This Is Wonderful - Tumblr Posts
THEYRE LITERALLY IN A 1920s SETTING AND THERE IS NO MAFIA AU?! DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF IN THIS HOUSEHOLD?! AGAIN???
this took me far too long what a waste of at least one perfectly good hour
Some poems from “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell
Elrond With A Modern Medical!Reader in Valinor
Request: Not sure if this is fic or just headcanons but: Modern!reader in middle earth who was a neurosurgeon in her old life and is now in Valinor working with Elrond to translate medical concepts to elven language before she dies and help advance their medical practice. Some differences between elven and human biology are found out in the process, it’s all quite fascinating to them both. She assists in a few operations but I imagine they don’t have many surgical operations to do in times of peace because people just aren’t getting injured like they used to during the famed battles against Morgoth and Sauron in middle earth. She helps on occasion but them elves are graceful and not injury-prone. - Anon
A/N: I was having trouble turning this into a fic, and since you gave me the option, not minding if I did a headcanon, I went with the latter. I had fun writing this, I also made their relationship ambiguous. Enjoy!
When you happen to arrive in Valinor, dazed by its eternal beauty and tranquillity, Elrond, with all his calming presence and wise demeanour was the first to greet and help you settle down. He was kind to welcome you into his new home.
During your time there, you and Elrond spend countless hours in his extensive library, trying to translate complex medical texts and concepts into Quenya, while he marvels at the intricacies of human detail in neurosurgery. To him, the ability to heal the brain by getting so practical and up close was fascinating.
“You humans certainly love your precision and details,” he would say as he smiled while reading through a description of a delicate brain surgery. You on the other hand would laugh and tell him that not all humans are so meticulous, following up your comment by sharing more medical mishaps from your world.
It is when you discover the biological differences between elves and humans, that things in the work become all the more interesting. You discover that elves’ regenerative abilities allow for healing preparations to be cut down and rushed to the healing wing, unimportant. Just knowing this, leaves you speechless as he casually mentions recovering from an injury that would have left a human incapacitated.
“So you’re telling me that you can heal from a stab wound in a matter of days?” you ask, incredulously with jealousy lingering. Elrond would simply nod along with a serene smile as he continued to translate the prewritten text on the paper you provided. “I wish I had that. Would have saved me all those trips to the ER.”
Assisting in medical practices in Valinor is rare but rewarding. Elrond’s precise, yet holistic approach to medicine complements your surgical expertise perfectly. Together, you manage to save a few elves who came in with nasty injuries, mostly from hunting trips gone bad.
As time passes, you are further blown away when Elrond teaches you their famous art of healing through song and rare herbs, enchanting your understanding of medicine. You do find the elves’ ability to enter healing trances particularly fascinating.
“So you just…sing them better? Like kumbaya and poof! Healed?!” you asked one day as you attempted to wrap your head around the concept, prompting Elrond to chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
As time passes, your collaboration deepens both your understanding and respect for each other’s knowledge and expertise. Elrond is continually impressed but your surgical and modern techniques, while you are captivated by the elves’ natural form of advanced healing practices. This welcomed late nights in the library often turning into philosophical discussions as Elrond is thrilled by your stories of modern technology, and you are equally captivated by his tales of Middle-Earth.
You even meet a few of his family members during your stay as words of another human dwelling in Valinor. “Wait, you all fought a literal Balrog? Those fiery beasts?” you asked one evening as you sat around a table chatting with those who encountered the creature. “If you all were in my world, you could have used a fire extinguisher to put the flames out, or just douse water on them.” You leave most of them in laughter and confusion.
Due to meeting other elves beside him, you get the opportunity to practice your healing methods on them, though, they rarely allow you to since they usually appear fine even when injured. “So you couldn’t have hit your head a little harder for me to have something to examine instead of magically healing?” you disappointedly asked one of Elrond’s family members.
That has been the relationship for most of the encounters when an elf decides to come in sporting an ‘injury’. “You said you cracked your skull four days ago while hunting but I’m not seeing any injury. Do you mind if I hit you so I can have an actual injury to work with?”
Like you, even Elrond has his moments of being light-hearted, despite his dry sense of humour, when things don’t go according to plan. If the technique is too complex, he’ll jokingly say, “Of course, if all else fails, we just use magic.” Of course, you blink at him wondering if he was being serious or joking.
The partnership between you and Elrond as your work in Valinor developed certain areas of elven magical was tedious but also worthwhile. Even the relationship between you brought each other comfort and upliftment. “I suppose I’ll be remembered as the strange human who brought surgical scalpels to the Blessed Realm and threatened to beat people in their heads,” you joked.
Elrond usual response is filled with a sense of gratitude as he makes a toast in your honour. “You will be remembered as a pioneer and someone we are grateful to have encountered. I am glad you were brought here,” he fondly cheered.
Even as your time in Valinor progresses, you and Elrond continue to explore new ways to incorporate your medical practices into their elven healing. Each time an elf stops by for healing, you sometimes have to threaten them to come in with noticeable head injuries or you’d give them, while other times, you are lucky to have something to deal with. At least, during your years there, you managed to get a lot done.
Masterlist
Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @aconstructofamind @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio @lamemaster @elficially-done-with-life
i almost fuckibg cried, this is beautiful bee.
AHEM, JOINING IN ON THE NO.1 LMK HYPE PEOPLE PROPAGANDA, GUYS, WHERE Y'ALL AT?
LMK SEASON FIVE IS COMING !!
YEAAAAAAAAA!!!
I AM GOING TO BE THE LMK COMMUNITY’S #1 HYPE PERSON‼️‼️‼️
LETS GO SEASON FIIIIVEEE!!!
SEASON 5 IS GONNA BE FUCKING AWESOME, THIS IS THE START OF A NEW ERA FOR LEGO MONKIE KID YALL!!!!
THIS CHANGE FROM FLYING BARK TO WILDBRAIN WILL BE THE START OF A NEW EXCITING ADVENTURE!!!
@buccaneeering
I tried to doodle Julien again....
Here are the other doodles of Julien @buccaneeering :)
He is so much fun to draw :3 💜
Y'all i put the poto soundtrack on and went CRAZY on this. I'm actually so proud of myself tbh,
this is scarily accurate
The Hurt/Comfort Alphabet
A: Alleviate - How do they go about relieving persistent physical pain?
B: Bedridden - How do they behave when they’re sick?
C: Cling - Whose physical touch is considered most welcome in their minds when they are in need? Is there a specific type of touch they respond well to?
D: Deathbed - How would they react if they realized they may not recover from their injuries?
E: Emergency - What is their gut reaction when someone they care about is hurt?
F: Fight - Are there circumstances under which they would not accept treatment or care? If so, what are they?
G: Ghosts - How has their past shaped the kind of comfort they respond to best?
H: Home - What things (objects, sensations or people) remind them they’re safe after a scary situation?
I: Isolation - How do they soothe themselves when no one is around to soothe them?
J: Joy - When was the first time they were truly happy after going through something terrible?
K: Kindness - Do they believe they deserve the comfort they receive? Why or why not?
L: Levity - What or who helps them take their mind off of the circumstances?
M: Music - Is there a song that comforts them? Why is it comforting to them?
N: Nostalgia - What things that comforted them as a kid still work today? Does anyone know that?
O: Overworked - Who or what tells them to stop working and take care of themselves?
P: Please - Have they ever begged for someone to comfort or stay with them? What was that incident like?
Q: Questions - Are they eager to talk about what or why they’re hurting? Why or why not?
R: Relief - How do they react to the realization that they will soon be fully recovered?
S: Scared - What would it take for them to admit that they’re scared?
T: Time - How long does it take for them to feel better after an ordeal or illness? Do they tend to lie about how soon they feel better?
U: Ugly - What part of their recovery process are they ashamed of, if any?
V: Valiant - Has anyone told them they were brave for facing what they did? How would they react if someone did?
W: Why? - How did they process what happened to them?
X: Xenas - Do they see anyone as an inspiration in their recovery? Does their inspiration know about this?
Y: Yearn - What gesture, person or thing do they desperately want, but would never actually ask for?
Z: Zero - What is the best way to comfort them without touching them?
Breaking into Villain’s warehouse certainly wasn’t easy, but Hero prided themself on getting things done. Villain was out, taking care of a gang apparently encroaching on the territory considered ‘theirs’, and Hero needed to know what Villain’s base of operations looked like. Needed to know what was going on inside, because anyone they found who might know anything was as hard to pry open as that plastic cup that Hero had accidentally wedged inside another cup the week before.
They didn’t have time to focus on inconsequential side gigs- people were disappearing, and then reappearing weeks later, fished out of the river, their bodies ripped and torn and sewn and dissected. Hero needed to know who was taking them, where they were going, how they were being taken, and why. They were pretty certain they could answer the first question.
That’s what tonight was for.
Hero dropped to the ground, dead silent. The guards had passed on their rounds a full minute before, leaving Hero a cool fifteen minutes to get from their initial opening deeper into the building.
It wasn’t smart to go in so blindly. They knew that. They also knew how many people were disappearing on average- two a week- and knew that if it was Villain, there wouldn’t be any floor plans to speak of for the building. There was nothing.
At least they were able to search the whole hallway before getting caught.
One hand was on a doorknob to slide into the next room, the other on their throwing knives in case they were about to interrupt something, when someone behind them chuckled.
“Would you like a tour?” Villain asked. “I’m happy to give you one. I’ve been looking for a second pair of eyes.” They were standing in the darkened hallway behind Hero, leaning on the wall in a way that should have looked careless but came off as calculating. It was the same with their tone- flippant words that somehow felt ill-fitted to the person saying them.
“You’re the one who’s been running around the city asking about me,” Villain said. “If you wanted to know something, you should have asked.”
“You’re the one who’s been kidnapping all those people,” Hero shot back. They tried to spit the words, but the venom died on their tongue.
“Is that a statement or a question?” Villain said. They smiled, then, and Hero’s chest filled up with warmth. They smiled back. “Would you like to see them?”
Hero nodded, stepping forwards. They slipped their knife back into their pocket. They didn’t need it.
That wasn’t right.
Hero stopped. Blinked. What were they thinking?
“Stop it,” they said out loud.”
Villain turned, an eyebrow raised. They smiled again, sharp teeth flashing, and Hero’s chest remained resolutely cold. Good.
“You’re right. That was unfair of me.”
The rumors were right. Very little was known for certain about Villain- how long they had been in town, how far their plans extended, what their ultimate goals were- but there were rumors that they could control thoughts.
“You can control minds,” Hero stated.
“No,” Villain said. “I control everything.”
“Really. Can you control someone’s will?”
“All a will is is someone’s ability to control their emotions, their urges, their body’s responses. I control bodies. Every chemical you release, every signal your nerves sense. I control your will.” They leaned in. “Want me to make you beg?”
They were going to have to try a lot harder if they wanted a reaction out of Hero. “You seem awfully fine with me breaking into your base,” they observed.
“Even the best of us still want someone to witness,” Villain said, leaning back. “And you’re better than the others. Your fear is different.”
“Vigilantism has its perks.”
Villain chuckled at that. “Before we go down,” they said, “you have a higher threshold for fear than others, but even you aren’t immune.” Their eyes flicked over Hero’s body, clinical, fascinated. “So I’m going to give you a gift.”
“You don’t-”
“Shh,” Villain said, and Hero shut their mouth. “There’s an old bible story,” they began, “where God tells Pharaoh to free his slaves ‘or else’. Are you familiar?”
“Of course you were raised catholic,” Hero said before they could stop themself.
Villain ignored them. “The ten plagues. Famine, death, rivers of blood. But you see, there’s a very interesting part where God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, so that Pharaoh continues to refuse him. Do you know why?” They paused, as though waiting for an answer.
“I must have missed that day.”
“Fear makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do. There is no choice when we’re afraid, we’ll do anything to get rid of it. When faced with the wrath of God, there is no real decision- unless, of course, you do not fear.”
Villain tilted their head ever so slightly, eyes fixed on Hero. “I don’t want you to react out of fear. I want everything you do to be yours.”
“So, what?” Hero scoffed. “You’re god?”
“Haven’t I made my own creations?”
The bodies in the river.
“You didn’t make anything,” Hero spat. “And I don’t appreciate anyone controlling my brain.”
Villain shrugged, a half shouldered thing that felt entirely out of place on them. “That’s unavoidable. Something’s going to, and you should be happy I’m keeping the fear out of your brain rather than, say, taking some of those nerve clusters and squeezing.”
The threat felt empty. No, that wasn’t it. Hero knew Villain had that ability, and that they could kill them, but the usual trickle of ice that usually accompanied true threats simply didn’t appear. Hero couldn’t find it within themselves to tense up for a fight.
“Fear can be useful,” Hero said. “Prepares you to do what needs to be done.”
“Useful? Really?” Villain said. “You would trust your body not to betray you.”
“Yeah, I think I’d trust my body with itself more than I’d trust you.” Hero crossed their arms.
Something glinted in Villain’s eye, and they turned. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” they said, and began walking deeper into the complex.
Hero stared. Villain had turned their back on them. Was walking away, even. Hero wasn’t restrained, wasn’t even disarmed, they were just… loose. And Villain just turned their back to them.
They went for their knives. The moment they touched the blades, pain lanced up their arm.
Down the hallway, Villain sighed, turning to walk back. Their right hand was outstretched, palm up. “I suppose we can do it now.”
Hero didn’t move.
“I’m holding onto your secondary nervous system,” Villain said, voice light, like they were having afternoon tea. “Pulling out your freeze response. Feel that?”
Hero stood, staring, heart hammering, air frozen in their lungs. The muscles in their neck started to tense and untense, trying to pull in air.
“You don’t feel fear like this often,” Villain said. “It’s what makes you so much better.” They flicked their fingers.
Air rushed back in, and Hero took a step back. “I’m- that can’t possibly be the reason I’m better. I feel fear. Other people stay calm- that can’t possibly be the reason.”
“Other people don’t consistently face off against people like me.”
“You admit there are other people like you?” Hero said, more to distract Villain for a moment and regain their composure than anything.
Villain laughed. “I’m not the only one with my power.”
Hero felt the urge to stiffen- but it passed. “Others?”
“There’s no need for you to worry. If there are a thousand like me, then maybe ten are even aware they have powers- and of those, only I possess my refinement. It’s an art, you know. Teasing out responses- pulling on one chemical, pushing on another. It takes time to figure out. First poor souls I worked on-” Villain spared a glance to the side, remembering- “well, as it happens, too much of one chemical flooding your brain can trigger some unfortunate side effects. But that was years ago.”
Morbid fascination made Hero want to know exactly what happened and how, but they pushed that to the side. “How would someone not realize they could- control people? Control bodies?”
“At very low levels, it might simply be unconsciously done. They might be an exceptionally good doctor, or maybe assume they are just very persuasive. It’s easy to be charming when everyone gets a dopamine hit just by seeing you.”
They were directly in front of Hero now. “Your freeze response is a bit boring, no? Let’s try another.”
Hero grit their teeth. They needed to stop Villain- they needed Villain happy with them. Villain was angry, angry enough to hurt Hero, and Hero could- Hero could ask, they should ask, they should plead, they should- not ask forgiveness, not that, they shouldn’t ask for anything, but they could ask what they could do to help, they should apologize for breaking in, Villain, they should get on their knees right now and beg-
A shudder shook through them.
“Come on now,” Villain said. Their foot tapped on the ground, arms crossed, shoulders tight, jaw set-
“Sorry,” Hero said, the word bursting out. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. “I-” They clamped their lips shut.
Blood in the water.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Villain- please, I- I’m sorry, please please, I didn’t mean- I can do anything, I’ll do anything, I swear, I’m so sorry, please-” Hero’s eyes pricked with tears.
And then they didn’t. Hero blinked, still breathing hard. They studied Villain, suddenly uncaring about their stance or the slight curve at the edge of their mouth, but didn’t say anything. They didn’t know what would come out if they opened their mouth.
“You still think fear is a good thing?” Villain teased.
Hero wasn’t one to admit defeat. They needed more information on Villain, and Villain was…
They followed Villain deeper into the compound.
anyone else up thinking about the carter family and the modernisation of 30s america and technology and also immortality. or is it just me
Radiograph (William Yew x Henry Bicknell) stimboard
✭ with radio/ forest stims
✫ RQ'd by @southernambrosebassford!
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Steve had always felt that he never understood the idea of a home.
He remembered, in fourth grade, his teacher asking the class what “home” was. Tommy Hagan had said home was where his bedroom was, Carol said that it was where her clothes were. Other kids said that it was where their parents were, their house, where they didn't have to be scared, where they were happy. Steve didn’t have an answer to the question, because what was a home? What was his home?
He thought about his bedroom, maybe, like Tommy, that could be his home? But yet, he couldn’t help but feel a twisting feeling in his gut at the thought of his room. With its beige walls with brown stripes, matching curtains, plain bedsheets and a plain desk covered in books that he could barely understand, he didn’t think that it was home. His dad threw away all of his toys a couple of weeks ago, all but a basketball and a football, so there was nothing there that he loved. Why would Tommy feel at home in his bedroom? Steve hated his. Was that wrong?
Steve didn’t have any clothes that he liked, so that couldn’t be his home. His mom always bought his, telling him to wear them without complaint. He didn’t complain. Really, he didn’t! He just never liked the shirts she bought him, they were too plain, and the pants he had to wear were too itchy.
Home was where his parents were? His parents had been going on longer trips, did that mean that his home was where they were traveling? Was that his home? But, he’s never been there! That didn’t make sense, did it?
And, Steve was always scared at his house in Loch Nora. It was so big, filled with empty space, echoing hallways that sometimes creaked. Anything could jump out at him, and his dad was never home to stop the monsters from crawling out from under his bed! How was he not supposed to be afraid?
And, he knew for a fact that he wasn’t happy there. He hated going back to his house. He would rather spend his time playing with Tommy and Carol in the park, or in the school gym, or even at someone else’s house. Never his own.
So, what was his home? Was it somewhere far away, where his parents were? Was it his strange bedroom that felt like it was meant for someone else? Was it the clothes he hated, the empty hallways that never ended? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
And, that day, in fourth grade, Steve Harrington realized that he didn’t have a home, and he probably never would.
-------------------------------------
At 20 years old, Steve finally realized what a home was.
Home wasn’t a place, it wasn’t a bedroom, and it certainly wasn’t parents that didn’t care for him.
Home was a girl who never pushed him away, who loved him for who he was, who was his platonic soulmate, the one person he never knew that he needed but was so, so thankful to have.
Home was a child genius with curly hair and a ballcap, spouting nerdy science facts every second, who teased Steve endlessly but cared for him like a brother.
Home was a young girl with a heart of fire, one who had been through too much pain and suffering but never gave up, who lay in a hospital bed, waiting for rescue.
Home was a group of people who cared for him, who had fought in countless battles with him, beside him, who gave him names that meant more to him than they knew. Babysitter. Dingus. Friend. Hero.
Home was an army of over a dozen people, each with their own weapons, their own strengths, their own weaknesses, their own passions, their own struggles.
Home was a family of misfits, every single person cracked and bruised from one thing or another, but still standing strong, holding each other together in unity, in strength, and in courage.
And that’s how they stood now, standing on the edge of a red gate, a gray sky above them, weapons in hand, an enemy below them.
Steve now had a home. And he would do anything to protect it. To protect them.
Vecna didn’t stand a chance.
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Author's note: This was written in an attempt to get me writing again (I haven't had the motivation to write in a week or so...so I needed to get it back lol). So, I'm not sure how good this was, but I hope that you all enjoyed it! It should be posted on AO3 soon!
I may have missed the time to say this but I thought someone should say this again:
Aziraphale didn't choose heaven over Crowley.
Crowley didn't choose to stay over Aziraphale.
Aziraphale left because he wanted to fix heaven, to make it what it claims to be.
Crowley confessed to Aziraphale because he wanted to stop fleeing from the feelings they'd both been running from for thousands of years.
The confession and the invitation to heaven are two seperate events that happen to have coincided. That's the tragedy of it all.
(imo) Crowley didn't confess because he wanted to convince Aziraphale to stay, he confessed because he wanted to put the truth out there.
He wanted a final chance to say "I love you", a true "I love you", in case there was never another time to say it.
If the Metadick had never given Aziraphale the role of Supreme Archangel, Crowley would still have confessed. Aziraphale would have always gone and Crowley would have always stayed with or without a confession. It would have always been heartwrenching but know they both have so many unanswered questions.
The final fifteen is a tragedy of timing because, after 6000 years, they had a chance to be together. But then again, did they ever really have that chance?