#Steerage

[intomore]

Alfred Stieglitz, “The Steerage,” 1907,

Photogravure, 

13 1/8 × 10 1/2" (33.4 × 26.6 cm)

[fieriframes]

[Steerage.]

[sunflowers-and-scales]

TRICK OR TREAT THING IS SO CUTEEEE

trick or treat !! 🍭🍭🍭🎃🎃

ohhh yeah so u got me! do i owe u a gold star or smth now i forgor…

i drew you uendo. anyways here is he. and she. and the other ones.

[iwtv-az-hours]

found this teeny-tiny baby

(twtr)

[sw5w]

Padmé and Anakin Share a Meal

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:35:03 - 00:35:06

Something interesting here that I don't think I've seen in any other installment that features Gran, is that this one looks to be wearing a hat!

[sourstars]

powdered souls.

a collection of unrelated stories involving bnha and haikyuu characters, and the matters of the heart, if not the remnants of the mind.

grief ; where are you? where are you? find me please, i can’t go back to sleep without you—midoriya izuku. 

heartbreak ; love stains—miya osamu.

anger ; the art of homemade miracles—todoroki shouto.

self-discovery ; hometown homage—bakugou katsuki.

mercy ; the kindest thing—miya atsumu.

trust ; serpent son—aran ojirou.

honesty ; untitled—suna rintaro.

. . . .

[tamayokny]

Steerage passenger Carl Johnson had an even more disturbing experience in the third compartment aft. This contained the cheapest passenger accommodations--lowest in the ship and closest to the bow. As Johnson got up to see what was causing commotion in his cabin, water seeped in under the door and around his feet. He decided to dress, and by the time his clothes were on, the water was over his shoes. With a detached, almost clinical interest, he noticed that it seemed to be of very even depth all over the floor. Nearby, steerage passenger Daniel Buckley was a little slower to react, and when he finally jumped out of his bunk, he splashed into water up his ankles.

A Night to Remember by Walter Lord

[spacetrashpile]

god i love when ttrpg campaigns haunt a song every time you ever hear it

[teachanarchy]

Watch "This Photo of U.S. Immigration Isn’t What You Think | The Bigger Picture with Vincent Brown | PBS" on YouTube

[lizardsfromspace]

People think all references to brands in media are product placement, but that's just not true. Not everything is product placement, creators depend on referencing real brands to create a sense of verisimilitude, much akin to how you can depend on the towing capacity of the 2024 Ford F-150. The 2024 Ford F-150 has bountiful steerage, magnificent tires, and a luscious fuel capacity. Go to your local Ford dealership today. But anyway, it's about realism

[emmaforyou]

Assad Zaman discussing his first stage role as Zead in Steerage (2009)

[marzipanandminutiae]

Titanic From Other First-Class Passengers' Perspective

AKA

Oh Hey The 17-Year-Old With The Abusive Mother And Dirtbag Fiance Has Decided Our Lives Are Pointless Because We Talk About The Stresses Of Wedding Planning And Politics And Other Completely Normal, Non-Class-Locked Things, Instead of Like Swigging Beer In A Makeshift Dance Hall I Guess

I Tried To Check On Her But She Just Gave Me A Dirty Look And Said I'd Probably Never Even HEARD Of Freud Before Flouncing Off

Actually I Am Writing A Monograph On Freud With My Massive Generational-Wealth Free Time But Her Eyes Glaze Over Whenever I Mention That

Hope She Fucks That Nice Boy From Steerage Though

[freakassfemme]

(Smut/Drabble) Is It Casual Now? CisF! Reader x Yara Greyjoy

Summary: Y/N, a member of Yara's crew and longtime fling, finds herself struggling to face the reality of the Ironborn serving a Targaryen tyrant, especially after Yara's confession.

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST! It's horny but it's sad. Oral sex, f/f, lesbianism (but that's a blessing), angsty sex, sad sex, crying

A/N: YES the title is based off of Casual by Chappell Roan. Every time I listen to it I can't help but imagine something angsty with Yara.

NO MINORS BEYOND THIS POINT

The boat crashing against the rage of the sea only slammed your hips farther onto Yara's fingers as you struggled to keep yourself upright. Her hips worked some to hold you in place on top of the crate you sat upon, but still you tethered yourself on a rope hanging from the ceiling of the steerage.

Your moans were partially washed out by the creaking of the boat and partially by the way she smothered your lips in her own, and when she groaned back into you, your hand dropped and wrapped around her neck, deepening the kiss in a clash of teeth and tongue.

This wasn't unusual for the two of you. You'd been the only female member of her crew for quite some time, and like any of the men on board, you two preferred to find solace in the arms of a woman. It had never been anything serious, and it had always been something kept mostly private. Yara loved good company, but with a member of her crew could put her authority in jeopardy.

However, there was something unusual about the way Yara's mouth wandered to your neck. There was something entirely unusual about the way that she, rather than a simple bite on the shoulder to stifle her own noises, worked a deliberate mark right at the base of your jaw. In all three years of your little secret, Yara had never made such intentions present.

This new sensation pulled little gasps from you that floated right to Yara's spine, sending a shiver down it, so she continued placing her claim at the base of your throat, in the dip of your neck, under your ear, creating bruises that eventually washed to the other side of your throat as well.

Her fingers pumped ferociously inside of you, carelessly bruising every sweet spot like it was her last moments on this earth. When you cried out against her, she cooed into your ear so sweetly that you couldn't even form the words to tell her to stop (not that you would want to).

"Are you going to cum for me, sweetheart?" She whispered into your ear, and you shuddered, letting out a breathy laugh.

"N-no," you said, knowing it was the complete opposite of the truth. It was impossible for you to not to, especially when you knew she could feel the way you pulsed around her fingers, the way you gushed into her palm with every push, and the twitch of your thighs with every gentle curl.

"I don't think so," you murmured, letting a teasing smile slip.

Yara shook her head, chuckling and digging her fingers into a particular spot that had you almost jumping out of your seat. She watched, lips parted as your head fell back against the wall of the ship and your eyes fought not to squeeze shut.

"Your cunt is telling me a different story," she growled. She pressed her hand into your lower stomach, building another toe-curling pressure inside you as she held you in place. She kissed you sweetly after you let out a small cry, then sank to her knees.

You watched as Yara turned her focus to mouth at your clit, the vulnerability in her kneeling not slipping past you. The admiration in her eyes, the intensity of her passion - these things did not go unnoticed, and you felt your eyes begin to water. Tingles worked their way up your shoulder, and your ears rang as she pulled moan after moan from you. Your fingers dug into the crate, and you looked down at her with flushed cheeks.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but every other beat pulled a painful chord in your chest, and Yara could feel the way you began to choke up. Her hand slipped down to rub your thigh affectionately, but you instinctively grabbed it, interlacing your fingers.

Your eyes began to burn and blur as salty tears slipped down your rosy cheeks, and Yara squeezed your hand, watching the way you rested your other hand over your forehead, too mixed up between the climaxing pleasure and your longing heart to stay still.

"Yara," you whimpered out, "I'm, I'm-" But you couldn't get it out. It was all too much, the banging in your chest, the way Yara's fingers opened you up as easily as two flower petals, the way she made out with your sex like it was the love of her life, the way she had made it obvious to anyone who looked at you for the next week what had happened, and how they would know exactly who did it--

-- if you made it to the end of the week.

Tensions were high in all parts of the world, and the recent alliance between the Iron Islands and Daenerys Stormborn had completed changed the basis of the Ironborn way of life, and every member of the fleet in particular was feeling the effects of it.

Being pulled so far away from home, losing friends and family members too far from the sea to even retrieve them, and now you were following the trail of the dead with Yara to meet the queen who had started all of this, who had threatened and reconstructed an ancient way of life.

"What do you mean you don't want to go?" Yara stuttered, looking at you in disbelief. "That's not your decision to make, Y/N."

You stood on the other side of the room, running your hands through your hair. Your fight had echoed through the halls of Pyke until Yara had had enough and pulled you into a private room, but even now, passerby stopped to listen in.

It wasn't that you were a particularly disobedient soldier. You had always trusted Yara with your life, obeyed every command, even if that meant returning to her drenched in blood and void of emotion. She was your Captain, your Queen, and you had promised your life to her.

"Why are you serving her?" You exclaimed, throwing your hands up. "She's not even Ironborn, and you've known her for all but a few weeks, and now you've bent the knee?"

"Y/N," Yara stepped forward cautiously, but you waved her off, stepping back. She could feel the heat radiating off of you, feel the anger ripping at the air, threatening the foundation of this offhand non-commitment commitment you had to each other.

"No, Yara!" You exclaimed, "I won't go off to die in the middle of some fucking sea-less dessert for some woman I've never met!"

"She is the Dragon Queen!" Yara argued back, slowly letting her own temper slip from her. "She is the breaker of chains! She will bring no harm to the islands - you know I would not allow that."

You turned to her, eyes burning with rage, and met her face.

"Oh, but you have so willingly sacrificed everything the Ironborn stand for and everything we are for her!" You screamed. Yara stared fiercely down at you, though she did not respond. "And for what? What do we receive in return?"

Still, Yara said nothing. This irritated you even further, so you went further, going so far as to push Yara back. She let you, still quiet.

"You cannot kill another Ironborn, so what, you've taken to dragging us far away and drowning us all in her name?" You hissed. "What has she promised you? Or are you truly just so wound up in some foreign woman's cunt you would erase everything we have worked for?"

You went to push her again, but Yara grabbed on to your wrists. She dragged you forward, bringing you until you were so close you thought she might kiss you if it weren't for the circumstances.

For a long moment, you stared at each other, rage stirring and boiling at the very sight of each other, at the implications you had grown to believe about each other during this fight.

Then, Yara opened her mouth.

Nothing came out at first, simply a few stuttered breaths, then a glance away. And though you had quite a few times before worked Yara up to the point of chosen silence, never had you rendered Yara speechless.

Then, she looked back down at you, and swallowed thickly. Her expression had changed, twisted into a much more somber one.

"If I die out there," she whispered, "I cannot die without you."

[docholligay]

Applebee's. Chili's. Outback Steakhouse. Which is superior, which is inferior, and which would Michiru prefer to be caught dead in, if those were her only choices?

The Europeans, in those times so often called the Dark Ages, much to the frustration and woe of any given historian, had a number of different methods of execution, varying wildly in degrees of coarseness and sadism, but, no matter the method, one ends up dead all the same.

So it is with the above-mentioned brasseries of the middle class. Differing in method and style, but never wavering in the work of stuffing one with as much sodium and fat as one could possibly bear, protecting the innocent from the ghastly danger of encountering a food with which they are not familiar. It is the work of feeding toddlers who can drive and purchase alcohol, and they do succeed in this aim.

Nevertheless, it has been asked that I outline a difference between them, and I shall attempt to do so.

Applebee's. Well, if we are eating good in the neighborhood, I can only imagine what sort of neighborhood in which one dwells. I believe I saw such a place in some commercial posing as a documentary at a gala event. Children under tin roofs and such.

But for the purposes of my answer, Applebee's is a mere crucifixion. Hopelessly old, unimaginative and immutable, its meals and murder known even to little children. Is it unspeakably cruel? Of course. Agonizingly drawn out? The disinterested teenage server will ensure it? But is it in any way interesting? Is one compelled, or even reviled, by something horrifying which has become a part of the very fabric of culture? Regrettably, no.

However, to attend a Chili's is to be drawn and quartered--the English having no taste for subtlety, whatever they've managed to convince some American--it is as aggressive as it is vile, containing things such as the Nashville Hot Mozz, which is certainly a collection of syllables assembled into some order. Marg of the Month. Free chips and salsa. Passing for some sort of steerage class Mexican in much the same way London is aspirationally a European city. You are dead, or fed, in all the gore and hot red of it, and what it lacks in elegance it certainly makes up for in volume.

Outback Steakhouse, then, is to be broken on the wheel, the French having a sense of the poetic even in the moment of barbarism. One could almost believe it were a lovely thing. The ring of it, "no rules, just right." If one were a child or a fool, one could see how the folksy earthiness of a place asking nothing but a moment of your steak-based time could draw one in. It aspires only to be a steakhouse, in the outback.

Then, as one reads the cocktail menu and says, into the open air, "I will be having the Wallaby Darned," the crack of a bone snaps to meet it, more promising to follow, and then the sudden sadness of realizing that a cow was born, grew, and died to make such a thing possible. It is the Somme in bovine form.

One may question what Australia has quite done to deserve such an ignominious association, and if the next draft of war crimes might not include such a thing.

All things being true, I am almost certainly going to defer to my beloved. As love is a complicated thing, and one comes to love the flaws in one's partner as the worn bend in the stair, I would choose to have her select our dinner menu.

Among these, regrettably, there is a location serving a gingerbread cookie martini, and so, I shall be broken on the wheel, an onion blooming in the field where my palate once gamboled in the sun.

--M. Kaioh

[transgenderfabianseacaster]

what if i was the snobbish privileged son of a professional gambler stealing money from rich folks and you were a german street urchin and wannabe private investigator fleeing the country bc you got too caught up in shit by stowawaying in the steerage cabin i bought solely for my excessive luggage. and we were both boys. also its the rms titanic

titanic au notes under cut