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pussy facing the world in that lame ass trading card

❛ stop referring to my trading card like that. who keeps letting you in here? don't you have a job? ❜

#dialhearts #answered.#he said 'you're giving jobless energy and it's really embarrassing for you'

049. How does your character feel about growing old?

@dialhearts || 100 muse development questions.

049. How does your character feel about growing old? |

for most of her life, the future never felt like something guaranteed enough to picture in detail. it was always provisional. she was just living her day-to-day. instead of imagining herself aging, she learned to think in shorter distances. what needs to be done today. what can i do tomorrow? what would emily ( @subject171 ) like to do next week? what can i hold onto for a little while longer before it disappears.

because of that, growing old feels less like a linear progression and more like an anomaly. something improbable, because she might slip into hypothetically thinking up of the fact that she has the chance to grow older than her mother ever has been. and that's an unnerving thought.

there's also the deeper layer to it and it has to do how trauma distorts your time. there are parts of her that still feel suspended in the age she lost her mother, still reacting to the world as if it could all fall apart any minute. the idea of becoming elderly, of accumulating years beyond that point, doesn’t always reconcile nicely with how she internally experiences herself. to put it simply: time moved forward around her, and while she followed, some part of her never fully caught up.

and then there's emily. she changed that direction completely. with growing old, she ties it to an everlasting presence in her daughter's life. she want's to maintain consistency. she wants the legacy she leaves behind to be one full of love that emily could always fall back on whenever the world feels too dark. she wants to watch emily grow into herself. she wants her to exist long enough for stability to actually feel normal.

grace had passive suicidal ideations, uncertain of she'll even reach old age. she didn't really want to. but her new lease on life give her a reason to try.

#freya's needle. / headcanon.#dialhearts

it's practiced, easy, the same as styling her own hair—— except it's not. there's something like nervousness in the way astrid moves, fingers clumsy and heart quickening as she weaves one strand of hair over the other. one, two. one, two. one, two. how delicately she holds her breath as she finishes, as if one stray wind will knock everything askew. but in the end, she completes the small braid with no complications. ❝ done, ❞ she says. ( she hopes she doesn't sound weird; out of breath or anxious or anything that betrays the calm demeanor she's been trying to show. ) ❝ now we match. ❞ ( from @decaysate / astrid. )

ㅤit’s lovely (loving), gentle, the same touch as when she’d wrap his wounds after battle—except it’s not. there are more heart drums, there’s more adrenaline, and somehow there’s worship. håkan had been dressed in wolfskins and silver before, had listened to drunken cheers of crowds and tasted godly mead with hunger. yet nothing had ever made him feel as adorned as he did now, sitting on a riverside stone, sun dripping like honey and astrid by his side, her fingers brushing against his ear as she worked on brunet strands, prayerful. the ræsi bowed his head without being told, eyes slipping shut. he didn’t need to look to know @decaysate was frowning now: he could feel it, somehow, the wrinkle between her brows as familiar as the way she chewed her rosemary-stained bottom lip when facing a challenge with her axe. he had fallen for that look when he was eleven and adored her from afar ever since.

ㅤany child of berk would know the custom: wives would weave the mane of warriors before battle rites—simple, tight, strong, a final honour before preparing to voyage towards valhalla’s halls. though the braiding astrid offered hiccup now was not for battle or the pyre that came after it, but for another kind of surrender. to let another plait your hair, the aged skalds used to pipe, was also to open your shield wall and welcome freyja’s sword in the chest. to wear silver from another’s hand was to stand before the clan and say: this one i have chosen / this one i am bound to. he should have feared that, perhaps, just like chieftains and heirs before him. but he didn’t. he sat still and let himself be claimed by her touch alone—as tradition was concerned, at least. he had always been hers.

ㅤthe clasp the warmaiden fastened was shaped like a twin-serpent knot; ancient, intricate. he knew its meaning without needing a seer; ᛐᚱᛆᚢᛍᛐ, ᛆᛍᛐ, ᛂᛁᛚᛁᚠᛚᛂᚵᚱ: trust, love, everlasting. when she withdrew her hands, he reached up slowly, admiring her precise work. håkan rubbed the metal between his thumb and forefinger, a newly-gifted oath that felt as delicate as a flower. and he, proud fool that he was, smiled like a boy crowned for the first time. it was short like their years still, but it’d grow. he kissed it then, before tilting his head and looking back at her with flushed cheeks, wind-kissed freckles, and a sigh that loved those sharp blue eyes she always tried to make look less tender than they really were.

ㅤ“it’s perfect.” but he wasn’t talking just about the braid when his left hand found the curve of her waist. perhaps he was more greedy than she would ever know. “you should let me braid you sometime.”