#wood engraved initials

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

Last week we presented a 1900 edition of The Confessions of St. Augustine with illustrations by Paul Woodroffe (1875-1954) and a title-page border designed by Laurence Housman (1865-1959), all engraved in wood by Houseman's sister Clemence Houseman (1861-1955). Another visual element in the book is the use of elaborate, wood-engraved, Arts and Crafts-style initials found throughout the book. Today we are showcasing all the initial letters used in the publication.

Their design is uncredited, but it is possible that they could have been designed by Woodroffe as he was deeply influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement. Two years after illustrating this book, Woodroffe was elected a member of the Art Workers' Guild, an organization of artist and designers associated with the ideas of William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement, and in the same year he became closely associated with Charles Robert Ashbee and his Guild of Handicraft and Essex House Press, institutions closely allied with the movement. Again, it's conjecture, but we would like to think that Clemence Houseman had a hand in engraving these initials.

View more posts with wood engravings by Clemence Houseman.

View other posts with illustrations by Paul Woodroffe.

View a few other posts with books in the Arts & Crafts style.

View more Typography Tuesday posts.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was getting married to a goth pirate named Ken and it was a very healthy and loving relationship. We celebrated our marriage by getting fake initial engraved in wood and playing with construction equipment.

I miss my goth pirate husband. :(

[lustnhim]

‘birthday boy’ — elvis x reader fluff

note: fluff  / warnings: none really, could come across as a little sad though. / summary: taking care of elvis the way he deserves on his birthday. 

January 8th 1977. 

Forty-two. 42. Fordy too. Over and over in his head like a broken record. Elvis knew it was creeping up on him, age usually did creep up on people- but it was never a surprise to him. Each passing year, each candle added on to the cake, the loneliness was inevitable.  Elvis sat morose in an armchair, his eyes heavy with the weight of the years and the burdens they carried. As his friends and confidants milled about, their laughter and chatter filling the rooms of Graceland, Elvis felt alone. It was as if he was observing his own life through a frosted pane of glass, the world on the other side vibrant and alive, while he remained suspended in a grey haze of melancholy. The Memphis Mafia had planned a huge surprise party, decorating the house and baking the biggest cake he’d ever seen in his life– but that’s not what Elvis wanted. Elvis wanted someone to be there. To really be there.

Sitting in a haze of his own thoughts, cigar smoke pooling out of his mouth as people walked in and out of the room all coming up to him, wishing him a happy birthday, hanging around for a bit then heading back to the party that was supposed to be for him. Taking a deep inhale of his cigar Elvis let his head fall back, pushing the smoke up into the air before soft footsteps in front of him caused him to jerk forward. In front of him stood a girl, maybe in her twenties, he couldn’t quite tell, in a blue dress with a small wrapped gift in her hands. He hadn’t seen her around before, probably one of the boys' daughters or somethin. “Well hello there honey…You alright?” Elvis asked, and the girl stood there for a minute, as if awe-struck. Elvis watched as she stared at him for a minute before clearing her throat nervously. ��I-I have something for you.” She said, her arms extending to present the box to him, wrapped in silver paper with a pink bow. Elvis looked at the box then back at her, uncrossing his legs and dishing the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray, letting it rest there. “Did ya now..? Well thank you very much, darlin.” Elvis said, taking the box from the girl's hands, noting how they were shaking. The girl stood there for a minute, and Elvis smiled at her, there was something about her…she felt…new. Elvis looked at the tag on the box, written in pen was, ‘Happy Birthday, Elvis. Love, me.’ Elvis couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “Love, me? I know that ain’t your name.” He said and the girl smiled, “I-It’s not…” She replied, taking her hands and holding them behind her back. “Well what is it?” Elvis asked and the girl shook her head, like her name was the biggest secret in this world. “Just open your present.” She said and Elvis cleared his throat, pulling the bow off gently and sitting it down on his knee. As Elvis tore away the shimmering silver paper, he revealed a small, carved wooden box. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the grain of the wood gleaming beneath his fingertips as he ran them over the smooth surface. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of  pink velvet, was a delicate gold locket. It was a simple piece, but there was something about it that caught Elvis' eye - maybe it was the way it seemed to catch the light or perhaps the initials engraved upon its surface. The initials 'E' and 'P', intertwined in an elegant script. Elvis had just about everything embroidered– but this…it was different. “Let’s go downstairs. To the Jungle Room. Just me an’ you.” Elvis says he feels like he’s being too bold, but his intentions are nothing more than wholesome. He just wants to be with her alone. 

Elvis picked up the locket, feeling the cool metal against his skin as he held it in his palm. He looked up at the girl, his eyes meeting hers, and in that moment, he saw a reflection of his younger self staring back at him. The same heart, the same unbridled passion and love for life that had once consumed him. "I have a note," the girl said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She handed him a small piece of folded paper, the edges wear and tear from what he could only assume was it being held close to her heart. Opening the note Elvis smiled at her handwriting, it was very loopy, very girly. The note was short and sweet, three simple words. 

‘I love you.’

Elvis read the words, his heart skipping a beat. He had heard those words, read them, said them a million times, but this. This felt different. In that moment, the grey haze of melancholy that had been weighing on him lifted slightly, replaced by a faint warmth that blossomed in his chest. He looked up at the girl, really looked at her, taking in the way her blue dress looked on her, the way her eyes shined with sincerity, the way her hair fell, how she stood, her presence. Almost angelic. He sits the locket back down into the box and sits it beside the pink bow on the table, the note still in his hand. “Here, come sit on my knee.” Elvis says, and the girl hesitates, looking around the room, not like she’s looking for someone, but like she’s pressed for time. “Okay…” She says simply, moving over and sitting on his knee, her body is tense and Elvis' body is too. Her legs are between his, she looks down at the ground, still shaking. “Why are ya so nervous, honey? It’s just me.” Elvis says gently, his hand reaching to touch hers and when it does she lets out a soft gasp. “That’s just it. It’s you…it’s really you.” She says with a soft smile on her face. Elvis is confused but he doesn’t press further. She’s obviously a fan, maybe that’s it. “I ain’t nothin’ special darlin’ not anymore.” Elvis says, his fingers intertwining with hers. Her hand feels so small, so delicate in his. “You’re so special. Even now.” She says and clicks her tongue, like she slipped up. “I wish you could see what's gonna happen..” She continues and Elvis clears his throat. “What do you mean, honey?” He asks, “I can’t say.” And that was it. Elvis wasn’t going to press any further, just like he didn’t before. 

“Where did you get that locket?” Elvis asks, and the girl blushes deeply at Elvis's question, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. She looks up at him from beneath long, dark lashes, her eyes wide and uncertain. "I... I had it made," she confesses softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For you. For your birthday." Elvis raises an eyebrow, flattered. "All fa’ me?" He picks up the locket, turning it over in his large hands, examining the intricate engraving. "It’s beautiful honey. The best thing I've been given in a long time." The girl smiles shyly at his compliment, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. "Thank you. I wanted to give you something... special. Before I have to go." She says quietly. "Well I hope you ain’t leavin’ anytime soon." Elvis says warmly, his thumb brushing over the initials etched into the gold. He looks at the girl, really looks at her, trying to discern the enigma wrapped in blue. "I’m enjoyin’ your company an awful lot.” The girl's breath catches, a soft gasp escaping her lips. She looks away, suddenly self-conscious. "I just wanted to show you... that you're still special to people. No matter what they say about you." Elvis feels a strange tightening in his chest, an unfamiliar but welcome warmth spreading through him. He squeezes the girl's hand gently, "You shouldn't be spendin’ your time with an old man.” he murmurs, clearing his throat, sitting the locket back. “You’re a pretty girl. I’m sure you could be pourin’ your love into someone better.” The girl's eyes widen at Elvis's words, a flash of something intense and almost painful crossing her face before she lowers her gaze. "No," she whispers fiercely, her small hand tightening around his, "No one could ever be better than you, Elvis. No one."

She takes a shuddering breath before continuing, her voice low and intense. "You don't understand. I've... I've waited so long for this moment. Dreamed about it. And now..." She shakes her head, curls tumbling around her face. "I can't let it go. I won't let it go.” The girl leans in closer, her face mere inches from Elvis's. He can feel her warm breath feathering against his skin, smell the sweet scent of her perfume. "I love you," she breathes, her eyes blazing into his with an almost desperate intensity. "I love you in a way you can't possibly imagine. And I'm not leaving until... until I've shown you how much." Elvis feels a shiver run down his spine at the raw, unbridled emotion in her voice. It's been so long since someone has looked at him like this, with such naked, all-consuming devotion. He's used to the girls, to the fans who love the idea of him, the legend. But this girl... she's different. She sees him. He raises a hand to cup her face, his calloused fingers gently stroking her soft cheek. "Now honey," he murmurs, but there's no real conviction in his voice. "You don’t mean that." Despite his words, Elvis finds himself leaning in closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He's tired of the hollow celebrations, the plastic smiles and empty toasts. This girl... she's the first genuine thing that's happened to him in years. He doesn’t want this party, this extravagance, all these people here- he just wants it to be him and this girl. “I absolutely mean it.” She says, her voice not wavering. Elvis smiles, it’s almost bittersweet in a way he can’t quite understand.

“I want everyone else to leave. I just want it to be me an’ you.” Elvis says, beginning to move. The girl gets up and watches as he walks out of the Living Room and into the kitchen. Elvis pushes his way through the crowd of people till he finds Red West. “Listen man, I ain’t feelin’ too good…you mind sendin’ all these folks out?” He asks, eager to get back to that girl. Red looked at Elvis with concern etched on his weathered face. He had known Elvis for years, had seen him through countless ups and downs, and he could tell that something was different this time. "You sure you want to do that, Elvis?" Red asked, his voice low and cautious. "I mean, this is your birthday party. All these folks are here to celebrate with you." Elvis sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know, I know. But I just... I need some time. Alone. With her." Elvis's gaze drifted back to the girl in the blue dress, who was now standing alone by the fireplace, her eyes still fixed on him. Red followed Elvis's gaze, a hint of understanding dawning on his face. "Ah, I see," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright then. I'll take care of it." Red clapped Elvis on the shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "But don't be a stranger, ya hear? It ain't every day a guy turns forty-two." Elvis just nodded, already starting to make his way back to the living room. The crowd hurried out within minutes as he approached the girl, the chatter and laughter fading into a distant hum. As he drew near, the girl looked up at him, her eyes shining with a mix of hope and trepidation. Elvis held out his hand to her, his usual bravado replaced with a newfound vulnerability. "Come on," he said softly, "I want to show you somethin'."The girl placed her small hand in his, and Elvis felt a warmth spread  through him at her touch. He led her out of the living room, past the grand staircase, and down the long hallway towards the Jungle Room. As they entered the opulent space, with its lush greenery and decadent decor, Elvis pulled the girl close to him. The doors swung shut behind them with a soft click, and suddenly it was just the two of them, alone amidst the tangle of tropical plants and plush furnishings. Elvis turned to face the girl, his hands resting gently on her waist. "I ain't never been much for crowds," he confessed, his voice low and intimate in the quiet of the room. "But I gotta say, I'm real happy you came." The girl looked up at him, her eyes wide and wondering. "I've been waiting for this moment for so long," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "I didn't think... I mean, I never imagined..."Imagined what, angel?" Elvis murmured, his head lowering so that his forehead rested against hers. "Tell me." The girl took a shuddering breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I imagined this. Us. Alone.” Elvis shakes his head, “You act like you weren’t gonna see me in my own home.” He teases, but the girl just nods. 

Elvis gazed down at the girl, his heart swelling with a warmth he hadn't felt in years. Her presence, her words, her touch... it was all so real, so genuine. He could feel the love radiating off her in waves, washing over him like a soothing balm. Elvis knew he should be wary, should guard his heart like the precious treasure it was. But there was something about this girl, something that made him want to let go, to surrender to the feeling blossoming in his chest. As if reading his thoughts, the girl reached up and gently cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing over the weathered skin. "You're thinking too much," she murmured softly, a gentle admonishment. "Just for once, Elvis... don't think. Feel." Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away or object, Elvis leaned in closer. He could feel her warm breath mingling with his own, could see the way her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat. He paused for a moment, letting anticipation build, before closing the remaining distance and pressing his lips to hers. The girl made a soft noise deep in her throat, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Elvis let himself get lost in the sensation, in the warmth and softness of her mouth under his. He kissed her slowly, tenderly, trying to pour every ounce of emotion and longing into the single embrace. When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing harder, their eyes glazed with a newfound hunger. The girl leaned her forehead against his, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I love you," she whispered, the words tickling his skin. "All of you. The man you are now." Elvis felt tears prick his eyes. What was going on? He felt so…loved. So safe. So adored. He didn’t need the fans, the money, the fame…this was all he wanted. “I love you too, Angel. An’ I want you ta’ stay.” He says, and the girl takes a finger and wipes the tears from under his eyes.

“I’ll stay.” 

She says, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Happy Birthday Elvis.”

first off, happy heavenly birthday elvis presley. words cannot even begin to express how much better my life has been since i have begun listening to and loving elvis. i wanted to post this at exactly midnight but i also posted on my other platforms 😓 i also want to thank you all for 500+ followers, i cannot believe i have been blessed with this community- i love you all so very much.

taglist: @hooked-on-elvis @atleastpleasetelephone @lola-1013 @indiatuck @eptodaytommorowforever @suspiciousmindsxo @tupelomiss @myradiaz @i-r-i-n-a-a @elvispresley1956 @sisssygirl @your-nanas-house @callieselvisobsessed @eapep @auntbee22 @elvisiana @ladelinee @jhoneybees @elviswhore69 @sissylittlefeather @dontfeedthebigbadwolf @louisejoy86 @cherrycolaride @sloppyzengarden @daughterdelrey @iloveelvisss @theelvisprincess @fairybloodsucker

[prokaryotics]

warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.  

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun. 

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him. 

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat. 

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him. 

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk. 

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it. 

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time. 

Almost midnight. 

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this. 

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway. 

He instantly relaxes. 

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back. 

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy. 

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.  

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale. 

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs. 

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized. 

Your shattering frustrations. 

His fracturing exhaustion. 

“They can’t wait?” 

Joel leans back. 

“Not most of ‘em, no.” 

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve. 

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.” 

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.” 

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.” 

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is. 

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.  

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon. 

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. 

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies. 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow. 

“I would have.” 

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist. 

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.” 

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must. 

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.” 

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now. 

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable. 

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw. 

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.” 

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes. 

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.” 

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life. 

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices. 

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but... 

But this is my job. 

But this is our life. 

But you’ll have to get used to it. 

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.” 

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now. 

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now? 

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you. 

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him. 

He looks at you, still grinning. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.” 

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.” 

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.” 

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence. 

You guide him back to you. 

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.” 

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely. 

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.” 

“Stop it.” 

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet. 

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says. 

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’ 

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?” 

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love. 

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it. 

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come. 

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward. 

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper. 

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.” 

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck. 

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.” 

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy. 

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute. 

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.” 

“Anythin’ you want, honey.” 

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely. 

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once. 

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh. 

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat. 

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.  

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache. 

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing. 

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s - 

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something. 

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest. 

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke. 

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps. 

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures. 

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening. 

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces. 

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components. 

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this. 

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist. 

“I love you.” 

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts. 

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver. 

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love. 

And then it’s broken. 

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm. 

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering. 

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses. 

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus. 

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile. 

“I’ll try to come home earlier.” 

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter. 

You’re not going to dwell on it. 

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork. 

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask. 

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.” 

[morganbritton132]

so I am primarily an Eddie x Chrissy shipper but I ADORE the Eddie Munson TikTok saga with my entire heart

can we get some more insight into how Eddie was affected by Chrissy in your universe?

Thank you for asking this!

I’ve wanted to talk about Chrissy in this AU since the beginning, but I just don’t realistically see Eddie talking about her on his TikTok. Anytime Eddie has so much as alluded to Chrissy over the years, it has stirred up all this drama about that spring break and it always gets back to her family. And he doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want to remind her remaining relatives of her death. He doesn’t want the accusations that some people still have that he killed her. He doesn’t want to attach all that pain and suffering onto the memory of Chrissy.

She was more than that one awful week in 1986. She was so much more and every time the Hawkins Murders get brought up she becomes less and less a real human person and more just a footnote in a bigger tragedy.

So, he doesn’t talk about her publicly.

So, Eddie honors her in the quiet ways that he can.

He honors her in the tattoo over his heart and in the initials engraved on the inside of the ring he never takes off. He honors her in the silence before every live performance and in all the songs so filled with grief that they’re never performed to an audience.

He honors her in the life he lives.

He tries to at least, because Chrissy is not a ghost that haunts him.

She is a presence that sits beside him. She is the sun warm on his face and tea made just a little too sweet. She is the skip-beat of his heart, the stroke of a guitar, the sadness that seeps behind his eyes. She is an empty house built inside him, and she is the windows he made in those walls, and she is beautiful still. And he misses her. Still

So, he honors her in silent ways when she deserves so much more.

She deserved a life, so he lives his thankful and fully. She deserved the same love that she put into the world, so Eddie never misses an opportunity to show his. She deserved adventure, and travel, and to see a world so much brighter than Hawkins, so when Eddie got the chance. It didn’t feel like running away. It felt like honor.

Eddie knows that he was not always kind.

He knows that he has a capacity for cruelty, that Wayne raised him right but he has shades of his father in him. He knows that for as much as the world othered him, as much as Hawkins ostracized him, he played into it. He othered himself. He grew bristles and thorns young, and he bared them to anybody that got close. He was mean.

He could be so mean, but Chrissy.

She didn’t remember him that day in the woods, but Eddie has always noticed her because she was kind. She was so effortlessly kind to everybody, even to him. She apologized in the hall for bumping his locker. She stopped when he dropped his dice instead of kicking them across the floor.

She smiled at him like he wasn’t a freak, the same smile she smiled at everybody.

She was so kind. It was for everybody. She was kind to him the way that she was kind to everybody else, and it was just… It was never fair. It was never going to be fair.

[stayteezdreams]

Celebrating Valentines Day {Hyung Line}

Headcanons/Scenarios: How you celebrate Valentines Day together - Hyung Line

{Maknae Line}

Pairings: Ateez Hyung Line x Gn!Reader (separate)

Warnings: Mentions of food/eating

Words: 0.6k

Seonghwa

Seonghwa is a classic romantic.

So when you woke up on Valentines morning you wouldn't find him in the bed beside you, but a single flower on his pillow instead.

He would surprise you with breakfast in bed, more flowers, and your favorite chocolates/candy.

Seonghwa gets gratification out of how you react to this, and his smile would never leave his face.

It would shine even brighter when you surprised him with his own flowers and gift that you had gotten him.

He got you matching couple rings as a present, sort of like promise rings in a way.

If you don't wear rings he would get you a chain so you could where it around your neck, or hang it somewhere.

You spent the day together before going out to a special dinner together.

Ending the night with a lovely walk, holding hands while looking up at the starry sky.

Hongjoong

Hongjoong would stress about how to surprise you on Valentines Day.

You had a reservation at one of your favorite restaurants for dinner

But, he wanted to do something unique, fun and special before then.

After various ideas and scrapped plans, he decided on taking you to a flower market.

He bought you one of every flower you loved.

So by the end you ended up with two enormous bouquets.

They also had various sweets and desserts, which he bought you many of as well.

Even though you enjoyed the market Hongjoong knew it wouldn't feel like enough to him.

So he had spent the few days prior finishing a song he had been working on for some time.

It was dedicated to you, and showcased his love for you.

It was beautiful and heartfelt, and one of the best gifts you could have ever asked for.

Yunho

Yunho decided to take you on a picnic for Valentines Day.

He had asked you about it before, to make sure it was something you would enjoy.

You were very happy with the idea and helped him plan various foods and drinks.

You even baked a cake together, complete with strawberry hearts.

You spent the morning preparing the food together.

He took you to a cute and somewhat secluded spot in a wooded park with a view of a small rive.

Yunho surprised you with a chain that had a key with an engraved heart an Yunho's initials on it.

He had a matching chain on that he had been wearing around his neck unseen by you.

It was a lock with a heart on it and your initials.

Because to Yunho, you had the key to his heart.

Yes it was cheesy, but it was cute.

You spent most of the day lounging around in the park, playing games like tag, hide and seek and I Spy.

The day didn't have to be exciting and "special" for the two of you to enjoy it to the fullest.

Yeosang

I imagine Valentines Day is yours and Yeosang's anniversary.

He admitted his feelings on a previous Valentines Day and the two of you started dating.

So each Valentines for you was a bit more special.

After you surprised Yeosang with a cute breakfast - which he adored- the two of you took a trip to the beach.

It was a bit cold, but he made sure you dressed warm.

He bought you a hot drink, and held your hand.

The two of you walked along the beach for a couple hours before walking around the nearest town.

You got food and did some shopping.

He bought you flowers and some decadent chocolates, while you bought him a teddy bear and some cakes.

You ended up booking a hotel near the beach for the night before getting dinner.

You watched the sunset on the beach your head on his shoulder as he held your hand tightly.

Bonus: I think Yeosang would propose to you on your anniversary/Valentines Day as well once you had been together for a few years.

xx

General Taglist: @otsilliak, @brattybunfornct, @bahng-chrizz, @otakutrash669, @tinyelfperson, @the-lemon-boy

Ateez Taglist: @soso59love-blog, @dlmlufics, @hongjoongsprincess, @tunaasan, @thedistractedwriter, @dear-dreamie, @thunderous-wolf, @briqnne, @hyukssunflower, @dinossaurz, @dancelikebutterflywings, @skz1-4-3, @staytiny2000 Seonghwa: @ye0nvibezzn

[ltwilliammowett]

Chinese Flower Boats

Flower boats had already existed for centuries, perhaps since the 14th century, but earlier is also possible. They were initially only available to the noble elite. They were luxury brothels with noble courtesans on board and they resembled luxurious pleasure boats with a sun deck with a private chamber and a pavilion at the stern. Not much can be said about the early designs and appearance, as records only began around 1700.

At this time the boats began to change, the stern became more and more drawn upwards so that it looked very much like a beak. There was a special reason for this, but more about that in a moment.

Flower Boat at Shanghai" wood engraved print with recent hand colour, published in All Around the World, about 1880 (x)

From then on, the boats were available in different sizes and even in different price categories. There were small ones with only one or two girls, or large ones with up to 10 or more, all of different ages, even little girls were included, although they were still learning until they were 12 before they received their first customers. Moste of these women were no longer noble courtesans but rather women from poor families who were sold to the ship owners. With the emergence of the European trading companies, they also got access to the flower boats, albeit illegally, but this could be regulated with a small bribe to the officials. Unfortunately, these meetings also further encouraged the exchange of exotic sexually transmitted diseases.

Ivory Flower boat model, late 18th century (x)

What was to be expected on such boats depended on the price of the respective ladies, with the high-priced ladies there was already entertainment and culture included, the middle price ranges offered some additional types of games and the cheap ones were, and I'm sorry to say this, for the quick number.

A model from the late or early 20th century (x)

These boats were to be found at all harbours and rivers, there were even whole streets of them. But let's move on to the very high stern, which from the 18th century onwards could take on very bizarre proportions. The ships did not always stay in the harbour to save space and prevent epidemics. The ships were be towed or sailed by their own, up and down the rivers and because they were so high at the stern they started to bob faster, which was supposed to increase the fun of the customers even more.

A Canton Flower Boat on the Pearl River, late 19th century (x)

Surprisingly, they continued to exist into WWII, although from the 19th century onwards these trips became increasingly rare and then ceased altogether. And many boats were also abandoned and became floating restaurants.

[liillyliilly]

Status: Infatuated

kageyama tobio x reader words; 1189 synopsis; The tree at the end of your street had your initials in it, it had Kageyama’s initials in it. It was the best tree ever. It really is as simple as that. dorks in love is the best trope

Promises are meant to be kept. Promises are meant to be engraved into stone and hailed as pure scripture. And that’s exactly how Kageyama treated them.

Which is why the tree that he had engraved both of your initials into was so important for him. The mere thought of that tree possibly getting torn down was agonizing. The tree on the end of his street had been planted sometime when he had turned the ripe age of four years old.

He had always tapped the top of the tree when his grandfather took his six-year-old self to the park. He had begun to sit under the tree and flip through his comic books at age eight. He had practiced lightly tossing a volleyball by hitting it against the trunk when he was ten. He had climbed all of its branches by the time he was thirteen. And of course, he had carefully whittled his initials and yours as well, into the truck when he had first started crushing on you when he was fifteen.

“Tobio, wait just a second.” You asked, wiping the sweat from your brow and taking a sip of the strawberry lemonade Kageyama’s mom had made for you. “It’s too hot outside.”

“I know it’s hot, but please, just let me show you what I've been wanting to show you.” Kageyama grinned, fiddling with the pocket knife in his hand. It was made of a sleek oak wood, and had an iron blade that he had sharpened just barely for a camping trip the two of you were planning.

“Kageyama Y/n. Pick up your pace, let’s go.” He called out, before walking over to you and then pulling your hand to a tall tree. He put a hand on the trunk, just letting the rippled wood roughly brush against his palm. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

“A tree Tobio, you wanted to show me a tree?” Sipping on the last of your lemonade, tucking the glass water bottle into your backpack.

“A very important tree, mind you.” Kageyama cleared his throat. Before handing you the knife and then smiling widely.

“What do you want me to do?” You let the weight of the tool be held in your hand, the cool oak warming up in your hand.

“Carve your initials in the tree.” He said, patting the spot where he wanted you to put them. “Including the one I gave you.” He added with a rush of urgency.

“Of course, I was going to write your last name. It’s my last name now.” You rolled your eyes before poking him in the chest with the hand that wasn’t holding the pocket knife.

Kageyama let the simple joy of you having his last name soak into his entire body. The knowledge that you two were going to be together forever sinking into his skin and warming him up differently than the sun ever could.

Silently, with only the sound of the wood being slowly chipped away you engraved your initials. After, you took a step back and blew the remnants away. Kageyama immediately took the knife from your hand and wrote his own initials underneath yours. Adding a little plus sign between the letters and then drawing a heart around it.

Smiling wildly, Kageyama looked at you and then turned his head back to the drawing on the tree. “Okay, now let me show you the other thing.”

“I swear, if it’s another-” You paused. Freezing up as Kageyama pulled you around to show you an older engraving. Of your initials before you married him, along with his in a similar design to the other one. “When did you do this?” You lightly traced the indented wood.

“In the first year of high school.” He mumbled, scratching the back of his head as he looked away from you in a slight sheepish manner.

“That long ago?”

“I fell fast and I fell hard for you. The only person to ever completely take me off my feet.” Kageyama tugged on your hand and swung it back and forth as the pair of you looked on at the carving. “I think for a while there, when I was fifteen, I was completely overwhelmed with how I felt about you.”

You didn’t have any words. Nothing seemed to match up to what he was telling you.

“I love you.” You pressed your lips onto his shoulder and rubbed your nose in the crook of his neck. Tickling him lightly so he let out a small chuckle. Memories of the little set up the second and third years pulled for him and you were faded, but still clear enough for him to remember. Like a vintage photo that had a vignette around the edges.

“Kageyama Tobio. Age fifteen, status: completely in love with that one first year who studies with Yachi.” Sugawara stated, handing out clipboards to everyone in the clubroom. Asahi flipped through the pages and raised his hand but Daichi put Asahi’s down , shaking his head slowly as he looked to the ground.

“Their name is L/n. L/n Y/n.” Kageyama clarified, sipping on a small carton of banana milk, seeing as the vending machine had run out of his usual two percent milk.

“Fine, updated status: entirely and utterly obsessed and infatuated with L/n Y/n.” Sugawara made everyone cross off the printed status and rewrite the new one on top of the old.

Sugawara’s updated status still rang true, even ten years later. Kageyama still cringes at how much effort Sugawara put towards figuring out your schedule to plan ‘accidental bumping into each other’ moments, or going as far as making Yachi drag you to practice so you could study. Hoping that when you took a break you would look up and see Kageyama in his natural element of setting volleyballs to everyone, displaying ‘great teamwork skills’ as Suga had so bluntly described it as.

Somehow, Kageyama didn’t actually have to ask you out. You did that all by yourself, only after you had seen Kageyama muttering to himself about the ‘stupid’ plan to get you to fall in love with him. If you hadn’t asked him out, then it was likely that he never would have worked up enough confidence to ask you out himself.

But luckily for him, you had liked him for just as long as he had liked you. Except, not quite as obviously as he had made his feelings for you. You still remember all the times he gave you volleyball keychains, despite not being in the club. All the keychains had been moved to your various bags and purses as you grew up. You still remember all the times he asked if you would help him with math, he was a lost cause but at least he got to see you up close working on an example problem for him to observe.

The tree at the end of your street had your initials in it, it had Kageyama’s initials in it. It was the best tree ever. It really is as simple as that.

[junkdrawerfics]

Hi, first of all, I am obsessed with your Jasper fics they make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

If you are taking requests, can I please request Jasper gifting the reader an old heirloom from his human family? Thank you and have a nice day :)

Unexpected Gifts

Hi! Thank you for this really cute request! I hope I did it justice, I literally spent so many hours just staring at the screen, struggling with it. I don't know how I feel about it but I hope you guys enjoy it!

Jasper Whitlock X Reader

Warnings: None, maybe like a tiny bit sad at parts?

Word Count: 1319

---

“I have somethin’ for you, darlin’.”

You glance up from your book to watch Jasper lean over to swipe a wooden box from the nightstand. He holds it tenderly, as if it might break, the box looking so small in his hands. The dark wood appears almost black against his pale skin, the dainty gold latch on the front matching his eyes.

“What is it?” You ask, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Jasper grins, your warmth spreading over him as you lean into his side, peering at the jewelry box with wide, owlish eyes. And they only go wider when he opens the box.

Inside, nestled in a bed of velvet, is a necklace. It’s a little, silver locket, the front engraved with a simple bouquet of flowers. It looks worn, but in a deeply loved kind of way, where the metal is polished from years and years of touch. The chain is dainty, glimmering when Jasper lifts it out of the box. You can’t help but hold your breath when he settles it in your palm.

“Jazz,” you whisper, running a finger gingerly over the faint grooves in the metal, “it’s beautiful.”

He tilts his chin in a silent request for you to turn around, “May I?”

You bite back a smile, shuffling excitedly to face the wall. He moves slowly, methodically fastening the locket around your neck, fingers tracing over your shoulder as he pulls your hair loose. His touch leaves behind a trail of goosebumps, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest. Then he suddenly pulls you back into his chest, strong arms winding around your waist, and you feel his lips at the base of your neck.

“Jasper!” You squeak, stiffening, face flushing a million shades of red. 

The blond chuckles, the sound rich and deep. It vibrates through his whole body, making your heart leap into your throat as he leans further into you. Stupid, charming vampire. When did he get so cheeky?

“You’re getting too confident for your own good,” you grumble, looking down at the necklace to hide your flushed face, as if he can’t hear your heart racing.

“I know how you really feel, darlin’,” Jasper teases against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. It makes your knees go weak, a shaky hum rattling from your chest as you hold the locket tighter.

That’s when you feel a small engraving on the back. You flip it over gently, eyes tracing over the delicate, looping letters.

‘L.W.’

Initials? Not yours. Not Jasper’s. Your curiosity comes flooding back again. Jasper must feel the shift because he turns more serious, propping his chin on your shoulder to see what’s caught your eye. Before you can even ask the question, he answers it.

“Laura Whitlock.”

His voice is soft, barely a whisper. You glance at him, chest constricting at the new look in his eyes. His composure slips, a mixture of pain and grief swirling with deep affection shining through. They look distant, lost in old memories.

Gently, you lift a hand to his face, and Jasper shutters, eyelashes fluttering as he takes in a sharp breath. Those gold eyes lock on yours again, back in the present, back with you. Your concern washes over him like a summer shower, softening him.

“Don’t worry about me, sugar,” he hums, covering the hand on his cheek with his own. He turns his head, lips pressing to your palm with a smile.

But your frown doesn’t ease. Not with how his voice plays over and over in your mind. Laura Whitlock. You can guess who it is, and the thought makes your whole heart ache.

“It was your mom’s?”

Jasper nods, watching on expectantly. You bite your lip, vision suddenly going blurry as you look back down at the locket. His mother’s. His mother’s necklace. The weight of the realization settles on you like a blanket of snow.

“I don’t know if I can accept this, Jasper,” you breathe out shakily, reaching to take it off.

He doesn’t let you though. The vampire catches your hands, fingers gentle but firm around your wrists, trapping them to your chest. 

“It belongs to you now, darlin’.”

“But-”

“She would of wanted you to have it.”

A lump forms in your throat. 

You wish you could meet her. Tell her how wonderful her son is. How he is the gentlest, most considerate man you’ve ever met. How every breathing moment, you feel so choked with love for him, so overwhelmed with fondness you can never catch your breath. And everything he does just makes you want to know him more, until you know him better than yourself.

“Will you tell me about her?” You relent, keeping your eyes glued to your hands, wiggling your fingers until he interlaces them with his.

Jasper doesn’t hesitate to share this part of his past with you. His voice practically glows with affection as he recounts stories of his mother. Sweet ones, like when he was a child and she would take him to a field and read him stories until the sun set. Sad ones, like when they lost the family dog, and she held him the entire night. You can picture them all, a small Jasper with big, brown eyes, and an even bigger smile, right next to a young woman with sweeping gold curls, just like his, and a gentle face brimming with love.

“We weren’t the richest family, but she never made us feel that way. My father spent months savin’ up to buy this for her birthday.” He taps the locket softly, a low laugh passing his lips. “Nearly lost it the day of. He had us tear the house up lookin’ for it.”

“But you found it.”

“Yes we did,” Jasper assures with a nod, “She never took it off after that night.”

You can understand why. It must have meant so much to her. And to you. It’s more than a necklace. It’s a sign of trust. A sign of devotion. 

“I don’t think I will either,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “Somebody would have to kill me to get this necklace. Like, fully dead, never come back kind of kill.”

Jasper snorts, the sound somehow still refined coming from him. You both know it won’t happen, not if either of you had anything to say about it. This might as well be a ring, because in this moment, all you can think about is the rest of forever you get to spend with this man.

All of your nerves and doubts fizzle into the background as you lean into Jasper. You feel lighter, a smile perching on your lips when the blond leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. 

“Thank you, Jasper,” you whisper, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’ll do my best to earn it.”

“You already have,” he replies, and the seriousness in his voice makes your heart flutter all over again. “I trust you with my life, darlin’.“

Just as you do with him. But he knows that. He can feel it as you snuggle into him, eyes fluttering shut with a content hum. Jasper holds you a little closer, a little tighter, soaking in the warmth of all your emotions. You stay like that for hours, or at least what feels like hours, before you have to go home.

The moment you get there, you go to the mirror on your dresser and look at yourself. Well, yourself with the necklace. Tracing the chain tenderly, you can’t help but envision the picture you can put inside. You and Jasper, maybe on your wedding day, or the day you finally join them for eternity.

Either way, you’ll never take it off. Not when you can simply look down and be reminded of every single reason you love Jasper Whitlock. 

And of how much he loves you.

---

I have a lot more story ideas for 'X Jasper' fics, so keep an eye out! Thank you for reading, your comments and love really push me to keep writing.

Feel free to send in requests!

[jstor]

With America's Thanksgiving holiday on the horizon, it is crucial to delve deeper into the historical context and dispel the sanitized notions surrounding the colonization of the "New World" by Europeans. While the Europeans considered this land new, it was home to Indigenous peoples for generations, with rich cultures and traditions that often go unacknowledged.

Thanksgiving was established as a national holiday in 1863 by President Lincoln, during a time marred by the deeply divisive Civil War. The intention was to foster a sense of togetherness among the American people. However, the holiday's origins are rooted in notions of peaceful coexistence between European Pilgrims and the Native Americans already residing in the Plymouth region. This narrative, though popularized, is built on flimsy foundations, as it only represents a few decades of relatively minimal conflict between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag.

Contrary to common belief, the Pilgrims' gratitude for surviving their initial winter was not directed towards the Wampanoag, whom they viewed as instruments of God's will, but rather towards God himself. It is important to acknowledge that while there may have been a period of relative peace, primary sources reveal an underlying sense of white superiority rather than a genuine atmosphere of open cultural exchange.

The initial cooperation and mutual assistance during the early 17th century gave way to a chapter in history characterized by brutal violence and the detrimental impacts of colonization. As European settlers expanded their presence, territorial disputes, cultural clashes, and the introduction of diseases took a devastating toll on Indigenous communities. The narrative of Plymouth Colony's early years must be examined in its entirety, recognizing the complexities and consequences that arose from the subsequent period of colonization.

By delving into these historical details, we can gain a more comprehensive understanding of the complexities surrounding Thanksgiving and its historical context. Learn more in this Open Access book chapter: "Pilgrims and Puritans and the Myth of the Promised Land."

🖼️ : Winslow Homer (American, Boston, Massachusetts 1836–1910 Prouts Neck, Maine), “Thanksgiving Day – The Dinner (from ‘Harper’s Weekly,’ Vol. II).” Wood engraving, November 27, 1858. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

WHITTINGHAM INITIALS

The Whittinghams, Charles the Elder (1767-1840), who founded the Chiswick Press, and his nephew and successor Charles the Younger (1795–1876), were among the finest English printer/publishers of the 19th century, noted especially for the quality of typographic design and evenness of printing. Their firm was also the chief printer for bookseller/publisher William Pickering, whose own devotion to quality was exemplified in his use of Aldus Manutius's anchor & dolphin printer's mark, combined with the motto Aldi Discipulus Anglus (Aldus's English Disciple).

Many of the distinctive, wood-engraved initials the Whittinghams used were designed by Charles II himself along with his artist daughters Charlotte and Elizabeth, almost all of which were engraved by English book illustrator and wood engraver Mary Byfield (1795-1871). The Whittingham initials shown here are from the 1896 Grolier Club publication, The Charles Whittinghams Printers by Arthur Warren (1860-1924), which itself is printed by one of the finest 19th-century American printers, Theodore Low De Vinne (1828-1914), who printed the book on handmade paper in an edition of 185 copies. Our copy is another gift from our friend Jerry Buff, a Grolier Club member.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

[chilling-seavey]

Winter Warmers: Day 18 — Orgasm Denial & Christmas Market

↳ Summary: Your pregnancy hormones hit without warning, even in the most unideal scenarios.

↳ Word Count: 961

↳ Warnings: 18+, borderline exhibitionism, dirty talk/begging, very minor dom/sub dynamics, brief descriptions of sex

↳ Winter Warmers Prompt List | The Way It Goes Masterlist

It had initially been your idea to visit the Christmas Market that weekend, wanting to take advantage of the little booths and artisans set up along the closed off streets while admiring the festive decorations along storefronts and lamp posts. It was a picturesque corner of the city, like you were living in a Hallmark movie, down to the scent of pine and gingerbread that wafted through every corner. But, now, as you and George walked through the bustling streets between booths and displays, you were hit with the sudden gnawing urge to leave. 

Not that you weren’t having a lovely time, because you were, but simply because you didn’t want to loiter out in public with your husband looking that good for more than necessary. George was wearing that navy and red striped pullover of his—the slightly furry Tommy Hilfiger one—and nicely fitted jeans over his favourite classy brown boots, topped with his matching brown trench coat. And he was having such a good hair day and his hand was so comfortable and warm in yours and you could feel the slight cold metal of his wedding ring against your skin which was still such a surreal feeling. 

George spoke kindly to the lady at one of the artisan booths, discussing her handmade Christmas ornaments, not a care in the world but the kindness of his heart. In all honesty, although you tried to follow the conversation, your hormonal brain was making his words sound like nothing but angels singing with little pink love hearts floating around his head in a dreamy reverie. Your hand that wasn’t holding his gently rubbed over the small swell of your stomach that was hidden beneath the material of your winter coat. 

It had been more than a relief to be past the nausea stage of early-pregnancy and you were soon discovering the glorious hormones that caused an ungodly spike in libido as you progressed into your second trimester. You were having sex, like, daily but the urge for more would sometimes just hit you as if staring at George too long just triggered his genes that were growing inside you to want him impossibly closer. 

He thanked the artist with a warm smile while he took his purchase from her in a small red bag. The two of you started to walk away and George took his hand from yours to reach into the bag to take out the small handcrafted ornament he had bought: a small intricately carved piece of wood with ‘Our First Christmas’ and the year engraved in the middle in curling cursive. 

“What do you think?” George smiled proudly as you set your gloved hand in the crook of his arm, admiring his purchase. “For us. For our tree.”

“It’s sweet.” you replied.

“I almost bought the ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ one but then remembered that he or she isn’t born yet so it wouldn’t count just yet.” George chuckled as he tucked the ornament back in the shopping bag. 

Any other time, you would have swooned with him over his sweet thoughts and how he always had your growing family in the forefront of his mind, but those pregnancy hormones were a beast if left unsatisfied. You truly couldn’t focus on anything else but all the nasty things you wanted him to do to you in the middle of the Christmas market. 

“Hey,” you gave his arm a little tug to get his attention, cutting him off mid-sentence, “are we about ready to go home?”

George stopped walking and stepped out of the way of foot traffic to guide you aside with a worried glance, “Home? Already? Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you licked away your small smile, trying to sway him with a sweet, “I just want you so bad.”

“My love,” he spoke quietly, gently, as if not wanting to upset you as he stroked your biceps over your jacket, “we had sex this morning. Not even six hours ago.”

“Six hours.” you echoed dramatically, tugging at the lapels of his trench coat, “That’s forever ago.”

“We’re not going all the way home just to go have sex again, darling, seriously.” George said, “We haven’t even explored the whole market yet.”

“Then can we find a bathroom or something?” 

George spoke your name with wide eyes, his voice firm and shocked as he followed it up with a, “No, oh my God.”

“Please?” you slide your arms around his waist.

George glanced around at the bustling market you were both in the middle of before looking back at you in front of him. He took hold of your forearms and guided your arms out from around him, warning you with a low yet unrelenting, “If you keep begging, I’m going to keep making you wait for it and you won’t be able to come until you’re a good girl and listen to me, yeah?”

You frowned at him, dialing up the dramatics another few notches, “You’re going to deny your pregnant wife the pleasure of making love with you?”

“My wife is only pregnant because of me anyway, remember?” George replied matter of factly, gently brushing your hair over your shoulders and out of your face, his expression a calm, controlled smile, “We’ll do this under my terms, won’t we, darling?”

You knew when he got like this, all controlling and dominant, that you were going to be in for it when you got home. He would carry on the rest of the day at the market like the most angelic, doting husband, carrying your bags and pulling out your chair for you and everything in between. But then, once you would return home that night, he would give you exactly what you had been burning for.

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[lovelettersforthedamned]

I Lived That Night Too

--genre + trope: angst, hurt/little comfort, nsfw.

--pairing: pattinson!bruce wayne x gf!vigilante!reader

--word count: 1.7k

--summary: after a run in with the joker a few months ago, bruce has been extra protective over you, and you've had enough.

--warnings: graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood, mention of a potential SA, angst, mentions of food, bruce and reader are mean to each other, some kisses, very very light fluff.

--gif credits: @bittwitchy

The sun set a few minutes ago, leaving the warm lighting of the overhead lights flooding throughout the corridor. Dinner was almost ready, yet Bruce was still in bed, recovering from his previous night out. Halloween was always tough for Gotham’s masked vigilante, the holiday becoming the motivation for those who dwell in mischief. 

The past year has haunted Bruce, even in his unconscious mind. Visions of that night dance across his eyelids. 

~

The night air was humid, the first warm night kicked off the start of the Summer weather. Even though warmer nights were upon those living in Gotham, rain poured heavily. You prepared to go out for the night, making your rounds around the city, making sure the peace was kept. There was no warning, no sign of disturbance in front of you as the front tire of your motorcycle caught on something, flinging you through the air. 

It’s not the initial impact of the fall that hurts, it's the pavement under you scraping your skin as you’re dragged by a man, the only feature you can pick up on is his recognizable laugh. He stops under a streetlight, the sudden brightness making your eyes squint, unable to process the figure’s next moves. His silhouette, raising a bat, is the last thing you’re able to see before a flaring pain in your stomach erupts. The pain moves to your side, then to your head, and finally to your hands. 

The warm air seemed to heighten the stench of your blood, the metallic smell making you nauseous. The man above you inspects your body, making sure his work is done. A small nod follows his lingering eyes before leaning down to uncurl your, now broken, hand, “Hold this for me, would you?” As he peels back each broken finger, with the last remaining energy you had left, a scream leaves your lips. In your now open hand, he places the same bat he used to harm you carefully in your grasp, positioning it perfectly before walking away. 

The gravel beneath his feet crunches as he’s relieving this moment once again. His eyes squint to focus on the sight in front of him, a body lying in the gleam of a streetlight, twitching. As he walks closer, there's a pit in his stomach, he knows that it’s you. There’s not an inch of your body that isn’t covered in a cut drowned in blood. His gaze ran up and down your shriveled figure, finally looking at the bat you’re holding, pieces of wood splintering at the barrel. His eyes lock onto the words that are jaggedly carved into the body of the bat. 

BATTER UP. 

He freezes at the sight of the engraving, the only movement coming from his eyes, darting back to your beaten face. He feels an unexplainable force weighing him down, he can’t move, and he can hardly breathe. The first person he contacts is Alfred. Back home, Alfred can see everything, due to Bruce’s advanced contact lenses. The older man is also in a state of shock, you were hardly recognizable. 

It takes Alfred’s pleas to shake Bruce out of his dissociative state. All Bruce could think of was what his life would look like without you, and how much he feared for your life. 

~

Waking himself up from the same nightmare he’s had for months, he looks around, confirming his surroundings. The light patter of rain hit his window, the sound alone trying to pull him back to sleep. Checking the time on the clock behind him, 7:48 PM, he pulls back the covers and starts to make his way downstairs, quickly pulling a shirt on and grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the dresser. 

Descending the stairs, he looks down at the scene in front of him. You’re sitting at the dining table with Alfred, participating in small talk as you eat dinner. A plate is set beside you, waiting for Bruce. His presence isn’t known until Alfred’s voice greets him, and a small peck is placed onto the crown of your head. Looking up at Bruce, you can tell he just woke up, his hair is messy and his eyes are still plagued with drowsiness. Grabbing his hand, you remind him of the plate made for him, a teasing tone poking through your voice, “Are you going to sit down? Or are you just going to keep standing there, my love?” 

“I have to go back to work,” he takes a breath, “there’s too much to do, I’m sorry.” 

You take this as your queue to follow him, grabbing his plate of food as you rise from your chair. Before you leave Alfred at the table, you exchange a knowing look, you both know that he won’t stop helping those who live in this city, you just wish he would take a break sometimes. His workload has doubled since you’ve been ‘out of commission’. It’s frustrating watching him stay out another hour or two to make up for the time he lost without you there, but Bruce would rather stay out all night than let you join him again. 

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you make your way down to Bruce’s area beneath the building. As you enter, Bruce makes a beeline toward his monitors and paperwork sprawled out along the desk. Following behind him, you place the plate down and start to work alongside him. Since Bruce hasn’t let you join him out at night, you’ve convinced him to let you at least do investigative work at home. Before he agreed, you swore you were going crazy. Of course, you went out often, but the thrill of working on something became your drug, and without it, you were having withdrawals. And as much as Bruce didn’t want to admit it, you were good at this, and he needed another set of hands to go over the things he’s collected. 

After an hour of rummaging through some evidence Bruce has collected in a missing persons case, you can see that his body tenses, coming to a realization. Since you worked together, you caught it just a moment after he did. Something isn’t adding up. There’s an entire chunk of information missing, and coincidently, it’s the last piece you need before coming to a definitive answer on this case. “I have to go back,” his eyes are still glued to the screen in front of him. 

You’re quick to interject, “But you just got back, you haven’t even eaten anything for Christ's sake. You can go out later.” 

“No, I can’t,” he rises from his chair, “I’ll figure it out.”

“Well, you would’ve figured out what we were missing if you just let me go out there with you,” you’re frustrations rising enough to confront him about what had been on your mind all evening. 

He raises his hand to rub his eyes in frustration, “Fuck (Y/N), you know why I can’t let that happen.” 

“It happened so long ago, it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does,” his voice raises an octave, the sudden volume change echoing throughout the room, “it haunts me.”

Anger flows throughout your body, the sound of your voice surpassing his, “It was my fault, Bruce! I let my guard down, I wasn’t careful.”

“Do you know how scared I was,” he turns to you, “ I saw you laying in a pool of your blood and I thought you were dead.”

You stand up, now closer to eye level as you look up at him, “I’m sorry, but you don’t think I’ve learned from this too? I’m the one who went through all of this. I’ve laid in a bed for six fucking months, thinking about what I could’ve changed and what I could’ve done differently. When I was lying on that street, I thought Joker would take advantage of me, and somehow that scared me more than the thought of what bones he broke. You can’t save everyone, Batman.”

Your words end the conversation, and seeing Bruce stand there speechless was your signal to leave. You don’t care if he was going to respond, you just needed to get out. It wasn’t long before you put on your gear and warmed up your motorcycle, the familiar sound of the engine roaring to life brings a smile to your face. You waste no time in heading out into the biting air of Gotham in November, anxious to do what you’ve been waiting and craving to do for the past six months. 

As soon as Bruce hears your motorcycle rev to life, he immediately rushes over to put on the gear he took off not even twenty-four hours prior. Climbing onto his own motorcycle, he follows loosely behind you. 

It doesn’t take long for you to reach the location of where the evidence was collected. Entering through a side window, you can feel eyes bore into your back, no doubt your boyfriend peering from a spot above you. Bruce is not only looking into the window you climbed in but also the surroundings around you, making sure it’s clear. 

It doesn’t take long for you to find the golden ticket of this entire investigation, a SIM card, smaller than a penny. Standing in the alley you call out, “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, babe.” Jumping down from his hiding spot in a nearby fire escape, he makes his way towards you and grabs the SIM card from your fingers. “You’re welcome,” you spit out. 

Inspecting it, he asks, “Where was it?”

“Under the filing cabinet, someone slid it in between the cracks of the metal,” you mutter, sneaking behind him and snatching back the device before walking away. 

Bruce grabs your wrist softly, stopping you in your tracks, “I’m sorry…for holding you back. You don’t need to be sheltered and you proved that.”

Looking over your shoulder at him, you speak, “I never did, Bruce.” A beat goes by before you turn and kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you back at home.” 

--author's note: HEY GUYS!! i was 100% supposed to post this on halloween or the day after, but work kept me away from finishing this:( writing for pattinson!bruce specifically is so hard, because wdym he's an introvert and is awkward and probably very awkward and a loser??? im so used to writing babes like peter, so this was fun to try! don't forget to support your writers by liking, commenting, and reblogging!!! my asks/inbox is OPENNN, so send me anything you would like to see on this blog and i will get back asap...ok bye ily<3333

[shmowder]

I saw this post and wanted to have a go at it so

What Pathologic characters bring for your birthday Pt.1

The Healers

The Bachelor's giftting etiquette is shaped by years of courtesy academia gifts. Daniil plays it safe and goes for the more traditional gifts between professional colleagues usually accompanied by a polite congratulations letter. His gifts tend to fall more on the expensive side, and they can include:

A fountain pen that only works with a special type of ink that is very annoying to get a hold of. If you bring that fact up, he seems a bit embarrassed by not realising it sooner and offers to send you the ink whenever you run out.

A professionally carved chess set piece from imported wood. Each piece is beautifully designed with a twist to distinguish it from the usual chess pieces whilst still holding a resemblance to the traditional design.

A pocket watch with your initials engraved into the gold plated back. A matching chain is included to secure it to your clothes.

A one of a kind brooch from a jewler he frequents for repairs, it symbolises something he thinks is dear to you.

A glass swan decorative piece that's very delicate and intricately designed, made by an expert glass-blower from one piece

If he's out of all options, he pulls the good ol'reliable encyclopedia on beetles with coloured HD prints

The Haruspex's Gifts are what you'd expect from a community welcoming in a new person into the neighbourhood, they tend to be homely in nature and consumable to not take up space but instead offer a small comfort. The kin usually gift food, sewing kits and home appliances, things which make life easier despite being mundane and Artemy took after them. His gifts can include:

Groceries from fresh vegetables, raw meat to canned goods, dairy, and eggs. They fresh ones last you up to a week so you don't have to worry about grocery shopping or go hungry. While canned goods could be saved as emergency food.

Wood/fuel for the fireplace to keep warm, especially with how ruthless winter can be in this town. He thought about bringing a blanket to or a sweater, but knitting was never his speciality

Emergency sewing repair kit that fits in your pocket, it includes spare buttons for your clothes and several threads in different colours to blend in with the fabrics.

He will visit you a day before your birthday and help fix anything broken around your house, be it a creeking floorboard or a wobbling table. Maybe do errands to help you prepare for the birthday party

A carved wooden toy/trinket like the ones his father used to make him in his childhood. the cuts through the wood are very clean but the design itself is chunky, he tried his best.

The idea of gifting you a cattle did cross his mind, but he wasn't sure you knew how to take care of them or have the space....also they tend to be very expensive. He settled for a bull shaped soft toy that's very popular as a home protection charm in the steppe.

The Changeling's gifting is very impacted by the fact she spawned into existence in this world just a few weeks ago. Clara still has many questions about how the world works and why the selection of ediable rocks is very limited? Her gifts are sincere in the way they remind you of playing potion making with leaves and twigs as a kid. They can include:

a small bouquet of wild flowers found around the town that she must have spent some time collecting from the dirt on her knees

A fully functioning army grade rifle in perfect condition with a stash of bullets, if you ask how she got them, she just smiles

Pretty trinkets she found in a bin and washed, you may choose one and she's keeping the rest....Fine you can have two since it's your birthday

Someone's deepest darkest secret, you may choose who.

If you complain from a headache or backpain, she offers to heal you and cure you forever. When it doesn't work, she seems annoyed by it and instead offers you some morphine she had stashed away.

A friendship bracelet that she is very proud of making! Makes fun of you if she sees you wearing it. Clara still wears hers.

[thetraumaking]

The Accursed Crown

Other Chapters

Chapter 16: Back Again

She has to admit. 

You looked rather weird without those familiar burns. She misses the comfort it brought her when she would mindlessly touch them, running her fingers along the bumps and grooves and the luster-like shine the skin had, the patches of lighter shade contrasting against your skin, making you stand out even more. And now, you looked rather… plain. 

Fortunately, you still had your number. Though your skin looked rather loose? 

All in all, she felt conflicted. Despite her initial shock, a part of her felt peeved, annoyed that you allowed some peasant to completely change what she grew up knowing, saddened to be ripped away from her comfort. 

But when she saw you with your healed hands, touching everything in sight, patting her hair, feeling the silk she wore, touching and pinching her cheek ever so lightly, she was glad to see you look more… healthy. 

But she wonders, had the girl also erased her burn? Or just the visible ones. 

Shifting her weight to her right foot, she looked at the culprit of her mixed emotions.

Unaware of the eyes that stared at her, Yue nervously fidgeted with her hands. A worried look plastered on her face as she, along with the fire nation, spectated the duel between her father and the lieutenant acting guide, Zhao. 

Their battle was coming to a halt. It seems that the tides were in the water tribe’s favor. How funny is that? Though as expected, if they were to take this duel (or the water tribe) seriously, they would have sent someone more skilled. Someone like you and her, obviously. 

The supposed trainer of her’s was on one knee. Laboured breaths escaped as he tried, and failed, catching his breath. Making the very same mistakes he corrected her brother on. 

Her gaze then drifted off to you. You, who were far too busy to pay attention to the victory of the water tribe, feeling at the rich, polished wooden railings. What was so great about touching wood with a couple of designs engraved on it? Does the texture really differ from how you remember it to be? How long ago did you lose feeling in those palms? 

When you touched her hair and cheek, were they as soft as you expected them to be? Her own hand goes to touch her hair, twirling it around her finger as she looks down at it. 

Black, like many that still have hair, is a rather common color, especially in the fire nation. Her eyes then go back to your hands as they run along the carvings within the log, fingers tracing the grooves in an attempt to memorise. Her own fingers copying the motion on her loose strands. Her hair is soft and straight, no split ends or scrunched-up curls, no sun damage or burns. Her hair is even toned, rich black, and silk soft. 

She then touched her cheek. 

It's as soft as it’s supposed to be. She’s not some peasant who has to work under the harsh sun every day nor work in the mines covered in dust and grime. As someone deserving of her rank, and access to the best skin oils and protection, every inch of her skin is fair and soft. Just as it is supposed to be. No impurities or over the top scarring.

Any wounds she may attain are quick to be cured and healed with the nation’s best and most effective of medicines and ointments. 

Her lips formed a thin line as her eyes shifted just in time to see Zhao receiving a heavy kick to the face. The man was knocked out, it seemed her ex trainer has lost. The moment his body fell, her father, and the fire lord left. 

“Father!”

The shrill voice snapped her attention back to the water girl. Yue ran to her father, her arms outstretched and a smile on her face. Her eyes brimming with tears yet gleeful as she was lifted into the air. 

“Ah, my little princess!” It was her first time seeing the water tribe chieftain smile. He spun with his daughter as he laughed. 

Boisterous and loud. 

Nothing akin to a noble. 

Though… 

My little princess. 

She couldn’t help but let out a hum at that. 

The water tribes have some rather interesting customs. Seems as though referring to others by their rank or birth right is a form of adoration. The line between the ones they respect and fancy are a bit faded compared to her own. 

With the fire nation, family members refer to each other by name or familiar titles like mother, father, and so on. While referring to those who have superior power, they use both rank and name in that order. So if for family its given names, for hierarchy its rank and name, so… it would leave titles for non blood ties. 

It’s a form of endearment. She concluded. 

“Azula, would you like to head back?”

Your voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She felt your hand gently pat her head, the palm sliding from the top of her head to her nape. 

They were softer than what she grew up with. Without those old familiar lumps, it felt alien. As if someone else was touching her. If she were deep into her thoughts, then that would have been what she believed. But she knew better. Other than you, there is one who will touch her so carelessly.  

“Azula?” You called out to her once more, a slip of worry laced with your tone. 

Worry. 

She lifts her head to look at you. 

Despite the tone, you looked neutral. As if you were taking a stroll around the garden. As if it were a day like any other. 

Sending a smile your way, she ushered you closer. “From now on, you are to call me by my rightful title. I am your princess. Right, Major?” 

“Right… princess.”

Her brow twitched.

Why haven’t you smiled back at her? At the very least, why haven’t your brows furrowed with concern? This must be that pesky woman’s doing. She held back a groan. 

She looked into your eyes. They looked like the eyes of a dead fish or a servant’s. She didn’t like that look on you. It’s been so long since she last saw any trace of an emotion. 

Positive or negative be damned. She needed a reaction, any would do. 

She missed the life and glint your eyes had. 

“Major, I don’t want you moving a single muscle. You got that?”

Her hand reached over to you, standing up on her toes with open arms, she cupped your cheek. 

Anyone who has ever crossed paths with you always seems to try and steal you away from her. Her mother, her father, her brother, and even her grandfather, and now, from some low life village came a princess. Whenever the act of thievery is prevented, she loses a piece of you. 

Her mother had already drained you, and now, all she had was a husk. A familiar, comforting shell. But that girl just had to come and take away your scars. 

Her thumb gently caresses the number on your cheek. 

It was her fault. Simply being good at bending won’t cut it. She may have the skills but she needs power, authority, and money. She needs undisputable power that could quake the knees of anyone who crosses her. 

Other than the higher deity, there is only one who comes to mind who fit that criteria. 

Her flame roars to life. Her palm ever so slowly growing hotter and hotter. 

Cooking the delicate flesh within her grasp. 

She needs to ascend to the throne. 

She will be Fire Lord. And maybe then, the petty little thieves will think twice before trying to do anything funny ever again. 

A small tear sizzles away. 

There, after so long, something. 

That expression may squeeze at her heart but finally, you reacted. 

You tried to step away but she held you still. With her hand still burning herself onto you, the other held onto your collar. 

She stepped closer as she pulled you down further. 

The others may have torn you apart but she will bring you back. She will make you whole. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece, and burn after burn. She’ll bring you back. 

She’ll make you feel everything, from pain to joy. 

For now, all she can offer is pain. So please take it. 

Be selfish for once and take everything she has to offer. 

Note: I originally planned to have Yue and Azula duel but because I was listening to music and blacked out, this is what you get... So, how we feeling?

[cloudwhisper23]

Greg asked him to meet at the Pizzaplex. He acted like it would solve everything. But to Tony, there was no fixing things. There was only the betrayal he'd suffered at the hands of both Ellis and Greg. He'd said yes anyway though. The damage was done, and Tony had learned from his mistake. He could be friends with Greg, but he wouldn't trust him.

Part of him figured it was more Greg than Ellis who had really changed his story. Ellis wasn't dedicated enough to writing to really even care about how the story turned out. He trusted Tony to handle it. Maybe that was part of the reason it stung so much. Ellis hadn't cared that Greg wanted to change things.

Which meant that Greg had more to make up for, and was probably why he was trying to hard to make Tony feel better. But if he really wanted to cheer Tony up, why would he take him to the Pizzaplex again? Bad reminders were not going to help.

Something about it nagged at Tony. The Pizzaplex was GGY's hunting ground, if his suspicions were correct. Entering that territory without the crowds made Tony nervous.

He shoved a pocketknife engraved with his father's initials into his sweatshirt. Just in case. It couldn't hurt, right?

Greg seemed just as nervous as Tony felt when he got to the Pizzaplex. "Hey."

"Hey." Tony nodded to him, fidgeting with the carved wood in his pocket. "What's the plan?"

"Fazerblast." Greg smiled. "You can handle some games, right?"

Tony's mouth twitched, but he said, "Sure. Where's Ellis?"

"Ah, Ellis isn't coming today. I figured we could meet up with my other friends. The more mature ones."

Tony's brow scrunched. He'd had that exact thought before, of Ellis being too immature. But he never voiced it out loud. It wasn't worth the problems it would cause, even if Tony thought it was true. "Do I know any of them?"

"Not really. They like to hang out at Fazerblast."

"You only like it there because Freddy's your favorite," Tony replied as they entered the mall.

Greg scoffed. "I'm not that shallow. Fazerblast is fun. Ellis is the one who has all the fun at the arcade cabinets. I go all over."

"Right." Tony shrugged.

"Hey, come on. We're here to have fun, remember? Loosen up." The scrutiny Greg had given him at school returned.

"Sorry." Tony pointedly didn't look at Greg.

"Tony." Greg grabbed his arm. "Seriously. Are you going to be a buzzkill?"

"Greg." Tony replied flatly. "You ruined my story about the Pizzaplex, and to make up for it, you took me back to the Pizzaplex. Forgive me if I'm a bit upset."

"What do you want to do then?" Greg seemed irritated. What do you want from me? Tony heard instead.

"I don't know."

"So just trust me. You'll have fun, I promise."

Tony didn't respond to that, but he let Greg lead him all the way to Fazerblast.

"Where are your other friends?" Tony asked, but Greg kept moving. "Wait, this isn't-"

"There's a shortcut to skip the line. Trust me."

Tony was getting more and more concerned the more Greg said that. He took them through a creaking door and up a rickety staircase. Tony tentatively put a hand on the railing, peering over. "Greg, we're above Fazerblast."

"Astute observations as always, Tony." Greg tugged his sleeve impatiently. "We're almost there."

Almost where? Greg said they were going to Fazerblast, but they clearly weren't going to play Fazerblast. Instead, they followed the catwalks to a security office. "Gregory-"

"You've gotta trust me, Tony."

No, I really don't. But he still let the other boy lead him through the door. He scanned the room quickly, weary of the fact that someone had clearly been living in the room. The name Vanny was spray-painted on the wall in capital letters. "Who's-"

Something hit him in the back of the head, and Tony curled in a ball. I shouldn't have trusted him, he thought in a daze as he glimpsed the familiar color of Greg's shoes. He also spotted animatronic feet, but the pain ringing in his head reduced his ability to say much on his own.

Scrambling, Tony backed himself up into an arcade cabinet. "Wha-"

"Tony, Tony, Tony." Greg clicked his tongue, forcing Tony's head up to meet his gaze. "You've gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble. You almost gave me away! And we couldn't have that."

"Who..." Tony blinked, trying to restore his vision. "You're GGY."

"Looks like you can still think." GGY chuckled. "Are you ready to have some fun, Tony?"

"Not if it's anything like what you did to the others," Tony gritted out.

He was grateful that Ellis wasn't mature enough to connect the dots, not mature enough to care about the hyper-realistic nature of his story. He was grateful Ellis was complacent where Tony hadn't been. Otherwise, they'd both be stuck in this situation. I'm so sorry, El. Tony thought, gripping his pocketknife tightly.

He knew he'd have to stab Greg to escape, and despite the regret he felt deep in his heart, Tony had never felt more alive.

GGY stepped back, cursing under his breath as Freddy Fazbear growled angrily and hoisted Tony off the ground by his shirt. The pocketknife was warm in Tony's grip, blood dripping off the blade as he gasped for air.

"So much bite, Tony!" GGY wiped the blood off his neck. "But you do have more than one option here, you know. We can be friends forever! But you have to follow the rules." Carefully, he pulled the pocketknife from Tony's hand and tossed it across the room.

"I'd rather die," Tony spat when Freddy dropped him.

GGY shook his head. "I think we can change your mind. Freddy, let's go."

Tony blinked as Freddy's stomach hatch opened. GGY grinned at Tony. "I wonder how well you'll fit."

"Wait, no. Don't do this!" Tony stumbled back as GGY tried to drag him forward for Freddy to lift him up. "Let go of me!"

His cries ceased as GGY hit him, this time knocking him out.

When he woke, his hands were bound behind his back. Wriggling determined that his ankles were tied as well. Tony scowled at the gross, burnt tiles.

Wait a minute. This wasn't the Pizzaplex. How did-

The sound of someone else moving made Tony freeze.

"Well, look who's awake!" GGY peered into Tony's face. "Can you guess where we are?"

"This isn't the Pizzaplex..." Tony mumbled. He didn't want to play this stupid game. GGY grabbed his chin and shook it. Tony yanked his head free and looked closer at his surroundings.

There was a show stage, similar to the one the Glamrocks performed on. Arcades were littered around the room, and one wall housed a kitchen area. "We're... in an abandoned pizzeria?" he guessed.

"Not just any abandoned pizzeria!" GGY replied cheerfully. "My sponsor's old pizzeria. Or, I guess, his son's pizzeria." GGY wrinkled his nose slightly at that. "This is where the magic happens!"

"Magic?" Tony replied doubtfully.

"Once you agree to let him into your head, you won't stress about anything else for the rest of your sorry, miserable life!" GGY tapped the tip of Tony's nose. "He will give us instructions, and using our natural personality, we fulfill the demands to keep things running smoothly. When I saw what you did with that short story, I just knew we had to recruit you!"

"And if I refuse?" Tony glared. "You'll do what? Kill me?"

"Well..." GGY studied Tony's face. "We don't really want to kill you, but if you don't join us, we'll have no choice. Ellis would be a great alternative if you said no, don't you think? He already knows the lore of GGY, after all. Courtesy of your story."

"Stay away from Ellis." Tony jerked at his bonds, angry that he couldn't strangle the life out of GGY right there.

"You're the one who makes the decisions."

"If I join you," Tony muttered angrily, "you stay away from Ellis."

"Naturally. We want you, Tony. All we're doing is giving you incentive." GGY grinned. "So you agree then?"

"I'll do it."

"Great! I'll get everything all set up."

Tony's shoulders sank. He didn't know what this cult wanted from him, but their goals couldn't be good. Not if it included killing people.