boop
Cosimo Galluzzi

tannertan36
ojovivo

Love Begins

oozey mess
Three Goblin Art

#extradirty
Game of Thrones Daily
i don't do bad sauce passes
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

No title available

Janaina Medeiros

Product Placement
DEAR READER
Mike Driver

pixel skylines
todays bird
No title available
Jules of Nature

No title available
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from India

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from Ireland
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from Singapore

seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands
@sam-in-time
boop
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
I see.
Well, either way, welcome to Tate. [laughs slightly bitterly]
....So I hear it's 2013. I missed at least a decade and a half. Care to, um. Fill me in on what I missed?
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
Sounds confusing.
Well, you’ll be happy — or not? — to know that you’re among abnormal people here… How did you get here, if you don’t mind me asking?
Funny story. I don't actually know.
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
Right. You know, a few months ago I would’ve calmly backed away from you, but now I’m assuming you have some kind of time related mutation?
You'd be surprised how much I get that. Or not really. I'm really quite intelligent and sane, I do promise you. I'm also usually much better about not talking about this, but considering where we are, I figure I can let loose a bit. Besides, Arthur went six years without knowing, I'm quite good at being good around normal people. I think.
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
I’m afraid I don’t really know what you’re going on about.
....I was completely aware of that, and I'll have you know I'm not as insane as I sound. A couple days ago, I was in the year 1887. Cigarettes didn't exist then.
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
The problem is that there aren’t any.
But they exist! I don't think anyone understands anymore just how right awful cigars and nothing else for years smells. I'd take a cigarette any day -- not to say I smoke, actually I never picked that habit up. Fortunately? Unfortunately? I mightn't know.
Well, there goes my last pack of cigarettes.
Bless, there's cigarettes, too! I've missed this, oh very much.
A Grand Entrance || Aiden & Sam
Aiden was taken completely aback by the woman’s abrupt change in conversation topic. ”Been here…” he trailed off, still tilting his head in her direction as she dismissed whatever thought she had just been focused on. He was getting the impression that she was a little bit scatterbrained. Not that he could claim to being the most organized thinker on the globe, however. Clearly, as a strange woman had just seemed to appear, and begin questioning him about what year it was.
He crossed his arms over his chest slightly protectively as he heard the stranger pacing around in front of him as she thought out loud. She was clearly either very agitated - or fidgety. Or a mixture of both. As she spoke, the blond tried to work through what she was saying. Something about being twenty eight and something being wrong. His confusion deepening, Aiden furrowed his brow, trying to decipher what the woman was saying to herself.
Her question snapped him out of his reverie. ”I uh… yeah it’s still Tate. Wait what do you mean by still?” He had so many questions, and wasn’t sure where to begin. ”I-I’m sorry but did you say that you should be six years older than you are? Does that mean you’re travelling in time or something?” He asked softly - before coming here, such a notion would have seemed like nonsense to him, however this place was full of surprises. ”Does that mean you’re from like…” he paused for a moment, scrunching up his face as he thought. ”Two thousand seven?” He tilted his head once more.
"Eighteen eighty-seven, actually. Well--" Sam caught herself. That question could be answered lots of ways. The easiest answer was, "Nineteen ninety-five. Well--" Again, she caught herself, "Nineteen eighty-four is my birth year, and..." Another thought, as she ran over all the previous times her power acted up. An unknown number of years back--or forwards, possibly--when she was little, but after that only in increments of time. It didn't add up. "Blast and damn it, it's never been this bad before going forward. This is terrible, awful."
One moment. She paused, raised a finger as one thought turned into another, a visual way to keep track of her different trains of thought. The word sounded like something else. "Awful," Sam repeated. "Awful," once more. And then, "Arthur! Oh, by God, what would he think, I am to be expected at dinner! Lateness, mind you, I am not known for!"
It hadn't yet sunk in that she might not get back at all. Lateness was something she was known for, but in her panic, Samantha found herself worrying only about what her husband might think if she showed up late for tonight's--last night's? Some night in the past's dinner. It was an important one, she was to be meeting the good Lord Tate, family friend and benefactor to one of her strange inventions. "Oh, blessed be the man who figures out what's going on here."
A Grand Entrance || OPEN
Samantha Jean Whittaker, wife to the esteemed professor Arthur Whittaker. Young and beautiful and kind, but above all, she was clever. Samantha was amazingly clever, and anyone who said any different was lying. She would spend hours, debating with herself and others on the truth of things, on possible solutions to problems and complicated questions, and theories she had about anything and everything.
And while she could be reckless, she was not unpredictable. Mrs. Whittaker’s motives were easily guessed, and her responses as well. If there was something needed for a particular project, despite the costs or dangers, she would find a way to get it without a problem. If someone was in trouble on an excursion, she would risk her own safety to help them. But she did not simply disappear into thin air.
Except she did.
They had been vising a friend a little ways from Blackpool, a Mister Tate to be exact. He had found something interesting with one of his sons, an odd talent for noticing things in other people. Secrets they kept, or hidden talents even they didn’t know about. She had spent a long time discussing with him the idea of mutants and super humans, which seemed to fit. The Tates had an odd history of family members with unusual skills and abilities. Mutants was Sam’s theory, though she had no idea of how to prove it.
It had been the third day of their visit. Sam had gone out for a walk - summer was her favorite season, really was, and a day like that one was not to be wasted indoors, or so she said. And so she spent the better half of the afternoon outside. It was the coming inside that was the problem. A couple feet in from the door, and Sam found herself not in the sunlit hallway she was used to, but a clean, tiled entryway, electric lights on the walls and new wallpaper on.
Sam recognized it from her childhood. She had been here before, but not in a long time. Time. Time, right. She moved in time. It was strange, but she had almost forgotten about that strange ability she had, seeing that it hadn’t acted up in years. She turned to see one person walking, just one. Where was everyone, anyway? Better question, when was she? Sam rushed up to the person with a, “Good day. Um, pardon me, but what would be the year?” Even back in Arthur’s time, Sam had an odd way of speaking. Choppy, back and forth, nonsensical. She had too many ideas that got in the way of speaking. It was going to sound even more out of place here
A nervous, excited little laugh that hurt in her tightly-laced corset. Sam wore nothing that could be from anywhere near this century, she was sure of it. A long, dark blue gown, a tight, S-curve corset, and a parasol hooked over her arm. She was dressed for the Victorian Era. This was not then. “Goodness, this is just out of a story book, isn’t it?” she added, remembering some of the stories she had read as a kid. “What year, what year? Please, if you will.”
A Grand Entrance || Aiden & Sam
Aiden Lockhart was absently wandering down the hallway, searching for the library. Of course, this was to be quite an adventure for him, seeing as he had never been in the library - except for the first day he arrived about three weeks ago when they gave him the tour. Now, what drove him here today was mostly boredom. Don’t take that the wrong way however, Aiden used to love to read. He could have spent hours in the library just looking through books, or exploring new worlds through their pages. That was two years ago however. Before “the incident.” Before his world was torn apart at the seams. Before he lost the ability to see. His blue eyes looked no different than they did when he lost his vision, most likely due to the strange circumstances that lead to that particular development. The doctors who analyzed him at the time called it a “hysterical blindness,” where his mind prevented him from seeing anything after seeing something so dreadfully awful. Of course, he didn’t remember seeing anything awful, since he wasn’t himself at the time. But on some level he must have witnessed it… somewhere in his mind, and then his mind decided it had had enough. Of course, the doctors also said that this particular condition should have gone away long ago, and it clearly hadn’t.
Aiden ran a hand through his rather shaggy blond hair, enjoying the feel of it’s soft texture against his skin for a second. Taking a breath, he continued his slow journey in search of books. He was vaguely wondering if there were somehow books that he could begin learning braille in. After the incident, he had been back and forth and tossed around between so many different homes that it made it practically impossible for him to learn - however in light of his current situation, and by the fact that his sight hadn’t returned yet, he figured now would be a prudent time to try. Of course, he had no idea how to go about learning Braille. He was going through an internal struggle, trying to decide if he really should ask for help (something he tended to avoid doing as much as possible, for various reasons) when it happened. A voice called out to him. A voice he didn’t recognize, with a very strange lilt to it. Turning around, he tilted his head, a habit he picked up after losing his sight. Tensing slightly, he listened to the questions the woman presented, and crossed his arms across his chest uncomfortably. He still wasn’t quite used to the strange things that happened around Tate.
“Th-The year?” He asked in his deep but soft voice (which was clearly in an American accent, unlike many of the residents here), head swiveling slightly in the direction of the newcomer’s voice. He heard a slightly forced sounding laugh, and found his curiosity overwhelming his sense of caution - she didn’t seem to have any ill intentions, however odd her question might seem. ”Well I… uh I suppose it’s 2013.” He stated cautiously. ”Well, I mean almost.” He added with a little chuckle that quickly faded.
"Bless," she cried, excited by this sudden, new accent. The smallest things always managed to distract her, though she was more than excited to be in a time with electricity again. While hers was distinctly from the south end of London, she had remembered at least a few different. "You're American. Been here long? That is have you? Been here long, I mean? Oh, blast it, never mind." She waved the idea away with a hand - he was too young to have been here when she was, anyway. It didn't matter.
"Oh yes, oh yes? Oh, brilliant! Twenty-thirteen, I should be..." Sam had already begun to pace, taking a step here and there, turning on the spot, and so on. It was her habit, as she could rarely sit still while thinking. Her fingers moved in a sort of tapping motion as she worked, a habit from drumming tables out of boredom. Sitting still, it was near-impossible for the scholar's wife. Quickly, Sam calculated her current age, and stopped dead.
"I should be twenty-eight right now," she said, much quieter The dread was clear in her voice. "No, no, no," Sam continued, raising her hands and gesturing. "This is not how it goes, absolutely not. I should be six years older in this year than I am, and that means something is wrong." Sam tugged at one of the pockets on her coat and shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting her lower lip. "This is still the Tate Academy, yes? I am correct in assuming this - oh please, tell me it is still."
A Grand Entrance || OPEN
Samantha Jean Whittaker, wife to the esteemed professor Arthur Whittaker. Young and beautiful and kind, but above all, she was clever. Samantha was amazingly clever, and anyone who said any different was lying. She would spend hours, debating with herself and others on the truth of things, on possible solutions to problems and complicated questions, and theories she had about anything and everything.
And while she could be reckless, she was not unpredictable. Mrs. Whittaker's motives were easily guessed, and her responses as well. If there was something needed for a particular project, despite the costs or dangers, she would find a way to get it without a problem. If someone was in trouble on an excursion, she would risk her own safety to help them. But she did not simply disappear into thin air.
Except she did.
They had been vising a friend a little ways from Blackpool, a Mister Tate to be exact. He had found something interesting with one of his sons, an odd talent for noticing things in other people. Secrets they kept, or hidden talents even they didn't know about. She had spent a long time discussing with him the idea of mutants and super humans, which seemed to fit. The Tates had an odd history of family members with unusual skills and abilities. Mutants was Sam's theory, though she had no idea of how to prove it.
It had been the third day of their visit. Sam had gone out for a walk - summer was her favorite season, really was, and a day like that one was not to be wasted indoors, or so she said. And so she spent the better half of the afternoon outside. It was the coming inside that was the problem. A couple feet in from the door, and Sam found herself not in the sunlit hallway she was used to, but a clean, tiled entryway, electric lights on the walls and new wallpaper on.
Sam recognized it from her childhood. She had been here before, but not in a long time. Time. Time, right. She moved in time. It was strange, but she had almost forgotten about that strange ability she had, seeing that it hadn't acted up in years. She turned to see one person walking, just one. Where was everyone, anyway? Better question, when was she? Sam rushed up to the person with a, "Good day. Um, pardon me, but what would be the year?" Even back in Arthur's time, Sam had an odd way of speaking. Choppy, back and forth, nonsensical. She had too many ideas that got in the way of speaking. It was going to sound even more out of place here
A nervous, excited little laugh that hurt in her tightly-laced corset. Sam wore nothing that could be from anywhere near this century, she was sure of it. A long, dark blue gown, a tight, S-curve corset, and a parasol hooked over her arm. She was dressed for the Victorian Era. This was not then. "Goodness, this is just out of a story book, isn't it?" she added, remembering some of the stories she had read as a kid. "What year, what year? Please, if you will."