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up-in-flames-writing · 6 days

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I've never fucking experienced misogyny as bad as when it was directed at me from ciswomen. All you idiots hiding behind your 'but male socialisation!' nonsense babble to explain why you think trans people are soooo misogynistic, droves of misogynists in the fucking trans & gay community, have literally never sat down with a bunch of dolled up teen girls & been the only fucking tomboy in the group.

The call is coming from inside the fucking house, people. You all justifying your homophobia & transphobia ain't cute, it just makes you look like a fucking asshole. Seriously, when will people learn that saying 'most people in X group are bad people. No, I'm not being Xphobic, is just true' still makes you a bigot!

#booker speaks #transphobia #transandrophobia #transmisogyny #seriously do you really think saying 'oh transmascs have so much internalised misogyny theyre all such assholes' is cute?#or saying 'oh transfems are so misogynistic they think they can get away with it by saying im a woman'#also saying the same shit about cis gay men is disgusting too #as if there arent some bigoted as shit lesbians out there who make hating men & trans people their entire personalities #key word SOME #there are SOME bigoted gay men & SOME bigoted trans people & SOME bigoted enby people #but yall just wanna be fucking freaks & think uncritically about everything cause you think it makes you cool #for fucks sake when will ciswomen leave us trans people the fuck alone

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anosrepasi · 2 years

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So I said i was getting back into The Old Guard but also tumblr sandman content has infected me and this idea has been stuck in my head since i realized that i adored the character of Hob Gadling and thought, oh dude what a great character foil for another immortal character who goes through uhhhh, a lot of similar experiences but does no where near as well with it.

aka. What if Hob Gadling and Sebastien Le Livre became drinking buddies. Part two is here

Call it his age but Hob can’t help but feel that the world sends its boys to war now, rather than its men. The nations rally their youth to glory and service, in the name of queen and country, and ship them off to win the war on distant shores. Most come back in boxes.

He can only watch so much of that before he’s stopping by the nearest recruitment office and putting his latest fake name forward for the draft.

It’s a silly notion, that his presence can change the tide in what’s already being called “the great war.” He’s not looking to change the tide per say, but if he can save a few dumb kids who haven’t gotten the chance to live yet, well, then a few years invested in being a soldier again will be well worth it.

He’s got nothing pressing going on anyway, not for 76 years at the earliest.

So Hob Gadling fits the mantle of soldier back on his shoulders again, muddles through his training to neither fall behind or exceed expectations of a normal man his age, and gets himself shipped off to France to fight the Germans.

It goes as well as expected.

—

He cycles through units, and ends up staying near Ypres more often than not. His name mysteriously never ends up on the list for the men who’ve done their time on the front line and are reassigned to support or leave. He sticks close to where the fight is and doesn’t get friendly enough with anyone to cause an uproar about his lack of leave time.

He can’t die, better him here than somewhere else.

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t start to recognize his comrades on rotation though.

They’re young fools, the majority of them. There’s an occasional old-timer like himself, and he can see the moment of recognition across the trenches when he’s stationed with someone else who’s seen war before. There’s a slight nod and that’s that.

As the war progresses however, it gets far more difficult to tell the old guard from the new. War ages a man, this one especially.

One of the boys in his present squad, down to five until more reinforcements can be brought in, cracks a joke one quiet morning that he’ll head home and be mistaken for his uncle when his parents meet him at the station. Hob hears a quiet scoff, “Better old than dead.”

His eyes glance up to the man on guard, a man around Hob’s age or slightly older. He’s quiet, keeps to himself in the week since he’s been rotated into Hob’s unit. He’s vigilant, in a way that Hob can respect as a man who’s more aware of his surrounds than he lets on.

“Cheers to the words of Private Book, wisest man this side of the western trench complex.” Hob runs his mouth without thinking and Book’s eyes flicker down to him before returning to his watch.

“Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.” Private Book says quietly, and Hob can’t help but have his interest suddenly piqued by the quiet words.

The man quotes Doyle but with an accent far more perfect than any Englishman who had a primer in French. Maybe he’ll have someone interesting to discuss literature with out here after all.

—

The Germans get lucky and manage to aim one fucking shell near perfectly into the middle of their particular stretch of trench that evening.

Hob comes to surrounded by the overarching noise of active warfare and the contrasting silence of everything around him. The nearest allied trenches are occupied at the moment so he has a moment to collect himself and come up with a plan before he’s set upon by either his allies or trench sweepers.

His stomach twists and protests as instead he forces his lungs to cough up the blood and dirt mixed in his mouth and tries feebly to call roll. “Smith. Karlson. Book. Turner. Any of you make it?”

The dead do not answer and Hob sighs, cursing and shakily getting to his feet to survey the damage. It’s not good. He’ll have to move, but he stops by each body and gently closes their eyes or position them into some sort of posture of rest, rather than a tangle of limbs.

Its when he’s saying rights over Turner, bless the kid’s hopeful soul, that body next to him jerks and shudders back into life with a gasp.

Hob has failed to die many a time, but he’s yet to see someone else come back to life in all his years. Getting caught by surprise isn’t a necessarily ridiculous response. He falls back, away from the body- man?, on instinct and offers his own short curse when the body of Private Samuel Book sits up with a groan and sighs when it catches sight of its hand knitting the flesh back together on the side that caught the blunt of the shells explosion.

Samuel Book looks up and freezes when he catches sight of Hob, the next moment both men are speaking in unison, “How the fuck did you survive that?”

#my writing #Hob Gadling #sebastien le livre #Booker #will this become a fic? yeah probably #is it totally nonsensical? oh yes #but i think hob deserves more friends and would be a good influence on booker #will it change anything for either canon? oh no not at all #also woe is me i fucking hate war history and tactics and i had to google pretty much everything about the setting to write this intro #the sandman #the old guard #also! so many typos! I am heading to bed! I wrote this in an hour of hyperfixiation! I need to be up in like 6 hours form now!#please excuse the typos this is proof of concept!

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materassassino · 1 day

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I think my silliest Mildly Autistic Nicky headcanon is that yes, he adores spices and seasonings and authentic flavours, but very occasionally (like once every six months) he will want a Plain Food day where he eats nothing but pastina in brodo and bread and butter and other boring things and everyone goes along with it. Joe is happy because Nicky is happy, Andy and Booker will eat anything if it sits still long enough. Nile was surprised but anything Nicky cooks is nourishing even if it's not mind-blowing.

The menu resumes as normal the next day.

(Actually I don't know if this is silly or not. I just like the idea. I would also imagine that they've eaten their fair share of fucking atrocious meals over the centuries, stuff that not even Nicky's skill could save, so anything is better than ship's hard tack, tripe or rotten rice.)

#the old guard #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #andromache the scythian #booker the old guard #nile freeman #pixie headcanons #this is a pastina in brodo appreciation post #la minestrina é buona lasciatemi stare oh

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scimitar-and-longsword · 25 days

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Hey hope you're well :) Currently at the airport to Italy and then later this week Greece and I'm wondering what your headcanons are about Nicky and Joe when flying :) like who's there three hours early and who arrives ten minutes before take off? xD

Oh my goodness, have so much fun in Italy and Greece! I'm so jealous!

Ok this is such a fun question.

Joe is definitely the early one and Nicky is very lackadaisical about getting to the flight on time. "Yusuf, you need to calm down, we're never late."

I think Nicky falls asleep right away on long flights and Joe can't sleep for the life of him on planes. It's so hard for him to sleep on planes that he gets a little frustrated sitting next to Nicky who sleeps through everything.

Nicky tries so hard to stay awake because he knows Joe gets a little nervous on long flights, but something about the white noise lulls Nicky to sleep every time. Joe doesn't blame Nicky, he just wishes he could sleep through it as easily.

Nicky is very good at planning for this though. He always makes sure they have books and charges phones with movies downloaded. He's always pointing out the in flight movies and snack selection to Joe. So when he does inevitably fall asleep Joe has lots to focus on. "There's a TV Joe!"

I think when the others are there Nicky sits with Andy and they both peacefully sleep, while Nile and Joe are up trying to distract each other talking about art.

Booker sits by himself because he somehow keeps Andy and Nicky awake by talking too much. And freaks Joe and Nile out more by talking about all the things that could go wrong with the plane... Oh Booker.

Once they land Nicky does get a bit more anxious about losing luggage. Joe is just so relieved to be off the plane he doesn't even care. "Nicky, we only had two bags. It's fine, the Uber will be here in 5 mins." "No Joe, I'm sure we had 3 bags!" (They only had 2)

#oh my god its been so long since ive done a #the old guard meta #feels good to be back lol #meta #the old guard #joenicky #joe #nicky #andy #nile #booker #Joe may or may not be based on my own experience lol #im an extremely anxious flier #and my traitor of a partner always falls asleep lol #ask #anon

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raisedmefromperdition · 7 months

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The man is literally doing a fan photo op pose, and I love him for that.

#misha collins #cory booker #oh misha #spn fandom #also SAME SHIRT as MY pic with him #what a thrill

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dynamitekansai · 6 months

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miyu_tjp: Coincidentally, on the day of the 100th anniversary, I was at Disneyland in Florida. It was a wonderful time. My favorite Pooh appeared when I was buying a drink at the shop, so I couldn't chase it, that's the only regret. #Disney100

#joshi puroresu #tjpw #miyu yamashita #oh so that was def her behind booker t on nxt tonight huh lmao

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traincrashs · 7 months

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I am a firm Uncle Roy and Mother Orson believer. Because Sheldon and Booker calling Orson mom so many times in the comics makes me so happy.

Roy just gives major annoying but goofy uncle on the farm vibes and I adore that. Also he was there when Orson was keeping the eggs warm.

#us acres #orson's farm #garfield and friends #orson pig #booker #sheldon #roy #they are making me so ill oh my god #i might just post a bunch abt them im ngl

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kaiayame · 2 years

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I cannot..... even begin... to describe just how much of a total & complete sucker I am... for the trope where an older, closed off, broken down man who has become a rugged, disillusioned shell of who they once were due to significant past trauma that is still haunting him, unexpectedly has his soul renewed by needing to protect a small, spunky child that rekindles his ability to care & love & whom they will eventually either somewhat or entirely adopt as their own.

#this post is specifically about the obi wan kenobi series #which I literally had NO idea would be feeding me so well.#and is also sponsored by #mando and grogu #hopper and el #booker and elizabeth #and. of course.#joel and ellie #ahh and Logan!! that wolverine movie!!#......#shoutout to alan grant and the two kids from jurassic park #oh my god. and JIM AND SILVER FROM TREASURE PLANET of course.#those last two aren't broken down shells but they have walls that need tumbling. they count.#........#like. I'm sorry. but I literally do not understand how you could not like the obi wan kenobi series.#it's BABY LEIA #it's PERFECT #.....#should i get into batman

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chatgroove · 14 days

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Dr*g reference under the cut but doodle of Booker!

Booker you're a doctor don't say that

#tw drug mention #booker #oc art #shun draws #my ocs #oh booker you're such a mess #but I love u sm you poor poor man #dead serious

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anosrepasi · 2 years

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Hob Gadling and Sebastien Le Livre become drinking budies part 2/?

Part one is here

This will eventually be edited and seriously submitted to Ao3, until then though, enjoy:

“You’re asking me that? Your body is literally knitting itself back together right now, mate.” Hob retorts, affronted once the words hit.

“And you’re not running away screaming,” Book snaps back, shaking out his hands as they finish forming back into the image of… well, hands. Normal fucking hands. Not mangled lumps of shrapnel mincemeat. “Furthermore, you were standing right next to Karlson-“

Poor sod was in two pieces, one of which was outside the trench.

“-And your clothes look like you should be in the same state as him.”

Hob opens his mouth to say something snide and stops, considering for the first time the state he must be in, not-able-to-die-notwithstanding. The answer is “not great!” he concludes upon glancing down at himself.

What clothing that remains looks like it was used as a pin cushion, and he’s disappointed to find that the sleeve and trouser leg on his left side are simply not there anymore. In fact at this point it might be more accurate to say he’s clothed more in mud and ash and probably the remains of his comrades than fabric at this point.

Fuck, Book might have a point.

“You’re taking this extremely well.” He eventually settles on, having no other equal response to the situation.

The other man merely groans and throws his head back, “Fucking insane, every single one of us.”

“Right. That wasn’t a loaded statement, whatsoever.” Hob concludes, and sways to his feet, offering a hand to his present company. “Mind if we unpack that somewhere else? We’re pushing our luck on keeping this between us the longer we stay here.”

Samuel Book takes his hand and staggers to his feet. The two warily eye each other over, both only carrying the proof of their experience in the remains of their thoroughly destroyed uniforms. Book’s eyes flicker over to the east, out past burnt out fields and land that had been fought over and generally now forgotten, since the cost of flanking outweighed the tactical advantage as both sides had learned.

Book frowns and makes a face of distaste after a moment, “There’s a spot, a little east of here. It’ll be abandoned.”

Not ominous at all, but it’s a plan and more than what Hob could offer which would be “stumble into the nearest trench and pretend to be the luckiest sons of bitches in the British Army.”

He nods and the two start their perilous but mostly inconvenient trek to Book’s supposed foxhole. It’s a shelled out farmhouse, in the end. Book is quiet, checking around corners and meticulously scratching in a small symbol next to a date at the foundation stones near the door. Its only after he does that that the man pushes his way into the main space of the house and beckons for Hob to follow.

Inside he methodically removes a small pile of rubble and dislodged bricks from a corner of the room to reveal an in-ground root cellar. Its not very deep, but when Book pulls out a small chest from the hole and opens it to reveal a multitude of clean and nondescript clothing, it might as well be the Queen’s Treasury.

Book tosses a set of clothes to Hob along with a small bar of soap, motioning to the back of the house, “There’s a pump in the back, it worked last time I was here.”

Hob nods and takes the moment to get himself cleaned up in the dark. If he looks west there’s a constant glow from the fight they had just left. So much for being in the right place.

He swaps places with Book and takes vigil over the house while Book is out. It’s deserted, but now that he’s adjusted to the dim lighting, it’s noticeable how the details of the place’s abandonment and disuse are a little too… orderly. The stones and bricks that had been covering the cellar are all within a certain size of each other, small enough to move but big enough to be a hassle. There’s no underlaying gravel or dust to suggest the stones had crumbled to that location naturally. The sight lines of the house too, if this area had been more active, would be perfect for a sniper’s nest.

It can’t help but lead Hob to wonder what kind of man Samuel Book must be, to have this place squirreled away while spending his time in the trenches.

The man in question reappears and Hob can’t help but test the waters, “Nice place.”

“It’s not mine, it’s my sister’s.” The man replies automatically, using a discarded shirt to towel his hair.

Well that cleared up jack all, didn’t it.

Best start at the beginning then.

He holds out a hand once again, “Robert Gadling. My friends call me Hob.”

Samuel Book stares as the offered hand for a second before returning the handshake, his voice slipping in a previously unvoiced accent around his name. “Sebastien Le Livre. Booker or Book. For short.”

Hob nods and they stand their awkwardly for a moment, neither quite sure where to go from here. Eventually Hob decides on which question he’ll pose first, “So why is an immortal Frenchman posing as a infantryman in the British Army?”

Booker scowls at him, “You want to play twenty questions, now?”

“Don’t you?” Hob retorts easily, “God knows you must find this as intriguing as I do. I didn’t expect to meet another immortal, especially not here.”

Booker crosses his arms, looking more and more twitchy by the moment, “No, I wasn’t given a protocol for what to do when meeting a new immortal.”

Interest piqued once again, “New? That implies there are some old immortals you know. And ‘protocol’ makes this sound so impersonal.”

Booker runs a hand over his face, “Alright, enough. Just stop talking and give me a second.”

He seems to have an internal debate with himself, finishing with a scowl as Hob waits for him to direct the conversation. Finally, Booker returns his focus to Hob, “If you’re so interested in twenty questions, let’s start here. How did you come back so fast? You took more of that shell than I did, and we don’t come back from injuries like that so quickly.”

Hob settles onto the ground and settles in for the conversation, pleased to see that Booker hesitantly also ends up sitting on the floor across from him. “Mind on elaborating on what you mean by ‘come back’?’”

“From the dead.” Booker says bluntly, like it’s obvious.

“Well that’s the first misconception,” Hob replies candidly, “I don’t die. I never have.”

“That’s impossible.” Booker says flatly and Hob can’t help but once again feel that flash of irritation at the man.

“Really? Impossible? From the man who’s body just fixed itself after being shredded to bits by shrapnel.” Hob snipes back and Booker rolls his eyes and starts gesturing as he speaks.

“Yeah, but that’s how this thing works.” There is an emphasis on this thing that leads Hob to believe there’s a pedagogy on immortality that he’s been left in the dark about. “We get hurt, we die, we come back again. Until one day the dying sticks. That’s how it’s worked with every single one of us I’ve met so far. So yeah, I find it impossible that you say you just have never died.”

“You’re speaking literally, then? You actually die and then somehow get revived? And there is a whole group of you who experience it like this?”

Booker looks at him like he’s incomprehensible. “What other way is there?”

Hob feels his stomach drop.

“I’m sorry to say this, mate, but I think we’re playing by different rulebooks.”

Across from him, Booker seems to slump into himself as the words register. Hob continues, gently, “I really don’t die. I can get the lights knocked out on occasion, and I’ve had a rough time here and there, but I heal. And I heal fast. But I’ve never died, and I never will, if I understand it correctly.”

Booker is silent, staring down at his hands rather than looking at Hob at all anymore.

Hob still has his own questions, though.

“You said that ‘we’ die and get revived, how many other immortals do you know?”

Booker doesn’t look up from his hands, “Four. I’ve met three of them though.”

“Is the sister you spoke of one of them?” Hob prods gently.

“Yeah, Andrea. Andromache. She’s the oldest.”

Andromache, how old exactly she was Hob could only wonder with a name like that. “And the others?”

“I’ve never met Quynh. Just seen her. Joe and Nicky are the other ones. They’re in Italy right now. Andrea thought that’s where they could do the most good.”

Interesting turn of phrase. “Is that what you’re doing here? Trying to do the most good.”

Book looks up from his hands, “When has war ever led to something good?”

Hob had no answer for that. Hadn’t found one yet in his lifetime at least.

“Why are you here?” Booker asks as the silence stretches, “Why risk getting discovered?”

Hob shrugs, “There might be one less kid getting sent back home in a box if I’m taking his spot in the trenches.”

“Really? That simple?”

“Yeah. What’s a handful of years and some pain to the rest of forever? If I get shot in the head I’ll get back up again, some bloke from Compton who signed up fresh out of school with his lads wouldn’t get that deal.” He reasons and pauses, thinking back to the first few months of the war and the barely concealed grief, and how it looked far too familiar. “You know people are terrified of telegrams these days? In my head I keep saying ‘sent home in boxes’ but there’s not even a body for most people. The boys are just, gone, and the living don’t even have someone to bury to help them process it. I couldn’t just watch that and know that I could maybe save at least one family the fate of getting a telegram that their boy is dead before his time.”

There’s a recognition in Booker’s eyes, and Hob feels exposed for the first time since they started talking. Booker nods, “That simple. Alright.”

Booker rises back to his feet then, walking towards the door and looking out to the horizon. Hob follows after him until both are standing in the partially destroyed doorway of the farmhouse.

Outside, the world is turning into an impressionist painting of pinks and blues. Dawn’s rosy fingers stretching out across the land to paint it In blazing sweeps of pinks and reds that turn to gold as the sun continues to rise- Homer’s description rings true today, despite the unfathomable gap of years.

Hob hadn’t merely stood and watched the sun rise in a while, a simple pleasure that he’s forgotten about in recent years.

It’s a beautiful sunrise.

Booker’s voice is muted, not willing to disturb the still morning air, “So what do you plan to do now?”

“Not sure. Might wander through the trees and figure out a story to explain my miraculous survival so I can stay near Ypres. Might head south, take some leave and enjoy the countryside and join back up when I find a squad that needs reinforcements. I’ll figure it out as I go. You?”

“I’ve got my orders. Keep an eye on the winds and send word if the fighting changes direction in an unexpected way.” Book replies, “Damage control.”

“This group of yours is rather dedicated.” Hob observes, and Booker shrugs in response.

“That’s one way you could describe it.” Booker replies.

“Reckon we’ll be crossing paths again?” Hob can feel the conversation drawing to a close, and it seems practical to clear up this now rather than be caught by surprise later.

“No offense, but I’m going to be making sure we don’t meet up again.” Booker replies evenly, “Andrea’s already going to be livid about having to burn this foxhole. Further complications are best avoided.”

“Only a few days of knowing me and you’ve already called me a complication, I’m flattered.” On last chance to annoy the man, might as well take it.

“I think I’m better off knowing as little about you as possible.” Book replies flatly. “The experience has been rather mediocre so far.”

Hob frowns at Booker and Booker breaks into a satisfied grin. “Well fuck you too, mate.”

This time Booker is the one to offer his hand, Hob shakes it without a moment’s hesitation. “To mediocre new acquaintances-“

“-Who never meet again.” Booker finishes and Hob snorts at the conclusion.

“Only fate knows that much.” Hob replies and ends up clapping Book on the shoulder before he walks out of the house, “Good luck, mate.”

Booker gives a half-handed wave in response and that’s that.

Hob heads south, in the end. The walk gives him time to digest his thoughts, and truly stretch the idea that he’s not the only immortal running around. It does open up a lot of questions though, especially if these other immortals are having a fundamentally different experience of immortality than Hob is. He’s got time to figure it out though, maybe he’ll be able to meet some of the other named immortals and get their opinion on the matter.

He has a feeling though, just a suggestion of a idea at this point, that this is not the last he’s seen of Sebastien Le Livre. The universe loves to defy expectations, and it’ll probably take some time, but their paths will cross again.

—

He runs into Booker three months later.

The look of panicked recognition on the Frenchman’s face was almost worth getting shot in the head for.

#dear internet have this thing thats been living in my drafts for a week #Hob Gadling #sebastien le livre #the sandman #the old guard #Hob and booker become drinking buddies #eventually #my writing #oh god tumblr broke it.#one sec fixing formatting thanks hellsite #fixed yay!#Booker

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sanctamater · 9 months

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booker in my da au is basically "the hang.over part III" but he's stuck in tev.inter (alberta).

#ITS FUNNY TO ME #🕊️❝ out of redemption ( ooc. )#booker; waking up hungover in tevinter: oh... oh shit i was supposed to elope w amelia wasnt i- OH SHIT I WAS SUPPOSED TO ELOPE WITH AMELIA

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