#Snuff Mill

[yourfrankiethings]

Snuff Mill Restaurant, Butchery & Wine Bar, Wilmington, 4/3/24

exterior – 1601 Concord Pike Suite 77-79, Wilmington, DE 19803 Snuff Mill Restaurant, opened in July 2021, was a small place tucked into a large U-shaped shopping center.  They advertised themselves as “farm-to-table” and they did reference where each of the meats were locally sourced.  Butchering was done on-site and a counter at the entrance did have items for sale.   Many other ingredients are…

[merakiui]

Hello! Could I request flower bouquet from the miscellaneous menu.. And as for the dynamic, I'm quite indecisive on that regard, but I recall you saying it's fine to let you chose? Forgive me if I'm wrong. I'd like to order that with red velvet cupcakes & banana pudding from the midnight menu for Jade Leech, with an AFAB reader. If you are unable to do this, it is completely understandable. I hope your day/night goes well, and may you take care.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping, slight angst, royalty au (princess!reader x butler!jade) note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

It’s well past midnight when Jade finds you in the garden. He spots you milling about aimlessly beneath a stone archway. Greenery twists up the rough surface; vines spotted with tiny flowers drape like fruit from a bough. Moonlight paints you in strokes of silvery magnificence, a breathtaking sight even the most skillful painter could never hope to replicate on a canvas. Even though it’s the middle of summer, there’s a fierce bite to tonight’s temperature. It’s in his nature to protect, a bodyguard and a butler in one, which is precisely why he frets when he notices you’re dressed in a thin nightgown and a silk robe.

You’re stunning regardless of your attire. He’s always thought so. A hopeless observation, for you have never belonged to him and thus those words will remain a scandal under lock and key.

“My lady?” He approaches with even steps, his voice a gentle whisper. Despite his best efforts, you still flinch at his sudden arrival. He bows respectfully, a hand held over his heart. “Forgive me for startling you. I noticed you weren’t in bed when I came to check on you, and so I thought I might find you here.”

“Am I really so predictable?”

“Quite.” He chuckles at the pout that twists on your lips. “Admittedly, my advantage is rather unfair. I’ve known you long enough to commit all of your habits and haunts to memory.”

“You’re too good. It’s not fair…”

“Is everything all right?” Jade moves to shrug his tailcoat off, aiming to drape it across your shoulders for extra layering, but you stop him. “My lady?”

“I’m not cold. Thank you, though.”

Jade nods slowly and slides his arms back into the sleeves. “May I ask what’s keeping you up? It’s unlike you to visit the garden so late.”

“It’s nothing major. Just thinking too much about too many things. If that makes any sense…”

He hums in acknowledgement. You fidget on your bare feet. Some days Jade thinks you’d wander to your death if it weren’t for him. Having suspected this, he made sure to bring your shoes. Guiding you to the marble bench at the end of the pathway, where the space opens into a clearing enclosed with shaped shrubbery, Jade lowers to his knees.

“A princess shouldn’t dirty her feet so carelessly,” he reminds you, taking hold of your foot and gingerly sliding your shoe on.

You frown at him. “Does it matter?”

“In polite society, yes, very much so.”

“Polite society is the worst. How am I meant to frolic in the flowers as the fairy tales intended if I can’t even take my shoes off for such a thing?”

“You may do so in your dreams.”

“It’s not the same.”

Jade gazes at your legs from where he kneels. Should his gaze climb any higher… He snuffs that thought before it can take root. “Perhaps not, but the world within a dream is lenient and lawless. You’re free to break every rule you desire.”

He offers you his arm and you take it. Lifting you from the bench, he walks with you and admires lush blossoms alongside you. Sweet is the night breeze, bringing recollections of a childhood that has long since fled. Watching you, future heir to the throne, from afar, an unimportant butler-in-training… You’ve always been his world—the center of his vision. The single flower in a garden infested with weeds.

What he’d do to pick you and put you in a pot of his own making. To keep you solely because it is the whim of a selfish heart caught up in foolish, one-sided limerence.

“What would you do? In your dreams, I mean. If you could experience any dream, what would it be?”

Jade peers at you, taken aback. “You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking the flowers.” Playfully, you reach up to pat his head. He leans down to meet your hand halfway, a smile gracing his features. How fervently he wishes you would touch him with more purpose. If only your individual stations were not so far apart. If only he could become your equal just for tonight and know rapture under your fingertips. “Yes, Jade, I’m asking you.”

It’s not a calculated risk, for he knows the outcome will never be in his favor, but he acts on impulse anyway. He seizes your hand. You flinch away, surprised by this forthright display, but he holds firm. He’s determined to see this through to the end, even if it lands him a heart more shattered than when he began.

“I would become a prince and marry you.”

Much to his chagrin, you laugh. “That’s quite the lofty dream. A funny one, too.”

He squeezes your hand, insistent. “That is the truth.”

“It’s not.” You meet his mismatched stare. “It… It’s not, right? Surely you jest.”

“I have always admired you, my lady.” Testing his limits, he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “Though you may be forever out of my reach and I may be but a mere servant, that does not stop me from loving you any less.”

Your face falls. There is no reciprocation to be found in your gaze. He suspected this from the beginning, but it does nothing to soothe the sting.

He grasps your other hand, hoping to bestow a kiss to it as well, but you jerk away so quickly that you trip over your feet and land in a heap on the grass. He doesn’t make any move to help you up. Not yet, at least. Lying sprawled on your back, you watch him with uncertain eyes.

“How long?”

“The day your father rescued me and brought me in—you offered your hand to me, and you told me I would never know the dangers of the sea again.” Jade stands over you, observing the many emotions flickering on your face, before lowering to your height. He straddles you with ease. “I had never known such kindness until then.”

“Ah, right… I remember that day. You were injured so severely they put you on bedrest. You had to learn how to walk all over again.”

“In spite of everything they told you about me, you visited me regardless. Every day, at every hour, to bring snacks and toys. To cheer me up. To wish for my swift recovery. To act as my crutch. For that, I am forever grateful.” His hands slide your nightgown up, and he feasts on the sight of your panties—on the way you draw your thighs together to hide from him. “I have always stood dutifully by your side, hoping to repay you for all that you’ve done for me.”

You look delicate in the grass, your robe slipping from your shoulders. Like a pinned butterfly or an angel having just fallen from the sky, you’re a sugared fantasy brought to life.

“Jade.” You grab at his shoulders and push back weakly; he doesn’t budge. “We… We shouldn’t. I can’t. If someone were to see—”

“They won’t.”

“Yes, but I—” you turn away from him, worrying your lip between your teeth— “I can’t, Jade… I’m betrothed. F-Furthermore, it’s not safe without…protection. You can’t.”

He smiles fondly, so sickly, stupidly enchanted. With the moon just behind his head, framing it like a hazy halo, you might mistake him for an angel. His actions suggest he’s anything but.

Lifting his index finger to his lips, he shushes you. “In that case, let’s play pretend for tonight—just as we used to—and trap ourselves in a dream.”

Your refusal falls on deaf ears.

Hands crawl along the expanse of your body, feeling everything within reach. He’s overjoyed to behold you, to press down on the space between your legs and savor your staggered breaths. You plead with him all throughout it, begging him to cease now and he’ll be spared. But Jade can’t. If it kills him, he wants to have died knowing he was on cloud nine.

This has always been his dream.

For tonight, he is neither prince nor butler. For tonight, he is simply a monster—the same monster your maids warned you against when you were little: “That cursed child is no good. He will bring ruin to your father—to you, Your Highness. You must keep away, for a child of the sea is a child of destruction and agony.”

The same monster who looked on with a single golden eye, lying in wait like the perfect predator and wearing the skin of a human to hide his true identity. The same monster who took to training as if it were second nature, honing his skills as a butler and a bodyguard. Hardening a heart that has never had the capacity to care for anything other than himself and the ones who have since departed.

The same monster who loves the human he ought to hate, for it is your kind who hunt the waters he was conceived in. Who spear merfolk with harpoons and feast on their flesh and eggs like it’s a sacred delicacy. Who arrange their skeletons in aureate frames. Who mount their taxidermied tails to the wall.

The same monster who, in some distant fairy tale, could have been a king if not for the devastation of his family tree.

Dewy grass sticks to your skin. The scent of moist earth envelops you in its verdant embrace. Jade sinks in slowly, holding you down by your hips. You squirm and cry, but he persists. He could be cruel and callous, rut into you like an animal instead of a lover, but he refrains. He loves you too much, and that hurts more than any pain he could inflict on you.

You dig your nails into his shoulders. If they were sharper, you might have been able to tear through his uniform. Sweet, soft moans spill from pretty, plush lips. He kisses you, adoring the hold your walls have on him when he rolls his hips to fill you deeper.

“Jade… Jade, please,” you ramble, breathing hot and heavy in his ears. It’s musical, the way you sing for him through your tears. “Oh, please pull out. I—aah—can’t… We can’t. Please, Jade.”

Perhaps it would have been easier to hate you and your father—detest the kingdom who has rendered his home an aquatic graveyard. Surrounded in a garden of exotic blooms, Jade thinks that’s impossible. Love born from hate is thorny, impossible to quell once it’s come to fruition. It’s dug its roots into his heart and given way to the most fearsome flower.

He should have killed you. He should have held that pillow over your face all those years ago when he snuck into your bedroom, silent as a shadow. He should have, but he didn’t—couldn’t. And now he’s here, towering over you without the pillow. His hands stray towards your throat, but instead of an execution he drags you against his chest. He can’t.

Years later and he still can’t fulfill his one and only childhood dream.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes glittering. “How I wish you were as ugly as your heart…”

Raindrops spatter your face, a quiet downpour spilling from heterochromatic hues.

You fall apart beneath him, ruined in ways polite society would deem grossly impure.

Now we’re the same, Jade thinks, bowing his head when he reaches his peak. He groans lowly, his eyes squeezed shut. Monsters without homes.

Come morning, the palace is in a panic. The princess has vanished, seemingly whisked away into the night, and the only one who may have any information on her whereabouts has gone with her. Jade doesn’t worry.

No one will find you at the bottom of the sea, unrecognizable as a mermaid in an abandoned coral kingdom.

On his empty throne, he knows of no better place.

[theknitpotato]

History of the Jingle Dress Dance

The Jingle Dress Dance began with the Mille Lacs Band of the Ojibwe Tribe in the early 1900s and became prevalent in the 1920s in Wisconsin and Minnesota (Great Lakes region) in the US and in Ontario, Canada.

The story is that the dress was first seen in a dream. A medicine man’s granddaughter grew sick, and as the man slept his Indian spirit guides came to him and told him to make a Jingle Dress for the little girl. They said if the child danced in it, the dress would heal her. The Jingle Dress was made, and the tribe came together to watch the child dance. At first, the child was too sick to dance alone so her tribe carried her, but after some time, the little girl was able to dance alone, cured of her sickness.

The dance has since been not only a ritual of healing but also one of pride.

What Do Jingle Dresses Look Like?

Jingle Dresses, also known as Prayer Dresses, are believed to bring healing to those who are sick. As mentioned above, the dance gets its name from the rows of ziibaaska’iganan (metal cones) sewed to the dress. These cones are traditionally made from rolled snuff can lids and hung from the dress with ribbon close to one another, so they make a melodic sound as the girls and women dance. Traditionally, the dress is adorned with 365 visible jingles, or cones. Nowadays, these cones are often machine-made.

The dresses come in every color imaginable, from yellow to bright blue, to deep red, and accented with sparkles and even neon-colored fabrics. They are often made with shiny and sparkly materials and decorated with fringes, embroidery, beading, and more.

They usually have three-quarter length to full-length sleeves and come down to mid-calf or the ankle. They are secured at the waist with a thick belt, often made of brown leather. On their feet, the dancer wears decorative moccasins embellished with the same kind of detail found on their dresses.

What are the steps for the Jingle Dance?

As the ziibaaska’iganan hit one another it sounds like rain falling, so it’s important for the dancer to be light on their feet, to move in time with the drum and stop when the beat stops. They keep their foot movements low to the ground while dancing, kicking their heels and bouncing on their toes to the music. Typically, this dance is done in a zigzag pattern, said to represent one’s journey through life—or so the story goes. Often, they keep their hands on their hips, and if they are dancing with a feathered fan (full of neutral colors, like eagle feathers) as the more modern Jingle Dress Dancers do, they will raise it into the air as they dance to receive healing.

The traditional Indian dance involves low, soft-footed steps, as could be performed by those who were sick, while the modern competitive dancers push the boundaries some as they try to out-dance their competitors. The manner in which the dance has evolved has built firmly on its origin story.

What are the songs and music for Jingle Dance?

The music for this style of dancing has a foundation of a solid drumbeat, and of course, the metal cones make a loud jingling (hence the name) as the women move, which contributes to the music you’ll hear at a Jingle Dress Dance. Jingle Dancers will usually dance to Northern drum groups. Special songs for Jingle Dance include a Side Step or Crow Hop

[velvet-waltz]

Aldo opened the door, took a pinch of snuff from the box on his dash, and grabbed his chore jacket and hunting rifle. Then he eased himself into the bed of the truck, rolled his jacket into a pillow, and leaned back against the wheel cab.

The rifle was perfectly fine, your run-of-the-mill Winchester, nothing to complain about, but it wasn’t his wartime gun. The one that felt like a part of his arm, the one with ‘INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS’ etched into the stock. That one was behind glass in the Smithsonian.

Heh. Not bad for a bootlegger from the Smoky Mountains.

And now, he was needed again. Not that the government had asked, but Sylvia was plenty good enough. Nazis in California? Killing and carving up corpses with his trademark? Now that he certainly could not abide.

-- Stranger in Paradise, Chapter 11: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

ao3

wattpad

[in-the-pocket]

[ sling ] sender slings an arm around receiver's shoulder

Evening. St. Vitus bar (rip, it lives on in my heart), at the far end of Greenpoint. The bill's a horror story in and of itself: MIDNIGHT, JESUS PIECE, ESCUELA GRIND, 200 STAB WOUNDS. The place is a total dive, dimly lit and packed to the gills. Stickers adorn stray surfaces, largely from acts who have played here before.

There, milling in the crowd, up front and to the right ("Trust me, it's the safest spot to be.") against a barricade-free stage, Lance tries and fails to be cool about it. It being taking a drink and gently slinging an arm about her shoulders, tattooed knuckles relaxing once he's done so.

"You nervous?"

The question takes her by surprise. Not only because she was starting to drown in the noise, but because it's an oddly tender question for him.

Lance had texted her approximately eight minutes before he was in the lobby of her apartment. She cursed and immediately called him. She asked him what to wear. He'd said "anything." She hated him for that. He always made sure she was comfortable and true to herself. It irritated her to no end. She huffed and puffed and elbowed him several times while they were gently rocked on the E train into Brooklyn.

She went with a black short-sleeved button down and high waisted black jeans to at least not attract attention with color. The orange and red curls were enough. Her shoes were a pair of her dance sneakers. Unassuming. Normal. Not a dead giveaway. When they'd walked in, she took a mental note of the slipperiness of the floors under her smooth soles. This would make a great dance floor...

But this was not a swing dancing venue with big band horns blaring and pairs of dancers crowding the floor. Folks here stand shoulder to shoulder chatting and murmuring about all sorts of things she doesn't understand. Growls, screams, squeals. What is this, a zoo?

The young woman tilts her head up and to the side, the little curious dog thing she does. She laughs quietly in the hopes that the chatter snuffs it out. It wavers a bit. She wavers a bit.

"Don't think so," she quips. Her brown eyes are even darker than usual in this dim lighting and they quickly scan the characters standing around them. They dart from face to face with the same quickness they had when she was on stage. It was a necessary skill to gauge the crowd.

"I like the energy in here. Very different from stuff I usually go to. I can feel the electricity building between everybody." She's thoughtful, aware, in tune. She feels that same electricity in the hairs on her uncharacteristically toned forearms.

It's only after her comment that she notices how comfortably his arm hangs over her shoulder. Even if the volts increase in her skin, he's grounded with his rubber soles. Pippa can tell he's not putting his full weight on her. Again with the making sure she's comfortable. Ugh.

And tonight will be another night she doesn't call attention to the physical connection. Like other days and nights where they hold onto one another and connect lazily, she'll let it linger, breathe it in, then exhale and let it pass naturally when it ends.

She's not uncomfortable. Not in this place, not next to him, not under his arm. Saying that wasn't necessary though.

Pippa wiggles her foot again. It slides easily. She scoots a bit closer to him, pressing half of her back against his chest now. If someone falls into her a bit too hard, she's got no traction. Might as well get herself stable and situated before the chaos starts. Hopefully he says nothing- lets it linger and pass.

She says nothing for a few moments, silently observing his warmth against her. This place was already getting warm, but his heat was less oppressive. More reassuring.

Suddenly, she jerks forward and her eyes widen.

"Shit! Almost forgot," she shoves a manicured hand into her front pocket and digs out two little rubber cases. They both read Vic Firth on the front. She opens one of them and pulls out two earplugs attached together with a string and shoves one immediately into her right ear canal. He may be someone she can count on to keep her off the floor and safe from being punched, but he can't stop tinnitus ringing.

She holds out the other case up to him with a cheeky grin. "Figured you don't wanna use one of my gross pairs. So I gotcha some new ones for yourself."

And there it is. The tacit acknowledgment of proximity of heart, body and musical interest.

[gentlyepigrams]

Clifton Observatory by Truus, Bob & Jan too! https://ift.tt/B386kuh Bristol, England. Bob and Jan went on holiday to South West England. Clifton Observatory, located on Clifton Down atop the Avon Gorge, offers unforgettable views of Clifton Suspension Bridge and the surrounding area. A historic site with a fascinating past, Clifton Observatory offers unique tourist attractions, including one of the only working Camera Obscuras open to the public in the UK, and access to the legendary Giant’s Cave. Built on the site of a Celtic Iron-Age fort, the Observatory was originally constructed as a snuff mill in 1766. The mill was later leased by William West, a photography and engineering enthusiast who was a member of the Bristol School of Artists. West saw the potential in the ‘picturesque ruin’ and converted it into an Observatory. He installed several telescopes and a range of other astronomical resources and instruments, including the Camera Obscura. The Camera Obscura offers a unique view of the Clifton Suspension Bridge and Avon Gorge. From a dark room atop the tower, visitors can experience what is sometimes nicknamed ‘Victorian CCTV’ – a remarkable feat of Victorian engineering which still fascinates and astonishes people to this day, almost two centuries later. Source: Visit Bristol. https://flic.kr/p/2qjjSq3 Uploaded September 28, 2024 at 05:30PM

[bletherwood]

Tales from Bletherwood

By Virginia Didelphidae

Sometimes when you wander enough, you become disoriented. And in fairytales that's the best way to end up somewhere mythical.

Witch's Butter

In the depths of Bletherwood, there's a little house. In the house lives an old woman. She has long gray hair in a thick braid and round glasses perched on her nose. Her dress is brown with lace collars. No one knows her name so they just call her “The Old Woman”. She lives with a pooka named Pudgy and a magpie named Piedmont who rarely says things appropriate to be written down.

One day the old woman was taking stock of her pantry, checking her supplies for winter. “We have the jams and pickles we made around the equinox. They're still very good. We have the persimmons I dried last month, they'll be joined by the other fruit I have drying now. Flour, rice, sugar, beans- oh dear. My witch's butter is all gone.” She sighed, she couldn't go out to gather some right now, she was making broth and Piedmont liked to take the bones for himself. She then noticed Pudgy returning a jar of snail shells for his collection. “Pudge dear, do you have any more plans today?”

“No ma'am. I'm gonna nap until dinner then sleep some more.” The lazy fairy declared, grinning.

“Do you mind helping me?” She asked, fetching her small basket. “I need some witch's butter but I have to keep an eye on the cauldron.”

Pudgy didn't know what witch's butter was but he was eager to help the old woman. “I can do that. I can do that before dinner.” He chirped, wagging his tail as he took the basket and ran off before he was told where to go. The old woman sighed. Hoping he knew what he was doing.

Pudgy ran along through the woods. He personally didn't know any witches, let alone ones who make butter. He saw some crows and got an idea. He knew a young woman named Ara who lived in a tree with crows, she had a spell to see anything, surely she was close enough. The young fairy turned into a lark to follow the crows home.

When he landed upon Ara's porch he shapeshifted back to his human-like form and knocked on her door.

“Who is here?” Ara called, opening the door to see the pooka waiting. “Oh? Pudgewhick? What brings you my way?” She pushes her blonde bangs out of her steel gray eyes. Though her features could be seen as intimidating, her fanged smile could melt any cold heart.

“Hi Ara? Do you have any butter?”

“Butter? No, I haven't had any since last week. I much prefer jam on my toast.” She let a crow land on her scratched up hand. “Why? Are you hungry?”

“No- well yes, but no. The Old Woman needs some butter.”

“Why would she send you to me?”

“It's witch's butter she needs.”

“I'm not a-” she then pauses and begins to laugh a merry squawk.

“What?” Pudgy was confused, what was so funny?

“Head hahaha to the hahaha old dwarve’s haha haha mill haha.” she wheezed. Pudgy gave her a confused stare before turning into a lark to fly there quickly. Or at least as fast as he could with a basket in his claws.

When he landed, there wasn't anyone really here. The mill had been abandoned since the dwarf left to care for his sick cousin. Now the building was old and covered in moss and mushrooms, especially strange orange ones. He sighed sitting down. That's when he heard it.

“Mehhhhhh”

He looked up, and saw a goat. She had floppy ears and small horns.

“Oh hello ma'am…are you lost?”

“Mehh” she snorted. She walked past with a snuff. The goat looked at him with yellow eyes, approaching him to chew on the mushroom behind him.

“Oh dear, you really don't wanna pay much attention to me huh.” He joked, patting her on the back. He then remembered goats make milk and milk makes butter. “Do YOU have witch's butter?”

The goat looked at him, knocking some of the orange gooey fungus into his basket. “Mehhh” she began to walk away.

“Hey wait, your legs are longer then mine!” He chases after her hoping she'd take him to where the butter was. The goat moved a bit faster everytime he got close. How rude, she was making him run! He hated exercise.

After an hour of running after a goat he wound back up at the mill, he had lost her. “Goat? I'm sorry if I'm being annoying. I really need this butter though! The Old Woman will probably pay you! I can't really pay as I'm broke- ack!” He yelped as more of the orange stuff fell off the building. He looked up to see the goat, head out the top window, throwing them at him! “OH! You are a very rude goat!”

“Meh!” She snorted, tossing her head and stamping her hoof.

“Now come down and bring me to your butter!” He demanded as the goat snorted and bounced on the plank, raining more of the jelly like mushroom on him. “Stop being mean! I'll pay you! I lied about being broke!” He called, lying about his financial state.

The goat blinked and went back inside the mill. “PLEASE!” He begged

“Pudge?”

The pooka looked over his shoulder to see the old woman hobbling over, walking stick in hand and Piedmont perched on her. He felt embarrassed as he was on his knees, arms stretched high as he pleaded with the uncaring god that the goat had become to him over the past hour. He sheepishly scampered over to her.

She goes over to him and looks at his basket.

“I will have the butter soon ma'am! The stupid goat won't lead me to the butter and she wont stop dropping these mushrooms on me. I think she may be sadistic in her intent so stay back, I think she has a knife.”

“Pudge. Those are the Witch's Butter.”

“What?”

“Witch's Butter is an edible fungus with medicinal properties.” She smiles as Piedmont caws and cackles. “You ran off so fast I thought you knew already.”

“I thought so too.” Pudgy admitted shyly. Piedmont fell off the Old Woman's shoulder cackling. The young fae's spikes raise as he growls at the magpie.

The Old Woman sighs, picking both up. “Let's head home, and I'll teach you how to candy them after dinner.” With that, she took her charges home.

[whiteshipnightjar]

Marie At The Mill

by Joanna Newsom

(HORNS)

I see you coming down in your cherry wool coat bare to the throat like Marie at the Mill. Where might you go from your lowly amour where they hoard you like gold in the hill.

Sent from my side to the cold riverbed, Marie, you go ahead; I will follow in time. The work keeps me here with a few pioneers magnetizing a permanent line. Save for the coat, there was nothing to bring. It was found you could sing, you were sent to the Bay. At Seminary, you passed and were buried; I rose there the very next day.

For if you weren’t born at the right time, my dear, just keep trying and trying and trying again. As for the end, it is not what you fear, you’re just slipping a glove from your hand.

Like this: down, down, down, down your wrist down, down; the list of lives, husbands and wives, dozens of times around again and then,

out of all of the girls, heartbroke, alone, and to rot, and called me the heir of Melba and myth. I crossed the Atlantic, from Boston to Nantes on the hand of my dear Mr. Smith.

Then came his talk of perdition and sin like a cold winter wind come to blow me away. I was impatient and sought education on stage and the Champs-Élysées. I left on my own with the clothes on my back and my old name intact, and my own bills to pay. I left him in debt with his feathered grisette; alouette, je te plumerai. I had the honor to sing Mendelssohn on the Ternary lawn for the brave and the few. But it was my joy to be called to Bayreuth from who toiled a slave comes anew.

They prance for gentler worthiness and everyone who ruled a king may wander in rags for things done and undone and done and undone.

I wed Mr Russak, a fan, and producer of amateur music. All embedded in pearls, held court in Newport, amused myself before I threw off the veil of the world. And when in time he sank under the sea, what he deeded to me was enough to begin as secretary and past emissary; I rose through the ranks from within.

My carnelian snuff bottle carved as a peach and a small sterling wagon — well, that was part of the set — consigned to the waters of Elliot Beach, left behind with your Pall Mall Gazette.

And it was not luck, put me there by his side when the old Colonel died, and the adepts appeared, and all* what they share, well, you had to be there but I’ll tell you if you wanna hear.

Henry, your work here is done, Annie will carry it on, Marie, write it all down, ‘til the keynote is found. You run it up and down and round and round and round and

so I filled as I could all the gaps as a pilfer for good and only good, through some lapse that I’ve long forgot I wanna write to King and only transcribe the thoughts of the boy from the beach with his pervious soul. Poor little teacher got you, do it as you’re told. And even so there is danger here in the sun. Honey, tell me what has Sirius done? I hear it all but I cannot assume none may I follow to the Octagon Room; the boy from the beach beckoned and called, Lord, he’ll leave and unhand it all.

I see the clock on the wall, I hear the knock on the door but that is all.

(HORNS)

And when my work here is through, Henry, will you find me anew a little stranger, my old friend, hold me and win me again and again and again, all over again, all over again, all over again.

There’s a lodger in me larger than me saw the cross in the garden where your process came to be and cut you free, though your father tried to reunite with you and yet* he was allowed to die. Despite the lies, we are grist in the mill.

On the list I am Helios still, Sun-Wielder, Brunhilde, spun in shields, running round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round.

[twothpaste]

fick chunk about fuel's not-so-secret project at the new pork ruins, which somehow doubles as a whole-ass character study. (featuring bronson, nana, claus, lucas, and abelle my oc abelle.)

Speakin' of daylight: the noontime shine renders fire far less fearsome.

It flickers from the wick of a tiny index finger. Scarlet diamonds, scarcely greater than a candle's glimmer. How it kisses the ocean. That white-blue horizon line. There's a quaint horror, at the heart of the matter. Knowing even embers like these would - given the chance - reduce houses to ashes. And a quainter comfort, still. Knowing she'd never dare let 'em.

If you ask him 'bout phobias, Fuel ain't got none. Try talkin' to him 'bout "Pee-Tee-Ess-Dee," and he'll kindly decline, arms crossed. "Nah. Nope. N' hell naw, while I'm at it. But thank ya very much, Lucas." That kinda talk's for the twins. N' their forefathers. N' former Pigmasks, maybe some of 'em. His matchstick jitters're just a reflex. His muscles pulled stiff, at the scent of somethin' burning - well, that's 'cause it's a heck of a stinkin' smell. When he wakes up coughing, choking, on smoke that ain't there, it's that sleep apnea shit he's got. Nana diagnosed it. Y'can call her a madwoman, n' he does too, when he's joshin' around. But don't get it backwards. She knows what she's talkin' about.

Likewise, Abelle doesn't mention what's irking her. That she'd definitely be able to muster more than a goshdarn candle. Maybe an antique gas stove. Or a fireplace lighter. If only she'd gotten more than three hours of sleep. It casts a vague orange, ruffling up against the work station's tarped shade. Miscellaneous metal parts reflect only the teeniest glimmers. A wrench here. A dubious hunk of titanium there.

"So. Y'light it with yer mind? Just like that, huh…?" Even after all this time, truth be told, Fuel can still scarcely wrap his head around it.

"Sure do!" Abelle chimes. Before dousing her pride, so as not to be impolite. As the flame wavers, her brow furrows. "It doesn't exactly come natural, though. Gotta focus real hard on it. Helps to think of somethin' warm. I'm thinkin' of s'mores, right now."

"S'mores, huh? Makes sense, I guess. Y'ain't scared of it, or nothin'?"

"Me? Hehe! Naw, I'm never scared!"

"Well, shit! Beg yer pardon!" Fuel leans back, hands raised, donning an amused grin. Has a bite of his peanut butter sandwich, while he's at it. N' mutters the rest with a fist coverin' his mouthful. "I'm only askin' 'cause, ah.. Lucas used to say this psychic stuff was an awful sorta scary. Back when he first started doin' it, I mean."

"Oh, he's told me so, too. It's kinda funny, ain't it? Everyone always says he used to be so skittish. I can't hardly picture it." Abelle's got strawberry jam on hers. N' banana slices, too. She snuffs out the flare, just long enough for a meager nibble.

"Heh. That's fair. Sometimes I can't, neither." Beyond the makeshift awning, out there in the blue, silhouettes mill about the boats. Settin' up chemical filtering equipment, they'd said? Somethin' or other. If he squints, Fuel reckons he can make out Lucas' red-n'-yella plaid. Leading the pack, no doubt. "What if it goes outta control? If the fire gets bigger than y'bargained for, or whatever? That, uh… That ever happen?"

"Mm-mm," Abelle answers. Shakin' her head. "Not really. Not with PK Fire. Sometimes my Shields're too big, if y'can believe it. N' sometimes I start hearin' what other folks're thinkin', n' it's like..? Like I can't turn it off. But, if I'm bein' honest…" Her gaze dips downward, back into the shadows. Scrutinizes the pitiful candle wick, held low in her lap. "M'no good at Psycho-Kinesis. Offensive PSI, Kumatora calls it. The stuff y'can fight with."

"That ain't so bad, is it? Not much to fight about, these days."

"That's what Kumatora n' Lucas're always sayin'. But gosh, have ya seen them spar? They're incredible! N' Claus, too! PK Love, n' Ground, n' Starstorm… It's amazin'. The stuff they can do."

The way the kid's eyes brim with starshine, Fuel can totally imagine her watchin' the Cerulean Beach lightshow. Cheerin' from the sidelines, as Claus and Kumatora hurl fireballs at each other. Makin' the whole goddamn planet Earth shake, like it ain't done since armageddon. Or when Lucas' gaze takes on that otherworldly glow N' shit starts floatin' all around him. Like the very laws of nature were made to be broken, far as he's concerned. Somethin' so gentle n' mild - transfigured into somethin' downright cataclysmic.

Yeah, Fuel's seen 'em spar, alright. It scares the piss outta him.

"But me? I've got none o' that. Too weak for it, I guess." Abelle pinches her fingers together, quashing the flame like a bug. Takes a deep breath. Exhales it all, in one quick burst. "Shoot. Sorry. Didn't mean to go off on a tirade. I prob'ly sound real ungrateful. N' envious, besides."

"Naw, I, ah… I reckon I get where yer comin' from." Fuel shifts his weight, atop the supply crate he's sittin' on. Nurses a half-flat can of Sierra Mist. To clear his throat of that smoggy, cloggy sensation. "Y'just wanna be capable. Protect the folks y'care about. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Be a part of somethin' bigger."

"Yeah…"

"Nothin' wrong with wantin' that." Aluminum crinkles, frail, in his sturdy grasp. "Nothin' wrong at all."

His sandwich disappears down his gullet, during the brief quiet that ensues. Hers remains a work-in-progress. Restless, at seventeen and three months, even lunch breaks are a kind of labor. She shuffles her boots over strewn wires.

"Thank ya, Fuel," Abelle tells him. N' he perks up, and shrugs. Like he's surprised to hear it.

"Me? Naw, thank you. 'Preciate ya showin' me Pee-Kay Fire, at least. Made me feel a little braver. Fer what it's worth."

"Hehe. Aw, jeez. You're welcome, then."

It ain't pyrophobia. She'll take his word for it. But even little miss sunshine can tell there's somethin' he's tryin' to overcome. No matter how quickly he changes lanes.

"Say, y'don't got Thunder? By any chance?"

"Nope. Only Fire. Why?"

"Aw, no reason. Jus' curious."

"Well. I've got a curious question, too, if y'don't mind it. What's all this you're workin' on, in here?"

"Mm?" Fuel's gaze jolts to meet hers, if only for a split second. Dirty fingernails sift along the crate's lid. One foot kicks a heavy-duty screwdriver away, into the lamp-cast shadows. His teeth form a simper. "'Fraid that's a bit of a secret, lil' miss."

The kid's tired eyes turn suddenly sharp. Glancin' past him, at a dimly-lit swath of buttons and dials. Then directly at him. Snagged in a potent stare. Fuel hesitates before speakin' up. Still wearing that dumb grin on his face.

"Wait. Hah. Y'ain't tryin' to read my mind, are ya?"

Abelle stares harder. Takes a deep breath, leaning ever so slightly towards him. Then closes her eyes. As if embroiled in a deep, scrying focus. A chuckle cracks its way through Fuel's constitution. He shakes his head. Clambers to his feet.

"Okay, alright. I'll show ya. But, ah…" One index finger rises, as he drops to a near-whisper. "You'll keep it on the down-low, won'tcha?"

Abelle peeks one eye open. And smiles like a Keebler elf.

"Cross my heart, hope to die!"

-

Yellow paint peels to reveal steel plating. Which, in turn, gives way to scarlet rust. Layin' there in a dilapidated heap, rot notwithstanding, the central console alone prob'ly weighs as much as Abelle herself. Its glass cranium's a lost cause. Shattered n' displaced ages ago. Stiff rods stickin' out the circular chasm up top. Fuel managed to scavenge one lower left limb, mostly intact, from its would-be resting place. The others are a work-in-progress. They litter the workshop, alongside other unfinished Frankensteins. Pull on a pair of inch-thick gloves. A heavy helmet, with a darkened slit for a view. Smothered an apron, like a weighted blanket. She'd tell him he looks silly, if she didn't know better. Absolute spaceman.

He can't tame a bonfire. He can tame a welder. Got a safety checklist in his head. A spark-proof suit of armor. And a forge built of impenetrable battlements.

When Porky took Fuel, he had him puttin' in child labor hours at the goddamn bakery. Workin' dough for desperate dough. Burnin' bread like nobody's business. Absolute wonder he didn't get f-f-f-fired! As merciful a manager as Sweet Caroline was, the role suited her like a square peg to a round hole. N' Fuel, likewise, was a sorry excuse for a baker. Kneading putty, coughin' up flour and oven smog, apron tied too twisty-tight 'round his tree-trunk waist. Like his father before him, the young craftsman's calloused hands have always preferred sturdier fare. If y'ask Fuel, the hop-skip-n'-a-jump from lumber to iron ain't so much of a leap, after all.

Mecha Lions n' Boa Transistors are his bread n' butter out here. Should a stray Rhinocerocket come barrelling through the walkway, on account of a busted fin, Fuel's your guy. He'll whip up a replacement in no time flat. N' never mind the occasional dent that may mar his best bud's steely shins. Chimera repairs're a noble duty, far as he's concerned. One he's proud to uphold.

Robots, though? Most folks hardly consider 'em casualties. If they consider 'em at all.

An uncommon sight - most have long since ceased functioning. Uttered their last garbled beeps, and melded into the wreckage upon which they stand. A slim handful were reprogrammed n' repurposed, back during the first salvage missions. The rest were left to their tombs. Haunted the Harbor for about a decade, crawlin' around the place in various states of zombified dysfunction. You can picture a teenaged Fuel's cringing horror, as a shambling Octobot claimed his leg in a tendril's grasp. Yanked him straight down with a vengeance nastier than any sinkhole. Claus came to his rescue, this time. Made quick work of it. Crowbar's clash. Psionic flash. An ugly scowl marks the spot in his memory.

Y'can picture, too, how that same teenaged Fuel looked down upon the un-creature. One half titanium, one half bronze, sundered roughly down the middle. Circuit-tronics n' whatsits, blasted every which way. Not-brains spilling from its not-head. Its veneer, crisply obliterated, looked not unlike a welding mask. Come to think of it.

Each had a directive, once upon a time. Monitor the perimeter. Exterminate intruders. Serve King Burgers. Whatever. None have the chops for any task, anymore. Too feeble, ineffectual, expendable. Too little, too late. Wrong place n' time. To say robots "want" for anything would be a stretch. But the premise of "purpose" gets Fuel a wee bit misty-eyed.

Sure, it's a silly sentiment. He knows it. "Laugh it up, if ya like," he says. Becomes apparent to Abelle, real quick, that it ain't an illicit sorta secret, but a self-conscious one. Some folks have a righteous penchant for amends. He's got a feckless tendency toward unsung causes.

"Naw, I think it's mighty kind of ya," she replies. Naturally. Abelle's the girl who calls old cars "she," n' pats her PC's tower when it ain't loadin', n' prescribes human feelings to vintage stereos. That said, she'd be lyin' if she claimed her intrigue isn't primarily techno-historical. Eyein' the robot with an eagerness to match his mercy. "What about the wiring? N' the hardware repairs? I know just a lil' bit, myself. Might could help ya fix the processin' unit, if it's still got one."

"That so, Barbie? I'll take ya up on it, if y'mean it. Got Sheep helpin' me with some o' the electronics. Was thinkin' of askin' Claus, but they.. ah…"

They were there, last week, when Fuel pried the leg from the bog. Their spine's no good for heaving, these days. Helped him pull it loose, nevertheless. A mere index finger beckoned a telekinetic tug. N' they'd been all laughs, n' Lifeup, n' pats on the back, after Kerosene was sent tumblin' backwards. The foundry's mechanical menagerie had them whistlin' a different tune, though. Quiet steps, Lucas-esque. Deer in a taxidermy shop. Low glower, set upon Fuel's Lego brick pity projects.

"I don't see what's gotcha so touchy, all of a sudden. Ain't that different from Mecha Lions n' Boa Transistors, is it?"

Claus didn't answer him with the same old scowl. Not quite. Fury is a mask they outgrew ages ago.

Nana told him not to sweat it, over dinner. "Environment's got a profound effect on an animal's nerves. His words, not mine. He won't say so, but I think the Harbor has him a bit on edge. I wouldn't take it personally, if I were you."

"Me? Take shit personally? Hahah. I would never! Jeez, Nana, it's like ya don't even know me."

Fuel's the only one who can get her to roll her eyes with a smile. He loves it when she does that.

… Anyways.

He tells Abelle she ought not mention it to Claus. No sooner than she nods her noggin, Bronson barges in. Here to check up on his apprentice's handiwork, apparently. A wayward elbow knocks that can of Sierra Mist from its cabinet-top perch. "Oh, shoot. I didn't…" The master smith gawks down at his blunder. Only to find the can halfway crushed. And thankfully empty. Not a drop of spillage. He hunches over - pop in his knees - and picks it up. There's a remarkable grace to his hammy fingers. And a klutziness to his cough. ".. Ehm. Sorry." Fuel chuckles. No harm, no foul.

"Gosh, how many folks're in on this, anyways?" Abelle inquires. "Doesn't seem like much of a secret to me."

"The hell do ya mean? It's jus' Bronson, n' Sheep, n' Claus," muffles Fuel, through his helmet. "N' Nana, o' course. N' you. Now. I guess. So, uh. Practically nobody."

The robot's shiny new right leg is immaculate, by the way. Accordin' to Bronson's utmost scrutiny. A nigh mirror image of its leftward double. "I'm tellin' ya, Barlmoro, you've got this down to a science! Dunno what the heck y'need me for, anymore. I'll give ya a hand with the installation, though. Only since ya asked real nice."

"Why thank ya, boss," says Fuel. Who didn't ask at all.

But disaster strikes the master, when he hunkers on down. A sharp pain in his lumbar is swift to knock him right outta commission. Abelle ends up nursin' his woes with Lifeup, while Bronson nurses a root beer. She lends Fuel her lackluster telekinesis, in his stead. An invisible force - only a little shaky - helps him attach both legs, safe and secure, to the central console.

"… This look even to you, boss?" Fuel tosses back. Like a consolation.

Bronson holds up a measuring level, from his seat on the sidelines. Closes one eye. Squints. N' forces a wincing grin.

"Right on, kid."

Couple mornings later, Lucas swings by, in that awfully quiet way he's wont to. Nearly spooks Fuel right outta his skin, when he gets a knock on the wooden entryway frame. He tosses a frantic tarp over the automaton's arms. Raises his soda can, to meet Lucas' coffee jar.

"Ain'tcha doin' chimera transit today? Whatcha need little ol' me for?"

"We're gettin' started now. Thought I'd drop by, while uh. While most folks're preoccupied."

Lucas can't read minds. Besides Claus', at least. Kumatora's, maybe a little. But no one else. He's assured Fuel of it, 'bout ten or eleven times. Still, he finds his stomach sinkin' a little. The way his childhood pal looks right through him.

"Claus mentioned y'were repairin' robots. Told me not to tell anybody. Then, ah… Then Abelle said so, too. Ain't sure if it's still s'posed to be a secret or not."

Right. Of course.

"Heh, well, shit! Y'got me! I know, I know, y'don't gotta tell me, it's real stupid. They ain't livin' things. Don't even got feelin's, n' here I am feelin' sorry for 'em. We oughtta be usin' their parts for scrap, n' chimera repairs, n.. n' if ya need me to, Lucas, I'll stop n' do that instead, honest to god. Didn't mean to be all sketchy about it, I jus'..? Mm?"

Ain't like Lucas to interrupt. He raises his hand, instead. With a real pitiful blast of his overcast sky eyes.

"Err. Sorry. Go ahead," says Fuel.

"Don't worry 'bout it. S'alright. I just wanted to offer, um.. I mean. I can't work metal, or electronics, or do none o' that programmin' stuff. But. If y'ever need a jolt? Y'know, like, to jump-start somethin'?"

Lucas flashes him a thumbs-up. A teeny spark of PK Thunder dances from his fingertip.

"Lemme know. Anytime."

He watches, over a meek sip of coffee. While Fuel's pensive panic melts away like marshmallow goop.

"Ha.. haha! Phew, fuck, man! Thank ya, Lucas!! I mean it. Thank ya...!"

[coal15]

Here's an excerpt from Tandum Idiots, the Station 19 Travis/Eli fic I just posted. It's nothing elaborate, just a progression of their relationship. There's fluff, snark, sexy times, hurt/comfort, no hardcore smut, no insipid love triangles. Enjoy:

Please, please, please, please keep him safe, his mind begs. Eli is not a man accustomed to begging, but now he does. Ceaselessly. He’s so laser focused on pleading for Travis’s safety, he doesn’t even notice Andy sprinting up to the crowd perimeter until she’s standing directly in front of him. 

“He’s on the second floor next to a load bearing wall,” she informs him, the words coming in a fast no nonsense rush. “The stairs aren’t passable anymore but Vic and Sully are up there trying to knock down enough fire in either the hall or west bedroom to clear a path to the windows. Okay, I gotta get back, I’ll try to keep you posted if I can.” She’s charging back to the firetruck yelling orders before Eli can even get the words ‘thank you’ out of his mouth. 

Being so familiar with this incredible team does offer Eli a measure of comfort. The knowledge that every single person battling this fire is incredibly skilled, strong, and possessed of a profound loyalty to one another. He knows when it comes to protecting their family, each of them will always fight til the point of no hope, and even well beyond, before accepting defeat. 

Another ten minutes of frantic chaos goes by before Eli sees one of the ladders moving, extending toward a window at the side of the building. The smoke is so thick he can barely make out a hand reaching out for the promise of rescue. Seconds later this person, a firefighter, descends down the ladder with the help of someone else. 

Eli squints, craning his neck for a clear look at the person’s jacket and desperately trying a not to assume it’s his person just because he wants it to be. 

Then he sees it.

Montgomery

The relief turns his legs into jello and he crumples to the ground, sobbing words of relief and gratitude. As nearby spectators help him to his feet he realizes Andy is waving him over, yelling at the people steadfastly maintaining crowd control to let him through. 

Travis barely has time to get his helmet and mask off before Eli thwumps into him, all tears and kisses.

“How can you hug me right now? I must smell terrible!” Travis teases through heavy breathing.

“You could smell like a landfill and I wouldn’t care, you're alive!” Eli sobs, dizzied and delighted as he presses his face into the curve of Travis’s throat. “I was so terrified,” he whimpers, the words muffled against Travis’s skin.

The smoke-soaked man says nothing, but wraps his arms around Eli and holds on tight. Like both their lives depend on it. Normally by now he would be telling the incident commander he’s okay, he’s fine, he’s ready to go back in and keep fighting. But Eli is so upset, so fragile in his arms, he can’t bring himself to charge back inside. Not unless he’s ordered to.

No one delivers such an order, so once Eli is calmed down enough to let go of him and stand back Travis does his part from the outside. He helps man the fire hose, clear fallen debris, and takes an ax to various parts of the house’s exterior to create more escape points. Eventually they get the fire under control and snuff it out completely.

Then the brave firefighters of Seattle all move along and wait for their next emergency. 

Eli, however, is not a firefighter. And he can’t stop having nightmares. Watching his boyfriend burn alive or choke to death on smoke, sometimes while other people mill around doing nothing to intervene, like it’s not even happening. Whenever they spend the night together, which is most nights, Travis tends to wake up suddenly to Eli wailing and thrashing beside him. “It’s a dream,” he whispers, gently squeezing Eli's arm. “Wake up baby, it’s just a dream.” Tonight is another one of those nights. Travis is having trouble falling asleep and he’s trying to order his brain to shut down before the sun comes up when an unconscious Eli begins to squirm and whine. Maybe it’s not a nightmare, it could just be sleep babbling. 

“Aagh!” Eli bolts upright, wide eyed and panting.

Travis hefts himself up, curling both arms around his boyfriend, surrounding his body so they’re posed with Eli’s back against his chest. Nope. Another nightmare.

“Sorry,” Eli warbles, embarrassed and rather annoyed with himself. 

“It’s fine,” Travis whispers. “You’re fine.” He nudges Eli’s chin, prompting the man to tilt his head back enough for a lingering kiss.  

“I just wish these damn nightmares would stop.”

“I’m sure they will.” Travis guides their bodies to lean back against the headboard, and the two of them cuddle in silence. Meanwhile, a possible issue begins nagging at the back of his mind. He pushes it down, too tired for deep thoughts or discussion. We’ll deal with it later, he tells himself. 

Eventually they re-settle beneath the covers, Travis on his back and Eli’s head tucked neatly beneath his chin. 

When morning comes Travis wakes to discover his peacefully sleeping man has rolled away from him. He watches Eli’s shoulders rise and fall, no squirming or hints of distress, and his immediate urge is to slide close and play Big Spoon. Eli is the best Little Spoon on earth as far as Travis is concerned. He needs as much sleep as he can get, he reminds himself. If I go squirming over there, I might wake him up. So instead he gets up, mindful not to disturb the mattress too much as he rises, and heads for the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. 

He’s even contemplating the possibility of pancakes.

Who doesn’t love a pancake breakfast?

It's only a few minutes later when Eli shuffles into the room. “Sorry again about last night,” he apologizes through a long yawn, reaching out for the coffee pot like a zombie in search of brains.  

“S’okay, I got it. Here.” Travis fetches down another mug and pours another piping hot cup of energy. 

Eli accepts the beverage and leans in for a quick good morning kiss, but then something gives him pause. He hesitates.

“What?” 

“I’m not sure.” Eli says, eyes narrowing as he tries to decipher Travis’s expression. “You just look . . . a bit troubled. Is there something we need to talk about?” 

There is an issue on Travis’s mind. He really doesn’t want to admit it, but the alternative is lying to his boyfriend, so he has no choice. “I guess I’m worried about . . .”

“Yeah? Worried about . . . ?”

“The thing is, Eli, that fire? It was bad, but I’ve been in way worse. Not only have I, but I will be again at some point, it’s part of the job. It’s something . . .” he pauses to carefully consider his words. “ . . . Eli anyone who chooses to be with a firefighter has to accept the same fact. That every day we go to work, we might not come home. You have to deal with knowing, every day, that you might get that call. It is an awful call, and . . . not everyone can handle it. So I, I wouldn’t blame you if it’s too much for-” 

Eli puts an end to Travis’s worried monologue by inhaling his mouth in a wild, needy kiss. “It’s not too much, I promise.” The words come breathy and rushed between a barrage of kisses. “It was just my first time seeing it that bad and I-” He stops kissing, steers Travis up against the refrigerator, and pulls off his t-shirt in one fluid move. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Travis manages to ask quickly before Eli goes on devouring him, tongue sliding and pushing against his own.

Finally Eli pulls back, panting and entirely kiss-drunk. “I am sure. I’ll adjust, Travis, it just . . . might take a minute.”

Travis gazes at his boyfriend's face, unblinking, absorbing every detail. What he sees is absolute sincerity. “You really do believe we’re worth it don’t you?” 

The fact that Travis even needs to ask sends Eli’s heart breaking open. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, cradling the man's face and dusting little kisses all over. “We are worth everything to me. If being with you means I must learn to cope with life-or-death stress on a regular basis, then I will damn well learn.” 

“Wow,” Travis's eyes pool with misty sentiment. “How did I find a guy like you?”

“You didn’t.” Eli giggles. “I barged into your place of business and ordered you to employ me. Which you did.” 

Travis opens his mouth to fire off a snarky response, but Vic’s voice cuts him off.

“I am about to enter the kitchen,” she announces. “You have five seconds to cover your junk if necessary.”

Eli leaps back like a caught out teenager whilst Travis snatches up and dives into his shirt. “We’re not always making out in here y’know.” He says when Vic strolls into the room. 

“Please,” she snorts, nudging Travis away from the fridge to gain access to her overnight oats. “If there were hidden cameras set up in here I’d have enough material to start an OnlyFans account.”

Travis rolls his eyes. “Overstatement much?”

“We’d expect a share of the profits.” Eli casually informs her. 

Travis whips his head around, pointing a stern finger at Eli. “No, bad! Stop it!”

Eli’s lips press tight as he struggles not to laugh. “Mmm, Yes Sir.” Victoria giggles and high fives him whilst making zero effort to stop laughing.

“You’re the worst,” Travis informs the them. The chuckle twins. “You are both the worst. Who wants pancakes?” 

Rather than acknowledge the question, Vic turns to Eli and asks in a matter-of-fact 'team meeting' sort of tone, “how do you feel about props, my guy? Should there be props?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes,” Travis mutters to himself, “yeah, those sound good.” 

By the time breakfast is served Vic and Eli have dropped the onlyfans gag, but it does become a running joke between the two of them. Comments here and there. Travis pretends to be annoyed by it, but the truth is he loves how well they get along. It means no touchy, tumultuous ‘significant other and best friend don’t get along’ drama to navigate. 

Waiting for the next huge life-threatening disaster to come along is like waiting for the other shoe to drop. And not that Eli wishes catastrophe upon anyone, but he needs to experience the proof, for both himself and Travis, that he can cope with the reality of Travis’s job. Day in and day out. For what he keenly hopes will be the rest of his life.

When the other shoe does finally drop, it happens in the worst way possible.

*************

Go HERE to read the whole thing.

[thebrassglass]

Birthplace of famed 18th-19th century American portraitist Gilbert Stuart in Saunderstown, R.I. The house dates from the mid-1700s and has a snuff mill in the basement, while the grist mill dates from the late 1600s to early 1700s (much of it has been rebuilt over the years). Gorgeous grounds with walking trails; the house and an adjacent gallery have numerous paintings and reproductions of his work. Guided tours twice a day as well as self-guided tours, and if you catch it right, state biologists visit to count eels and river herring, and they are happy to discuss these species and the ecological history of the waterways.

[fightingdragonswiftyou]

When I was around 10, my mom dragged me and my siblings to the homestead and snuff mill of Gilbert Stuart, the painter of a very famous portrait of George Washington. The only thing I remember from the trip was that there was a painting of a rather "homely" lady on display. Apparently, the lady's husband asked Stuart if he could do some *~1700's facetuning~* on her portarit (for a fee, of course) and Stuart declined the offer and replied, "You bring me a potato and expect I will paint a peach.”

[first-only]

Is there a name for the phenomenon where something gets popular with (mostly) young girls and women, everyone writes it off as bad and cringe, and then years later it gets a resurgence and suddenly everyone who called it cringe thinks it's cool now?

If not then there should be.

Anyway, I'm asking cause I feel like this very thing has happened with selfshipping in fandom.

i mean people called this behavior run of the mill misogyny and probably just general ageism back in the day, especially when it happened to twilight and fanfiction and the hunger games and whatever else. there's even a (relatively) recent very popular video essay that really claims this is what caused the big uproar against twilight in particular (i even tried to watch it but my cringe response to video essay(ists) is way too strong to stomach any of their stuff)

i dont think there's a term tho? and honestly im not sure it's even a real phenomenon, at least not as big as it might seem from one's niche. from where i am i dont really see a lot of general positive outlooks on selshipping, just the selfshippers being louder and less prone to adhering to social sanction

but i do very much believe there's a general tendency on social media (tumblr in particular) to jump on bandwagons of liking stuff that everyone else talks about, regardless if you actually have any strong feelings the matter. i usually see it the other way around tho - everyone likes [kink of the week they can meme/wax poetics about] and then after they get bored it's denounced as cringe and problematique and overdone and whatnot

idk tho, ymmv - i have built myself a little fort of Tolerable Social Media Niche so i might not be up to snuff about social trends lol

[chefspenser-blog]

History of the Jingle Dress Dance

The Jingle Dress Dance began with the Mille Lacs Band of the Ojibwe Tribe in the early 1900s and became prevalent in the 1920s in Wisconsin and Minnesota (Great Lakes region) in the US and in Ontario, Canada.

The story is that the dress was first seen in a dream. A medicine man’s granddaughter grew sick, and as the man slept his Indian spirit guides came to him and told him to make a Jingle Dress for the little girl. They said if the child danced in it, the dress would heal her. The Jingle Dress was made, and the tribe came together to watch the child dance. At first, the child was too sick to dance alone so her tribe carried her, but after some time, the little girl was able to dance alone, cured of her sickness.

The dance has since been not only a ritual of healing but also one of pride.

What Do Jingle Dresses Look Like?

Jingle Dresses, also known as Prayer Dresses, are believed to bring healing to those who are sick. As mentioned above, the dance gets its name from the rows of ziibaaska’iganan (metal cones) sewed to the dress. These cones are traditionally made from rolled snuff can lids and hung from the dress with ribbon close to one another, so they make a melodic sound as the girls and women dance. Traditionally, the dress is adorned with 365 visible jingles, or cones. Nowadays, these cones are often machine-made.

The dresses come in every color imaginable, from yellow to bright blue, to deep red, and accented with sparkles and even neon-colored fabrics. They are often made with shiny and sparkly materials and decorated with fringes, embroidery, beading, and more.

They usually have three-quarter length to full-length sleeves and come down to mid-calf or the ankle. They are secured at the waist with a thick belt, often made of brown leather. On their feet, the dancer wears decorative moccasins embellished with the same kind of detail found on their dresses.

What are the steps for the Jingle Dance?

As the ziibaaska’iganan hit one another it sounds like rain falling, so it’s important for the dancer to be light on their feet, to move in time with the drum and stop when the beat stops. They keep their foot movements low to the ground while dancing, kicking their heels and bouncing on their toes to the music. Typically, this dance is done in a zigzag pattern, said to represent one’s journey through life—or so the story goes. Often, they keep their hands on their hips, and if they are dancing with a feathered fan (full of neutral colors, like eagle feathers) as the more modern Jingle Dress Dancers do, they will raise it into the air as they dance to receive healing.

The traditional Indian dance involves low, soft-footed steps, as could be performed by those who were sick, while the modern competitive dancers push the boundaries some as they try to out-dance their competitors. The manner in which the dance has evolved has built firmly on its origin story.

What are the songs and music for Jingle Dance?

The music for this style of dancing has a foundation of a solid drumbeat, and of course, the metal cones make a loud jingling (hence the name) as the women move, which contributes to the music you’ll hear at a Jingle Dress Dance. Jingle Dancers will usually dance to Northern drum groups. Special songs for Jingle Dance include a Side Step or Crow Hop.

[notthedyingtype]

@dcwnseeker // clarice kissed joey: "maybe an mmph for Joey and Clarice :>"

ever since meeting joey back in iraq, it was definitely different to be around someone so... obvious. she has known in the past that people were infatuated with her, had even gone home with them only to leave the next morning, but joey was different. maybe it was the shared trauma, maybe it was the little bit of innocence she had seen in him, but she didn't want to snuff out that light. she didn't want to break his heart only for him to never talk to her once again. she enjoyed his companionship.

her smile had eaten at her lips all night, curling at the edges of her eyes, leaving her with soft laugh lines most of the night in that gloomy bar -- their quiet conversation only interrupted by the sound of pool balls breaking &&. the jukebox's twang. her chin rests carefully in her hand with that elbow resting on the edge of the table, simply admiring him in his fullest as he regals a story from years past.

he had a family; younger siblings that she wanted to meet, possibly even parents. it struck a sardonic chord in her heart, a twang of jealousy etched into her throat. family was a soft spot for her. but he seemed to adore his &&. that melted the jealousy. luciana was the main focus of tonight's tale. the two had snuck out, every intention of exploring the cities back streets, yet they found themselves lost in an abandoned mill where shadows lurked in the corners. he had to break down to call home after a minor scare. luciana had taken a tumble &&. he wasn't sure how to help. his parents weren't happy about them sneaking out, but grateful they knew to call.

he was adorable.

clarice's smile beams wider, a laugh laced into her voice when she speaks. "stop talking." two little words with no malice in them as she drags him in closer by the collar of his shirt, her lips pressed firmly against his own.

[milltownhistoricalsociety]

This Day in History: August 20th, 1914

🚒🔥 On this day in 1914, a massive fire threatened the snuff mills and home of James M. Parsons in North Brunswick. #otd #fire #firefighter #action #saved

HREE BARNS DESTROYED IN $20,000 FIRE Local and Milltown Firemen, in Heroic 3-Hour Battle, Saved Beautiful Home and Snuff Mills of Jas. M. Parsons in North Brunswick – Origin is Unknown – All Live Stock Employees Save Heroic work on the part of Captain George J. Kuhn, Jr., and his men of Engine Co. No. 1, saved the beautiful home and the big snuff mills of James M. Parsons, in North Brunswick…