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#but there's allusions I guess
magicoleanders · 1 month
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it’s so hard to be a lover in a literature class full of haters
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ollierachnid · 3 days
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Larping your parents' marriage
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gwaedhannen · 1 month
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Maedhros & Maglor Week day 3: Himring and the Gap
Two more drabbles for @maedhrosmaglorweek, one for each location. Well, former location. I thought the Gap deserved a little physical remembrance, too.
One may sit astride the rocky isle, and, gazing north, nearly see where once a severed hand hung from an iron spike, reaching for the sky in surrender. The wind will tear at your skin. Let it carve its marks into your face; it is only remembering an old friend. Walk the old paths, remind them of their purpose; the stones were not smooth, once. See! Your boot fits into the grooves like thousands before. The grand hall lost its roof long ago, but the stars are beautiful now, are they not? The last tapestry hangs in pride: eight swords.
Sail a little east, and wait. The waves will rise about you, fore and aft, gentle hills into mountains, guarding, holding. Dip your hand into the sea, and it is grass. Bring it forth, to your lips. Do not mind the salt, the tears were not shed for you. Float, listen. Do you hear the riders singing, each to each? A call, an answer, a wall of thought to bind the walls of earth. There are songs of joy, yet, in the waves. Deep, dark below, ride the open skies. The currents are a flowing mane, gone like the summer.
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randomfoggytiger · 6 months
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"Kids Today, Huh?"
(Fictober, Day 12)
Thanks to @stephy-gold and @wexleresque for their prompts! ("Die first by nessa barrett/Is an MSR song/they will die without the other" and "Stopping to look up at the night sky", respectively.) 
*****
Mulder had been quiet since this morning. 
They’d both made plans to stay in; and, while she was shuffled to the bedroom for regular clothes and he shuffled around Spotify for a "dish duty" song, Scully wondered curiously-- well, half curiously-- what he’d choose. Mulder’s taste in music was usually dictated by whatever current rash the local radios or various social media apps instigated, Elvis excepted. (He'd explained once that Presley fit his stringent criteria because "the King" was always topical; and Scully had conceded the point, if begrudgingly.)  
By the time her shower was done, the house was permeated with silence. Upon reentry, Scully noticed Mulder’s shoulders were tense, his hands tightly clenching the counter; and both his ears had little Bluetooth buds-- hers, sinking into the bottomless pit of his ear canal-- blasting muffled noises straight into his ear drums. He spent the rest of the day pretending to be normal while absently squeezing or strangling anything nonperishable she handed him.
Scully tried to invent distractions for him, which Mulder meekly-- no, not meekly: without comment-- completed. When that didn't work, she then tried to engage him in a conversation that required responses other than “yes”, “no”, or “sure”. Noticing that his arm muscles would twitch through every attempt-- practically itching to turn up the volume-- she gave that up, too. Finally, she let him soak in his Byronic mood, and spent the rest of the afternoon riveted by a surprisingly good library book.  
She was halfway through her light read when Mulder’s shadow forebodingly covered the next paragraph. “Scully, I have it on good authority that there’s something happening in that big ol’ sky of ours tonight.” Their own peculiar way of wanting to communicate without communicating.
“Mmm.” She waited a beat, watched his shadow and feet shift in sync. “Let’s check it out.” 
*****
Scully’s earbuds were back in her possession, but only to warble depressing lyrics, stanza after stanza, into her ear. “Mulder, you listened to this all day?” 
He only nodded, eyes fixed dully on the horizon. Well, no wonder: he probably saw the name Nessa Barrett, connected it to the soft spot he held for all Nessie lore, and was siren called to a day of misery and self-recrimination. 
“Yeah.” His cheek bubbled out, tongue habitually searching for a sunflower seed that wasn’t there. “It’s not that crazy, Scully. You had an epiphany of your own while ruminating on the essence of Moby.” 
“That was self-discovery not self-flagellation, Mulder.” 
“But it made you realize things about yourself you hadn't. Put them into perspective. Made you question your choices and the… sacrifices you had to make along the way.” 
Scully stared at him, wondering how best to delicately attack this sudden infection. Mulder gazed unflinchingly at the stars, likely searching for the same solace he’d given her years before-- a keychain and teamwork and hope to ease an ascension and Duane Barry and consequences. She wondered if they were failing him tonight; but chased the thought away. As long as he believed Samantha’s soul was stardust, there was hope. 
It dawned on her. There was hope. 
“Mulder, you told me once that--” she left out you believed for another time, “--that our souls were bound together through time, always finding each other.” Scully also left out Melissa Ephesian (an unnecessary complication.) “And it brought you great comfort then because it meant that the suffering we had and did endure was an opportunity for us to get it right.” 
He was riveted on her face. Thirty years of knowing him told her that. “It’s a nice thought, Mulder. That we were created-- or,” she added for his sake, “came about organically with a destiny that ties us forever to each other. But I couldn’t… I can’t believe it.” He chuffed; and she didn’t need thirty years to know he had a crack comment ready to go. “It would seem too….” 
“Too what?” 
Scully smiled ruefully. “Flippant.” 
“Flippant?” His voice was halfway between aghast and amused. 
“Like I was taking what we have for granted. When I walked into your office that first day--” 
“Our office, Scully.”
“I claimed it as my own during the Tooms case, Mulder-- although it took a bit longer than that to sort your piles into habitable places. The point is, we didn’t have that soul connection then: we had intrigue and respect. It was later that you gave me something I'd never dared to dream of, something I'd unconsciously been searching for."
“Teamwork?” he teased, parroting words from a former conversation beneath the stars.
Who’s flippant now? But flippant was good-- flippant was part of the stages of recovery for Mulder. She needed to take him a little further than that, help him fortify his walls against future “I hope I die first” dark romanticism. 
Scully turned, showing Mulder the starlight reflected in her eyes. “You gave me wonder." Watched his own twinkle slowly return.
“That word has a couple different uses, Scully," he said with a smile, with a little forward tilt. He was almost okay. 
“Well, I wondered at you at first.” Mulder nodded, taking the ribbing on the chin with a wry smile. “But I wondered with you not long after.” She let him bask in the soft glow of reassurance before claiming her victory. “And that proves me right. If it had just been fate, or destiny--”
“--It would be the other way round.” Smart man, her Mulder.
Leaning in theatrically, Scully deftly put everything else behind them. “Mulder, I was promised a good time. So, are you gonna point out some mystery of the universe to me or are we going to stand here fretting over the past?”  
He grinned, himself again; and wound her in and spun her theories while pointing at the stars.
******
Thank you for reading~
Enjoy!
Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023 and @fictober-event
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anderstrevelyan · 4 months
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A little work-in-progress for Wednesday—
This is from a series of small scenes between Valas DeVir and Shadowheart: two half-elf amnesiac clerics who don't know (yet) that they share a mother figure.
Valas is trying to figure out if his memory loss is a ceremorphosis symptom the others are also experiencing and trying to hide (Shadowheart may not have been the best choice of target for this line of questioning).
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diocletion-aint-shit · 6 months
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Guys, I came in to my class on Ovid and the substitute lecturer had a gocharov sticker on his laptop how am I meant to process this??
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cuubism · 10 months
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Whenever you post another Hope/Morpheus fic snippet my brain does this:
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that's kind of what they are doing to my brain right now too 😂 i need them to get out of my house
(it's based on this post i made ages ago btw, that's what this fic was birthed from. it wasn't supposed to get this long XD)
I'm so glad you're looking forward to it, that makes me happy :)
here's a snippet. 1789 meeting. tw violence
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Morpheus was hardly shocked when the goons stepped forward, though Hope looked between them in surprise, as if he had truly expected he might be able to negotiate his way out of this. And argument or not, Morpheus was not going to let these men step near him. He stood, which effectively drew both men’s gazes to him, discreetly picking up cutlery as he went. Morpheus had had plenty of occasions in life to need to know how to fight, and he was lightly built in comparison to lots of other men so he’d learnt to fight fast and dirty. He went for the man closer to Hope first, catching him about the wrist as he swung his blade, twisting so it dropped from his grasp and landing a hard jab of the heel of his hand into the man’s solar plexus. The man dropped to the floor, and Morpheus spun for the other, just missing the slash of a blade at his shoulder. He ducked under the blow and brought up the fork he’d grabbed from the table, spearing it right into the man’s eye, ignoring the spray of blood and the scream. He was calm, felt nothing about it other than the need to stay between Hope and these men who would do him harm, though perhaps he should have felt more, fear or regret for the violence. But he didn’t. Having downed both of the lady’s goons, Morpheus turned again—only to find the lady herself holding a knife to his throat. He expected to have to shove her off and possibly get his throat cut in the process—not that it would be permanent—when Hope stood and slipped between them, quiet as a flicker of light, and touched two fingers to the lady’s bare sternum. She gasped as if he’d plunged a blade into her chest instead, and stumbled back, eyes wide, dropping her knife with a clatter. She looked utterly dazed, far off, and as Morpheus watched, tears fell from her eyes, one after the other, and she clutched her chest. And then fled. Morpheus watched her leave with curiosity. Somehow, he hadn’t expected Hope to have any defensive abilities—he was always rather the type to negotiate with a burglar that they should be making better life choices—but in retrospect it was obvious that an Endless would be able to defend himself, even if he didn’t often use it. When Morpheus looked over at him—he was really standing quite close, which Morpheus tried not to think about—Hope was openly gaping at him. “You— you stabbed him in the eye.” Morpheus raised an eyebrow. “And?” “With a fork.” “Yes, I thought pulling a proper knife might be more conspicuous.” Morpheus couldn’t tell if the man was dead. He was certainly down. It didn’t really matter. “Vicious.” Hope looked at the fallen bodies. “Fates. What a turn for drinks to take.” “I suppose you hoped for better,” Morpheus said, and Hope grinned at him. “Always do.”
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burgeaux · 7 months
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ok now that I'm in elpis I'll probably just post/react and shut off my phone immediately after more than ever to avoid spoilers and allusions and such
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dawn-star01 · 2 months
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you weren't sure how it would be when you left the service
the absolute surety of your handler, the unbridled power of your weaponry, the ironclad protection of your ceramic slab armor, the piercing optics that let you turn night into clear day and better, the combat stims that let you ride high—would these things be replaced, would they fall away, leaving holes in you? would you miss them?
yes, as it turns out
you have struggled to adapt. at first you covered your hardpoints—mostly, you can't stand the eyes, the pressing, needy questions living vicariously through you and duplicitous sentiments what was it like what did we do to you were you shot at did you kill our enemies did you make them suffer im glad you're back im glad it was you, not me thank you for your service do my bloodthirsty bidding, dog.
but no matter what, they can always tell, even if you cleverly cover every modification. the way you stand straight-backed, the way you move purposefully, directly, inevitably. the way you survey. the way your muscle lies coiled over your hardened bone. you cannot belong here.
they can always tell, but this does not always mean respect. the service decommissioned you, removed your weapons though you can still feel them and your armor you miss its comforting weight which makes you less than a tool. you are a tool with no use now. and you certainly don't move with the lethal fluidity that you once did, which drives some of them to disdain at best, disgust and hatred at worst. you're taking up space, the worst of them mutter, though carefully never within sensor range. the docs should be defunded, they snarl. you surely cannot belong here.
and apart from these, there are those that are afraid. you were a tool of imperium before, you helped wreak havoc—somewhere else, though models like you are starting to disconcertingly become more and more common here. sometimes you find familiar faces in those ranks. people have every right to be afraid. but these can always tell, too. you can tell they don't fully trust you, wary of your conditioning, stray chems, misfiring cybernetics gone too long without a maintenance checkup. your contact with them slips away from you like sand through your fingers. you cannot belong here.
it would be easy to fall back on your programming, find a group of similar dolls. maybe you'd see how efficient your toxin filtering still was. maybe you'd find peace in the darkness (you've camped on the precipice, watched it yawn open before you in bleak eternity). maybe—
but you haven't. your hardpoints have flowers in them, mounting brackets for your armor with meandering filigree, worn joints and faded, chipped paint. you've discovered that you really, really like flowers. you finally got a cane, at your partner's insistence.
it was hard to recognize that she was in love with you at first. maybe she was simply in awe, maybe she thought it was thrilling to face her fears. but, bit by bit, she soldered the loose connections, nursed you through your withdrawl from the stims, helped you appreciate the color of a day viewed through unaugmented eyes. at some point, either before or after you lay in a heap in her lap, processing the lives you saw snuffed out and ruined all over again, you can't tell, you realized you loved her too. you can't remember the last time you've brought up your HUD, these days.
you look down at your hands, covered in rich soil from your garden.
you could belong here, if you tried.
you plant a seed, and smile.
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whales-are-gay · 2 years
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[ID: text from Dracula that says “brings nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with ‘virgin crants and maiden strewments.’ I never liked garlic before, but to-night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming already. Good-night everybody.” End ID]
blorbo from my plays!!! blorbo from my plays!!!!!!
i think there’s definitely something going on w this allusion not just cause of the ophelia allusion and flower symbolism but also- hamlet does a lot of connecting the concepts of sleep and death, and lucy has been having more and more agitated sleep as she goes to her un-death. 
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charlesandkeef · 6 months
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Keith Richards on the cover of Guitar Player magazine, December 2023 edition
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yashley · 2 years
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fearne takes 1 look at pike’s mace and pike takes 1 look at fearne and guess what’s the endgame of c3 now bitch
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unopenablebox · 8 months
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my mother, singing: bucket of cheese, bucket of cheese, when you gonna let me get sober
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froschli96 · 8 months
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tfw you've recently finished She Who Became the Sun and thought it would be a great idea to binge Good Omens Season 2 to see some happy gays for a change
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hammernothannah · 1 month
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POV: One of the piggies that you were close with is about to be turned into pork chops.
As always, credits to @eldritch-spouse for her monster men as big boy blue, Morell, belongs to her.
Based off this image:
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currently reading an essay on homosexuality in the island of dr moreau, especially concerning Montgomery and Edward and til now i have learned two things:
nr 1: every interaction these two have is basically gay sex
nr 2: Monty is apparently POUTING the whole time??
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