#i'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years

[the-mirror-lied]

this album saw right through me, but I don't know how to recover.

[losttareellka]

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired I'm not strong, I'm very weak I'm not old, but I am tired I'm not here, I'm somewhere else I'm not old, but I am tired I'm one hundred ninety-six In dog years, I have seen enough I've seen it all

[alexturner]

i'm not old but i am tired!!!!! i'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[juniperwoodwell]

Final Farewell.

This is a story about a lost, unrequited love. The people in the story are real but the names are not. The love was real, for the girl at least.

It's exactly 739 words. No warnings needed, perhaps tissues if you cry easily.

This is my goodbye to someone I loved. Enjoy.

Three months. Ninety days. Two thousand two hundred eight hours. Am I counting? No, of course not. I googled it. But looking at it—the time feels so small, and the memories feel like years of worth. The big question: do I miss you? Yes, some days when I think of your smile or see a dog that reminds me of the one you looked after (Kodi). Other times I subconsciously pretend you never even existed. It hurts less that way, and I don't have to face the cruel, cold reality that I will never—writing it is even too cruel.

Frysian, to the one I first loved and loved first. Had I known that our story would have ended so abruptly, I might have decided to end it before it began, but I'm not bitter at how it did. I'm not bitter at all, which is surprising if you know me. And you did, very well indeed. You made a promise to me that you would always be with me, but like everyone else, you're gone too. I'm not surprised by this; I expected it from day one, yet I foolishly believed you. Again, not bitter.

Those numbers before were how long I knew you. The next ones are for how long I've missed you.

Ten months. Three hundred thirty days. Seven thousand nine hundred six hours. Again, am I counting? No, of course not. It was foolish of me to have fallen in love with you, but I was young and wounded from a past not yet forgotten. I needed someone to lean on, and you lent me your shoulder. Perhaps it was a honeymoon phase type of love I had for you, but would the loss affect me as much if it were true?

Had—that is false, of course it is. If I wasn't still loving you, I wouldn't be here writing this. I don't know if I could categorize the love I have; it's less romantic than I'd expected. Maybe it started there but has evolved into something more melancholic—a deep yearning to embrace you often clouds my mind whenever I think of you.

I don't know your reasons for leaving—or better put, disappearing. I pray to all that is Holy that you are still alive. Knowledge of that would bring me final peace. You taught me how to grieve; now I'm grieving you. Our memories seem so fresh in my mind, and I feel nauseous. Why did you leave me? Was it intentional, or perhaps the cruel fate of life?

I'm running out of ways to say I miss you, and I'm running out of words to describe it too. So many lessons you taught me on learning to let go and move on, but as I sit here, I'm realizing that I don't want to listen to your advice this time. I don't want to let go. You were too good. I think I would have spent my life with you, even if it was just talking.

Perhaps I put you too high on a pedestal without knowing you were afraid of heights. Or maybe I was too young to have loved someone so deeply that it scared you away? Was it my fault you left?

So many questions without answers; that is what I would be bitter about—but the best description of how I feel when I think of my time with you derives from the Portuguese word "Saudade" is an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone. It is often associated with a repressed understanding that one might never encounter the object of longing ever again. (Wikipedia).

Doesn't that really hit the nail on the head? I think so.

You were mine for such a short time, but what a great time it was. Now it's time for me to say goodbye and allow all the questions to go unanswered—allow this piece of me to find its place in the depths of my heart and reside there for the rest of my days. First love, I hope you will find your Forever and Final love one day; I wish you only the best on this adventure we call life, and I pray you find peace in the next. [We're the beginning of the end. I'll see you again, my loved one.]

Yours most sincerely, Eneth.

[mermaidinthecity]

Well, they say all dogs go to Heaven. Well, what about a bitch? What about an evil girl left lying in a ditch? Tell the three people who asked that I am in a better place with lots of trees and lots of grass. And lots of, lots of chocolate cake. 'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired. I'm not strong, I'm very weak. I'm not old, but I am tired. I'm not here, I'm somewhere else. I'm not old, but I am tired. I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years. I have seen enough. I've seen it all. I've been a really good dog, can I come inside? Yeah, I've been such a good girl, can I go for a ride? I'm on a real short leash, but I like it tight. You know I'm such a sweet girl, but I can really bite. Down like a lame horse. Or send me to the farm where all the dogs go.

Dog Years by Halsey

[llyncooljones]

brake the car, not me - rowaelin month day five.

ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month '21 masterlist

prompt: i accidentally hit you with my car.

word count: 3314

trigger warnings: language, suggestive shit.

tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @rowanaelinn

the whitehorn-galathynius home, early morning.

Aelin runs hot, constantly. There isn’t a second in a day you could touch her skin and not find her to be the personification of a radiator. For her, it’s a curse, she doesn’t like it.

Right now, it’s a blessing. Right now, in the freezing fucking cold, she absolutely loves running hot, fucking adores it. Right now, she’s practically the only source of heat in the whole house, Except for (maybe) the electric kettle and the breakfast tea it’s helping to make.

With a pair of stag-patterned, fluffy socks on her feet and a pair of similar-looking pyjama pants that cover her legs, she's looking pretty damn good for just past six in the fucking morning. But you travel further up than her pants, that's when it all goes downhill—quickly. Tucked into the pyjama pants is a fluorescent orange and neon green striped thermal from an ancient Halloween costume. On top of that lays one of Rowan's hoodies from his college football days, the yellow and blue of their team decorating the hoodie.

And to top off the entire ensemble, she slides a sausage-dogs-go-skiing dressing gown over her shoulders while the tea steeps.

It's her and Rowan's first house, and it is one hundred per cent worth the ninety-five grand they paid for the house. It's in a quiet neighbourhood, perfect for raising the children Aelin hopes to have with Rowan. Despite the five bedrooms, three and a half baths, and half-acre property, the house is shit. It needs so much money put into it to even make it liveable for Rowan and Aelin, let alone their future family, that they almost didn't buy it.

The windows are single glaze and in rotted wood frames, the walls are stained, and the floorboards are so creaky you could create an off-tune symphony on your way to take a shit. There's mould in just about every place you can imagine, and everything was created to fit in with the fucking nineteen-seventies.

The kitchen is large, and a line of windows sit above the main worktop, looking out onto the garden and Aelin can picture herself stood in front of them, making dinner or pouring a cup of tea for herself and looking into the garden, at children she and Rowan made and created.

It's so vivid in her mind she can't help but place a hand against her stomach, it's deluded, she isn't pregnant. She and Rowan only got married three weeks ago, only moved in here two months ago from their shared apartment. They only got back from their honeymoon a week ago.

Shaking herself from her reverie, she spoons out the teabags and places them in the compost bin on the counter. Adding a splash of milk to both mugs and a teaspoon of sugar to only Rowan's she turns and begins to ascend the painted, wooden and dilapidated staircase. The wood of the stairs is so rotten, it's liable to snap beneath your feet—hence the old mattresses beneath the stairs.

Pushing open their bedroom door, Aelin sees Rowan sat up in bed, reading from his phone. His glasses are sliding down his nose and one hand is lying across his bare torso.

He looks perfect, the thick white duvet and the two fluffy grey blankets cocooning him against the cold not doing anything to stop the cold from seeping into him. Fleetfoot is curled up next to him, under the covers and with her head nestled into the crook of his elbow.

"Fireheart, babe, I hate to do this, but a client just found something for their case. I have to pop into the office. It'll only be for an hour, and it's the weekend you can come up with me."

"Ro, that's fine. I've been in a relationship with you for nearly eight years now, I stuck with you through law school and your first year of lawyering. I'm perfectly aware of this shit and am perfectly happy to go with you today."

"Thanks for the tea, love, we can drink it and then we'll take a shower, yeah?" He says so whilst taking his mug, a huge one with pine trees and snow all over it.

She climbs back into bed after shedding everything except her striped shirt. In comfortable, newly wedded silence, they begin their morning together—another page in their ever-growing book.

An hour later and the clock tower in the town centre is chiming for half-past seven as Rowan and Aelin rush through the house, frantically moving from room to room, periodically picking up phones and keys and chargers and briefcases.

Everything is hurried but strangely perfected after nearly six years of cohabitation and eight years of dating.

Everything holds a familiar ease and yet nothing feels repetitive, nothing becomes boring the longer it's being dragged on.

"Rowan Whitehorn-Galathynius! If you are not through this door in the next fifteen seconds I am leaving for your office on my own." She loves the way their double-barrelled surnames slide off her tongue and rolls over her lips. It feels just right, and she loves it.

Rowan appears in their front doorway, his hair dishevelled from their quickie in the front room when Rowan had found Aelin on her hands and knees looking for her phone charger. His dress shirt is white and paired with his black and faintly pinstriped slacks he looks like every girl’s dream teacher.

Instead, he's both her dream lawyer and husband, her vision in business casual. With his hand pulling his phone from his back pocket, the muscles in his arm are highlighted, popping out against the thin fabric that is rolled up to just under his elbow.

He begins to walk around the car, to reach his seat on the passenger’s side, his steps regular and just about heard over the quiet hum of the engine. Aelin is watching his progress around the SUV with careful eyes and rolling them when he stops at the back door on the passenger’s side.

He slides his thumb across the phone screen, Aelin recognising the motion for him to answer a call. Looking back at him through the window he's stood still next, she shoots him the middle finger.

He replies with a look that conveys both that she is a brat, and he is sorry. After that, Rowan forms an 'L' with his hand, and Aelin knows it means it's his co-counsel Lorcan calling to discuss the development in their joint case.

the whitehorn-galathynius driveway, the same moment.

Rowan knows he could have taken that call inside the car, and he also could have been spared the below-freezing temperatures whilst wearing only a shirt and a pair of pants. But he would not be able to focus on Lorcan's, his co-counsel on his current case, call with Aelin looking freshly fucked.

Which she is, of course.

"Listen, Lor, I'm just about to head into the downtown office. I'll go over evidence logs and the evidence as well. I'll handle it, but I can keep you updated." He doesn't want to pull Lorcan from Elide, the overly tall brute has been much more bearable since they first hooked up at his and Aelin's wedding.

"Alright, man, if you say so. You know I won't leave El on the weekends if I don't fucking have to." Lorcan's voice is weirdly happy as he speaks, a testament to how the right someone can change a person.

"You and Elide, who woulda thought you'd be joined at the hip."

"Literally everyone, Rowan, it was you and Galathynius no one expected, always fucking fighting."

"Fair enough, fair enough." The car's engine roars fully life somewhere in the back of his mind, and he realises he needs to end the call before Aelin takes it upon herself to leave him on the driveway and make her own way to downtown, so she can use his credit card in the massive independent bookstore there.

It isn't until it's already happened that it registers in Rowan's mind. Pain is suddenly swimming up his every nerve, firing off into his brain and making Rowan respond. His eyes well up and he damn near collapses onto the snow-covered concrete.

"Holy fuck, Lorcan, holy fucking hell that fucking hurts! Oh, my gods, that hurts, that hurts a hell of a lot! That's, that's a lot of fucking pain!" He isn't shouting and he isn't screaming 'ow' for all the world to hear so he thinks he's doing okay given what the fuck just happened.

"What hurts?" Lorcan's question is relaxed and unassuming and his friend is totally unprepared for the answer Rowan gives.

"I don't know, Lorcan. Maybe the fact my fucking wife just ran my foot over with the fucking car! And it really fucking hurts." He slams his hand on the back window, suddenly glad he tends to stand with one foot in front of the other, and glad that was how he was stood when he was run the fuck over by his wife, of three weeks.

The car stops, the wheel thankfully completely off of his foot. Slamming the 'end call' button on his phone, he waits as his wife clambers out of the car, rounding it at speed.

She gasps when she sees his foot, and the fact it's in the path of the wheel and she covers her mouth. At first, Rowan thinks it's out of embarrassment and that it is a vaguely apologetic gesture but when her shoulders begin to shake, and her eyes aren't welling with tears.

She's laughing, she's fucking laughing at the fact she ran him the fuck over. Rowan almost wants to laugh, but he's afraid if he starts, he'll end up crying like Aelin does after reading a character death scene.

"Okay, alright. This is comedy gold but ignoring the fact that I owe karma a massive amount for this... Let's get you into the car and to the hospital." Aelin has the decency to look a little guilty, but the shit-eating grin playing on her lips greatly outshines any guilt.

It's ten minutes of fumbling hands, tears, and so many swear words they've probably invented a few until Rowan is in the front passenger seat and in a state of uncomfortable comfort. He's got ice packs and three bags of peas taped around his foot, and he's still in so much pain he can barely think.

He's pretty sure he passes out on the way to Orynth General, but he can't be sure. The drive might've actually just passed in three seconds and a flash of black. Who knows, stranger things have happened.

He can't stand the feeling of not knowing, opting to ask his sadistic wife's opinion on the matter. As she parks, Rowan speaks up, "Did I pass out on the way here, I've got no recollection of how we got here."

"I don't know, love, but how we got here... That I can answer. After I backed out of the driveway—" Aelin always takes an opportunity to be sarcastic, even when she's driving her husband to the hospital, it seems.

"—Without running someone over this time, I take it?" Rowan throws back snarkily at his wife, knowing she didn't.

"—and then I drove north down our road until hit the T-junction, where I went left. I continued in that direction until—" Not letting it go, she remains serious and doesn't even let in a hint of snide joy to her tone.

"—Ae, as much you would enjoy my silence whilst you give a play-by-play," it's a sarcastic comment, Rowan's the one who appreciates Aelin's silences, "could you answer my question?"

"What was your question?" Aelin retorts, enjoying their conversation more than she should.

"Whether or not I passed out on the drive here? I literally asked it two seconds ago, how have you forgotten?" Rowan is pushing on all of Aelin's pressure points—hoping for a reaction.

"No, our journey literally passed in three seconds, and it definitely passed in a black blur." The sarcasm is so clear in Aelin's voice Rowan can't help but let out a quiet laugh as she opens her door.

Once his wife has arrived at his door and opened it, he responds. "Stranger things have happened." Yeah, he thinks, like fucking Stranger Things actually growing popular.

"Oh yeah, like what, you buzzard?" Retorts have been second nature to Aelin, ever since her childhood days spent arguing with Aedion and his sexist ten-year-old friends,

"How about, my wife running me over with our car. I mean, call me stupid, but personally I think that getting run over by your own wife is pretty damn strange."

"Rowan, it was only your foot. It's not that deep, it is not that deep." Rowan delights in her statement. She's making excuses as to why she shouldn't feel guilty, meaning that she does feel guilty. And a guilt-ridden Aelin is always fun.

They're hobbling towards the exit to the car park, making sure to take it easy and not put excessive pressure on Rowan's foot. His hands are wrapped so tightly around Aelin he isn't sure they'll be able to separate, ever.

"It was still run over, Aelin, the car's wheel still drove over me, no matter whether it was at ten miles an hour, or if it was just one wheel. I was run over! By my wife, no less!"

"Still, Rowan. It was your foot. Your foot does what? Is it crucial to your life force and strength? No. Is it crucial to your work? No. Does it get me off? No. Therefore, not important."

"So, what you're saying is, that if you ran over my cock with the car, you'd be sorry." He would also be sorry; he might not ever recover if she had run over his cock.

How she'd do it, he isn't sure.

But if she felt any urge to do it, ever, she would. No matter what, if Aelin wanted to run over his dick, she would run it the fuck over.

"Yes, how else would you fuck me. With a dildo? I know they're good, but they cannot compare to you."

"Thanks, nice compliment and nice ego-boost. Anyhow, Aelin, you still ran me over." The compliment isn't going to make up for the fact she ran him over, but for now, it's a nice little dose of paracetamol.

"What proof do you have that you even were run over." He wants to shout at her, what proof does he have? The fact his foot is massive, and she was in the car, behind the wheel when it happened.

What proof do you have?

"My foot is twice its usual size, that's what proof I have. And also, we have a dashcam. So, it's fucking on camera."

"Okay, nice for you. I plead the fifth." Even whilst married to a lawyer, to a man who serves justice via the law, Aelin has some of the poorest understanding of the law he's ever seen. He's surprised she's trying to bullshit her way out of this, using phrases she's no doubt heard during his conference calls or had read in his old pre-law or law school textbooks.

"That's not how the law works Aelin, not even close, babe." A mile away, really. A hundred thousand, if you wanted to be correct.

"Okay, nice for you, lawyer man." Her face doesn't even crack with a smile.

They're passing by the sign that points to the Emergency Department, to Accident and Emergency and Rowan knows Aelin is clocking the fact that he hurries his hobble up when he sees the sign. The cobbled pathway is hell to be walking on right now, his foot wobbling when he steps on the cracks.

"You know what isn't nice for me?" He can't hold it back, it's too good.

"Oh, please do enlighten me, O' Wise One." He does hope this nickname isn't one that sticks with him and Aelin.

"The fact my foot is double its normal size, Ae."

"Okay and your cock gets larger when I'm around. You gonna blame that on me too?" They've just entered the emergency room, and eyes turn to them like they're on fire. Mum's shoot death stares, kids begin asking questions and the singles and the dads try to muffle their tired laughter.

"Yes! It is literally your fault I get hard around you." Rowan's usual shyness is gone, it evaporated alongside his sensibility when he got run over.

"It is not my fault you cannot control your bodily urges around me."

"Maybe I don't want to control my bodily urges around you." He'd much rather fuck her than force his erection away with thoughts of his bachelor party when some random tag along from his law firm had eaten spaghetti from a pile of puke. Without a prompt, or even a dare. Of his own volition, though heavily influenced with the top shelf alcohol they had been served with.

"Maybe I didn't feel like controlling the car this morning. Did ya think of that one, huh, Bird Boy, did ya?"

"That isn't— that's not even close to the point."

"Well maybe, just maybe you should point the blame somewhere else. Somewhere that isn't your wife."

And do so to whom, to which place. Lorcan? It's hardly his friend's fault that his wife can't be patient. The car? It was being controlled by Aelin. Who didn’t feel like controlling it?

"Yeah, away from my wife who ran over my fucking foot today."

"Whilst you were on a work call. At seven in the morning. On a fucking Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday, Rowan. Even fucking God." She becomes more and more frustrated the longer their barbs and teasing jabs are thrown at each other, her usually cool front always falling to pieces when it comes to him.

"And that's an excuse, a reason for running me over?" It isn't, in case anyone was wondering.

"Yes! Of course, it is. Ask anyone here, ask any woman here and I guarantee she will agree with me." The look Aelin gives the waiting room is not as surreptitious as she believes it is, but the cuteness of her facial expression as she commands the room is enough for Rowan to forget that this future census is biased.

"Fine. Is, being on a work call at seven in the morning on Sunday grounds for running someone over, specifically, your fucking husband?" He asks the question with such venom in his voice he’s surprised the room isn’t suddenly filled by Tom Hardy and his character.

Every woman in the blue-painted waiting nods, some hesitant and some nodding so fiercely he wonders how their heads are still attached to their necks. Some look frightened while others seem to be on the verge of laughter after hearing Rowan and Aelin's entirely ridiculous conversation.

"Great. You win this time, but don't think for even a second that you aren't waiting on me hand and foot when we get home." Rowan knows, in his head, that couples have divorced for less than this, it's the lawyer in him. And his divorce lawyer friends, who attended his wedding with the gusto of matchmakers, rather than people who earn their livelihood from marriages failing.

"Mr. Whitehorn-Galathynius? We have Dr. Towers here to see you. If you could follow me, please?" States a nurse in blue scrubs, continuing to speak at them when Rowan identifies himself. Feeling the weight of the stare of everyone in the waiting room, he hobbles to his feet and makes sad little hoppy-jumpy movements to the doorway.

"Oh, look at that. We're out of time." Aelin flashes him a wide and victorious smile and despite everything in him being in massive amounts of agony, his heart just shines brighter than before.

[peach-punch-satan]

If anyone wants to read the short story I mentioned in my one reblog here it is! I'm putting it under a read more (which I hope works as I am on mobile)