#when he was about 10? or thereabouts

[all-or-nothing-baby]

tell me this isn't the cutest thing you've seen all day (you can't).

[cumikering]

Ex bf John Price x reader

1.6k | angst Price was back in Liverpool (part 2)

“John?”

That voice was definite. It couldn't be, but there you stood when he turned.

A soft smile spread across your lips. “I recognised the beanie.”

It was your gift from all those years ago, dark grey with his initials, JMFP, embroidered on the bottom.

He chuckled, the kind that made his eyes crinkle.

“How long has it been? 5 years?”

He shifted his weight. “Thereabouts.” Has it really been that long?

The last time you saw each other was when he dropped you off the train station, three years’ worth of your relationship dragged behind in your luggage. It was much heavier than it looked.

You stood in front of the train, your back to him, unmoving. His heart had been in his throat since the night before, ever since you started packing, when ‘our apartment’ became simply ‘John’s’. His nails dug into his palms, wishing you’d turn around. There were still a few seconds for you to change your mind. You boarded - your one-way trip back to Liverpool.

“I didn’t expect you to still have it.”

He felt exposed. He wished he didn't wear the beanie, but it was always his favourite.

“You alright?

“Never better.” His cheeks ached, or was it his chest? “You?”

He didn’t need to ask. It was easy to see. Your eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the weather. You looked as good as the day he met you.

In his worn fleece button down, he was suddenly self-conscious of how he was still the same at best, but who was he kidding - the years hadn’t been kind to him. Nowadays his scruff was an excuse to not have to shave so often.

You weren’t supposed to meet again, and not there of all places, but it was funny really. It was the same place you first met. The memories flooded in.

It was no secret that people could only pick one: military or family. Well, most of them anyway, some lucky bastards got to have both. John didn’t care about having to choose when he walked down this path in life. He never had plans for relationships, and the disinterest served him well, allowing him to excel over his peers. Until you came along.

Still a lieutenant then, he was back home in Liverpool browsing the beer aisle at the nearest supermarket. Next to him, your first summer after uni, you were in charge of the drinks for your brother’s birthday BBQ. You asked if he could help you with the overwhelming selection. When he carried the purchase back to your car, you invited him to the party instead.

You were inseparable the rest of summer. Each touch seared his skin and he felt 10 years younger. Despite the circumstances, the both of you were unwilling to leave the fire behind. Between deployments, you always made time to visit each other, connection unwavering.

Seeing you now felt surreal. He stood there with knees that didn’t work like they used to, his head constantly thumping. He’d taken a beating and the years between you suddenly felt further. You were unforgettable, but the air around you made you feel foreign. You didn’t look at him like you used to. Maybe that’s what happened if he wasn’t your muse anymore.

You would have followed him to the end of the world. He knew it – you did it. After a year, you dropped all you knew. Your family, life-long friends, the job you were after the whole of uni. You started all over for him.

With you, he was on top of the world, the luckiest man defying the odds. Life fell into a comfortable rhythm. You made do; got yourself a decent job, far from perfect but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

On track to becoming a captain, he always felt a sliver of guilt when he left you for weeks on end, but the kisses grew sweeter the longer he went, and your grateful smile at the door told him it was alright. He could have both you and the SAS.

“I got my dream job a few months ago.”

Of course you did. It was you.

“I heard you got shot in the leg this year. Hope you’re doing better.”

John chuckled. “Who told you?”

“Your mum. She calls sometimes.”

He let out a small sigh. “She always loved you.”

“The 141 doing alright?”

He hung his head and gave a weak nod. He preferred you to not ask.

Death was the soulmate of war. It was the harsh reality how countless comrades of his fell, some you knew personally - their wives and kids and how the horrors haunted even years after.

Distant worry swirled into a dark cloud. Suddenly, someone else was in the relationship. The reaper loomed as she went down her list and it couldn’t help but feel like John was willingly waiting for his turn.

At first, he was optimistic. When the thoughts consumed, he calmed you down with a few days at home, never leaving your side.  Over time, it was evident he couldn’t – you couldn’t. Him working overtime didn’t make you miss him more, coming home after weeks apart no longer felt sweet.

Each day ate at you, knowing it could very well be one of his last. This was going nowhere but straight into a singular outcome. With each name scratched out, you were haunted by progressively worse nightmares. It was unhealthy - he could see it on you.

You loved rings. He got you one for each anniversary. When he gave you his family heirloom, thinking the commitment would quiet your consuming thoughts, you gave it back to him. No ring could unearth the dread in your chest. Nothing would change how this was going to play out.

The rest of the evening was tense, and when you jerked awake later that night, the lump in your throat only swelled. Your whole body begged you to run. He could taste it in your hasty kisses, your touches fleeting.

The fear in your eyes had morphed into guilt. That’s when he knew it was over.

When he came back from his next mission, you told him you were leaving, tears down your cheeks. He knew it was coming, but it hurt all the same.

How could he hate you, even if you left? Even after you dropped everything to be with him. It was always too good to be true. He always felt it in the chill of the night, in the beautiful dawn sky of empty deserts, in the howl of the wind. He’d done more than enough terrible things to be denied of the niceties of the world. You were the best thing in his, but it was much too late.

You always said you were both too young, that when you decided to be together, you didn’t fully understand what a relationship with him entailed. You said you didn’t want to make him choose, that he didn’t deserve to be forced to choose. You said he was excellent at what he did, and you weren’t going to take that away.

That night before you left, you kissed for the last time. You forced a smile through the tears as he looked at you with gut-wrenching longing. He wanted to remember forever the way your skin felt, the gasps you let out when he touched you, the way your eyes shut, his name tumbling out of your lips as your back arched.

John wasn’t a crier, but the unshed tears stung. He chanted ‘I love you’ against every inch of you. Maybe if he said it enough you’d change your mind. He wasn’t in his body when he started sobbing. You held each other until sleep took over, and he thought he wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t wake again.

Perhaps you were right. How far he’d come could only be credited to the undying drive in him. It was a blessing and a curse as it cost him you. So he devoted the rest of him into work. It was the only thing he had, the only thing left to do to make losing you worth it, but nothing softened the blow.

When you left, it felt like his world capsized, drained. It took him over a year to put the pieces back together, but he could have sworn you’d taken some with you. You’d awoken a desire in him that never got satiated again. You left him high and dry with a bleeding chest.

You were more than just someone, more than just a partner. You were the one he was going to settle down for, even if he never could figure out how to reconcile the idea.

John closed his eyes. Was this a sick joke the world was playing on him? In the midst of uncertainty, in his unending sorrow where the fantasy of giving it all up had budded, why now?

With you in front of him, he could almost hear you say ‘we should have tried harder’. He knew he would. I just need you to ask. Ask and I’m yours in a heartbeat.

“Nice seeing you, John. Merry Christmas. Take care, okay?”

He let out an unsteady sigh. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how many what ifs and the parallel universes he'd ventured out to, he knew this was for the best.

At least you looked happier. That's the most he could get, as a man with sins too heavy to carry.  Maybe he’d get another chance when the world ran out of bad guys. Maybe in another life.

He smiled and you turned.

He pretended not to notice the glint of gold on your left hand.

@glitterypirateduck @sofasoap @shadofireshinobi @tiredmetalenthusiast @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot @caramlizedtomatoes @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats

[avelera]

I keep coming back to the fact that as it became more common for people to have children later in life, Hob Gadling would have to be cautious about who he talked to about the fact his son died at the age of 20.

Ferdinand Kingsley was 34 (or thereabouts) when he played the role of Hob, so I tend to put Hob at "roughly mid-30s". He has a little gray in his hair by then (can relate) so in theory, Hob can probably add or subtract about 10 years from his appearance with certain hair and fashion choices, but that's probably about it unless he really puts effort into what would effectively be a costume to appear older.

This means that while Hob can bring up the fact he's a widower and that his son died, as people have children later on average, the assumption would be that his son died as a child or a teen at the latest. As death in childbirth became less common, it would draw more attention to mention even offhand (if he chose to) that his wife died in childbirth.

And perhaps the grief is such that he would simply not bring it up, but I think of Hob speaking with older mortals, men and women talking about losing an adult child, and how Hob would have to bite his tongue or alter the truth of his personal tragedies to not draw strange looks. How he's lived long enough that he might share more of life's tragedies with an older person, of what it's like to lose friends to age and family members to illness and accidents, and not be taken seriously because he simply looks too young to have had many friends die of natural causes, and how in the modern era the loss of a wife and child in childbirth, a son on the threshold of manhood, is rare to the point of catastrophe whereas Hob is from a time where this was quite common (50% child mortality or more) meaning he would have more people to share his grief with, who commiserated.

I don't know... this is mostly for fic writing purposes, imagining the little human connections that are lost by appearing perpetually young - like the fact he probably had to work in a new trade like printing because no other guild would take someone as old as him, most apprentices start as children or young teens. Little things that while frozen in the prime of his life he mostly benefits far more from unflagging energy and the appearance of full maturity, there would be small moments of inconvenience and grief.

[hoardlikegoldenirises]

I'm posting this now because I'm impatient and also because I just got that commission done by jerribbit (go look at it and admire it 🥰) which is based off of the same thumbnail as this drawing (lol) 'cause I had one of those moments like, "wait this concept is too good for me to not also draw this picture," so even though I paid someone else to draw it, I decided to also draw it. But expanded upon.

anyway it's AU-related and I plan to actually put this in a post with some other images later but I have to like, draw the other images first...

these are both Kaine as he looks in Houston in windowverse; left in mid-october or thereabouts and right in mid-november ish. 2015. he's 26/27/28/6 years old depending on how you start counting. (lol) (he's 27 and a half)

originally, I was gonna put his costume underneath, but I ended up deciding to bare his neck, just for the like... cohesion of the image as a whole.

closeups/details under the cut:

left pic is Kaine in mid-October ish as mentioned, mid-to-late really... he ran out of medication and he's not doing so hot. some breakthrough spots as his immune system kicks back into gear.

some of those spots (the little ones) are just from picking at his skin though.

then he gets eaten by werewolves.

also shaves his head. the white pupil is a cataract he's had for a few years at this point. a combo of meds + physical trauma when he was a few years younger.

also it turns out shaving a character's face and making his cheeks rounder really shaves off the years.

he may be going through some shit and adjusting to new medications and so on and so forth but at least he's eating enough ❤️

stop chewing your lips dude. anyway i spent at least an hour on coloring his scars in the second pic lmao, i just enjoy that. Like, lighting? no. texturing? yes. it's just a bunch of overlapping marks of cain. mark of cains. handprints :) a la Spider-Man: Redemption.

opposite side obviously.

some red hairs in his scraggly little beard :p

his voice is fried, for the record. that scar is right over his voice box. it's like five years old though, so it's well-healed.

and then it gets even more fried, probably. this relatively fresh extremely gnarly scar is from getting his throat ripped out by a werewolf lol.

He died! Then he got better. Obv being eaten by werewolves is directly lifted from his Scarlet Spider solo, though not everything is identical.

i had to bullshit the way it looks also cause idk about you but it seems like asking for trouble to try and google, like, "scars from wolf mauling" or something. lmao.

in the windowverse setting, the Other heals injuries but existing scars stay put, and in this case the life-threatening injuries he sustained made new scars rather than healing away to smooth skin, on account of, hey, he got torn limb from limb by werewolves! not exactly a papercut, you know???

admire his hair. the only reason it's not one big fluff is because of his expensive hair products.

oh yeah blue pullover hoodie because that's what Ben has :)

and the charcoal gray hoodie is a $345 Derek Rose hoodie he got from Saks after Aracely decided that she liked his blue hoodie and it's hers now.

oh right as far as his age goes—

this pic is, as mentioned, how he looks in fall 2015.

he was ''born'' on 4/1/2009 (so if you must be literal he's 6 years old)

he reached 22 the day after Peter's 22nd birthday (10/31/2009) (so he's 28)

but his 22nd birthday wasn't until 4/1/2010 (so he's 27)

according to the birth certificate wally gets made for him in this au he was born on 4/1/1989 (so he's legally 26)

He usually counts from his observed 22nd birthday in 2010 so generally he would consider himself 27 at this point. as long as he can remember his fake birth year it doesn't matter if he forgets what age he's ''supposed'' to be and since he was born in 2009 technically that makes 1989 much easier to remember.

also aracely was born in 1999 in this universe so this makes her both 10 years older than and 10 years younger than him :) which was another factor in why i picked 1989

[dutchvanwinkle]

Mr Van der Linde Pt. 6 - Dutch x Reader

This chapter is pretty heavy, with an exploration into grief and mental disorders. I’ve provided more of my thought process at the end as I don’t want to spoil the plot up here, but it’s there if you want to take a look beforehand!

As always - here's the ao3 link.

Summary: Dutch takes you on a minibreak and finally opens up about himself and his past.

Word count: 5,532

Content warnings: smut, discussions around mental health

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9 | PART 10

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Since his visit at the start of term, Dutch had made a point of calling you to catch up at least once a week. He wasn’t the texting type and preferred to hear about your days rather than read about them, which was rather sweet, except you had to keep your voice down if he called you while you were in your flat – just in case.  

After repeatedly trying to arrange a weekend to see you with no success, one day he sent you a message to keep three of the days a couple of weeks before Christmas free when he knew you’d be finished with lectures for the term.  

Fast-forward to then, he’d picked you up and driven the two of you to a small cottage he’d rented in the countryside a few hours away for the two of you to have some alone time together.  

The place was beautiful, quaint, and with enough local amenities to keep you busy. Although, you didn’t have much time to explore, since as soon as you’d entered and dropped your bags, Dutch attached his lips to yours and had you bent over the kitchen counter for an apt reuniting. I’ve missed you he’d said into your hair once finished, and opened up the opportunity for you to try the shower together.  

“I was thinking,” he said, sipping at his coffee as he caught up with the evening news on the old boxy television once you were both squeaky clean, “we stay in for food tonight, rest up, and go out to eat tomorrow?”  

“Sounds good,” you agreed, lifting the blanket from the back of the sofa and joining Dutch on it, draping it over the two of you and sighing contently once you were nestled into his side, the crackling fire swiftly warming the room. It was scary how easy it was to just be like this with him, but you couldn't bring yourself to question it. “Where’s there to eat around here?”  

“Uh,” Dutch pulled out his phone and scrolled around on maps, “there’s not much. A café and a pub, both relatively close to here.”  

“Either will do,” you yawned, resting your head on his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you arranged this.”  

“Well, I knew you couldn’t weasel your way out of it if we had something booked.”  

“I don’t weasel my way out of anything -”  

“No?” Dutch interrupted, raising his brows at you, “assignments popping up out of nowhere, extra shifts at work, a gig you forgot you had tickets for, none of those ring a bell?”  

You grumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “All valid excuses.”  

“Whatever you say, miss,” he chuckled light-heartedly. “I believe, anyway, this is a cause for celebration,” he stood, making his way into the kitchen and returning with two glasses and a bottle of fancy champagne.  

“Where the hell did you hide that? And what are we celebrating?”  

“I believe,” he opened the champagne on the small coffee table in front of you and poured out a glass. “You’re now halfway through your time at university, correct?”  

“Sort of,” you took the glass from him, “technically, it’s not halfway until after these exams. Close enough, though.”  

“And,” he sat beside you, his own glass in hand, “it’s been a year since you and I met.”  

“It has?”  

“There or thereabouts. You came over just before Christmas.”  

“Oh yeah,” you tilted your head, recalling the first time you saw Dutch casually lying on his sofa. “So it has.”  

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” Dutch scoffed, swilling the champagne around his glass.  

“Aw,” you said patronisingly, “I didn’t realise you’d been counting. Do you have a journal filled with my initials and hearts, too?”  

Dutch narrowed his gaze, a stern breath out of his nose. “I’m trying to be romantic.”  

You smirked, clinking your glass against his and have a swig. “To romance.”  

With a scoff, Dutch leaned over to place his glass on the table. “Last time I do anything nice for you -”  

“What are you doing?” you gasped, picking his glass up and shunting it into his hand.  

“What?”  

“Drink it! It’s seven years of bad sex if you toast without having a drink afterwards.”  

“You know that from experience?”  

“Just drink it,” you tapped the bottom of the glass reprimandingly, and he did as you asked.  

“I didn’t have you down as the superstitious type,” he put his arm around you, amusement lighting up his face.  

You leaned into him all the same. “I’m not, exactly. But I don’t want to take the risk. I’m quite a fan of our sex.”  

“As am I,” he agreed, taking another sip. “Are you glad your first semester is over?”  

“I will be when the exams finish. But by that point, it’ll be second semester and I’ll have to do it all over again,” you responded begrudgingly.  

“How’s John getting along? He doesn’t tell me much.”  

“He’s fine,” you shrugged, not wanting to be the middleman between the two.  

Dutch let out a sigh and stretched his back. “I should’ve known you’d be no help on that front.”  

“I am not getting involved,” you laughed. “If you want to know how he’s doing, ask him yourself. Plus, I’d rather not be reminded that he’s your son.”  

“Can’t run from the truth, darlin’,” he mused, and the two of you took another sip.  

“I’m not running. I’m just ignoring it.”  

“How’s that different?”  

“Because I said so,” you shrugged, shifting slightly to look around the room. “I like it here.”  

Dutch glanced around too. “We’ll do it again sometime.”  

The statement hinted at a future, the thought of which had been ruminating around your head as of late. You pushed it back, not wanting to divulge away from the relaxed atmosphere in the room. Instead, you snuggled up to Dutch and sat for a while until your conversation was filled with more yawns than words, at which point you turned in for the night.  

-

Waking up laid on Dutch’s chest wasn’t something you were used to yet, but it was something you enjoyed greatly. So much so, that once you’d awoken the next morning, you remained in your position and didn’t check if he was awake, wanting to savour the comfort and warmth he provided.  

That was, until he shifted, and you heard him pull something from the draw, then a lid coming off. You peeked upwards, finding Dutch taking a swig of water and screwing the lid back on a bottle of pills that he hastily put back in the drawer.  

“What are those?” you asked, leaning up on your elbow to look over at his nightstand.   

Dutch tensed, slowly shifting his eyes to meet yours before swallowing down the tablet. He looked like he’d been caught in a questionable act, the expression on his face one you’d never seen there before.  

Shame.  

You put a hand on his arm, a minor attempt at soothing whatever worry had been prodded awake in his mind. “What is it?”  

“I - they’re -” he began, looking back at his glass of water and sighing deeply. “I suppose you had to find out sooner or later.”  

“Find what out?” you sat up, facing him as concern began brewing in your mind. “Dutch, are you okay?”  

“Yes, yeah, I’m fine. They’re just,” he leaned back against the headboard, decompressing as his panic turned into acceptance. “They’re mood stabilisers.”  

“Oh,” you responded, glad to hear that none of the worst-case scenarios in your head were true. You wanted to know more, but this was clearly a sensitive topic for him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”  

He looked at you with mild surprise, blinking a few times to glance down at his hands which he was wringing together. You placed your palm over them. “I don’t necessarily want to, but it’s about time you knew about it.”  

You nodded, allowing him to go at his own pace, your heart wrenching at how raw and exposed he was for the first time since you’d met him.  This certainly wasn’t what you’d expected from this weekend.  

“Not now. How about we go on a walk after breakfast? It’s a lovely part of the country,” he gestured out the window, hopeful.  

“I’d like that.”  

The two of you spoiled yourself with breakfast at a local café, idle chatter and comfortable silences accompanying your meal. Part of you wished you could go for a nap but walking it off was the more sensible option. Besides, you didn’t think letting Dutch hold that extra weight on his shoulders for any longer than necessary was a good idea.  

You walked from the local village to a nearby trail, with open fields and sky that stretched out for miles. You’d gotten lucky with the weather, despite not being hot, the sun was out and made for a nice addition to the scenery. After only a few steps, Dutch casually took your hand in his and the two of you began the walk.   

“I’ve been on them for years,” Dutch’s opening sentence was soft, as though he’d been deep in thought about how to begin the conversation.  

“Have they helped?” The question felt like a silly one, you doubted he’d take them if they didn’t, but you weren’t sure what to ask at this moment, or whether you were to ask anything at all.  

“Yeah. A lot.” He sounded almost glum.  

“That’s good.”  

“Was Arthur who got me on them in the first place.”  

You hummed in acknowledgement, feeling for a boundary you didn’t want to cross. “What are you like without them? If you don’t mind me asking.”  

“No, it’s fine.” Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him glance at you and felt reassured. “Uh, I think Arthur’s word for it was ‘unreasonable’. Though I think he was being nice, to placate me.”  

“On account of your unreasonableness.”  

“Exactly.”  

The silence extended, and you enjoyed the singsong of birds nearby while you waited for him to find his next words.  

“Arthur... he’s put up with a lot. A lot more than the other two. I half wonder how he still tolerates me.”  

“By put up with, do you mean with regards to you specifically?” you pried gently, hoping you weren’t putting words in his mouth.  

“Unfortunately. After Ann -” Dutch stopped, giving you a sharp look at the realisation this was the first time he’d mentioned his late wife.  

“You can talk about Annabelle,” you reassured him, “I’d like to hear about her.”  

He nodded, relieved. “After she - Annabelle, passed away, I guess I sort of changed. Well, John doesn’t agree with that, but -”  

“Agree with what?” you asked, unsure what he was referring to.  

Dutch sighed, visibly uncomfortable but with a lingering desire to continue his explanation. “John reckons I was always this way. Just that the circumstance brought it out,” he looked to the ground at the stones shifting beneath his steps, and you ran your thumb over his hand that was still clasped around yours. “Sorry, I’m not making much sense.”  

Hearing him speak without an air of self-assurance was almost jarring, as though no matter how hard he tried to plan out the words there just wasn't a good way to say them. “It’s okay. Why don’t you go back to Annabelle’s passing?”  

“Right, good idea.” Dutch paused for an extended moment, ordering his thoughts. “I was so angry. That’s what I remember the most – just pure rage. She was a good person, and then she was gone.”   

You chewed on your lip, wondering if it was your place to ask but decided it might help you understand Dutch that little bit more. “How did it happen?”  

“She got sick.” That was all Dutch said, and that was all you needed to know. “We had a home, a good life, a family. Then it was just me, with these kids and I didn’t know the first thing about how to bring them up. Arthur was a teenager, poor Tilly just a toddler.”  

“But you’d brought them up until that point?”  

Dutch nodded diplomatically. “I suppose. Annabelle did all the tough bits, though, as most mothers do. But it wasn’t just that. The worst part was that I -” he trailed off, looking across the horizon and unable to hide the pain on his face. “I didn’t want to.”  

Your brows knitted together. “Bring them up?”  

“I just remember them wanting to... go away. I was heartbroken, I didn’t want to deal with their broken hearts too. It sounds awful, doesn’t it?” he looked at you, eyes sad and riddled with guilt.  

“Grief’s a funny thing.”  

A short, humourless laugh left Dutch and he turned his attention back to the scenery ahead. “Arthur,” his voice cracked on the name, “perceptive as he is, ended up doing a large part of that job for me. Mainly because I let him.” The pair of you took a few more steps, allowing the silence to dilute the tense air building around Dutch. “I resented him for it.”  

“Why?” you asked gently.  

“The kid was a better man than me. He’d lost his mother, and he had it in him to support his siblings. I just felt weak, almost like they’d -” he swallowed, his jaw ticking, “like they’d be better off if I wasn’t there.”  

“Oh, Dutch -”  

“Don’t,” he warned, not meeting your gaze, “it’s not sympathy I deserve.”  

While you didn't completely agree with that statement, you opted for doing as he asked and kept quiet on that front.  

“After a while, I got paranoid. I thought Arthur was trying to replace me, and I started to accuse him of it in not-so-many words. One night, Arthur did something he’d never done before.”  

“What?”  

“He shouted at me. Yelled at me. At that moment it was like seeing my own rage reflected, as he whittled off everything he hated about me. I was speechless. And at that moment, I hated him too.” Dutch’s face hardened with the memory, and he consciously shook it away. “The next day, Hosea – you remember him? I’m not sure you’ve met.”  

“I remember,” you nodded. Dutch’s best friend, the one he worked with. You’d never spoken with him, but you were sure you’d seen him at the barbeque back in summer.  

“Well, he came around. Sat me down with Arthur and they had an... intervention of sorts. He was more of a father to Arthur than I was at that time, and I hadn’t even noticed just how much he’d been there, taking the kids out and such. But I trust Hosea, always have.” For the first time in this conversation, Dutch’s eyes misted up, but he blinked it away. “He told me I needed to get help, and I did. I couldn’t have done it without him and Arthur.”  

You walked some more, Dutch’s hand comfortably intertwined with yours. “Shit,” you huffed, wishing you had better words to articulate your thoughts. “I - that’s a lot. I’m sorry.”  

“Why are you sorry?” he asked.  

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. It mustn’t have been easy, accepting you need help and then seeing it through to this point.”  

He looked at you, still a little puzzled.  

“You’ve come a long way,” you shrugged, and Dutch’s face softened as though viewing his progress as an achievement wasn’t something he often did. That didn't surprise you, for as hard as could be on his kids he was noticeably harder on himself. “I didn’t know Annabelle, but I like to think she’d be proud of you for it.”  

Dutch nodded, again looking at the countryside ahead and when his lip quivered you stopped walking, turning towards him and he mirrored your actions. You brought a hand up to the side of his face, running a thumb under his eye to catch one of his less-stubborn tears. “You’re very understanding,” his voice was weak as it carried the words, an odd thing to hear from such a proud, strong man.   

There wasn’t much you could say, really. John had never mentioned anything about this, and your initial thoughts about their perfect family life were far from the truth. Their money wasn’t enough to save Annabelle, work through their grief, or avoid the inevitable trauma that followed. The life they had was built from the ground up on a rocky foundation, and it told you a lot about Dutch to know what he’d worked through to get to this point. You wrapped your arms around his waist and embraced him, the two of you remaining like that for a short time before continuing the walk, a much lighter atmosphere surrounding you for the rest of its duration.  

-

After the walk, the two of you were hungry enough to go out for dinner earlier than planned, and promptly returned to the cottage once fed.  

“What did you do with the rest of that champagne?” you called into the kitchen, fiddling with the cardigan you’d draped over your shoulders.  

“I stuck it in the fridge with a spoon in the opening. Should be okay – do you want some more?” Dutch called back.  

“Well,” you shifted on the arm of the sofa you were perched on, “I was thinking we could give that hot tub a whirl.”  

A comical pause of silence preluded Dutch appearing in the doorway, eyebrows raising when he was met with you in your bikini. A half-smile inched onto his face, and he licked his lips absentmindedly. “You are full of good ideas,” he leaned up against the doorframe, his voice dropping in pitch. “You don’t think it’ll be cold?”  

“Not in the hot tub,” you shrugged. “I’ll go figure out how to turn it on.” With that, you stood and walked away, smirking at the lack of movement on Dutch’s part.  

Eventually, he pulled himself together and you were already relaxed in the warm water when he came outside, in his own shorts with the champagne in hand. The smile he couldn’t keep off his face was contagious as he placed the drink down and stepped into the water to sit opposite you.  

He did look undeniably cute surrounded by bubbles.  

Once he’d poured a glass, he handed it over and you held it up expectantly, waiting for his toast.  

“Oh no, you were rather critical of my toast yesterday,” he said amusedly, pouring his own glass. “If you want one, you do it.”  

You smiled surreptitiously, tilting your head while you thought. Once one came to mind, you flicked your gaze to his and cleared your throat. “To plentiful sex.”  

Dutch tipped his head back as he laughed, eyes shining when they met yours. “Well, the gods of toasting do seem to have a lot of power in determining sexual relations, it seems, so that is fitting.”  

With a nod of agreement, you extended your arm out and Dutch tapped his glass against yours. He made a show of retaining eye contact while you both took a sip. You jolted when something came into contact with your foot, but relaxed upon the realisation that it was just Dutch’s own foot inching towards you. Your body grew warmer at the insinuation, now heating up from the inside as well the outside thanks to the steamy water. He crept further up your shin, over your knee and up your inner thigh, then paused. He shunted his foot upwards, knocking your glass of champagne and did a good job of spilling it down your front.  

“Dutch,” you cried in a half-laugh, sitting up straight and shivering at the cool alcohol on your skin.  

The man just laughed, but soon leaned over onto your side of the tub. “Don’t worry,” he rumbled, taking your glass and setting it down along with his, “I’ve got it.” With that, he brought his head to your chest and licked the champagne from your cleavage, all the way up to your neck. Your shock swiftly moulded into arousal, sighing softly and arching into his touch.  

“You’re a bastard,” you said despite yourself, but even that came out all breathy.   

“You love it,” he said against your skin, continuing to clear it of the spilt champagne. “Besides,” he lifted his head, “it’d be unfair not to test that toast of yours.”  

“Unfair?” you repeated, running one of his damp curls between your fingers, “unfair on who, exactly?”  

“Me, you, the toast gods...” he said in-between pecks to your chest, trailing down to venture between your breasts once again.  

Your fingertips ran into his scalp, spurring him on. “Well, we can’t have that.”  

Dutch kissed along your clavicle then brought his face to yours. “I admire your fairness.”  

After sighing out a laugh you pecked his lips, and one turned to two which turned to many. He tasted of champagne, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands moving behind your back to untie your bikini. Without breaking the chain of kisses, you made a joint effort to remove it and he instantly found your breasts, caressing them in his hands.  

You moved your fingers through his hair to hold the back of his head, keeping his lips pressed onto yours. Dutch brought his hand to your face, reciprocating your desire until the kiss broke and you brought a palm up to his cheek, the pair of you catching your breath and observing each other as day turned to night. “Are you sure we can do this in here?” you asked.  

“I don’t think I’ll be able to survive the wait to do it anywhere else,” Dutch huffed and that was more reasoning than you needed; you weren’t sure you’d survive it yourself. You encouraged him to sit where he was previously and straddled him, the warm water sloshing around your bodies.   

Dutch hummed as his palms felt their way up your thigh and you angled yourself so that his cock was pressed against you in just the right place between your combined swimwear. His fingers trailed around, squeezing your ass then trailing further still to press over your cunt. Thankfully, he couldn’t tease you for how wet you were this time.  

Your whine in response was likely enough for him to figure it out anyway, and he deftly moved your bikini bottoms to the side so he could slide a finger in, and you clenched around it, searching for more.  

“That’s it,” he cooed, voice thick and breaths short. You ground your clit onto him while he pumped his finger, soon after adding a second. It was greedy, but you always wanted more when it came to this man. His other hand brushed up your flank to reach your breast, running his thumb over your nipple as he intently watched the pleasure spread over your face. “You truly are magnificent.”  

You tutted, lightly pinching his shoulder. “Hush.”  

He shook his head with a smile. “Never.”  

Reaching down to remove his shorts, he lifted his hips to assist, and you decided you might as well go completely bare too. After untying your bottoms, you flung them over the side with his shorts and immediately ground onto his length. Dutch whimpered weakly as you lined up and slowly sunk down onto him.  

“Oh my,” Dutch breathed and held your hips in his hands, keeping your crotch anchored to his while your walls fluttered around him and got used to the feeling. His body was growing familiar, a thing you anticipated but admired all the same just as you had the first time you’d become intertwined.  

You shifted your knees and pressed your torso into his, a gentle hand on his neck to persuade him to look up at you. He did, and with a stifled sigh, you pressed your lips to his. Dutch was oddly pliant, allowing your tongue in and following your lead as you explored his mouth. Experimentally, you raised your hips some and sunk back down, finding a tender rhythm that made him dig his fingernails into your flesh.  

While the air was cold, the two of you were burning hot. Manoeuvring yourself up and down Dutch’s length allowed for a measure of control you hadn’t had previously, and the quiet praise he repeated as you moved told you all you needed to know about his thoughts on the matter. His thighs twitched occasionally, him fighting the urge to pound into you and rush to the finish.  

Leaning back from him, you took in the sight of his steamy, soaked skin, the pink flush that resided there and the defined curls, some of which fell forward onto his face. He was drinking you in, too, your wet skin and exposed nipples, along with the lust-filled expression on your face as your lips parted and eyes grew heavy. The angle allowed for a repeated pressure over the sensitive spot in your walls, and you dropped your head back with a moan as the intensity increased with each thrust.  

“Dutch,” you whispered into the evening air, thoroughly and contently filled with him.  

“I know, darlin’,” he agreed, enamoured with the view of you falling apart right on his lap.  

Dutch’s muscles, highlighted thanks to the blanket of water covering his form, grew taut with the strength of which he clung to you. He squeezed your thighs, dragging his fingernails over your skin and his carnal need flashed dangerously over his eyes. With a growl, you found yourself losing the rhythm you’d built as Dutch forced his own, pulling you down onto him at a much more brutal pace.  

You cried out, Dutch hissing through his teeth as his features scrunched. “Oh, yes,” he said approvingly, “I finally get to hear your pretty song.”  

The more noise you let spill from your mouth, the harder Dutch gripped your flesh and used your body for his enjoyment, the two of you slippery and still yearning for more. You wanted it so bad it hurt, your abdomen burning up as his cock fucked you further and further into a state of euphoria. It was just you and him, able to be animals of your own accord, nobody around to tell you it was wrong or immoral.  

But that was why you liked it. This older, mature man saw the value in you, grew almost obsessive at the thought of your body and the back and forth in your mind slowed every time he showed you just what you did to him. You clouded his judgement; you were worth the risk. You had him panting, pulling your body to his as he claimed all that you were. He had the same effect on you, you supposed.  

Dutch shifted in his seat, digging his feet into the bottom of the tub to try and get further in, to fuck you harder, deeper. “Fuck, darlin’ -” he moaned, tailing off almost into a whimper. “Oh my, my girl. You feel so good. So good.”  

His babbling praise filled your ears, seeped into your skin and fed your very soul. Making him lose his well-practised control only heightened your lust. You whined, feeling over the flexing muscle of his shoulders and holding on for dear life. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you floated right up into the stars above.  

“Shit, I can’t -” he grunted strenuously, “I’m gonna, sweetheart, I’m gonna -”  

And he did, pulling you as far down onto his cock as he could and dropping his head to your chest, his thighs twitching beneath you as he filled your pussy to the brim. You cradled his jaw, laboured breaths leaving the pair of you as he looked up with those dark eyes of his. He tutted at himself, muttering an apology and you chuckled as he brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing across it and pressing down at just the right moment.  

His teeth attacked your neck, and you knew he’d leave a mark but screw it – regardless of anything you couldn’t deny that you were his. It felt too good, his cock and his fingers and his lips exploring every avenue of your body. “Come, darlin’,” he said lowly, his voice hoarse, “let me feel you come on my cock. That’s it. Good girl, come on -”  

Your toes curled and your eyes tightened shut at the feeling that shot through you, a hot wave of shock that buzzed into your appendages. With a moan of relief, you dropped your forehead to press against his, still feeling the after-effects of your orgasm. “That was so -”  

Dutch hummed in agreement, and you were glad he understood.   

Tenseness turned to relaxation as you melted into him, and your body felt weaker and more fucked-out than it ever had. Dutch’s big arms wrapped around you when you rested your head on his shoulder, and you could happily fall asleep right there – even if it did mean you’d look like a prune come morning.  

“I think someone’s ready for bed.”  

“Oh no,” you yawned, “I’m full of energy.”  

Dutch snickered, and you groaned when he shifted, but he shushed you gently. “Just sit there for five seconds, darlin’.”  

You did, begrudgingly, and watched him step out of the hot tub and find his shorts from the floor, pulling them up before turning off the hot tub. Then he reached in and took you in his arms, cradling you as though you were his most prized possession. It was a fair trade, and you wrapped your arms around your neck as he walked into the house and carried you into the bedroom.  

“Now, tell me, you don’t exactly want to get this bed all wet, do you?” you raised your brows at him suggestively, and he shook his head in mild disapproval. “Bad girl. You know that’s not what I meant.”  

“No,” you gave in, “I don’t.”  

“Right. So, I’m gonna stand you up here, wipe us both down with a towel, and then we’ll get comfy. Deal?”  

“Deal,” you parroted, leaning in to press your lips to his.  

Dutch followed up on his end of the bargain, gently dragging the soft towel over your skin. You climbed into bed while he dried himself. He changed into some dry, charcoal grey shorts and glanced over to you. “Would you like your pyjamas?”  

Your answer was a shake of your head, and his expression grew pleased. “Good. I’ll just be a second.”  

He left to lock the doors and turn out the lights and then returned to climb in beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest and you wrapped your leg over his, attempting to get as close as you could.  

“You’re a special girl,” he hummed into your hair, and it was the last thing you remembered hearing before drifting off.  

-

This must’ve been on record for the most showers you’d ever taken in a weekend. Dutch had the expected reaction come morning to your nude form lying half-on him, and you didn’t blame nor begrudge him for it. The two of you were squeaky clean once again by the time you sat down for late breakfast Dutch had insisted on cooking for you.  

“I wish we could stay here,” you said melancholily, leaning back in your chair and taking a swig of orange juice to wash down your food.  

“Don’t tempt me,” Dutch agreed, resting his open palm on the table.  

You placed yours over it and offered him a bittersweet smile, the unfairly quick passing of time feeling almost like a robbery of sorts. Here, you'd been away from your troubles and stress at university, and you'd been able to just be with him without worrying about who'll hear you. It was just what you'd needed. “Thanks for bringing me.”  

“Of course. Fancy enjoying the view for the last few hours?”  

With a nod you stood, and Dutch led you outside, taking a seat on the bench facing the outstretched scenery and you took a sit on his lap in turn. He lit a cigarette and you relaxed into him, glancing up at the hard line of his jaw while he pressed the smoke to his mouth.  

It was so cliché, but god did he look hot while he smoked.  

“I was wondering,” he began, “why don’t the lot of you live in the same flat?”  

“We were meant to. But because I didn’t let the accommodation office know, nobody did.”  

“You really are the good girl of the group.”  

“Hardly,” you huffed, gesturing a hand to him.  

“Touché,” he smirked around his next drag. “Will you next year?”  

“Yeah, either merge our flats or rent a house. Whichever is cheapest.”  

Dutch hummed. “That’s pretty close quarters.”  

“Mhm. So you won’t be able to sneak into my room should you decide to come up again.”  

With a laugh, Dutch gently ran his hand up and down your back. “I won’t need to if you agree to spend the odd weekend with me.”  

“I will,” you relented.  

“Promise?” he asked, and you pecked his cheek.  

“Promise.”  

End Note: Lemme preface this by saying I am not a professional on psychiatry or anything related to it, however, a common opinion about Dutch in the fandom is that he suffers with BPD or something similar. I agree, to the end that I had a family member with it and with a bit of extra research the symptoms do line up with Dutch’s personality. With this being a modern AU, I wanted to delve into how his life could’ve differed with the advancement of medicine and knowledge. That being said, I only have the internet to guide me so I apologise if any part of it seems inaccurate - please correct me if that’s the case! For that reason, I didn’t want to go too deep into it and be irresponsible, but I do love picking this man’s brain apart and it felt wrong not to address it at least a little. I’m not entirely sure how common it is for people with BPD or similar illnesses to reach a level of self-awareness like he does here, but I know it is possible in some cases, and with Dutch being rich it makes sense that he’d at least be able to get access to decent treatment. What we do know from R* is that Dutch struggled with being suicidal (if you haven’t played RDR1 or at least watched the scenes he’s in I highly recommend it) and it ties in well with his circumstance so again I wanted to touch on it.

[smokeys-house]

Puukko's Travel Log 10

A passage from Puukko's Travel Log

It's nigh on summer now. Had the same thought this morning I've been having a lot lately, which is missin’ home. Decided I'd give my things a good once-over, reorganize. Been tryin’ anything not t’ feel sick n’more. Right about then is when I found a bit of serendipity! In the jar Moominmamma snuck into me bag, there were a spot o’ tea. Had a li'l label on it and an odd smell, but I'd forgotten what the label said. I can almost hear her say it when I read it; "should you feel ill, or for sour moods.” Looked a bit wild in the pot, but when ye pour it, it smells sweet as sugar.

I don't know what kind of woman her ma or grandma or whoever was, but what I do know is that little book o’ recipes Moominmamma’s got must be full of some kind of witchcraft! I heard tell of her solvin’ all sorts with it, but Booble's beard, I feel right as rain again!

Arturo – the smith I been stayin’ with – he's been real kind to me. I ain't asked him fer payment, just a place to stay, but he's been throwin’ in what he feels is right here an’ there. Nice to have some money that don't make me look crazy when I try t’ spend it. Thinkin’ when he opens his market stalls at the beginnin’ o’ summer, I'll sell some of these ol’ doubloons as a novelty alongside his ‘n my wares. Try t’ make some real money fer all his troubles afore I start pokin’ about Venice on my lonesome.

I know, I'm only just now gettin’ better an’ there I go makin’ plans again. I'm trying not t’ think on what brought me here in the first place. Ain't cleared me head yet, but I'm quite tired of bein’ alone with me thoughts fer the moment. I figure I'll just enjoy bein’ hale and hearty again fer a spell, get out of me own head an’ the like.

If it were that I knew how many days it's been, I'd put it here. Nearin’ summer or thereabouts.

Signed Puukko

[dduane]

Re “Star Trek: Strange New Worlds”: initial thoughts

thecolossalennui

let us know your thoughts on SNW, DD! I've really enjoyed so far although I'd have to say Lower Decks is my favorite of the New!TV!Treks

As regards ST:SNW: I like what I’ve seen of it a whole lot. (I binged s1e1 through s1e5 back to back last night, and [fanfic style...] didn’t get to sleep until 3 AM.) It’s sharply written; it’s got depth to it; the characters are being defined both quickly enough to give you something to work with as you go along, and slowly enough not to feel too rushed. And the look-and-feel of the series in general, and the ship in particular, are both broadly glossy and handsome, and nicely detailed when you look at things closely.

All that said: I now have to ask people here to please do me a favor and either (a) react to this post only with likes, or (b) just not react at all. This is because, since we’re in Ireland, we presently only have episodes 1-5 available: 6-10 will take another five weeks to drop... and I’m deeply concerned that in the meantime someone will accidentally let something vital slip in the comments. I’ve already had details about the season closer emphatically spoiled for me by someone on Twitter who apparently didn’t understand that it’s not possible for all of us to binge s1 just yet... and I’d prefer that didn’t happen again.

And yes, I will be blocking tags here (though I wish I didn’t have to). Normally I’m not very spoiler-averse at all. After all, I’m the writer: I’m used to knowing how it ends before it ends. :) ...But in this particular case—a universe with which I have a fair amount of history, and on both sides of the screen—I’d sooner have the option to see, in real time (or what passes for it), how close the story that the Room has put “in the can” comes to my guesses about where it’s going.

...So thanks in advance to you all for being careful about this.

Meanwhile, this I will say:

(a) The first words out of my face during s1e1, when @petermorwood​ glanced in on me after the teaser: “It’s a good thing I never laid eyes on Ethan Peck as Spock when I was sixteen, because he is fecking HOT.”

(b) ...I like this shirt. :) (And yeah, the hair too. But especially the shirt.)

...More than this, for the moment, “deponent saith not.” Ask me again after CrossingsCon or thereabouts. :)

[smashing-teacups]

Atonement Chapter 43

Previously: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13, Ch 14, Ch 15, Ch 16, Ch 17, Ch 18 , Ch 19, Ch 20, Ch 21, Ch 22, Ch 23, Ch 24, Ch 25, Ch 26, Ch 27, Ch 28, Ch 29, Ch 30, Ch 31, Ch 32, Ch 33, Ch 34, Ch 35, Ch 36, Ch 37, Ch 38, Ch 39, Ch 40, Ch 41, Ch 42

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Drywall and Dreams

I don’t — He — This — But how—?

Claire felt as though her brain was glitching, the neurons spitting out electrical impulses like wayward fireworks that skittered and sparked across the pavement.

The modern construction zone was so incongruous with her expectations that she couldn’t seem to connect the sight in front of her with the ancient stone facade. When Jamie had said that they’d gutted the building down to the stone, she’d pictured a ruin of sorts, full of mold and rotted wood and rat droppings. 

Not an interior that looked like it belonged mid-way through an episode of Property Brothers.

She took a half-breath to speak, released it, and took in another. Before she could figure out how to form words, though, Jamie began apologizing a mile a minute. 

“It’s only an option, Claire. I know it’s a massive undertaking. We—we’d basically have to start from the ground up, so I promise I willna be offended if it’s more than ye want to take on righ—”

“Wait. Wait…” Her poor husband fell silent as she raised a finger to gesture around the space in bewilderment. “So you— are you telling me this place is ours?”

A tiny smile plucked at the corner of Jamie’s mouth. He looked so strikingly young just then, yearning for approval like a little boy offering a bouquet of wildflowers. 

“And the land around it too. The orchards ye saw on the ride in, and the barley fields to the east. Twenty acres, or thereabouts.” 

Claire recognized that she was gaping like a codfish, but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She kept running the math over and over in her head as if it would somehow make more sense to her with repetition. A typical suburban backyard was, what, maybe a quarter of an acre, so… eighty times that?! Surely that couldn’t be right.

“I—wh—”

For fuck’s sake, get it together before he thinks you’re having a stroke.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she settled on at last. An incredulous gust of laughter pushed past her throat as she stepped into his arms. “Jamie, this… I don’t even know what to say!”

“Are you happy?” he asked, eyes round and vulnerable with hope.

Snaking her arms around his neck, Claire blinked rapidly to try to clear the shock. “I—I’m stunned, I’m…” At the flicker of doubt on his face, she quickly clarified, “I’m delighted.”

At once, Jamie’s features melted into relief. “Thank Christ.” His whole body sagged against hers, and he let out a laugh. “Ye might have led with that, a nighean.”

Keep reading...

[sam-glade]

15 Questions Tag (OC edition)

Tagged by the lovely @meerawrites here and @void-botanist here. Thank you both💜

I'm leaving it as an open tag.

I've done it for Anthea and Erya, and also Rilna, so let's go with... Ianim and Gullin? I think it's more fun doing it in pairs.

The list of questions is at the bottom.

You meet with them in Gullin Greenbird's spacious quarters, hiding your surprise at how easy it was to arrange the meeting. The Prince Successor didn't have any reservations about it either.

Gullin's orderly serves you a refreshing, chilled white wine and leaves you be. You take an armchair, while the two Swords sit side by side on the settee - Gullin lounging comfortably with his arm stretched over the settee's back, and Ianim sitting more primly, while still at ease.

Are you named after anyone?

Gullin snorts.

"No idea." He eyes Ianim, belatedly remembering that the prince should technically speak first. Ianim doesn't look offended.

"No, I'm the second child, so my name doesn't need to follow any patterns, and I didn't feel the need to pick a name different to the one my guardians used to call me when I was a child," he says.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Gullin fails at containing a wry smile. He nods towards Ianim and says:

"He was reading late into the night again, and he was sobbing over a book."

Ianim shoots him an unhappy look.

3. Do you have kids?

"Maybe one day," Ianim says softly.

Gullin shrugs and shakes his head.

"Elements, can you really picture me with kids?"

4. Do you use sarcasm?

Ianim looks pointedly at his friend.

"I certainly don't do it as often as someone."

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Gullin's lips twist in a wry smile. Ianim pokes him in the side before he says a word.

"Behave," he hisses before addressing you: "I'm not sure if it's the first thing I notice, but I try to pay attention to how honest they are."

Gullin mutters under his breath.

"Their looks," he answers eventually.

6. What's your eye colour?

Gullin speaks first:

"I claim it's brown. Someone claims it's green."

Ianim shrugs easily.

"It depends on the light," he says with a sidelong look. "My eyes are blue."

Gullin confirms with a nod.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

"Happy endings," Ianim says immediately.

Gullin waves his hand.

"Nah, I'd rather pick a scary movie. It's more fun."

8. Any special talents?

Gullin turns to his friend, overly curious. Ianim glances at him sheepishly.

"I guess I know the way of the Winged Riders, if that counts?" Encouraged by your questioning hum, Ianim elaborates: "I can ride across the skies, like the Winged Riders in the old tales. It's... it just takes some practice, but it's a skill that can be learnt."

Gullin rewards his answer with a grin.

"As for my talents, where do I start?"

You just about catch Ianim muttering:

"Humility is certainly not one of them."

9. Where were you born?

Ianim hunches his shoulders, and his smile falters.

"Ianim - at the greathouse. I'm from the City of Light," Gullin answers for both of them.

10. What are your hobbies?

"Gullin, please don't answer this one," Ianim says quickly. "I enjoy reading. And music."

Gullin looks at him like a puppy that's been denied a treat.

"I was gonna say: sparring, with the Heavy Infantry. What did you expect?"

Ianim's blush is hard to miss.

11. Have you any pets?

Ianim perks up.

"I've got a horse. His name is Cloud, and he was sired by Grandfather's Ray, his Sword Spirit."

Gullin listens to his ramble with a small smile. When you look at him questioningly, he just shakes his head.

12. What sports do you practice?

"Vaulting and horseback fencing," Ianim answers immediately.

"Don't really have time for sports," Gullin drawls.

13. How tall are you?

"5'10, 5'11, thereabout?" Gullin wagers.

"5'9, I think," Ianim says.

14. Favourite subject in school?

Ianim answers first:

"I always enjoyed literature, but I think it was in part because I had so much prior knowledge. I'm afraid the same goes for almost all other subjects at the Academy. It felt nice to be good enough at something, you know?"

Gullin rests a hand on his shoulder for reassurance.

"For me it was engineering. Mind you, I'm crap at actually making the stuff, but learning about it was fun."

15. Dream job?

Ianim chuckles.

"Anthropologist," he admits, then notices Gullin's frown of confusion. "I believe it would involve a fair bit of travelling and talking to people about their lives. It sounds nice."

Gullin accepts that with a shrug.

"I honestly don't know. I'm fine with what I do. It pays enough to have some fun in the evenings, and it's something I can brag about."

Days of Dusk taglist (please message me to +/-): @acertainmoshke @another-white-hole @poetinprose

List of questions below:

Are you named after anyone?

2. When was the last time you cried?

3. Do you have kids?

4. Do you use sarcasm?

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

6. What's your eye colour?

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

8. Any special talents?

9. Where were you born?

10. What are your hobbies?

11. Have you any pets?

12. What sports do you play/have you played?

13. How tall are you?

14. Favourite subject in school?

15. Dream job?

[mrbexwrites]

OC 15 Questions

Tagged by @duckingwriting to answer some questions about my OCs.

Gently passing the tag onto: @queen-tashie @kaiafosterwrites @deanwax @writingamongther0ses @tate-lin and anyone else who would like to take up the mantle of the open tag!

(Sorry, this has been sitting my drafts for so long, and then in queue purgatory before it's even seen the light of day!)

I've done a couple of these for characters in Memento Mori, so figured it's time for a shift in focus to Blood Harmony.

Answering for Arnauld Beaufort, Mave's nemesis.

Are you named after anyone?

No

2. When was the last time you cried?

I haven't cried in a while. The last time would probably have been shedding a single tear over the rubble where I thought Mavis had died. A good opponent is hard to find.

3. Do you have kids?

I have over a thousand demons at my beck and call. They're hard enough to handle; I wouldn't add children to my workload. Unless you count Connor? He's not my biological son, but I look out for him nonetheless. He'd walk into traffic otherwise.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Moi? No. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, after all.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

How short their lives are. When you live for several centuries, people come and go in the blink of an eye. Although, there are several mortals who have piqued my interest in them over the years. They leave lasting marks...mementos...

6. What’s your eye color?

Blue, like my mother's.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

I don't find movies to be particularly scary, being a demon.Happy endings are too contrived. I prefer psychological thrillers myself.

8. Any special talents?

I'm difficult to kill. Just ask Mavis; Hell knows she's tried hard enough.

9. Where were you born?

The province of Alsace in the Holy Roman Empire. Where I was born has been many countries over the years, and it's currently near Strasbourg, France.

10. What are your hobbies?

I've been many things over the centuries; a sell-sword, mercenary, politician, musician, smuggler, pirate...

I enjoy model ship making. I particularly revel in building windjammers and clippers for display in my library.

11. Have you any pets?

Would Mavis count if I compare her to a feral cat who continually tries to hunt me?

12.What sports do you play/have played?

Sword-fighting, jousting for a brief period, general marksmanship... I've tried my hand at badminton, but it's not for me. Any sport that involves a ball, apart from basketball; too undignified. I'm excellent at billiards.

13.How tall are you?

5'11" or thereabouts

13. Favorite subject in school?

I never went to school; my mother paid for private tutors for me. I enjoyed History the most. I've found, that over the centuries, it often repeats itself. Mortals often fail to learn from their mistakes, but I've lived long enough to see the patterns, know what is coming, and can then avoid the worst of the fallout. You just have to look at my portfolio to know just how good I am as a student of history.

14.Dream job?

Benevolent Dictator, which I suppose I already am, as the head of a law firm. I'd just like to expand my reach from the moral realm, in the infernal!

[tired-reader-writer]

Say what now?!

All this time I thought it was on the northeast not northwest??? Y'know, near his former domain????? What.

Excuse me ex-fucking-cuse me what do you mean it's on the northwest?! West of Atropatene?????

I'm sure this will actually end up making sense logically in the end but right now I'm losing my mind and I need to confirm it myself. It's fine, absolutely fine, it's just me misremembering shit, but my god what.

So hm, according to my past calculations Ecbatana to the east border is 200farsangs or thereabouts, the whole length between the east and west borders is around 347.8farsangs, ish. Which would mean the distance between Ecbatana and the west border should be around 148farsangs.

I'm sure Narsus' mountain villa doesn't quite go as far as the border, so some distance will have to be reduced, and Atropatene is not Ecbatana so, again, reduced.

I don't have my ruler w me so eh, let's just roll with estimations. I'm sure this can't go horribly wrong.

It can't be that far so I can believe they got there in a day of riding bc one can apparently cover 20-30miles (~32-48km, aka ~6.4-9.6farsangs) on horseback in a day. Probably.

It was the 16th of month 10 that the first battle of Atropatene took place. It was around... the same time, ish, two months later that Arslan and co. finally arrived at Peshawar, according to the fanmade timeline.

The distance between Narsus' villa and Peshawar could be around ~90-100farsangs perhaps? Just an estimation. Which means it'd take around 10-15 days, in ideal conditions (which they were not in), on perfectly smooth, flat terrain (absolutely not), with no interruptions forcing them to go in circles (not), soooo yeah. No wonder it took like two fucking months. Poor Team Arslan.

Don't mind me, don't mind me, just freaked out for a hot second after I realized I must've misremembered things, and ended up dumping my thoughts here since I didn't have a notebook within an arm's reach, whoops. Probably should've gone and grabbed a notebook but lololol eh you guys get to see me running around like a headless chicken so here you go, enjoy my chaos, I guess.

At least my mind can be put to ease with this, else I would've been wondering all the time. I thought before that they went all the way from Atropatene to around Daylam in a single day which didn't make a whole lot of sense considering the distance, haha.

What was I doing again? Oh, yes, the reread.

Man. This is horrific. Look at the man on the bottom right, he must've been trying to climb back up the pit and... yeah. Fuck. This hits harder after 121.

I wonder if being given a position at court or smth could be turned down or it would be seen as a great offense— Narsus clearly didn't want to be there (neither did Lushan, if I remember correctly) but he still stayed until he couldn't take it anymore, same with Lushan.

That aside though, I dig their clothes here.

Food ref food ref food ref food ref

I wonder what Narsus is thinking/feeling in these scenes. What assumptions did he have about Arslan, and which ones are being overturned? He was still at court when Arslan entered the palace, right? At least in manga canon. What did he know about Arslan? I don't think they ever came face-to-face, what did he think of the young prince back then?

(from a much later chapter) This panel too. Why does he Look Like That. Why so sad? What's going on???

Answers, Arakawa. I need answers. NARSUS TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON IN THAT HEAD OF YOURS.

[richmond-rex]

Elizabeth Woodville had composed her last testament on 10 April 1492, exactly nine years and one day after her husband, Edward IV’s, sudden death, ‘seeing the world so transitory and no creature certain when they shall depart from hence’ (TNA PROB 11/9). It seems from this line that she had no specific reason to expect that two months later she would be dead. In this testament, she requested that she be buried with Edward IV at Windsor, ‘without pomp entering or costly expenses done thereabout’.

A description of Elizabeth Woodville’s funeral has been preserved in a sixteenth-century herald’s book that is now in the British Library. The author drew attention to the use of ‘old torches and torch ends’, tapers ‘of no great weight’, and a ‘low hearse, such as they use for the common people’. He also noted that several of the traditional solemn services were omitted and that the poor men holding torches had not been provided with black mourning wear. It is impossible to be sure whether the author’s emphasis on the minimal ceremony was meant as a criticism of her executors, a lament on her poverty or praise for her austere piety. However, his opening explanation suggests that it was the last. He had recorded that the queen wished to be taken by river to be buried at Windsor ‘in all goodly haste, without any worldly pomp’. Euan Roger’s investigation suggests that some elements of this simplicity were actually a result of anxious, rather than ‘goodly’, haste.

One of the most surprising aspects of the funeral is the fact that the body did not lie on the hearse throughout the ceremonies but was buried immediately on arrival at the castle ‘privily about 11 of the clock in the night’. Only one priest and one clerk had greeted the tiny party accompanying the body ‘privily through the little park’. This would entirely fit with a desire to avoid contagion from the plague. 

— Joanna L. Laynemisth, Elizabeth Woodville as Plague Victim

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Sunday 14.. June 1840

7 ¼

12 25/..

windy night and whistling high wind this morning and R18° and F72°+ now at 8 35/.. – A- and i all wrong neither of us sspeaking    it must be known to more than ourselves   how thankful I shall be when the parting is well over – breakfast over at 10 ½ - from then to tea or dinner at 4 40/.. in 35 minutes and afterwards till 6 50/.. at vol. 2 Dubois  put on bomasine – A- and I out at 7 20/.. – walked (the quiet back way) to the bridge and to the martyrs’ tomb past the butchery and thro’ the [?]-like bazaar and then to Saltzmans’ – sent George in to ask if the man would come or not – answer – Saltzman had not had time to get the paper read and knew not what it contained! Got the paper back again and came away – it had never once occurred to me that he would not get the paper read immediately – went to see the baths – the common ones close alongside the river and a little higher up the street farther from the river the government baths – a room with 2 baths = 2ab. per hour – square baths or wells, 5ft. or thereabout square? one large government bath for the soldiers at ./20 assignats per hour each – would hold 20 or 25 men at a time – full, or very noisy people there and the door shut – the nicest bath was a domed Persian like old bath with 2 wells – the dome with 5 vents one in the middle at the top and 4 about midway the dome at equal distances – all the baths hot – tasted the water at both establishments – sulphurous – tepid – about ½ the strength of Harrogate water? the water of both establishments seemed the same to me tho’ George said that at the government establishment was hotter and stronger – Gave an abasse at each – home at 8 5/.. – then till now 11 10/.. read to the end of vol. 2 Dubois and skimmed several pages of vol. 3 – fine day – high whistling wind now again tonight – and more or less windy all day – R18 ½° and F73 ½° at 11 10 p.m. – cousin came gently just before getting into bed –

[minnesotadruids]

How long have you been a druid and how long was the initiation process?

Bullet point timeline!

Early 1990s elementary school: Dorling Kindersley's Eyewitness Books about ancient civilizations and archaeology pique my interest - the slippery slope begins

1997 junior high: The miniseries Roar starring Heath Ledger as an Irish warrior in the Iron Age features druids depicted in a positive light

1997 or thereabouts: Miranda J. Green publishes The World of the Druids and I find it in a library - I'm fascinated

1999: I realize solstices and equinoxes are on the calendars but we never do anything to observe them - so I start

1999, December 22, Midwinter Solstice: I organized a solstice party with my high school friends - it's a full moon

2002, June: I go on a 10 day tour of Ireland after graduating high school - I'm mystified at the landscape where druids once walked

2003: I date a Wiccan and start researching different forms of paganism with interest

2004, January - May: I spend a semester living in Ireland - most of our cottages are haunted - locals don't like talking about the nearby faery hill at all - the landscape is surrounded by megalithic stone monuments: tombs and standing stones - Bronze Age stone alignments whisper and hum to each other - I see the Neolithic tomb at Newgrange: 5,200 year old inscriptions in stone, their meanings lost to the ages, move me to tears that some forgotten persons' handiwork will be appreciated for thousands of years after I'm gone - and what would I leave behind that lasts?

2004, May: Home from Ireland, I have better access to internet where I can launch myself into the study of the ancient druids, the Druidry Revival movement of the last 300 years, and neo-druidry - I declare myself to be practicing "rogue druidry" - which I now convey as "freeform druidry" as to not confuse it with role playing game terminology - I learn of the Reformed Druid movement, founded right where I live in Minnesota, but am dismissive of it when I read that they don't take themselves very seriously (which turned out to be inaccurate anyway)

2009: I start dating another pagan who inspires me to explore paganism deeper

2011, spring-summer: In a desire to join a druidic community I create a grid of contemporary druid orders comparing basic criteria to see what sets them apart - I keep circling back to the Reformed Druids of North America because it started popping up in threes in my research, and I was finding lots of synchronicity as well as similarities to my personal existing practices - then I find an actual photo of myself circa 2003 in a book about druids from 2004, and I'm like, "that's it, I'm joining, I'm already in the book and I haven't even contacted these people yet"

2011, August 21: I declare my belief in the Two Basic Tenets of Reformed Druidism and enter the order

2012: I organize the 49th anniversary reunion at Carleton College on Beltane

2013, late winter, early spring: I organize the 50th anniversary reunion at Carleton College on Beltane - in the weeks leading up to it, "Mike the Fool," the 30th Arch-Druid of Carleton College Grove emeritus expects me to Vigil and enter the Third Order while I'm there

2013, Beltane: Seventeen druids show up from around the country, some flew in from as far as Ohio and California - 7 are members of the Council of Dalon Ap Landu - in the afternoon they requested to interview me to ascertain my level of preparedness to enter the priesthood - it was not stressful, yet was slightly reminiscent of having to stand before a panel of professors and defend a thesis - this went on for about half an hour to 45 minutes or so, then they deliberated in private for about 20 minutes and determined that I was ready to Vigil for the Third Order - we all had dinner at the local Indian restaurant, and my Vigil began at sunset, along with one other member of my Protogrove who like me was also a Second Order druid at the time (but he had already been 2nd Order for 10 years as of that weekend) - dawn came and we had passed our ordeals, and were duly ordained as Third Order druids and became members of the Council of Dalon Ap Landu

For me to go from newbie to a member of the priesthood in about 2 years is not that uncommon, especially at Carleton College Grove where members join and graduate within 4 years, and sometimes have to hastily ordain someone to the priesthood right before they leave to ensure the tradition will be passed along.

Still I faced heightened scrutiny from the Council since they didn't really know me that well compared to my grovemate. They wanted to make sure my dedication was solid and my commitment was genuine before they allowed me to enter the priesthood. Nine years later, I still remain committed.

[violeteyedkiller]

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.  

Name:  Stan Norman / Tanmur

Eye color: Violet 

Hair style / color: Flaxen blond, graying above the ears 

Height:  5′10 guised / 6′9 true form

Clothing style: Tan or navy suits or button downs and slacks 

Best physical feature: Most noticeable are his eyes (but dat mouth tho)

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.  

Your fears: “Becoming irrelevant.” 

Your guilty pleasure: “Eating food.” 

Your ambitions for the future: “Leaving a legacy.” 

𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺.  

Your first thoughts waking up: “How long was I idle?” 

What you think about most: “My family.” 

What you think about before bed: “You know..I don’t really sleep.” 

What you think your best quality is: “My experience. In many different capacities.” 

𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻’𝑺 𝑩𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹?  

Single or group dates: “No dates.” 

To be loved or respected: "I have no desire for love without respect."

Beauty or brains: “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Intelligence comes in different forms.” 

Dogs or cats: “Anything but cats.” 

𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼…  

Lie: “When necessary.” 

Believe in yourself: “What does that even mean.” 

Believe in love: “I don’t see why not.” 

Want someone: “I, as the kids say, partake in yearning. Yes.” 

𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑬𝑵…  

Been on stage: “For press conferences and such.” 

Done drugs: “I swear high, I’ve never been officer.” 

Changed who you were to fit in: At this question he looks down and gestures at his human guise.

𝑭𝑨𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑺.  

Favorite color: “I don’t know.”

Favorite animal: “I don’t know.” 

Favorite movie: “I don’t know.” 

Favorite book: “I don’t know.” 

Favorite game: “I don’t know.” 

𝑨��𝑬.  

Day your next birthday will be: “March 13th thereabouts.” 

How old will you be: “It may be cliché but I’ve lost track. Mid six thousands.” v

Age you lost your virginity: “Why does this matter.” 

𝑰𝑵 𝑨 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵.  

Best personality: “Being able to put up with me I guess.” 

Best eye color: “This doesn’t matter.” 

Best hair color: “This also doesn’t matter.” 

Best thing to do with a partner: “Um...do you want the rated R answer or..” 

𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬.  

I love: “All my mates.” 

I feel: “Too much at times.” 

I hide: “A lot” 

I miss: “Her.” 

I wish: “This was over.” 

[peppertaemint]

I'm the Taemin and Ten enthusiast lmfao I don't believe they're in love but I do think they had either an crush or an admiration crush. Taemin said he had a crush but I have no idea of the translations were iffy or not but the word crush was used when Taemin was talking about Ten. I just love their bond. They were all the time doing something and gushing about each other. I was watching one interview where Taemin includes Ten out of nowhere and it made me giggle. He was talking about all the 'Taes' at SM should collaborate but then he adds Ten who does not fall under the Tae territory 😂 It's been almost 3 yrs since SuperM were together so I am interested to see how all of their dynamics are. I feel the same way about Baek and Taeyong. While I don't think they're anywhere close to being in love or close to dating but I do think a little admiration crush exists. Remember when Taeyong put his and Baekhyun's SuperM name stickers on his laptop? Lmao Too cute 😂

TaeTaeTaeTae...Ten. Lol. That was so cute, and out of no where. And I'm looking forward to that unit happening btw. Welcome back, Anon! 😍

The moment you were talking about when he said crush is in this compilation. I'm not sure about the translation. It could just be bro-crush or could probably be taken another way. It reminds me of Jungkook using a similar phrase about RM, and a Korean friend at the time said it could be taken either way. I think that realistically, you're rarely going to have some gay confession on camera. Korea is just not there yet (not saying it's impossible) but I think that realistically it probably means platonically or thereabouts.

My guess is that as dancers, they were enamoured with one another. I get it because I think they're both easy to be enamoured with! It would be like meeting someone you understand to a degree - someone who has that similar passion, even more so than other "idols". So I totally agree with you, Anon!

Now Baekhyun and Taeyong... they're a bit more eyebrow raising just because Baekhyun is unbelievably mischievous and Taeyong has an awkward panic side. Like, Taemin is awkward and weird but he owns it and somehow it works 9/10 whereas Taeyong sort of has crash and burn awkward vibes at times (mostly re SuperM here as I can't properly judge him at the helm of NCT).

Baekhyun just has this way of looking at certain people like he's gonna eat them up. Lol. Idk he's wild. I hope when SuperM comes back he goes full throttle.