#1590's

[candispice]

word of the day

#language #1590's #beef

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

On request, I decided to continue the First Kiss headcanons.

But with a twist!

I'm starting an unnecessarily depraved series of oneshots based around kinks. It won't be necessary to read the previous entry, but if you want to, you can find it here.

And we're starting with Mihawk because no I'm not obsessed shut up.

🤤

ANYWAY.

I'm a bibliophile and I like doing alphabet-based things, so without further ado, I present you the first of the ABC's of Kinks. Be prepared for unapologetic smut featuring Mihawk, Shanks, Zoro, Sanji, Buggy, and possibly a few other characters.

D is for Dominance

ABC's of Kink

Part 2 of First Kiss: Mihawk

LA!Mihawk X Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 1590

NSFW

The second Mihawk pushes you against the door of the hotel room and pins your hands over your head, you completely forget how to breathe. You definitely should have expected this—every other aspect of your relationship with him over the past month has been a power play, and he has made it perfectly clear who the dominant party is.

You swallow as he tosses his hat aside onto a table and leans in, his forehead touching yours and his hand curling around your jaw.

"Tell me, little one..." His thumb brushes across your lips, and a small whimper escapes them. "Who do you belong to?"

You can barely breathe with his sharp yellow eyes burning into yours, but you manage to force out one shaky word. "Y-you."

He lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head, tightening his grip on your chin a little.

"'You'...what?"

"S—sir," you add quickly. For all intents and purposes, you do belong to him. You're under contract with him for a year, and only a month of that has passed so far.

"Good." He loosens his grip around your jaw a little...but his grip around your wrists tightens. "Just making sure we're clear."

He lowers his mouth to yours in a possessive kiss, his tongue pushing between your lips as he deftly unbuttons your shirt. Spreading it open, his lips break away from yours, and he gives an appreciative hum as his eyes drift over your body. His fingertips brush across the thin black lace cup of your bra, drawing your nipple to a stiff point.

"Every inch of you..."

Loosening the ties of your shorts, and pushing his hand into them, his eyes flicker back to yours as he rubs you through your panties. Your head falls back against the door amid a small moan, already throbbing at his soft, indirect touch.

"Belongs to me. Isn't that right, dear?"

"Y—yes, sir—"

He stops moving his hand, pulling a desperate whimper from you. "Say it."

"I belong—belong to you—sir—"

With this, Mihawk shoves your shorts down your hips so they pool around your ankles. He doesn't waste any time with your panties, grasping the thin lace and tearing them away from your body with one powerful tug, leaving you gasping...and then moaning again as he tugs you closer by your hip and pushes his fingers between your wet folds.

"Very good," he says over your soft moans. "I think we're going to have a lot of fun together, my little bird."

Your hips arch automatically toward his touch, your clit throbbing as his fingertips rub against the sensitive bud in firm, concentric circles, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. He shoves you further back against the door, his lips pressing against your neck as he draws in a slow breath to breathe you in. You cry out when he bites down lightly on the tender skin, your eyes clenching shut.

"Open them." Your eyes shoot back open at his command, just as he lays his forehead against yours again, so all you can see are his sharp yellow irises. "I want your eyes on mine when you come undone. Understood?"

You nod quickly in agreement, your eyes glued to his. His lips brush against yours briefly, and his little smirk sends a shiver through your entire body.

His fingertips slide down from your clit, and without any warning he pushes two of them inside you, pressing his lips to yours and muffling your deep moan, his tongue slipping into your mouth in a harsh, dominating kiss.

You're completely at his mercy, your walls clenching around his fingers as he finds your g-spot with ease, rubbing them against it while his palm grinds against your clit, driving your pleasure higher and higher with every passing second. You moan into his mouth while your tongues swirl together. Your thighs tremble and your knees quake, his hands the only thing keeping you collapsing on the spot as you near the edge of physical abandon faster than you ever have in your life.

His lips part from yours the moment your orgasm crashes over you, letting your cries of pleasure fill the inn room, your hips bucking forward onto his hand in the force of your pleasure. His fingers hook against your g-spot in sync with the contractions of your pussy, drawing out your climax for as long as possible.

His hands leave you suddenly, leaving you to collapse to your knees in front of him, still gasping and whimpering, trembling. You lean back against the door and gaze up at him, your mind foggy from the lingering euphoria as you watch him shrug away his long coat and toss it aside. Your eyes take in every inch of his toned torso, his broad shoulders and powerful arms, the scars marring his fair skin as you watch him loosen the buckle of his belt.

One of his hands wraps around your arm just below your shoulder, and he tugs you back to your feet before pushing his pants down his hips and pressing you against the door again. He trails his fingers down your arm, across your wrist, lacing them through yours and pulling your hand up to brush his lips over your knuckles.

"I don't recall saying I was through with you," he says lightly, releasing your hand. You're frozen stiff as his eyes gaze down into yours, his hands trailing down your waist. You can feel his shaft pressed against your stomach, but you don't dare look away from his eyes for a second.

His hands reach your thighs, and he lifts you up with ease, your feet leaving the floor—and, without any hesitation, he lowers you down, thrusting his hips forward to fill your tight, wet channel completely with his hard cock. You cry out, flinging your arms around his neck as he presses you back against the door, drawing in a sharp breath through his teeth before crushing his lips against yours.

Mihawk carries you to the bed in the center of the room to lay you at the edge of the mattress, leaning over you and thrusting into you hard and deep, the inn suite filled with nothing but the wet sounds of your bodies meeting and your desperate moans. You cling to his neck with one arm, your other hand trailing across the hard plane of his chest, your thighs clenched around his powerful hips.

He is utterly unrelenting, clearly bent on completely breaking you—his lips trail down to your chest as he unhooks your bra and tosses it aside, his lips wrapping around one of your stiff nipples and teasing at the sensitive protrusion with his tongue, his eyes holding your gaze the entire time to watch you fall apart beneath him.

And fall apart you do—your head falling back into the plush bedsheets, unable to breathe for moaning, curling your fingers in his thick black hair as you roll your hips to meet his with every hard thrust. You hook your other arm beneath his, your nails digging into the back of his shoulder, clinging to him like your life depends on it, because right now, it legitimately feels like it does. Your heart racing, your breath coming in sharps gasps, you feel like you might just die in his arms at any moment.

You can feel his breathing quickening against your neck, his chest heaving, before he finally grips at your hip with enough force to bruise the tender skin and slams into you with a low, deep grunt, thobbing hard as his orgasm spills inside you, your thighs trembling around him as you topple over the edge with him. He grasps a handful of your hair and presses his lips to yours, drawing in a slow, deep breath through his nose.

Your hips roll against his in pace with the deep waves of pleasure coursing through you, moaning softly against his lips as your tongues swirl together. You simply lay there beneath him for some time, your eyes slipping shut as his lips trail lightly across your neck, his fingers combing through your hair and his other hand slowly rubbing up and down your waist.

He lifts his head and brushes his lips to yours. "Dial up room service and tell them to bring a bottle of wine. Cabernet. Their oldest vintage."

One more brief, slow kiss, and Mihawk pulls away from you. Your eyes are glued to him as he stands up, brushing a hand back through his jet black hair to get it out of his eyes.

"And stay there," he adds, his eyes passing slowly over your nude form on the king sized bed. "I'll be back for you in a moment."

You watch him cross the room, biting your lip and holding your breath. The moment he disappears into the bathroom, your head falls back as a slow, shaking sigh leaves your lips. He expects you to be coherent enough to call room service after that?

Fuck.

But you don't really have any choice, do you? You belong to him, after all. And you're not complaining.

You take a few seconds to finish catching your breath before shifting over on the bed, rolling onto your stomach and dialing at the transponder snail. You can hear water running in the bathroom as you're ordering the bottle of wine he asked for.

You hang up the call and wrap your arms around a pillow with a slow and contended sigh as you bury your face into it.

Definitely not complaining.

#mihawk x reader #mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #opla #one piece live action #one piece fanfiction #smut #opla fanfiction #mihawk live action

[sensual-red-siren]

I’m about to embark on the final year of my degree and in a fit of excitement, I’ve chosen to study English literature from 1590 to 1830’s. Given the nature of the course and the work involved, I will be taking a semi-hiatus to concentrate on the huge undertaking which starts in a few weeks.

To all my friends and followers, this is a temporary situation. I will try and check messages and my queue will keep posting during the time I need to focus on my studies.

S x

#sensual-red-siren #100 days of studying #studying inspiration #studying for my degree #my final year #english literature #studying English literature

[pozartaa]

21.12.23 UTRZYMANIE WAGI dzień 295

Zjedzone: 1590 kcal (limit +/-2100 kcal)

Bez liczenia: budyń smak wanilia 'Gellwe' Słodki Kubek ok. 220g/ batonik 'NUTBAR' peanut almond cranberry 30 g (Action)/ mandarynka

Ale dziś spokojna nocka w pracy była. O wiele lepiej się pracowało niż ostatnio, kiedy to zasnęłam na blacie.

Po pracy zaszłam do Lidla po warzywa na sąłatkę, obładowałam się jak wielbłąd.

Oto bukiet warzyw (oczywiście cześć warzywek pójdzie też do innych projektów kulinarnych). Każdy polski balkon przed Świętami zmienia się w dodatkową lodówkę 😆.

Sąłatkę robi S w sobotę, a ja już dziś zabrałam się za sernik. Tak jak w zeszłym roku żadnych wigilijnych potraw nie klepię w Fitatu. Wiem co gotuję i zdaję sobie sprawę, że to nie będzie ani "fit" ani "low-cal". Ale też nie topię niczego w szmelcu, ani nie zacukrzam á la "próchnica-instant" bez potrzeby.

Myślę, że zdrowy rozsądek i szczypta umiaru za stołem powinny się rozprawić z ewentualnymi wyrzutami sumienia 🤞🤞

***

Szkoda ze mój konflikt naczyniowy nerwowy misiał dać o sobie znać 😵‍💫. Koło 14:00 ciśnienie zaczęło lecieć na łeb na szyję. Patrzę do aplikacji pogodowej, a tam jakąś masakra.

Ja myślę - nie ma opcji, że znowu wyląduje nad kiblem z szumem w uszach i potężnym zawrotami glowy. Ścigałam się z czasem - leki, pozycja leżącą i cierpliwość. I tak miałam poczekać aż ciasto na sernik zmarznie w lodówce. Wcześniej zdążyłam sobie zrobić to zabawne foto w kuchni... Miałam iść po jedzenie dla kotów, a zostalam uziemiona...

***

Wieczorem już było ok na szczęście. Chwilę się zdrzemnęłam pewnie rekompensujac sobie mało odespaną nockę. Straszna ulewa za oknem ale niby ma jeszcze śnieg padać. Dokończyłam sernik. (Tarkowałam ciasto przed wystawieniem do piekarnika ale wersją ostateczna chwalę się jutro)

Uświadomiłam też sobie ze Wigilia Wigilią, ale zanim będę kroić szynkę świąteczną (którą robię jutro) i zabierać do pracy rybę po grecku - nie mam żadnego obiadu.

Jutro ugotuję jeszcze fasolkę po bretońsku (żeby było szybko i prosto). S się śmieje że to 13 wigilijna potrawa 🤣. Nie ma co - moje życie kręci się dokoła żarcia! Będzie okazja odtworzyc parę przepisów do Fitatu 😮‍💨.

#ed18+ #edadult #ed recovery #pro revovery #food log #foodbook #dieta #chce byc piekna #kalorie #25 days of christmas drawing challenge #kaloryczno┼ø─ç

[martassimsbookcc]

• .package • Base game compatible • Collection file included • • 𝔻𝕆𝕎ℕ𝕃𝕆𝔸𝔻 • Ad-free as always at my website! 🤍𝕂𝕠-𝕗𝕚 𝕥𝕚𝕡𝕤 𝕛𝕒𝕣 🤍 

【 ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕥𝕤 】 Mesh and textures: @sims4luxury​ | Original Sims 4 post: ⚪

• Polycount, buy category, price § and more useful information ↓ •

● Artwalls: 80 verts | 44 faces >> Found under Paintings and posters | 39§ >>> Recolorable - 2 channels | 3 different prints >>>> Can be moved up/down on wall ● Bench: 1197 verts | 1003 faces >> Found under Misc comfort | 149§ >>> Recolorable - 1 channel + 2 non recolorable wood presets ● Bench Pillow: 1596 verts | 1754 faces >> Found under Misc decor | 69§ >>> Recolorable - 1 channel ● Console: 3083 verts | 2551 faces >> Found under Misc surfaces | 1300§ >>> Recolorable - 2 channels + 5 non recolorable wood presets >>>> 21 slots for Small/Medium/Large objects ● Doormats: 4 verts | 2 faces >> Found under Misc decor | 39§ >>> Not recolorable - 9 presets ● Double Door Arch: 8789 verts | 8213 faces >> Found under Arched doors| 1240§ >>> Recolorable - 3 channels + 5 non recolorable wood presets ● Rugs: 6 verts | 4 faces >> Found under Rugs | 409§ >>> Not recolorable - 8 presets ● Small Cabinet: 788 verts | 508 faces >> Found under Misc surfaces | 289§ >>> Recolorable - 2 channels + 3 non recolorable wood presets >>>> 15 slots for Small/Medium/Large objects ● Square Artwalls: 120 verts | 60 faces >> Found under Paintings and posters | 49§ >>> Recolorable - 1 channel | 12 different prints >>>> Can be moved up/down on wall ● Storage Cabinet: 2934 verts | 1764 faces >> Found under Misc decor| 1590§ >>> Recolorable - 2 channels + 6 non recolorable wood presets ● Wall Clocks: 370 verts | 360 faces >> Found under Misc decor | 69§ >>> Not recolorable - 8 presets >>>> Can be moved up/down on wall ● Wall Panel: 807 verts | 577 faces >> Found under Misc decor | 135§ >>> Recolorable - 1 channel + 2 non recolorable wood presets

W A L L P A P E R S - W O O D E N F L O O R S ● Parquet Floor: >> Found under Wood floor | 12§ >>> Not recolorable - 1 preset ● White Wood Floor: >> Found under Wood floor | 12§rug >>> Not recolorable - 1 preset ● White Wood Wallpaper: >> Found under Wallpaper | 42§ >>> Not recolorable - 1 preset

#thesims3 #sims3 #ts3cc #s3cc #4to3 #s4tos3 #sims4luxury #surfaces #paintings #buildmodefloors #buildmodearches #buildmodewalls #comfort #rugs

[queenmarytudor]

“These now serve one noble Queen,

But if power were in me,

For beauty, praise and virtues sake,

Each one a Queen should be.”  

- The Praise of Eight Ladies of Queen Mary’s* court, by Richard Edwards 

YOUNG LADIES OF MARY I’S COURT

JANE DORMER - Born in 1537, Jane Dormer was childhood playmates with King Edward VI. Jane joined Mary’s service prior to her accession, and upon becoming queen in 1553 became her closest maid, sleeping in her bedchamber with her, carving the queen’s meat and looking after the crown jewels. Mary was reluctant to let her marry, claiming there was no one worthy enough for her. 

Jane was described in a poem by courtier playwright Richard Edwards as “a darling, and of such lively hue, that who so feeds his eyes on her, may soon her beauty rue.” 

She eventually married Gomez Suarez, Duke of Feria, a close friend of Philip II of Spain in 1559, and moved to Spain later that year while pregnant with their first child. In Spain, Jane would maintain contact with Roman Catholics in England, and was seen as a champion of exiled English in Elizabeth’s reign; she also corresponded with four different Popes. After her husband’s death she took control of his estates, and was a candidate to take up the governorship of Flanders in the 1590′s.

MABEL BROWNE - Born in 1538, Mabel joined Mary’s household sometime prior to 1552. Due to her long standing service, Queen Mary attended Mabel’s wedding hosted in the Chapel Royal on 28th May 1554; according to historian Mary Everett Green, Mabel first met her husband Gerald Fitzgerald, 11th Earl of Kildare, at a masked ball. Shortly after the pair left for Ireland, where Mabel kept several priests in her household including a private chaplain named Nicholas Eustace. Nicholas was a relation of the Elizabethan rebel James Eustace, who mustered an Irish army with the help of Spanish troops to depose Queen Elizabeth; when this failed he fled to Spain. Mabel’s husband would be arrested in the Tower of London for years under suspicion of treason, which Mabel avoided despite keeping in touch with Jane Dormer.

MAGDALEN DACRE - Born in 1538, Magdalen Dacre was described by historian Sharon Turner as having been blonde, pretty and very tall; she allegedly stood a head above the other maids at court. According to  contemporary biographer Richard Smith, one day Magdalen was washing her face when Queen Mary’s husband Philip II of Spain “playfully reached in”. She then picked up a staff and “strongly stroke the King on the arm”.

Like Jane Dormer, she was one of the maids mentioned in Richard Edward’s poem, where she was described as “not dangerous, her talk is nothing coy, her noble stature may compare to Helen of Troy.”

On 15th July 1558, Magdalen married Anthony Browne, close friend of Queen Mary and former Master of the Horse to Philip. The ceremony took place at Saint James’s Palace and the queen was in attendance. During Elizabeth’s reign Magdalen kept an illegal chapel for 120 worshippers, and her home became locally known as “Little Rome”. She supposedly wore a coarse linen smock beneath her court dresses, and was once accused of recusancy. Despite this, Queen Elizabeth visited her and her husband at Cowdray Castle in 1591, where the priests were kept well hidden. 

*the poem is titled Queen Elizabeth’s ladies, but all the women mentioned served Mary and not her sister 

#i've had this in my drafts for years lol #anyway if no one's making content i'll make it myself! #mary tudor #mary i #tudor #history

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

The Model 1923 Thompson heavy submachine gun - a modified Model 1921 pattern Thompson. It fired a special elongated .45 Remington-Thompson cartridge (.45 ACP on the left, .45 Remington-Thompson on the right):

Combining the M1923's longer 14in barrel (as compared to its parent M1921's 10.5in or 12in barrel), a higher powder charge, and a heavier bullet (250gr vs 230gr for the standard .45 ACP) led the .45 Remington-Thompson to have an average muzzle energy of 1590 Joules, roughly between 5.45x39mm and 5.56x45mm in energy, with a longer effective range than a standard Thompson. The weapon was fed via 30 round box or 50 round drum magazines. Adding a more in-line stock for recoil control, an integral bipod, and a bayonet mount, the M1923 was trialed as a replacement/complement to the M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle. However, the US Army was satisfied with the M1918, so the M1923 was not adopted. Additional commercial sales were not forthcoming, but known plans were to market the M1923 in a variety of additional calibers, including standard .45 ACP, 9mm Parabellum, 9mm Mauser, and even .351 Winchester Self-loading.

#tommy gun #firearms #guns #obscure guns

[scotianostra]

On December 12th 1574, Anne of Denmark, the wife of King James VI, was born.

Anne was the second child, and second girl, of Frederik the Second and his queen, Sophie of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. The couple were initially married by proxy, which means on paper without them being present, and Anne was finding it difficult to make the journey across stormy seas, so James set about fetching her himself and upon reaching and presenting himself to her “in boots and all” and kissed her, in the Scottish fashion!

They were formally married the 23rd of November 1859 in Oslo before returning to Scotland. On the 17th of May she was crowned queen of Scotland. The ceremony lasted seven hours and , Anne’s dress was opened during it and “s "a bonny quantity of oil” was poured upon her breast and arm. James was at first infatuated by his bride, but later the couple often disagreed, though in the early years of their marriage, James seems always to have treated Anne with patience and affection.

Although Anne had been brought up in the Lutheran religion, she converted Roman Catholicism during the 1590s. In Basilikon Doron, written 1597-1598, James described marriage as “the greatest earthly felicitie or miserie, that can come to a man! Nothing changes with marriage through the centuries eh! lol

Despite James’ alleged homosexual tendencies, for which there is no definitive proof, Anne gave birth to their first child, Henry Frederick Stuart on 19 February 1594. She was given no say in the care and upbringing of her son who on James insistence, was placed in the custody of John Erskine, Earl of Mar at Stirling Castle.

Distressed at this situation she mounted a campaign for custody of her son, which James resisted, leading to further friction between the couple. Prince Henry was followed by a daughter, Elizabeth Stuart in 1596, then Margaret in 1598, who died at fourteen months old, a second son, Charles, later Duke of York (and Charles I), was born at Dunfermline in 1600, Charles was at first a sickly child and it was not thought likely that he would survive. Then came Robert, Duke of Kyntyre, born in 1601, who died at the age of four months. She didn’t have it easy in childbiirth, after eventualy gaining custody of Henry she gave birth to a daughter, Mary in 1605 and later her last child, Sophia in 1607, both these children failed to survive to adulthood, Mary died at two years and Sophia at a day old. Mary and Sophia are buried at Westminster Abbey.

The infant mortality rate was high in the seventeenth century, a fact of life that not even royalty could elude. After narrowly surviving the birth and death of her last child, Sophia, in 1607, Anne’s decision to have no more children resulted in widening the gulf between the couple. Queen Anne died aged 44 on 2 March 1619, of a dangerous form of dropsy. An inquest discovered Anne to be "much wasted within, specially her liver”.

James did not attend his wife’s funeral, claiming illness, his symptoms, according to Sir Theodore de Mayerne, included “fainting, sighing, dread, incredible sadness…” Anne was buried in the south aisle of the Henry VII Chapel, Westminster Abbey, on 13 May 1619.

#scandinavia #scotland #denmark #Queen consort #The Stuarts

[imsociallyanxiousgetoverit]

if my math is mathing

26.5 hr = 1590 min

4 min = 1 day

1590 min = 397.5 days

397.5 days = 1 year 32 days

(our time) (their time)

then from the beginning to end of Ocarina of Time

Link (and we) only consciously experience(s) 1 year and 32 days

#I did all this hyucking work (it was very hard for me to stop getting numbers mixed up sigh) just to better write a hyucking fanfiction for #linked universe #lu time #loz #oot #loz oot

[a-saturn-girl]

Here some Lockwood and Co quizzes that I found:

https://www.buzzfeed.com/earthtoeleanore/which-lockwood-co-character-are-you-9g2w5x3z2i

https://uquiz.com/quiz/qfF4Oj?p=425915

https://uquiz.com/quiz/NhnlM7/what-is-your-main-psychic-talent-from-lockwood-co

https://uquiz.com/Result/static/lite/XpWdPA/4254852/personality/4461214?rqid=1098155&ref=sidebar_search_result&s=5d6ee47b-1590-4edd-8435-43c5947f7879

https://uquiz.com/quiz/jj5nWX/whos-your-agency-in-lockwood-and-co

#renew lockwood and co #save lockwood and co #bring back lockwood and co #lockwood and co #lockwood co #ParamountSaveLockwood

[gabessquishytum]

babe help i cannot stop thinking about destruction and trans hob. like??? i don't think they'd necessarily stay together, olly's still serving his function at that point so he goes where he's drawn, and hob wants to stick to england and places he can travel to by non-magical means, thanks (which destruction is secretly so grateful for. it means he doesn't have to explain why he will not, under any circumstances, bring hob with him when he moves on). they don't have any kind of formal arrangement -- hob lives his life with the explicit understanding that olly is allowed and encouraged to wander in and out of it as he will.

it's going great. sometimes they spend months together, sometimes they're apart for a few decades, they very much love each other (and they fuck severely when they're together) but they have their own lives. and then destruction comes by in the 1590's. it's one of those times that it's been a few decades since they've seen each other, and hob's so excited to introduce olly to his family. eleanor's pregnant with their second child (her second child by her maid and long-time lover, technically, who's a lovely woman with a lovely cock) and she's delighted to meet hob's friend and lover who she's heard so much about. robyn adores olly instantly. olethros takes hob to bed and they have the gentlest, most loving sex they've ever had, and in the morning olly's already long gone.

hob doesn't see him again for well over a century, until the early 1700s when hob's finally getting back on his feet. they have their first real fight then -- they've argued plenty over the centuries, but they've never fought, not really. not like this. hob's very much lashing out but he's feeling hurt and betrayed and abandoned, considering that he's been left alone when he desperately needed someone to be there for him. after a lot of arguing in circles olly eventually admits that he stayed away by choice -- first because he was terrified he would bring destruction to hob's life when hob was finally, obviously happy. and then because he was convinced that he did, that one night in hob's home was enough to set off everything that went wrong, and he couldn't face hob after that.

it never occurred to hob to blame him, of course. it never does, even after olly finally fully explains the whole "personification of destruction" thing. hob absolutely refuses to blame him. (if anything, he blames himself. after all, if he'd just gotten over his discomfort with the idea and carried their second child himself, eleanor wouldn't have died so young. if he's going to blame anyone it isn't going to be olly)

god this is long and i don't even have any smut to add i'm just. i am suffering. i am, as the kids say, Going Through It.

-🐈‍⬛

I’ve read this over and over and it’s just so lovely and so soft. I love these two so much, the way they compliment each other and change and grow is so beautiful. The thought of Olly deliberately staying away from Hob is so heartbreaking but honestly I can absolutely see that he would feel such guilt and responsibility for Hob’s pain. When they meet again he lets Hob shout and scream at him, absorbs all of the insults thrown at him, but it just seems to make Hob more angry because Olly isn’t responding, he’s just standing there and taking it. Hob ends up hitting him and this time Olly does react - he can’t help it, he’s still struggling against his nature. Hob ends up slammed into a wall and that’s when Olethros finally breaks down and the apologies come flooding out.

It’s the first step for Hob to finally start healing from everything he’s been through. Olly is finally holding him and loving him unconditionally, and it actually feels like Hob might be able to have a future again. Finally.

#🐈‍⬛ anon #the sandman #hoblethros #hobstruction #trans hob

[piratesgiftexchange]

The Fish Men Go to Therapy

by beemovieerotica, for @depressedvillainobsession

PROMPT: “The crew try to make Davy Jones go to therapy (can do a modern AU or have one of the crew be the unlicensed therapist lol)”

WORD COUNT: 5,218

“It’s a crying shame, what happened with Eugenia and all that.”

“Rest in peace, you old gal.”

“Too true, lads.  Though, could it have ended any other way, what with her being eighty-two, and Jones being—sod it, how old are we now?”

The crew men of the Flying Dutchman were gathered in the shade of a palm tree on the beach, a light breeze in the air, the waves lapping the shore.  Another cursed day in the Caribbean for the terrible fish men.  They looked down at their unique assemblage of digits and began a fruitless attempt to count off the years.  Maccus’s crab leg fingers clicked as he mouthed the numbers.

“One hundred and fifty…sss…seev—six?” Penrod asked, his antennae flicking in circles. 

“Oh my God, were you a 90’s baby?” Clanker asked.

“You too?  Damn!  Who else remembers the 1590’s?”

The group began chattering excitedly, caught up in nostalgia for decades gone by; but then from off over the sand, from the great cursed ship that was beached upon the shore, came an indignant, terrible shout.

“Get back to work!” Davy Jones’ distant voice echoed upon the wind.  “This isn’t a holiday!”

That much was true: it wasn’t anybody’s vacation.  No, the Dutchman had been stranded upon the shore—a loophole to Calypso’s prohibition against them ever “making port”—for the express purpose of removing a century-and-a-half worth of barnacles and gunk from the underside of the giant ship.

It had been a long time coming.  It was just that no one had ever wanted to do it.

The ship was disgusting.

Penrod snapped his claw in agitation.  “You heard the man.  Let’s get to it.”

The group groaned and sighed and made their way back to the hull where the other half of the crew was still toiling away, scraping off sea life.  By virtue of being practically sea life themselves, the crew had a paternal attitude toward the little creatures they removed from the ship.  It was incredibly slow work, taking the time to be gentle with each little barnacle, placing them into buckets to be safely transported back in the sea.  Jones hated it, but the crew wouldn’t stop.  Angler was currently enraptured with a tiny starfish in the palm of his hand, and he let out a giddy chuckle, the light on his lure flickering.

“This one looks like you,” Palifico said.  He turned to Hadras with a hermit crab pinched between his fingers, holding it up in the light.  Hadras leaned in very close to squint at it in judging appraisal, and then he let out a scoff. 

“My shell’s nicer,” he muttered.

The work proceeded, and the crew was not concerned with the time.  Because, truly, they had all the time in the world.  It was sometime near sunset when only a fraction of the ship had been cleared of hitchhikers that Jones suddenly appeared leaning out of the wood of the hull itself.  Ghostly men that they were, all could pass freely through the matter of ships, sails, and sea. 

“How far along is it?” Jones asked, the upper half of his body coming out at an angle, the wood warping around his torso.  He struggled to turn his head enough to see along the side of the ship without losing balance and falling out.

“It’s great,” Maccus said hurriedly, striding over.  “Peachy.  We’re running like clockwork, we are.”

Jones’ gaze was still fixed upon the ship, his eyes narrowed, assessing the hull as much as he could from that precarious angle.  The crew waited with bated breath for his verdict.  A shadow passed over Jones’ face: he didn’t like what he saw.

“Nine hours, and this is all you’ve done?” he cried.  He slammed his crab claw into the side of the ship beside himself, sending a reverberating thud throughout.  “None of you will rest tonight.  No man will be allowed back on board until sunrise when every barnacle is removed from my blasted ship.”

With one final squuooik from his octopus lips, Jones receded into the hull, the wood popping behind him.

The crew rolled their eyes toward the heavens and Maccus in equal judgment.  Maccus held up his hands in innocence.  “What?” he asked.

But he knew the answer from the faces on his men: it was the first mate’s job to keep everyone in line.  To ensure the conduit between captain and crew was smooth as always—that the captain was never too unreasonable, that the crew was never too unruly.  But lately, Maccus had been doing very little of either.  Something was amiss.

“You’ve gone soft, Maccus,” Palifico said.

“You need to talk to Jones,” Angler muttered.

“You’ve got to be mean to us,” Ogilvey chimed in.  “Teach us what’s what.  Kick us in the shins.  Steal Hadras’s head.  Shoot Penrod out a cannon.”

It was Clanker who came up beside Maccus and rested a hand on the silent man’s shoulder.  He squeezed him there with a firm understanding and looked deep into his eyes.

“Go to a goddamn doctor.”

The crew frowned in confusion. 

It had gone unremarked upon by all except Clanker that Maccus had been wearing a shirt for the past few weeks.  The crew would occasionally try on clothing taken during raids of other ships—they had fuckall else to do—and Maccus’s shirt-wearing had been understood as just another temporary fashion experiment.  But Clanker had prodded and pressed him, and even followed him when he wasn’t aware—and in the dark beside Maccus’s hammock, that’s when he knew—that’s when he saw the first mate’s terrible secret.

“Behold!” Clanker cried, and with a theatrical flourish he completely ripped Maccus’s shirt from his body.

Maccus instinctively threw his arms over his chest like a blushing maiden, though there was nothing to be covered there, for the real problem was on his back.  There, where his spine erupted into long crab legs, was the problem.

Oh, but they already knew about the crab legs; he’d had those for a century.  What they hadn’t seen before was how every single leg was curled in tight, like fingers balled up into a fist—rigid, unmoving, unable to open.

“Holy hell, Maccus…” Penrod breathed, scuttling around for a better look.  He gingerly tapped one of Maccus’s spine-legs with his claw, and the thing didn’t respond.  “Did you molt this year?”

“Yes, I molted,” Maccus snapped back.  He grabbed the tatters of his shirt from Clanker’s hand, and he struggled for a moment to distinguish the arm holes and the head holes and the new holes from one other before giving up with a hiss.  He balled up the shirt and chucked it into the sand.  “I’m fine,” he said.

The whole crew began tutting in judgment, and the tutting continued for some time.  They seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to make that sound at Maccus, more than anything. 

“You sit yourself down,” Clanker began, and he bodily shoved Maccus down onto the sand.  “You take a rest, leave the cleaning to us, and then we handle this all on Tortuga.”

Maccus looked up with dread in his eyes.  “What’s on Tortuga?”

Clanker replied with a grin.

——

The establishment owned by the mysterious Signora Isabella, purveyor of fortune, omens, and occasionally shrimp soup, rested on a lone hill on the island of Tortuga, surrounded by spooky trees.

Maccus lifted a finger at the strange vegetation.  “Are trees supposed to look like that?” he asked.

They were not.  In her boundless mystery, the Signora had trimmed every tree in a thirty foot radius so that only the branches facing toward her house remained.  What resulted were several dozen lopsided trees, weighed down and bent at the trunks, like so many bowing devotees gathered in praise of her.

“It’s a bit much,” Penrod said.

The trusted mates continued up the hill and arrived at the front door, which had been painted a deep red in strange, incomprehensible sigils.  Angler brought his hand up to trace the symbols.

“What do you think it says?” he whispered fearfully. 

“It says Remove your fucking shoes.  In Italian,” a voice called.

Signora Isabella, draped in a robe the colors of twilight, emerged from around the side of the house holding a broom, followed by two chickens.  Her graying hair was tied up in a bun, sweat flecked across her face, clearly having just been interrupted in the midst of some urgent chores.  She shooed the birds away and gave a hacking cough before spitting in the dirt, wiped her mouth with her hand and then opened the front door for the crew.

“Get inside, make yourselves at home,” she muttered.

There were two things about the Signora that the crew noticed first: one, she did not seem at all Italian—her accent was something adjacent to Maccus’s.  And two, she was completely unbothered by the arrival of the monster crew at her doorstep.  The crew decided not to address the first issue, and they gladly stepped inside…barefoot, of course.

The interior of the Signora’s house was riddled with clutter: it looked like she was both in the midst of spring cleaning while simultaneously adding more odds and ends to the mix.  Books, bottles, pots and pans, blankets, and even a giant cauldron sat in the middle of the floor, hot charcoal beneath it.  Penrod cautiously neared the bubbling broth and peeked one eye over the edge.

“Were you expecting us?” Clanker asked.

Signora Isabella turned around on her heel, her pointy-toed slippers squeaking on the floor.  “No.  Why?”

“Oh,” Clanker paused.  “I thought, you know, because you didn’t seem surprised at all about us showing up.  Given how we look.”

The woman—who on scrupulous examination couldn’t really have been more than forty, though they had been expecting a wizened old crone—cast her gaze over the cursed men with tight lips.  A tense silence followed.

“I’ve seen worse,” she finally said.

The crew exchanged bewildered stares.

“Right, let’s get to it.”  She swept what appeared to be balled-up dog fur off a chair and sat down with a sniff.   “What brings you here?”

Wordlessly, the crew turned to Maccus.  A moment passed before he carefully removed the shawl he had thrown over his shoulders and back, and he revealed the curled-up crab legs, as stiff as if they’d been boiled.

“By the stars and moon,” Isabella gasped.  She rose from her chair and hurried over, reaching out a hand toward Maccus’s back.  Maccus remained still, and he allowed her to tap her fingers along his back, testing the pliancy of the legs, prodding the skin around where they emerged from his spine.  The crew watched as she made her assessment, and she leaned back, picking at her lip in thought. 

“I’ve seen this before,” she murmured mysteriously. 

The crew reeled around in disbelief.  “What?” Penrod snapped.

“Oh, sorry,” Isabella cleared her throat.  “Of course I’ve never seen it.  Force of habit.  I just say that to make the customers feel better.”

The crew couldn’t blame her for this.  But she clapped her hands and rubbed them together, a new enthusiasm seizing her.  “What you’re suffering from is something that we like to call ennui.”

Maccus tilted his great hammer head.  “What’s that?”

“It’s a French word,” Angler muttered from a far corner, holding a cat-shaped tea kettle in his hands.

Maccus let out a cry of anguish.  “I don’t want no French disease!” he wailed. 

“It’s not a disease, it’s a state of being,” Isabella cut in.  “You’re suffering from a terrible thing.  You feel listless, sad, untethered—without a true place in the world.  Nothing is enough to fill the empty corners of your life.  You seek joy and the spark of existence but find only meaningless drudgery.”  She paused.  Maccus’s eyes had grown unfocused, and he was staring off into some unfathomable distance, his lips slightly parted.  “Do I have that right?” she finished.

Maccus blinked once.  “Nahh,” he said, and he let out a snort of laughter.  “Doesn’t sound like me.”

Clanker was the only one still truly present for the conversation, as the rest of the mates were poking around the psychic’s home, uncovering all kinds of bewildering treasures.  Angler had found a dining platter with a gold engraving of a giant penis on it, which he did not seem to want to part with, and Penrod was subtly dipping various items into the bubbling cauldron to see if it might melt them.

Clanker looked at Maccus with mixed condemnation and pity.  “You’re not even going to consider it?” he asked cuttingly.

Maccus shrugged.  “I dunno.  Depends on what the cure is.”

The two looked to Isabella, who frowned in thought.  “It’s a bit tricky,” she began, tapping one toe.  “Usually I would recommend someone go out and see the world, but—well, you’ve already done that.  What I think you need,” she said, and the corners of her mouth flitted up, “is a proper spa day.”

All the crew members in the house turned with their jaws open, gasping in excitement.  Angler almost dropped his dining platter. 

“Can we?  Can we, Maccus?” Penrod asked, scuttling over.  “Can we please have a spa day?”

“I do provide group discounts,” Isabella whispered.

Maccus let out a growl, eyeing the psychic and then his eager crew mates. 

Jones had been driving them a bit mad.  Too much work, too many unreasonable demands—and Maccus hadn’t been doing his job of tempering the captain’s anger.  Why he hadn’t been standing up to Jones at all—why, whenever the captain spoke to him, Maccus could only stare at the other man’s face, his heart booming in his chest, his throat gone dry—was a question not even he fully grasped.

“Alright then,” Maccus grunted.  “We’ll do it.”

The crew let out joyous cheers.  Relaxation was on its way.

——

Six crew mates sat in a small round hut filled with steam by the Tortuga river, with nary a care in the world.  The men had wet cloths draped over their heads and little glasses of fruity drinks in their hands.  Isabella was tending the fire, pouring cold water over hot stones to send hot fizzing air wafting up toward the rafters.  Maccus peeled up the edge of the cloth from over his good eye and squinted through the mist at the rest of the group. 

They’d had to rope Palifico and Hadras into it as well, as the discount was valid for up to six: Palifico’s coral arms were dripping like a tree in a rainstorm, and he shook them off, sending spray flying all about.  Hadras had removed his head entirely to let it rest on his knees, and he was now polishing his shell with his cloth while humming a tune—both seemed to be enjoying the unexpected day off.  Angler, Clanker, and Penrod were half-asleep in their utter relaxation, slumped upon their benches, and Maccus was—well, worried as always.  The rest of the crew back on the ship (and Jones himself) didn’t know any of this was going on.  Didn’t need to know.

Maccus strained his neck to peer back over his shoulder to try and assess the situation on his spine.  The legs were slightly twitchy.

“More steam,” Clanker mumbled.

Maccus was about to protest, his skin already feeling too hot, but he figured the discomfort was all part of the healing process.  He needed to get back into top shape before Jones realized anything was amiss.  Just the thought of disappointing Jones in any way—God, he felt a constriction in his heart. 

Isabella stoked the fire, and the hut continued to grow hotter.

“Hoo, I feel like a boiled oyster,” Hadras said.

Angler let out a snorting chuckle, and the other men shifted their lounging positions to get more comfortable.  All of them except Penrod.  Maccus leaned forward in his seat and peered at the little man. 

Penrod had not stirred for the last five minutes; Maccus had assumed the man had drifted off to sleep.  But Penrod’s mouth hung open with only the slightest flutter of breath from it, and his claws dangled limp at his sides. 

His claws…

His very, strangely…red claws?

Maccus leapt to his feet and let out a scream.  “We’re cooking Penrod!”

The healthy green-blue sheen on Penrod’s whole carapace had begun to turn red—a crustacean on the verge of boiling—and a last weak gasp escaped his parched throat. 

The crew sprang to his rescue, shouting, shrieking, tearing across the hut to fling open the door flaps and let the oppressively hot air out.  Isabella panicked and dumped a full bucket of cold water on the limp shrimp man before Clanker picked him up in one arm and raced out toward the stream.

The crew followed, breathless and near tears.

Clanker lay the shrimp man down in the cool water, the sunlight glinting along the surface, the dark river stones smooth beneath Penrod’s back.  He gently held Penrod’s head up above the surface to breathe as the rest of the man’s carapace sizzled beneath the rejuvenating, life-giving balm of island spring water.  A long silence passed as the crew watched and waited—and the most distressed of all was Maccus.

Penrod’s eyes fluttered open.

Maccus fell to his knees in relief, his face wet with tears.  He was sobbing openly now, his arms clutched to his chest.  Penrod reached out a quivering claw and laid it tenderly against Maccus’s cheek.

“Go…to…therapy,” Penrod wheezed.

——

Jones couldn’t care less that one of his men had almost been boiled alive. 

The trusted mates brought Penrod back to the ship—carried between Clanker and Angler on a blanket—and they resigned themselves to telling the captain the whole truth.  There was no way to really get around explaining what had happened.  And they had expected Jones to be outraged at the near loss of someone who had served him for over a hundred years, to fly into one of his signature tantrums, to threaten to whip the crew before promptly forgetting where the whip was and then stomping off to his cabin to brood.  But instead…he grew very quiet. 

He looked at Penrod lying like a wet rat in the blanket, his brows furrowed in displeasure.  He gave the smallest hm of acknowledgment, and then he turned and walked away.

The crew was baffled: Maccus most of all.

The first mate followed after him to the bow of the ship where the captain fished around in his coat for his smoking pipe.  He was completely nonplussed.  Jones lit the tobacco and puffed silently, the smoke rising around his face like hot steam.

Maccus clenched his trembling hands.  He had to just come out and say it.  “I’m not well,” he squeaked.

Jones raised a brow and looked back over his shoulder at Maccus.  “You’re unwell?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Maccus said.  He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder toward his spine.  “My legs are all scrunched up.  They won’t move.  I’ve got a bad case of the ennui.”

Jones swiveled fully around and stared at Maccus.  “You’ve contracted a French disease?”

“Tragically,” Maccus replied.

Jones’ eyes flickered over Maccus’s shaking hands.  Was that a flash of sympathy?  “And what’s the cure?”

It was at this point that Isabella came up to the bow—she had apparently followed them all the way down the hill to ensure that her customer had not died—and she now stepped up beside the two and cleared her throat importantly.  Jones regarded her with undisguised suspicion.

“An acquaintance of mine practices the noble art of bone cracking,” Isabella began.

“Who is this?” Jones asked, gesturing his claw at the woman.

“That’s the psychic who almost boiled Penrod alive.”

“Chef,” Isabella corrected.  “I’m the psychic chef who almost boiled him alive.”

“That’s far worse,” Maccus muttered.

“His name is Doctor Stevens, and he achieves excellent results,” Isabella went on.  She produced a leaflet from her pocket bearing a middle aged man’s likeness along with an address and an extensive list of services.  Maccus’s eyes fell upon the one just beneath “bone correction”: therapy.

He glanced sideways at Jones.  And maybe it was a projection, or maybe it was the truest realization he’d ever had, but he saw in Jones’ sour octopus face the essence of a man who truly, desperately, one-hundred-years-ago needed therapy.  Why had they never tried that?

“Let’s get the doctor on the ship,” Maccus said.

——

Dr Stevens arrived not a minute behind schedule on the deck of the Flying Dutchman with his little medical bag in tow.  He was a tall, balding man with patient eyes and a crook in his spine—Maccus wondered if that was a bad sign for a doctor of a particular problem to have that particular problem.  He decided not to think about it.

“Good afternoon, gentleman,” the doctor said, giving a nod to the crew.  “I’m here to see…” he paused, and he drew out a little slip of paper from his pocket with something smudged upon it.  “Devi Johns?”

Jones swaggered over toward the doctor, snorting in disapproval.  “You’re here to see the first mate, not me,” he corrected.

“No no,” Stevens said, flapping the paper gently, “this says it was a double booking for the captain and first mate.  A two for one special.”

Jones frowned, and he opened his mouth to protest just as Maccus hurried over.  “Yep!” Maccus called out.  “Right this way, my good sir.”

He ushered the man toward Jones’ great cabin, and with an affronted blink, Jones stalked after them.  Maccus thought Jones might put up a fight, but the captain said nothing, merely glaring between them.  Although he was definitely not pleased to have his living space commandeered for the purpose of this visit, he was—surprisingly—tolerating it.  It was for Maccus’s well-being, and this, he seemed to care about a great deal.

The door shut behind them and the doctor wasted no time in beginning to clear off Jones’ great oaken desk in the center of the room for his purposes.  Jones let out a stutter and promptly took over stuffing his personal belongings into drawers.  Maccus caught a glimpse of numerous drafts of letters, the script flowery and effusive—addressed to whom, he had no idea.

“Please,” the doctor gestured to Maccus, “lie face down.”

With a glance to Jones, Maccus clambered up onto the desk and carefully lowered himself face down, his spine legs curling in upon each other like hands folded in prayer.  The doctor then pointed Jones toward a desk chair.

“You may take a seat,” he said. 

Jones settled down with a sigh in the full belief that he was merely waiting his turn for this unconventional bone cracking session.  Which—if he was being totally honest—didn’t sound all that bad.  He’d had a time of it, getting around on his pointy leg, which did no favors for his lower back.  He watched in keen curiosity as the doctor started on Maccus.

“So.”

The doctor ran the edge of his palm down the center of Maccus’s back, and the legs crackled in reply.  He let out a low huh, shrugged, and continued on unbothered. 

“Tell me about yourself, Captain Jones.”

The doctor brought his other hand up and began to knead the painfully tense muscles of Maccus’s back, to which Maccus let out a sad, puppy-dog cry.  He resisted the urge to dig his saw-like teeth into the edge of the desk.

Though Jones was normally allergic to small talk, he was aware of the necessity for good relations with one’s doctor…if one wanted good treatment.  He sighed and spoke in a mutter.  “I was born a very long time ago,” he began, “in Scotland, a century and a half ago, and now I am still alive, lingering on, with a crew and a ship with no purpose.”

An echoing crraack! sounded from Maccus’s back, and he let out a hooo in relief.  The doctor had pressed hard on the back of one of the man’s ribs, pushing it back into its rightful place. 

“Purpose,” the doctor said, not looking up from his work as he addressed Jones.  He tested the flesh on the back of Maccus’s elbows.  “Have you met many men with purpose?”

Jones frowned, his eyes not leaving Maccus’s ever-increasingly relieved face.  “Elaborate.”

“Meaning—” the doctor jerked Maccus’s left shoulder back, and another crriick sounded out, “—is there any man you’ve come across, who has such a clear and plain sense of purpose, that he can in every moment see the path toward the end of his days?”

The other shoulder now, this time louder.  Jones licked his lips.  “Such certainty does not exist,” he replied.  “No man can anticipate where fate will find him.”

“Then why expect the very thing of yourself?”

Maccus was in a state of bliss, every muscle cramp loosening under the doctor’s skilled hands.  He had begun to drool on the desk.

Jones considered the doctor’s words.  “I had purpose,” he began.  “I was the ferryman.  But with all that—that abandonment that followed, I am merely a wandering wraith.”  His voice dropped to a murmur.  “Only love may free me.”

“Ooohh, baby, do that again,” Maccus purred.  The doctor had cracked Maccus’s neck, relieving his perpetually stiff vertebrae from all that strain of holding up the weight of his terrible head. 

“Love, hm?” the doctor repeated.  “Love is not so difficult.”

This, neither Maccus nor Jones could believe.  Both swiveled their heads around in unison—to Maccus’s great surprise, he found his neck much more flexible than before.

“Love is literally the most difficult thing in the world,” Maccus said.

“Love is the cruelest, most unforgiving thing any person undertakes,” Jones added.

The doctor chuckled softly and reached into his medical bag to moisten his hands with oil.  “It’s very interesting how your skin is smooth in one direction and rough in the other,” he remarked.  “First patient I’ve had that might give me blisters.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Maccus grunted.  “What do you think you know about love?”

The doctor let out a breathy, longing-filled sigh.  He stood contemplating for a moment, rubbing his palms together, staring off toward the algae-covered back windows of the cabin where faint beams of sunlight still filtered through.  “Falling in love is oh so easy,” he finally said.  “But invoking that love…calling it into existence, taking the other person by the hand…well, there are men who would rather go off to war and face down a row of cannons than do that very thing.”

Jones and Maccus both went very quiet. 

Maccus’s heart had begun to beat very hard, and he wondered whom Jones was thinking about.  Calypso, probably.  He chanced a glance in Jones’ direction and saw the captain staring back—they both abruptly looked away, embarrassed—but something had stirred there.

“Deep breath out,” the doctor said.

He jabbed the base of his palm into Maccus’s lower back, and Maccus let out a howl. 

Jones stood up, a great concern washing over his face.  “That will be enough,” he said sternly.  “Do not push him beyond his limits.  I need him—we need him,” he stammered.  Another furtive glance at Maccus’s face.  “Our first mate is essential to the proper sailing of our ship.”

The doctor gave an abiding shrug and wiped his hands off on his trousers.  “Very well.”  He clipped shut his medical bag and lifted it, ready to head out the door.

“Hold, are you not giving the same treatment to me?” Jones asked as Maccus climbed off the desk.

The doctor tilted his head.  “No,” he said.  “The first mate was booked for bone adjustments.  You were booked for therapy.  Though, I can’t say we made very much progress.”

A pause.  The doctor’s gaze passed over the two men who were now standing side by side, and the corner of his lip twitched.  “Or perhaps we did.”

Jones and Maccus looked at each other.  And it was Jones who noticed first that the crab legs on Maccus’s back were moving once more, stretching out like so many spider legs, but now they were reaching toward a very particular person.

“Ah,” Jones cleared his throat.  “Maccus, your legs…”

Maccus looked back over his shoulder to see the tips of his crab legs brushing at the shoulder of Jones’ coat.  “Oh, apologies, excuse me, captain—” he took two long steps back and crossed his arms over his chest.  “There we go,” he said. 

They stared at each other across this little, forced distance.  Maccus’s crab legs were now arched over his shoulders in Jones’ direction, and neither had yet noticed that Jones’ entire beard was reaching out in reply.  It was like watching a spider and a squid try to hold hands.

The doctor gave a knowing smile and ducked his head.  “I’ll send you an invoice later,” he whispered, and he trotted out the door. 

Jones’ face had turned a deep green, and Maccus couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him that color before.  No, it happened when Jones was playing his music, thinking about her—

He folded his hands and began twiddling his thumbs in anxiety, his body erupting in a cold sweat.

Jones opened his mouth to speak, and the whole world seemed to stand still.

“I…” Jones began.

Maccus’s head was spinning.  He didn’t know what he would do if he heard it.

“I think that I…”

His knees began to shake.  Oh God.  Oh Christ.

“Maccus, I think I love—”

No.

“—I love my job.”

Maccus felt his entire existence go dark.

Jones went on, oblivious, a deep melancholy overtaking his tone.  “I miss aiding the souls of those lost at sea,” he said.  “I miss the purpose it gave me, the glimpses into the wellspring of life, crossing the veil to the other side where the spirits pass on.  Do you miss it too?”

Maccus steadied himself with a hand against the desk.  “Yep,” he wheezed.  “Miss it.  So much.”

He felt like he was going to die.

Jones looked to the dim light streaming in from beyond and slowly nodded his head.  “We will return to the care-taking of the dead,” he breathed.  “You and I, in service together.”

Maccus nodded vigorously, hoping that if he made his face a blur it would hide all the tears.  “Sounds swell,” he squeaked.  “Just excellent.”

Jones turned to walk out the door, and as he passed Maccus, he placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.  Maccus felt a sob catch in his throat.

“You’re the best first mate a man could ever have,” Jones said.

And as the captain left the room, the door shutting behind him, Maccus finally fell to his knees and let out a strangled, kicked-dog wail.

“Why are men—” he cried into the ship’s creaking, uncaring walls, “—so FUCKING stupid?”The Dutchman, in her ancient, silent wisdom, had no reply for the heartbroken man.

#pirates of the caribbean #potc #fanfiction #maccus #submission #round 5

[retrosofa]

This week let's take a look at Cutie Honey episode 6: "The Black Scissors Shred Dreams."

Screenwriter: Masaki Tsuji

Art Director: Eiji Ito

Animation Director: Kazuhiko Udagawa

Director: Tomoharu Katsumata

The shot where Honey is looking up at the sky thinking about her father was originally animated differently. The original version zoomed out further and had Honey's expression changing. For whatever reason, this was changed on the home video releases.

Scissors Land is most likely a parody of the renowned Disneyland. It could also be a reference to the more Japanese familiar Nara Dreamland. 

One of the first establishing shots of Scissors Land’s popular attraction, the “Coffin House'' shows a hallway full of ghoulish hands reaching out from the walls. This is a nod to Roman Palanski’s 1965 horror film, Repulsion, namely the iconic scene in which the lead character Carol (played by Catherine Deneuve) walks down a hallway while male hands reach out for her from inside the walls.

Later in the episode we see a collection of wax mannequins modeled after historical figures, celebrities and popular fictional characters. Among them are The Beatles, Marylin Monroe, Napoleon Bonaparte, Tarzan, Medusa and others.

Dirty Marry’s hilarious snot-nosed design is based on early artwork for Zuuko Kazami, who would’ve been Seiji’s little sister (in place of Junpei). Zuuko's design had her wearing a diaper, a bib, and Japanese styled sandals called geta. The name “Dirty Marry” probably comes from the 1971 Clint Eastwood film, Dirty Harry. Dirty Marry was voiced by Yoneko Matsukane, who would go on to play Jeanne de la Motte in The Rose of Versailles. 

Mastodon is a wet nurse, which is a woman who breast feeds and cares for another person’s child. This is especially funny when you consider “mastodon” means “breast-tooth” or “nipple-tooth.” Her name also refers to her large body size. Mastodon was voiced by Kimie Nakajima, who did minor voice work in Tomorrow’s Joe, The Gutsy Frog, and other series from the 60’s to 80’s. 

The Principality of Toreador is a fictional place. “Toreador” is the word for a bullfighter.

The style of Honey’s large x-ray vision glasses are known as “dragonfly glasses.” Despite being a handy gadget, Honey only uses them once more in episode 14, where they have red frames instead of black.

Danbei introduces himself by singing a well-known Japanese folk song called Kuroda Bushi or “The Song of Kuroda.” The song originated in Fukuoka City during the 1590’s and is often sung during drinking parties known as nomikai or at karaoke.

There seems to be a deleted scene from this episode. The back of the second laser disc features a screenshot of Honey (disguised as Marie Antoinette) that does not appear in the actual episode.

#cutie honey #cutey honey #trivia #go nagai

[pozartaa]

13.12.23 UTRZYMANIE WAGI dzień 287

Zjedzone: 1590 kcal ( limit +/-2100 kcal)

Bez liczenia: 29 migdałów/ batonik 'BeRaw' Apple Pie Dark Chocolate Cover 40g (Rossmann)/ kisiel 'Dr.Oetker' Słodka Chwila owocowy duet jabłko & gruszka ok 210 g

Hej pojechałam rano do Janek po kurtkę dojazd zajął mi w obie strony 1.5h a same zakupy 10 minut. Weszłam do Juli i wybrałam kurtkę o kroju identycznym jak ta stara tylko mniejszą. Nie mieli M wzięłam L i to widać - trochę odstaje. Ale będzie miejsce na ciepłe swetry.

Btw w S tez weszłam... tylko S miało dla mnie rękawy do łokcia i piło pod pachami.

Szczerze nie miałam humoru ani chęci na łażenie po sklepach. Z kolorem muszę się nieco oswoić bo jest dla mnie troszkę za jasny. Ale dam jakaś naszywkę z pokemonem i będzie już swojska - moja, najmojsza.

Wiecie że ja mam teraz w dupie jaki rozmiar mam na metce. Byle było wygodne. Kiedyś wzięłabym pewnie to S... Bo przecież się zapięłam z luzem. 🙄 (Co z tego że mam prawie 180 cm wzrostu a ta kurtka jest na osobę mniejsza ode mnie o 2 głowy. Znacie to?!)

***

Dziś był dzień poświęcony pracom plastycznym. Domowe przedszkole normalnie 😆. Nie mogę się niestety pochwalić bo to niespodzianka... 😁🤫. Na szczęście nic nie musiałam gotować tylko papu na bieżąco. A wieczorem wypad z koleżankami na pizzę której nie jadłam to nie jest mój dzień pizzy.

Wzięłam sałatkę Cezar z sosem podanym oddzielnie. Zawsze proszę o sos oddzielnie bo to już nawet nie o kalorie chodzi (choć w przypadku tej ilości którą mi podano na talerzyku, sami widzicie - nie chciałabym w tym utopić całej sałatki. Zjadłam może 1/4 tego sosu...może mniej )

Wiem z doświadczenia że sosami zakrywa się w sałatkach to, co brzydkie, a tak musieli się przyłożyć 😋. Kolację wyestymowałam na 500 kcal w zaokrągleniu.

W każdym razie było fajnie i przy okazji wypadu kupiłam sobie e-pena wielorazowego. Dobrze mi się to pali. Ostatnio nie tyle rzucam palenie, co szukam alternatyw. Smak olejku kawa z białą czekoladą... To jeszcze nie to... Mentolu i posmaku "ice" nie znoszę. Przynajmniej wiem czego nie lubię 😆

***

Jeśli chodzi o obrazek świąteczny to wiem, że pewnie chodziło o siedzenie przy kominku. Ale zdecydowałam się na słowiańskie podejście i macie tu ognisko na Szczodre Gody ( to taka słowiańska Gwiazdka) poczytajcie sobie ile tradycji ma swoje źródło w pogańskich obrzędach... Ba, nawet narodzenie Jezusa powinno wypadać jakoś na wiosnę, ale troszkę naciągnięto temat by dopasować się do tradycyjnych obchodów przesilenia zimowego.

Dobrej nocy wam życzę!

#ed18+ #edadult #ed recovery #pro revovery #food log #foodbook #dieta #kalorie #chce byc piekna #25 days of christmas drawing challenge #gotowanie #foodblr #kaloryczność #kaloryczno┼ø─ç

[pleasereadmeok]

“I love having my handsome professor back in place of my dangerous prince.”

The moment when Matthew shaves off his 1590′s style beard and settles back into 21st century mode.  ‘The Book of Life’ Chapter 6. 

Thanks to @asgoodeasgold​ for reminding me about the Real Time Read of ‘The Book of Life’ by Deborah Harkness.  I missed the start!  Here’s the calendar from Deb - 

📷 ADOWS2:01 my edit including Sky Key Art/Deborah Harkness.com

#matthew goode #a discovery of witches #adow #matthewgoode #teresa palmer

[knario47]

NOMBRES CANARIOS

EDRA - Origen

CUANDO TENER UN NOMBRE INDÍGENA CANARIO ERA PECADO

…La vida vence a la muerte

si un recuerdo la prolonga...

«Acostumbraban cuando alguna criatura nacía, llamar una mujer que lo tenía por oficio, y ésta echaba agua sobre la cabeza de la criatura: y aquella tal mujer contraía parentesco con los padres de la criatura, de suerte que no era lícito casarse con ella, ni tratar deshonesta mente. De dónde les hubiese quedado esta costumbre, o ceremonia, no saben dar razón más de que así se hacía. no fuese sacramento, pues ni lo hacían por tal, ni les era ley evangélica predicada, más era una ceremonia de un lavatorio, que también otras naciones usaron»

[Alonso de Espinosa. 1980 (1594). Historia de Nuestra Señora de Candelaria. Introducción de Alejandro Cioranescu. Goya. S/C de tenerife]

Con la llegada de la invasión europea se les dieron multitud de nombres cristianos impuestos a los indígenas canarios cuando se bautizaron.

«Luis de Cadamosto y otros viajeros que visitaron este archipiélago en el primer siglo después de su conquista, aseguraban que la raza indígena dominaba numéricamente y sobrepasaba en mucho a los europeos establecidos. Juan de bethancourt, que sometió Lanzarote y Fuerteventura, hizo bautizar a todos los indígenas de estas dos islas, para aumentar el número de sus súbditos, como dicen sus capellanes; y todos aquellos que primero aceptaron el bautismo, tuvieron parte de la generosidad del conquistador»

[Sabino berthelot (1980) Antigüedades canarias. Goya. Santa Cruz de tenerife]

En la cultura amazigh, la asignación de nombres pasaba por varias fases. Como sucede en nuestros días, a los recién nacidos se les nombraba de igual forma que a ascendientes respetados por la familia. Después, se les agregaba un sobrenombre con el que fueran más fácilmente reconocibles. Según el carácter de la persona, sus rasgos físicos o los hechos más destacados de su trayectoria vital, se les nombraba con alguna palabra que tuviese relación. Y además de todo esto tenían otro nombre: uno privado y espiritual, oculto para la sociedad en general, que sólo conocían las personas más allegadas.

«en estas Yslas se ponían los nombres por la mayor parte según los hechos, y sucesos que acaesían a los hombres»

[Abreu Galindo ca. 1590]

Los nombres propios o antropónimos nos dan un acceso muy privilegiado a la maltratada historia de nuestros antepasados. Se han descubierto aspectos importantes de la cultura indígena canaria gracias a los nombres de persona, que fueron salvados del olvido por medio de la transmisión oral, las crónicas escritas por los europeos en épocas de conquista, las actas de bautizos de la Iglesia Católica, y el registro de las ventas de esclavos canarios en Europa.

En España estaban prohibidos los nombres que no estuvieran en el santoral de la Iglesia católica y, eso sí, siempre en castellano para que no hubiesen dudas del país en el que se vivía.

Al bando ganador de la Guerra de España no le gustaban los nombres en lenguas distintas al castellano. La Iglesia católica, en potencia, velaba para que así fuera. Incluso algunos sacerdotes ponían los que ellos consideraban a los pequeños o, incluso, añadían otro al elegido por los padres.

El régimen de Franco aprobó la Ley del Registro Civil, de 10 de junio de 1957, en vigor desde 1959. En ella se pretendía que el nombre propio de la persona fuese un signo distintivo, procurando a la vez la concordancia entre el nombre civil y el que se impusiese en el bautismo.

En el capítulo III, Del nombre y los apellidos, el artículo 54 recogía que el nombre que se dé al nacido:

«debe ser, en su caso, el que se imponga en el bautismo. Tratándose de españoles, los nombres deberán consignarse en castellano». Y advertía de que «quedan prohibidos los nombres extravagantes, impropios de personas, irreverentes o subversivos, así como la conversión en nombre de los apellidos o pseudónimos»

Hasta la década de los 70 y, especialmente, los 80, poner el nombre de un indígena canario a tu hija o hijo no era algo normal ni bien visto por la Iglesia o las administraciones del franquismo, pero con el tiempo, en plena transición, el dar un nombre indígena se normalizó, y para ello se editaron una serie de libros con nombres guanches como “Listas de Nombres Guanches” del divulgador Hermógenes Afonso de la Cruz, antiguo responsable de cultura de la asociación Solidaridad Canaria, que lo elaboró y editó a finales de los años 70, que surgen como una reivindicación de la propia identidad.

+ INFO

Antroponimia ínsuloamazigh

https://imeslan.com/category/antroponimia/

El bautismo de una isla.

Sobre ese terrible acto de nombrar

https://www.museosdetenerife.org/.../03/Bierehite2019_08.pdf

Nación Canaria

·

👉🏽 NOMBRES GUANCHES, prohibidos ayer por el franquismo y estigmatizados hoy. Gracias a Enrique Reina por el vídeo.

https://www.facebook.com/blognacioncanaria/posts/pfbid02kDwsxCYzPaytziW2WRJgCkXbdq2jjw9joy1AVhruhP11c8HH5Hf7cETcujUfVcmCl?__cft__[0]=AZVF__61j9iY7uA1CIt2V8f8q3uNE1tdv3KK8pWBnskZh2t4fyXvl22HiJd8Idg0zuhmEoAwfeJWqgEZk2kWewwE4T_tVYgW0dQyBSsRbhWS8Ws7uiNBWQtq8gZw4_JQsFIxf2GrdPkSJTvXozoZgYkO9NErGnA7OoblsFIwg41CdcNLWD_b9PiVKSiRCn7Ew5c&__tn__=%2CO%2CP-R

#nombres canarios #aborigenous #indigenous #culture #history #genocide #colonialism #unesco #united nations #international criminal court #court penal international #corte penal internacional #tribunales internacionales de justicia #aborigenes #indigenas #cultura #historia #genocidio #colonialismo #canarias libre #canarias tiene identidad cultural propia #descolonizacion de canarias #canarias #cpi #icc #canarias la colonia mas antigua del mundo #onu #naciones unidas #islas canarias #native