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theywhowriteandknowthings · 1 month

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Darling, please.

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader Summary: You should know better, better than to let him back into your home. You should know better, but once again, you dash yourself against the rocks for John Price. Warnings: Grief, PTSD(Implied), Trauma(Implied), Mention of character death (IYKYK), MW2/3 Spoilers, Broken Marriage Dynamics, Angst, No happy ending, Self-Destructive Behaviours (Price and Reader), Blood, Violence, Gore(soft), smut, Unprotected PiV (wrap it up folks), Crying, Regret, Dubcon (it’s not extreme but it’s worth mentioning that neither are really in a place to consent (high emotions etc.)), A little Coercion(again not egregious but it’s there).

Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: My first Price fic, and totally inspired by the below scene. Thank you @pinkypromisepascal for beta-ing this for me! ILU for indulging my CoD delusions. W/C - 1,450

CoD Masterlist | AO3

You straddle his thighs, sleep shorts and loose t-shirt already stained with another man’s blood as you dab the wet flannel over his bruised body. The side of the bath creaks behind him as he shifts his weight.

He won’t tell you what happened. He’s barely said a word since stumbling through your front door an hour ago.

There’s so much blood.

“John,” you plead, “Please, just tell me if you’re hurt. I won’t take you to A&E, I just need to know if you’re ok.”

“M’fine, not my blood,” he growls, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder as he refuses to look at you.

You sigh, throwing down the flannel on the floor as you try to rise to your feet. A large hand wraps around your right ankle, anchoring you in place as you glower down at the broken man. The heat that explodes from the point of contact has your breath catching in your throat.

You’ve missed him. Really missed him.

“Please, don’t go,” it’s his turn to beg as he finally meets your gaze. The whites of his eyes are stained pink, raw from crying. His dark blue irises are chasms of despair as he sucks you back in.

“John, I can’t keep doing this,” you say softly as you slump back onto his lap, eyes downturned as it’s your turn to avoid those baleful eyes of his, “I can’t stand by and watch as you slowly kill yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he skims his fingertips up your sides, under the fabric of your t-shirt, “So sorry,” he repeats, and you let out a shuddering breath as he drags the rough pads of his calloused fingertips over your ribs.

“S’not enough John,” you say, your voice trembling as his thumbs swipe over your nipples, pulling a soft mewl from your lips as he brings them to stiff peaks under his touch.

“It was my fault,” he breathes, voice thick with emotion as you look up into his eyes, tears flowing freely now as he finally breaks, “He’s dead because of me, might as well’ve pulled the trigger myself.”

“Oh John,” you sob as tears prick at the corners of your eyes, “Come here,” you insist, throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him against you as he slides his hands around to your back, pinning you to him as he begins to cry.

You run your fingers through his too-long hair, lips pressed to his temple as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His beard tickles at your skin as the wet evidence of his grief collects on the collar of your t-shirt. His hands roam your back, blunt nails scraping down your spine as his sobs begin to abate. Through the ferrous tang of blood, you can smell him. His caffeine shampoo, notes of pepper and sandalwood. His sweat, fresh and raw, conjuring memories of being pinned beneath his wide frame. Flashes of the way his skin tastes when you bite into his flesh to stymy your own screams.

It seems he’s losing himself to your body too. His fingers press possessively into the small of your back as you feel his arousal pressing through the fabric of his jeans, nudging at your clothed core.

“Need you darling,” he mumbles against the slope of your neck, “Please.”

You want to say no, you can’t let him in again, he’ll drag you down with him. It’s why you told him to leave, why it’s been six months of no-contact. But you know what today is. You know why he’s so strung out.

It’s been a year since Johnny died. A year since you lost your husband to grief, rage, and despair.

“Darling,” he urges again, a darkness to his tone as his nose presses into that spot behind your ear that makes your cunt clench around nothing, “Please.”

His teeth nip at the shell of your ear as his thick, hot tongue laves over the sting to soothe you. You want to say no, but you can’t.

“Ok,” you whisper, trembling hands cupping his bearded cheeks as you pull him away from your neck, only to crash your lips into his. His eyes go wide – as if he expected you to go through with your rejection – before they flutter closed.

He growls against your lips as he tugs your shorts down, leaving them stretched and tangled around your knees as you fumble with his belt buckle. He lifts his hips so you can pull his boxer briefs and jeans down in one. His thick length slaps wetly against his blood-stained stomach. You moan into his mouth as his tongue slips past your lips, claiming it for his own as he grips your hips.

You whine as he pulls you down onto his cock, you wince at the stretch, you’re not as wet as you’d like. But you soon forget the discomfort as he seats himself fully inside you. You break the kiss with a cry as your head lolls back. You’re so full.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he rasps as he sucks hard against your pulse point, rocking you up and down on his cock, his grip near-bruising on your thighs, “Missed you so much.”

“Missed you too John,” you weep in tainted bliss as you aid his efforts to impale you on his dick. You move in tandem with his thrusts, bouncing on his cock as you dig your nails into his pectorals. Blood and grime forcing themselves into your nail beds.

“I love you,” he breathes your name as he slams you down harder, your ass cheeks slapping obscenely against his muscular thighs.

“I love you too John,” you pant into his open mouth as you press your forehead to his, “Never stopped loving you, never will.”

His tongue slips into your mouth as he plants his feet on the floor, elevating you as he starts to pound up into your slick hole. You clench around him, drawing desperate gasps from him as you tug on his hair. Your other hand drops to your clit as you roll the sensitive bud with desperation as you feel your orgasm building.

“You like that, Captain?” You snarl as you yank his head back, drawing a yelp from him as he slams you down on his cock, “Yeah, you do,” you purr as you shudder and clench around him harder this time.

“Let me come inside,” he begs, and you moan as you feel the heat build in your navel as you increase the pressure on your clit, “Please.”

“Do you deserve to come inside me, Captain?” You goad and he groans louder at the repeated use of his rank.

“No,” he chokes out as he sobs, still thrusting up into you, making you cry out in rapturous desire, “Don’t deserve you darling, but I need you.”

There’s an unspoken plea in his voice and you relent. You push aside the agony you know you will feel tomorrow. Both physically and emotionally, this will ruin you. But as always, you throw yourself at the feet of Captain John Price.

“Come for me John, come inside me,” you whine as you come hard. Your pussy is like a vice, choking John’s cock as you cry his name again and again in a pleasure-ridden dirge.

John roars, his head thrown back as he ruts up into you again and again, splitting you in two as he chases his release. You’re putty above him, face buried in his damp, bloodstained hair as your pleasure bleeds into him.

“Love you,” he whispers your name as he comes, and you grind down onto his cock as he buries himself deep inside you.

“Love you too John, always.”

You stay there for some time, knees scuffed and sore, thighs ablaze with exertion. John mutters sweet nothings, promising to get his shit together. You humour him as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. The blood and sweat that clings to his skin disguise the way your tears flow in rivulets down his chest.

You know he wants to mean it; you know he loves you. You want to believe him, you want to love him back, the way he thinks he loves you.

But you know that it’s a fantasy. You know he’s going to slip the moment he wakes up tomorrow with the same cavernous hole in his chest. He’ll leave without a word, any remnant of your love for him eaten away with shame. And the cycle will start again.

But for now, you can pretend.

For the next few hours you have your husband back.

And for now, that’s enough.

CoD Masterlist

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year

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i know it was for example purposes, but now that you mention sugar daddy Andy, i can't get it out of my head 🥹! may you please do pic 3 with sugar daddy Andy Barber (or maybe even Steve Rogers!) ?

A soft clink of glasses had been a chime to stymying the differing silence. You had shifted on his lap and dug deeper into his comfort while his strong arms encircled your waist, keeping you held against him.

The notes of his cologne, soft yet spicy had stirred your desire and with a slow inhale you filled your senses with him. He was whispering in your ear, indistinguishable yet erotic sweet nothings that stole your attention away from the table of men and other women milking around.

“Comfortable, kitten?” Andy purred in your ear, one hand sliding to the hem of your dress as the other remained against your belly. “Are you happy?”

“Yes, Andy.” You couldn’t have denied him, you couldn’t have denied yourself the truth. “I know you’ve said I couldn’t ask…”

Andy Barber was a highly powerful lawyer; he was also your sugar daddy. You’d met him at a party, one of the mandatory events for you and your little group of smart assets at the university.

Andy had originally come to pledge money if the university pleaded him—he left with your number in his phone and the taste of his thousand dollar bourbon on your tongue.

“Se te lo dicessi, tesoro, dovrei portarti via e non lasciarti andare.” Andy’s husky voice echoed in your mind, it drew out a soft airy sigh from your lips and caused you to tremble against him. (If I told you darling, I would have to steal you away and never let you go)

“Cold, sweetheart?” Andy hummed again, shifting the placement of his hands to rub your arms while the scratch of his beard against your jaw was another delightful sensation that you’d first experienced weeks ago.

“I’m fine,” you replied quietly, slowly reaching for the glass in front of you, stopping when Andy tsked in your ear.

“Let me, darling.” He raised the glass to your lips, watching you earnestly swallow the wine he specially ordered for you before he brushed his thumb against your bottom lip to catch the dribble of wine, and then he held his thumb to your lips.

Pride was becoming of him, pride and devour hunger surging through his body had been a direct result of your lips parting and the suckle of his thumb.

“Barber, can we get back to it?” One of his associates had questioned the timing, and with the question being raised you’d inherently felt Andy’s chest become rigid.

“I have to have a private conversation with my…friends, baby.” Andy raised the inside of your wrist to his lips and gently kissed up your arm, moving slowly to bring out an increasing number of airy whines and whimpers.

“Andy…” you drew closer to him, not wanting to be cleaved from your boyfriend.

“I know, sweetheart.” Andy held your hand, helping you stand before he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled a sleek box out and set it in the table. “A gift for you, go try it on and wait for me upstairs.”

“Sure,” you reached for the box and cracked the lid open, attention falling to the breathtaking piece inside, “Andy…this is incredible!”

“The best for my baby.” He kissed the back of your hand, anger still radiating like fine mist around him. “Go on, darling. I won’t be long.”

You stepped away from the table and straightened the hem of your dress, the box tucked in your hand as you made your descent from the room. As you were reaching the cusp, you stole another glance over your shoulder to see the men and women appearing nervous, a flash of intense fear across each of their faces as Andy leaned in and parted his lips.

And then the door was closed behind you, cutting off your view to whatever was happening.

#mafia!andy barber #mafia!Andy Barber x reader #sugar daddy!Andy Barber #sugar daddy!Andy Barber x reader #mob!sugar daddy!Andy Barber #mafia!sugar daddy!Andy Barber

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citizenscreen · 4 months

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Matthew ‘Stymie’ Beard and George ‘Spanky’ McFarland in an "Our Gang" production from January 1932.

#matthew beard #george mcfarland #our gang #the little rascals

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asksythe · 9 months

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We know Nie Mingjue died of qi deviation, but i quite often saw the fandom also called what happened to Lan Qiren inside mingshi and Wei Wuxian in the lotus pier's ancestral shrine was qi deviation as well.

Can you explain what qi deviation actually is?

Thank you 🙏

It's "magical psychosis".... caused by improper cultivation practice or a detrimental state of mind.

Psychosis in a regular person is scary enough. But what about when someone who has superhuman strength and an unthinkable degree of control over their own body starts undergoing violent psychosis? What about when this person can warp reality itself (as is often the case in high xianxia genre)?

That's the simple way to explain a qi deviation (or as Nie Huaissang refers to them in the book 走火入魔, this term can be understood as "to be so consumed by an obsession that one succumbs to madness"). To understand Qi deviation, you have to understand cultivation, though. And that's a fair bit harder to describe in simple terms without being stymied by the cultural barrier.

A simple way to describe cultivation is that it's the process where people slowly turn themselves into biological magic (qi) reactors (like a Mako reactor from FF7 + the Zerg Hive from Starcraft). This process takes years, decades, or even centuries, depending on the specific story. This process requires very careful conditioning of both the body and mind over the years (i.e. building the reactor).

Just like with building a reactor, if you use shoddy materials or if the blueprints are lacking, or if the reactor starts taking in questionable supplies, or if the environments are stressful, problems can happen. And problems can be anything from a minor hiccup, a pause in operation, the reactor failing to expand further and stagnating, or the reactor going kaboom (i.e. the Nie's terminal problem).

I can see why people call what Wei Wuxian experienced in Lotus Pier's ancestral shrine a qi deviation. He was in a heightened state of emotion. They just came back from the second Siege, so he was already exhausted both physically and mentally. Then he had that fairly onesided altercation with Jiang Cheng. He exhibited the classic symptom of bleeding from facial orifices. It does line up, doesn't it?

In the case of Lan Qiren, uh... I guess? So this is the passage concerning Lan Qiren in the book (Wuji, the first volume of MDZS simplified Mandarin):

Lit (It's my translation. I never read any English translation, so it may be rough, but it should carry the meaning):

…Lan Qiren, who originally had lost consciousness, sat up straight. He was bleeding and smoking from the seven orifices on his face. His beard pointed up straight. His finger pointing at Wei Wuxian trembled. (He) hoarsely said: "Stop blowing! Scram! Scram right away! You can't--"

Before he could finish saying "can't" what, he spewed up blood and fell back down, once more deep in unconsciousness.

So it's the same physical symptom: bleeding (and smoking!) from the seven orifices. The prior stressor is the Lan failing the invoking ritual on Nie Mingjue's hand and were injured when the hand retaliated. So that's on par with Wei Wuxian after the second siege. It's not just Lan Qiren, but every other Lan in the chamber other than Lan Wangji and the Lan disciple who managed to escape. Lan Qiren also sat at one of the key positions in the array used to suppress the hand, so he would suffer a worse bounce-back attack.

And then Wei Wuxian entered the picture....

Are we to understand being in Wei Wuxian's presence and hearing his "atrocious" flute blowing to be such mental stress that it pushed Lan Qiren from 'wounded and unconscious' straight into 'qi deviation' territory (which is capital S serious for a cultivator) ??!! Is Lan Qiren that fragile, or does Wei Wuxian just have that much of an impact on him? 😦

I guess it is.... 😅 if we are meant to take it humorously.

In any case, there are actually resources in English if you want to dig deeper into this phenomenon/concept:

Although if you want to completely grasp qi deviation and such cultivation-related topics, I recommend you read mainstream xianxia books (as while they are amazing, MXTX's books are oft-criticized for being threadbare in regards to the cultivation aspect.) or play cultivation games (I play Overmortal. It's fairly easy and free to get into. It's pay to win though. If you only want to get a better idea on cultivation, it's a good option).

#ask sythe #mo dao zu shi #mdzs

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polijakefim · 3 months

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F L A U N T

TRAVIS FIMMEL

Girl's Gotta Eat

There are paths seen and unseen. There are paths taken. There are the Midwestern housewives who sit at home, who formerly popped bennies and ran topless through every jam band show at the local amphitheater. There are the vagrant, longhaired transients who receive stares as they push their cart of nothings around sweaty Southern towns, that formerly received stares only because they were professing at the front of a philosophy class. There are the attention-deficit young men, oft chastised for their inability to focus, but given open creativity, become playwrights and screenwriters. There are the balladeers. There are the celebrities. There is the you. There is the me. And there is Travis Fimmel, sitting in a hotel room in Vancouver, freezing his balls off. His is a story of barefooted farm boy turned bare-bodied model turned actor.

“It’s bloody cold,” he says in a relaxed Australian drawl. Of course it is. Fimmel grew up helping out on the family farm in a small town on the fork of two rivers in the middle of sunburnt Australia. He’s currently in the benumbed west Canadian port city filming Duncan Jones’ Warcraft: a film of epic proportion and expectation. But despite the video game-based spin-off, one gets the feeling Fimmel is the kind of lad who would much rather be chopping wood than mashing plastic buttons on a gaming controller. “I’d never heard of it,” he freely admits.

The path begins. When I ask about his early foray into Australian-rules football, he concedes what stymied the course, “Yeah but I sucked at it, man, I was very bad.” And thus he skipped the sporting life and tried college, “I didn’t pass any classes becauseI didn’t end up showing up—I was doing project managing for construction, like a foreman. Architecture and commerce [was the] main part of the course, I didn’t really want to go to college, I was just trying to fill in time…but then I ended up going overseas.” Fimmel wasn’t meant to be a paper-pushing desk jockey; just as Paul fucking Newman wasn’t meant to sling charred chicory at nine-to-fivers. With those baby blues and gilded locks it wasn’t long before Fimmel was modeling, most notably for Calvin Klein and most times wearing not a stitch. Previously Fimmel has played down his years of modeling, crediting favorable lighting, advanced cameras, and Photoshop for his looks and success. In fact, it’s speculated—and blatantly obvious upon viewing—that Fimmel was the inspiration behind Samantha’s washed-out brick-bod lover—“Jerry” Smith Jerrod—on Sex and the City.

The path winds. “Wound up in L.A., got into an acting class and then that’s where I started acting. I had no idea, never wanted to do this stuff, still don’t really want to do it, mate,” he admits. Fimmel is even-keeled, he exudes a thoughtless vibe, and as much as Fimmel plays it all down, one even has to question how hard he worked to get to his current status. Sometimes his nonchalant nature can come off as arrogant, and it’s easy to imagine he’s often misunderstood, but couldn’t care less; he’s just riding the wave. At first, Fimmel took jobs everyone in Hollywood thought would pay dividends but floundered [see: WB’s Tarzan] until he grew a beard and started swinging an axe. Ah, the farm boy swinging the axe again. It’s in History Channel’s Vikings that Fimmel found his niche, receiving acclaim for his portrayal of the contemplative but merciless, Ragnar Lothbrok, a deep-thinking maniac from Viking Age Europe. There is a swagger to his character that is maintained somewhere within Fimmel. When I ask about his association with Ragnar, he states, “Every guy that I know that fights is always the quietest guy in the room; I just try to think more than talk. You’ll always learn more by listening rather than being the loudest guy in the room. And whatever you do, you do because you enjoy it, so I try to make my character enjoy fighting.”

The path straightens. And so we find ourselves back in that Vancouver hotel room, freezing our balls off with Fimmel, as he’s in the midst of shooting the biggest film of his career. With all the aloofness Fimmel radiates, it piques one’s interest to know what he really is passionate about: “Farming, mate. That’s whatI want to do. I love the country. It’s hard to explain. When you grow up in the country you just enjoy it so much. I love animals and I love trees and anything country.”

And, lastly, that beard that’s quickly becoming his trademark: “It just grew I guess, I couldn’t for ages. I would have loved to grow one when I was a kid, I would have loved to have gone to prom and school and shit with a beard.”

Nothing to do with shedding the barefaced image of your Calvin Klein days? “[Audibly scoffs] Shit. I couldn’t grow one then. Otherwise I would have had one.”

That would have been a different path.

#travis fimmel #vikings #polijake_fim #ragnar lothbrok #travisfimmel

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nirikeehan · 1 year

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Thalia & Garrett Hawke - “I’ve got you!” from PUT THEM IN SITUATIONS XD Shenanigans

HEYO thank you for this prompt. I've always been curious about the Hawke you meet in the default Inquisition world state because for so long I believed he was just A Guy and not the protag of the previous game. So here's an attempt to capture that character as I saw him then.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1776

---

“Where did that damned Inquisitor go?” Hawke asked Varric. They sat in the shadow of a tumbledown stone tower, which seemed untouched since the time of the Second Blight. They were taking a break, Hawke had thought, for lunch. Only once he and Varric and the large Qunari had unwrapped their meager rations of stale bread and hard cheese, Lady Thalia Trevelyan was nowhere to be found.

The Iron Bull lounged against a stone wall, taking a hearty sip of their precious canteen water. “Saw her go out that way.” He pointed. “Something about wanting to find out where that ladder we found near the canyon went.”

“Bloody hell,” Hawke groused. “It’s the hottest part of the day. And there’s quillbacks and varghests about, not to mention darkspawn, bandits and the Venatori. And the girl goes off on her own?”

Varric chuckled from where he sat beside by the burnt out shell of an ancient ballista. “You didn’t have to come out here with us, Hawke. We have it all well in hand.”

Hawke ground his teeth, biting back his response — that he’d seen Lady Thalia picking her current field team back at Griffon Wing Keep. He’d been aghast that she found it perfectly acceptable to head out into the simmering heat with his best friend, a Qunari spy, and a boy who couldn’t be a day over sixteen. (“It’s a bit more complicated than that with Cole,” Varric said unhelpfully when Hawke had complained.)

Varric aside, Garrett Hawke didn’t trust the others as far as he could throw them, and so he’d heard himself volunteer to replace Cole, who’d been stymied by tying his own shoelaces after he’d shaken roughly an inch of sand from his boot. Now that Hawke had reported the enemy was gathering at Adamant Fortress, he’d needed something to keep him useful to the Inquisition in the mean time. Low-level mercenary work might have once felt beneath the Champion of Kirkwall, but these days, beggars could not be choosers.

And the Inquisitor herself seemed like she needed all the help she could get.

Hawke sighed, using his staff to leverage himself to his feet. He was regretting the layers of leather and metal he’d worn out to this Maker-forsaken corner of Thedas. He’d thought he was accustomed to warm climes after the years he’d spent in Kirkwall, but the boiling temperatures of the Western Approach were on another level entirely. “I suppose I’ll look for her.”

“Don’t go making it sound like such a sacrifice,” Varric cracked. “Thalia’s fine. She just gets curious, is all.”

He felt a pang of annoyance that Varric would act like he had a better read on anyone in their company than Hawke did. That had been a joint task, those years ago. And there had been a time when Hawke himself had delighted in the unknown, the adventure that might lie around every corner. Maker’s teeth, what’s happened to me?

“She’s young,” Hawke pointed out. “Maybe too young to be running an operation like this one.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Varric conceded, chewing on a crust of bread. “But she’s got the energy for it. Not like us world-weary assholes.”

Hawke trudged away, under the archway of the ruined tower, and out into the blinding orange sands. A scorching wind hit his face, ruffling his dark hair and getting grit under his beard. He stifled another sigh and wrapped the linen scarf he’d bought from a vendor at the keep around his face. He’d oft wondered why nomads in this part of the world dressed so, but soon the need for loose-fitting yet constant shade had become inescapable.

He doubled back the way the party had come, using the prints in the sand to guide him. Four sets of tracks approached, already fading into the rippled dunes. Only one fresher set led away, the side approximately that of a young woman’s boot. Hawke noted they were headed in the direction of the wide canyon, likely proving Iron Bull right.

Why must the girl climb every ladder she sees? Hawke wondered as he marched. It was a near compulsion, it seemed to him. Maker help them if there was no ladder, but only a ruined wall, or tower, or statue, or even a peculiarly shaped tree. Up she went, climbing with gusto and abandon, on the most rickety of structures, beaming down at the party with a lady-like wave. At least the Tevinter mage and the dour Grey Warden had the sense to tell her she was being foolhardy. Varric seemed oddly endeared and far too indulgent, the way he’d gotten with Merrill back in Kirkwall. Some to think of it, there was a bit of Merrill’s bright spirit in Lady Thalia. As well as her recklessness. But more than that, she reminded Hawke of someone else. Someone he tried not to think of for too long. Dwelling on the past, he’d learned, didn’t wake the dead.

He reached the lip of the canyon, where the soft sand gave way to hard rock and Thalia’s footprints disappeared. He had to rely on memory from here on out.

Hawke found the ladder jutting from an outcropping of rock, leading to a splintery scaffolding well above his head. “Lady Thalia?” he called impatiently. “Are you up there?”

“Ser Hawke?” floated the girl’s faint voice on the wind. “Is that you?”

Hawke grabbed a rung and began to climb. “You know, I’m not technically a ser. I was never knighted.”

No, the Champion of Kirkwall had been everything except officially recognized for his accomplishments. Every authority figure in the blasted city came to him for aid, but it was Varric who saw to it that he had lasting recognition. For all the good that had done him.

Hawke climbed to the top of the ladder, where a rickety scaffolding straddled the space between two cliff faces. Another ladder led down into the crevice, which led to a sudden drop off into the gargantuan gorge they’d been skirting all day. Thalia stood near the edge gazing out on the blighted landscape. The Western Approach had never quite recovered from the Second Blight, that much was clear. Ominous smoke clouds drifted overhead at odd parts of the day, and some areas were still scorched black.

Thalia gazed upon one such speck in the landscape now, the hot breeze pulling back the strands of auburn hair that fell into her face. Hawke climbed down carefully, frowning at the uneven quality of the structure. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“Oh, loads. A mosaic piece under that scaffolding, for starters. And do you see the mark of the Blight, over on the other side of the canyon? It’s a living piece of history, right there.”

“I’m not sure about the living part.” Hawke had seen a lot out here in the Approach, and couldn’t shake how most of it was dead. Bleached white bones of those long deceased. Abandoned remnants of mines, quarries, outposts, forts. At first Hawke wasn’t sure that Serault fellow was even truly alive, behind the obscuring mask. “But I’m… glad you’re getting something out of it.”

He couldn’t bring himself to scold her, although he wanted to. But he had no right; she was not a troublesome sibling, strayed too far from home. Hawke strode up behind Lady Thalia, and tried to see the landscape as she saw it, scowling when he failed miserably.

“So,” Thalia said, turning to him. “What do you need?”

“Need? Ah, nothing.” He crossed his arms and avoided her gaze.

The young woman frowned. “You came all this way… and you don’t need anything?”

Hawke shrugged. “Is it a crime to wonder if you’d be all right by yourself?”

“Are you worried about me, Ser Hawke?” Her voice was light and teasing, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something flickered inside Hawke; a lightness he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten himself capable.

“Listen,” he said gruffly. “With the position you’re in, we can’t afford to lose you.”

“I appreciate that.” The way she said it made him suspect she was merely being polite.

An awkward silence stretched, during which Hawke struggled to come up with something else to say. Instead, he thought of Bethany, her bright smile and cheeky demeanor, that damn bandana she always wore around her neck. There was too much of her memory wound up in his perception of this girl, he was beginning to see it now. But who could blame him, when in reality they seemed so much alike.

Thalia looked away first, down the chasm that stretched out before them. “Hey— hang on, do you see that?”

“What?” Hawke peered over the side, to where Thalia was pointing, and a cold trickle of dread wound its way down his spine. On an outcropping of rock, twenty or so feet down, was a pile of skeletons. All of a sudden, he wondered what the scaffolding, the ladders, this entire strange little establishment in the middle of nowhere meant, in the past or in the present. “Maker have mercy.”

“I need to get down there,” Thalia said with impressive resolve. “I need to see how recent this was. Maybe there’s something there that can tell us who these people were.”

“Thalia, I wouldn’t.” The side of the cliff had nothing in the way of footholds. The outcropping itself seemed narrow and unsteady, and beyond it was a drop that would surely kill anyone.

But she was already pacing the space, looking for a way to climb down. “I think if I just braced myself like this—”

She planted her boot against the rock, but lost purchase and slid out from under her. In horror, Hawke watched her fall. Without thinking, he reached out into the open air, seized her arm. She let out a yelp, but stopped short, banging against the cliff face. Hawke jerked with the weight of her momentum, but seized the wall for support. “Hold on. Hold on, I’ve got you.”

It took a few harrowing moments to rebalance themselves, but Hawke managed to drag Thalia back over the edge. She stumbled against him, panting, trousers torn and knees bloody. Hawke grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Thanks,” she muttered, clinging to him and catching her breath.

“See what I told you?” Hawke demanded. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

“You don’t have to be so self-righteous about it,” Thalia retorted. “Who do you think you are, my father?”

Hawke opened his mouth, but words failed him, so he closed it. That wasn’t a can of worms he wanted to open. Not now, not ever.

#thalia trevelyan #garrett hawke #i've been told i should ship them lmfao #but idk what i'm going for here exactly #shit's complicated #fics #varric tethras #the iron bull #dragon age drunk writing circle

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gcldfanged · 7 months

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@saishuu-heiki

The ground had been too hard with ice to bury the old man, so Jae had spent the better part of an entire day chopping down trees to fashion a pyre for him. Despite the steel coloring his once pitch black hair and beard, he'd looked as handsome as he had in the photos of his youth: a towering sequoia amongst a forest of lesser men, great iron muscles straining and thick veins splintering blade, bullet and lash-tortured skin. His anguish was their suffering, the austere Loyalists who bled for home and country. They were nothing more than primitives that the Modernists now laughed at, for not whoring themselves, for covering their superior human forms in hand me down skin and hides like simple animals.

If they were seen as little more than a sidestep away from basic savagery, then he would continue to stalk the wilds as one of them. Wrapped from head to toe in mink and thick wools, none of the glimmering liquid gemstone colors of industrialized silks, nor the pinstriped cotton-twills of Junon's boxy suits and jaunty fedoras. His shoes were traditional gutals, handcarved leather and insulating fur, stocky with their slightly upturned toes and soles that left barely a footprint in even powder-snow. Surrounded by drooling, panting mountainous 'shepherd dogs' only a handful's generations of careless breeding away from wolves- They were as one, of the same razor-edged instinct and unified mind focused solely on the hunt. On the kill. Wolves wished they killed with the ferocity that they did.

Wolves never attacked unless you'd wronged them, somehow- Then they would take you, if they could. Normally they would merely hunch in the snow with baleful eyes and curl their tails between their legs miserably, saliva glistening on their fangs from one too many days without fresh meat. They knew better.

The Han were a proud nation of survivors, from the barren terrain and the frigid temperatures stymieing new growth and life, to the hostile occupation by Wutai stomping their pride and faces into the frigid, muddy earth. They were the product of a culture and an ideology that, as far as everyone else was concerned, no longer existed. They'd been worse than just cast out- To sink so low as to accept foreign aid, to fall so far as to do terrible and cynical things. Men and women would sacrifice themselves for 'The Greater Good'. This, he knew. His grandfather's entire life had been committed to the belief that it had all been voluntary.

But that wasn't the problem. It wasn't the dying. It was living and dying for what their leaders had become. Unbeknownst to them, to the old man whose last words were a long rattling wheeze and a hand thrust out at his grandchild and a strangled "What was it all for...?", to everyone else who'd worked and toiled and sacrificed so much, their great country was nothing at all.

Fucking nothing. Somehow their most promising generation had turned heel to greedy capitalists and as the old ways deteriorated, it didn't take long to find the trails of blood and mako they'd left behind. They bowed before and kissed the polished leather of Shinra's dress shoes as their industrial engineers swarmed over the bloated carcass of Haneul like a plague of botflies. The natural flora and fauna withered and twisted into mako-poisoned mutations, jobs became scarce due to rampant automation, their sons and daughters prostituted as the company grew fat off their blood, sweat, and bitter tears.

As far as he was concerned, The Silver General may as well be the court jester prancing about for an oligarchy of human parasites tearing into their great nation's pride and simple dignity- It's humanity. He'd seen it and lived in it, the desperation and poverty. Distinguished intellectuals and artisans selling themselves on the street. The Loyalists labeled 'rebels' and 'criminals'.

It was almost a relief his grandfather had passed when he did, just to prevent him from the knowing- That they hadn't just fallen, but passed hitting rock bottom and carved it's way into the chthonian underbelly of modern man's gravest sins.

Chaebols had become a byword for crooks, because natives understood what the decadent West's idea of business was. It was only a quest for ownership. It wasn't fair trade. It wasn't about equality. It was zero-sum savagery. It was taking what you wanted and giving your victim the illusion of consent.

The profiteers 'enriched' themselves, bloated their accounts with foreign gil. There was rarely even the simple poetic bliss in one of them getting torn apart by a reactor bomb planted by AVALANCHE. They survived. The shitheads always survived. The assholes always did.

So what did that mean about him?

His gaze is twinned black holes and merciless, spearing his gimlet eyed stare down the nose of a stolen rifle. It was anger and outrage and pain- A once great nation's desperate denial of the inevitable.

"Shinra isn't welcome here."

The words aren't ungainly on his lips, they never had been. Han was his language, but they'd learned Common in primary school, babbling syllables in other tongues.

Their enemy's and their ally's: He'd learned Wutainese when he attempted training to enlist in counter-intelligence. He'd felt the weight of hungry eyes more than once as Shinra's science department sniffed around, attempted to slobber all over him. It was disgraceful- Disgusting, the way they posed and preened and invited him to become more than 'just a farmer with a gun', not even Public Security, but a SOLDIER.

To Hell with them.

To Hell with anyone.

#saishuuheiki #saishuu heiki #◈ rp threads #◈ Han Loyalist!Verse tag pending #I think Jae was initially supposed to be less hostile but uhhh this happened #if I need to edit or change anything PLEASE let me know I do not mind #also sorry this literally took like 50 years to complete because work has been draining my creative juices #Jae: *looks like crazy-ass hermit who lives in the woods*#... actually it wouldn't be out of the question to assume Jae is some eccentric like the USA's extremist Libertarians #'GIT OFFA MAH LAWN'

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thesummernostalgia · 1 month

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Mrs. Fern Carter and Our Gang children

#fern carter #tommy bond #wally albright #jacqueline taylor #spanky mcfarland #george mcfarland #stymie beard #matthew beard

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spade-riddles · 2 years

Note

the entire prolog - talking about hoping you're not making a life altering mistake... she's talking about bearding and contracts isn't she?

I feel like she is talking about the possibility of coming out or the decisions she makes that stymie that. So yes, I guess we are thinking the same thing. Basically personal choices.

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icarusthelunarguard · 3 months

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This Week’s Horrible-Scopes

It’s time for this week’s Horrible-Scopes! So for those of you that know your Astrological Signs, cool! If not, just pick one, roll a D12, or just make it up as you go along. It really doesn’t matter. Better yet! Check out “Heart of the Game, Fredonia” and see if they can sell you those D12’s with the symbols on them. Tell them “Shujin Tribble” sentcha. And “Hail, Hail, Fredonia!” Home of the Blue Devil!

Someone, and we’re not naming names here, someone is really trying to challenge me with suggestions for the ‘Scopes; trying to stump me with topics. WELL! Just to prove that I refuse to be stumpified let’s launch into this week’s suggested topic: HATS! So hold on to yours because it’s time to duel!

Aries

Hey, Ladies! Let’s give you something classy as all hell. You might not know it by the name, “Cloche hat”, but you’ll know it on sight. It’s a bell-shaped woman's hat that was popular during the Roaring Twenties. So This Week… Head to a 2nd-hand shop and try on a Flapper Dress, but with two warnings. First, it’s heavier than you think it’ll be. And Second… it’s gunna cost more than you think it will.

Taurus

We’re taking you to a hard felt hat created in 1850 by Lock's of St James's, the hatters to Thomas Coke, 2nd Earl of Leicester, for his servants. So, yeah! You’re getting a hat fit for “The Help”. Commonly known as a “Derby” in the United States, your hat is also the name of a legendary restaurant. So This Week… Re-watch the old “Little Rascals” films and look for the kid with the bowler hat. That would be Stymie Beard. That hat? It was a gift from comedian Stan Laurel - of “Laurel & Hardy” fame! So you wear yours with PRIDE!

Gemini

JUST for you, we’re taking you to school. Specifically to Italian class. “Da Cappo” in Italian means “The Hat”, but it’s better than that. It’s a Musical Term, meaning once you get to this point, go back and start at the beginning all over again. So for This Week… You’re being challenged to pick up that first instrument you learned in third grade and try to play something again. Unless it was a recorder, in which case you’re off the hook.

Cancer Moon-Child

You’re getting a pretty famous hat, though you might not know it by name. Known as the "Smokey Bear" hat, it’s a broad-brimmed felt or straw hat with a high crown, pinched symmetrically at its four corners - what’s known as the "Montana Crease". Your hat is officially known as the “Campaign Hat”. So This Week… Remember; “Smokey the Bear” was named for "Smokey" Joe Martin, a New York City Fire Department hero who suffered burns and blindness during a bold 1922 rescue. So when you put on your hat, give it its proper reverence.

Leo

Let’s take you all the way back to the Bronze Age and give you a Beret! Sure, in modern times you could look like a military person, but really you’ve got one of the oldest designs of lid-wear. So This Week… Don’t try to wear it as a cold-weather hat. It’s just going to blow right off your head. Unless you buckle it tighter. REALLY tight!

Virgo

You know, all these hats that everyone knows by sight but almost never by name. Virgo, do you know what a “Bobby” is? It’s what they call a constable in the UK. So you’re getting the “Custodian helmet”. Yes, it’s a helmet, but that’s still a hat. So This Week… Do NOT learn how to speak with a British Accent from ‘Mary Poppins’!

Libra

Oh, we’re gunna screw you up hard with this one. Surprisingly enough it could be found in some of the Southernmost Islands of Japan. It's called the “Montera” - a crocheted hat worn by bullfighters. Yeah! Bullfighting was a THING in Super-South Japan thanks to Spanish Settlers. Bet you didn’t know that. So This Week… Watch Bugs Bunny be a bullfighter and remember you can’t do that! He’s a toon, you're not. Stick to Mechanical Bull Riding.

Scorpio

You’re getting an Australian favorite, believe it or not. It’s a bush hat with a wide brim known as the “Akubra”. It’s a distinctive part of Australian culture, especially in rural areas these days, and if you pair it with an oiled canvas riding jacket, you WILL be the sexiest person in that county. So This Week… See if the Driza-Bone company can ship a Rider Heritage Coat to your country yet.

Sagittarius

Are you going to be in a production of The Pirates of Penzance? No? Then you’re gunna look weird wearing a Pith Helmet. But we’re pretty sure you know how to find a rhyme for the term, “Hypotenuse”. So This Week… Learn the lyrics from “Major General”. You’re just dorky enough to remember it later.

Capricorn

It don’t get much more “Olde Timey” than this! You’re going to be wearing A seamen’s hat. No, it’s not what you think. Your hat, called the “Boater”, is a flat-brimmed, flat-topped, straw hat, formerly worn by public school students in the UK as part of their summer uniform. So This Week… since you won’t be going to a regatta or formal garden party this week, find a 1920’s schoolboy uniform to wear with it… Get a Gibson SG guitar and play “Thunderstruck”!

Aquarius

We’re gunna make a really strong suggestion: ONLY wear yours when you go in snow events. You’re getting a Balaclava. We don’t need to describe what it looks like other than to say, “If You Want To Rob A Bank, THIS Is The Hat You Want To Wear.” So This Week… Remember, you are NOT allowed to use money you’ve stolen to post bond for yourself. So just hit the ski slopes instead.

Pisces

If we say “Grandma”, or “Brrr!”, or “Eh?” what do you think of? That’s right - a stretched out sock, pulled over your head, known in Canada as.. The “Toque”. The worst part of it all is that Americans can’t seem to either pronounce it or spell it correctly - and maybe that’s for the best. So This Week… Learn to sing the PBR song from “Strange Brew!”

And THOSE are your Horrible-Scopes for this week! Remember if you liked what you got, we’re obviously not working hard enough at these. BUT! If you want a better or nastier one for your own sign or someone else’s, all you need to do to bribe me is just Let Me Know - or check out the Ko-Fi page ( https://ko-fi.com/icarusthelunarguard )! These will be posted online at the end of each week via Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, Discord, and BLUESKY.

#parody #horrorscope #funny #horoscope #humor #comedy #yugioh #yu gi oh #straw hats

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citizenscreen · 1 year

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Dickie Moore as Dickie, Matthew Beard as Stymie and George McFarland as Spanky in, "Birthday Blues," a 1932 Our Gang series release.

#dickie moore #matthew beard #george mcfarland #our gang #the little rascals

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singeratlarge · 4 months

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youtube

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Dana Andrews, Matthew/Stymie Beard, Brahms’s 1879 Violin Concerto in D, Greg Carmichael (Acoustic Alchemy), Johnny Cash’s 1st free concert @ San Quentin (1960) w/Merle Haggard in the “audience,” Morris Chestnut, Xavier Cugat, Douglas David, Joseph Donkoh, Morgan Fisher (Mott the Hoople), Grandmaster Flash, E.M. Forster, Philip Glass’s 2012 SYMPHONY NO. 9, Rocky Graziano, Ty Hardin, the Hearts of Space radio series (1983), Miki Higashino, Huntingdon High School (PA), Milt “Bags” Jackson, web journalist Kathy Kolb, Carole Landis, Charles Matongo, Country Joe McDonald, Lorenzo de' Medici, Makori Mokua, Colin Morgan, Arthur Prysock, Paul Revere (the Revolutionary), Paul Revere & the Raiders (1958), Betsy Ross, Nathaniel Shilkret, Simon & Garfunkel’s 1966 “Sounds of Silence” single, Shelby Steele, Tank, TOP OF THE POPS TV show (1964), Ari Up (The Slits), “Mad Anthony” Wayne, Huldrych Zwingli and my former neighbor, occasional collaborator, and Renaissance Man, Bill Stefanacci—globe-trotting film-maker, martial arts expert, surfer, yoga enthusiast, and mastermind behind the band Funk Dub Division.

Beyond guiding the musical brain trust of FDD, Bill is immersed in the physics and electronics of psycho acoustics. Published in over 800 journals, his theories on sub-atomic particle/wave arrays in DNA are accepted by the global science community as the bridge between the material world and consciousness itself. Bill is also the head of ESA Productions, creating documentaries and films for educational television. Musically he has worked Hugh Masakela, Les McCann, Metallica, Judy Mowatt, The Persuasions, Third World, Pamela Z, and various classical/world music ensembles. As for Funk Dub Division, they’re not just music—they’re a state of mind involving funk, dub, soul, experimental, and electronic moshing featuring some of world music's tightest players and vocalists blend in a digital, psychedelic amalgamation. On a cosmic turntable they play next to Black Uhuru, Miles Davis, Martin Denny, Thelonious Monk, Rufus, Ravi Shankar, and William Burroughs. Have some fun in 2024 with FDD’s music—and HB BS!

https://funkdubdivision.bandcamp.com

#Bill #Stefanacci #Funk #Dub #Division #birthday #physics #electronics #psychoacoustics #acoustics #subatomic #particles #DNA #ESA #Productions #HughMasakela #LesMcCann #Metallica #JudyMowatt #ThePersuasions #ThirdWorld #PamelaZ #Soul #experimental #mosh #digital #psychedelic #BlackUhuru #MilesDavis #MartinDenny #TheloniousMonk #Rufus #RaviShankar #WilliamBurroughs

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