Tumgik
#just. something understated but there
swordheld · 7 months
Text
Tumblr media
from the introduction to "the sovereign sun" selected poems by odysseus elytis, trans. and introduction by kimon friar. [id in alt text]
346 notes · View notes
Text
Now admittedly, while overall I love the whole "Grant and Marco saved baby Lincoln from the titanic" thing, I do hope that people will be more inclined to see this as something that facilitates Lincoln's reconcilliation with his dad and helps him make peace with some of Grant's mistakes, rather than framing it as "gotcha Grant never did anything wrong actually and Lincoln is upset at his parents for nothing!" cause uh... That's gonna be a no from me!
206 notes · View notes
rickybaby · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
The Ricciardo factor applies
86 notes · View notes
tweeterwilbury · 2 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
There are catedhrals everywhere for those with eyes to see
testimony by Robbie Robertson (2016)// Lily, Rosemare and the Jack of Hearts by Bob Dylan (1975)//You're gonna make me lonesome when you go by Bob Dylan(1975)//Bob Dylan about Robbie Robertson (circa 1966)//Tangled up in Blue by Bob Dylan (1975)
46 notes · View notes
l223m0nade · 9 months
Text
Quiet Bucky Who Doesn’t Live With Steve bc he’s still a little feral and WS-y sickfic
Steve didn’t like bad guys messing with New Yorkers, but he did like being able to protect his city. And for the last few months, there had been another reason to enjoy hometown missions.
“Tell our mystery pal thanks for the assist,” Sam said dryly as he finished his sweep to confirm everything was contained, which it was, in part thanks to perfectly aimed shots winging the two jerks at separate control stations directing the big insectlike robots. Clint hadn’t been available for last-minute sniper support, but Steve had said “I might know someone,” and everyone had sort of nodded in vague acceptance and ignored his possibly over-eager tone. The Winter Soldier was still officially at large, whereabouts unknown. Unofficially the search had petered out.
“Thanks for the help,” he murmured into his earpiece— set to an encrypted channel. “Specially on short notice like this.”
After a short pause the reply came, soft, “…You had ‘em on the ropes.” Steve barked a surprised laugh, unable to stop himself from scanning nearby rooftops though he knew he’d see nothing. “Was in the neighborhood anyhow.”
“Feel like sticking around?” Steve tried for casual. “Got nothing going on after this myself. It’s soup weather.” It was freezing, and drizzling in a way that looked light from indoors but soaked you if you were out in it for more than a few minutes. He bit back the words where do you stay, is it warm and dry enough there, just come home with me, but he thought them loudly.
A longer pause this time, but then, “It is, huh. Yeah. Yeah, alright Rogers,” and Steve couldn’t help the grin stretching across his face. Wherever Bucky was hidden, he was clearly in his sights, because he heard a husky chuckle. “Sap,” came the parting shot. “See you there.”
“Roger that,” Steve said, mock-serious, and won the sound of another laugh starting before the commlink cut out. He was allowed to be a little happy, he thought as he hopped on his bike and headed to his Brooklyn apartment. He hadn’t seen Bucky in over two weeks. Trauma and justified paranoia and unfairly dubious legal status combined to mean that Bucky couldn’t yet handle anyone knowing where he slept. For a long time Steve’s only contact with him consisted of mysterious sniper shots obliterating enemies about to get the drop on Steve and Sam as they hunted Hydra remnants down, but over the summer by tacit agreement they had both settled —for a given value of the word— back in New York. And now they talked on the phone, and sometimes Bucky provided don’t-ask-don’t-tell overwatch on missions, and sometimes he came by Steve’s place for meals and company. Steve worried about him constantly, and missed his steady physical presence as he had since before the ice, but Bucky was getting by the best way he had, and he would respect that, no matter what.
If Bucky hadn’t picked up his call or agreed to come over he probably would have spent the night staring at the cold rain out the window, but that was nobody’s business but his own. He opened the door to his apartment, nudged the thermostat, and began pulling out the ingredients for simple chicken soup, feeling warm inside and out.
Before long there was a soft breath of chilly air, the sound of a window closing, and a quiet throat-clear. He turned and there Bucky was, in the corner of the living room, looking a little tense and sheepish as water dripped from his coat. The sight of him in his apartment gave Steve the immediate sense of all being right in his world. “Hey, pal.”
Bucky gave a small smile in reply. “Sorry, I—” he cleared his throat again, “drippin on your nice floor.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” said Steve, hearing his accent come out stronger as it always did around his oldest friend. “I got plenty of towels. I’ll get you some.”
He came back with and armload of fluffy towels as Bucky shrugged out of his coat. “Warm in here,” he murmured, with a little shiver as his body adjusted to the cozy temperature Steve had set.
“Sometimes I’m still surprised at how I can just make my place any temperature I want,” Steve chuckled, “I sure coulda used that back in the day.” Bucky just nodded, a hint of wonder in his face as he took the towel Steve offered. “I pulled some clothes out for you, you may as well let your things dry out while you’re here.” Wet clothes had been one of Bucky’s favorite fussing subjects back in the day, he couldn’t begrudge Steve this.
He did go to change after only a moment’s hesitation. Steve went back to the kitchen area but just hovered there. He wasn’t eavesdropping, he just had super hearing. There was another throat-clear, a sniff, and a husky cough as Bucky changed behind the closed door. He came out a moment later, rubbing his nose absently, wearing the crew neck sweater and thick soft black pants Steve had left out, and quirked an eyebrow. Steve blushed as he realized he’d been staring at the door waiting for it to open.
“I missed you, sue me,” he muttered as he moved toward him. He looked so soft, and still cold. Steve telegraphed before going in for a hug, but Bucky just moved into it with a little sigh, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder and rubbing a little. He seemed tired. Steve wrapped his arms around him with his own sigh. He was so glad he was here.
Suddenly the shoulders he embraced tensed up with a quiet but sharp inhale, and before either of them could react, a silent “mmp!” of a stifled sneeze was pressed into Steve’s shoulder. Bucky pulled back but only had time to blink once in surprise before his nose visibly twitched. “Dish!” This sneeze, tiny and only a little less held-back, went more or less into Steve’s left pec.
They stared for a second, arms still loosely wrapped around each other. Bucky sniffled, rubbed his nose, muttering “Jesus, sorry” at the same time Steve said “bless you” with a little nonplussed smile. Steve’s cheeks felt warm and Bucky was blushing. His nose was also a faint pink, and he looked pale, with a particular tiredness around his eyes. Steve tucked his damp hair behind his ear to see more clearly, and Bucky shifted under his scrutiny, clearing his throat again with a rasp.
“You sound like— are you sick?”
Bucky started to roll his eyes at Steve, but he had to sniffle, and then his breath caught and his expression changed from exasperation to mild surprise as he stepped back and lifted his bent arm to muffle a soft strong sneeze. “EHh-tschuhh!”
“Aw, Buck,” Steve tutted, sounding like his mother.
“snfff, It’s nothing,” Bucky tried for a casual brush-off, but after a moment under what Sam called his Piercing Earnest Puppy-Dog Gaze he deflated, rubbing his nose on his wrist like it still tickled. “It’s been cold and wet for a week,” he groused in explanation, “sff, guess it got to me.”
“And you were out on that rooftop for hours,” Steve clucked, moving to the kitchen instead of wrapping Bucky up again and not letting go, “siddown. Lucky for you I was already making chicken soup.”
Bucky sat at the counter to watch Steve finish throwing ingredients into the pot. “Ooh, the one meal Steve Rogers can cook? Lucky me is right.”
“I can make breakfast!” Steve replied indignantly. Bucky scoffed, which turned into a little cough and sniffle. “Fine, well, I can make oatmeal. And meatloaf!” He said in triumph.
“Sez y-you...heh,” Steve glanced over to see him blinking up at the kitchen light and scrunching his nose ticklishly, but the sneeze abandoned him at the last minute and he buried his nose in his sleeve to rub itchily with a little growl. It was all fairly adorable.
They kept up the banter as Steve set everything simmering and cleaned up. Bucky kept having to sniffle and rub his nose, which was turning completely pink, and he had to pause with hitching breaths a few times. Steve remembered the war and all the years before— you could always tell when Bucky had a cold and not just a tickle in his nose because he’d spend the first few hours being mercilessly teased by sneezes that refused to manifest and left him blinking pinkly and sniffling like mad.
Eventually Steve took pity on him and rooted around a drawer until he found his small stash of clean folded handkerchiefs. Bucky glanced at what he was being offered with plaintive eyes, trying to get the sneeze to finally come, head tilted up and his metal hand pressing gently on the bridge of his poor nose, taking big, hitching inhales, building up torturously, “ehhHehh…hehhhh…hehh—HEH—…...HEHdjtcschOOoo!”
He’d been unable to focus on anything but the sneeze, so it just got aimed at his wrist and ended up sort of everywhere. He snatched the handkerchief in the second he had before another tickly spraying sneeze overcame him, and caught this one in the soft cloth. “HIHHDtsschuhh! Ohhh, mby god.” He groaned dramatically and blew his nose with relief. Once he’d gotten cleaned up he slumped down to the counter.
“Alright fidne, I’mb sick,” he sighed. Steve felt sorry for him, but he was caught up in warm nostalgia as well. Bucky never held out long with the tough-guy act before getting a bit pitiful. His mom and sisters had loved to fuss over him the rare times he was poorly, and after token resistance Bucky had lapped it up. When he and Steve lived together the dynamic was always Bucky mother-henning him, but Steve had reveled in the few times their roles had reversed. Bucky acting pitiful and Steve coddling him in his sharp bossy way had been one of the ways they flirted when neither really understood what they felt.
Bucky sniffled and Steve could hear the building congestion. He continued grumbling, “ya happy ndow?”
“Well, not that you got a cold, but yeah, Buck, I’m real happy you’re here. No point in a swanky heated apartment if I can’t put you up once in a while.”
“Hmmb.”
“Now cmon, blow your nose again and eat some soup. It’s not Ma’s but it’s as close as I can get it.”
Bucky picked up the crumpled hankie, grimaced, chuckled, then quietly gasped into a smaller sneeze, “hhh-hhh-hHMptshh, ugh, this ain’t gonna last much longer.” He blew his nose thoroughly and it left him alone while they ate their soup, side by side at the counter, elbows and knees nudging.
60 notes · View notes
zhongli-lover-69 · 10 months
Text
feeling insane abt javert again.
he is a fascinating character to analyze + compare against valjean + is such an interesting personification of the faults of the french legal system, of the way lawfulness can become twisted when not tempered by mercy. dedication to the flawed human construct of justice versus dedication to the religious concept of mercy + forgiveness.
but. more importantly: javert is fucking hilarious. his sense of humor is so dry + off-putting. he takes himself so seriously but his comments are so jarringly silly. i adore my fucked up little plot device of a man.
59 notes · View notes
silverskye13 · 1 year
Text
Geminislay queen!!
60 notes · View notes
Text
Now that I've finished dungeon meshi I have to say, while I understand the disappointment with fandom's constant obsession with shipping two dudes in fandom typical ways and ignoring the women/men that don't fit a certain mold and basically ignoring the entire rest of the story...
People acting so indignant that people would do gay or even straight shipping, because this manga is such a super women-led yuri show that's all about the power of Marcille's all-consuming love for Falin, are absolutely fucking bonkers and have lost the plot.
That is not to say that these shippers are not insane or can't be annoying in the typical ways that they are, or that Marcille/Falin aren't the most shippable pairing and just about the closest you're gonna get to something romantic in Dungeon Meshi (it's a platonic ass story and I love that), or that it wouldn't be nice for the fandom around something to stay mostly devoted to the closest to a canon pairing most shippable F/F ship. It would. But like. I don't know I'm kind of upset by that attitude now
And my intention is not to be super negative about Marcille/Falin fans, because they are certainly not all like this, it's just. WHOO! That is just so not remotely what Dungeon Meshi is about to a degree I still wasn't prepared for despite being aptly warned.
8 notes · View notes
Text
See, the thing about Crowley living in his car in s2 is that I left the s1 finale with the impression that both of them finished their lunch, staggered their way back to the book shop (gently sloshed) and spent the night getting absolutely hammered. Like drain the wine cellar, night on the town, capital-P Pissed.
It’s all a bit ‘rambunctious’, as a fussy and well read angel might say.
Crowley wakes up on Aziraphale’s sofa a week later - covered in a blanket, various papers and a copy of the Sunday times.
A pot of tea’s just finished steeping, there’s cake in the tin. Somewhere across the shop, a tartan-clad figure hums (rather untunefully) to himself as he pours over a crackled hardback book.
If you asked Crowley, it’s all quite civilised, if a tad “country living magazine”. A little gauche. A bit twee - not really his ‘style’.
But he doesn’t reach for his glasses, or pat his jacket for his keys.
After all, he thinks, stretching what’s probably the correct number of limbs and reaching out for a bone china cup, why on Her green earth would he ever want to leave?
21 notes · View notes
sysig · 1 year
Note
Request 2: Drider Scriabin being aesthetic and spooky! Thought about how if you wear a headlamp outside at night, all the sparkles in the grass are tiny reflective spider eyes (personal experience with camping) and with his mirror lenses being reflective, it sparked a mental image of scary spider man in the dark with his 'eyes' being the most visible thing by torchlight (or spell light). If you want, maybe something with pretty spiderwebs in the background because Spiderwebs! Are! Cool!
Tumblr media
Day 14 - Crackle crackle ✨
Bonus original resolution:
Tumblr media
140 notes · View notes
aroaessidhe · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media
2023 reads // twitter thread
A Song of Salvation
YA space fantasy adventure
a reborn god in the body of a girl on an isolated planet, a grumpy space pirate, and a famous space-radio podcaster end up together on the run in the middle of an intergalactic war - and they might have the key to end it
m/m and pre f/m, demi MCs
22 notes · View notes
son1c · 1 year
Text
i tried a couple of crown designs before ultimately deciding that blaze’s forehead gem was good enough as a headpiece. the crown just fucked up the silhouette way too much and also was extremely difficult to position in a way that like. made sense? i know i’ve said in the past that that one crown from the archie comics future storyline is really stupid looking (and it is) but genuinely. how else if not his eyebrows holding it up is that thing supposed to stay on his head
37 notes · View notes
elftwink · 10 months
Text
hello gay people in my phone have any of you read Winter's Orbit by Everina Maxwell. if the answer is no. can you PLEASE so I have someone to talk to about it
15 notes · View notes
gay-artificer · 10 months
Text
I dont want to dredge up drama especially mean-spirited ones but I think its very funny to complain about people 'flanderizing the slugcats' in the same breathe that you state they're just animals.
I have my own gripes with the way people characterize the slugcats or even engage with RainWorld as a whole but can you explain to me how someone can 'flanderize' The Survivor in any way that isn't basically just "Gave them a personality at all." Flanderization is the reduction of a complex or multi faceted character down to singular easy to digest traits and while I /do/ think many of the slugcats at least have hints of personality they are not explored or hinted at enough to call most of them (themselves) deeply complex characters. They behave in very reserved ways- because they're animals and also player controlled- and they're minute enough that I can completely understand wanting both a stronger or more distinct personality to play with in fanon, and how both of those can coexist without either feeling really 'off.' Like I'm not a particularly huge fan of hyperactive high-energy rivulet fanon but I also can't really pretend that a more reserved rivulet is 'more right' just because its closer to how they act in game... which is like an animal that can also follow orders. Because its an animal. A smart animal but an animal.
Iterators are another story entirely though, but frankly you haven't seen RW flanderization unless you experienced pre-downpour Five Pebbles
9 notes · View notes
nymfaia · 1 month
Text
HAURCHEFANT ; ANCIENT VERSE.
Tumblr media
Svalinn is most known for how keenly Azem speaks of them: a being with a gilded tongue and a golden heart that could rival the very sun. While decidedly not a member of the Convocation or their close inner circle, his name tends to be familiar to most of those in Amaurot, especially those closely tied to the creation of arts:
He is the author of many and more of the oldest pieces of poetry, the rhymes and rhythms that those across shards remember but cannot place the beginning of. While most of it has been recreated and credited to others across the history of the shards, many of them echo what was once common reading in the Ancients.
He and Azem had a bond like no other. While they traveled on occasion, Svalinn held little power - metaphorically or literally - to truly embark on his own. He wished to see the world, but feared weighing down the one truly meant to do so: and as a result, he wrote.
Most of his works are wholly inspired by the traveler themselves and the tales they shared with him, and are - to everyone but himself - blatantly things created from love, both of them and of the world itself.
While he has likely been invited to speak at conferences or contribute to the Bureau on an official manner, Svalinn has consistently refused to be recognized officially as anything but a man with too many words and not enough time. Words had little reason to be called his own when anyone else could have pulled them together just the same, he would say sheepishly, and that was that.
(If Azem asked nicely, he may, eyes closed and voice but a whisper, recite the ones he has memorized, the ones that remind him the most of the being that, to him, walked among the very stars and hung the sun in the sky. But only if they asked.)
2 notes · View notes
agentmika · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
11 notes · View notes