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*** UNDER CONSTRUCTION ***

I'm hoping to resurrect this event after 10 years. More details to follow!

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remember when teachers would tell you to fold paper hamburger or hotdog style. kind of sounds like some fake shit but just another example of burger centric american thinking

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This week, I read a fic that was around 20 years old, which had originally been posted on the author's personal website and which she added to AO3 a few years ago. She listed her email address with the fic, so after I finished reading, I sent her an email saying how much I enjoyed the story, how much I appreciated the work and effort she obviously put into it, and thanked her for uploading it to AO3. She responded the next day and thanked me for my message, then said she had a few more stories in the same series that she hadn't gotten around to uploading. I checked this morning--she added a 35,000 word novella and thanked me in the summary.

👏 comment 👏 on 👏 old 👏 fics 👏

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currently losing my mind over the 3d printed piezoelectric violin

it looks like you can play some sick ass riff on it and then turn it around and hack off a man’s head

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really enjoying a character from a trilogy who dies early in and is misrepresented as a horrid villain really does something to one's mind

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This is.....niche. Do period-appropriate chickens even still exist? Idk anything about chickens. I like the fancy ones.

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THIS DRAWING WAS MADE 700 YEARS AGO BY A 7-YEARS-OLD BOY NAMED ONFIM WHO LIVED IN NOVOGROD.

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I may need this later, for cosplay reasons...

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God not to play the millennial card or anything but I’m rewatching The Lord of the Rings and remembering being a kid/young teen when the movies were being released and that moment in pop culture was just the fucking goddamn best. Nothing compares to it now. It was just such a special time. That trilogy really, genuinely, did something to me as a kid that stuck with me to adulthood. “It changed my brain chemistry” no but it actually did I’m not even joking.

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Even if it ends soon, it's putting every institution funded by the government — research, contractors, universities, NGOs — on notice that Trump can and will politicize their funding.

This is essentially what Trump did with Ukrainian funding and was impeached for during his first term. Unilaterally halting spending that had already been signed into law for purely political reasons.

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Today hasn't been very good. Reblog to cover prev in blankets and tell them everything is going to be okay and they're loved.

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The Lord of the Rings acrylic paintings (70s) by Tim and Greg Hildebrandt

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This is swag right here

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↻ FLIP FLOP !! Girl you know I HAVE to ask you for Boromir's POV in THAT scene from chapter 32 of Burn Like Cold Iron. Hehe good luck

I should've seen this ask coming 😂 It was fun to get into Boromir's head for this one lol, although I’m not sure I did it justice. When you haven’t written much in a while, it’s hard to tell if a scene turned out ok or not, but this is as good as it’s gonna get for now.

But anyway, here you go! Boromir's rambling perspective of the only one bed scene (most of which is the Massage Incident, poor man).

Boromir gritted his teeth as Beatrice’s slender hand traced down his chest. She shifted next to him on the dilapidated bed frame, leaning closer to wrap the cloth bandages around his shoulder. Swallowing hard, he shut his eyes against her. 

“Is this…” How intimate her voice was, whispered into the crook of his neck. “Does this feel secure, or should I wrap it here again?” Her trembling fingertips brushed over his ribcage, demonstrating. 

“Again.” Boromir’s voice was desperate even to his own ears. “Please."

His sorceress nodded and obeyed, leaning closer than ever. The heat of her breath ghosted over his ear and he spasmed, narrowly stopping himself from grasping her waist and pulling her roughly against him. 

She felt the movement; she could have done little else, near as she was to him. “Does this hurt?” she asked quickly.

“No,” he whispered. “No. Your hands are gentle.” Gentle? Perhaps they were, though they tormented him all the more for it.

All too soon, Beatrice drew back, her work done. Boromir tried to be glad of it. 

“There now,” he blurted, as though he might cool the fire under his skin with a few lighthearted words. “The healers of Minas Tirith could not have done a better job, I should think.” 

Reflexively, he rolled his shoulders back, then winced. He’d half-forgotten his injury in the intimacy of her work, but the sting of physical pain brought him abruptly back to his own body. He repeated the motion mulishly, half-hoping he might banish his discomfort through sheer force of will. If anything, the pain only worsened, and he snarled impatiently.

He had no time for such physical weakness, not when his people had need of him! How long would his body betray him so? 

“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” Beatrice’s eyes were still on him, concern twisting her features. He waved her question away, half-fearing a second attempt to tend to his bandages. But it seemed he had underestimated her once again, for without warning she was kneeling behind him on the threadbare mattress, her hands like fire on his bare shoulders, her intention clear. 

Anticipation, unbearable and all-consuming, seized him. “Beatrice!” he choked. “It is only a slight discomfort, it will pass!” 

But of course she would not be dissuaded—his sorceress cared for her companions far too much, and for propriety not at all. Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but she began to knead his shoulders, her hands deft and warm, and his protests died on his tongue.

“Valar save me,” he breathed, before hanging his head in surrender.

Had anyone ever touched him like this before? One of the healers of Minas Tirith had massaged his sore back once, years ago, after he’d been thrown from his horse and dislocated his shoulder. But it had not felt like this—it had not affected him like this. It had not been Beatrice.

She must have done this before, he thought distantly, a warm haze overtaking his mind, for she knew just how to touch him to smooth away the aches of prolonged travel and the strain of battle. What might it be like, he wondered, to return her favor—to touch her just as she touched him? To hear her sigh and moan as she melted under his hands? He swallowed hard, his imagination determined to torment him. To end each evening occupied thus, though on a bed far grander than this one, and his sorceress clad in a nightgown of silk, rather than her riding dress…a nightgown he might sweep from her shoulder as he massaged her, bowing his head to part his lips against her bare skin…

His limbs trembled—her movements faltered. “Do you want me to stop?” she whispered.

A foolish question, asked far too late. “No.”  Boromir’s voice was helpless, almost soundless. He wanted her to stop, he wanted her to continue, oh, Valar, he wanted—

He took a long breath, then another. He must control himself. He must, for his sake and hers. She was from a faraway world, intent on returning home, an errand he himself had sworn to help her complete. To pursue Beatrice would be to turn her from her homeland, her family, her people—it would be unthinkable. Unforgivable. She must return. 

She must return, and he must remain.

How often had he lectured himself thus in recent days? Yet the words were true as ever.

Perhaps if he pretended Beatrice was an aide in the healing houses, or a medic on the battlefield, nothing more, then he might withstand this. Practical, reasonable; a soldier’s mindset. Yes, he could achieve this.

For a moment, perhaps two, he succeeded. But as her warm fingers pressed just below his shoulder blade, he moaned aloud—moaned as though she were offering him a far different form of pleasure. 

Beatrice froze. Boromir froze as well, mortification warring with his desire, which had heightened anew at her touch. Had she realized at last the effect she was having on him? If so, it did not daunt her, for she continued to massage him, her breath warm on his naked back. And despite himself, he began to slip back into a trance, heady and drunken and warm.

“Do you have any of that medicine for your bruises? The stuff the doctor was using in Edoras?” 

He fumbled for the tin of ointment and pressed it into her hand without thought. But as she slid off the bed to kneel before him and tend to his broken ribs, he sucked in a sharp breath of panic. His desire was threatening to overwhelm him at last, and he feared his body would soon betray him in more ways than one. Her soft hands massaging his stomach and chest, her warm breath tickling his skin, her heavy-lidded gaze glinting in the low firelight…he was but a mortal man, after all, though he would defy even an elf to remain unaffected by his sorceress for long. 

His breaths were coming more quickly, more raggedly, his chest rising and falling like a bellows under Beatrice’s hands as he tried vainly to calm himself. Her thumb lingered over the raised scar just under his ribs, earned by an errant orc blade years ago, and he jolted at the touch. He had never been ashamed of his scars—they were won in service of his people, and he carried each with pride—but he had never imagined that a woman might touch them with such tenderness, such devotion. But perhaps he should not have been surprised, for rarely had he ever met a more compassionate soul than Beatrice. Always she surprised him, overwhelmed him, tormented him—

She stroked the scarred flesh again, and another moan slipped from his lips.

Beatrice’s eyes fixed on him. Valar, Valar, he could now scarcely recall his reasons for holding himself back from her—surely no reason on earth could prevail against the desire darkening her gaze. He stared down at his sorceress in the dim light, his knuckles whitening at his sides, his arousal beginning to strain at his trousers, her lips so torturously close to his own—

He wrenched himself to his feet, stammering he knew not what, and fled the cabin.

What a fool he was. What a damned fool! He tore at his hair, gritting his teeth against the desire still rising within him as he stormed back and forth under the black sky. What had possessed her to touch him so—and what had possessed him to allow it? Beatrice, Beatrice, you will drive me to madness!

Perhaps he was half-mad already, for with a growl of impatience he stormed to the well and doused his face with a splash of frigid water.

The night was cold, the water colder still, and clarity returned to him at last. With his good hand, he pushed his sopping hair from his eyes and took a long breath. There now. He was himself again—or close to it.

Sobered and newly mortified, Boromir reentered the little cabin and dressed himself, before sheepishly wringing his hair dry before the fire. Beatrice lingered at the far end of the cabin, fidgeting with her braid and looking anywhere but at him. 

At last they climbed into the little bed for the night, still determinedly avoiding eye contact. Boromir reclined on his back, trying not to dwell on how close she lay to him. Still, the recent whirlwind of his desire, panic, and shame had given way to sheer exhaustion, and he succumbed to it with relief.

Sleep already overtaking him, he rolled clumsily onto his side, testing his body weight against his injured shoulder. No good. Who knew when he’d be able to put such weight on his right side again? He huffed and rolled the other way—and his breath hitched as he found himself mere inches from Beatrice’s face. She offered him a startled smile, her lips slightly parted, her fingers curling into the blankets between them.

He mumbled an apology for disturbing her, though she waved his words away. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would apologize in earnest for his foolish behavior. Tomorrow, he would have to recall his promise to help her return to her home—starting tomorrow, he would have to keep her at arm's length.

But tonight, Boromir knew he would dream of her.

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