Cassandra: I guess I’m just not interested tonight. Roger: Or last night, or the night before that. Cassandra: Perhaps it’s not my game. Roger: What is your game, Cassandra? Cassandra: To make you a loving and perfect wife. And that doesn’t necessarily include chess, does it? Roger: What does it include? Cassandra: Doing everything that you want to do. Roger: Oh? And do we do that? Cassandra: Well, only you can tell me. Roger: I don’t see enough of you to know. Cassandra: Darling, I can’t very well go to the office with you. Roger: We haven’t even had our honeymoon yet.

I see.

thinking "haha what if i jokingly shipped them" is your last chance to get out btw

280. July 21, 1967.

…Liz, you hit me!

roger will you please be my uncle?

— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017.

r/v + physical touch + color.

r/v + physical touch + b&w.

““I tried to keep it on the road but I couldn’t make it when I got to that big curve about a hundred miles—a hundred miles! seemed like a hundred miles—a hundred feet from the bottom of the hill…””

— Not to change the subject but LOUIS EDMONDS I love the way you save it by laughing at yourself every time you flub a line (via afp-darkshadows)

Dark Shadows’ Hottest Character?

i saw your art on twitter, it's very good but the fact you have minors following you while you draw literal witches ("creatures" practicing m*gic) is REALLY iffy

it's over. 17th century puritan philip wittebane has found my tumblr at last. sorry i failed you general

i love gifing the show in color. why don't i just gif a puddle of mud on the ground. a pool of algae.

223.

I’m so glad you’re here. You must have known how much I need you now.

MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION — 1954, dir. Douglas Sirk

27. pulling the other one towards them; for the r/v post-1795 au?

“I heard the widows,” said Vicki, lifelessly, too long after Roger asked her what she was doing out here, so close the edge – without anything but a familiar, moth-eaten cardigan, completely inadequate to the cold and wind. He was huddled in his own coat, but unbuttoned to offer it. Vicki didn’t notice. He set it aside, stepping a little closer. The wind was playing in her hair. “You’re not –” married, but that was too cruel to say, “– not a widow.” “Burke’s lawyers think I am – or close enough. That he left a provision for his fiancée.” She moved, slowly, uncrossing her arms, holding out behind her the envelope that had arrived that day: postmarked in Manhattan, and the prestige of the firm obvious from the quality of the paper and the arrangement of names. It was a moment or two before he realized she meant for him to take it – worse, to read it. He shook his head. He didn’t want to. “He’s not dead.” “Legally.” “We don’t know he’s dead.” “He was on that plane, and everyone on that plane is.” He thought of protesting, but the facts of the case were too grisly to say out loud, even in a place like this; he bit them back instead: that there wasn’t enough left of anyone to identify positively, that if there were only ashes, how impossible was it that one man in twenty could have survived? It left the taste of bile in his mouth, and he told himself he wouldn’t think why. Without much conviction, he said – oh. “A little bit of hope is not such a bad thing, my dear.” Who was he saying that for? Vicki made a sad little noise; a scrap of hope that barely needed a single small hand to be throttled. At least when she’d believed in Burke’s inevitable return, she would eat dinner, take coffee, sit by the fire in relative peace; in the days since the séance – since her return from where she had gone – she couldn’t even sleep. Hope had been a stone in many a man’s shoe, but – It was better than its absence, wasn’t it? Or was that pure selfishness talking? “Come away from there, Vicki,” he tried, “You’ll catch a cold in this wind. Julia will have my hide.” She made no response, and Roger stepped forward, taking the envelope together with her hand – small, cold to the touch, shaking. Vicki said something about the widows, but she let herself be pulled back into his arms, and led away: back away from the cliff’s edge, to a point where Roger could put his coat on her, not even hissing or wincing where the collar rubbed up against the scabby rope-burn.

Touch Prompts

“My sister has a whim of iron.”

— Roger (via afp-darkshadows)