#monogrammed case

[mrs-trophy-wife]

[kalpanahandmadepaper]

Handmade Personalized Leather Passport Holder - Stylish and Secure Travel Wallet for Men and Women, Perfect Gift for Any Occasion!

[tetibright]

(via Dark green simple monogram Case-Mate iPhone case | Zazzle)

[doctorbeth]

Putting a teddy back together

This poor teddy bear had had a rough time. His person wrote in her original email:

This adorable teddy bear was given to my 68 year old English husband when he was a little boy. His mother had knit a little shirt for the bear with the monogram 'TC' - which stood for Teddy C (their last name.). My husband and I were going back to England for a visit after too many years, leaving one of our daughters home to take care of our dog. Because we are in So Cal and worried about fires, my husband pre-packed a few boxes with the things that he would want evacuated in case of a fire. Sadly, he put TC in the box with no lid. Our adorable dog thought it was another stuffed toy for her! Much to my daughter's chagrin, she came home to find TC had been mangled! I don't have the heart to let my husband know what happend, so TC has been hiding in a box for almost 2 years while I search for someone to fix him. I came across your info and a lovely story in the LA times about you. I am hopeful that you can work some magic on TC and restore him to something close to his original state!

And these were the diagnosis photos she sent:

He came to the hospital with a much younger buddy to be used as a comparison for shapes and stuffing. No spa photos for TC, because he was only having surgery. He had lost so much already, his family didn't want to touch his remaining stuffing.

So here he is all better, ready to go home and be hugged again:

And here he is with his buddy, two happy bears!

His family said, "He looks great!"

[hoe4hotchner]

Hiii!! Could you do another non bau rich fem!reader where she gave Aaron lots of designer stuff and he starts wearing them to work? Like maybe ties, cuff links, and like an LV duffel bag and the team is just like “??? Woah dude where’d you get that??”

Subtle flex | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x rich fem!reader| WC: 0.9k | CW: nothing

Aaron Hotchner was usually not one for excess. His wardrobe was practical and professional, his tastes minimalistic, and his life, outside of Jack, revolved around efficiency and exuding authority on the job. Sure he had splurged occasionally on a stray high-quality tie here and there as well as his Rolex watch. At least that was until you entered his life.  

The first gift was a tie — a deep navy one in silk with subtle pinstripes. It came in a sleek wrapped box with some designer brand he had never even heard of before. You’d handed it to him with a casual smile, brushing off his initial protests with a light, “Aaron, I saw it and thought of you. Let me spoil you for once.”  

He wore it the next day, paired with his standard black suit, and noticed how it caught the light in the mirror. “Looks good,” he muttered to himself, brushing his hand over it. As hesitant as he had been to accept it, he was thankful for the present and happy that you'd chosen one that wasn't smothered in logos or brand names.

Then came the cuff links. They were sterling silver and engraved with his initials. He opened the box late one evening after you handed it to him over dinner. “You didn’t have to,” he said softly, though his smile betrayed how much he loved them.  

“Of course, I didn’t have to,” you replied, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. “But you deserve nice things, Aaron. You do so much good without even expecting a thanks.”  

And so it continued. A Louis Vuitton duffel bag for his work trips, a black leather wallet that somehow managed to look even more professional than the one he’d carried for years, and a collection of even more ties that were understated yet undeniably luxurious and seemed to multiply in his closet every so often.  

At first, he rotated the items slowly into his everyday wardrobe, unsure if they would draw attention. But one particularly chaotic morning, he grabbed the LV duffel, clipped on the cuff links, and shrugged into a jacket before heading into the office having gotten an urgent notification for a case.  

It didn’t take long for the team to notice.  

“Uh… Hotch?” Morgan’s voice cut through the usual buzz in the conference room as Hotch entered. “Is that a Louis Vuitton bag you’re carrying?”  

Hotch glanced at him briefly, setting the duffel down by the door before striding towards the front of the room to grab the file Garcia was holding outstretched for him. “Yes. Why?”  

Morgan blinked. “Why? Man, you’ve been holding out on us. Since when do you roll up looking like you just stepped out of GQ Magazine?”  

Emily leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “Is that a new tie, too? That’s at least Tom Ford.”  

Hotch adjusted his tie instinctively. “It’s not. It’s Brioni.”  

“Oh, excuse us,” JJ chimed in throwing her hands up and exchanging an amused glance with Emily.  

“I’m sorry,” Spencer Reid piped up, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Are those cuff links monogrammed?”  

“Okay, seriously,” Morgan said, crossing his arms. “What’s going on, Hotch? You win the lottery or something? Cause if your salary is high enough for those purchases Imma have to talk to Strauss about a raise.”  

Hotch, shrugged lightly as he opened his case file. “No. My girlfriend has… a habit of giving gifts.”  

The room fell silent for a beat before Emily’s jaw dropped. “Wait, girlfriend? You’ve been holding out on us in more ways than one!”

"Who is she I need details," Garcia cut into the conversation, her excitement starting to bubble over.

JJ smirked. “Are you telling me she just gives you designer gifts casually? I agree with Garcia, who is this woman?”  

Hotch allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he glanced up from his paperwork. “Someone who insists I deserve the finer things.”  

“Damn,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head. “Where can I find one of those?”  

“Maybe start with charm school,” Emily teased.  

As the team bantered, Hotch’s phone buzzed on his desk. A message from you:  

Miss you already. Hope you’re putting the cuff links to good use. Dinner at my place when you get back?

He smiled quickly at his phone before typing back a quick reply.  

Always. I’ll bring the wine.  

When he looked up, the team was staring at him, curious. “What?” he asked, his tone amused, knowing fully well that they wouldn't stop bothering him about you until he eventually agreed to let them meet you.  

“Nothing,” Emily said, though her grin suggested otherwise. “Just trying to imagine Aaron Hotchner in love with a rich fashionista.”  

“Not just a fashionista,” Morgan added, gesturing toward the duffel. “An angel sent from the heavens, apparently.”  

Hotch shook his head, lifting his file up in the air in a quick and smooth motion as if to remind them why they were there. “Focus, everyone. We have a case.”  

A few days later, when you saw Aaron again, he mentioned the team’s reaction with a mix of exasperation and amusement.  

“I think they’re more interested in my wardrobe than the case,” he said, loosening his tie as he sat beside you on the couch.  

You laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. “Let them wonder. They’ll get used to it eventually.”  

“I’m not sure they ever will,” he muttered, leaning into your touch.  

“Good,” you teased, leaning in to kiss him. “I like keeping them on their toes.”  

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Meta!Reader bursting into the Batcave: You sick son of a bitch. (Pointing directly at Tim.)

Dick: Now, now. Let's calm down. Whatever Tim did-

Damian: He deserves to be punished for.

Dick: No! Well, not yet. It depends on what he did.

Jason loading live bullets into his guns just in case.

Stephanie: If it's about your missing clothes, that was me. Sorry~

Duke: Ew, Steph. Ew.

Cassandra: What did he do?

Smalltown!Meta!Reader: He changed my fucking monogram!

Bat Family:

Tim unapologetic: You were going to have to change it later anyway.

Bruce: That doesn't sound that bad.

Smalltown!Meta!Reader: He used his last name.

Bat Family:

Bruce: Jason...

Jason taking aim: On it.

Tim dodging bullets and batarrangs alike: You're just mad I thought of it first!

A/N: Now everyone constantly throws out anything Reader has that's monogrammed and replaces it with a different. Changing the last name every single time.

A/N: I headcanon Reader as Southern and monograms are very prominent in the south. (It's just your Initials made in a fancy logo, like a personal brand.) I think it would be hilarious to have the Bats constantly messing with Reader's monogram and constantly buying them stuff with different monograms. This was funny in my head.

A/N: This is a cannon event. It happens in every one of the Smalltown!Reader universes.

[slushyxcx]

Marlboro Reds

Summary: Hamzah, desperate and touch starved, struggles to articulate his desires for you and the tension between you two grows in a delicate dance of intimacy and uncertainty.

Chapter 1

Hamzah is slumming it on the balcony at Martin’s place on a Friday night.

Hamzah doesn't want to think about his week, or the endless pile of worries that he’s ignoring until they topple over and bury him. He just wants to let the sweet burn of nicotine scorch his lungs and quiet his mind. 

But of course the moment Hamzah isn't distracting himself, he’s thinking about things he shouldn't think about. 

Things like you. 

You live halfway across the world but you're here to visit Mandy. You and Mandy have been friends since you both were teenagers, Mandy swears you were the one who was the bad influence but you absolutely disagree. Especially the stories of how after Mandy started driving, the both of you never went to class. You’re a bit eccentric, and so beautiful.

But other days you’re solemn, closed off, your gaze a million miles away. Faded, like a ghost of yourself. And Hamzah isn't sure why no one notices, why your faked smiles are so easily believed. 

And there’s Hamzah’s favorite you (if he thought a lot about you, which he doesn't, but like, if he did), the you with the gang. You seem freer with them, looser and more uninhibited in the presence of only your friends. You curse more, make darker jokes and catch Hamzah’s eye with that sly smirk when you do, announce nerdy facts at random, roll your eyes and express emotions that you otherwise seem to keep contained. You don’t drink unless it's a party with the people you’re close with, your plastic cup otherwise filled with water or the host’s half assed attempt at mixers, you only smoke weed with Hamzah and you slip cigarettes out of your pocket like you’re used to keeping them hidden.

This you is the closest to the truth, Hamzah thinks, or maybe they're all different sides of the same person, like the way water changes shape but never composition. 

It’s only recently that you have become a main character in his life, shifting from an untouchable ideal to someone real and tangible. Because lately- 

Lately, you have been gravitating toward Hamzah, finding him in Martin’s office after recording a video, wandering up to him at parties, or stopping by his place to drop off whatever Mandy baked that day. 

Hamzah never seeks you out, never initiates your time together, but he can’t bring himself to avoid you either. Instead he holds his breath, pretending he isn't glancing at the door of every party, lingering at Martin’s place, waiting to see if you will find him. 

It’s just that you seem content to be in Hamzah’s presence, comfortable with sitting in silence when he is too angry or too high or too drunk to converse, ready to banter and tease when he is up for it. Maybe because Hamzah returns the favor, understanding on sight when you are not speaking for the day or remaining unfazed when your eyes get unfocused and paranoid. 

But other than that, Hamzah does not think of you at all. Definitely not. And he doesn't even care that he can sense you creeping up on him.

He knocks the cigarette on the edge of the balcony, watching the ashes flutter down to the ground below, then speaks:

“You gonna hide in the shadows all night?” 

You step into the light with a sheepish expression, hands tucked behind your back like you expect him to scold you for being there. 

“Hi Hamzah.” 

“Hey,” he uses your last name just to see your face scrunch up in a pout. 

“Don't call me that.” 

“No?” Hamzah finishes his cigarette and taps another two out of the carton, wordlessly passing one to you as well. He knows you don’t like his brand, preferring the fancy, European ones that you keep in a little silver monogrammed case like goddamn royalty, but lately you've been slumming it, accepting Hamzah’s humble cigarettes from their crumbled box. “Shouldn't you be saying I can call you whatever I want, as long as I call you?” 

“Something tells me you still wouldn't call,” you reply dryly, your words sliding out around the cigarette in your teeth, leaning forward with it between your lips for Hamzah to light. 

It is, for Hamzah, unbearably intimate, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so he holds eye contact with you as he brings the lighter up, flame flickering. And it's worth it, because it makes you smile that small, secret smile as you lean back, taking the cigarette out of your mouth so you can exhale the smoke to the side. You are so beautiful, it almost makes Hamzah forget they’re technically holding a conversation, even if the words feel like just an excuse to keep their eyes on each other, to shuffle closer to speak. 

“Think you've got enough people calling you.” 

“Yeah? Maybe I should go smoke with them.” 

“Hey, you followed me out here,” Hamzah points out. “I was fine here without pretty girls stealing my cigarettes.” Oh, that's an accident, a little too far over the line between banter and flirting, but it’s hard to regret it when it makes you blush so prettily, all pink cheeks and long fingers and smoke.  

“Hmm.. and how many other pretty girls do you have stealing your cigarettes?” Your gaze flickers up and down Hamzah’s figure, evaluating, maybe, or sizing him up, or maybe just looking for the sake of looking, drinking in his presence. 

Hamzah grins at the slant of jealousy in your tone, one you’re not quite able to hide. 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” 

You narrow your eyes a bit, playing your part, but Hamzah can see you're distracted, something else on your mind. You bring the cigarette to your mouth and inhale slowly, turning to look out at the darkness as you exhale the smoke, ignoring Hamzah’s watchful eye. 

Hamzah finishes the cigarette, stubbing it out on the bannister he’s leaning against, and levels you with a look. 

“Just spit it out already.” 

“Hmm?” You feign innocence, but Hamzah won’t fall for your little cowed, pretty girl act. You may be a mystery, but he knows you, can read you better than most, at least.  

Hamzah rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever you’ve been working yourself up to say since you came out here.” 

“Maybe I just wanted a quiet place to smoke.” 

“If you wanted to be somewhere quiet, you wouldn't have crashed at Mandy’s and Martin’s in the first place.” 

You huff, “fine.” You take a careful step closer to him, your gaze searching. “Are you high?”

He shifts against the bannister, eyeing you. “Not yet.” 

“Drunk?”

“Nah,” he crosses his ankles, elbows propped on the bannister. “Why?” 

You hum, staring up at the sky. Usually he might wait it out, let you work up to it, but it’s been a long week- his patience is running thin. 

He calls out your last name.

“I just want to make sure you’re like.. hmm.” You tap one finger against your lips, searching for the word. “Coherent?”

“Coherent for what?” He asks, wary, but maybe not as wary as he should be, because he trusts you too much. 

You inhale from your cigarette for a long, drawn out moment, until your lungs must be burning, then exhale out the smoke in a cloud around you. Even through the fog, your eyes stay on Hamzah, that deep, penetrating gaze, like you can see right into his soul. You open your mouth to speak, then shut it again. 

“What is it?”

“Do you- I-” you start and stop, biting your lip as you hesitates. You take a fortifying breath, then:

“Can I kiss you?” 

Hamzah could've guessed all night and still would not have predicted this phrase to fall from your perfect lips. He doesn't even have a sharp quip to respond with. 

“... What?”

You smile at him shyly, looking up through your eyelashes, bashful in a way that must be an act because Hamzah’s never seen you be uncertain about what you want.

“Can I give you a kiss?” You repeat, voice soft and low, so different from that practiced, cheerful tone you use around strangers, around the others even.

Hamzah waits for more, for some explanation, but nothing comes. 

“Why?” He can’t help the defensive, accusatory slant to his voice, automatically falling back to anger. “Is this a pity thing?” 

You are unfazed by the heat in his voice. Your gaze flickers to the side like the answer might be there, then returns to Hamzah. The look in your eyes slides into something more genuine, a little nervous, a bit less coy. The real you. Hamzah unconsciously leans forward, automatically drawn to you.

“I just want to kiss you. But I don’t want to do something you don’t want.”

But why do you want to kiss me? He wants to blurt out, the idea so incongruent with reality.

“Uh,” Hamzah swallows, licks his lips. What does it say about him, that a kiss makes him so uncertain, that he can't remember the last time he was intimate with someone? What does it mean, that your act of basic human decency, asking for consent, makes his knees weak, makes his heart twist painfully in her chest?

He should say no. 

He really should say no. Hamzah knows all the reasons he should say no, but god. It’s been a long week in a long year in a long life, and Hamzah is tired. He’s tired of holding back, of starving for contact, of hoarding any signs of affection. He’s so fucking tired, but this is you, you who have never asked him for anything but for him to be himself, and so Hamzah lets down his walls, however slightly, lets himself answer this one question honestly. 

“Sure.”

“Really?” You don’t sound surprised, not really, but more like she’s seeking reassurance. Like she needs Hamzah to be sure. You study him, scanning his posture as if you’ll be able to determine if he really means it. “Are you sure? You don't have to. Honestly.”

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. You can kiss me. Or whatever.” Hanzah knows he’s blushing, he can feel the burn on his cheeks, so he has to hope it’s dark enough that you can’t tell. 

Hamzah’s forced nonchalance is not even a little believable, but you don’t comment on it- you never do. 

“Alright,” you say, soft as anything, as if it’s that simple, that easy. 

You step closer and Hamzah can’t help it, the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way he digs his nails into the soft flesh of his palms to resist flinching backward. 

Your eyes search his own, although Hamzah doesn’t know what you’re looking for. Whatever it is, you must find it, because you nod your head like something has been decided and then close the distance between them. Hamzah takes one more stilted inhale-

You raise your hands up, hold him by his cheeks and drag him close. Your lips meet, and his teeth bump into yours but everything fades into hazy bliss, slots together like a missing puzzle piece. Your lips, tender as honey exploring the taste of his tongue. It’s sweet and addicting, so much so that he gets dizzy and pulls away and fuck—he’s wrecked. Messy curls, teased by your clawing fingers stick up at odd angles, a rosy flush over his skin. You cup his cheek and he leans into your touch and plants a fleeting kiss over your palm.

He knew the kiss was a mistake.  

Hamzah was fine, was just fine without being kissed or tenderly touched or any of that shit, and now how the fuck is he supposed to continue on like he was before when now he knows what it feels like to be held by you? When now he knows how it feels to have your hand gently carding through his hair, the press of your body against his own? 

The safety, the security, the warmth

Fucking hell. 

Now Hamzah knows what he’s missing.

It's like the first time he smoked weed and discovered the way the drug lifted his worries off his shoulders, made the world light and easy to handle for a few hours. How could he resist it after that?

And how can he resist you now? 

He spends the weekend in a daze, restless and on edge. He walks into Martin’s place like he’s approaching the guillotine, somehow convinced that everyone will take one look at him and know. He slinks over to Martin’s office, in absolute denial that he’s glancing around looking for you. He doesn’t see any sign of you until after they’re done recording today’s Episode video. He and Martin exit the office and he spots you immediately - in an oversized shirt with a pair of shorts, Fish on your lap, and you’re with Mandy watching Real Housewives of New York. He doesn’t drag his eyes away fast enough, so soon enough he’s ensnared in your gaze. He watches your gaze flicker from that polite smile to something hungrier. 

He spends the whole afternoon with you guys, binging season 8, on the opposite chair  trying not to imagine he could swap places with Fish. How it would feel to rest his head on your thighs, and have you run your slender fingers through his curls

After, in the kitchen, when he’s on his way to leave and go home, Mandy comes close to brushing his arm as she passes him and Hamzah flinches away like he’s been shocked, slamming his own shoulder into the hard metal of the fridge in his effort to avoid being touched. The noise makes everyone turn to look at him, and Hamzah flips them all off so they’ll go back to their own fucking business. Everyone looks away, except- 

Except you, whose heavy gaze stays focused on him. It should make him feel worse, should make him squirm under the scrutiny, but instead it just makes Hamzah feel hot, like he’s basking under the shine of your attention, a blush crawling up the back of his neck. He is so fucked.  

Hamzah hurriedly scuttles out of the house before anyone can question him. 

Once he’s relatively safe a few metres away, Hamzah lights a cigarette and takes a deep inhale, scolding himself internally. Why is he acting like a total freak over a fucking kiss?

He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, nearly burning himself, then drops the remains to the ground and suffocates it beneath his shoe. By the time he hears your footsteps approach, it’s dusk, the sun not quite gone but night hanging over the scene like a blanket. It occurs to him that he’d run away in case you would come looking for him. But maybe he hadn’t yet accepted that you would come looking for him. Or maybe he hoped he would. 

“Hey Hamzah.” Just like you did the other night. 

Hamzah scowls as he calls you by your last name.

You cross your arms, hip cocked, and look Hamzah over. It’s only now he’s noticing your huge obnoxious Homer Simpson slippers and god, have your legs always been this long? Hamzah barely resists pulling out another cigarette, just for something to do with his hands. 

“You wanna talk about what’s got you all worked up?” 

So casual, like you haven’t been the only thing on Hamzah’s mind since Friday.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he practically hisses, defensive anger automatically winning out. 

“No,” you agree with a sigh. “No, you don’t.” You hesitate and your stance softens, a look of guilt flooding into your eyes. “Listen- if I overstepped, or crossed a line-”

The only thought more intolerable than how much he wants a kiss is you thinking that the kiss was a mistake. 

“Don't finish that sentence,” Hamzah snaps. “Stop being so.. so…”

“So…?”

“So understanding! So patient! Can’t you just fucking yell at me or something?” 

“Why would I yell at you?”

“Because! Because I want- I want-”

How can Hamzah explain the embarrassment that is always tangled up in his want, the humiliation that comes with his desire? 

You have that glint in your eyes again, like you’ve got Hamzah right where you want him. Like you’ve caught him at last. 

And maybe Hamzah wants to be caught. 

“If you want something,” you say slowly, “all you have to do is ask for it.”

Hamzah could fucking scream. He turns away from you abruptly and starts pacing, working himself up into a frenzy. 

“Listen. Listen.” 

You cross your arms and watch him pace with a bemused expression on your face. “I’m listening, Hamzah.” 

“You… you just.. and now.. and how am I supposed to?” 

“Starting with a full sentence would probably help,” you offer. Hamzah scowls even more, his pacing wearing a path into the gravel. 

“FUCK. Okay. Okay.” 

Hamzah stops abruptly in front of you, throws up his hands, and faces you head on. He can do this.

“Okay, you know… when we hung out the other day.” 

“Up on the balcony? Yeah, I remember,” you say easily. Like maybe you’ve been thinking about it too. 

“Right. So, you can like..” he throws one hand vaguely in the air, gesturing, “like. Whenever. You know?” 

“No…?” Now you are pressing your lips together like you’re trying not to smile, one hand coming up to twirl a wayward lock of hair around your finger. “Can you be more specific?” 

Hamzah huffs. “You know what I mean!” 

“Hm… I don’t think I do.” 

Hamzah squirms, glaring down at the gravel and dirt beneath them and scuffing at it with the toe of his shoe. “Fucker..” he mutters under his breath, then looks back up at you and your smug, expectant eyebrows. 

“When we… kissed.” He grits out.

“Oh, when we kissed? What about it?” You would probably be more obnoxious if you weren’t so radiant when you smile, beaming at Hamzah like you’re proud he even brought it up. Hamzah focuses on that joy and lets out all his words in one breath. 

“You don’t have to ask, alright? Like… if you want to kiss me, you can just kiss me. Whatever. I mean, maybe not in front of everyone all the time, cause the last thing I need is all those guys thinkin’ something’s going on, but like.” Hamzah gestures a bit more, then lets his arms fall to his sides. “You get it.”

He’s a coward, truly, because Hamzah knows he should just say I want to kiss you or will you kiss me please? He knows he should just be honest about what he wants, but he can’t. It’s easier to pretend he’s doing this for your sake, like he’s doing you some big favor, when the opposite is true. 

“Okay.”

Hamzah pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Good to know,” you say with a shrug, rubbing your arms. It’s the middle of winter, in Canada, and it’s fucking freezing. He should’ve offered you his jacket when you first came out after him. God, he’s such a fucking idiot. 

He blinks, his eyebrows drawing together. 

“Oh. You don’t…?”

You raise one eyebrow, unfairly attractive. “What?”

“... Nothing.” Hamzah shakes his head, unwilling to articulate his dissatisfaction with this. “I’m gonna go.” He attempts to shuffle away, but you move closer instead, freezing him in his tracks. 

“Oh, did you want to kiss now?” You press one hand to your chest in fake surprise, pretending you haven't known exactly what Hamzah’s wanted from the beginning of the conversation, a smile edging at your lips despite your clear attempt to hide it. 

“Well not anymore, you asshole,” he huffs, turning his head away so you can’t see the flush of his cheeks and also because looking at your smirk directly is like looking at the fucking sun. “Forget it.” 

“Hamzaaah,” you sing-song sweetly, opening your arms, giving him plenty of time to step away if he wanted to. “C’mere.” 

Hamzah isn't even sure why he bothers pretending to be grumpy, because the moment you get closer, he drops his crossed arms, unable to pretend he’s not desperate and eager for your hold. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, but the second half of the word is lost.

The catharsis is so sweet. Sure, it’s the chemicals in his brain, the oxytocin and hormones that are released during physical touch, or whatever, but it’s also the way you hold him, the grounding, tender touch.

He hears the breathy little moan you let out, like you’ve been waiting for this, like you’ve been holding your breath, like you didn't think you’d ever get to kiss Hamzah again. And fuck , the sound makes sparks shoot all through him, gives him the courage to shift his head slightly and press his lips, fleetingly, to your bare throat and hear you gasp, your grip on Hamzah tightening.

The both of you sway slightly, you rocking them both like a stilted waltz, a dance for just the two of you. Hamzah takes a moment to breathe, to let his frantic heart rate slow, relishing the way your fingers are drawing errant shapes on his back. 

“Do you want to get out of here? We can just drive around or something.” 

“Depends…” you drawl as you let your hands drop to his waist, tucking your fingers through the belt loops of Hamzah’s trousers so your bodies are still connected. “Can I smoke in your car?”

Hamzah hums, tapping his chin in fake consideration. “For you? I’ll allow it this once.”

[whencyclopedia]

Book of Kells

The Book of Kells (c. 800) is an illuminated manuscript of the four gospels of the Christian New Testament, currently housed at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. The work is the most famous of the medieval illuminated manuscripts for the intricacy, detail, and majesty of the illustrations. It is thought the book was created as a showpiece for the altar, not for daily use, because more attention was obviously given to the artwork than the text.

The beauty of the lettering, portraits of the evangelists, and other images, often framed by intricate Celtic knotwork motifs, has been praised by writers through the centuries. Scholar Thomas Cahill notes that, “as late as the twelfth century, Geraldus Cambrensis was forced to conclude that the Book of Kells was “the work of an angel, not of a man” owing to its majestic illustrations and that, in the present day, the letters illustrating the Chi-Rho (the monogram of Christ) are regarded as “more presences than letters” on the page for their beauty (165). Unlike other illuminated manuscripts, where text was written and illustration and illumination added afterwards, the creators of the Book of Kells focused on the impression the work would have visually and so the artwork was the focus of the piece.

Origin & Purpose

The Book of Kells was produced by monks of St. Columba's order of Iona, Scotland, but exactly where it was made is disputed. Theories regarding composition range from its creation on the island of Iona to Kells, Ireland, to Lindisfarne, Britain. It was most likely created, at least in part, at Iona and then brought to Kells to keep it safe from Viking raiders who first struck Iona in 795, shortly after their raid on Lindisfarne Priory in Britain.

A Viking raid in 806 killed 68 monks at Iona and led to the survivors abandoning the abbey in favor of another or their order at Kells. It is likely that the Book of Kells traveled with them at this time and may have been completed in Ireland. The oft-repeated claim that it was made or first owned by St. Columba (521-597) is untenable as the book was created no earlier than c. 800, but there is no doubt it was produced by later members of his order.

The work is commonly regarded as the greatest illuminated manuscript of any era owing to the beauty of the artwork and this, no doubt, had to do with the purpose it was made for. Scholars have concluded that the book was created for use during the celebration of the mass but most likely was not read from so much as shown to the congregation.

This theory is supported by the fact that the text is often carelessly written, contains a number of errors, and at points certainly seems an afterthought to the illustrations on the page. The priests who would have used the book most likely already had the biblical passages memorized and so would recite them while holding the book, having no need to read from the text.

Scholar Christopher de Hamel notes how, in the present day, “books are very visible in churches” but that in the Middle Ages this would not have been the case (186). De Hamel describes the rough outline of a medieval church service:

There were no pews (people usually stood or sat on the floor), and there would probably have been no books on view. The priest read the Mass in Latin from a manuscript placed on the altar and the choir chanted their part of the daily office from a volume visible only to them. Members of the congregation were not expected to join in the singing; some might have brought their Books of Hours to help ease themselves into a suitable frame of mind, but the services were conducted by the priests. (186)

The Book of Kells is thought to have been the manuscript on the altar which may have been first used in services on Iona and then certainly was at the abbey of Kells. The brightly-colored illustrations and illumination would have made it an exceptionally impressive piece to a congregation, adding a visual emphasis to the words the priest recited while being shown to the people; much in the way one today would read a picture book to a small child.

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[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Devices: Cellphones

Ever curious what everyone's phones look like in-game? Then this post is for you! I grabbed shots of the cell phones shown for the protaganist as well as the Central Characters (Rafayel, Sylus, Xavier, Zayne) and mention any interesting details I found.

Protaganist:

The protaganist cell phone actually gets a surprising amount of screen time in-game. Here are some things that stood out to me:

No front facing camera? Lol how old is this phone??

Rafayel:

He's the only one who appears to have two different phone. So he either just has two for some reason or got a new one at some point? But you can tell they're definitely not the same phone because the camera configuration is totally different.

Both unidentified brand/model

The phone depicted on the right appears to be the same model as Xavier's? (Singular camera with a blue "dash" object beneath it)

The phone case on the left looks very similar to the Louis Vuitton Monogram phone case shown below. Couldn't find one in the exact color shown, but I'm sure Raf could pull strings to get a special on made just for him lol

Sylus:

His cellphone has a very interesting shape, deviating from a standard rectangle with sharp angles. And no case? Bro is brave lol.

Confirmed forward facing camera lol

Unidentified brand/model

Xavier:

Xavier went for the clean, minimalist look lol.

Again, unidentified model/branding

Rafayel is also depicted with a phone of this model (Singular camera with a blue "dash" object beneath it)

Zayne:

Zayne's cellphone adds another unidentified but distinct model to the list. The camera configuration doesn't match any of the other character's phones.

[jomiddlemarch]

A handkerchief of her own sewing

Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a stone; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing.-- Emerson

Year One

Anne hemmed a dozen handkerchiefs with her monogram and hand-tatted the lace to edge each square. She ruined the first one weeping, burned it instead of letters, as she had none from him.

Lady Russell did not comment on the fact that her dozen was short. She insisted Anne buy a new bonnet, one trimmed with pink ribbon.

Year Two

Anne hemmed a handkerchief while Elizabeth complained about the number of Naval officers at Lady Vincent’s ball. Anne counted stitches instead of Elizabeth’s complaints, knowing her sister would exceed the capacity of her thread.

Year Three

Anne embroidered the handkerchief for Mary to carry to her wedding. Charles had waited six months before proposing, long enough for a respectable courtship. He’d found Anne alone once and said You’re certain, Nan, it isn’t too late, but she’d known she wasn’t ruining anyone life when she said no.

Year Four

Anne kept an extra handkerchief in her reticule when she visited Uppercross. Mary fretted that there were draughts in every room and the fires all smoked, Cook used too much pepper and the yellow paper in the sitting room would make a blind man’s eyes water. 

Mrs. Musgrove patted Mary’s hand and smiled at Anne. They had all expected Mary’s first confinement to be a bit difficult.

Year Five

Anne sewed handkerchiefs for the housekeeper Mrs. Cadell to distribute to all the staff. It was a bad year for the grippe. Her father instructed her to economize and then ordered a case of the best Madeira.

Her own handkerchiefs had ceased to be used for tears.

Year Six

Anne gave her nephew Charles his first handkerchief, his name spelled out in bright red silk. He wore it as a hat more often than attending to his nose. Mary lay on a chaise with a handkerchief soaked in cologne laid across her eyes, vowing that she had never felt so ill in her life and insisting Anne hand her another comfit.

Francis Musgrove weighed ten pounds when he was born.

Year Seven

For her birthday, the vicar gave her a silver thimble in appreciation for all the girls she’d taught and all the handkerchiefs and shirts she’d sewn for the poor. When Anne put it on, she saw her hands had begun to look old.

She took the thimble off and touched the base of her finger where Frederick had promised to put a rose-cut diamond as bright as her eyes.

Year Eight

Captain Wentworth offered a handkerchief to Henrietta Musgrove after her sister’s injury. Anne saw the faded monogram in the corner, pale blue after many launderings, remembered how solemn he’d been when he’d asked her to give him a token of her esteem, how he’d grinned when she’d handed it to him, as carefully folded as a flag.

Anne swallowed her tears.

Year Nine

Anne hemmed a dozen handkerchiefs with her monogram and hand-tatted the lace to edge each square. From the bow of the ship, she waved the delicate article, the sails billowing behind her. Frederick’s hand was warm at her waist and he murmured I’ve got you, madam, make no mistake.

The tears in Anne’s eyes she blinked away.

Written and posted (a day late, hopefully not a dollar short!) for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month for prompt: handkerchief

[mrs-trophy-wife]

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, I know it’s more canon-typical for Bruce to have a super-detailed, meticulous manual that outlines all the procedures, rules, and safety protocols that he expects his Birds to follow when they’re out on patrol or on a mission (whether or not the Birdies actually abide by these rules/regulations is a different matter), but I personally think it would be much more hilarious if this manual was actually just like a random ass, sparkly spiral-notebook with a bunch of random advice the Robins have passed down over the years.

No one actually knows where the tradition started, as at least half the pages are torn out or have been exposed to some sort of explosion/alien substance, but the current highlights would include:

Stay strapped or get clapped” — Jason wrote this after he forgot to pack the bat-a-rangs for patrol and Bruce made him do like 100 pushups as punishment.

“Do NOT ask Killer Croc if he’s featured on The Crocidle Hunter or Swamp People.” — by Tim, who almost drowned before Batman pulled him out of the sewer.

“ >:( “ — Cass drew this after she went on a deep-cover solo mission for two months, and will not elaborate any further on what it means or what about the mission was so crappy.

“You’re my dad, boogie-woogie-oogie!” — Scribbled in a margin by Dick when he was high as a kite on some weird drug that Scarecrow manufactured. It’s not really advice but everyone thinks it’s fucking hilarious.

“Ask Ivy for Weed” — is from Tim, but no one knows whether he accidentally wrote that down as a reminder about a case, or if he’s actually suggesting that they hit up Ivy for a good time.

“Cuddles are essential to the Mission!” — No one knows if Dick wrote this when he was Robin and trying to get Bruce to spend some quality time with him, or if Dick wrote this when he was Batman and trying to get Damian to hug him. Either way, the general consensus is that Dick wrote it.

“Eat the Rich” — an addition by Stephanie, and despite the fact that the Birds all are, by extension of Bruce, uber wealthy, there is a general consensus that it remains.

“Please refrain from the use of the monogrammed towels during post-alien-invasion clean ups” — is one of only two notes from Alfred, who dropped like 2 grand at the dry cleaners after the Birds ruined all his fancy towels when wiping alien goop off their uniforms.

“The first person to say ‘yeet’ next time I throw a projectile will be on case work duty for a week” — this is the only thing Bruce has ever written in the notebook, and the only reason it hasn’t gotten torn out yet is because yelling “yeet” also annoys Selina, and no one is allowed to annoy Selina.

And, lastly, while this isn’t necessarily a piece of advice, I think the way page in the notebook an exceedingly detailed drawing of Bruce, with an arrow pointing at him reading “boring old bat.”

(Damian drew it. It’s his only entry. The Birdies cackle every time they look at it.)

[tetibright]

(via Dark green simple monogram Case-Mate iPhone case | Zazzle)

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

my pitch for a phineas and ferb-themed ride at the disney parks (hire me disney you cowards)

the queue is an interior building with pnf-themed decorations. kinda like the figment ride in epcot, a lot of it is winding through a "museum" of pnf and/or doof inventions. most of those inventions disappeared of course, so they're models, parts in glass cases, etc. overhead are tv monitors that play a shuffled loop of phineas and ferb songs, but bc there are so many good songs they can use it hopefully won't get repetitive unless you're there for nine hours. the exception to this is one small part of the queue (small to avoid people being stuck there too long) where it exclusively plays the quirky worky song and you see the pnf gang building the ride you're about to go on, either as statues/figures or through a "screen" that shows looping animation

you get onto the coaster car from the first episode as phineas, baljeet or isabella reads the safety spiel over the loudspeaker. actually as i'm typing this it might be fun to loop each of the backyard gang doing their own version that'd be cute

the ride takes off and you hear the vamp from the "rollercoaster" song as you're loading in.

once inside, the ride is styled like epcot's guardians of the galaxy ride, where you're on a track looping through a mix of screens and sets. the first part plays more of the "rollercoaster" song as you run through the "coolest coaster ever" scenes.

miscellaneous room/scene ideas: fireside girl action segment, carpe diem room, obviously a space segment w/ meap and queen candace and the catu aliens, obligatory scary bit through the haunted house, rock concert w/ love handel, backyard beach/atlantis, owca headquarters, 2nd dimension bit (might be too confusing for new fans?), relatively normal area where candace is gesturing wildly to a linda animatronic that won't turn around and see the rollercoaster car, idk a hamster & gretel segment or smth

a little bit in, you hear a beep and a call for agent p. a small animatronic of perry rises from the front of the car as you enter a tunnel, where a screen of major monogram tells perry to get his ass to doofenshmirtz evil incorporated to fight doof. perry salutes and slides back down into the car, and the ride then takes a "wrong track" (kinda like when you run into a "broken track" on everest) to DEI.

we go inside and see animatronics of perry fighting doof as an inator sparks. it goes off, sending us down yet another "wrong track," which shoots through wilder parts of danville. at the climax, we start looping and the climax of the "rollercoaster" song starts playing ("we're rightside-up and upside-down...")

at the end of the ride, we see an animatronic/animation of doof hanging upside-down from rope as perry glares at him cross-armed, and doof intermittently yells "curse you, perry the platypus!" on a screen, monogram congratulates the riders for saving the tri-state area with agent p. perry makes platypus noise.

you go to another room, right before the exit. you see candace pointing to an empty backyard, saying stuff like "but it was right here! and it was huge!" as phineas and ferb sit under the tree and address the guests. if you're far enough away from the last room, perry can be sitting under them being cute.

the exit queue has posters for dwampyverse stuff, like "love handel reunion", "doctor zone: the movie", the og rollercoaster poster, etc.

you exit in a gift shop where you can buy perry the platypus inaction figure (he doesn't do anything!) and big sticks

lastly,

you know when rides break down or stop for a sec and you get in-character voiceovers telling you to stay seated or w/e? i think we should have three that loop: one of doof giving a basic spiel, one of milo murphy being like "yeah i went on the ride. sorry about that. it should start working soon lol" and one where literally the whole thing is candace yelling "NO MOM I SWEAR IT'S A WORKING ROLLERCOASTER AND PHINEAS AND FERB BUILT IT! MOM LISTEN–"

[sodamnradd]

The lock snicked open and the rusty metal door groaned as Draco entered the room flanked by two Azkaban guards. His eyes were cold and guarded, his posture tense. He sat across the table from Hermione, looking unsettled without his magic. When the guards were satisfied with the state of calm, they left them alone.

“It’s nothing,” she said as his gaze lingered on the left side of her face. An inmate had hit her simply because she could, leaving an ugly crescent-moon bruise around Hermione’s eye. Part of her cheekbone was swollen. She twisted her hands together, handcuffs dragging loudly on the steel table bolted to the ground.

Draco stared at her weeping wrists in horror. “How did this happen?”

“I angered the wrong people,” she said vaguely. Then in a no-nonsense tone asked, “Will you represent me?”

“Why me, Granger?” He was clean-cut in his suit and tie, his expression glacial. “There are more suitable barristers willing to take your case.”

“I trust you,” she reasoned. “You know the bastards who are after me better than anyone. I need a pure-blood on my side, and you’re the most notorious one.”

“Wouldn’t hiring me go against everything you stand for?”

“Who cares what I stand for if I’m incarcerated and soulless?”

He scrutinized her, a grave expression on his face. Lowering his voice he said, “And if they find out about us?”

“They won’t.”

“It could negatively affect your trial.”

“It was a stupid teenage fling. Nobody even knew about it.”

The way he was looking at her confirmed that it was more than a ‘stupid teenage fling’ to him. If she hadn’t been through hell and back in the last few days, she might have mirrored his sentiments. But she was tired and in pain and desperate.

“Draco, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t let me die in here.”

Her plea seemed to spark something in him because he sat taller and gave her a nod, his cool grey eyes meeting hers with steely determination. He clicked his monogrammed briefcase open and withdrew a blank scroll and self-inking quill. She was relieved to find that familiar look of ambition on his face. If anyone could outsmart the corrupt pure-bloods who wanted her out of politics, it was Draco Malfoy.

It wasn’t just that Draco was intelligent and crafty, but he would go to war for her. A stupid teenage fling was putting it lightly. If it weren’t for Hermione’s plans to move to Australia after graduation, and Draco’s acceptance to the American Law Mastery he’d coveted, they might still be together. Sometimes she wished to go back to the start and tell her younger self not to let him go. That people like Draco didn’t enter her life as often as she’d think. Never at all, really.

She stared at his naked ring finger. Seven years later, he still hadn’t settled down. Neither had she. But Draco had familial obligations.

“I was waiting for you,” he said in a low voice, noticing the direction of her gaze. He formed a fist with his left hand and released. “Came as a shock when I found out my future wife was in Azkaban.”

Warmth bloomed beneath her skin for the first time since she’d arrived, fuelling her need for freedom. “If you get me out of here, I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he smiled, and his eyes turned into the same liquid heat she’d fallen for when she was eighteen. And then he schooled himself, pressing his quill on parchment and giving her a pensive look. “Tell me about the morning of your arrest, Miss Granger,” he began in a level-headed, professional voice, and she knew he wouldn’t let his emotions slip again. Not until she was free.

(630 words, prompt: Azkaban, Forbidden Love, "I wish we could go back to the start" from this prompt builder)

[princessbrunette]

rafe is the time of possessive to get all your things monogrammed with his initials/name. if he buys you a bikini, the bottoms have ‘rafe ♡’ so if any guy has the smart idea to take a glance at you, they’re immediately reminded that rafe is ever looming and watching them. you need a new phone case? he’ll make sure there’s a prominent ‘R.C’ in the middle. every necklaces are various sizes of the letter R. he’s probably paying a pretty penny to get bunny all the custom made lingerie she wants, but he makes sure to let them know it’s his initials being monogrammed and not hers. He wants the world to know who you belong to, but most of all he wants you to know you belong to him.

mmmmm this is so hot. special rafe merch just for u. “and what are you gonna tell people when they ask where you got that shit from huh?”

“gonna tell them it’s all you, daddy.” you grin up at him, so well trained. he gives your ass a slap of appreciation.

“damn right you will. tell ‘em you’re wearing that rafe, alright?” he calls after you as you happily skip off <33