it's a chain life

comorbidity be like…

Google: “how do i get more sleep?”

  • “try taking melatonin (:”
    • too bad melatonin interacts harmfully with my SSRIs!
  • “don’t drink caffeine (:”
    • tell that to my ADHD and selective eating disorder!
  • “never check your phone right before bed (:”
    • if only i could tell my compulsive OCD checks that!
  • “stop fighting your natural sleep cycle (:”
    • so, do you want to tell my school to move all my classes 3 hours later because i have DSPD, or should i?
  • “refrain from problem-solving late at night (:”
    • shit, why didn’t i think of not having anxiety!

Falling in love with Kim Seokjin (3/)

Okay, listen. I know I’m late. But fully, I don’t care. Wanna know why????? Cos man died. I actually died. I thought the camo was going to kill me but no it was this. This whole ‘falling in love with Kim Seokjin’ highkey had an order but fuck orders cos this actually happened. And listen, as a black girl I just wanna say man was lean, bopping tf out, like I will never ever ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever get over it. I can’t and I won’t and watch me talk about this to my future partner, saying that they’ll never make me feel how Kim Seokjin has ever made me feel.

atratum  asked:



Mr. Hamilton asks her to marry him so often it becomes a game. “Marry me, Miss Barlow,” he’ll say when they step together in a dance, smiling at her as the dance separates them. 

“I couldn’t marry you today,” she’ll reply when the music joins them again, and his palm presses lightly against hers. “You will note the stormclouds.” 

“The rain would not do,” Mr. Hamilton will agree, hers for a few more measures. “Perhaps next week, when the weather clears?”

“Certainly not,” Miranda will say, and caress his thumb briefly with her own, risking the scandalized eye of Lady Heyward. “I could never marry under clear skies.” 


James books their passage under the names of Mr. and Mrs. McGraw, and although she understands the necessity–she won’t be parted from him, any more than he’ll be parted from her, and not even the relaxed atmosphere of a merchant vessel bound for Port Royal will allow Mr. McGraw and Mrs. Hamilton to share a cabin–she hates it. James is not her husband, although she’s never loved him more than she does now, the way misery loves grief. 

She’ll never have a husband again. 


Miranda refuses to marry Mr. Hamilton twice at the opera with the Dudleys, much to their amusement, but she takes his arm and arranges things so the two of them are side by side in the Dudleys’ box. He murmurs softly to her for the duration of the play, clever and wicked by turns, and she had him only the day before, on his knees in Duke R––’s library, but she’s already desperate to have him again. 

“Oh, marry me, Miranda,” he says with amused frustration when the night is over, but the conversation is not. “Come home and talk with me until we’ve put Caccini thoroughly to bed.” 

“Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Hamilton,” Miranda says gently, and hopes that her eyes are promising him what she cannot, in their company–that she will give him whatever he likes in private, but she is clever enough to recognize the jaws of marriage, its unyielding bite. She has a few years yet before she must step into the trap. 


On the ship from Port Royal to Nassau, no one cares what their names are, or who shares her bed. She lies in the living dark of the ship at night–the men at watch walking above her head, the groaning communion of the ship and sea an endless chorus–and smooths her hand over James’s hair, mindless and repetitive. He’s awake, but quiet, his breath warm on the bare skin of her stomach. 

The last thing Thomas said to her was Take care of James

“I love you,” she says to the man in her bed. 


“I would never trap you,” Thomas swears in her bed, tender and relentless. “Would you trap me?” 

“Never,” Miranda says, pressing a brief kiss to his knuckles. “But it would not be the same. You would always have power over me.” 

He looks at her, very serious. “Would you like power over me?” he asks. 


James Flint murders a man at her word, and then returns to her, like an animal at the end of its chain. 

He tells her that Alfred Hamilton begged for his life. He tells her that her mother-in-law was there on the ship, too, and he did not spare her. His voice shakes in the telling, and she kisses him for it. 

Thomas died alone, in a cold, dark place. Captain Flint is bloodstained and grim in her arms, and she loves him, she loves him, she loves him. 


Thomas gives her a ring, a household, the promise of a title, and a small bundle of letters that would ruin him utterly if they fell into the wrong hands. He places them in hers with terrifying ease. “Come live with me,” he says, grinning like he’s won, like she’s won, like they’ve triumphed over an enemy together, “and be my love.” 

A year into their marriage, Miranda throws the letters into the fire. 


James comes home after a two month voyage and kisses her clumsily at the door, purple shadows under his eyes. She manages to get him to take off his boots before he falls into bed, but he’s too exhausted to remember his belt, or his coat. He’s asleep almost as soon as he lies down, and she sits down beside him, feels a rush of affection so strong it feels like fury. 

Oh, she thinks, looking down at the wounded face she knows as well as her own. You are all I have in the world. 

The affection dims under the weight of the thought.

The fury never leaves her. 

i’m sorry i’m posting more pics of my figma BUT HE’S GORGEOUS AND I WANT TO SHARE HIM

Something Different //part3

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Slow-burn Crowley x asexual!reader. When Crowley notices you actually have a weak point, he becomes very interested in taking advantage of it. But not everything goes as he expected.

Word count: 2,885

[Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2]

Originally posted by supernatural-stuff-of-course

It has been a few weeks since you last saw the Winchesters. They couldn’t tell you much, but they have been busy with something bigger than ever before, as Dean told you once. It took you a while of nagging to make them tell you anything additional. You wanted to help them, they were your friends and the closest thing to a family you still had. You would do anything for them and you knew they would do the same. This is why you couldn’t give up on their poor excuses and one day you made them talk honestly.

They wanted to close the gates to Hell.

It was a shock for you, and you partially started to understand why they didn’t want to tell you what they have been preparing for, for so long. You couldn’t believe it was possible, but they assured you they were getting closer with every passing week.

And so you helped them to the best of your abilities, both them and occasionally Kevin.

It almost worked. They almost made it.

But as always, the events that were so close to happening but failed, were the most tragic and hardest to subsequently live with after. Especially when they required sacrifice.

But life wasn’t going to suddenly stop or change, even though it felt like it should or like it already did. There were still people around worth saving and cases that needed to be solved. And just like the world needed those who would actively battle against the monsters, it also needed the ones protecting the backs of those fighters.

Especially when those fighters had no idea what they were fighting with.

You stretched beside the large wooden table in the bunker’s library, now bending over the amount of ancient books you put on it, looking for anything that would fit the Winchesters’ vague description of whatever was causing havoc in the nearby state. You only came to the bunker a few days earlier, when the boys asked you for assistance. At first, you weren’t sure what your part would be, guessing it would be connected to either a hunt or their next in a long line of attempts at closing the gates of Hell, but Dean assured you it was not possible to try again. Sam didn’t look as convinced as his brother, but didn’t argue with him. You knew what happened and you respected both of their decisions.

The only thing you didn’t know at the moment, was what exactly happened to the King of Hell you helped them catch, after the ritual had been stopped.

You almost didn’t believe them, when they told you that the most powerful and cunning demon of your times was locked up in their basement, right under your feet.

They didn’t laugh and you could feel your laughter dying off in your suddenly tight throat.

And that’s how you ended up becoming their researcher and babysitter all in one. Amazing.

“No, I’m pretty sure it cannot be a fairy, Dean,” you said to the phone, flipping the book in front of you closed with a loud thump. “What do you mean? I’m literally diving in all of this stuff right now, Dean! Do you have any idea how many books, scripts, and notes are here? I haven’t slept since you left me with this mess. It’s gonna take me time to find your…”

You rolled your eyes, listening to his words.

“I know, I know, and I’m trying, okay? Just give me some time. If you didn’t notice, I’m kind of new to your pretty little library, and Kevin is sleeping right now. I’ll…”

He asked you a question. The question. You took a deep breath before answering, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the slight change in your voice.

“No, I didn’t check up on him yet. I thought you needed this info asap, so I… Dean, if he got out of the cell you closed him in, he would definitely make me or Kevin notice, okay? He will be fine…”

Dean had a different view.

“Okay! I’ll go now, if you want it so badly!” you finally lost your temper, standing up from your seat. “Just don’t call me when you need something in five minutes!”

You growled, throwing your phone on the table. It landed on one of the various books strewn about the place. Many books. Many thick books you had to read for the boys’ latest case. Uh, you would rather read them all in one go than go down in the basement and its chained inhabitant. But life was not fair and there wasn’t much you could do about it.

You hadn’t spoken a word to Crowley since your talk at a bar a few weeks ago and you weren’t sure what was going to happen, particularly after you helped the Winchesters catch him for the ritual of closing Hell. You could still recall his surprised face when Dean used demon-proofed handcuffs you’d made. Oh, the irony.

After consideration, you took a glass of water from the kitchen with you. You had no idea if demons needed to drink, but you were definitely not going back down there for his every need.

The stairs were creaking under your feet when you headed to the basement. The cool air slid across your soft skin, giving you goosebumps as you started to regret not putting on warmer clothes. You had no idea it could be that cold in there. Crowley may be a demon, but he had to feel it too. You felt a slight pinch of remorse at the thought of him, sitting there alone in darkness and cold. It disappeared as soon as you locked gazes with Crowley.

He was sitting chained in the middle of a pentagram, his hands resting on the small table in front of him. The room was tiny, bleak, and had nothing else in it. A dim light created deep shadows on the demon’s beaten up face.

“Are my eyes deceiving me or am I really so lucky?” Crowley smiled widely, not bothered by his split lip that must have hurt.

“Neither,” you said from the place where you were standing in the doorway. You didn’t like the idea of entering the pentagram that was holding him, but you placed the glass on the table, quickly moving back.

“Don’t be so harsh. I missed our little chats. You see, I don’t have many opportunities to talk these days, considering some recent… events involving me,” he gestured theatrically to his surrounding, not-so-subtly rattling his chains in the process. You rolled your eyes so hard you actually worried they would stay at the back of your head. Crowley didn’t change even for a bit.

“I know, I know, you’re angry at me and the boyband, but what did you expect? You are a demon and we are hunters. If we need a demon, we catch one.”

“Or you could always call. It’s XXI century, even I have a phone,” he raised an eyebrow.

“And would you so willingly let Sammy exorcise you and pump you to the brim with human blood?” you snorted in amusement.

“Touche,” Crowley admitted with a nod. “But you could have always given it a try instead of just kidnapping me. I’m the King of Hell, I’ve got a reputation to uphold, especially since Abbadon started messing around with my kingdom.”

“Yeah, I can totally imagine calling you and asking if it is kinky enough for you. That sounds like such a good idea.”

He spread his arms as widely as the chains allowed.

“Who knows? Maybe one of your kinks matches one of mine?” he asked slyly, never losing his composure. “We might know if…”

“Or maybe we don’t need to know. Don’t start this talk again, Crowley, we’ve been over this,” you warned him, already regretting talking with him. The next time you check on him, you will just peek over the corner to see if he is still firmly planted in his seat. Dealing with him cost you far too many worries.

“We may have been talking, but you didn’t answer me properly, not even once,” he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“I don’t have to. All I had to do was check if you’re still among living, and now I have every right to just go back and ignore you even more efficiently, while you will be rotting here.”

“Really? But Kevin could also pay me a little visit, just like before,” he gestured to his still fresh wounds. “I miss him already. I hope he is fine on his way to his mommy…”

“Kevin’s fine, he’s resting,” you snapped, aware of what lies Crowley was able to implant in Kevin. That was one of the reasons why the Winchesters asked you to come to the bunker. They trusted in your cold-blood and that you could handle both of them.

Crowley quickly jumped to his own conclusions. His eyes lightened.

“Resting? Oh my, I’m sure he has every reason to rest…”

“You know what? I’m done with your crap, Crowley,” you shouted, finally having enough after months of his never-ending innuendos.

You took a chair and placed it on the other side of the table angrily. And there goes your cold-blood and self-control. You leaned forward, locking his gaze with yours.

“What do you want from me, Crowley? And cut all that crap, because you know you won’t fool me,” you said in a low voice that couldn’t mask the fury raging inside you.

Crowley looked taken aback. He didn’t expect that kind of reaction from you.

“What is your problem?” you asked again, piercing him fearlessly. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

It took him a moment to answer, which he did, putting his words slowly.

“Is this a moment for sincerity? Because, you know, demons may have some issues with that…”

“You owe me the answer, Crowley. After all those months of your constant nagging, I’m tired of your weird games. This is your only chance.”

Crowley locked his jaw, observing you. The whole situation he suddenly has found himself in was rather troublesome to his plans, already hindered because of the bloody Winchesters and their complex of saving the world.

But the problem was that he understood you more than himself at that point and it wasn’t something he would easily admit, even when placed in his current predicament. Putting that whole talk off was a truly tempting idea and Crowley was sure that if he made one more remark, you would stop your interrogation and leave him be. At the same time, though, it didn’t feel like a good idea at all.

Crowley looked away. It must have been the human blood still coursing through his veins that was making him doubt his decisions. Everything seemed different than weeks ago, when he was planning a rather different approach to you. Some things just didn’t feel right and he couldn’t understand why it suddenly matter to him.

You waited in silence on the other side of the table. You were exhausted and angry, but it didn’t change your spirit at all. You have always been like that, Crowley thought. Even at your worst day, you were still so bright and determined to archive your goals.

“I don’t know,” Crowley said at last, finding himself speaking the hard truth, even though some part of him desperately wanted him to shut his mouth. He ignored it. “At first, I only wanted to know your weakness, being sure that you had to care for someone deeply enough for me to use it later. But when you weren’t interested in anyone close to you, well…”

“Yeah, I remember about your little hobby,” you cracked half of a smile and Crowley’s eyes fixed on it for a little too long of a moment, but you didn’t notice. “It went horrible.”

“Indeed, darling, and I admit it was quite impolite of me,” Crowley nodded, clearing his suddenly tightened throat. “And I would like to make it up to you somehow, maybe at dinner? Of course, after I get out of here, because I just happen to know a very pleasant restaurant on the outskirts of Rome…”

Your breath hitched when his words got to you with all their meanings.

“Stop,” you asked him quietly, closing your eyes. Your heart was thumping against your chest and your hands were getting sweaty.

“Why?,” Crowley furrowed his eyebrows. “If you don’t like Rome, we may always find someplace else…”

“That’s not what I mean. The place doesn’t matter,” you said, not looking him in the eyes. The sadness in your voice raised an alarm in his racing thoughts.

“Why?” he asked again, taking a sip from the glass you brought him. His mouth felt dry as a desert. “I’m just saying that…”

“I know what you are saying, and my answer is still a no. We cannot, Crowley. It wouldn’t work either way…” you shook your head, moving to stand up, but Crowley caught your hand, not letting you. You couldn’t look at him, not now when everything was becoming even worse than you have  imagined.

“But why? Is this because of my body? I may change it, darling, at any second. Even the gender, if you want me to, just say…”

“I don’t care what meatsuit you are in.”

“Oh, so you are the personality type? It’s rare in our times, but not impossible for me – I can be very charming, trust me. I can be the most daring demon you’ll ever meet.”

“Why are you doing this to me? Why do you want me to jump your bones so badly? There are plenty of people who would kill for a lovey-dovey night with you, so why do you keep nagging me? I won’t, not this,” you said quietly, brushing your worn-out face with the hand previously grasped between his fingers. You suddenly felt tired, as the fiery emotions that used to keep you up disappeared, leaving just an empty shell.

“I’ve already found it out, darling,” he nodded.

“So now what? Am I another challenge to you?” you snickered gloomily.

“What- Don’t you ever think like that!” Crowley snapped, an unusual emotions lacing his words.

“Because what? Devil may care?” you laughed quietly, but there was no real happiness in your voice as it was far from that. Your unpleasant memories and experience were overloading your mind and at one point, you wanted to just wake up from all this mess, but it was impossible. This was not a dream and there was no going back from everything that already happened. Or what couldn’t happen.

“Just tell me why,” Crowley asked quietly, feeling something heavy settle itself on his chest.

“Because you are normal, and the ones like you are not meant for the ones like me,” you said tiredly, rushing your way out of the basement.

He called you, but you didn’t stop, finally shutting the door to the basement behind your back. You took a deep breath, feeling like all the air from the corridor was taken out with nothing to use.

From where you were standing, you could hear Kevin walking on the old wooden bunker’ floors, probably looking for you since you weren’t anywhere in sight when he woke up. You didn’t move though, not sure if you were ready for confrontation with him. If he saw you in this state, he would definitely start asking some uneasy questions you had no honest answer to. You had no idea how all that could have happened, you were not prepared even in the slightest…

How many times would you have to re-enact the same experiences from the past? How was it possible that even if you did nothing to start it, those situations have been finding you again and again?

You didn’t hate Crowley, even though he could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. And that was the problem. It would be much easier for you to reject him if you had no feelings towards him. But somehow, after all that time you’ve known each other, you ended up getting to like him a little, even with all his quirks and moods. Just a little. He wasn’t that bad for a demon after all, at least not all the time.

But he had his needs, as most of the people had, and you wouldn’t be a match for him as your asexuality would sooner or later become a valid problem, just like it did in your past relationships which left you scarred on the inside.

A part of you wanted to punch yourself in that stupid face. What made you start that conversation with him? Everything would be a lot easier if you just stayed calm and ignored his remarks and words. Now it… Now you had one more thing to worry about. Congratulations.

With a faint feeling of sadness, you made your way back to the main part of the bunker, plastering a  smile on your face and hoping that Kevin wouldn’t be too inquisitive about why you spent so much time down there.

[Part 4]

He Never Smiled Again

The Triumph of Henry I

In 1120, King Henry I of England achieved an extraordinary victory:  his ruthless cunning and dogged determination had culminated in a highly favorable peace treaty that gave Henry uncontested dominion over the Duchy of Normandy.

A mere 20 years earlier, Henry had been little more than the fourth son of William the Conqueror, whose two surviving older sons had inherited the Dukedom of Normandy and the throne of England from their father.  In that sense, Henry was the original “Lackland” – a sobriquet assigned to his great-grandson John, born nearly a century after Henry.  Henry’s sole inheritance from his father had been a large sum of money.

In the years following the death of William the Conqueror, there was incessant conflict between his two oldest sons, Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy, and William Rufus, King of England.  Young Henry’s allegiance shifted between Robert and William Rufus depending on which brother had more to offer the clever prince.

Just as a tragedy would eventually be the un-doing of Henry’s reign, it was a tragedy that made his reign possible.  In August of 1100, William Rufus was killed in a hunting accident.  Henry immediately seized the throne of England, claiming that his right to the throne was stronger than his older brother, Robert, since Henry had been born after William the Conqueror became King of England.  It was a tenuous claim, but he strengthened it through a fortuitous marriage to Matilda of Scotland, a descendent of Saxon kings.

Just six years later, in September of 1106, Henry had defeated his brother, Robert Curthose, and taken control of Normandy.  Robert would spend the rest of his life as Henry’s prisoner.

However, the issue of who ruled Normandy was not so easily resolved.  For the next decade, tensions and ever-changing alliances between Henry and the powerful rulers of lands bordering Normandy created a nearly constant state of conflict for the English king.  France’s King Louis VI and Fulk V, the Count of Anjou, frequently joined forces against him.

These tensions exploded into full-out war between Henry I and Louis VI, beginning in 1115.  Henry refused to pay homage to Louis for the Duchy of Normandy.  However, he offered the homage of his only legitimate son and heir, William the Ætheling (an Old Saxon title identifying William as the royal heir).  Louis refused this compromise.

In May of 1119, Henry proposed a betrothal between his son and the daughter of the Angevin Count Fulk which included a large sum of money payable to the count.  This was an offer Count Fulk could not refuse.  He promptly switched his allegiance to Henry, and Louis’ position was now untenable.

Following Henry’s great victory at the Battle of Brémule, Louis formally made peace with him in June of 1120 with terms greatly advantageous to the English King.  William the Ætheling gave homage to Louis, and in return, Louis confirmed William’s rights to the Duchy of Normandy.

Following the signing of this treaty, Henry and his seventeen year-old son spent several months traveling across Normandy, securing their holdings and receiving the fealty of the Norman barons.

The Tragedy of the White Ship

By the end of November, Henry and his fleet prepared to return to England, and they were anticipating the celebration of the upcoming Feast of Christmas.  At the harbor of Barfleur, a man named Thomas FitzStephen approached the king and proudly announced that his grandfather had piloted William the Conqueror’s ship across the Channel in 1066.  Thomas offered the services of his newly refitted vessel, the White Ship, to ferry Henry home to England.  Henry politely declined, but suggested that his son, William, and his entourage could take the ship instead.

The sea was calm, and the winds were gentle on November 25, 1120, but the new moon made for a dark night.  Loading the passengers took longer than expected, and as the prince and his companions settled in for the 12 hour trip to England, the celebratory atmosphere degenerated into drunken revelry.  Casks of wine were loaded onto the ship and offered to both passengers and crew.  Some of the more sober passengers quietly disembarked, deciding to find another ship for the voyage.  Among those leaving the party early was Prince William’s cousin, Stephen of Blois. He was reportedly sick with a stomach ailment and in no mood to tolerate the wild atmosphere onboard the White Ship.

The captain, Thomas FitzStephen, was an experienced man, and he was thrilled to have the future King of England onboard his ship.  He began to boast of the many features of his new ship.  The young prince and his friends decided to put the boat to a test.  Even though the king had sailed earlier in the evening, William wanted to overtake the king’s ship and surprise his father by arriving in England before Henry.

And so it was that a new ship, filled with the elite of its day, began to race across dark, frigid waters in a quest to set a record for a crossing.  Like the sinking of the Titanic nearly 800 years later, the White Shipstruck a hidden danger in the water – in this case a rock and not the base of an iceberg.  The results were nearly the same:  a gash in the side of the ship, the rushing of cold water into the vessel, the lack of sufficient life boats (the White Ship carried only one small, extra boat), and the chaotic confusion of passengers and crew alike.

Prince William was quickly ushered into the only lifeboat, and his men began rowing towards the safety of the shore.  At that moment, William heard the shrill cry of a familiar voice:  his half-sister, one of his father’s many illegitimate children.  William ordered his men to return to the wreck to rescue his sister, but the desperate, drowning passengers and crew swamped the small boat carrying the prince – capsizing it and ensuring the death of all aboard save for one man:  a butcher who had boarded the ship to collect debts from some of the passengers.  He was warmly dressed and was able to survive by holding onto a plank of wood through the night.

Meanwhile, the king’s ship made its way safely across the Channel.  Later, some passengers accompanying the king recalled hearing shouts and screams echoing across the dark waters, but at the time they had no idea of the source of this noise.  Had they known that a nearby ship was sinking, they could have attempted a rescue.  Another cruel parallel with the Titanic.

The Death of Hope and the Birth of Despair

News of the disaster reached England the following day.  For two days, the court mourned in private while making excuses to King Henry as to the reason why his son had not yet arrived.  Finally, a young boy was sent to the king to announce William’s death.  Henry collapsed and was rushed to a private chamber where he was overcome with anguish.

At the moment of Henry’s greatest triumph, when he had finally secured his hold over Normandy, prevailed against the French king, fortified the throne for his son, and ended twenty years of strife, Henry’s legacy and hope for the future drowned in the cold November waters near the harbor of Barfleur.  William’s body was never recovered.  Henry also lost several of his natural children, all of whom he had loved as well.

There were few prominent noble families untouched by the shipwreck, and the next generation of English and Norman nobility had been decimated. As many as 300 people perished in the sinking of the White Ship.  There were 50 crew members, 140 knights, 18 noblewomen, a dozen or so members of the extended royal family, important officials attached to the royal household, and numerous servants.  A list of passengers can be found here.

It is said that, during the remaining fifteen years of Henry’s life, he never smiled again.  This is likely an overstatement; a fanciful legend passed down through the years.  However, as the parent of a beloved, tragically deceased child, any joyful occasion or merry moment in Henry’s life would have been shadowed by profound grief and flavored with the bitterness of regret.

King Henry I had triumphed against all odds:  the youngest son had seized the throne of England, captured the coveted Duchy of Normandy, defeated the powerful forces arrayed against him, and negotiated a brilliantly crafted peace treaty; yet, at nearly the very moment of his ultimate victory, all his hopes and dreams for the future drowned in the frigid waters off the coast of Normandy.

The death of William the Ætheling would cause a crisis of succession and result in decades of turmoil as civil war between Henry’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, and his daughter, Empress Matilda, erupted.  Peace was finally achieved in 1154 with the ascension to the throne of King Henry II, the son of Empress Matilda and King Henry I’s grandson.

The sinking of the White Ship was arguably the greatest maritime disaster of the Middle Ages.  It has been commemorated in several ballads, including this famous poem written circa 1830. 

                                 HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN

The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;
And what was England’s glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived—for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;—
Why comes not death to those who mourn?—
He never smiled again! 

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave,
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,
In pleasure’s reckless train,
But seas dashed o’er his son’s bright hair—
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the Tourney’s victor crowned,
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep—
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,
And strangers took the kinsman’s place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to Heaven’s bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!1

           Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans, 1793-1835

1 “The Poetical Works of Mrs. Hemans : electronic version”, University of California, British Women Romantic Poets Project. Retrieved 2017-11-25.

Bradbury, Jim, Stephen and Matilda:  The Civil War of 1139-1153, Sutton Publishing Ltd, Great Britain, 2005
Hollister, C. Warren, Henry I, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2001
Huscroft, Richard, Tales from the Long Twelfth Century:  The Rise and Fall of the Angevin Empire, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2016


For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m a bastard when I drink.

venusinfursasaboy  asked:

sorry if this is a dumb question, but following you on twitter and i was wondering how you find all these painters like dean cornwell and mead schaeffer? do you browse books at a library or how else do you come across them?

not a dumb question!!! :O i learned about some of my favorite artists from people i’ve talked to !!! most times when i meet an artist i’m always super curious about their favorite artists too so i ask them !! and i just!! constantly look at art online and I just love old paintings/movies/vintage art that i go on witch hunts for them on compulsion and end up browsing online for hours just clicking on pictures i like through google and looking up artists based on related images,,,then their related images,,,and on and on until i find all these amazing artists and start crying. i follow alot of blogs on tumblr tht only reblog art!!

i also constantly look up concept art for games tht i play– and then the concept artists, and artists that are related through them >< 

i remember very early on looking up the artists for lord of the rings when i was still in elementary school and bein like omg! i wanna work like this!! (alan lee and john howe), not to mention mike mignola!!! my favorite movie as a kid was atlantis the last empire (mike mignola did concept art). i also non-memey watched shrek and shrek 2 every single day, which lead me to nathan fawkes…  i found in middle school i was obsessed with the art of assassins creed and went on tangents finding artists like that?? 

i remember i stumbled upon the concept art cedric peyravernay had done for dishonored, which convinced me to get the game, which changed my life and inspired me so much in so many ways, and i started looking up things that were aesthetically pleasing along the lines of that game, which lead me to more artists, and more artists. just start looking deeper into the artists you like lmao i guess? i dunno. i just find them bc all i do is look at art. finding cedric peyravernay really changed my life?? 

its a chain link of curious questioning that has lead me to good things

i also !! almost always look up the fav artists of the people i admire, so i can see how theyre influenced– i’m very interested in what other people are inspired by !! had i never met an artist when i was 15 i never would have known about leyendecker, if someone hadnt told me that the hands i used to drew looked like egon schiele’s i never would have learned about him. someone told me about kaneoya sachiko and tobias kwan!! i found sergey kolsov before cedric peyravernay only to find out they worked on dishonored together!! I LOVE ART SO MUCH !! 

“We were not allowed in here as children. We were confined to the nursery, in the attic” Lucille Sharpe


It may not be a rocking chair, we all know the significance of that chair of course, but imagine them, the Sharpe siblings running round as children. Their own hide away, nothing but each other and the moths and the dark; their sanctuary, their prison.

After it all, and it’s true he is most likely freed of the place finally, maybe Thomas returns every now and then. Walks around the nursery where he and his sister had made their pact, played, where he had carved his trinkets for Lucille. Where the siblings had become so much more, a life line for one another to survive.

Returning one day he stands from the rocking chair, a child no more, as he looks over the the ghost like sheets draped over furniture and sees his companion of the shadows stood looking at him from the other side of the room. Her blackness to his white,
“You said you would never leave me”
“I wouldn’t…I wasn’t-”
“You loved her!”
“Love, I love her…do not cling to the shadows, to things long gone, please, please Lucille-”
“Leave this place- leave it all, there is much more than these rotted walls,” he holds out his hand, “let me show you the way”
She had always been the elder, the one who saved him from the cane, the scars, he had been hers and hers alone. Yet now he stood there and held out his hand, the one who was leading the way.
“Come on Lucille!”
As her saddened eyes lifted once more from the floor she saw the child, the boy Thomas standing there in front of her. The years of pain and guilt gone from his eyes, the porcelain glow to his cheeks. Oh how he had been such a beautiful child! Then the twisted love warped and changed it all. But right there, before her, in that moment he stood with all of that gone,
“Come on Lucille!” He holds his hand out once more, “I’ll show you the way!”
Her hand holds his, the years have regressed and she stands as a child once more, the shell of her damaged self left behind in the shadows as she stands with her brother again.
“I’ll show you the way”
The whiteness is bright, like the snow she had last seen before her life had ended, but this time there is no red clay, there is no blood. Just pure white shining on them as they leave their prison, the shadows and ghosts of the past crumbling and collapsing, the house no longer has its life source, no more chains and crumbles to the ground taking all its past secrets with it.


Summary: “Show them your valiance. Show them — you are not a place for the faint of heart.” Rose Tyler has always created herself. When two familiar words make a sudden reappearance, she finds that even bad wolves can be good. Ten/Rose, hints of multi!Doctor/Rose.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.

Rating: T

Part 1/1


a man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf. – george r. r. martin


It starts with a fortune-teller.

He takes her to a street fair in the thirty-third century, on a planet she’s already forgotten the name of. He wanders off with the excuse of hunting down a part for the TARDIS, leaving her with an unlimited amount of credits and absolutely nothing to spend them on.

That’s when she finds the tent.

Really, she doesn’t believe in fortune-tellers, has always brushed them off as charlatans. But there’s something in the old, humanoid woman’s rheumy gray eyes that draws her in, compels her to take a seat and listen a spell. Six credits for a palm reading, she says, and the blonde across from her plays along good-naturedly.

Long, spindly fingers run across the heartlines on her hand, pausing only when she hits the lines crawling up towards her index finger. “You’re afraid,” the woman murmurs after a moment, still tracing one particular line, back and forth, back and forth.

“Of what?”

Cloudy gray eyes lift to meet hers, clearing for just a fraction of a moment before they go back to normal. “Of the Big Bad Wolf, of course.”

Rose stares at the fortune-teller for only half a second more before she snatches her hand back, feeling hot. She slams the needed credits down on the table before stalking away on shaking legs.

Charlatans, she thinks. All of them.


There’s something in the alien’s eyes that yank at her nerves. Like it’s seeing straight through her, into the depths of her heart and the farthest reaches of her soul, into the places she’s tried so hard to hide, the places that have tried so hard to hide from her.

“Look,” the thing murmurs, from within its cage, some sort of deep understanding crossing its face, “Inside your eyes; you’ve seen it too.”

She’s trembling, from fear and something else. She’s not sure what, but it’s something with a life of its own, something she can barely keep chained in place. “Seen what?” she asks, breathlessly.

“The wolf,” the thing says in a high-pitched, wonderstruck voice, “There is something of the wolf about you.”

She pauses for a moment, trying to place the familiarity she feels, staring at the alien across from her. She feels kindred with this thing, somehow.

two wolves lost in the woods

“I don’t know what you mean.”

yes you do

There’s a manic glint in those pitch-black eyes, gleeful and horrible and she wants to wipe it away. She wants to wipe it all away.

“You burned like the sun,” it says knowingly, “But all I require is the moon.”

Things kind of blur together after that; there is screaming, and shouting, and pulling and the Doctor and the inevitable running.

She runs from the howls, from those black-and-yellow eyes, from the words that still echo around her.


She stares at the stars until her eyes burn, until they crash together in one dizzying blend of light and color.

“The Lupine Galaxy,” he tells her, with a smile that says he’s running again. Running from the memory of Sarah Jane, from Aberdeen and Croydon and Uncrowned Queens of France and Dethroned Cyber-Kings.

It’s just them now, staring at the sky, legs dangling out into deep space. “Why do they call it that?” she asks, leaning her head on his shoulder, pretending not to notice the wall that still separates them.

He hums a bit, playing his part and pretending everything’s just fine and dandy when it isn’t. “If you tilt your head a bit — just like that, yeah — it looks like a wolf, howling. Do you see it?”

She squints, taking in the curve of the stars, the point that looks like the tip of the nose from her dreams. Something in her blood ignites, and her stomach churns, just a bit.

She tells him, “Yes.”


She doesn’t tell the Doctor, but when the Wire takes her, it places her in a holding pen of 1950’s television shows.

She’s in a paper mâché forest, and there’s a girl and a bad imitation puppet of a wolf, a red cape and eyes that are supposed to be yellow, she’s guessing.

“Are you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” the girl asks, in a sweet, lilting voice.

The puppet turns to look at her, and for a moment, its eyes seem to glow.

“No,” Rose lies.


She begins seeing things — not hallucinations, not exactly, but she’s been fooled before. They appear suddenly, the shadow of a memory standing on a street corner. Sometimes there’s a blur of powder blue lace and silk, the smell of smoke and daisies clinging to the skin of a woman. Sometimes there are stars and planets, coming in and out of orbit out of the corner of her eye.

Sometimes there is a wolf, watching her with wide, yellow eyes from the foot of her bed, or just beyond the light of the time rotor.

It gets steadily worse, the lights, the burning feeling just under her skin, until she’s nearly tossed off her feet one night, after fireworks and edible ball bearings. He’s at her side in an instant, and the TARDIS lights flicker worriedly.

She catches hold of the console when her knees weaken, as her vision swims dizzyingly. He asks her if she’s okay, what’s wrong, and she wants to reply, but her throat is so sore. The wolf stares at her from the doorway, eyes flinty and yellow.

“Rose,” he says, and he just sounds so worried.

Her eyes flutter back to meet his, and she tries to say something. Maybe apologize. If she’d told him sooner, maybe, they could’ve avoided this.

Instead, all she can manage is, “Bad Wolf.”

His eyes widen and her vision goes splotchy and dark around the edges. She turns her head, just a bit, to look at the doorway before she passes out completely.

It’s empty.


go, show them your valiance

show them — you are not a place for the faint of heart


She sees tendrils in the corners of her eyes, a tiny ball in the center of her soul, branching out in all different directions, tiny veins pulsing gold.

She sees pathways attached to potentials, could-have-beens and would-have-beens, maybes lined in leather or wool, and a couple with tweed.

There are more, a glimpse of one could-have-been, the brush of hands in the back of a yellow car named Bessie; a near-miss with Daleks, a stalk of celery pressing into her when she hugs him; green velvet brushing across her skin and eyes so blue it aches

he is still so much older than her meager twentysomething, but he’s so young there, she knows, starlight still making his eyes shine bright

Then, another, a glimpse of what may come, an asteroid that’s not really an asteroid and a woman with the dim and dying light of the stars echoing in her eyes, one in a tattered powder blue dress who looks at the two of them like they’re something so precious—

and she’s so sad, when her body dies, but her laugh sounds like a miracle and her smile when she says “hello” could light up the universe for a million more years

(maybe forever, if she wanted)


and what about me? do I stay with him?

she sounds so scared, but she’s still shining, all pink and yellow and brilliant.

the woman across the way smiles, timelines playing at their fingertips, with the strands of their hair.

that, she says, is entirely up to you.

Rose Tyler looks around, at the potential futures, and picks the brightest one.

there is no definite, she knows. time is always in flux. but she knows what she wants, and she is not afraid to go after it.

she does not know what lies ahead, and she knows forever is not always a possibility. she knows, no matter what he says, there will be pain, and tears, and inevitable goodbyes. she knows not everything can be changed.

she knows it will hurt.

but then, that is a chance she has always been willing to take.


She opens her eyes.

Stars are burning in her mouth and she knows something monumental just happened, if the way he’s looking at her is any indication — trembling with terror and anger, and is that love in his eyes, or is she still seeing things?

“You’re brilliant,” he tells her, voice hoarse, and pulls her into a hug.

And she can feel it, on the edge of her consciousness — a future rebuilt, a potential changed, pathways altered. A hole in the universe, fixed. Somewhere, lost in time, Yvonne Hartman is yelling at her scientists, wondering why the so-called ghost shifts aren’t working. Somewhere, a man in tweed is locking away a hand from another life, because really, that’s very dangerous, having Time Lord body parts hanging about, didn’t you know?

(he tells her a story, then, about biological Time Lord metacrisises, a passing theoretical fancy back at the Academy, and she gets a silly flash of his tenth self in his blue suit with one heart — and doesn’t that ache a bit, to think about the man that wasn’t, the man she knew she must have loved — but then they go visit Donna, and the heaviness lessens, just a bit)

Somewhere, a woman in a tattered blue dress waves hello to her thief and her wolf, and wishes them all the best.

Somewhere, a blue box drifts along the Milky Way, and melts into the stars.

Somewhere, a girl is conceived on the ripples of a War long gone, a War yet to come —

(a War, ended by a man with much too much on his shoulders)

Somewhere, a wolf is howling.


she can see sparks in their timelines

(all pink and yellow and electric blue)

she can see the way they twist and turn, in the shadows of her dreams

(she knows the future can change, always)

she knows forever isn’t always a possibility — that she was born a temporary girl, and he walks in eternity. she knows things don’t always work out.

that doesn’t mean she can’t try.

(Rose Tyler has always created herself)

Corporations are the leading cause of death, why aren't there more class action lawsuits?
  • Everyone knows the dangers of secondhand smoke but no one mentions the truck that went by saturating your air with concentrated carcinogens. Yes the stuff that comes out of cars causes more lung cancer than smoking, and then there is asthma, global warming , ocean acidification ending the chain of life at its base.
  • Why can't they be sued for having a product that sprays dangerous toxic chemicals into the air as it is driven around?
  • It's legal to sell a product that kills people when it's functioning properly.
  • It's not legal to sell a product that kills people accidentally as in car recalls.
  • Recall them all. Convert them to something with a good design for once in human history that doesn't kill people and break on purpose.

You wake with a start, the slam of an old wooden door still ringing in your ears. Work boots clomping down creaking stairs is the next sound to reach you, and you try to get to your feet, only to find your ankles and wrists bound tightly with coarse rope. 

You can feel your heart beating faster as those heavy footsteps get closer, saliva soaking the gag that’s tied tightly across your mouth. All of your instincts are telling you to run, get out, do anything that’ll get you far away from here. Your efforts, however, prove futile. You’re just bound too tightly.

Suddenly, the footsteps stop. You look around, frantically searching for any kind of silhouette in the utter and complete darkness. With a click, a lightbulb hanging on a single piece of rope flickers to life above you. Its chain is still wrapped tightly in the hand of the man you can only deem to be your captor. 

A wicked smile contorts his face as he releases the chain, taking a step towards you as he twirls a gleaming, silver knife in his right hand. It’s only when he crouches down in front of you that you see his eyes are a deep, bottomless black.

“Well, it looks like we’ve gotten ourselves in a bit of a mess, haven’t we?” He says, his smile widening. It only serves to lessen the friendliness of his expression.

Your eyes are wide as you study his features, flicking over the brown stubble around his thick, pink lips and the slight wrinkles in his forehead and around the corners of his eyes. You struggle to make a sound, but the gag is effective, and only a sort of strangled groan escapes through the fabric.

The man’s expression shifts to one of disapproval as he raises his knife.

“Now, this won’t do, will it?” he says, slowly and deliberately slipping the knife between the fabric and your skin. The blade is cold against your cheek as he cuts the cloth in one swift motion, the gag falling away from your dry, chapped lips.

You cough, dropping your head as your chest heaves, your tongue snaking out to wet your lips. When you look back up, the man is still staring at you, his head cocked in an expression of bemused entertainment.

“Who are you?” you croak, your voice hoarse from a few hours, maybe a few days, or disuse.

“Even an amateur hunter like yourself must know,” the man says, his lips parting in another wicked grin, those black eyes never once leaving your face. He raises the knife again, trailing the tip along your cheek bone and down your neck, pressing just hard enough to make you wince.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says.

Your eyes widen slightly, pieces clicking into place in your mind. Of course you know Dean Winchester. Every hunter knows that name. He was an absolutely lethal killing machine, and now as a demon? You have no idea what he’s capable of.

You try to scramble backwards, but you’re already pressed against a concrete wall, so your shoes flail helplessly against the dust covered floor. Dean smirks, his shoulders shaking as he lets out a single, quiet burst of laughter.

“There’s nowhere to run, you know,” he says casually, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “And even if there was, you wouldn’t be able to. Even if you were able to, you think I’d let you?”

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