𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔫𝔞𝔭𝔰

emmy as seen by khyzmet˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

“I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you're going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.” ― C. JoyBell C.

Life is a cabaret, old chum. Come to the cabaret. 𝄞

DANIEL: Wait, you helped write the music for Phantom of the Opera?

CLARA: "More like Andrew Lloyd Webber was inspired by my performance at Théâtre Des Vampires. And Think of Me wasn't written by me, it was originally an original song for the theatre, I just performed it during my time there. Paris was a quite important time in my immortal life—mostly due to the freedom I had with my voice whether it was opera at the theatre, or the occasional times I snuck out to sing in the local jazz clubs. If my father had seen me he would have killed me twice. His dear daughter now singing in the nightclubs of Paris, France? Overall, I had freedom to do what I pleased with my voice."

DANIEL: "You said that the theatre wrote the song Think of Me, so who was the sole writer for it?"

CLARA: "Funny enough, it was my own maker years prior—Lestat wrote it, I didn't find this out until much later."

template to introduce your dr self

(or anyone else from your dr)

Used my criminal minds dr! I loved this!!! I use my cr face so just a random pic there…

Thank you for the tag!!

This is for me X-men/Marvel DR!

Ty for the tag!! This was fun to make (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)!

꒰ྀི This is for my only magical girl dr ! ꒱ིྀ

Tags! ꒰ྀི Feel free to ignore ꒱ིྀ : @deadmanstomb, @azaleassol, @alishareality, @lovlyrealities, @missysverse, @ayangelics + Anyone else who wants to join!

𑣲 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑓𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑎𝑔 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒 ┆ 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑟 𓏲 ࣪₊ 𓂃

𝑡hank 𝑦ou 𝑠o 𝑚uch 𝑓or 𝑡he 𝑡ag @anastasiatheshifter !

ty for the tag @deadmanstomb !!

THE INSPECTER / OVERSEER'S FAME DR

did it for my newjeans dr

its where i pressent the softest of all my drs, to fit in the group, plus the fact that im young in that dr, so i havent figured out fully how i want to be (at least at first. in my 20s im more alternative (like more piercings tattoos etc 😛)

fire and blood reality

the dramatic tales of house targaryen && its sister houses had reached every corner of westeros, including its isles. even on the isolated land of bear island the children were told stories of dragons. house mormont's eldest daughter had taken to each and every whisper she overheard. she kept a personal journal where she detailed stories from the great north to dorne to qarth to asshai.

yet she no notion the children of dragon riders could be covered could in actual scales. no, it was not the horrid greyscale sickness as queen rhaenyra's eldest son explained upon his arrival at the mormont keep. the boy and his younger brothers had been born with patches of dark scales across their bodies. the late king viserys i had claimed the condition was proof of true dragon blood; those at his court believed he was making more excuses to hid the fact his eldest daughter's sons were bastard-born.

lord roark mormont welcomed prince jason velaryon in the dark halls of his keep. although, his only daughter was the one to make the prince feel welcomed. something about a well-placed sarcastic remark on male arrogance && correcting her father on histories of the south.

soon enough house mormont would pledge its allegiance to queen rhaenyra's and her cause. lord roark's heir was his own eldest daughter. he would be a hypocrite to not aid in the campaign to get a queen on the iron throne.

sticky notes @emitem1 convinced me to start scripting this reality after i had a dream of this interaction !!

in the middle of the table, there was a chair with elaborate carvings embedded into the dark wood, sat a lady fair to look upon, a kind smile adored her face in an otherwise dark situation. young she was and yet not so, may it be due to the knowing, all knowing, glance in her grey eyes. her hair had been of the color of oak which framed her face, it peaked out of the white hood. her grace, her elegance, led many to believe she was born into aristocracy — they had not been wrong. constance had been born into house dimitrescu , long , long ago , and her age , her true , age had not matched her appearance. an heiress she had been, a lady with all the wealth in the world — reduced to a nun , staring down a demon. whatever had lead her down this path, you may wonder?

a murder? oh my, let me change my shoes!

🎙️ now broadcasting live from station WNYC, straight from the city that never sleeps! 🎙️

“who’s that high-hattin’ blonde causing a razz across manhattan? why, it’s none other than miss cleo van goth—the brand-new queen bee fresh off the rails from new orleans, louisiana, the big easy herself!

that’s right, folks—she’s the champagne-haired sheba with a taste for jazz joints, rooftop cigarettes, and enough giggle water to sink a battleship. they say she dances on tables at the hottest speakeasies, rides in motorcars faster than the devil himself, and leaves every sheik from harlem to brooklyn carrying a torch. and if you’ve got secrets? brother, lock ‘em up tight— because this tomato collects high society gossip like pearls on a necklace.

and now that she’s hit the big apple, folks are already whispering about a certain smooth-talking con man with sticky fingers and a grin crooked enough to steal heaven’s silverware.

that’s right, folks— cleo van goth and sam lloyd. now ain’t that a hot-cha-cha?”

⋆.˚🦢⋆

𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓘 𝓪𝓶 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼. I dreamed I was me. I dreamed I was another. between the two dreams there's no connection. dreams give me strength. dreams take away my strength. women of my dreams, don't betray me, help me! can a dead woman dream she's living again while dreaming her most mutilated dreams? maybe now the hour of death has come, as my daughter electra wanted, in the name of truth and family order. If I die dreaming possibly I'll die happy. And yet is that a dream of life or a life of dreaming? somewhere, among dead dreams, I will keep on living, to keep on dreaming. -𝓬𝓵𝔂𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪

maesters have written many things of sabrina swann of stonehelm.

some call her the red swan. others prefer the stone maiden, or the stone saint. in king’s landing she is more often remembered as the alchemist of cape wrath.

yet none of these names capture her entirely. for sabrina swann has always been a woman difficult to place neatly within a single tale.

she was born the only child of hohenheim swann, lord of stonehelm, and his lady wife lavinia swann née hightower. hers was one of the oldest and proudest houses of the stormlands, descended from ancient kings and famed for their loyalty, their martial skill, and the white swans that adorned their banners.

the girl inherited much from both her parents— from her mother came unmistakable beauty and a natural talent for hidden crafts and from her father came mystery.

it is said that even as a child sabrina possessed the sort of beauty that caused grown men to lose their place in conversation. tall and graceful, with porcelain skin, long strawberry-golden hair, and eyes blue as a as the storming sea, she seemed less a stormlander maid than some fair spirit washed ashore upon cape wrath.

yet those who judged her by appearances alone rarely did so twice. beneath the silk and lace there was a steel so pure and expertly beaten it rivaled even the valyrian long swords of old.

when lady lavinia died of illness, sabrina was but nine years old. and when lord hohenheim vanished shortly thereafter, she was left with no answers and few certainties. whether her father perished, fled, or simply wandered beyond the reach of ravens remains unknown even now, and is still highly debated among the maesters.

the sea keeps some secrets, the stormlands keep others. neither one a force to be reckoned with.

sabrina learned early that waiting for answers was seldom useful and so she preferred to seek them herself. while other noble daughters occupied themselves with songs and courtship, sabrina buried herself in books. histories, mathematics, languages, philosophy, natural sciences—nothing escaped her curiosity for long.

most of all she loved the hidden and ancient practice of alchemy.

the records of stonehelm speak of furnaces burning deep into the night, of laboratories cluttered with glass vessels and strange metals, of servants carrying foxglove blossoms by the basketful at their young lady’s request.

foxglove was her favorite flower.

beautiful. deadly. useful.

qualities she admired greatly.

yet she was no reclusive scholar— sabrina danced beautifully, sewed expertly, spoke with elegance, and played the game of courts with uncommon skill. lords twice her age often left negotiations believing they had won, only to discover later that the lady of stonehelm had quietly claimed the better bargain.

she never sought power for its own sake.

but neither did she permit insults to pass unanswered.

in the forests surrounding stonehelm she could more often be found dressed for the hunt than for a feast, accompanied by her two beloved afghan hounds, sattin and famia.

the grey wisp like dogs followed her everywhere. some men claimed they obeyed her better than knights obeyed their kings. others whispered the hounds understood her speech.

such stories grow in the telling.

still, few who met the lady of stonehelm ever forgot her.

perhaps it was her beauty or her sharp wit, or perhaps it was the unsettling feeling that behind her pleasant smile she understood far more than she chose to reveal.

for storms, like alchemists, are masters of transformation.

and sabrina swann was born of both.

maester osmund, in his observations upon the lesser houses of the stormlands, once wrote that no two servants in stonehelm could ever agree where their lady might be found at any given hour.

on paper her days appeared orderly enough.

she rose with the sun, broke her fast, attended correspondence, received petitioners, reviewed household accounts, and oversaw the countless duties expected of the lady of stonehelm.

in practice matters were seldom so simple.

a steward seeking her in the solar might discover she had vanished to the kennels before dawn to feed sattin and famia strips of venison with her own hands.

a septa expecting her at embroidery could find her instead in the forests beyond the castle walls, bow in hand and hounds at her heels, returning by sunset with enough game to feed a dozen households.

more than one visitor arrived hoping to discuss politics only to discover the lady of stonehelm standing over an alchemical furnace, sleeves rolled to her elbows and fingers stained with charcoal.

she loved beautiful things.

she loved dangerous things even more.

the greenhouses of stonehelm overflowed with rare flowers gathered from across the known world. roses from the reach, lilies from lys, orchids from yi ti.

her afternoons were rarely idle.

if she was not hunting, reading, negotiating, or experimenting, she could be found bothering the cooks for an array of sweets— lemon cakes were her favourite.

and in the evenings she transformed once again.

the huntress became a lady.

the alchemist became a courtier.

arrayed in silks and jewels, she presided over feasts with effortless grace, dancing beautifully, speaking elegantly, and charming suitors and enemies alike.

the red swan was darling to everyone who knew her, and even the most conniving noble man would hesitate to slight her.

of course this hesitation would be their downfall as the lady of stonehelm believes that every relationship is a dance of give and take. and no slight should be returned without interest.

beautiful, graceful, charming, intelligent, and unexpected as the lady was.

forgiveness was not one of her god given qualities.

I haven’t written anything super long in a while lols I’ve been super locked in at work so everybody say thank you for showing up and showing out (kidding kidding 😖😖)

this is a second asoiaf dr but instead set in the main “game of thrones” series (the book though not the show bleh) because I’m re-reading the books and I forgot how good they were lols

“she was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like tuberose, and whose skirts fluttered jauntily in the breeze. but strange and marvellous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was not the fragile creature one would have her seem.” (quote altered from donna tartt)

I first saw manon in a place wholly unsuited to her—or perhaps, more accurately, in a place she rendered unsuited by the mere fact of her presence. It was a dim afternoon in late october, the sort of thin, colorless light that settles over hampden like a veil, and we were gathered in julian’s classroom, half-frozen and reverent, while henry translated a passage from herodotus in his low, inexorable voice. she sat apart from us, though not by distance—no, she was very near—but by some more elusive geometry, a private orbit which none of us, not even henry, could quite penetrate.

It was julian, I think, who allowed her into our circle, though later I suspected she had already decided upon it herself. she was, after all, a student of greek—formally, at least—and a formidable one. even then, in her undergraduate years, she had published essays of such startling fluency and ambition that they circulated, half-whispered, among faculty who did not quite know what to make of them. at the same time, she painted—beautifully, though rarely—and played chess with a severity that bordered on the fanatical, winning tournaments in cities she never mentioned, against opponents she never named.

but these things alone do not explain her.

there was, in manon, a peculiar doubleness which I have never been able to reconcile. by day, she might be found in julian’s classroom, composed and attentive, translating greek with a cool fluency that bordered on obscene; by night, she vanished into a world of parties, of velvet and smoke and music that throbbed until morning, reappearing the next day untouched, immaculate, as though the intervening hours had been erased. she read voraciously—everything from euripides to obscure czech symbolists—and wrote constantly, though no one ever saw her drafts.

someone—charles, perhaps—once called her “schrödinger’s princess,” and the name, frivolous as it seemed, adhered. she was, at once, both things and neither: an heiress without fortune, a scholar without discipline, a creature of excess who nonetheless moved with an almost ascetic precision. to speak with her was to feel, faintly but unmistakably, that one was being studied—measured, even—by an intelligence far colder than her languid manner suggested.

she was very beautiful, though not in the soft, forgiving manner one might expect. her face—pale, luminous, and almost painfully symmetrical—called to mind one of botticelli’s angels, all cool perfection and distant serenity. but there was something else there, too, something sharpened and withheld, like a blade concealed beneath silk. people distrusted her instinctively, though few could say why. It was not anything she said or did— she was charming, even disarmingly so—but rather the sense, impossible to shake, that she was always withholding some crucial piece of herself, some private logic to which the rest of us would never be admitted.

and if there was cruelty in her, as some claimed, it was not the obvious sort. It was something quieter, more deliberate: a quality not of impulse but of calculation, concealed beneath that luminous, disarming face. one sensed it only in flashes—a remark too precisely aimed, a smile that lingered a fraction too long, the subtle pleasure she seemed to take in the small discomfitures of others.

even now, I am not certain whether she was ever truly one of us, or whether we were simply, for a time, drawn into her orbit—like moths, perhaps, or satellites—circling something bright and distant and, ultimately, unknowable.

minus the murder, racism, homophobia, misogyny and incest etc btw 😐 I lit just want to be an academic baddie who studies greek and then becomes a famous artist and archivist !! how I love academia 💔 I wish I could just learn everything in the world forever and never work

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦢་༘࿐ her . . .

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ now playing . . . human nature by madonna

the daughter of hypnos, the girl of your dreams (literally), the hypnotist, somnēssa, oneierophoros, a narcoleptic princess, a sleepy angel.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ⚔️་༘࿐ him . . .

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ now playing . . . antarctica by $uicideboy$

summer nights in rome (bunny and henry’s summer trip to rome + me and also minus the headaches and henry’s mounting desire to kill bunny 🫶)

“volare! oh, oh!”

bunny sang it at the top of his lungs as he staggered down the hotel corridor ahead of us, his voice ricocheting grotesquely off the gilt walls and marble floor. he was catastrophically off-key, though with bunny there was always something almost impressive about the confidence with which he inhabited failure. one arm was flung dramatically outward; the other carried my purse, dangling from two fingers like the trophy of some minor campaign.

“cantare, oh, oh, oh!”

I was laughing so hard my ribs hurt. the wine — or perhaps the heat — had gone to my head hours ago, and the hallway itself seemed softly unreal: endless mirrors, red carpet, little pools of amber light cast by wall sconces shaped like candle flames. outside, rome lingered in the windows in fragments — black sky, distant traffic, the vague gold glow of the city at night.

henry walked beside me in silence.

he had that composed, slightly remote air he always wore in public, though I could sense beneath it the faintest trace of irritation — not directed at bunny exactly, but rather at the inevitability of bunny. there was something curiously familial about the way henry endured him, like a weary older husband shepherding an unruly wife home from a party.

I had henry’s jacket over my shoulders. earlier in the evening, when the night had turned cooler, he had handed it to me without a word. now it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and his cologne and the dry roman heat baked into the wool.

ahead of us bunny stopped abruptly before a potted palm.

“bella,” he informed it solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. “bella, bella.”

“for god’s sake, bunny,” he said.

bunny ignored him entirely and resumed his progress down the hallway, still singing.

by the time we reached the room he was leaning visibly to one side. henry unlocked the door while bunny lounged bonelessly against the wall beside it, eyes half-shut.

inside, the room was dim and stifling. the curtains had been left open and the moonlight fell across the beds in long white bars. somewhere in the street below came the distant sputter of a vespa.

bunny stumbled immediately toward the nearest mattress and collapsed face-first across it, my purse sliding from his shoulder onto the floor with a dull thud.

“ah,” he said dramatically, without moving, “rome, you beautiful whore.”

I laughed again and dropped down on the edge of the other bed.

“let’s hope he loses consciousness quickly,” I said.

henry shut the door behind us.

the room seemed suddenly quieter then, dim and gold in the low bedside lamplight. somewhere below us in the street came the distant sound of laughter and clattering dishes from a restaurant not yet closed for the night.

henry loosened his cuffs with slow, methodical movements. there was always something peculiarly ritualistic in the way he handled small tasks — lighting cigarettes, pouring drinks, buttoning sleeves — as though each action possessed its own obscure ceremonial importance. he rolled his sleeves back once, then again, before taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

he exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

“you should sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry?”

I crossed the room and threw myself dramatically onto the bed beside bunny, who made an indignant noise without opening his eyes. the mattress lurched beneath us.

“fuck your sorry’s,” I declared into the blankets. “I refuse.”

bunny pointed vaguely upward in agreement. “hear, hear.”

henry stood over us smoking silently, looking not irritated exactly but resigned in a deeply ancient way, as though this scene — bunny drunk and unconscious, me sprawled across a hotel bed in borrowed clothes — was only the latest repetition of some tiresome classical pattern he alone had been condemned to recognize.

I stretched one leg lazily toward him.

“take my shoes off.”

henry stared at me.

I could feel it even without looking.

behind me bunny gave a sleepy, disgusted noise. “god,” he mumbled, “you two are practically married.”

“be quiet,” said henry.

but after a moment — one long enough to suggest resistance, though not quite refusal — he bent down anyway.

his hand closed coolly around my ankle.

very carefully, with the air of a man performing some deeply unfortunate and humiliating task demanded by fate alone, he unfastened the strap of my heel.

though  sam's  presence  at CAMP HALF - BLOOD is  occasionally  unnerving as a SON OF HEKATE,  he  is  respected  for  his  knowledge  of  the  underworld  and  sorcery.  while  he  comes  off  a  bit  stand-offish  to  campers,  many  learn  to  trust  him  and  his  word. he’s  usually  seen  as  a  guide  for  those  interested  in  arcane  topics. despite having his already solidified friend group at camp half - blood, he ends up going on the quest of finding zeus' lightning bolt when a certain son of poseidon gets accused of taking it. even though sam has been kind of an ass to percy when he got there, percy still chose to bring him on the quest and sam still has no idea why, but it doesn't mean that he won't try.

new dr idea. search on pinterest lyrics, relationship, love language, gift, date, clothes, trope, partner, aesthetic

MINE IS SO MESSY LMAO but I thought this might be fun

*caption was "epilogue romance"

i love this! me n oscar <3

no pressure tags! @crackbaby999 @emotionallyderanged @jigssawed

princess treatment ONLY over here 💋