it? (will he think)
Will he think I deserved it?
Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,
even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -
burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.

Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would
be easier for your parents to find you dead,
than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.
I never asked for this attention, I never asked
to be a target, to be weak because I was born with
two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,
in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.
I never wanted to spend my life being something
someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.
I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.
I will not let you eat me alive.

Rape culture is I shouldn’t defend my friend when
an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,
because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”
Women are afraid to speak up, because
they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit
than live in a culture of silence.
I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined
by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.
I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.
I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.

Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.
When he even has some form of a justification
and all I have are the things that provoked him,
and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest
and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.
Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.
A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.
There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take
me years to methodically extract him from my body.
And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm fifteen years later?
Proof of the past.
Like a tattoo I didn’t ask for.
Somehow I am permanently inked.

Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore
without feeling dirty, without feeling like
you somehow earned it.
You will feel like you are walking on knives,
every time you wear the shoes
you smashed his nose in with.
Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,
thinking, maybe this will heal me.
Those shoes are your freedom,
But the remains of a life long fight.
You will always carry your heart,
your passion, your absolute will to live,
but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.
I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.

Rape culture is “Stefanie, you weren’t really raped, you were
one of the lucky ones.”
Because my body wasn’t penetrated by a penis,
but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.
I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.
Thank you for being so kind.
Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”
“It’s been a month, Stefanie. Get out of bed.”
“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”
“Don’t let it ruin your life.”
Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,
no one would ever want you again.
And you believed him.

Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,
instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.
That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.
The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a
slut, a whore, a bitch.
The worst possible thing you can call a man is a
bitch, a pussy, a girl.
The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.
The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.
Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,
the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the
absolute insult.
When I have a daughter,
I will tell her that she is not
an insult.

When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.
I will look at her like the sun when she comes home
with anger in her fists.
Because we are human beings and we do not
always have to take what we are given.
They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.
I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that
when she hears it, she will not question it.
My daughter,
Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.

My daughter,
I am alive because of the fierce love I have
for myself, and because my father taught me
to protect that.
He taught me that sometimes, I have to do
my own bit of saving, pick myself off the
ground and wipe the dirt off my face,
because at the end of the day,
there is only me.
I am alive because my mother taught me
to love myself.
She taught me that I am an enigma - a
mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and
I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.
I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back
against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me
worth fighting for.
And for that, I thank my parents.

Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,
I will show her how to be exposed.
Because no is not “convince me”.
No is not “I want it”.
You call me,
“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”
But I am not any of these things for you.
I am exploding light,
my daughter will be exploding light,
and you,
better cover your eyes.

slk

Rape Culture (Cover Your Eyes)

  #important!    #rape culture