#in chara 》》》 threads & asks

[nonlethal-au]

Yoo, Error, how are ya? How's the anti-void treating ya?

Also, I'ma say this now, I apologise on behalf of the askers that'll say/ask stuff that'll make you uncomfortable

Ok, that's all I'ma say. Have a nice day and I hope everyone else treats you pleasantly

0.6_2 - [ ♥ PREVIOUS ] [ ♡ FIRST ] [ ♥ NEXT ]

NOL: After The FiRst Three I thought We Were DOne. AppArently Not.

[ ✦ MASTERLIST ]

[definitelynotshouting]

okokok here’s a question I like asking because you writers can be such tricksy hobbitses: in the chapters we’ve seen so far, has there been anything you’ve hinted at that we haven’t picked up on yet? -🌱

I fucking love receiving this question anon and the answer is yes >:] altho tbf to yall, this is bc a lot of the payoff for these seeds arent going to be seen until WAY later into the fic. Every single interaction between Grian and the others is setting the scene for various arcs later down the line-- theyre all jam fucking packed with foreshadowing, and whenever i see you guys speculate i start grinning VERY very evilly to myself over it SKDNSJDNSJDJS

[toestalucia]

was gonna write. got hit by the awful cramps i rarely get. gods intervention.......

[ofsgiathan]

@ryusxnka is getting an unprompted starter !!

❝  Why  protect  those  who  are  younger  when  you  should  protect  people  regardless  of  their  age?  ❞

[nulltune]

"The woods are thick today, the path hard to find..." It wears the skin of its most dear again, the one who is a slave to destiny's call checking in once more with the one who traverses the hardest path of all. The one of self discovery, to wipe clean the mirror and see that which has been obscured in the harshest light. "Care to walk together a while till the light bleeds through the leaves?"

unprompted,  always accepting !   @resolutepath  ♡

❛   that's peculiar way of passing the time.   ❜       she muses,  idly wondering just what this says about him.  the adventurous sort ?   the type unable to sit still ?       ❛   do you do this often ?   ❜       without anything to look into yourself,  your view reaches outwards—  or maybe,  i just want to find myself,  in this way,  even in just finding a hazy reflection of herself through others.

with a soft sigh  ( the sound comes out silent ) ,  gaze turns to focus on the surroundings.  somewhat daunting  ——  in the dead of the night,  shadows tend to play a trick on the mind,  turning harmless tree trunks into lurking figures,  the road ahead appears as though an unforeseeable thing.  would they be able to find their way back ?   it is likely that they might find themselves lost before sunlight.  not that it really matters to her,  the one without a place to return to  /  a place to belong.  out of the corner of her eye,  she peers at the other,  wonders if it's the same for him too.

a question for another time, perhaps.

❛   well,  i don't mind.   ❜      for now,  she answers his.  and she supposed that even with that possibility,  even with all these possibilities,  they'd find their way eventually—  just a matter of time.  ( lips press together,  recalling their previous meeting,  their conversation at that time.  she could only hope this would ring true for herself  /  her self too. )

[abundanced]

rarely does the aeon deign to roam the paths like this , unless they are called upon by another. but yaoshi wasn't summoned here , at least not consciously. abundance's hands are folded around them , eyes glancing at the expanse around them. so often , they forget the simple beauty of this place , of this energy. quietly , they walk , humming softly when they come across someone , perhaps the last person they expected to see.

❛ oh ?? are you lost , young one ?? ❜

abundance's voice is a gentle cacophony , bending down to @memovia's level , looking him in the eye. his is not a face they've seen before , but their heart aches for him nonetheless. yaoshi offers a hand to him , head tilted kindly as they speak.

❛ it's rare for one of the xianzhou to wander here , for me to find them. you've suffered greatly , & yet still you serve , cloud knight. honorable of you , even selfless. ❜

abundance knows better than to attempt to stake their claim on one under the reignbow arbiter's protection.

❛ don't worry , cloud knight. i'm wiser than to offer a blessing to you. i suppose this is ... a dream , by mortal standards. say or do anything you wish. ❜

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

☆There's No Place Like Home☆

《You are new to this... Neighborhood? Where the hell are you?》

Episode 2: Get To Know Know Your Neighbors

[Pilot] [1]

《Warnings: the subject matter this ARG has are potentially disturbing. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Welcome Home was created by Clown @ partycoffin 》

-

Sick.

You felt sick after eating that cake. It tasted like pure sugar cane mixed with coffee creamer. The taste was sweeter than any treat you had eaten before.

Yet you don't utter a word about it to your plucky, so-called, "neighbors".

"Well, would you look at the time? It looks like it's late... Er. I think, but I gotta keep.. Unpacking? And I'm sure you all have plans of your own tomorrow."

You pick up the plates quickly, but some of the slices were barely picked at. Other plates are not even a spec of crumbs.

"Yes, of course!" Poppy said, hurriedly fluffing up her feathers in case of any stray pieces of dessert on her.

"Mhm, the post office isn't gonna' run itself." "Nor the bodega!" Howdy and Eddie laugh, Frank, chuckling off to the side.

"Yes, I gotta get some beauty sleep if I wanna dream big!" Sally agreed, pushing out her chair.

"Then I guess it's settled, we'll see you tomorrow, right neighbor?" Wally asks you. Dropping the plates in the sink, a few break on impact. Your hands try to pick up the broken pieces. But recoiled at the sight of your blood staining the fine china.

"Ye-yeah... Absolutely."

"Wonderful!" Julie cheers, coming up to your side by the sink.

"You must join me tomorrow! Your clothes are so odd! I've never seen a style quite like it. I would love it if we could dress up together!" The puppet chattered.

You nodded uncaringly, more focused on the cut on your palm.

"Groovy-..!"

A sharp gasp escapes Julie as Frank comes to her side.

"What... What is that?" Julie questioned you.

"Oh-... it's a cut. I hurt myself..."

"H-HURT! Who said hurt!?" Poppy stumbles near your side, her gaze softening as she asks if you were okay.

The other puppets now standing behind her, awkwardly trying to see your cut.

You hesitantly show the bird-puppet your palm, albeit shaken up by her. You thought she would bite your arm off with her beak.

Instead, she holds out her feathers, tenderly holding your arm.

Her expression turns into one of confusion. "That's odd..?"

"Wh-what??"

"There's only paint, I don't see any stuffing. Are you sure you are hurt?"

You, in turn, give her a puzzled look.

Had... Had these puppets never seen a human before? Much less a human being bleeding?

You take this as a good sign. Glad that these "puppets" didn't eat or have an appetite for humans or blood.

"Paint you say?" Frank bumps in, carefully analyzing your cut. He hums in thought, "Would you mind if I poked your cut?"

"No...Can I have a band-aid or something to close it up please?"

Frank nodded and backs off as Eddie hands you needle and a thread spool. "Here, found it by some of the boxes."

"Thanks..." You said, disregarding the puppets staring at you attentively as you place the items down. Saying you'll clean it up first.

You reassure them you'll be fine as you usher your "neighbors" to the door. Gladly holding the door open for them as they say their good byes and farewells.

Wally was the last one to leave, he smiles sleepily at you. You smile back at the tiniest puppet, feeling your mouth muscles twitch when keeping up the charade.

"I'll tell Home you said 'hello', good night. Neighbor."

-

[Taglist closed]

@tearjerker666 @trzppyghxuls @cookieswithay @luna-charlie @isometimeswritestuff @kazi-pop @lightspectre-universe @jjowithastar @smilingfox22-blog @jayysnotjoyful @cadaverous-coop @heather-hutchcroft @camilo-uwu @sweetheartturtle2007 @welcomehome102 @pretty-please-just-let-me-sleep @wally-darling-hyperfixation @q1bli @rainingdandelion @anima-chara @tearjerker666 @aceduchessdragoness @sleepy-planet @pauldanosbandonedirection222 @thelittlexd11 @luna-charlie

-

[Dun-dun-dun!!! Sorry I took so long to update! I've been writing a lot of Welcome Home Oneshots. Comments, art, always help! Thanks for reading!]

[toestalucia]

if u like my rambles here u should listen to my rambles about wizards on akira too hehehehehehehohohhoho peacesign

[ofsgiathan]

@flyatahighergame is getting an unprompted starter for cloud !!

❝  ...  please  tell  me  you're  not  the  one  Zack  became  best  buds  with  after  I  unwillingly  went  AWOL.  ❞

[cynosurems]

❛ 𝗈𝗁 ? ❜ 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 , ❛ think they know what's going on ? ❜ she scanned the room , curious as to whether or not their enemies knew they were coming , curious as to what could've appeared on that rose's phone that caused them to run and not immediately fight . ❛ yeah , she's clearly dumber than we thought . ❜ her eyes travelled back to isla , thankful to be mostly done with the minor mention of erin , though now she had something else on her mind . ❛ is dex here already ? i haven't seen him . ❜

SHE CONSIDERED HERSELF WELL VERSED IN COLLETTE so isla took no offense to the sharp hiss of words and didn't fight as the other girl pulled her along , " was talking to a rose -- i think -- until he looked at his phone and scurried off looking like he'd seen a ghost . " the words were nonchalant as she offered a shrug of her shoulders and chewed on the straw of her drink . " holy shit . i can't believe she's actually here . " she knew better than to poke or prod what the conversation with the other entailed , spencer had been collette's person in a special kind of position isla would probably never reach . " paz and dex are going to have a lot of fun tonight . of course ! i'm strictly drinking cranberry juice . "

[ofsgiathan]

Angeal found it hard to believe that it'd been eight long years since he lost his own mother. It's even worse that he lost her to suicide due to the sheer amount of guilt and shame she had from working with Shinra long before he was ever born. It took him what felt to be an eternity to come to "terms" with her being gone from the world. Hell ... a part of him still never really got over losing her.

Letting out a harsh sit as he gently placed several flowers — her favorite flowers — upon her grave, Angeal finally worked up the courage to speak to @fairboy,  ❝  I  miss  her  ...  a  lot ... still.  ❞

[iincogneeto]

I realized I never did an introduction!

so here’s all about me!

my name (online name) is Incogneeto! It comes from me wanting a hidden identity! (I would of gone with “incognito” the actual spelling but that’s taken everywhere lol)

I am a Minor, and Hungarian 🇭🇺 and American! 🇺🇸

my art requests are always open, but I may not get you you! I’ll try tho!! [ I’m currently in a state where I can’t draw anything but what I want and I hate it ] (For art, You might get my doodle style, the kny style, or maybe my actual style! They style I draw it just depends all the time.)

_____________________________________________

I’m into: MHA, kimetsu-no-yaiba, Mob Psycho 100, Zom100, Undead Unluck, One Piece, TTOA/ROTT, HTTYD, Carmen Sandiego, Ninjago, Saiki K, Glitch Techs, TLKOE, SpiderMan, Kid cosmic, Breaking Bad, Better Caul Saul, JJK, Star Trek Prodigy, ST: Lower decks, and more!

I’m a digital illustrator who draws on their phone with their finger! I use IbisPaintX!

my socials are….

Toyhouse: incogneeto

discord: iincogneeto

Twitter: iincogneetoIV

TikTok: incogneetto

Pinterest: iincogneeto

can you tell i was going with a theme? 😋

I post a lot on all of them!

always bet..on hakari! ☆〜（ゝ。∂）

My Ocs!! :: (kny) ::

Jinsei (thread breathing)

shūkūro (drunkard breathing)

Kanan (Steel breathing)

Elliot (kakushi)

Akemi/Akane (Flaming Blood, Ink Breathing)

Akira (shadow breathing)

Tae-Jun (illusion breathing)

Xiaocheng (violin breathing)

Asahi ( nunchucks/wind )

Saito ( no breathing )

Kumo-Rui ( Spider Breathing )

ask them (and they will answer in chara 😋) click right here 😋😋

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part Two

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.6k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to domestic violence; references to infertility; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language; period-typical discrimination and discriminatory language; period-typical misogyny.

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided throughout the chapter, as Din and Gró speak it a little more in this instalment.

Further A/N at the end of the chapter.

With thanks to @lunapascal for taking a look over this yesterday. GRMA, mo chara.

Taglist: @grogusmum, @insomniamamma, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @julesonrecord, @lunapascal, @iamskyereads, @trulybetty, @pedrostories, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid, @gracie7209, @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse

In the bright morning sunlight, when you can see clearly and a few hours of sewing won’t strain your eyes, you undo the small bundle of clothes Din had asked you to mend. In addition to the dark grey sweater, there’s a little pair of well-worn woollen trousers, patched many times over, and two cotton shirts in a similar state of repair. One of the shirts looks too small for the little boy, judging by what you’ve seen of him. You inspect the seams and check the fastenings, making a mental note of what needs to be dealt with, before selecting complementary threads and taking out your pincushion and scissors. 

As you work, you think about Gró and his taciturn, strangely intriguing, guardian. You’re curious as to how the little boy ended up in the protection of a man whose demeanour seemed more accustomed to solitude. In the absence of a blood relation or a pre-existing arrangement, foundling children usually ended up in the care of an institution, poor things, not happily helping their adoptive father work the forge and beaming at visitors who brought them crab apple jelly. 

Though the boy’s clothes were on their last legs, there could be no doubt that Gró was well looked-after - loved, you might even say, by the dark-eyed man who seemed so protective of his little clan. 

You pause as you wax another piece of cotton thread, your mind wandering now to Din himself: he seemed to be holding most of himself back, offering only a glimpse of a public face, but that stern exterior had given way, even if only momentarily, to softness and warmth when you took the bundle of mending. Another needle threaded and knotted and another seam begun. Could you call him a…handsome man? Or maybe ‘striking’ is a more apposite description. No doubting his strength, though. 

The memory of his muscular forearms, streaked with soot and grime, suddenly pops unbidden into your mind.

“Ow! Feck it.”

You suck on your fingertip to staunch the blood. In a moment of distraction, the needle has pierced you and snapped your mind back to the here and now. 

It’s been three days since you left your washtub for repair, and it waits for you, mended and still bearing the numbered label Gró affixed to it, in a corner of the forge. As he works, Din occasionally casts an eye over at it. He’s sure he said two days - collect in two days. Didn’t he? Not that it matters very much, it’s just that it’s taking up space and he’s so busy at the moment and - 

The door that joins the forge to the cottage swings open and Gró speeds in, little feet padding across the flagstone floor and pointing out the window excitedly.

“Fir ar capaill! Fir ar capaill ag teacht!” [Men on horses! Men on horses coming!]

Din peers through the window and immediately spots the telltale red of military uniform: two soldiers, on horseback, approaching. 

“Téigh ag imirt sa pháirc.” [Go and play in the field.] The tone of his voice makes it clear that this is an instruction, but Gró continues to stare out the window at the approaching military men. 

“Téigh. Ag. Imirt. Anois.” [Go and play now.] Din gives his son the kind of look that must be obeyed, and the little boy nods before scurrying out the back door of the cottage and away up to the big field behind the forge as quickly as his little legs will carry him.

His father doesn’t want him around these men.

It’s not that Din is afraid of soldiers. It’s just that their presence fundamentally unsettles him. Those scarlet uniforms trigger painful childhood memories he has tried to keep buried: of displacement and loss, of his family and community moved on from place to place, of bayonets and rifle butts intervening when people tried to protect their meagre possessions, of eventual, final, separation. 

And then there are the more recent memories, the ones that still send a ripple of panic through his chest. The glint of sharpened metal as pikes are taken down from the roof of the forge under cover of darkness. Peigí hammering on his door to tell him to run, that they were coming for anyone suspected of supplying weapons to the rebels. The screams of people begging for mercy. The weeks and months of waiting until things died down, until word was sent that it was safe to return. The knowledge that many young men like him had not been so lucky.

He pulls up the grey cloth around his mouth and nose, takes his hammer in his hand, and opens the door as the horses pull up and their riders dismount.

“A smithy! Just the job. Horse went through some briars, you see, don’t want her lame by the time we get back to the barracks.” The older, more senior of the two soldiers speaks in the brusque tones of a lifelong military man. “We’d normally go to Peter but, well, I’m sure you know.”

The younger soldier is pale and thin and softly spoken. In contrast to the English burr of the sergeant, he speaks with an accent that Din recognises as coming from the west coast of Ireland: Mayo, maybe? “We’d normally use the farrier at the barracks,” he explains, “but, well, like the sergeant said, we don’t think she’d make it back without doing damage.”

Din nods and points at the sergeant’s horse. “Which leg?” 

“Right foreleg. And show your face, man, have some respect for your betters!” the sergeant barks impatiently. The younger soldier shifts awkwardly but says nothing.

Din exhales and tries to quell his anger. “I wear this while I work.”

“Suit yourself,” the older man mutters, wheeling around and talking deliberately loudly about the feckless locals and their uncivilised culture.

Din fetches his tools, gives the horse’s muzzle a gentle stroke, and proceeds to work to remove the thorns and briars from her hoof and foreleg. The sergeant keeps up his complaining throughout.

“And a bloody good thing too, I can’t wait to get out of here and be posted back to a real bloody war in a real country. Hear that, Smithy?” He yells in Din’s direction. “In a fortnight’s time they’re changing the troops at the barracks. We’re off to fight that little French bastard, not keep tabs on rebellious Paddies.”

The younger soldier still says nothing, but Din catches a flash of what might be construed as an apology in his eyes.

There’s no point in Din asking for payment. Maybe the younger soldier might have offered him something, but the sergeant certainly won’t. 

“That’s her done.” He stands up, smooths down his leather apron, and wipes his hands on a cloth. 

The sergeant is just about to saddle back up when he stops in his tracks, gazing up the laneway that leads to the forge.

“Well, well. What have we here, then? A woman on horseback, riding alone to the forge.” 

He shouts the last bit so that you’ll hear it, dripping with innuendo. You pull your bright red shawl a little more tightly around your head and torso.

“I’m a customer, come to collect my goods.” You don’t dismount, preferring to wait until they’ve gone. “Now, if you don’t mind, sirs.”

The younger man tips his military cap to you with a little bow, but the sergeant hasn’t finished having his fun. He looks you up and down as you try to avert his gaze. 

“Oh, I know who you are. You’re that funny one, lives alone out past Donapatrick, aren’t you? Husband ran off and left you and you just carried on regardless. Funny one.” You keep staring straight ahead. “Tell me…you a customer of his… or is he a customer of yours?”

You breathe deeply, willing the anger that’s rising in you to dissipate. You daren’t look directly at Din.

“Ach, now, sergeant,” you say, putting on your sweetest, came-down-in-the-last-rain-shower voice. “I thought His Majesty’s troops were supposed to be gentlemen.”

The Irish soldier snorts a laugh that he quickly suppresses as his superior glares at him and ostentatiously checks his pocketwatch. 

“Come on, Reilly, we’re to be back by five.”

The tension hangs in the air even after they mount the horses and their scarlet-clad bodies disappear over the brow of the low hill. In the distance, you can hear Gró playing. Din says nothing. His breathing is slow but tense, and his right hand clenches and releases around the handle of the farrier’s tongs like they’re a weapon.

“They were just looking for a rise out of us,” you say, quietly. “He wanted to see how far he could push us.”

Silence.

“I’m fine, you know? I pay them no mind.”

He turns and looks at you, and you realise that the look in his eyes is fear, not anger. He pulls down the cloth to reveal his face. “They hanged men like me - blacksmiths like me in ‘98. If they thought you made pikes for the rebels.”

You nod. 

“They still say they didn’t catch all of us - of them.” He looks at you, willing you to understand what he’s saying. 

“I understand, Din.”

“You want your washtub, I suppose?” He strides into the forge, the breadth of his body darkening the room as he blocks the light from the doorway. 

“Yes, and - and I brought the mended clothes, for Gró. I’m sorry, I hoped to come yesterday but I didn’t get them finished in time.”

He turns his head without moving his body, just enough to see the little bundle in your arms. He nods.

“And… I brought more bread and butter. And jam. Blackberry, this time.” You shrug, apologetically. “He seemed to enjoy the apple jelly.”

Din’s broad frame turns, finally, fully to face you. His expression softens ever so slightly. “Thank you. He did enjoy it. I’ll call him - please, go ahead inside.”

He gestures to the door leading to the cottage and you do as you are bid, placing the fresh cake of bread and the little pots of homemade butter and jam on the sturdy wooden table at the centre of the room. You hear the little boy’s voice getting louder, chattering away to his father in rapid-fire Irish, but he hushes as soon as he sees you. He clings to Din’s trouser leg, peeking out at you and smiling shyly when you nod and smile in his direction.

“Nigh do lámha,” [wash your hands] Din instructs, pouring some water in an earthenware bowl for Gró and himself to wash up before they eat. He places a broad, tanned hand on the little boy’s soft, sandy hair, a silent gesture of pride and affection. 

“I brought your mended clothes, Gró,” you offer, holding out the little bundle for him to inspect. He takes it with great reverence and brings it to his chest. 

“Gró…” his father prompts.

The boy’s huge, dark eyes meet yours. He speaks very quietly. “Go raibh maith agat.”

“Tá fáilte mhór romhat,” [You’re very welcome] you reply, and he beams. Din points to the bread and jam, and his son quickly pulls out a chair and makes sure he’s right in front of the food. He extends his chubby little hand in the direction of the pot of jam, staring at you as if this will somehow provide a distraction while he helps himself to the sweet treat. For the first time, you hear Din actually, truly laugh.

The three of you make short work of the food. Gró delights in the attention, chattering away to you with his father acting as translator for the bits you don’t quite understand. As you watch the dynamic between father and son, you recognise that Din is letting a little more of himself emerge in your presence. Tense as it was, the incident with the soldiers earlier that day seems to have proven to him that you are someone who can be trusted, who does not bend easily to a scarlet tunic and a condescending tongue.

“Oh, lord, it’s already getting on for dusk!” You hadn’t noticed the passing of the hours, and leap from your chair to saddle Réaltín and ride home. Gró is starting to nod off in his chair, his exuberant conversation tiring the little boy out. Din stands, gesturing towards the table. 

“Your dishes and cloths, don’t you want them?”

“I can collect them again, I suppose?” You leave a question in your words, waiting for his approval. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, or assume that he will entertain you as a regular guest.

Din furrows his brow. “You suppose?” He seems confused by the tone of your voice. “But of course you can collect them again. You can come for them whenever you want.”

You smile and nod in his direction. “I just wanted to make sure. I’m not in the business of being the uninvited stranger.”

His face settles in a serious, slightly sombre expression. “You would not be uninvited. And you are not a stranger.” He nods towards Gró, who’s already starting to snore. “He doesn’t take easily to everyone. But he took to you.”

He carries the washtub out and straps it to Réaltín’s saddle, giving the little horse a familiar pat on the muzzle as you mount her. You pull your shawl tight about you, tucking the ends into your belt. 

“Until the next time, then.”

He nods in response as Réaltín trots up the gentle slope and carries you out of Din’s sight.

In the weeks that follow, your visits to the forge become more frequent: you automatically bake two cakes of bread instead of one, you add to your store of jams and preserves as you work out which one Gró would like to try next, and you churn more milk to make more butter, carefully shaping the golden yellow pats on two wooden boards and wrapping it in muslin cloth for the journey.

You make a new winter pullover for Gró from yarn you’d saved from an old blanket. He holds it like it’s a treasure, little mouth hanging slightly open and eyes enormous as he looks from you to Din and back again, as if checking that this is, in fact, for him. 

“Is é do gheansaí é,” [It’s your jumper] Din explains. The little boy turns and buries himself in your skirts, holding fast to your leg and smiling up at you with pure gratitude. His gesture makes your heart swell and your stomach lurch, and you aren’t entirely sure why. He hands his father the pullover and goes outside again to play in the autumn sunshine. Din calls after him, reminding him he can’t stay out too late.

You suddenly understand the sudden churn in your stomach. Din’s firm but gentle care for the boy and your own acts of kindness for this little family confront you with a glimpse of what might have been. The path you might have taken. No cruelty. No pain. No cuts or bruises passed off as your own clumsiness. No lies. No secrets. No abandonment. 

Just a happy family of your own. 

Din turns back into the main room of the cottage, and the smile on his face disappears when he sees you fighting back tears. He hesitates. 

“Is something the matter?”

You take a deep breath and wipe your eyes with a corner of your shawl. “I’m fine. Nothing the matter. He’s a lovely little boy and a credit to you.”

“He is.” He looks out the back window at his son playing in the grass behind their home. “He - they - they wanted to send him to an orphanage or a foundling hospital. I found him on the road, lost. Mother dead from fever. No family left. That was three years ago.”

This might be the most Din has ever said to you in a single burst. You nod in acknowledgement, not wanting to interrupt him.

“I…I know what it’s like, not having your family. I couldn’t let him stay in one of those places.” He shakes his head at the memory. “Eventually, Father Carthy agreed he could stay here. Become an apprentice. Be a child, too.”

You turn your head gently towards him. “He’s very well looked after. Gró is a lucky boy, with such a good father.”

You catch a fleeting smile on Din’s lips. “He likes you, too. You’re good with him. Pity you don’t have any children of your -”

He flushes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me, that was unkind.”

You sigh. “I said to you before that it was a blessing that I didn’t have children and I mean it. They would have seen such cruelty and unkindness and no child should see that.” You shift your gaze to the floor. “But I also didn’t have a choice in the matter. Whatever divine thing made me must have forgotten to include those parts when I was put together.” You swallow hard as you remember your husband’s vicious words. “Barren, I think they call it. That’s what he called it. Never failed to remind me.”

You turn to face him, all too familiar with the awkward look of concern mingled with pity that usually greets this information. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Din. And when did you get a tear in your shirt?” You point accusingly at the jagged edges of the fabric, relieved to change the subject.

Din smiles softly and shrugs.

At night Din carries Gró up to the little sleeping loft. It’s warm and cosy here, absorbing heat from the sun during the day and from the hearth at night. He tucks the boy into his bedding, gently stroking his fair hair as he nestles into his pillow. Din’s are a musical people, and in his private moments with his son he continues the tradition. He gently sings as the little boy’s eyelids grow heavier and he drifts into sleep, placing a gentle kiss to his cheek as he takes his candle and climbs down the ladder.

That night, before he smothers the fire and prepares his own bed in the main room of the cottage, Din opens a small parcel you had left on the wooden table earlier that day. To his surprise and delight, it contains a new shirt for Gró, made of light green linen, and a new pair of little brown trousers that look like they’ve been cleverly pieced together from a worn adult garment. He traces a calloused finger over the tiny stitches he knows you have made by hand, marvelling at the skill and delicacy of your craft.

You open the chest that contains the few pieces your mother had insisted on calling your “trousseau” when you married: mostly bed linen and two tablecloths, as if you and Searlas were ever going to be the kind of couple to entertain with a cloth on the table. You pull out the fine, white linen bedsheet that had been given to you before your wedding day. Never used, as if you implicitly knew that someone like your husband did not deserve to sleep in such comfort.

You spread it out on your own table, trying to assess how to adapt your usual men’s shirt pattern for someone with such broad shoulders. Your cutting scissors make light work of the fabric as you assemble the pieces and thread a series of needles with carefully-waxed white thread. In the days to come, a fine shirt of pure white linen will emerge from your clever hands. A fine shirt, indeed, fit for a fine man.

The shirt is wrapped in brown paper and kept separate from your usual piles of freshly-finished mending, ready in your saddlebags to be returned to their owners. Réaltín snickers as you buckle the bags and you pat her muzzle, bringing your forehead to meet the bright white star that gave her her name. You smile as you remember Din doing the same.

You ride over to his forge on a bright, crisp day, admiring the changing colours of the leaves and the intensity of the blue autumnal sky. There is no answer at the door of the cottage or the workshop, no sign of Din’s horse, so you place the parcel on the front window ledge, weighing it down with a couple of stones, before turning to head for the village to complete your usual rounds. 

The main street is unusually busy, the air crackling with excitement and a not-inconsiderable amount of tension. The cause is the presence of a large group of soldiers in their bright red tunics - new arrivals, you guess, having heard about the changeover at the barracks in the nearby big town a week or so before. They strut about the place like they own it. “And why wouldn’t they,” you mutter to yourself, slowing Réaltín down a little as you approach the more crowded part of the street.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

You watch one particular soldier closely. He struts about like a turkeycock, same as the others, but there’s something familiar about him - and you desperately wish there wasn’t. 

It couldn’t be.

The soldier turns, and you see him in profile. That same hard-edged profile. That same pasty face with those permanently watery eyes, as pallid and miserable as ever. 

“Searlas.” You whisper his name. Searlas. In uniform. Searlas, back. And for what? For you?

Before panic sets in completely, you manage to quickly and quietly turn Réaltín to go back the way you came, picking up speed as you race out of the village and away from him. 

Further A/N: Reader's husband's name, Searlas, is the Irish version of Charles. It's likely he would not be using his original name in the army - he would have Anglicized it.

The "little French bastard" referred to by the sergeant in the conversation at Din's forge is, of course, Napoleon - the story is set around 1808 or so, when the Napoleonic Wars were raging across Europe. The Rebellion of 1798 was, in part, inspired by French revolutionary ideas.

Din's reference to the persecution and hanging of blacksmiths in the aftermath of the 1798 Rebellion is entirely historically accurate, pikes being the preferred weapon of the rebels and sympathetic blacksmiths crucial to their creation and supply.

[nulltune]

❛   ...   ❜

❛   ... hello,  officer ?   yes,  i would like to report a case of abduction,  unsafe handling and endangerment to a child.   ❜

' ... well , whatever . of course a great phantom thief as amazing as me can take care of some baby ! '

--- turns around holding her under an arm american football style .

[ofsgiathan]

❝  I've  met  many  people  in  my  life  but  none  as  self-centered  and  egocentric  as  you.  ❞

The tone in his voice was rather calm — perhaps a bit too calm — when speaking to the likes of @yumichikah. Angeal's met several people who were cocky and arrogant — and that very much included his sperm donor, Hollander, along with the likes of Hojo — but he wasn't quite sure if they were just as bad or worse than the man standing before him.

[dnangelic]

Get to know the mun ! repost, don’t reblog .

——— BASICS.

[ NAME ] : tsun (short for tsundere)

PRONOUNS : he / him

ZODIAC SIGN : pisces-aries

TAKEN OR SINGLE : single

ANYTHING ELSE ? : my dog is way cuter and more interesting than me

——— THREE SERIOUS FACTS.

you don't have to soften up your muse with me. really. i've written mainly antagonistic/villainous/horror-centric muses in the past so i'd like to at the very last believe i understand at least some of the struggle when it comes to having a muse like that. which isn't to say that daisuke won't still try to appeal to some form of compassion for even the most reprehensible muses because that's just the way that he's built, but nobody has to apologize and worry about hurting me, the mun's feelings for being mean to daisuke. if he wasn't built for helping then he was built for a lil bullying. it's okay. i love to see it <- mean older bro/failboy aficionado syndrome

i don't really do starter calls or memes anymore. the best way to start something with me is to either get at me directly for a thread/plot discussion or if that's too scary just make an ic remark on any random ass post and i'll probably make a new ic post for it. or send me an ask and we can go from there since my askbox is always open. i try to do the occasional inbox call but since i don't like my asks to be overly bland and it takes a whole lotta creativity, i don't do those super often either.

if you don't know something about my muse it's best if you ask. really. seriously. DN 'canon' is scattered in multiple directions and multiple pieces across multiple formats, and most eng speakers have only seen the anime or read the manga, which imo are the two bottom-most "best" formats for grasping what the hell is even going on overall in the series. atp pointing people to either my public vs private knowledge post or my canon divergence post is probably the best i can do to provide a comprehensive list of different 'facts' about how i work my characterization.

——— THREE RANDOM FACTS.

i have in fact been with DN since the early 2000/2010s-ish, around middleschool. i wasn't there when its re-serialization was announced in 2020 or so but the first and second volumes will always be a formative memory for me, and the tokyopop ENG translation set i have (up to book 12) has somehow survived over the course of like at least five different moves. this is also probably why i find sugisaki's original, absolute oldest style the most nostalgic/'best' in a way, if only to me. i've also been a vkei fan since vanan'ice started releasing music, immoral memory lost memory has and always will be my #1 comfort song. no wonder i ended up writing dn charas

i like to cook and bake. baking more than cooking, which is sometimes a problem since i can end up baking more than my family ever eats. i'd love to make DN style parfaits/cake cups sometime, i just don't know who's going to be able to eat all of it laksdjlakgjl. but anything to see icing wiz in a cup for realsies!

my life has been dominated by roguelike/dungeon crawler looter type video games. i've probably got literally like ten billion hours on mabinogi since that was my social system in 2000-2010 range (look i know but it was hot stuff back then ok) and now that elin's been released i've jumped from messing around in elona to there, but put me in front of something in the vein of the whole fate/torchlight series etc and i'm probably clocked out forever

——— EXPERIENCE.

i started a tumblr rp blog as a joke for a friend (now no longer my friend) i'd chat with during ~2015 give or take a year. i didn't even care about the chara at first but i've always loved writing, and i ended up actually getting into said chara and the series they were from to write some more/beyond just sheer crack for my friend. i've never written fic for the same reason that i've never written anything standalone tho, that being i completely lose confidence all the way down to the last drop in my bones

i like deep and firm muse connections. this doesn't necessarily even mean positive ic ones, but i like it best when muses absolutely have something. it doesn't even have to be definite either, like the way satoshi and daisuke's relationship within canon is somehow balancing both a killer rivalry and deep caring friendship and just about everything else they always got goin on in between. it's usually after any sort of dynamic is established that i feel much more comfortable sending unprompted asks too.

i have like 50 tabs open at all times and 600 things in my drafts. i did this to myself. but if i never catch DMs on tumblr it's probably because i never got a notif thanks to the 50 tabs, and if i never catch DMs on discord it's probably because i saw it, got busy, then forgot about it til i checked again and bam it's been like a month and now responding feels too awkward. i'm so bad at personal communication i'm so sorry. use my askbox if it's urgent i swear i've never failed to respond to any of those asap. losing drafts is thanks to the 600 things, but if you want me to dig up something because you miss it and so i can respond to it asap i can always do that too. im literally just too tired to scroll to find shit that isn't my most recent sometimes iawjewahjaiijkrf it's a bad hobby habit i knooooow

——— MUSE PREFERENCE.

i've tried to find the common denominator between all of my muses in the past multiple times and i've never been able to find it. i've written anything and everyone from, like, folklore ocs to meta knight from kirby. in general i like to have a muse that i don't always have to take too seriously though. or that comes off as comedic on the surface but i can still handle in a serious and legitimate/realistic way, ie just like dark and daisuke being clowns and a singular failboy but still just. kids, teenagers grappling with very real uncertainty about themselves and their futures and identities. muses have to have a voice, and i'm very particular about being able to clearly hear my muses in my head and my writing, so if anything that's probably my largest deciding factor.

——— FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT.

FLUFF : yep

ANGST : yep

SMUT : hell no. idk how many times i have to tell people i don't give a shit how hot you think dark is, he's physically 16-17 and is directly linked to daisuke, who's 14-15. these are minors. there's 2892859864 anime charas who are of age for you to smut with, get away from the middleschoolers!!!

——— PLOT / MEMES : see all the way above. i basically live in my activity notes so it's better to grab my attention somehow through that. i get shy about sending memes and also am just..... not around constantly so checking dash can be annoying. if there's a meme you have a really good idea for and you want me to send it specifically i've got no problem doing that though. love u guys

TAGGED BY : @cherriedrage thanks zaggy!!