brass handles

A genre-punk dictionary
  • Cyberpunk - Neon lights, mechanical body-horror, lots and lots of electronic junk lying around, tightly confined city slums, flying cars, androids, and last but not least, lots of grungy browns and grays. Bladerunner, Judge Dredd, Bubblegum Crisis etc.
  • Dieselpunk - Similar to cyberpunk, but less about electronics and androids and more about internal combustion and industrial robots. Technology is less ubiquitous in this setting but when you see techology, it will be combustion powered in some way… or at least look like it should be. Expect grease stains and bits of sludge on everything. Final Fantasy VII (the original game only) is a prime example.
  • Laserpunk - The Anti-Cyberpunk. Spotless with a lot of legroom. Expect glowing lines, fancy grooves, bright white glossy walls, and some shiny blues on everything. Everything in this setting has something that glows, even when it doesn’t need it. These are your Xenosaga’s, iRobot’s, Star Ocean’s.
  • Garbagepunk - The kludgey cousin of steampunk. Everything in this setting, and I mean EVERY SINGLE THING, is made of trash. Goggles made of bottles, water filtration made of old oil drums and used coffee filters, etc. Mad Max, Deponia, Water World, etc.
  • Steampunk - Steam power, leatherbound handles, brass fittings, lots of circles and rivets. I shouldn’t have to really clarify this one.
  • Clockpunk - Steampunk but with clockworks instead of steam engines. Its a small difference, listed only for the reason that steampunk requires steam and clockpunk doesn’t always have it. Expect gears, cogs, wheels and springs.
  • Codepunk - This one is difficult to pin down. Its less about the aesthetic and more about the concepts. This is a setting where everything that happens is related in some way to programming… Where the laws of physics are just functions being run with parameters, alterable by anyone with knowledge of how to access them. This is a setting where people do battle by compiling text that subtracts a number from the other person’s vital statistics variables, but that is what the world is actually made of, not just a game abstraction. Codepunk is characterized by parts of the world actually breaking down visibly into raw text. .hack//, Fate/Extra, the parts of the Matrix series we don’t get to watch where someone is actually typing on a keyboard to make things actually happen…( not that Neo-Morpheus crap. )
  • Naturepunk - What happens when you invent modern or even futuristic technology without actually using any technology. Reclining armchairs made of sticks and moss. Aeroplane’s made of palm fronds and vines. If cavemen invented space travel. Everything is made of locally sourced natural components, but the level of technological advancement and sophistication isn’t necessarily diminished because of it. You might have all the classic weapons of war, guns and grenades and such, but made of curious growths. Mushrooms with highly flammable spores for example, instead of a grenade. While not the only example, the best I can actually think of is… The Flintstones. You might also consider many depictions of Atlantis under this category.
  • Biopunk - Naturepunk’s heavy metal big sister. Everything is made of bone, meat, blood and teeth. Everything is either alive, or was alive at one time. Technology is either made of raw carcasses, or is actually some creature bred or engineered specifically to be used in the way a machine would. Don’t expect to see much inorganic material in generally anything. eXistenZ, generally anything that takes place inside another organism.

I’ve been wanting one of these beauties for years and I finally found a good price on one!

This is called a Fleam and it’s an old blood-letting tool. They were most often used by veterinarians but doctors were known to use them on their human patients too, especially during the Civil War. Many were made with horn or bone handles but I prefer the look of the ones with these brass handles. Morbidly elegant, haha.

These blades have seen a lot of use and are very worn but they are still wickedly sharp!

Masquerade: Side Story - Stay Close To Me

Notes: a side story inspired by an idea that @kantonliu sent me, and I couldn’t resist throwing everything aside to write probably the soppiest??? thing I’ve ever written. Have this as my thanks for everyones amazing support. <3 p.s probably some typos. 
Find the rest of Masquerade here

Sometimes, they picked the worst places to meet.

Now was one of those times.

It wasn’t that this huge open spaced establishment sprawling with chairs and tables set for two was subpar. It wasn’t the ambient night sky of hundreds and hundreds of tiny glowing bulbs suspended at different lengths from the high ceiling like perfect stars in their own universe.

It wasn’t the amazing service and other patrons that kept to themselves in groups of only two, always two. It wasn’t the velvet lined booths at the edges of the room that looked safe enough to keep secrets and smother whispers, it wasn’t the fact that there were no Russians or Japanese in sight.

It was the fact that Yuuri was here alone, waiting with his solitary drink at the bar as usual.

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That Got Away: A Criminal Minds Fanfiction  1/?

Inspiration: Katy Perry’s Song “The One That Got Away”

Rating: Mature      Setting: Season 4       Featuring: Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader


I am loving all the requests and song inspired fics out there. Please let me know what you all think! Warnings: Loss of a parent (the reader is a victim’s daughter), teenage angst and sexual awakenings. I do not own any of the characters or lyrics. Enjoy the fluff, stay for the smut, sorry for the tears. xoxo Stu

You hadn’t been home to visit your dad since last summer, having taken your students to Bulgaria to study the ancient city of Mesembria over your January term. His sprawling driveway was cleared and inviting, despite the wind that had followed you from the airport. You entered the security code on the side gate, your low heels clicking on the decorative stone walkway. The entry way to the kitchen was floor to ceiling glass doors that sparkled in the morning sun. You glance inside, expecting to see your dad tinkering with his espresso machine, or maybe making a smoothie with the juicer you got him one Fathers’ Day, after he declared he was going to lose some weight that summer.

Instead, you see an empty room, the sunlight barely penetrating the stone walled room. You cautiously step through the door, keeping your left hand on the brass handle. “Dad? Are you there?”

Silence answers. You drop your bag on the table, your footfalls echoing through the cavernous room. You check your phone, verifying that your Dad hadn’t left you a message while your were in airplane mode. No calls or texts. You went around the counter and through the main hall of the house. Now panic was holding your stomach hostage, gripping your insides the further you ventured in to the unlit house.

“Dad! I know you are not asleep, where are you?” You ditch your heels and climb the winding staircase up towards the bedrooms and offices. You found him at his desk, papers on every inch of the wooden surface. His head down, you thought he was correcting papers, or absorbed in a new research endeavor. When you take a step closer, you see the pool of blood around the rollers of the chair’s feet. You scream.

Derek Morgan was on the fourth mile on his course around Locust Shade Park when the case came through. He grudgingly huffed it back to his car, hoping he could get a shower in at the locker room before making it to the conference room. The drive to the office was quick, Agent Morgan scanned the parking lot for his fellow BAU members’ vehicles. Smirking as he found that Hotch’s and JJ’s cars were the only ones in parking spaces.

After a refreshingly hot shower, Derek secured his locker throwing his ‘GO BAG’ over his shoulder, to take it with to the case briefing. He passed through the bullpen nodding to Reid and Prentiss, both nursing fresh coffees. “Any word on the case?” Derek asks in passing.

“Something about Pasadena,” Prentiss answered noncommittally.

“Pasadena?” Reid asked alerted.

“What’s up pretty boy?” Morgan asked, surprised at the younger man’s alarm.

“Cal Tech is in Pasadena, Morgan.” Prentiss answered, leading the guys to the conference room.

“Right, so you going to dial up your old honeys once we get our unsub?” Morgan teased.

Luckily for Reid, the team was assembled and JJ was set to deliver the case. On the evidence screen a wizened face was peering back at the agents. Reid fumbled in his seat.

“Professor Graham Y/L/N was found dead in his Pasadena estate this morning. C.O.D is blood loss from being stabbed by an unknown object, numerous times.” JJ began.

“Who found Dr. Y/L/N?” Reid asked before Hotch could get a word in.

JJ glanced down at her notes. “His daughter Y/N, was visiting over spring break from Columbia.”

“Is she okay?” Reid followed, which gave everyone around the table pause.

“Reid, I am guessing she is pretty shaken up. But she is cooperating with the investigation, so chances are you can ask her yourself.” Hotch stood, attempting to steer the focus back to the case. “What is this about?”

Reid was pale, even more so than usual. He cleared his throat and looked down at the file put in front of him. He closed the folder and squinted his eyes closed for a moment. “Um, you see, Dr. Y/L/N was my first graduate school advisor while at Cal Tech. He is, well, was a very good man.”

“Reid, I am so sorry.” Emily Prentiss cooed at the grieving genius.

“It’s alright,” Reid sniffed, but his eyes remained clear.”Let’s just get the unsub.”

“Wheels up in 20, it is a long flight.” Hotch added quietly.

You sat in the police station fidgeting. The recycled air, chilled your already shaken frame. The detectives had asked you questions on and off for what seemed like years. You had your carry on bag with you, since it held some exams you wanted to read over. Your eyes continuously lost focus on the size 12 font, double spaced pages. You didn’t want to think about what you looked like to the other people in that crammed hall near the front doors of the station.

Rising, you approached the reception counter. You then left a note for the lead Detective, reminding him of your cell number and that you just went out for a quick bite. It had been six hours since you had made it home, 5 hours and 52 minutes since you became an orphan. Well, technically it had been nearing twelve hours since you had become an orphan, but it was 5 hours and 52 minutes since you knew you were one. Even inside your head, you rambled. One of those eccentric things you got from your dad, the socially awkward professor. Your heart tore just a little more.

He was sixteen when he first saw you. You were seventeen, fresh from graduating from your prep school out of state. Spencer had been invited over for dinner at Dr. Y/L/N’s house after a long day as a TA. He knew the professor’s daughter was home, he was just surprised that she would look like this.

At 16, Spencer had finally grown enough to not get stares from students and faculty around campus. His intelligent eyes and thin frame were agile in avoiding direct eye contact and much physical interaction from his academic peers. He purposely dressed like the professors, which actually made him look younger. He came off as a young man in a school uniform, instead of the scholar he was. He was animatedly speaking with Dr. Y/L/N, who had given him a ride, then suddenly there was a girl in the driveway.

Her long Y/H/C locks, were thrown up in a messy bun. Her legs were bare, save for the ragged denim cut offs she wore. Spencer stared, he was frozen in place in the passenger seat of your dad’s Volkswagen. He would never forget your smile that day, even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory.

*snap snap*

Agent Morgan had shaken Spencer out of his memories.

“So you were pretty close with this guy, huh?” Derek prodded.

“He was a good friend.” Spencer nodded.

“Do you know his daughter, Y/N well?” Derek asked over his file folder.

“We’ve met, “ Spencer added, “I was taken under Graham’s wing, being such a young candidate, he was very fatherly toward me.”

“So you had a sibling-like relationship with his daughter?” Derek mused, surprised that he hadn’t heard of you before.

“What? No, “ Spencer flustered, “She was in private school when I started working with Dr. Y/L/N, she was only home for the summers.”

“Awwww, we have a princess on our hands,” Morgan assumed.

“If you know many princesses who speak four languages and can recited the Odyssey and Illiad from memory,” Spencer snipped at Derek under his breath. “But she was her father’s whole world, so in that way I suppose you are correct.”

Derek looked over at JJ and Prentiss, his eyebrows raised. The women stifled their laughter in their coffees. He decided to let this reunion pan out before prodding Reid for anymore details.

You strolled back to the precinct with a mountain of whipped cream in a cup, pretending to yourself that this sugary monstrosity was actually coffee. You couldn’t stomach the salad you had ordered for your afternoon meal, but you could stomach some comfort calories from the corner cafe. You knew the FBI was aiding in the investigation of your father’s murder, so you mentally prepared yourself for another battery of questioning.

Your cell chirped at you, it was Detective Chang, “Dr. Y/L/N,” you answered habitually.

“The FBI’s BAU is here, if we could go over it with you again, we really appreciate it.” The gruff man informed you.

“Of course, Detective, I will be right in,” You answered, closing your phone with a satisfactory snap. You sniff and pull your chin up, your professor face was on.

Spencer was squirrelly, he could not sit still. He had bumped into JJ, twice since entering the Pasadena precinct and spilled Prentiss’ coffee while rearranging files. Hotch was at a loss. Rossi and Morgan were in fits. Once the evidence photos were up, everyone grew more sober and focused on the details of the case. Professor Y/L/N was a world-renowned scholar, he had been published in numerous journals annually since receiving his doctorate. He was a widow and lived in a large home alone, but there was no signs of forced entry or robbery.

The reason the BAU had been called in was because he had received a suspicious letter a month prior to being killed. Dr. Olivia Madison, his research partner had told the Pasadena PD. That coupled with the international influence of the victim, they wanted to ensure they utilized every resource.

A knock on the borrowed office’s door, signaled Detective Chang, “The victim’s daughter is back, whenever you are ready.”

Hotch looked around. “Alright, Reid, I am going to let you in there, but Rossi is going to be there to keep you focused.”

Reid nodded, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers. “Got it, Hotch”.

Rossi held the door open for the young ball of nerves, making eye contact with Hotch a cross the room.

“Do you think that was a good idea, letting him into her questioning like that?” Prentiss asked Hotch brassily.

“Was there anyway I could have stopped him?” Hotch countered.

“Hotch, we have a meeting with the President of Cal Tech in ten minutes.” JJ informed the unit chief.

That left Morgan and Prentiss to establish a timeline, build a geographic profile and continue to question anyone in Y/L/N’s department.

You absentmindedly played with your hair, the room was so stuffy. You pictured frescoes on the stone walls instead of layers of primer and acrylic. The grating opening of the door spun you in your seat. Suddenly your jaw became unattached from your skull. Spencer Reid stood before you, all cheek bones and long legs.

“Sir Sir!” You sang, leaping to your feet to tackle the thin genius. He had grown since you had seen him last, he rocks with your embrace. “What are you doing here?” You demanded, pulling back from him, but keeping his sides in your hands, you barely felt his ribs through his layers of clothes.

“Well, actually, I am with the FBI.” Spencer cleared his throat. “How are you doing, Y/N/N?” His big heart pouring through his eyes.

You retreat slightly, knowing you are being observed by his partner and whomever was on the other side of the faux mirror. Nodding, “As good as can be expected.”

Rossi holds out his hand to you, “Miss, it is nice to meet you, I am SSA Rossi with the BAU.”

You look over at the older agent, shaking his hand firmly, “Actually, its Doctor.” In the corner of your eye you can see Spencer smirk.

“Well, of course, Doctor.” Rossi continues, sitting opposite you. “What can you tell us about your father’s house when you arrived this morning?”

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Cherry wardrobe with Shoji Screen doors. Cherry and Tasmanian Oak dovetailed drawers with carved walnut handles and brass inserts

This is the piece that I have spent the past 6 months working on.

Much time was spent on the design and how I envisioned this to be. I wanted this to be modular and able to change configurations, yet still be beautiful as a collective.

There are 3 separate pieces to this unit. A large one for hanging clothes with 3 accessories drawers. A mid sized one consisting of 12 drawers, and a small unit for additional storage.

Hand planing each board and joining them together by hand took a considerable amount of time. But I had to make sure they all look pleasing as well as are stable before moving on to the joinery.

The shoji screen doors too some time to get right. It was a tedious affair of tiny tenons and mortises. They needed to fit snuggly yet have just enough space for expansion and timber movement.

The rest of the time was spent on cutting the countless number of dovetails, carving the handles and eventually fitting the drawers. 

This is the largest piece I have ever built and I am so proud of it. I amaze myself at what I can make from this tiny space I have and this pushes me ahead to greater achievements to come.

anonymous asked:

how about some sweet shower kisses under the warm stream? all steamy and safe and nothing sexual about it, just loving touches and knuckle kisses and soft laughter

Here you go, anon! A small ficlet which, I hope, fulfills all your prompt needs :) A lot of fluff and softness ahead.

Credence feels naked, and it has nothing to do with the absence of clothing on his body. He shyly stands in a bathtub, trying to hide all the exposed parts with shaking hands. His long feet are shifting, a thin layer of cold water splashing under them. There is no curtain to hide behind, and daylight is betraying all flaws of his body to a plain view.  But he is grateful that if anyone has to see them, it’s Percival Graves and no one else.

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Time Travel

Summary: Y/N somehow finds herself in Hamiltime and decides to break into the wrong house.

Pairing: eventual Philip x reader

Warnings: language, unedited

Word count: 1,733 words

A/N: I literally have been thinking about this for the past two weeks and have finally decided to write it. I wrote this in a little over two hours and it’s a little rough but at least it’s written. I will be doing more parts to this eventually. Also, I am actually doing research for this and the house I’m describing is the Hamilton’s actual house, called the Hamilton Grange.

“The worst part is that he apologized to his mother for forgetting what she taught him. She taught him how to count. He thought he miscounted his steps!”

“Mhmm,” your friend said, not looking away from her phone.

“Dude, I know you don’t like Hamilton, but can you at least pretend listen to me when I rant? I just have a lot of feelings and you’re my only friend.”

“Sorry,” [Y/F/N] muttered, putting her phone in her back pocket. “But that is sad. He blamed himself when I guess it wasn’t his fault.”

“It wasn’t! If George Eacker hadn’t fucking cheated, Philip might have lived. He might have gotten to grow up and do great things, and now we’ll never know!”

“Okay, you need to stop. I know you love this, but it happened over two hundred years ago and you need to let it go because I want to go to bed and you,” she took the glass of wine out of your hand, “need to stop drinking. You have class in the morning”

“Since when are you the mom friend?” you asked, slightly miffed that [Y/F/N] had cut you off.

“Since you can’t seem to realize that it’s two in the morning and you have an eight AM tomorrow that you can’t miss,” she replied.

You simply muttered a “fine” before slinking off to your bedroom. You didn’t bother with changing into your pajamas and just laid in bed in your clothes from that day, which consisted of an oversized flannel and capri leggings. You didn’t realize how truly tired you were until you remembered you still had to brush your teeth and wash your face but by the time you found enough motivation to get up, you were already falling asleep. Whatever, you thought, I’ll just do it tomorrow.

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Good night, dearheart.

A/N: So this is just a little something I thought about, and decided to write it real quick.

Genre: Fluff || Word Count: 949 || Characters: CarlislexReader || Warning: Awful fluff || Rating: PG

Summary: Carlisle comes home from work to find the reader sleeping on a stack of books.

The full moon glimmered through the newly washed windshield of Carlisle’s Mercedes and reflected right into his golden eyes. An amused smile etched his features, just as Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” started to resound from the radio. Even with the classical composition growing louder, he could still hear the distinct sounds of the animals in the forest, which surrounded the circuitous roads.

A familiar setting—half hidden by looming trees—welcomed him. He felt a sense of peace as he pulled into the garage, and relaxed as the engine fell silent, along with the sound of Beethoven’s sonata. He gathered his things and quietly made his way into the house just in case you were asleep. He hung his coat and scarf and garnered his surroundings. The house was mostly dark, with the exception of one light from upstairs that filtered its way trough the open house. It appeared to be coming from his study.

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The True Companion

Manufactured either in the US or in France/Belgium c.1869~1870′s - serial number 204.
.32 cap and ball twin-shot cylinder, single action with spur trigger, brass knuckle folding handle, brass frame, blued cylinder.

A very streamlined version of Louis Dolne’s more famous Apache pepperbox, without the useless folding blade and with a noticeably slimmer profile due to its reduced cylinder capacity. There’s no way to know if that gun was a copy or a production of Dolne himself, but the lack of name and the use of a caplock firing mechanism indicates it might have in fact been an American production.

Old World


It’s early morning, just after dawn. And the last of the evening fog curls about the base of the wall, slips between the chain link fence and around the corner of the building next door.

But nothing stirs. The bulbs in the lamp lights remain cold and dark. The windows who face the road barred, intricate metal designs that hint of things long past.

The street is empty, the barest beginnings of a breeze dusts across the sidewalk, disturbing trampled pamplets, the words smeared and torn.

A low cry pierces the air, from somewhere close by.

The flaps of the lime green tent are still pinned open, the low cots inside lay empty and exposed.

An oxygen tank reflects back the patch of sunlight that reaches it, to the mound of clothes that rests against the door to the infirmary tent.

Waist high barricades divide the street from the grass and sidewalk, thick yellow rope that almost completely has fallen all the way down.

The smallest patch of grass, just a few feet wide in either direction, muddy footsteps dug deep into its dry, caked earth. The prints scramble across the concrete, leave a mess of directions.

The door facing the street opens, slowly, the knob creaking quietly from disuse.

The silence is broken as a low growl comes from around the corner, then eventually settles back down again.

The man behind the door rumbles to himself, talking to himself in a hushed tone that doesn’t reach past the wooden barrier, before turning the knob the rest of the way and letting the door fall open.

Delirious doesn’t make much of an opposing figure, dressed as he is in an old blue sweater that sags off his shoulders, and hand-me-down jeans that expose his knees. But the shotgun clutched firmly in his right hand more than makes up for that.

Worn pale wooden handle, the brass of the gun is dark and smeared with what remains of a darker paint job that’s since but faded away.

He steps into the scene, his sneakers scuffing the edge of the doorframe as he moves, slow and smoothly, shifting from step to step as he watches the street. Like a dancer trying to sneak across a stage, his toes touch the ground first as he shifts to the side, keeps his back against the wall.

There is no one else in sight, nothing more alive than him and the faltering grass, and the shotgun shells tink-tink as they hit the pavement.

As he reloads the gun, readying himself for the horde.


“My queen,” he greeted smoothly upon entering her throne room. She didn’t respond, only carried on talking to the kneeling peasant at her feet.

“Plant your crops. My general will make sure no thieves enter you farmlands,” she assured the farmer.

The old man’s face lit up and he dared to lift his head to show his queen his grateful smile. She smiled softly in return before calling out to the white-uniformed male at her side with a foreign word. He stepped closer and they conversed in hushed tones. With a nod the general led the farmer out of the gold-encrusted doors.

She reclined back in her cushinoned throne and finally rested her eyes on his form. He bowed his head and she subtley noddded in acknowledgement. “Leave us,” she instructed the remaining occupants of the room. His eyes stayed glued to her crimson kimono-clothed body as her advisors and servants filed out. The heavy doors closed with a loud click and they were alone.

“My queen,” he said once again. His feet carried him until he stood at the bottom step of the platform leading to her throne. Gazing up at her seemed similar to looking up at a goddess descending upon earth.

“My king,” she replied in her melodious tone. He took it as permission to comtinue.

“You did not come to bed last night, my queen.” His breathing sped up just a little when her emerald eyes narrowed. She sighed tiredly and his heart clenched at such a weary sigh leaving his beloved’s mouth.

“You have grabby hands, Madara. I wanted to sleep with my clothes on for one night,” she explained. Anyone else would have been shocked at the queen’s brass words but not him. Oh no, Madara thrived on her directness and witty tongue.

“We are to conceive an heir within the year, my queen,” he defended himself.

“I believe there are nine more full moons to come before the time period given to us by my council is null and void.” Her tone was flat and final. Ah yes, his clever queen. None could match her in word play and battle of wills. None but him, that is.

“Of course, love. But imagine what a young son would do for our marrige. The kingdom would be overjoyed as well.” Madara’s dreamy smile would have been dangerous to the female populace, so handsome and irresistable it was.

“Need I remind you, Madara, that our union was not formed out of love. It was agreed upon for the good of our kingdom, my kingdom. You are my ally,” her emerald pools had hardened and her pink brows furrowed.

Madara’s breath hitched. It seemed her lovely mouth contained the most lethal weapon in existence. Still, he forged on. “Friend, companion, lover,” he listed with forced cheerfullness, “these are all words that I have heard wifes associating with their husbands. Ally has to be a new one for me, Sakura.”

His queen remained resilient. Sakura smiled a dangerous smile. Her full pink lips tilted up enticinly and exposed just the right amount of her pearly whites. “As I’m sure you are well aware, I am not associated with many wives. My teachers have not given me lessons in the arts of housewife. I have only been taught how to please a man,” her words were teasing. She wanted a specific reaction from him. And Madara was not known for disappointing his queen.

His usually pale cheeks fluched as he recalled many a nights when she had reduced him to nothing but a pile of boneless limbs. His onyx eyes momentarily flashed red with desire. His words caught in his throat, “Y-yes. I am uh…well aware.”

She gave a safisfied nod, “Good. Now if that is all, would you like to join me for lunch? The new recruits bested a boar this morning and Chef has diligently prepared it just the way I prefer.”

His heart beat faster. “I would be honered, my queen.”

When she said nothing more, he turned to have the servants set out their lunch pavillion. As he reached for the brass handle of the door, her voice halted him.

“Also, Madara, I will continue to sleep in my old quarters until I see fit. Do not make a hassle of it.”

He thought about arguing but realised there was more than one way as how to acquisce to her demands and still keep her by his side.

“I will join you then, my love. I will inform Chef to dish out lunch,” he said and quickly slipped out. But not before catching the scowl that made its way on her beautiful face.

Yes, they would build an empire together.


Inspired by the attached MadaSaku picture. I don’t know who made it but YOU ARE AWESOME!

Dedicated to @beyondthemoor, because let’s face it, she’s amazing.


A Fine Cased Ormolu-Mounted Sword Presented By The British Government To Mr. Rudolph Dufwa, Capitaine De Corvette, September 1856, by Victor Harold & Co., Sword Cutlers To Her Majesty, London, Dated 1856

With curved blade (minor areas of rust patination) double-edged towards the point, brightly etched against a grey ground along nearly its entire length on one side with the presentation inscription on scrolls against a ground of foliage involving a naval trophy at the forte and a dolphin towards the point, and on the other with foliage involving further naval trophies, a pair of dolphins, and the maker’s details at the forte, the hilt comprising quillons each cast, pierced and chased in the round as a foliate scroll, a foliated shield between on both sides with applied dolphin entwined on an anchor, lion’s head pommel, its mane forming the back-piece, and with a ring in its mouth carrying the original gilt bullion and blue cord sword-knot, and wire-bound fishskin-covered grip, in original wooden scabbard covered in blue velvet with ormolu mounts en suite with the hilt including crossed branches of laurel, the suspension mounts each with a ring for suspension, and in fine condition retaining all its original gilding: in original fitted highly figured rosewood case lined in burgundy velvet with its original belt and suspension straps of blue leather embroidered with scrolls in silver-gilt threads, the ormolu mounts en suite with the hilt, the buckle with applied crown framed by a wreath of laurel, the exterior of the lid (some bruising) with flush-fitting brass carrying handle centred on a circular brass escutcheon. 76.2 cm blade.

The presentation inscription reads: ‘Presented By The British Government To Mr. Rudolph Dufwa Capitaine De Corvette In The Service Of His Majesty The Emperor Of Austria In Grateful Acknowledgement Of Prompt & Efficient Services Rendered To The British Brig “Heatherbell” September 1856’
Linienschiffs-Capitaen Rudolf Dufwa was commander of the maritime district of Triest in 1867 and was involved in experiments with torpedoes as a member of a naval commission in Fiume. He was made a Knight of the Order of Emperor Leopold.


Standard Arms Model G

Patented c.1906 by Morris Smith, manufactured by Standard Arms c.1909-10′s - serial number 7534.
.25 Remington three-round internal box magazine, long stroke gas piston semi-automatic or manual pump action, engraved brass handle - originally lacquered black.

A fancy and unusual ealry semi-automatic sporting rifle, betrayed by the lack of strength of its internal parts which turned it into a jam monster. It’s okay buddy at least you look good when you do it.

Okay, so I enjoyed writing this way more than I should have. The kissing scene got a little out of control but what can I say, sometimes the characters take over and there’s nothing I can do. Either way, this prompt from thegirlwiththeimpala​ inspired the following one-shot.

Prompt: I would like to request a oneshot where Steve and the reader are really close friends and are always flirting a little bit. One day she teases him and he warns her that she’ll cross his line and it leads to them kissing.  ❤

“Something More”

“On your left!” You laughed as you surpassed Steve for the second time.
“Not for long.” He huffed as he began to speed up. He was used to being teased like this as was so often the case when you were together and as he ran, he remembered how similar a day it was when you first met. He had been jogging early in the morning having expected nobody else to be awake and outside. Alone with his thoughts, he had been running distractedly until he felt himself collide with another person. You had been jogging with headphones in and were exercising so furiously that you hadn’t noticed Steve coming towards you. Of all the people to run into, it had to have been Captain America.
Ever since that day, Steve had come out early on a Sunday morning in the hope of meeting you again – you, who had initially called him a ‘stone-skulled ass hat’ before realising who you were talking to. Something about the way you didn’t care who he was intrigued Steve and eventually, after ‘running into him’ a few more times, you became great friends. Upon hearing the many tales of the person who could put Steve in his place, you were invited to Stark Tower where you hit it off with all the other Avengers too. 

You waited by the park fountain, leaning over and panting. It had taken all of your effort to overtake Steve. You were definitely not faster than him but you had the advantage of knowing the shortcuts along your jogging route so that you could fool him into thinking you were. Not wanting him to realise that you had the biggest crush on him, you constantly teased and annoyed him. For the most part, he was a good sport about it, presuming it to be playful banter but even you could see when it was too much. Today, thankfully, was not one of those times.

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For Love & Money Pt.12


Words: 4994

Genre: Fluff, Slice of Life, Forced Marriage!Au

Summary: For love, you foolishly lied to yourself. For money, you married a stranger.

Originally posted by bwibelle

“Y/N!” The door opens and little Haru jumps into your arms.

“Haru!” You swing her around and she giggles.

“Y/N?” You recognize the older boy and another younger one comes toddling behind.

“Junseo! Minguk! How have you all been?” You bend lower, tapping each of their heads.

They smile gleefully at you and Minguk grabs your hand and drags you in. “Who’s this?” Haru asks, looking behind you.

Junseo steps in front of him, as if protecting you.

“I’m Y/N’s husband, Jin.” He smiles but they all frown.

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Fun new words!

Choir: Trendy throat cult
Soccer: Toe ball run fun
Tennis: Netting the whites w/o fish
Orchestra: Rub dem string
Band: Too much brass to handle
Science: Do you even vape @erth
History: DED
Math: More like meth amirite
Football: fat man suit collide: voyage
Basketball: Swoooooosh
Theater: Lick a bum hole it for art
Lion: Orange loud fur
Marmite: Salt shit spread
Hippo: Fat water horse
Jokes: Giggle triggers
Halibut: Big ass swimmy swim
Justice: The Government Tries™
Baking: Lightly burned wheat substance
People: The cause of every problem
Legs: Supportive meat sticks
Bacon: Hot butt strips
Koi fish:Angry aesthetic swimmy swim
Oprah winefry: Loud bread enthusiast
Beyoncé knowles: Creative child namer
Chris Pratt: Funniest fried rodent ever™
Aubrey plaza: Pretends to be angsty
Jimmy Fallon: Small funny man
Ellen degeneres: Gay humorer
Jennifer Lopez: Not Jennifer Lawrence
Tyra banks: Tear a bat into pieces
Fork: 3 large ones all attached
Lamp: Hot and nice on a stick
Printer: Cumin out but I wanted it
Bread: Yeast on a journey
Corn: Smol yellow nuggets
Tree: Peekin out from dat erth
Florida: Gators in my ass
Billboard: Paper but not smol
Cup: Bebe bowl
Soup: Hot thick juice in a fat cup!!
Gucci: Gastroenteritis
Kate spade: Catty Spice
Louis vitton: Loose Vitamin
Ferrari: Ferris Oil
Anne kleini: Ankle Lime
Marc Jacobs: Microphone Jacket


This was a very productive month, although not intentionally, but we’ve created many cool new items and this gauntlet is another one. Made for an a-w-e-s-o-m-e customer of ours from the US. The best designs always come when you work WITH the client. This was an outstanding experience. Thank you Mike!
Sorry for being a bit verbose, but i really want to explain in detail -
this gauntlet has wet formed knuckles and cuff. The arm part is molded as well to hold removable mild steel protective inlays. The dagger was fully hand crafted from scratch using mild steel with a brass handle and fits into a sheath. All parts are secured together using only authentic brass and copper rivets. Check out all the photos for more details.
Another variation coming soon, photos are almost ready.

Baby Talk. Spencer Reid x Reader.

Originally posted by loving-criminal-minds

The swat team ran in, you and the other BAU members following close behind. Each room was checked, someone shouting clear to tell the others that the rooms were safe. You and Morgan stopped outside one of the upstairs bedrooms, Morgan going in front of the door so he could kick it in. A loud crash sounded through the house when his foot made contact with the door, you charging in gun raised as you scanned the room. Realising the room was not completley empty you called the others in, telling it was clear of the Unsub but not of his latest victims.

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