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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 2 days

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logging onto tumblr dot com to see what the freaks have to say about the ghoul in fallout

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 3 days

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WALTON GOGGINS as Cooper Howard/The Ghoul in Fallout (2024)

#fallout #your honor I love him

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 4 days

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1. When was drywall invented

2. Average refraction period for men in 30s

3. Rue Vavin

4. 1860s summer evening gown

5. Hokusai in Paris

tagging @battydings @ladystormcrow @flora-gray and whoever else would like to join in

tag game: last five google searches

@brendadaaedestler tagged me to list the last 5 things I googled for a fic! I've gone on so many wikipedia journeys this week, but these are the things I actually searched for (in firefox, so technically not google but whatever):

historical cook tent

french regency balls

duke of orléans

louis XIV

Norse mythology

tagging @kotaka-kun @emotionalmotionsicknessxx @flora-gray @shinyfire-0 @ashadeintheshade but no pressure!

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 13 days

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the ghoul / cooper howard in fallout, episode one

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 14 days

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He’s so 🥹💖

#I am not saying I manifested Walton Goggins Rik but

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 14 days

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Was going through my Scrivener files, and I found the original ending to The Fly Agaric, and omg it is sooooo corny and I’m not mad. While I am glad I wrote the ending that exists—a more melancholy-happy, weirder, infinitely more horny and slow-paced one—this is cute. It was meant to take place immediately after their second night doing shrooms together. It’s funny how stories can change so much between drafts.

—

Every day, Christine considered the offer Erik had laid at her feet: that she might write to the Vicomte and come to know him again. Converse with him as she had all those years ago, when they were hardly more than children kicking sand in each other’s faces. And every afternoon, somewhere between breakfast and laundry and snuffing out the parlor room hearth, she would pick up her pencil and attempt to put down her words. Words that were increasingly hard to come by.

My dear Vicomte, she had started. For he had once been and would always be dear to her, in the way that we learn to love all good things that come and go out of our lives. It brings me peace to know we are where we were meant to be. You with the sea. And me, with my music.

It seemed too flowery, too sentimental. Too untruthful. And yet the peace she proclaimed lay there, deeply burrowed into her heart. A line in black ink scratched its way across paper, nullifying the half-truth. Just as she lifted her pen to reconsider her words, Erik entered the room, the neck of his Torres guitar dangling in his large hand like a dead rabbit. As he moved to touch her hair, Christine noticed his eyes snap down to tabletop. A tight moment hovered between the two of them, before passing from the room like an errant wind.

Christine sighed and summoned her courage, shutting her eyes tightly. “Erik,” she said, willing herself to spit the words out. “I think tonight, I’d like to have some tea.” The guitar dropped from her husband’s hand, bouncing against the parlor rug, its strings exhaling a jarring chord. His brow furrowed, the corner of one distended lip wilting downwards.

“The Vicomte.”

“Yes,” she said simply. Christine did her best to keep her eyes locked onto her husband, his own now running up and down the length of paper before her. “The Vicomte.”

The seconds slowed into minutes—hours. The edge of a fight loomed.

“I’ll be in the garden,” her husband pronounced at length, his gaze still glued to his wife’s words. “If you need me.” For a moment, muscle memory controlled Christine. Made her tense for rough words and accusations. Made her think of all the unkind things she might have said to the interloping stranger peering into her strange life. All was shattered when, instead, Erik patted her shoulder and made his way into the adjacent kitchen, grabbing a clumsily-knit guernsey to pull over his starving frame. As she watched him leave, Christine resumed with her pen.

Shortly thereafter, she heard the sound of his ax, chopping through wood.

Know that I am well.

The music of wood cleaving, of splinters jutting up into existence, filled her ears. What sort of man chopped wood by nightfall, she wondered.

Erik did, the universe said.

Know that whatever else happens—

And here Christine lost herself, scratching out that last handful of words with an earnest ease.

Know that—

Know what?

Christine pondered this question at length, the already short daylight now abandoning to her to the halo of the hearth, the generosity of her lamps. The darkness was closing in on that little room, yet she felt no fear—only a calm acceptance. What was such darkness, compared to true loneliness—compared to the brick and molder of a home buried beneath the earth? What was such darkness, when made little by the embrace of warm and willing imperfection? What was there to know about anything in the world, besides that all three of them were alive?

“Christine—“

That voice called to her from the back of the house, as beautiful and kindly as the moment it first dared to brush against her existence, all those eons ago. Somehow, the sun had left her as she stewed in her thoughts. The parlor was now dark, save for the lamp, and yet it felt twice as comfortable as it had an hour ago.

“Christine, come look.”

Her husband wanted her to look. For once, in their long lives, he wanted her to share in some vision of his existence. And so Christine rose to her feet, throwing a blanket around her shoulders as she shuffled her way to the kitchen door.

When she threw it open, it was to see Erik in shadow, leaning against a wall, maskless face in wonder—of what, she could not imagine, for the moon was gone entirely from its ink vault and the forest was as still as she had ever known it; nonetheless, it pleased her to know that a man as singular as him was still rendered slack-jaw by something as simple as the sky. Stepping towards his side, the chill brick of their home biting against her skin, she looked out at the expanse of the garden, at what they had only just begun to build together, and sighed.

“Close you eyes,” Erik whispered, passing a hand above her gaze. Though she shut her eyes obediently, he did not pain himself to move. A minute—or two or three or five—passed, the nearness of his palm almost as lovely as his embrace, now that she knew it with some regularity.

“Look,” he said, his breath warm against Christine’s neck. When her eyes opened, unfocused, Erik tilted her jaw heavenwards.

“Oh—“

Above Christine stretched the firmament—the gilt deluge of the stars, the birthing and un-birthing of things greater than either of them could imagine. The rumbling and glowing chaos of both the unknown and observable, spread out before them like a wedding feast. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she remembered some long-ago lesson from her Papa, the two of them spread out along the Breton sand, gazing into that very same firmament.

“It’s beautiful,” that imitation of her had breathed. “But think of how much more beautiful it would be with a big fat moon. Like a painting.”

Her papa had laughed. “My girl,” he said. “It is only because of the moon’s absence that we can see the stars so well.”

The urge to weep came, like an old, familiar sickness. When the tears finally fell, Christine apologized through her fingers, through the tendrils of hair draping over face. “I’m sorry—I can’t help it. It’s—“

“It is getting cold,” Erik said simply, a thumb sweeping across the joint of her elbow. The tenderness in the gesture was somehow even more beautiful than heavens above them. “Let us go inside and take our tea.”

And so the two disappeared from the night’s dazzling pull and into the warmth of their home. Into the embrace of dishes and letters and laundry and whatever little fancy might shake them from comfortable boredom. Into the familiarity of tomorrow’s arguments and tiny rages. Into the existence of that puzzling another—an another that somehow found the courage to thrive and understand. Into that small and common mystery of that thing called friendship and understanding and honesty, or else marriage. However strange. However clumsy. However human.

The End.

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 17 days

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new fictional husband dropped, I’m afraid

FALLOUT - The World Of featurette

Ghoul Edition

#fallout #never been prouder to be a Walton Goggins stan #I feel like I manifested this

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 17 days

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* Watches the first episode of the Fallout tv series *

* Slides into Tumblr *

So.

The Ghoul, am I right?

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 25 days

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#boost

Master post of my The Idiot fics on ao3 so far, in chronological order (since I haven’t written them in chronological order).

They’re all meant to be canon-compliant and fit into the canon timeline. I just am so fascinated by the dynamic between Nastasya Filippovna and Rogozhin in the novel, and I wish we got to see more of it, so I basically just try to explore that. These fics aren’t “shippy.” The dynamic is dark and unhealthy, and that is the point.

(They’re all short, even the multi-chapter ones.)

Link to the full series.

Everything that happened after Rogozhin paid 100,000 roubles for a night with Nastasya and she left with him and his friends to carouse at Ekaterinhof.

The most pathetic Rogozhin and the most painfully awkward sexual encounter I have ever written.

(Rated M; multi-chapter)

Read on ao3

“Didn’t she disgrace me in Moscow, with that officer, that Zemtiuzhnikov? I know for sure she did, and that’s after she set the date for the wedding herself.” - The Idiot, 2.3

In Moscow, Nastasya Filippovna comes home from an evening with Zemtiuzhnikov to find that a suspicious Rogozhin has been waiting for her.

(Rated M)

Read on ao3

Set the morning after “Her Own Mistress.”

If he had any self-respect at all, he wouldn’t go see her this morning. And he certainly wouldn’t answer her challenge to follow her into her bedroom.

But from the moment he first set eyes on Nastasya Filippovna, there had never been a question of self-respect.

(Rated M; multi-chapter)

Read on ao3

Takes place following the incident where Rogozhin beats Nastasya Filippovna and then demands she forgive him. Rogozhin stops by while Nastasya is having a bath, but she tells the maid to send him in anyway…

(Rated T)

Read on ao3

Nastasya Filippovna’s visit to Rogozhin’s house (which he mentions to Myshkin in part 2) from her POV. She meets his mother and sees his father’s portrait, as well as Holbein’s Dead Christ.

Two very traumatised people and some weird angsty non-explicit smut.

(Rated M; multi-chapter)

Read on ao3

Summertime in Pavlosk, in Darya Alexeyevna’s dacha. Basically just some angsty non-explicit smut.

(Rated M)

Read on ao3

Everything that happens after Nastasya Filippovna runs away from the wedding and insists Rogozhin take her to his house to hide.

(Multi-chapter)

Read on ao3

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 27 days

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Ahhh thank you so much 😭

Chapter Four is posted!

Read here on AO3

Erik blinked, stupefied with anger; he held no fondness for the statue that once stood where Ottin’s trash now sat—another Venus, amusing as it was to see how quickly Paris ran through them. But where bland and inoffensive pornography once stood, now there was little more than a cheap passion play. Hideous Polyphemus, seconds away from smashing Acis beneath a rock in his jealousy. Beautiful Galatea on the brink of summoning up the tears that would save her human hobbyhorse and turn him into a river god, and oh—bravo—good for them.

It was bad enough he lacked a nose; it was worse that his face was somehow still being rubbed in that sort of sentimental horseshit, so close to his own home and after spending his work days elbows deep in it. Even when he tried his hardest to be like everyone else, the world seemed intent on reminding him of what he was. What love could only ever be for one such as him: a farce. A god-damned satyr’s play.

Fuck. How he hated it all—this treacle passing for public art, Paris herself for nurturing it, and himself for letting it affect him so deeply. It was one thing to bear the ridicule of men and the disgust of women, the endless double-takes and backwards glances that he tolerated every time he stepped out onto the street— that was one of the few dependable realities he had encountered wherever he went, sad as the thought was.

But to live in a city spilling over with monsters and lovers and somehow feel all the more lonely for it was another thing entirely.

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 1 month

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Chapter Four is posted!

Read here on AO3

Erik blinked, stupefied with anger; he held no fondness for the statue that once stood where Ottin’s trash now sat—another Venus, amusing as it was to see how quickly Paris ran through them. But where bland and inoffensive pornography once stood, now there was little more than a cheap passion play. Hideous Polyphemus, seconds away from smashing Acis beneath a rock in his jealousy. Beautiful Galatea on the brink of summoning up the tears that would save her human hobbyhorse and turn him into a river god, and oh—bravo—good for them.

It was bad enough he lacked a nose; it was worse that his face was somehow still being rubbed in that sort of sentimental horseshit, so close to his own home and after spending his work days elbows deep in it. Even when he tried his hardest to be like everyone else, the world seemed intent on reminding him of what he was. What love could only ever be for one such as him: a farce. A god-damned satyr’s play.

Fuck. How he hated it all—this treacle passing for public art, Paris herself for nurturing it, and himself for letting it affect him so deeply. It was one thing to bear the ridicule of men and the disgust of women, the endless double-takes and backwards glances that he tolerated every time he stepped out onto the street— that was one of the few dependable realities he had encountered wherever he went, sad as the thought was.

But to live in a city spilling over with monsters and lovers and somehow feel all the more lonely for it was another thing entirely.

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 1 month

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Chapter Four is posted!

Read here on AO3

Erik blinked, stupefied with anger; he held no fondness for the statue that once stood where Ottin’s trash now sat—another Venus, amusing as it was to see how quickly Paris ran through them. But where bland and inoffensive pornography once stood, now there was little more than a cheap passion play. Hideous Polyphemus, seconds away from smashing Acis beneath a rock in his jealousy. Beautiful Galatea on the brink of summoning up the tears that would save her human hobbyhorse and turn him into a river god, and oh—bravo—good for them.

It was bad enough he lacked a nose; it was worse that his face was somehow still being rubbed in that sort of sentimental horseshit, so close to his own home and after spending his work days elbows deep in it. Even when he tried his hardest to be like everyone else, the world seemed intent on reminding him of what he was. What love could only ever be for one such as him: a farce. A god-damned satyr’s play.

Fuck. How he hated it all—this treacle passing for public art, Paris herself for nurturing it, and himself for letting it affect him so deeply. It was one thing to bear the ridicule of men and the disgust of women, the endless double-takes and backwards glances that he tolerated every time he stepped out onto the street— that was one of the few dependable realities he had encountered wherever he went, sad as the thought was.

But to live in a city spilling over with monsters and lovers and somehow feel all the more lonely for it was another thing entirely.

#the phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera #fan fic #phantom of the opera fanfic #Gaston Leroux #my ocs

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les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques · 1 month

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