So, i’ve decided that i’m going to start playing RuneScape again, this is just about the only wealth i have on the game. Loads of other junk in the bank but this is the only thing of any value. Should be enough to get me back in the swing of things :D
If you fancy a chat add me in game. “OddSockRS” is the name….Obviously :D
He’d been planning this for months, and he had the worst case of nerves over it now than he ever had.
A vacation to Scotland with Vin. Three weeks, just them. And a nine hour flight that made his stomach flip flop.
He’d bought the tickets back in August after getting confirmation they’d get the time off. After tickets came a hotel reservation at The Scotsman. A few other surprises for Edinburgh. He’d pretty much emptied his savings account for this trip and it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He wanted this to be perfect. Vin talked so fondly of his homeland and Dean was determined to surprise him with it.
The last week had been spent slowly gathering up things and packing them, sneaking in the less used clothes they owned, new toiletries, socks, undergarments, spare pairs of shoes. Finalizing pet sitting plans with Sophia and Zarya, organizing paperwork and such so that Zarya could look after that as well.
Thank fuck that the cold meds had knocked Vin out so hard last night. It gave Dean the opportunity to wash and pack the rest of their things. Double checked to make sure he had his wallet, cash, both their passports, Vin’s wallet, Dean’s meds, the Xanax he’d gotten from work and water bottles for the taxi drive there.
Dropping onto the couch had afforded him a few hours sleep, but he was up by four, as they had a seven o'clock flight. Putting the coffee on, he quietly got dressed in his most comfortable jeans and a henley. Pouring a mug, he carried it to their bedroom with a soft smile.
The first man to cycle around the globe was a certain Thomas Stevens, who cycled across the world from April 1884 to December 1886 on a penny-farthing. The only things he had packed were socks, a spare shirt, a revolver, and a raincoat that doubled as a tent and bedroll.
You awoke at the sound of your bedroom door creaking open and saw your eldest brother, Dean. “Rise and shine, kiddo.” He grinned. “Ten minutes and I want you down in the shooting range, we got some training to do.” He declared, leaving for food no doubt.
You threw on some jeans, combats, a green shirt and brown jacket and tied your hair up in a high pony tail. You put your spare blade inside your sock and gun on your inside pocket.
Making your way down to the range, you noticed how hungry you were but threw off the urge to backtrack to the kitchen.
You opened the door to see Dean lent up against the wall with a beer in hand. “Hey kiddo.”He pushed himself up from the wall and looked about the room. “Okay,” He took in a breath “Got your gun?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. You pull it out your jacket pocket and he smirked as you held it up. “Always,” You added, remembering how to load it.
“That’s my girl.” He smiled.
“So what am I shooting at?” You asked, eager to begin.
“I want three bulls eyes on each target when I get back.” He announced and you suddenly felt unable. “Where are you going?” You frowned. “I’m getting us some pie.”
“Okay,” You whispered to yourself “Let’s do this.”
Requested by anon
I love your blog! Could you post imagine Dean waking you up early to train please?
Thank you so much!
The pen ricocheted as it hit the ground. The misshapen heap of rags lurched; a human hand, almost imperceptible underneath the fresh coat of dirt, darted out toward it.
“Sir,” the voice was garbled, unused. He waved the pen pathetically after the nondescript stranger in the crisp suit. “You dropped this.”
No one paid the man any attention. The bustle of people streamed past, unaware of the man at their feet.
He turned the pen over in his hand. This was the nicest thing he’d touched in ages. It was royal blue, heavy, and had gold accents.
He had some old paper stuffed in his sleeping bag amongst the bundles of spare socks.
With the morning rush cascading around him like a turbulent river over rocks, he began to write:
I won’t be home for the holidays and I don’t have the money for presents. I’ve done everything in my power to get back to you, to get word to you, but I am still struggling here. Please know that I will do everything I can to see you, you have my entire heart, you —”
the pen ran out of ink.
He banged it on the ground and scribbled in the upper corner urging the ink to seep out. Nothing.
Sighing, he stuffed the unfinished note back into his bag. He turned the pen over in his hand aimlessly.