Eleanor bi representation my beloved....
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👽 Random X-Files Fic Rec
This early season fic (set during episode 2!) provides great tension in a very small package with fantastic characterizations of both Mulder and Scully.
Author: Elanor G
Summary: Missing scene for Deep Throat
Length: 5k (~700 words)
Classification: None provided
Spoilers: Deep Throat
Favorite line: Were they really just driving away from this?
Read the story!
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open to: males
connection: step-father, step-brother, friend, brother, father
She thought he would be in the bathroom and wandering around the convenience store for some time. After all, they had been on the road long enough that she thought she knew his routines by now. She thought she had enough time to release the burning tension of traveling with him and dying every moment his hands were not on her. However, for some reason, this time was different. Her fingers were deep in her cunt and she was mid-moan when the car door on the driver’s side was pulled open. “Fuck,” she mumbled, scattering to remove her fingers from her core, the feeling of not quite being resolved filling a heaviness within her stomach. She blushed as she pulled her skirt down, daring to ask a question as if he didn’t just not walk in on her masturbating. “Did you find the donuts I wanted?”
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in the appendices it mentions sam’s daughter elanor being one of queen arwens maids and i find that very cute
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Sketch (Flat colour) Commission - Badass Elanor
Another character spread for a private client off of tumblr. Character (Elanor) belongs to them. I love her scene/punk style and all the nostalgic 2000-2010s references we could add in C:
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Elanor, elven maid of Lothlórien, travelling companion of Galadriel, student of magic, bearer of Galadriel's Light, renowned baker of lembas bread. She's bright and happy as a living beam of sunshine, but fly too close to the sun, and you'll be burnt.
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The Death of Arwen
'But Arwen went forth from the House, and the light of her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Then she said farewell to Eldarion, and to her daughters, and to all whom she had loved; and she went out from the city of Minas Tirith and passed away to the land of Lórien, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came. Galadriel had passed away and Celeborn also was gone, and the land was silent.
'There at last when the mallorn-leaves were falling, but spring had not yet come, she laid herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth; and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.
'Here ends this tale, as it has come to us from the South; and with the passing of Evenstar no more is said in this book of the days of old.'
(from “The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”, LotR Appendices)
If like me you always found Arwen dying alone too unbearably sad, you may have imagined her bros Elladan and Elrohir with her at the end, or her grandfather, canon be damned.
Or... maybe this:
fanfic under cut:
Lothlorien, FA 121.
The Wanderer moves like a shadow beneath golden-leaved boughs of mellyrn. His feet have walked the length and breadth of Ennor, but never in the days of Nenya's power did he enter these woods. Only in the last few decades, long after it has lain abandoned by the galadhrim, has he wintered here. The trees of gold awaken memories of Tirion. Each winter he comes, he sees evidence of the fading… the leaves more sparse, the gold less bright… He approaches a great mound at the heart of the woods, with its two circles of trees, white and gold. Even from afar he senses that he is not alone… senses the faint light of a life slowly ebbing away.
She is as a shadow herself, as she lies at the foot of the greatest mallorn at the center of the mound. She is pale as death, and lines of mortality and grief have in the past few months etched themselves upon the face that once was fairest. But still, he knows her. He approaches silently. Kneels near her. He has sung naught but grief and lamentation for millennia. But now, ever so softly, from his lips lilts a tune he heard a maiden sing in the springtime of her life. And her grey eyes slowly open. They are dim, unfocused, and search awhile before they find him.
"You," she whispers in Sindarin, her voice barely audible. "I know you."
He is intimate with such despair and loneliness. Such sorrow. "Daughter, how may I help you?" he asks gently.
"…Will you… sing…?"
He takes her hand as it lies on the still-green grass. It is cold, so cold, thin and frail, the bones like a bird's beneath flesh grown loose. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly on his.
He stays by her side throughout the winter, through sun and rain, and for her he lays aside his songs of woe. From his lips come all the songs of childhood he once sang to a young pair of twins. He hears the clash of swords in the Havens, remembers the nightmares that woke them—and him—in the nights. He remembers the feel of small bodies pressed against his as he awakens to find they have crawled yet again into his bed, fearful of monsters in their own room. How innocent they had been of the true monster that he was, fair of face but black of soul. How touchingly they had gripped his hand for comfort, that had shed the blood of their kindred. As he sings the old, familiar songs he remembers yet other children. His younger brothers as he sang to them. Himself, as his mother sang to him. He would have wept for the loss and doom of all those children, but he has no tears left to shed.
The nights are cold. He takes a cloak from the oiled-leather pack, the parting gift the elves of Imladris had left for him ere they departed, that one of the peredhel twins had contributed to it. The wanderer now lays the new dark-grey cloak over Arwen.
She speaks only once more, as the first buds appear on the mellyrn, and leaves of gold begin to fall. He barely makes out the words.
Her face in death is young and radiant, all lines of grief smoothed away.
He buries her where she lies, her brother's cloak her shroud. He raises a shallow mound of earth over her, and scatters early-blooming niphredil over the grave. He then finds a grey stone, and with his blade he takes his time to chisel letters upon it. As he does so, he remembers his mother's hands on his as she had taught him, his hands almost too small then to hold the tools.
Golden leaves fall in the empty woods as spring comes. They flutter onto the mound and upon the stone he has left to mark the grave.
She was neither Queen nor Evenstar of her people to him, so on the grey stone the wanderer has chiseled, in the ancient classical mode of Tengwar:
(*tolen: “I come”)
(from Ch 35 “Tapestry of Three Worlds” in The Golden and the Black https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289005/chapters/12208913)
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Sheridan: what am I supposed to do if he asks me?
Garibaldi: I don’t know. Kant would say that lying in any scenario is wrong, so if he asks you if you did anything, you should say yes.
Ivanova: on the other hand, snitches do get stitches.
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Wow the Lothlórien elves are really invested in Aragorn’s love life.
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I’m not sure if anyone’s been following me long enough to remember these guys, but these are some of my first OCs! I redrew them now just for fun. Oso was my very first, there’s a good 7 others but that’s just how it is when you’re 15 and excited about art lol
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Got two pics tonight so I’m just cramming them into one post~
Two OCs, one new (sorta) and one gets a remake.
Narir the Phione. A sporty, loud mouthed lil Phione in his young adult years. He doesn’t like to get wet and enjoys land sports. He specializes in rock climbing, using his head fin to wrap or grab onto things and fling himself around like a pinball!
And Elanor my shiny Jirachi is getting a remake- since I redrew Sol, Solana, Solea AND Vale’s refs I wanted to go back and do a LOT more with Elanor. This is her 3rd revamp now, I’ve always been super unsure with how to make her.
Instead of the shy crybaby she once was- she’s not quite quiet, a hint of shy, and doesn’t show much emotion. She seems almost empty, but trust me there’s a power in her you don’t want to mess with.
That being said she will giggle and laugh at things, she’s got some liveliness to her.
She’s still a WIP right now though. She may not be a shiny Jirachi in the end and might have different colours. Anyway thats enough form me now! Enjoy!
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Birth Pt. 1
Summary: Rosie delivers her fourth child, SR 1427. Tolkien barely writes about women. also read as: we need some strong women characters. Written with my OC Estella (by canon, Merry’s wife), but you can change her name to YN if you wish (InteractiveFics or Word Replacer II). Written hastily, will not edit till next week.
Warnings: Childbirth, blood, mentions of death
A/N: A self indulgent fic about the use of ergot as a vasoconstrictor before the advances and application of oxytocin in modern medicine to control severe postpartum haemorrhage. Severe postpartum haemorrhage is considered to be an obstetric emergency and time is of the essence. Historical use of vaginal douching, ergot or ‘labour tea’ as it was known and vaginal packing with rags are recorded to reduce the mortality rate of women experiencing PPH. Blood transfusion was also an effective method of treating PPH, but I doubt that hobbits would have known about this as they were fond of simple things and disliked machines more complex than a mill.
Fun fact: LSD also happens to be derived from ergot alkaloids. Ergotism was also known as St Anthony’s Fire. Don’t do drugs.
You can read more about the historical management of PPH here:
The air hung low in the artificial darkness of the room. It felt too small, as if she was a burgeoning whale growing until the walls of smial that cradled her would shudder and the earth about them collapse. On the bedside table the preparations had been made. The linens and towels, each meticulously washed were pressed and folded. Upon the floor, a bucket of water rippled to the rhythm of soft padding of feet outside the room. She smiled, Sam had always been the more anxious of the two of them and where he could not follow, his feet would bore ruts in the floor. This was not at all Rosie’s first child. In fact, it was her fourth and at this point she rather cheerfully opted to call herself an ‘experienced amateur’ on the process.
This time, she had not felt the warm fluid run down her leg until her visiting friend, Estella had gasped at the liquid pooled by her feet. In a whirlwind that Rosie barely remembered she was swept up in her husband’s strong arms and laid her upon the bed before he was shooed out rather unceremoniously.
Then all too soon for her liking, it began. The one thing that Rosie certainly did not miss was the pain. As she pushed, she moaned with the feeling of being rended from the inside out with a rake, of tearing and burning as if her skin could no longer contain the spontaneous combustion within. The contractions came and went like the coming and going of the tide, only much faster. She felt as if the world about her continued to spin at a dizzying speed. Round and round the stars in her mind roared past and the aging of the world unravelled as the room filled with scent of her sweat and tears, hanging stagnant.
The brief feeling of a cold cloth applied to her forehead every so often was a temporary relief. The heat and the stuffiness of the still air nauseated her and the urge to throw up bobbed just below the surface of her sanity. Distantly, like white noise underwater, she registered the sound of encouraging words formed on familiar lips, but the language itself was lost to her and in that moment, surrounded by familiar faces of her friends, she was truly alone, walking upon a road of motherhood with not much at all to guide her. Rosie was not afraid, but that did not make her fearless and though she was alone, not once did she cower at the journey. Instead, she pushed forward with grim determination.
How much time had passed, she did not know. With a final push, the child slid free of her and Rosie sobbed silently into her wet pillow with the heaving exhaustion and the feeling of emptiness that filled her. “Another beautiful bairn, Rosie! A lovely, sprightly lad! May I?” Estella asked as she gingerly passed to Rosie the new life that lay, squalling, wet, red and wrinkled beneath the muslin towels. And seeing his tiny form cradled there in her arms Rosie was enthralled in the wonder of that singular moment. She nodded as she nursed her newborn, half awake in bliss and tiredness, knowing what Estella was asking permission for. The sensation of something being tugged and the wet mass of the placenta slithering out of her and against her thighs.
Someone had left the room and invited in the light and the fresh air and with it came Sam. In half a moment he was by her side and behind him toddled little Elanor Fairbairn, a spry four years old and curious as a fox. Her siblings were surprisingly sound asleep in the breaking dawn.
A slight smile came to Estella as she turned her attention away from the loving couple, leaving them to their quiet whispers as they tended to their love. The labour was a long one and lasted all through the evening and to the morning. Like a garden it flowers, she mused as she ran her fingers over the placenta. It was whole. She let out a breath of relief. Everything was progressing just fine.
And yet she paled at the piping voice of Elanor. “Mummy’s bleeding.”
The sheets were stained with a growing pool of red and Rosie cried out in surprise. Never had this happened to her before in her other children. Sam looked searchingly at Estella for answers and his eyes held her in that plea of desperation.
But Estella did not have time to explain as she looked him evenly in the eyes. Her breath shuddered as she clamped down on the visceral fear in front of her. “Sam, I need you to boil the water and brew some ergot tea. Keep it in the water for three minutes, but not more. Get me as many towels as you can.” Her hands shook slightly as she fumbled with the jar of ergot, struggling to find the clasp on its lid. The dark contents in its clear container defied her, so close and so far, mocking her in her incompetence. Measuring out the ergot hastily, she handed it to Sam who took it wordlessly and disappeared to the kitchen.
An aide ushered Elanor out of the room.
“You’re going to be just fine, Rosie. I need you to lie back down again and slow your breathing. Can you tell me what you see on the ceiling?”
They had attempted to douche Rosie at first but where they cleaned, the blood seemed to return and so they resorted to packing her with rags torn hastily from the manchester. The flood kept coming even as Estella frantically stuffed the pushed the cloth into her and yet the red bled through like an overgrowth of deathly flowers.
The iron tang of her blood filled the air and it struck Rosie then with the very real fear that she would die then. She wanted to send for her husband then so that she may say goodbye, but the air from her fluttering lungs would not carry her words.
Her breath came in quick huffs now and the vision began to blur. Her pulse quickened. The warm grip of a calloused hand on hers that she recognised as Sam’s comforted her and though she could barely see him then, she could tell by the warm liquid on her face that he was weeping.
How cold you are, my Rosie! He seemed to be saying as he rubbed her arms.
But something warm was on her lips, a liquid trickling into her mouth and she swallowed wordlessly as someone ladled tea for her. She did not know what it was, but she did not have the strength to refuse it.
In the dark of her blindness and the room about her Rosie was suspended in time, between the world of the living and the warm pull of a long sleep that swathed her. It was as though she herself were back in the womb of her mother, only it was the smell of iron and earth that surrounded her. She had a thought then that perhaps death was not so bad after all. The drum of her own heartbeat filled her ears as she slipped from the waking world.
Beyond her knowledge, Estella checked her pulse and was relieved to find it had slowed back down. They had weathered the worst of the storm. She eyed the soaked rags at the foot of the bed and between her legs. Now began the long and anxious wait to see if septicaemia would take hold of her. Quietly, as Sam held Rosie and her newborn in a loose embrace, she began the long and tedious work of cleaning up. The bedsheets and the towels she gathered into the now empty bucket to be burned and the jar of ergot left uncovered on the bedside table she recovered, praising Eru as she did so. She was thankful that no convulsions plagued Rosie, for the use of ergot had many undesirable and often life threatening side effects.
Leaving the couple be, she gathered her things and retreated to the guest bedroom. Left behind in their shared room, Sam blearily opened his eyes, swollen from crying and briefly registered a shadow that rounded the corner of the door. A croaking ‘Thank you’, chasing after their form.
Closing her door gently with a click, Estella waited a moment to make sure she was alone before casting herself onto the floor. With a silent ferocity, she wept. Trembling, she fell then into a careless sleep and through many dreams that she would not remember afterward.
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April 2021 JOMPBPC: Day 20 Pastels
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I've been rewatching 'The Good Place' and now I KNOW the funniest part of Season 1 is that Michael knows they're all terrible people and keeps saying things to fork with them. If I were a Fire Squid masquerading as a Not-Angel that's exactly what I would do.
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i just finished the good place! spoilers below ofc
the ending absolutely wrecked me, i’m so sad the show is over. it’s entirely bittersweet however, because the finale was, without a doubt, one of the best finales i’ve ever seen. there’s not a single thing i would have improved. the characters all got their peaceful and happy endings in a realistic believable way. the timing to their endings felt right, and though it was sad to watch each character walk through the gateway, i understood that calm feeling they kept talking about. Chili walking through the door was the one that make me cry the hardest- something about his character leaving just undid me. i loved Tahani finally getting to do something she felt was meaningful, and Eleanor helping people right before her own ending. Michael getting to be human, and finding joy in the tiniest things was refreshing. i LOVED how the final words were “take it sleazy”. iconic. overall, this is a show that knew when to call it quits because the story was done, instead of stretching it out until it became boring or terribly written like most shows do. i respect the fact they knew where to stop, and gave it the most well rounded, emotionally heartwarming and heartbreaking ending i’ve seen in television. other shows can learn from tgp.
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‘Well, Sam, what about elanor, the sun-star, you remember the little golden flower in the grass of Lothlórien?’
Elanor Gamgee moodboard
Legendarium Ladies April: (8/30)
‘The Lord of the Rings’ characters: (48/?)
Characters’ moodboards: (418/?)
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