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bluej4yson · 2 months ago

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The Photographer

SYNOPSIS: Lady Sarah Ashley’s nephew—a young photographer—finds himself lost and restless after the war. Worried for his health in dreary England, his mother sends him off to live with her younger sister in Australia, hoping some time there will reinvigorate him to take up his artistic endeavors once more…

PAIRING: The Drover x OC/m!reader

POV: third person

W/C: 4.4k

RATING: 18+

WARNINGS: strong language, smoking, drinking, suicidal thoughts, ptsd, mild violence, nudity, sex, period typical prejudices, internalized homophobia

TAGS: part one, slow burn, pining, angst, romance, melodrama, consenting adults, character exploration, post-canon events, movie timeline (more tags to be added)

A/N: All the warnings are 'eventual', so just be aware they will pop up as this story progresses. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors. I tried my best to clean it up, but something always seems to slip through😆 I hope y’all like this; it’s my first public fic, so any support is appreciated!

There was ne’er a more solemn sound than the hollow wailing of the wind through that vast, empty world of dust and brush. West, and west again, Zephyrus trod on weary legs, crying out desperately, and west he would forever wander in search of his lady-love, a flower from a land so wholly distant it seemed spun from myth. That’s all it was—the tale of Zephyrus. A myth. A reflection of the landscape—and subject—through that Kodak Monitor Six-Twenty, one-hundred-and-one millimeter f-stop lens. If not for the roll film, the man mounted on the back of the Capricornia mare would become one of mythology as he performed his well-rehearsed act on that familiar wind-hewn stage. A legend already fading into obscurity as the world changed around him with the swiftness of a flash flood, soon transforming the very desert which stretched out before the lens of the Kodak into an equally vast, but unfamiliar ocean. His fingers curled around the leather-braided shaft of the stockwhip, knuckles white. It was a desperate hold on a slowly snapping lifeline that kept him tied to the wanderlust world of dust. And brush.

When they received the telegram, the young man found his mother curled upon the hardwood floor just at the base of her bed. A small square of paper twisted in her lithe fingers. That wretched piece of paper which had grown to such infamy it was recognized as an unspoken omen of death. It started as a spark of assurance in desperate times, only to burst into a violent, raging pyre, burning quicker than the very material it was hewn from.

He had gone to her. Rushed and knelt to wrap his arms around her trembling form. She felt so small. It was frightening to see someone he had only known as a fearsome protector crack under a grief so powerful it was as if the weight of the heavens turned the reaching mountain tops of the highest alpine peaks to dust. It took him several tries to read the dreaded telegram, the words only appearing as ink blots through his blurring tears.

On this date, February 19th, 1942—(stop)— Darwin, Australia, has been attacked by air from Japanese forces coming from the north—(stop)—

After that, there were five long days of numbing agony until the unexpected surprise of a second message from that foreign land, herald in the form of yet another telegram and bearing news quite in opposition to its stained reputation. His mother’s only sister—Lady Sarah Ashley—was alive and well. Relief wouldn’t be the correct word to even begin to express what the young man and his mother felt that day. To be the eldest sibling is a responsibility that cannot simply be described in a sentence or two. Still, when the senior Ashley sister pulled her first son into a joyous embrace, he understood perfectly what it all meant.

Three years had passed since the air raids in the Northern region of Australia—three years since the arrival of the telegrams—and only the month of September had come and gone since the end of the war.

White gauze stained with black blood wrapped and wrapped again around limbs, neck, torso—tightening—his body arched into the strangling caress of the fabric, eyes snapping open as pale fingers desperately clawed at the sheets tangled around his throat and face. A scream crackled in his throat, only to be extinguished by moonlight pouring in through the veneer curtains wafting gently across the open window to his room.

The gold-framed mirror that stood sentinel in a shadowed corner mocked him. The silver night air glowing off his sweaty skin made him appear almost phantasmal. He felt as such. Cold. His desperate, wheezing breaths only added to the illusion of a spirit, a haunting echo of something long passed in the deathly silence of the black and white room—shadows split by moonlight in a shattered mosaic.

He thought his mother dramatic when she said he looked as if he was waiting for death, and—when he regarded the stranger reflected back at him in that gilded mirror—he could not deny that she spoke the truth. Cheeks sunken and hollow, green eyes subdued to a grey, and only darkened further by the bruise-like marks encircling them. Once golden hair dulled to a taupe from a lack of sunlight, and complexion in a very similar state. His posture was that of a vulture’s as he sat in the tangle of sheets, spine knife-like and looking as if it could tear through the rice-paper thin membrane that was his flesh. The ragged scar which climbed from his thigh over his hip stood out white against his ashen skin, and he watched in the mirror’s silver surface as those unfamiliar fingers tenderly traced their path along the healed wound. He felt as if he was on death’s doorstep. Waiting for sleep which he knew would be eternally more peaceful than the plaguing nightmares he was subject to every night when he closed his eyes against the darkness, only to be greeted by a darkness so abysmal he would rather cut open his own body in an attempt to crawl out of the constant, blackened misery.

He waited for morning to arrive, as he had done for six years now. Rosy-fingered Dawn yawned and stretched as she woke from her plush bed of cumulonimbus and nimbostratus. However, the young man was not witness to this alluring spectacle, as the world below was shrouded by one of dear Eos’s blanket of clouds, casting the world of Man into a dark pall. His open window was no aid regarding his already deteriorating health, but the icy fingers of morning that clawed their way into his room—escorted by figures shrouded in fog—seemed to keep the growing numbness at bay through their stinging grip, for now.

The young man stood, dressed, then made his way through the manor, shepherded by bleak shadows of brume. When he came into the main hall—before crossing into the dining room—he was greeted by his mother and three younger siblings, all standing solemnly, shoulder to shoulder. To his left, two members of staff waited with a set of trunks. The youth heaved a sigh, the tendons in his neck twitching as he cast his weary gaze towards the polished floor which reflected yet another strangely distorted version of himself he did not recognize, nor even care to.

“I will not be witness to your oblivion, nor will I subject my children to regard such a horrid and languid performance as this. If you are to die, whether by your own hand or that of God’s, you will do it elsewhere. I have sent a telegram to Faraway Downs. You will be living with your aunt until things are sorted.”

His mother’s words were harsh—unexpected—and he did not understand what she meant at the time, but realization dawned on him once he left. To see one's own child waste away before one’s very eyes, to see such sorrow. He knew, then, to send him away was in benefit for all.

The young man would not have believed war touched the shores of Darwin if it weren't for the grizzled captain of the small sailing vessel he was passenger to, yarning on in regard to the blitz that assaulted the seaside municipality. A lively buzz of voices wafted over on the gentle breeze from the quaint town. Its restored countenance relaxed in tranquil repose amongst the white and chartreuse of the native trees. In truth, he did not particularly care to listen, and perhaps it was cruel of him, but he didn’t care for much of anything in that very moment, least of all the tragic woes of strangers. During his journey on the BOAC Short ‘C’ Class flying boat–and now the schooner—the youth had learned, through unabashed eavesdropping, two out of the three elderly couples traveling over from Great Britain were wayfaring in sorrow to visit the graves of their missing children, nephews, grandchildren—who fought, and died honorably in the war. He thought of his mother when he heard their words as they chatted amongst themselves. How—when she looked at him—there was indignation.

The crush of water between the lacquered wooden hull of the schooner and the mussel-ridden dock pulled the youth from his own self-pity as the small vessel bumped rhythmically against the pilings, as if it was a polite vampire knocking for permission to enter a familial abode. Standing, he balanced himself on the gunwale before hefting himself with practiced ease onto the dock by means of the pilings.

“Aye, lad, you know a cleat hitch?” The old captain called to the youth from where he poised, wide-legged on the dock, whipping the bow’s mooring line onto the T-shaped mold of metal with a casual ferocity.

He nodded, taking two strides parallel to the schooner with stern spring cradled lightly in his grasp. His was a more taming, focused motion when he wrapped the length of woven sisal to the cleat; with a jerk from shoulder and elbow, the hitch was pulled taught. Stepping onto the gunwale, the youth hopped back down onto the deck with a dampened thud, the weathered planks groaning in symphony with the persistent beat of hull against dock.

“You was in the navy?” It was the captain again, his bushy brow raised like a storm cloud above the sea as he regarded the youth’s neat work of the stern spring.

“No.”

“Your hitch is sailor-grade.”

It was a comment charged with the expectancy of a reply, yet he didn’t answer right away. A soft, sea breeze combed its fingers through the blonde whorls waving gently over the youth’s forehead, his hair now shining brightly under the golden glory of the midday Australian sun. His hand readjusted its grip on the foreboom as he pulled in a steady breath through his nose; the smell of ocean spray and sun-baked wood were familiar personalities chatting in the back of his mind, making casual conversation as they waited patiently—gently—for him to remember something he had long forgotten. Something to remember for another time.

“I was a war correspondent.”

“Ah. So, you’ve seen it all.” The captain’s expression was not one of admiration but condolence. The tendons in the youth’s neck flexed, his eyes tracking the lumbering movements of the grizzled man as he laid the gangplank.

He was not particularly partial to revealing his position in the war. It was usually met with hostility in the form of reprimanding him for ‘hiding behind the lens of a camera’. He was informed his cowardice was due to the fact he was not shooting his subject through the sight of a rifle. That he didn’t know what it was like to feel the rawness of humanity if he wasn't executioner himself. Of course, these statements readily spilled from the mouths of those who could afford not to serve in any capacity: not as soldiers, nurses, merchants, manufacturers, laborers, seamstresses. They were words from men and women who hid behind their money and status.

‘So, you’ve seen it all.’ The statement was one of mutual understanding. To say it meant one experienced the ‘all’ first hand, and—far in the future—he would say those very same words to someone much younger than himself. After another war. After more loss. With just as much reverence as the old captain.

He waited patiently on the schooner as captain, crew, and dockhands maneuvered luggage down the swaying gangplank with the grace of dancers and the organized chaos found in the cramped combs of a beehive. The youth watched his fellow strangers to this new land as they waited in their respective pairs on the dock. The men, with squinted eyes and hands shoved deep in the pockets of their neatly-pressed trousers, supervised the departure of their luggage from the ship with misplaced confidence in understanding the order of operations when it came to the somewhat clashing worlds of sea and land. An elder lady fidgeted with the lace cuff of her tea glove, her eyes tracking the nervous tip and tilt of a particularly large trunk as it made its way down the gangplank. The captain’s booming voice came garbled over the fray of dockhands and crew scheming amongst themselves as how best to navigate the transportation of the almost comically behemoth item. The weight of the thing was clear in the strained, sweaty faces of the two sailors who escorted said piece of luggage down the narrow strip of board that bowed when crossing the treacherous centre point.

Seeing such distress over material items made the youth cringe, a scoff settling in his throat as he peered over the edge of the gunwale where the water was shadowed black by the hull. A narrow canyon of darkness created by boat and dock. The sea’s siren song called to him, as it had done to many a man who reached for its comforting embrace, only to be dragged in to find the waves razors, and the bewitching face of Calypso twisted into an icy sneer—stealing away a man’s breath before Death could hope to claim him. His wavering reflection in the broken, mirrored surface of lapping waves appeared to be one such lost spirit, forever trapped beneath the surface of the sea. To wander eternally, with lust for a peaceful end that would be forever out of reach. That stranger—peering at him through yet another reflection—curious, wide-eyed, and something more. Beckoning.

A gull shrieked, and the small sailing vessel pitched. His eyes met those of the captain as the old man gestured for the youth to depart the schooner. His heart wrenched in time with the jerking motion of the boat as it strained against the mooring lines when he realized he did not want to go. The golden lacquered wood and white canvas sails seemed to shift and morph with the harsh refraction of sunlight clashing against sea—into the magnificent feathers of a great eagle. Wind beat into the jib as if it was an updraft under wing, carrying the fierce creature higher and higher into the heavens. Zeus—disguised—held him captive; cross-barred by talon-like booms in a gentle embrace so deceptive one could overlook the sharp points of those death-dealing claws. He was held in unsuspecting limbo between monotonous familiarity and the daunting unknown, but only wanting to ride the euphoric waves of wind and sea for as long as his hypocrisy held firm.

He stood with his trunks around him like a shepherd to his sheep. An army-issued messenger bag slung over his shoulder, the strap frayed, the golden buckles dulled, and the once-green fabric stained to an earthy brown. He should have disposed of it long ago, but—as hard as he scrubbed, with lye burning his hands—the blood stains would not dilute. Most anyone would have tossed the bag because of the blackened reproach, but he couldn't bear the thought of discarding perhaps the only physical mark left by the person’s life force, which now permanently marred the canvas.

Rummaging in his bag, he coaxed a lopsided Panama hat from where it was trapped under his King James Version and a battered coffee tin. The starched palm bent at the brim from where it had been crammed between his other various necessities. He held it out at arms length, trying his best to reshape the poor hat and only managing to reform it slightly. The hapless thing slouched atop his blonde curls, looking disjointed and out of place as much as the man himself from where he poised on the dock in crisp white button-up, tweed vest, and matching trousers.

The captain lumbered over to the youth, lines spilling from the corners of his eyes as he squinted in protest to the sun.

“Ya got somewhere to go, lad? Got someone here?”

“I am waiting for a truck from Faraway Downs.”

“Ah. You do bear a striking resemblance to the fair Lady Ashley, now that I get a good look at ya. I know she ain’t got no children, you must be ‘er nephew… Or somethin’.”

The young man nodded. “Nephew.” His lithe fingers poked at the buttons of his cuffs before neatly folding over the sleeves of his shirt to rest just above his elbows. “You have been acquainted with my aunt?”

“Oh, aye,” the captain chuckled, his wide frame settling in for conversation as he crossed his arms, head tilted back slightly as he regarded the tall youth. “I’m the one who ferried ‘er to the shores of Darwin, just as I have done with you today.”

The young man tilted his chin up in silent acknowledgment as he turned his gaze from the captain to peer down the long stretch of dock from beneath the gentle shade of his hat. Darwin. Christened after the famed naturalist himself, and fairly fitting given the abundance of wholly strange creatures that roamed the equally strange land. In his home country, Australia was spoken in the same breath as Oz, or Lewis Caroll’s Wonderland, an extravagant place only ever imagined in illustrations or photos. In those depictions there was no war, no displacement of mixed-race children, no history of the convicts subjected to the inhumane living condition in the penal colonies, no brutal extinction of the Tasmanian Tiger, no rape of Aboriginal women by white colonizers. There was no truth in the fanciful postcards or tourism posters which read in bright, bold letters:— ‘Visit Australia; million-peopled cities and a European environment!’

“I reckon Lady Ashley will be sendin’ her trusted man to come collect ya.” When the captain said it, he wore a crooked smile that didn’t sit quite right with the youth. He did not make to inquire about this ‘trusted man’ and only traded a few more words with the old captain before making his way down the dock.

He considered relaxing on the porch of the Territory Hotel whilst he waited for his ride, but when a tangle of rough looking men stumbled out of the bar in a cacophonous wave of sweaty biceps and bloody fists, the youth decided against it, settling for perching on his trunks in the shade of a nearby Golden Wattle. He reclined against the rough trunk, hat in hand, and head pitched to gaze up through the yellow blooms. The puffs of flowers quivered and whirled, tickled by the teasing breeze as it brushed tenderly through the delicate foliage. His eyes tracked the sporadic movements of a Rainbow Bee-Eater as it darted through the boughs of the tree, its voice squeaking melodically as it called out to whomever was listening. Blonde eyelashes fluttered closed, lips parted as a mellow sigh was liberated from the depths of his lungs. Perhaps here—under the skirting canopy of a Wattle—was a better place to rest for eternity rather than the depths of the sea. Roots enveloping his body; Persephone’s comforting embrace. The welcoming scent of petrichor and sun-dried wheat. With a callous jerk, his own body woke him before he could drift off completely.

After producing a pack of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes from the breast pocket of his vest, the youth tapped the small paper box against his thigh once, then twice, until a single roll staggered up, ready to be taken between his lips. He flicked open the brass cap of a battered Zippo lighter, thumb rolling over the flint wheel until a flame was sparked to life. Lips tightened around the cigarette—the tip flicking up to meet flame. A curtain of smoke obscured his composed visage before dissipating into the air, followed by the clicking-close of the cap and the shuffle of fabric as box and army-issued lighter were returned to their rightful places. The whole procedure appeared quite practiced to the point it could be considered instinctive, and, perhaps in a way it was.

Burning tobacco embers drifted up through the languidly swaying Wattle boughs, only to be swept away in the brush that painted the sky in similar hues to the butt of his second cigarette, which glowed orange in the dimming evening light. Stars began flickering in the heavens above him, their luminescence reflected in the town of Darwin as electric lights and oil lamps flashed and flared to life. He watched in rapped interest as ‘the midnight crowd’ made their way out of the woodwork. Locals slinked towards the Territory Hotel bar with the postures of Dingoes as Bandicoot tourists scurried away.

Slouching—forlorn—against the tree, he was beginning to think he had been forgotten, and the vivacious hotel began to beckon the youth towards its welcoming and warm bosom. The local post office was surely closed by now, so any hopes of sending an S.O.S. to Faraway Downs was practically out of the question till morning. Staying a night at the hotel appeared to be his only option at the present moment. He stood, stretched, then took a few steps out onto the dirt road to be met by the fierce glow of owl-eyed headlights, utterly blinding him as a vehicle screeched to a halt mere inches from his feet. He did not flinch. Did not even take a step back. Only glanced down with tired eyes at the side of the ‘40s Chevrolet pick-up truck to read in swooping, neatly painted, emerald letters:— ‘Faraway Downs Cattle Co.’ If it weren’t for the red dirt cresting up over the shining white paint job, he speculated this beauty of a Chevy was brand new. Which made sense, as it was the latest model in the line-up of American-made trucks.

There was a clack, followed by a boom of metal on metal as the driver’s door was promptly opened, then slammed shut. The headlights were split into beams of stark shadow and blinding brilliance as an imposing silhouette crossed them before coming to lean against the front wheelwell of the truck. The act was casual, but the man’s posture was clearly coiled with fraught tension.

“You Lady Ashley’s Nephew?”

The voice was a distant thunderstorm. The low rumble of boulders displaced by a fearsome river. The subdued roar of an avalanche tumbling down a remote mountain range.

Again, he did not answer right away. Settling onto his right leg, arm crossed over his chest, the youth took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him in faint white blooms as it was exhaled in a guiding breath through his nose. He nodded.

“Yes.”

His own voice was the gentle bleat of a spring lamb. The whispering babble of a forest brook. The soft chatter of a country café just as the summer sun reaches its highest point.

“You look like her.” The statement was resolute, and—if the youth wasn’t mistaken—filled with a sense of remorse. He did not reply. The sing-song ‘a-woof-woof’ of a Barking Owl echoed over the rhythmic crash of waves against shore in the distance. The stranger’s chest rose, then fell as he released a weighty sigh. “Got luggage?” The young man nodded, gesturing to the trunks resting harmoniously under the Golden Wattle. His dull green eyes tracked the man’s cursory movements with interest as he lifted his hips from the truck before strolling over to the tree. The blonde ducked under the branches in suit, taking up his stained canvas bag and one of the smaller trunks. The stranger hefted his other two pieces of luggage into the back of the truck, silently taking the third from the youth’s hand before tying down all three and slamming the tailgate shut with a fierce tenacity.

He mirrored the man’s pace in parallel from across the bed of the truck as he stepped towards the driver’s door, then hesitated. “You’re limping.”

The tendons in the youth’s neck seized, his eyes finding the dim shine in the stranger’s eyes from under the brim of his Queenslander hat. “I know.”

“Get in.”

With messenger bag—and slightly squashed hat cradled in his lap—the youth readjusted his hold on the doorframe of the truck as the stranger gassed the engine, jerked the cumbersome vehicle in a tight circle, and left a nebula of dust behind as it lumbered onto a well-marked road leading out of the city. With the departure from civilization, the summer’s night air rushing into the cab from the open windows dropped from miserably hot to an alleviating cool.

“Will we not be resting for the night?” He turned to regard the man’s profile: straight nose, strong brow, stubbled chin.

“Gotta get in a few hours on the road to make up for lost time. Fuckin’ truck is leakin’ oil like a damn bull in rut.” The heel of the man’s hand slammed down on the wheel in frustration, the muscles in his jaw flickering under his skin in the dim light as they tensed. The blonde silently and reflexively gagged, rolling his eyes in utter contempt for the man’s lurid analogy. “I got a good drove the day after tomorrow, an’ it takes at least two days to get to Faraway Downs from Darwin.”

“A drove?”

“Yeah. I’m a drover. I drive cattle from one place to another for better grazin’, market, or what-have-you.”

“I see.” His reply was a docile whisper, head tilting onto his own shoulder as he gazed up through the dusty windshield, the stars reflected in his eyes as they traced the unfamiliar constellations. His mind was guided home by the shepherding memory of fog that teased a glimpse of wholly different heavens, as if it was a dancer taunting a Casanova with the swish of her dress above naked thigh.

His mind flipped to his retort of ‘I know’ when the Drover’s attention was lured to his faltering step. Thigh to hip—the scar which snaked across his flesh, strangling his nerves to numbness in a constant ache. The youth could not justify why he instinctively refused to give the Drover a plain answer. To say—in the simplicity of truth—that it was a war wound. His own reasoning was lost to him. Though, perhaps his answer was enough for the likes of the Drover. When he cocked his head to regard the rugged stranger once more, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel with an almost desperate hold, the youth willed himself to repress that unfathomable…

Beckoning.

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jsprnt · 1 year ago

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a sweet picnic date with your fiancé

darwin núñez x fem! reader

A/N: missed writing requests so much!! based on this request. thank you for your patience and sweet words <33

W/C: 1.412

"stop moving, babe. you're messing the parting up.."

you whine, frown forming on your face as your fiancé moves his head again, ruining the braid you were weaving into his long hair.

"lo siento amor. i didn't realize it would get messed up.." darwin apologizes, moving his head when he notices your hands moving away from his hair.

"why did you stop?" he asks, shifting his body so he can face you.

you grasp the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it in annoyance.

"you keep moving.." you scrunch your face up, making a small sound of annoyance.

"i said i'm sorry, cariño. come on, try again, please?" he says, grabbing your hands to squeeze them into his.

it was silly really, but you just wanted to have some peace and quiet in the park with your fiancé.

the season had just ended, and darwin had a couple days off before his international duty started.

with the sun shining this afternoon, he had suggested having a little picnic date in the local park.

you had agreed, obviously- because who wouldn't want to enjoy mother nature and her beauty pre-summer?

"wait, stay here.." darwin suddenly perks up. slipping the birkenstocks you had gotten him recently on and walking away from your little set up on the grass.

a big, comfortable blanket and an ice box for your drinks and snacks.

darwin had carried it all out of the car, of course. because in his words: "why would you carry something heavy, when i'm right here?"

you raise your brows in confusion, pulling your sunglasses off your face to enjoy the sun beaming down onto your face.

living in england for the past few years meant limited sun exposure, so you'd be crazy not to enjoy the sun when it was out.

you look to your side when you hear the rustling of grass, making immediate eye contact with your fiancé. cheeky expression on his face as he holds his right hand behind his back.

"what's that?" you ask curiously, smile pulling at your lips.

"my apology gift.” he states, stepping closer and sitting next to you on the checkered blanket.

"show me.." you urge, moving to sit on your legs in anticipation.

he nods, grin on his face, when he pulls a mini bouquet from behind his back. consisting of little dandelions and violas plucked from the bushes and grass in the park.

it’s a huge contrast from the huge, colorful bouquet he’d give you or send you when he was gone for work. you could never get enough of the pretty and delicate arrangements of flowers he’d choose specifically for you.

you chuckle at his gesture and cuteness, grabbing the petite bouquet of wildflowers from his outstretched arm.

"you're so cute, baby. apology accepted.." you cave in, leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips.

you pull back, squealing when you get tackled onto the soft blanket by darwin.

his body hovers over yours in a second, and you look up when he chuckles.

"you're definitely the cuter one here, cariño.." he dips his head down to trail kisses down your neck and collarbone, making you gasp in surprise.

the kisses were usually welcome, but definitely not in the middle of this public park.

you bring your hands up to stop him, his luscious, untied hair falling in front of his face and tickling your skin.

"what? i can't love on my own fiancée now?" he smirks, feeling your hands tangle into his brown hair.

"your hair is tickling me.." you protest, feeling his hands move around your back to help you sit up again.

"braid it then, please amor..." he asks, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. beaming sun, almost making his hair look a reddish brown.

"i won't move this time, promise." he adds, turning away from you, so he's sitting right in between your legs.

"you promised." you remind, hands reaching up to rake your fingers through his soft hair. the smell of his shampoo and conditioner still present from the shower earlier that morning.

"where is your hair tie?" you ask, looking around for the black elastic. even if darwin had an entire drawer full of them, you'd bet he'd lose them all within the span of one week.

"here.." he says, slipping the tie off his wrist and handing it to you.

"surprised you didn't lose it picking flowers for me.." you tease, parting his hair neatly into three sections, making sure there are no fly-aways before pulling each strand over the other.

you can hear him hum in relaxation, knowing he absolutely loved it when you ran your fingers through his hair.

after a particularly hard day or intense match, you'd always help him calm down from the day's activities with hair care.

it was a great way to bond with each other, both in figuring out what worked for his hair and basking in the calm after the storm.

"your hair has grown a lot since the last time you cut it.." you say, tangling your fingers into the strands and finally pulling the hairtie off your wrist. tying the end of the braid neatly and tightly so your work won't come undone easily.

"i know, but i like it long.."

his reason? you being able to play with his hair, of course.

"if you like it, you should keep it this way, baby." you reassure, moving your hand to smooth out the braid, and the ends of it. your engagement ring glimmering in the sunshine.

your eyes flicker to the wildflowers he'd plucked minutes ago. getting a little idea, you grab one of the flowers. beginning to poke the small stems through the single braid.

"what are you doing, amor?" darwin questions, wondering why it's taking you longer than usual.

"just a second.." you murmur, smiling to yourself when you place the last yellow dandelion into the braid.

"tada!" you lift your hands up, smiling brightly at your work.

"what? i want to see.." your fiancé whines, comically turning like he's going to be able to see what you did to his hair.

"let me take a picture." you say, grabbing your phone off the blanket next to you and snapping a picture. making sure you get a good shot of all the flowers neatly placed in his hair.

"look.." you chuckle, moving to sit on your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck. pressing your chest against his back and placing your chin on his shoulder as you show him the photo.

you raise your brow, having difficulty holding back your smile as you watch his face scrunch in happiness.

"the flowers- you made it all pretty, cariño. thank you.."

you let go of him, seeing him turn around, so he can face you again. you feel him press a tender kiss on your temple, feeling warm and giddy inside.

he wraps his arms around your frame, pulling you closer to his body.

"do you still want those strawberries i packed?" he questions, reaching over to open the blue cool box when you nod eagerly.

"they're perfectly ripe this time.." he comments, opening the tuperware and poking a fork through a sweet strawberry.

"i got them at the farmers market. they looked delicious." you say, opening your mouth, so he can feed you the sweet fruit.

"it's good. try one baby." you convince him with a full mouth, watching him try one as well.

he hums at the taste, nodding in agreement, before placing the fork down.

"it is good, very sweet- but not sweeter than you, amor.."

you roll your eyes at the corny tease, though a grin shows up on your face.

"i'm not, but can you give me another one, please?" you ask, mouth open, ready for another yummy strawberry.

"in denial? why don't we pack up and go home so i can show you?"

you almost choke on your spit, squinting at him as the sun shines directly into your eyes. his eyes widen in surprise at your sudden fit of coughing, making him pat your back quickly.

"I'm fine, but.." you begin, smirk pulling at your lips when you start to tease him back.

"will you carry everything back to the car again?"

"is that really a question?"

he’ll pack everything up in a matter of seconds if it meant that he could get home and give you all of his love, and you knew that..

#darwin nunez #football imagines #football imagine #football fanfic #darwin nunez fanfiction #liverpoolfc blurb #liverpoolfc #football #footballer x reader #liverpoolimagines #liverpool fanfic #darwin nunez blurb #darwin nunez x reader #darwin nunez imagines #darwin núñez #darwinnunez #darwizzy #football blurb #liverpool

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camisoledadparis · 5 months ago

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HIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 1

I hope you are enjoying This Day in Gay History. It was started out as a reposting of White Crane's daily newsletters in early 2011 has gained a life of its own and grown out in many directions, in particular, gaining a international identity. The postings now come from many sources, some of them credited in the masthead, but also from tips and suggestions from members. As we move into a new year, you will find you have seen many of the postings before, but always check them out, because there will always be something new, especially as so many public figures are now coming out of the closet. Your Admin

1533 – Italy: Michelangelo writes a love letter to Tommaso de Cavalieri, devoting "the present and the time to come that remain to me."

Rare snapshot of Charles Kains Jackson

1857 – Charles Kains Jackson (d.1933) was an English poet closely associated with the Uranian school.

Beginning in 1888, in addition to a career as a lawyer, he served as editor for the periodical the Artist and Journal of Home Culture, which became something of an official periodical for the movement. In it, he praised such artists as Henry Scott Tuke (to whom he dedicated a sonnet) and Henry Oliver Walker. He also befriended such similar-minded contemporaries as Frederick William Rolfe, Lord Alfred Douglas and John Addington Symonds.The homosexual and pederastic aspects of the Artist declined after the replacement of Kains Jackson as an editor in 1894. The final issue edited by Kains Jackson included his essay, 'The New Chivalry', an argument for the moral and societal benefits of pederasty and erotic male friendship on the grounds of both Platonism and Social Darwinism. According to Kains Jackson, the New Chivalry would promote 'the youthful masculine ideal' over the Old Chivalry's emphasis on the feminine. Jackson's volumes of poetry include Finibus Cantat Amor (1922) and Lysis (1924).

Kains Jackson was a member of the Order of Chaeronea, a secret society for homosexuals founded in 1897 by George Ives, which was named after the location of the battle where the Sacred Band of Thebes was finally annihilated in 338 BC. Other members included Samuel Ellworth Cottam, Montague Summers, and John Gambril Nicholson.

1879 – E.M. Forster (d.1970) was an English novelist, short story writer, essayist and librettist. He is known best for his ironic and well-plotted novels examining class difference and hypocrisy in early 20th-century British society.

Forster was born into an Anglo-Irish and Welsh middle-class family in London. England. He attended the famous public school Tonbridge School in Kent as a day boy. The theatre at the school is named after him, and later studied at King's College, Cambridge, between 1897 and 1901.

After leaving university he travelled in continental Europe with his mother. He visited Egypt, Germany and India with the classicist Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson in 1914. By that time, Forster had written all but one of his novels. In the First World War, as a conscientious objector, he volunteered for the International Red Cross, travelling to Alexandria, Egypt.

Why didn't EM Forster write much of anything in the second half of his life? According to a new biographer, Wendy Moffat, who has had access to Forster's private papers, what knocked him off track was losing his virginity in his late 30s.

He slept with a wounded soldier in Egypt, in 1917 - "losing R [respectability]" he called it in his private diary. After that, he set about making up for lost time. "I should have been a more famous writer if I had written or rather published more," he later explained, "but sex prevented the latter."

Back in England Forster divided his time between his mother in the Home Counties and gay friends and bisexual boys in his London flat. Homosexuality in Britain was aggressively persecuted then and Forster wisely centred his affairs on officers from Hammersmith police station.

One of them, Bob Buckingham, became the love of Forster's life. Bob was bisexual and soon married, however, he never abandoned Forster. As for writing novels that stopped with the development of his homosexual life.

Forster developed a long-term loving relationship with Bob Buckingham, and his wife, and included the couple in his circle, which also included the writer and arts editor of The Listener, J.R. Ackerley, the psychologist W.J.H. Sprott, and, for a time, the composer Benjamin Britten. Other writers with whom Forster associated included the poet Siegfried Sassoon and the Belfast-based novelist Forrest Reid.

In the 1930s and 1940s Forster became a successful broadcaster on BBC Radio. He was a humanist, homosexual, and lifelong bachelor.

Forster had five novels published in his lifetime. Although Maurice appeared shortly after his death, it had been written nearly sixty years earlier. A seventh novel, Arctic Summer, was never finished. The earlier novels are Where Angels Fear to Tread (1905), The Longest Journey (1907), A Room with a View (1908), and Howards End (1910).

Forster achieved his greatest success with A Passage to India (1924). The novel takes as its subject the relationship between East and West, seen through the lens of India in the later days of the British Raj. Forster connects personal relationships with the politics of colonialism through the story of the Englishwoman Adela Quested, the Indian Dr. Aziz, and the question of what did or did not happen between them in the Marabar Caves.

Maurice (1971) - his one novel to deal head-on with homosexuality - was written some years previously, though it was published only after his death. His posthumously-published novel tells of the coming of age of an explicitly Gay male character.

Maurice is a homosexual love story which also returns to matters familiar from Forster's first three novels, such as the suburbs of London in the English home counties, the experience of attending Cambridge, and the wild landscape of Wiltshire. The novel was controversial, given that Forster's sexuality had not been previously known or widely acknowledged. Today's critics continue to argue over the extent to which Forster's sexuality, even his personal activities, influenced his writing.

Forster's two best-known works, A Passage to India and Howards End, explore the irreconcilability of class differences. A Room with a View also shows how questions of propriety and class can make connection difficult. The novel is his most widely read and accessible work, remaining popular long after its original publication. His posthumous novel Maurice explores the possibility of class reconciliation as one facet of a homosexual relationship.

Sexuality is another key theme in Forster's works, and it has been argued that a general shift from heterosexual love to homosexual love can be detected over the course of his writing career. The foreword to Maurice describes his struggle with his own homosexuality, while similar issues are explored in several volumes of homosexually-charged short stories. Forster's explicitly homosexual writings, the novel Maurice and the short-story collection The Life to Come, were published shortly after his death.

Forster died of a stroke in Coventry on 7 June 1970 at the age of 91. at the home of his policeman friend and his wife, the Buckinghams.

1895 – Although never elected to any office, J. Edgar Hoover (d.1972) wielded tremendous political power in the United States government for almost five decades, and through eight presidencies, as head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Under his leadership, the Bureau developed from a weak and ineffectual collection of political appointees into one of the most efficient police agencies in the world.

It also developed into an undercover secret police that frequently used illegal means to gather damaging information, not only on criminals and political dissidents, but also on political leaders as well. Although Hoover was always in the front lines of government attempts to harass homosexual liberation movements, rumors that he himself was gay followed him throughout his career.

Hoover went to work for the Justice Department in 1917 as a clerk, but moved up quickly by virtue of his efficiency and his vigorous action against Communists and radicals during the late 1910s and 1920s. He supervised the deportation of foreign-born radicals in the great strike wave of 1919.

In 1924, he was appointed head of the Bureau of Investigation of the Justice Department (renamed Federal Bureau of Investigation in 1935). Hoover immediately began to tighten up the slack Bureau. New agents were hired and promoted based on merit and strict performance reviews. He used his library experience to re-organize records and files, and he began amassing his famous "secret files," confidential information, often illegally obtained, which he kept to use against anyone who might threaten his power or tenure.

Hoover soon became both famous and feared for his zealous campaigns against such criminal and "subversive" groups as the Communist Party and the Ku Klux Klan. During the prohibition era, his "G-men" hunted down and caught many prominent gangsters, such as Al Capone and John Dillinger.

During the 1950s, he participated fully in the McCarthy witch hunts, zealously seeking out Communists and fellow-travelers.

Along with pursuing Communist sympathizers, Hoover also led a campaign of harassment directed at the new "homophile" groups such as the Mattachine Society, which sprang up to protest mistreatment of gay men and lesbians. F.B.I. agents took pictures and license plate numbers at demonstrations and infiltrated meetings and conferences of the fledgling homophile groups.

Many believe that Hoover took this anti-gay stance to cover his own homosexuality. Although he constantly (and violently) denied it, whispers about his sexuality followed Hoover throughout his career. For example, a 1943 internal F.B.I. memo reported claims that the director was homosexual.

Hoover's lifestyle fit many gay stereotypes: he was a sharp, dandified dresser, known for his white linen suits and silk handkerchiefs, who collected antiques and lived with his mother until her death when he was 42. He was never known to have even one date with a woman, yet he had several intimate relationships with men, notably a more than forty-year relationship with the handsome Clyde Tolson, his second-in-command at the F.B.I.

Hoover and Tolson rode to work together, ate lunch and dinner together most days, and took vacations together. Many observers described their relationship as marriage-like. Although some commentators believe that Hoover's rigid morality and strict religious beliefs would not have permitted him to have a physical relationship with a man, the rumors of his homosexuality were accelerated by the appearance, after their deaths, of photographs of Hoover and Tolson in drag, photographs that were allegedly Mafia blackmail pictures.

If Hoover and Tolson were homosexual, as seems more and more likely, their roles as persecutors of other homosexuals casts into bold relief the nightmare-like quality of the McCarthy era's war on homosexuality.

Hoover remained in charge of the F.B.I. until his death from a heart attack on May 2, 1972.

1927 – Maurice Béjart (d.2007) was a French born, Swiss choreographer who ran the Béjart Ballet Lausanne in Switzerland. He was the son of the French philosopher Gaston Berger.

Perhaps the preeminent descendant of Sergei Diaghilev and Serge Lifar, Maurice Béjart was a significant presence in late twentieth-century and early twenty-first century dance as an innovator with a radical vision. Central to his reinvigoration of classical ballet was his creation of palpably homoerotic dances that celebrate male beauty.

After studying with Léo Staats, Lubov Egorova, and Madama Rousanne (Sarkissian) in Paris, he performed with Mona Inglesby's International Ballet and the Royal Swedish Ballet and sealed his reputation as industrious and disciplined before creating dances for his own path-breaking companies.

Symphonie pour un homme seul (1955, with a score by Pierre Schaeffer and Pierre Henry), featuring the first electronic score to accompany ballet, established Béjart as an innovator with a radical vision.

After presenting an electrifying interpretation of The Rite of Spring (set to the classic Igor Stravinsky score) informed by myth, sexual heat, and stage flash in 1959 at the Théâtre Royale de la Monnaie in Brussels, he founded The Ballet of the Twentieth Century, a company that had a major influence on the European Dance Theatre movement.

Nijinsky: Clown of God (1971, set to a score combining music by Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky and Pierre Henry), a dreamlike meditation on Vaslav Nijinsky and his legacy, is only one prominent example of Béjart's personal identification and connection with his choreographic subjects.

Many times that connection, as in Nijinsky: Clown of God, was palpably homoerotic. In addition to reimagining Ballets Russes classics such as The Firebird (to the original Stravinsky score), Pétrouchka (to the Stravinsky score) and The Specter of the Rose (to a score of a piano piece by Carl Maria von Weber, orchestrated by Hector Berlioz) to spectacular effect, he also derived inspiration from such gay icons as Prometheus, Dionysus, Orpheus, and Saint Sebastian.

Collaborating closely with many extraordinarily handsome men (Argentine Jorge Donn and Italian Paolo Bortoluzzi among them), Béjart consistently created dances celebrating male beauty and eroticism, not the least of which was the all-male variant of his Boléro (1960, to the throbbing score by Maurice Ravel).

Audiences and critics were either enthralled or enraged by later offerings such as the celebratory Ballet for Life (1997, set to a score combining classical Mozart with pop-rock Queen), in response to the AIDS-related deaths of his friends Jorge Donn and Freddie Mercury of the rock group Queen; and Bolero for Gianni (1999, set to his all-time-favorite Ravel score), a tribute to the murdered Gianni Versace, who had designed the eye-popping costumes for that 1997 dance.

Although beset by kidney problems and other illnesses in his final years, Béjart continued working until the very end of his life. He died on November 22, 2007.

1944 – Eloy de la Iglesia (d.2006) was a Spanish screenwriter and film director.

De la Iglesia was an outspoken gay socialist filmmaker who is relatively unknown outside Spain despite a prolific and successful career in his native country. He is best remembered for having portrayed urban marginality and the world of drugs and juvenile delinquency in the early 1980s. Many of his films also deal with the theme of homosexuality.

Born in Zarauz, Guipúzcoa into a wealthy Basque family, he grew up in Madrid. He attended courses at the prestigious Parisian Institut des hautes études cinématographiques, but he could not enter Spain’s national Film School because he wasn't yet 21, the minimum age required for admission. Instead, he began to study philosophy and literature at the Complutense University of Madrid, but on his third year he abandoned it to direct children’s theater. By age twenty he had already written and directed many works for television sharpening his narrative skills. He established himself as a writer of children's television programs for Radiotelevisíon Española in Barcelona.

De la Iglesia made his debut as film director when he was only twenty-two years old with Fantasia 3 (Fantasy 3) (1966), adapting three children’s stories: The Maid of the Sea, The three hairs from the devil and The Wizard of Oz. While doing mandatory military service, he wrote the script of his second film, Algo Amargo en la Boca (Something Bitter Tasting) (1968). Algo Amargo en la boca, a sordid melodrama, and de la Iglesia’s next film, Cuadrilatero (Boxing Ring) (1969), a boxing story, faced problems with the Francoist censors and failed at the box office. His films did not attract widespread notice until his fourth effort, the critically acclaimed thriller El Techo de Cristal (The Glass Ceiling) (1970).

The dismantling of the Francoist censorship allowed Eloy de la Iglesia to increase sexually charged tones in his works. This approach became apparent in his films: Juego de amor prohibido (Games of Forbbiden Love) (1975) and La otra alcoba (The other bedroom) (1976). In the late 1970s Eloy de la Iglesia, associated with journalist and screen writer Gonzalo Goicoechea, tackled former taboo subjects in Spanish Cinema. Los placeres ocultos (Hidden Pleasures ) (1977) focused on homosexuality. El diputado (Confessions of a Congressman) (1979), follows the story of a politician who is blackmailed due to his secret homosexuality and El sacerdote (The Priest ), also released in 1979, deals with a conservative catholic priest whose sexual obsessions leads him to self-mutilation.

Like many of the young protagonists of his films, Eloy de la iglesia became addicted to drugs such as heroin and he stopped making films for fifteen years. Claiming that his addiction to cinema was stronger than his drug problems, de la Iglesia eventually kicked his habit and resumed his career making Los novios bulgaros (The Bulgarian Lovers) (2003), a film based on the novel of the same title written by Eduardo Mendicutti.

Stricken with kidney cancer, he died on March 24, 2006, age sixty two, after surgery to remove a malignant tumor.

1959 – Fidel Castro seized power in Cuba after leading a revolution that drove out dictator Fulgencio Batista. Castro then established a Communist dictatorship. Although homosexuality was illegal under the Batista government the laws were largely ignored in fun loving Cuba. Since Castro, tens of thousands of gays have been rounded up and imprisoned.

1967 – The Los Angeles Police Department raid the New Year’s Eve parties at two gay bars, the Black Cat Tavern and New Faces. Several patrons were injured and a bartender was hospitalized with a fractured skull. Several hundred people spontaneously demonstrate on Sunset Boulevard and picket outside the Black Cat. The raids prompted a series of protests that began on 5 January 1967, organized by P.R.I.D.E. (Personal Rights in Defense and Education). It’s the first use of the term "Pride" that came to be associated with LGBT rights and fuels the formation of gay rights groups in California, well before the Stonewall Riot.

The popular notion that the Stonewall Riots marked the very first time that LGBT folks "fought back instead of passively enduring humiliating treatment,” is false. Other critical moments in LGBT History that pre-date Stonewall include:

New Year's Ball Raid in San Francisco (1965)

Gene Compton’s Cafeteria Riot (1966)

Cooper Do-Nuts Riot (1959)

1968 – Joey Stefano (d.1994) was an American pornographic actor who appeared in gay adult films. Born Nicholas Anthony Iacona, Jr., Stefano grew up in the Philadelphia area (Chester, Pennsylvania). His father died when he was 15. After several years of prostitution and hard-core drug use in New York City, Stefano moved to Los Angeles and quickly became a star in gay pornography. In addition to his good looks, his persona as a "hungry bottom" (sexually submissive but verbally demanding) contributed to his popularity.

His image and success caught the attention of Madonna, who used him as a model in her 1992 book Sex.

During his lifetime, he was the subject of rumors (some of them spread by himself) regarding his relationships with prominent entertainment industry figures who were known to be gay. At a May 1990 dinner and interview with Jess Cagle (Entertainment Weekly) and Rick X (Manhattan Cable TV's The Closet Case Show), Stefano discussed an alleged series of "dates" with David Geffen, who at one point implored Stefano to quit using drugs. After the videotaped interview appeared on Rick X's show, OutWeek Magazine "outed" Geffen, who went on to announce his homosexuality at an AIDS fundraiser.

He was HIV positive. According to a subsequent biography Stefano died of speedball overdose (cocaine, morphine, heroin, and ketamine) at age 26 in the shower of a motel on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, California. His body was taken back to Pennsylvania where he was buried next to his father.

Stefano's life is chronicled in the book, Wonder Bread and Ecstasy: The Life and Death of Joey Stefano by Charles Isherwood. His life is also the subject of a one-man-play, Homme Fatale: The Fast Life and Slow Death of Joey Stefano, by Australian playwright Barry Lowe.

1976 – (Daniel L.) Dan Kloeffler is an American television journalist. Since 2010, he is an anchor of ABC News Now, a cable-news channel of the ABC broadcasting network.

He worked at WSTM-TV - an NBC-affiliated television station in Syracuse, New York - prior to joining MSNBC, a cable-news channel. While at MSNBC, he anchored overnight MSNBC Now news updates as well as MSNBC's First Look and broadcast network NBC's Early Today, both early-morning news programs; Kloeffler left MSNBC in 2009. In 2010, he became a freelance anchor and correspondent for ABC News, where he anchors on its ABC News Now channel.In response to the news that actor Zachary Quinto had come out as gay, Kloeffler publicly came out on the air in October 2011.

In a statement on the ABC News website, he wrote that a series of suicides by gay youth also led him to hope his being publicly out would help encourage young gay people struggling to accept themselves.

2008 – Queen Elizabeth II makes actor Ian Mckellen a Companion of Honor, one of only 65.

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bobfloydsbabe · 1 year ago

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eccentric professor bob floyd (historical romance version) sneak peek

Encouraged by my wonderful friends @withahappyrefrain and @ryebecca, I present you a sneak peek at the historical romance AU fic I'm working on for Eccentric Professor Bob and Imogen. I shared the beginning of this for a tag game a couple of days ago, but I've added more to it since then. Enjoy ✨

“Who’s there?”

The flickering candle comes closer, and slowly, the holder’s dark doe eyes come into his line of sight, along with long wavy hair and soft-looking skin.

“Lady Imogen,” he says when she stops a few paces away.

“Professor,” she greets, one brow quirked. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Her breathy chuckle fills the quiet library. “So you could,” she agrees. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get something to read.”

“I had the same thought,” he admits. He’s trying not to look at her state of undress, but his eyes travel down to her simple cotton nightgown, and his breath hitches. She’s not wearing a dressing gown.

Imogen seems unfazed by his wandering eye.

“Did you find something advanced enough to challenge your mind, Professor?”

He drags his gaze back to her face. “Not yet,” he says. “Perhaps you have a recommendation?”

In the candlelight, her mouth turns up in a smile that makes her keen eyes sparkle. Humming, she scans the shelves he’s standing in front of, inspecting the titles and writers, and he wonders, not for the first time, where she’s been hiding all his life.

Knowing of her is one thing, but knowing her is something else entirely. He longs to touch her. To feel her skin against his, the taste of her tongue, the sounds she’d make when he gives her pleasure. He wants all of it but is entitled to none of it.

He aches in a way he’s never done before.

“Ah,” she says, having spotted something interesting on the shelf. She reaches past him, her breast grazing his chest as she stands on her tiptoes to reach. Despite the fabric separating them, every cell in his body’s on fire, and the blood that first rushed to his head now travels south to his cock.

If her breast through cotton does this to him, he’s afraid of what would happen if he touched her bare skin.

Unaware of his internal crisis, Imogen grasps the book she’d spotted and settles back on her feet. She studies the leather-bound book for a moment. “I’m surprised the Countess even has a copy of this. She does not strike me as someone with a vested interest in the subject.”

“Perhaps the Earl added it to the library,” he says without knowing what book it is and takes a step away to put some distance between them.

“The Earl is a dear friend of my father’s, but he is not an intelligent man,” Imogen explains. “The Countess is a brilliant woman. I am quite certain it was she who acquired it.”

Imogen offers the book to him. He snatches it out of her hand quickly, hoping she won’t look at him too long and notice the extra limb throbbing in his trousers.

He opens to the title page, brow furrowing when he realizes the book she’s recommended to him. His head whips up.

“I’m sure you’ve already read it,” she says, looking uncertain for the first time since she joined him. “Darwin makes a compelling argument. I wrote him a letter with a list of questions, but never received a reply. I’m sure he thinks me a feebleminded woman who won’t understand the complexities of his theory.”

Robert closes the book. “If Darwin thinks you feebleminded, he is a fool.”

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

TAGLIST: @bobgasm, @attapullman, @kmc1989, @bluezraven, @seitmai, @roosterforme, @just-in-case-iloveyou, @sweetwhispersofchaos, @auroraseddie, @cherrycola27, @keyrani, @solo-pitstop-vibes, @sio-ina-bottle, @hangmanapologist, @bradshawsbaby, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @bcarolinablr, @xoxabs88xox

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tomorrowusa · 8 months ago

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Quit fixating on Putin's nukes FFS.

Donald Trump and his MAGA minions are trying to imply that aid for Ukraine will lead to nuclear war. This is bullshit which is meant to bolster Putin's illegal war of aggression against a peaceful neighbor.

We hear MAGA Russophiles repeat this whenever new aid or new weapons systems are sent to Ukraine. The last time I checked, Putin hasn't nuked San Diego or Memphis. And we have crossed more of Putin's "red lines" than Trump has red neckties.

Even a delusional imperialist like Vladimir Putin understands that the ultimate outcome of any nuclear war would leave him as a shirtless congealed blob of radioactive fat. ⚛

With nuclear option unlikely, Putin struggles to defend his red lines

“There has been an overflow of nuclear threats,” said a Russian official speaking on the condition of anonymity because of the sensitivity of the subject. “There is already immunity to such statements, and they don’t frighten anyone.” A Russian academic with close ties to senior Russian diplomats agreed, calling the nuclear option “the least possible” of scenarios, “because it really would lead to dissatisfaction among Russia’s partners in the Global South and also because clearly, from a military point of view, it is not very effective.”

The United States and its NATO allies have no intention of giving nukes to Ukraine.

What we don't hear from scare-mongering MAGA zombies or Putin-friendly tankies is that the war in Ukraine would end immediately if the Russian invaders simply left Ukraine. Anybody who truly wants peace should be telling Russia to get the fuck back to their own country.

This week, Trump and former independent presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy Jr. wrote in an op-ed for the Hill that a decision to grant Ukraine permission to use Western long-range missiles “would put the world at greater risk of nuclear conflagration than at any time since the Cuban missile crisis” and called for direct negotiations with Moscow instead.

The only thing to "negotiate" with Moscow is a short ceasefire while Russia withdraws all its invading troops. The bottom line is that Russia has no business in Ukraine. The invasion is in violation of numerous international laws, treaties, and memoranda.

As for technology, Russia's means of using ICBMs in nuclear war just ain't what it used to be.

Latest Russian ICBM Test May Have Failed, Satellite Images Suggest

Russia is a third-rate power which happens to have nukes and a lot of empty territory that looks deceptively impressive on a map. Its ability to handle any atomic technology competently is questionable. Even during the glory days of the Soviet Union it gave the world its worst nuclear disaster at Chernobyl in 1986.

Chernobyl is in northern Ukraine which became independent in 1991. Ukrainians had done a good job of cleaning up much of the radioactive mess left by Moscow.

But Russia then temporarily occupied the area around Chernobyl in the early part of the invasion. Russian occupiers there did incredibly stupid things like dig military trenches in radioactive soil and loot radioactive materials to take home as souvenirs.

Russia has few serious competitors for the Darwin Awards this year. 🎖 ⚛️

What we should worry more about is another nuclear accident inside Russia caused by recklessness or incompetence. The sooner Ukraine is victorious, the more likely Russia will be able to tend to its own problems at home.

^^^ красные линии = red lines

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h0rmym0chiibubbletea · 2 months ago

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Yesterday was the international day of the autism awareness! And as an autistic person myself, i shall give y'all a list of canonical and non-canonical but i see them as autistic or at least austistic-coded characters!

Leeeeet's Goooo!

First, let's start with my favorite ones! (spoiler, they're all my favs, lmao)

Canonical:

Entrapta (She-ra reboot)

Norma Khan (Dead end: paranormal park)

Renee (loop, Pixar short)

Mary and Max (Animated Australian short)

Julia (Sesame street)

Oliver and Emilly (My Ocs)

Non-Canonical (Autistic-coded):

Laios (Dungeon Meshi)

Komi (Komi can't communicate)

Lilo (Lilo and Stitch)

Luz (TOH)

Kel and Sunny (Omori)

Timekeeper Cookie (Cookie run)

Strawberry Cookie (Cookie run)

Shadow milk cookie (Cookie run)

Gingerbrave cookie (Cookie run)

Peridot (Steven Universe)

Yellow guy (DHMIS)

Red guy (DHMIS)

Duck (DHMIS)

Neko Arc

Wally Darling and Sally (welcome home)

Legoshi (Beastars)

Akko (My little witch academia)

Inosuke (Demon slayer)

Tanjiro (Demon slayer)

Popuko (Pop team epic)

Pipimi (Pop team epic)

Caine (TADC)

Kinger (TADC)

Ena

Moony (Ena)

Mr. Puzzles (Smg4)

Moxie (Helluva boss)

Gumball and Darwin (TAWOG)

Steven (Steven universe)

Dipper and Mabel (Gravity falls)

Greg (Over the garden wall)

Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash

All the Lalaloopysy characters

All the Sanrio characters

Winnie the pooh and Tiger

Calvin and Harold

Hilda

Harlenquinn (BTAS)

Papayrus and Sans (Undertale)

Napstablook (Undertale)

Lancer and Susie (Deltarune)

Sonic

Nana (Sweet sins superstars)

Peacock (Skullgirls)

Cuphead

All the characters from Smile for me

Six (Little nightmares)

Sayori (Doki doki literature club)

Ringo (Blue eye samurai)

Crybaby (A.K.A Melatonin)

Wallace (Wallace and Gromit)

Dr. Phantasmo (Fluffpillow's Oc)

Second, gimme characters who are both canonically and non-canonically autistic! (Y'all can send asks about the topic!)

and finally: I'll make another post where y'all can interact with me through an autistic ask game! (and i'll also explain better on this other post why i think the non-autistic characters are autistic-coded to me!)

See ya next time~! <3

#autism #autism awareness #autism awareness day #send me asks #asks open #anime and manga #anime #cartoons #video games #games #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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stormoflina · 1 year ago

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Happy New Year's Eve to everyone! 😁🎉🍷

I saw the tiktok boys doing this trend in the international break, and the idea stayed with me, and it's fitting rn anyway. If it's lame I will just blame my friends for giving me bad experiences 😸

Rating how a night-out with lfc players would go (this is for the girlies, do mind that):

Virg: You would feel the most safe and relaxed on a night-out in your whole entire life. Virg would literally scare all unwanted comments and wandering hands just with his aura. He would buy you whisky, trying to be fancy, but by the end of the night you would be on your 4th beer together, doing karaoke. He would leave by like 1 am tho. 9/10

Tsimi: he drinks one vodka-redbull and it's over. And by that I mean it's not really over, quite the opposite actually. Not leaving the club until they literally close. He would be bouncing up the walls, dancing with everyone, chatting up to strangers while waiting for drinks, running around, making new best friends every bathroom break, falling in love at least 3 times just that night. A nice, eventful night, but by the end, you would probably be exhausted. 7/10

Joey: Ngl, you would probably be kinda worried about partying with him, thinking he's a bit dull or the atmosphere will be awkward... Only to be completely wrong and for you to have the best night of your life? He takes shots like a champ, smooth dance moves,a great wingman and has the best drunk advice to your drunk first world problems. He also knows the best place to get kebab place after the club and walks you home. 10/10

Ibou: Go out with him and you will have the time of your life. Takes the best pictures and tags you, likes and comments, just to get the guy you like all hot and bothered. Pretends he doesn't understand English and starts cursing out people in French, just because. Outfit on point. -1 point for making your stomach hurt from laughing too much. 9/10

Robbo: It's either a heartfelt hug and temple kisses while pouring your heart out kind of night or trying to use the street lamps as a strip pole while laughing like the two of you have lost your minds kind of night. Brings his own alcohol for pre gaming, because "it's much better, trust me." He's never a quiet person, both with each drink he has, the volume of his voice just increases. He tries to guess the dick size of random guys who try to chat you up. You will need 2-3 days to recover from this night, but it's all worth it. 10/10

Darwin: Unlike Kostas, Darwin is NOT allowed to drink redbull-vodkas, not under any circumstances. Instead he drinks literally anything else. He especially likes those colourful cocktails. When they start to hit, he picks up the straws and pretends he is a walrus. Who cares about the language barrier, you can communicate just fine by dancing together. Darwin is a really good dancer, alright, all eyes glued to him. Somehow he gets into a fight and gets thrown out. He claims he is innocent, but who actually knows. There are always other clubs! 8/10

Joel: When you ask him out he just glares at you with raised eyebrows. Still, he shows up, with an unimpressed expression glued to his face all night until they start playing Timberland. Suddenly the coconut man is all arms up and legs moving. He leaves randomly before midnight without telling you tho. 5/10

Trent: The night kinda takes a wrong route before it can even start, when he makes a bet about which one of you can take more shots without stopping. Trent wins, his eyes sparkling and a relaxed, loop-sided smile already plastered on his face. He pays for the taxi and is extremely smug about the girls he claims he will get. Tries to make another bet with you on who can pull the most. Ends up sulking after he gets rejected (nevermind that literally everyone else wants a piece of him). He doesn't dance, just stands like a stick, licking his lips and holding his drink. Starts asking horny questions after 2 am. 8.5/10

Macca: Takes forever to pee, because he starts making friends with everyone in the bathrooms. Brings his own personalized maté cup, but God knows what’s inside. Judging by how red-faced he gets as the night goes on, it must be something strong tho. Good dancer, if only he would stop doing googly eyes at people while he promised it was a friends only night… 6/10

Domi: The pre-gaming might be more fun than the actual party. Takes forever to get ready, because he keeps talking too much, showing you his favourite songs and offering his grandpa’s pálinka. Puts in way too much hair product. By the time you get to the club, both of you are comfortably drunk. Not the best dancer, but enthusiasm makes up for it. He starts eyefucking random hot people. It gets annoying by 3 am, when you are ready to go home and sleep and he still has way too much energy. 8/10

Jota: Keeps complaining that he didn’t want to go, then drinks everyone under the table. Like it’s actually annoying how unfazed he seems. Takes good care of you, looking after you, bringing you water, but still, when you are tipsy, dizzy and feels like you are going to throw up, you would rather have him shut up about FIFA for a sec. 6.5/10

Ali: Says he will not drink, because he has stuff to do early in the morning, but still comes and has a great time. Funny, kind and polite, and very good looking, which turns out to be a bit of a problem, after people just won’t stop asking him out. Gives you great advice when you start talking about the guy you like. His dancing is cute, but a bit old fashioned. 8/10

#lfc #virgil van dijk #kostas tsimikas #joe gomez #ibrahima konate #andy roberson #darwin nunez #joel matip #trent alexander arnold #dominik szoboszlai #alexis mac allister #diogo jota #alisson becker

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