#1800s comb
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Silver and Diamond Comb Mounts, 1805, French.
The British Museum.
#diamonds#silver#1805#1800s#1800s accessory#1800s hair accessory#comb#1800s comb#the british museum#reign: Napoleon I#French#1800s France#France
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Would it be too much to ask for a William James Moriarty x Holmes sister reader? Like she's a travelling archaeologist/anthropologist who's a genius in the field and has found many artifacts and lost cities and can be a bit of an eccentric looney like her older brother Sherly but she's also incredibly kind to those in need and often donates her treasures to the less fortunate and even helps Sherly from time to time which is how he meets her and is impressed by her smarts and sarcastic wits. Also, a bit of a parkour junky likes to wear mens clothes tailored for her measurements and often wears her hair in loose buns or ponytails and loves riding horseback much to Mycroft's displeasure🤭
A BUSINESS PROPOSAL
Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!
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Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot
Pairing(s): William James Moriarty x Reader
Word Count: 3k
Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Mildly sexist behavior from Mycroft? It is the 1800s after all.
Notes: So this was super fun to write!
Fun fact! I took an archaeology class for my associate’s degree in criminal justice and highly recommend taking one to anyone in college!
I actually took several anthropology classes (intro to anthro, bio anthro, and archaeology). I even considered switching my major to anthropology at some point! (I switched it to English lol)
PART TWO HERE
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Otis whinnies, and you reach forward from your place in the saddle to pat his neck.
“Easy, Otie, almost there.” You whisper to him and gently nudge him to turn down the familiar road of Baker Street. You could spot your brother’s flat from where you were at, an unfamiliar carriage parked in front. You frown briefly and then shrug. Sherlock could have whoever he liked over.
But… he did promise to take you out on the town in celebration of your latest discovery. Did he forget?
No… He wasn’t the type to forget something like that. You had been exchanging letters for weeks about your coming home.
A tall man was at the front of the carriage, tending to the horses. He had spiked black hair and a glove on one hand. He looks at you with skeptical eyes as you draw near and dismount your horse. The Cleveland Bay snorts, ruffling your hair as you smooth your hand up his snout and between his eyes. Then, you promptly tied his reins to the post outside 221B Baker Street and went up to the front door.
The door knocker was more worn than you last remembered, with the shiny brass turning a glimmering gold color from all the hands touching it. You rap the door once, twice, then a third time, and wait, stuffing your hands in your trouser pockets.
A young man opens the door, sandy blond hair combed neatly and brown eyes alight with curiosity. A grin breaks your face, and you step forward into his arms as he realizes just who is at the door.
“My dear John!” You shriek, and he chuckles, lifting you off your feet and spinning once in a circle before setting you down.
“I thought you weren’t due back for another two weeks!” He replies excitedly, and you laugh gleefully.
“We finished early! Anyhow, how’s Mary? Sherlock said you two were expecting!” You say and slap his shoulder good-naturedly. He ducks his head, a pink flush on his cheeks as he nods.
“She’s home at the mo. But yes, we’re expecting. The midwife thinks it’ll be a girl based on how she’s carrying.” He said, and before you could say any more, there was a noise at the top of the stairs.
You turn, and your grin widens even more until your cheeks hurt.
“Sherly!” You crow, and he bounds down the stairs to sweep you up in a bear hug. His boisterous laugh made your heart sing, and you buried your nose in his hair. He smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey. He must have been on a case. He squeezes you tight and sets you down.
“I thought you were coming back in two weeks!” He exclaims, and you roll your eyes,
“So John said, I told you we finished early!” You tease, and it is then that you notice that there is someone else in the flat.
He was tall, probably around your brother’s height. He had blond hair and deep scarlet eyes that studied you with interest. He was dressed in a brown suit with a crimson tie. A lord. That much is obvious.
Sherlock notices that you notice his friend and gestures to the man at the top of the stairs.
“This is Liam! A mathematics professor at Durham University and a friend of mine who helps me on my cases.” He says proudly as “Liam” descends the stairs and approaches you.
You stick out a hand and introduce yourself. His hand is smooth like you expected, as opposed to your calloused one. You had bandages littering your fingertips from blisters from shovels and tools.
“William James Moriarty. I’ve heard stories about you.” His British lilt is proper and endearing. You feel your heart flutter and your ears burn. But you smile warmly nonetheless and give his hand a firm shake.
“As much as I’d like to say the same, Sherly has yet to tell me about you in his letters.” You direct the last sentence to your older brother in the same teasing tone as before.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and punches your shoulder lightly while William watches on in amusement.
“I got distracted!” Sherlock complains, and you break out into giggles.
“I would love to hear some stories if you’re up to it.” William cut in gently before you, and Sherlock could start bickering. You brighten. A chance to tell stories of your work and not have someone get bored? It sounded like heaven!
That was how you got to where you were at the current moment.
You were seated next to Sherlock at the Moriarty dining table, regaling them with a story of the most current dig you had been on.
“—and Egypt was absolutely smashing! It was so beautiful!” You say, waving your hands excitedly as you describe the tomb that had been uncovered. It had taken weeks to uncover everything, almost months. But oh so worth it.
“Might I ask what you did with all the artifacts you found?” William inquires, and you hum as you sip at your wine.
“Donated it all back to the locals. It’s the least I can do. Plenty of archaeologists steal their finds and bring them back to England to show in museums. I try and do the opposite.” You say and were pleased to see William nod in approval.
At least someone shared your sentiment.
You got a letter to your very old and very dusty flat a week after your return to England, summoning you to your eldest brother’s estate. You had been dusting and cleaning your furniture when the postman knocked on your door. You frown, brushing your pants on the seat of your trousers, and answer the door.
The letter was short.
Dearest sister,
I have received news of your return to Egypt. I would like to have your company at the family estate for dinner to discuss business and your adventures.
With best regards,
Mycroft Holmes
A summons to the Holmes family estate that your oldest brother had inherited after your parents retired to the country. You look at the ceiling and groan, eliciting a funny look from the postman.
This was going to be fun.
As soon as Otis realizes where you are, he tosses his head and tries to turn around. You tug the reins so he faces the right direction and nudge him into a walk down the road.
“Otie, I don’t want to do this either. But I’d rather not have Mikey send special forces after us or something.” You say to Otis, and when you reach the stables, Mycroft’s hired stable hand takes your beloved horse’s reins. “Take good care of him!” You nearly reprimand the stable hand who agrees and welcomes you back with ease.
The maids welcome you in excitedly when you rap on the massive double doors, and you are ushered upstairs into the dining room.
Mycroft was seated at the head of the table, where your father would be if he were here, and he stood to greet you. He offers a handshake, but you simply smile warmly and hug him tightly. He may have grated on your nerves, but he was still your brother. Mycroft stiffens and pats your shoulders awkwardly when you step back.
“As awkward as always, I see Mikey.” You said and took a seat at the table next to him like you did when you were kids. He clears his throat and calls for the kitchen staff to bring in the food.
It wasn’t much, considering there were only two of you. But it was as extravagant as Mycroft always demanded it to be.
“Would you like to change into dinner attire before we eat, sister dearest?” Mycroft says suddenly, just as you are about to dig into the delicious roast prepared by the staff of the household. You put your fork down and scowl.
“Don’t start with this, Mikey. You know I hate dresses.” You snap, and he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue.
At least… he doesn’t until you are done with your meal and in his study, talking about your travels to Egypt.
You down the rest of your whiskey and set the glass whiskey tumbler on the table between you two.
“More whiskey?” He offers, and you shake your head.
“I want to be able to ride home after this.” You say and hold in a yawn. The excellent food combined with the fireplace blazing with a crackling fire is lulling you to sleep.
Suddenly, Mycroft stands and walks in front of the fire, setting his own glass down on the mantle and turning to face you.
“Might we talk some business?” He inquires, and immediately, your mood sours.
So this was his end goal? Get you sleepy and drunk so you couldn’t ride home and were subject to his pleadings?
“I don’t want to hear it, Mikey.” You say and stand, holding onto the back of the wingback chair for a moment as the dizziness sets in.
He scowls,
“You are of perfect age. The season is just starting. You could still join in and find a potential suitor!” He tries, and you scrub at your face.
“I already told you I wasn’t interested in courting! I’m interested in—”
“Your work, I know. But what happens when the digs dry up and there’s nothing else for you to do? What will you do when you get too old for this?!” He snaps, and you whirl, steadying yourself with the chair as your anger flares.
“It won’t dry up! There are thousands of years of history still to be discovered! Hundreds of thousands of cities and archaeological finds!” Your voice rises to a shout, and you hear distant footsteps as maids scurry away from you and your brother’s anger.
This goes on for several minutes until Mycroft a bomb on you.
“Mother and Father have decided. If you don’t find someone to court, they will no longer fund your excavations, and you’ll be stuck here with me.”
You freeze, hands wound tightly in your hair, and argument dying on your tongue.
“B—But that would mean—” Mycroft cuts you off gently and approaches, putting his hands on your shoulders.
“You’d be stuck here until you find a husband—no more digs. No more artifacts. Not until you do as they and I ask.” Tears well up in your eyes, and you shrug off his hands violently and flee.
Your boots pound against the hardwood floors, and you run outside where it has started pouring rain. Instantly, your clothes are soaked as you make it to the stables, dress Otis in his saddle and bridle, and swiftly mount his back. He tears out of the stables at a thundering gallop, and the stable hand barely dives out of the way to save himself from being trampled.
Otis’s hooves dash against the cobblestone roads. You cling to his reins and hunch over his back as tears stream down your face and sobs wrack your body.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Taking away your funding?
No one wanted to fund a woman on an archaeological dig!
Much less one as young as yourself!
You were screwed! Doomed to live as a housewife because that was society’s and your parent’s expectations of you!
Otis eventually comes to a halt, and you dismount, collapsing onto a bench, breathing hard as rain pours down your body. Your shirt sticks to your skin, and your trousers swim in water as you sit in a puddle on the bench. But you can’t bring it in you to care.
A carriage rumbles to a stop before you, and you look up as the door opens.
“Might I interest you in some shelter?” Comes a proper and endearing accent that you recognize.
“William?” You sniffle, and he smiles, extending a hand.
“If you’ll let him, Fred will handle your horse. How about you step inside the carriage, and we’ll take you back to the Moriarty estate.” He says over the rain. A young man with a blue scarf wrapped around his head gets off the front of the carriage and approaches. You hiccup and nod, handing Otis’s reins to the young man and accepting William’s hand into the carriage. He sheds his overcoat and offers it.
It’s warm and heavy as you wrap it around your shoulders and sit down. Your boots squelch against the floor, and William knocks twice against the carriage's wall, and it starts moving once again.
The Morairty estate is even grander than you remember, looming over you as the carriage stops by the front doors. You nearly slip in your haste to get inside and are taken up the stairs to one of the many bedrooms.
“Draw a bath and get warm. I’ll have some clothes brought by. We can have a talk after you’ve collected yourself.” William says gently, and you nod, taking off his overcoat so he can have it back. He excuses himself, and you are left alone in the suite.
The bath is nice and hot, and you let out a sigh as you shed your clothes into a pile on the floor and sink into the warm water. Your tears are drying, but your emotions are still raging like a rabid dog inside you.
How could they?
Didn’t your family know archaeology was your passion? Your dream?! Of course, they did! You never shut up about it when you were but a little girl learning to play the piano! You babbled on and on about fossils and artifacts in between lessons until you were blue in the face!
It wasn’t long until you were done in the bath and dried off. As William had promised, some clothes were left on the bed. A button-down that looked like it might fit you, a pair of trousers that might be a bit too long, and a pair of undergarments. You tugged on the underwear and then the trousers, having to cuff them at the bottom so you didn’t trip. The shirt fit better than you thought so you pinned your hair out of your face and left the bedroom and down the hall. Hadn’t there been a sitting room just down the stairs?
William was inside, stoking a fire with a poker, his back to you. He stood and turned when you rapped lightly on the entryway. His lips curled in a welcoming smile, and he gestured for you to take a seat.
“Would you like some tea? I had Louis put the kettle on.” He said, and you nodded, sitting on the couch beside the fire.
“Thank you. For the clothes and… everything else.” You mumble, and he shakes his head,
“Don’t mention it. Sherlock mentioned you hated dresses.” He says and pours you a cup of tea.
It’s delicious. It warms you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your bare toes. You scuff them on the plush carpet as William sits across from you. His scarlet eyes are illuminated like glittering rubies in the oranges and yellows of the fire. They’re alive like a torch resides inside.
“Now, might I ask why you were out in the rain?” William asks as soon as you’ve settled into your spot. You bite your lip and wonder if you can trust him with your problems.
Sherlock trusted him well enough…
Perhaps…
“I got into an argument with Mycroft. He said my parents will cut off my funding for excavations if I don’t find a proper husband.” You blurt, and he hums as he takes a sip from his cup.
“I assume they’ve been funding your past archaeological escapades?” He says, and you nod.
“Correct. But that is going to change unless I get married.” You grumble, and he cocks his head to the side, setting his cup down on the tea table next to him and seemingly mulling something over.
“This may be a bit forward, but I have a proposal. A business proposal, if you will.” He starts, and you narrow your eyes. A business proposal? You set your own cup down and cross one leg over the other.
“Go on…” You say hesitantly, and he clasps his hands together as if working out a problem in his head. Sherlock did say he was a mathematics professor.
“I could marry you.” You inhale sharply and proceed to choke on your saliva. William half gets out of his chair to come to your aid when you finally get your coughing under control.
“Why?!” You demand, and he shrugs,
“I’ve done some research into you. You are spearheading the way in new archaeological techniques. You donate your finds back to the locals in need. And frankly, I find you fascinating. If we go ahead with this, you’ll have access to my brother Albert’s influence as well as the Moriarty name and fortune.” He says, and you sit back, stunned.
“I could continue my work?” You say skeptically, and he nods.
“Indeed. There’s no reason to stop you. I might ask for a lecture or two from you at Durham University. But that’s it. So…” He extends a hand for you to shake. “Have we reached an accord?”
You are speechless as possibilities run rampant through your brain. You’d be free from your parent’s influence as well as pleasing them. Though pleasing them was the last thing on your mind. Yes, you’d be married. But like William said… it was more of a business proposal…
You reach forward and shake his hand. His smile widens marginally as you speak,
“I accept your proposal.”
#william james moriarty x reader#william james moriarty x you#william james moriarty x y/n#moriarty x reader#mtp william#mtp william x reader#ynm william#ynm x reader#mtp x reader#moriarty the patriot x reader#yuukoku no moriarty x reader#fairy writes
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Combing through an 1800s type catalogue and found Waite
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Word count: 1800+
Warnings: mentions of blood, broken bone and dislocated joints, swearing
I hoped it would be a surprise, but you mostly likely already know who the reader is.
Anyway things are finally moving and reader's life is going to get complicated
Enjoy and let me know what do you think
Part VII | Part IX
You had never cried so hard or at least you didn't remember anything like that. Tamlin let you weep as much as you needed. Humming he held you firmly and gently rocked you. Lullaby-like melody made his board chest vibrate, the sound so deep and soothing. His humming and hand stroking down your spine, combing through your hair, soon calmed you down. You inhaled deeply, your lungs filling with the smell of rain.
"I didn't know one could cry so hard because of a necklace," Tamlin murmured. You felt him smirk. "You don't like it so much?"
"I'm sorry. It's all because of the lights and decorations and delicious food," you stumbled over the words, trying to find some explanation, understand why it happened on the first place. "But I do like the necklace. Very much. I've never received anything so beautiful. Thank you."
He held you tighter for a moment and then straightening up, he released you. "Ready for the next part of the evening?" he handed you a tissue.
"Isn't it over yet?" you wondered.
He shook head. "Personally, I think that this is the best part of celebration," Tamlin smiled widely.
As if waiting for a signal, a soft melody echoed around the forest coming in through still opened windows. It sounded like millions of bells and jingle bells mixed with rustling of leaves and sounds of forest creating a joyful song. You'd never heard anything so beautiful.
"I'm sorry that it isn't a real music. I had to improvise and work with what I have at hand. Shall we?" he extended hand towards you.
You gave him a questioning look.
"Dance, Y/N," he raised a brow.
"I.. I can't dance," you admitted as blood rushed into your cheeks.
"It's okay. No big deal. I can't, too," Tamlin winked still smiling. You were sure that it was a lie and grimaced at him nervously.
Hesitantly you accepted his hand. Tamlin's long fingers closed around your small hand, pulling you to your feet. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you so close that with every breath your chest brushed against his. Inhaling deeply you looked up. In the moment your eyes met, losing yourself in those emeralds you forgot about everything else.
There wasn't enough space in your cottage for a big dancing figures, but for the two of you it was enough. Testing the waters, Tamlin took a small step to the side and you followed. Then another back and you again followed him. For a while you were just swaying like this around, until you got used to the rhythm.
"That's it," he praised you. "You're doing great."
By adding a few new steps you started to move all around the small space and soon enough you were really dancing. It was easier than you thought. Your body moved on its own as if it already knew this dance. Even Tamlin seemed to be pleasantly surprised. Both of you were laughing as you swirled around each other until you ran out of breath and needed a break.
Still laughing you sat down to your armchair. Mirroring you Tamlin sat down on the armrest and taking out a fiddle he joined the forest orchestra. Their combination was perfect.
"Amazing," you breathed out. He was so skilled that you couldn't take your eyes off of him. But as soon as you caught your breath, he put the fiddle down and pulled you up to another dance. You gladly complied.
In the moment your bodies met, the whole room went dark, fire in the fireplace was the only source of light. The darkest night cold like north wind filled the room. Even the music stopped playing. Tamlin instinctively pulled you to his side, his arms wrapped around you protectively.
In the middle of the darkness a male figure appeared, his violet-blue eyes blazing with rage. A pair of monstrous membranous wings stretched behind him. You winced. You saw this too many times in your nightmares, similar monster making you wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat for years.
"Hands off of her," he hissed, his voice deep and cold.
Tamlin's muscles turned into a stone under your hands, his arms held you so firmly it almost hurt. Your own fingers clenched his clothes in your fists, you clung impossibly close to him.
"What are you doing here, Rhysand?" Tamlin growled. His green gaze hardened, gleaming with raw power.
Rhysand. So this was the High Lord of Night Court you saw at Tamlin's manor. Back then he didn't have wings, so you didn't recognize him at first. His enormous powers rumbled around, making you feel sick. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You knew you should be scared, but strangely you weren't.
You pushed the nausea back and took a proper look at him. Even angry he was still very handsome. Raven's feathers like dark short hair combed back, tanned skin, muscular body that could compete with Tamlin's. Even though he was an epitome of the worst nightmares, there was something familiar about him. You were sure you'd never met him before, but you couldn't place the feeling. You tried to search your memories further, but it only caused you a headache.
"I said hands. Off. Of. Her," Rhysand growled, putting emphasis of every word.
"This is my court and she is subject of this court. You have no power here," Tamlin snapped back. "Only Y/N decides who can touch her."
Rhysand roared with rage, tendrils of his powers shooting out to you. You closed your eyes shielding your face in Tamlin's chest. His muscles tensed, smell of two powers mixed together. You were about to faint.
There was a cracking sound and a cry of pain, and you were ripped out of his protective arms. Something jerked you back violently and arm once again wrapped around you as the sound of cracking wood sounded. Your lungs filled with a unknown and yet so familiar citrus scent.
Daring to crack your eyes open you looked up. But instead of emerald ones, the violet-blue eyes with flecks of silver were gazing down at you. You gasped in shock and tried to push him away, but Rhysand was as unmovable as a mountain.
"It's okay, Aury. You are safe with me," he whispered so only you could hear him. There was no trace of rage in his voice when he spoke to you.
Another pained moan came from behind you, smell of blood filled the air. In horror you turned around as much as possible. There in the middle of debris that used to be a table, sat Tamlin, teeth bared. Panting in pain, he held his left arm. Even from a far you could see it's broken on several places, piece of bone piercing the skin, his shoulder dislocated.
Instinctively you moved forward, but Rhysand held you firmly. Tamlin's eyes glowed in the dark and his broken bones and dislocated shoulder returned to its place with loud crack, wounds healed as well. He stood up, ready to fight for you.
"How could you do that? How could you hide her here for so long?" Rhysand snarled. "We were friends. Why didn't you tell me she is alive?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Tamlin fired back angrily. "If you don't let Y/N go, I swear I'll kill you." He took a step forward, his claws ready to shred this intruder into pieces.
"Who's Y/N? Are you trying to lie to my face? This is Auriela."
"Are you crazy? Y/N isn't your sister. She can't be. Your sister is dead. I saw her wings! I burned them that night after I became High Lord," Tamlin howled in frustration.
"Don't you dare lie to me," Rhysand turned you to his chest. You were fighting him as much as you could, but in your current state you weren't able to do much. He yanked the back of your dress open.
Cool night air kissed your exposed back. Tamlin gasped and stumbled back, smell of his magic disappeared. You knew what he saw. Two long scars along the shoulder blades were on your back your entire life, but you didn't remember what caused them. At some point you resolved that they were the reason of the lost of your memory and that was enough for you to stop worrying about it.
"I'm so sorry, sweetie," Rhysand whispered to you. Magic filled air once again as your dress was repaired. You felt so sick, so nauseous, so confused. If Rhysand wouldn't hold you upright, you would fall down like a puppet with cut wires.
"Do you still want to claim that this isn't my sister?" he said aloud to Tamlin. His other hand came up, too, caressing you and holding you so lovingly against his too strong body. You couldn't fight anymore, all strength left you. Your heart was painfully beating in your chest, skipping a beat at times. Your breathing became laboured, world was spinning too fast.
"I saw it.. How could she survive it.." Tamlin's voice was so small.
"You tell me," Rhysand snapped. "Do you want to say you had no idea?"
"I mean.. there was something familiar about her all this time, but.." Tamlin sat down into the debris, broken and confused.
"How could you not recognize her?! It took just one look and I knew her immediately."
Your body was failing you. You felt so small and weak, their voices becoming so muffled at times, you couldn't hear a thing. You wanted to stop this nonsense, tell this Rhysand you weren't his sister and run back to Tamlin, but all you could do was focus on breathing.
"She was just a little girl back then.. I saw her once maybe twice.."
"You and your family ripped her wings off, kidnapped her and then hid her in this poor excuse of a shelter. I could kill you right here and now, but you saved my life. I hereby repay you my debt."
"I didn't know they left her alive.. I swear.."
"It doesn't matter. Now I'm going to take her where she belongs. Back to her home, to her family," Rhysand declared.
No. Nononono. This was bad. So wrong. It couldn't be true. None of the shit this male told. No matter what, you had to stay in your cottage. You forced yourself to move, managing to half turn back to Tamlin. "Tamlin.. no," your voice was too small and shaky. But he heard you. His eyes full of pain found yours for a brief moment and then his gaze slid to the side.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbled as his shoulders slumped. "I really didn't know.. He is right.. You should be with your family.." And there it was. He gave up without putting a fight. He simply gave up. Tamlin wouldn't stop him, he decided to let you go.
The tears of betrayal filled your eyes. It hurt like dagger stuck straight into a heart, but you still wanted to give him a chance to right this. Beg him to save you.
"No, Tamlin, plea-" Darkness swallowed you before you could finish.
It was too late. Ignoring your pleads Rhysand winnowed you away.
Taglist:
@impossibelle @sevikas-whore @b0xerdancer
#english isnt my first language#tamlin fanfiction#tamlin x reader#tamlin acotar#tamlin#acotar fanfiction#acotar x reader#acotar#sarah j maas#rhysand acotar#rhys acotar#rhysand#tamlin fanart#acotar fanart#pro tamlin#tamlin week
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Rdr2 and period accuracy I guess
Bonus points to whoever was in charge of historical details in rdr2 because the amount of spot on, God awful hair and beard styles makes me so happy. 1800-1900 were some of the worst years for decent haircuts. Clothes? Great, wonderful. BUT MUTTON CHOPS??? That stupid middle part slicked-back hair for men? Crimes. War crimes.
Look at this shit. You see this??? Some of these fellas have attractive faces but then they ruined it by doing THAT. Civil war era and regency period are my absolute least favorite times for men. How do you let that hair rope stay on your face?? Half of them look like they're wearing toupees or desperately combing the last bits of balding hair (some of them are, to be fair). Half the NPCs in red dead are utterly unfuckable and I love it. It's really cool when media lets people be ugly and grimy. A lot of the people Arthur comes across are poor, working class people who were often a little gross, especially men living on horseback doing a lot of manual labor. The women wear makeup, but they're not overly polished Hollywood esque pantomimes of historical women. They're allowed to be a little nasty too. Karen absolutely has the pussy equivalent of the Chernobyl elephant's foot and I love that for her! Sometimes media overdoes the unclean factor and makes it like...a metaphor in and of itself for low morals (Pirates of the Caribbean I love you but yeah). Your main characters are shiny and clean where villains are dirty and "unclean".
This is not to say poverty=dirt. At the time though, extreme poverty in cities and places with no natural water sources did equal a bit of funk. They just couldn't afford to pay for baths. Those who cared used perfumes, sponge baths when available. They kept their undergarments regularly washed if they could. The thing is, just like today, some people just didn't care. They lived in the woods and said "fuck it" and didn't bother. Rdr2 says "yeah ain't nobody is washing their ass ♥️" and let that apply to our protagonists too! No matter how much you bathe Arthur that man wears boots with no socks and it's so bad even Sean comments on the man's feet. I can't even wear Crocs without socks because that shit is a biohazard. Imagine BOOTS.
I don't know where I was going with this, but the overall gist is that we should strive for accuracy and a fair portrayal of human bodies as things that do in fact produce ick. And that's okay! You can be hot and also have lack of access to modern hygiene. Unless you have mutton chops, I guess.
#red dead redemption 2#rdr2#History#Historical rant from an anthropology nerd#arthur morgan#Karen Jones#red dead redemption
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Marbled Monday
This Monday we're taking a look at a 6-volume set of the Waverley novels written by Scottish historian, poet, novelist, and playwright Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) and originally published between 1814 and 1831. These volumes each include more than one of the novels in the Waverley "series," including what is perhaps Scott's most famous novel Ivanhoe. These volumes were published in the late 1800s, with a best guestimate of around 1880, by DeWolfe, Fiske & Co. in Boston. The Waverley novels gave Scott a reputation as the founder of the historical novel genre, as each novel is set in a different historical time period.
The books themselves are each half-bound in tan leather and marbled paper. The top, bottom, and fore-edge of each book has also been marbled in the same pattern, and the books feature the same marbling on their endpapers! Marbling everywhere! The marbling is a green base with red, blue, white, and yellow veining and white spots sprinkled over top. This is a stone pattern that is meant to look closer to actual marble than the more intricate combed marbling patterns. You can also see the wear on the outer covers of the books and see how dull and faded it is compared to the marbling on the endpapers.
View more Marbled Monday posts.
-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager
#Marbled Monday#Waverley novels#Waverley#Sir Walter Scott#Ivanhoe#DeWolfe Fiske & Co.#marbling#marbled paper#Alice
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A team of divers combing the watery depths off Quebec's Iles-de-la-Madeleine this summer say they have discovered seven new shipwrecks that likely date to the 1800s.
Diver Jean-Simon Richard, president of a local archeology and natural history museum -- Musee des Iles de la Madeleine -- says he and two other divers made the discoveries between May and July. Richard said he's found no reports documenting the sites of the shipwrecks, suggesting they have been "lost to memory" for decades, if not since the vessels sank.
"It's always a special feeling to dive a shipwreck, knowing we might be the first people to see that ship in 150 years," he said.
Five of the seven wrecks appear to be small schooners about 40 feet or 50 feet long, while the two others, both about 130 feet long, could have higher archeological value, Richard said. [...]
Continue Reading.
Tagging: @politicsofcanada
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west
prologue
pairing: Joel Miller x nb!character
word count: 2.7k
genre: period western/horror
summary: Dakota Territory, 1879. Joel Miller, a widower, lives on the outskirts of Deadwood with his brother and daughter. After travelling north from Texas two years earlier, they've put down roots in the community. Tommy came for the gold rush, and Joel came to keep an eye on Tommy. The end of the world arrives piece by piece, and then all at once.
warnings: glaring historical inaccuracies, canon typical violence, allusions to a suicide attempt, essentially just the opening of the show/game but set in 1879 with some bits adjusted, the horrors of being a person in the 1800s, nb love interest is essentially a reader self-insert but is named (tho won't appear till the next chapter), it will be a slowwwww burn.
a/n: Ok, a funny thing that didn't come up in my research till I was ninety percent thru the outline and halfway thru the chapter but had independently decided on 1879 as the setting -- Deadwood actually burned down on September 26, 1879. Figured it was serendipitous. Happy Birthday, Joel! 🫠
The day the world ended, the sun rose bright across the valley. Autumn was just starting to emerge and dust motes appeared suspended in the bright sunbeams, forested wilderness surrounding the town of Deadwood. The leaves weren't changed, not fully, but here and there you could find a red tree amongst the green ones, and you knew they'd follow soon.
Joel was exhausted. His head ached. His bones ached. He could already feel the stiffness in his muscles from yesterday's work, and today would be no better.
The first few cries of the rooster hadn't done so much as stir him, but now as morning truly broke, he could smell mouth-watering aromas wafting up from below, heard the bustling in his kitchen and his belly rumbled, waking him up right quick.
He scrunched his face up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went over to the basin to splash cool water on his face. He stared at his reflection in his glass. Another year older. Another strand of silver in his hair. Thirty six. He'd made it to thirty six.
He pulled a shirt from his drawer and frowned. It was soft, cotton, and one of his favorites, but he was sure this one was torn at the shoulder, left to waste away in the oft forgotten mending basket. He shook it out and peered at it–sure enough, it had been torn, but now it was mended with fine, careful stitches.
Sarah. It must've been.
That girl was busy herself, but it warmed him, that she'd taken the time to mend her old pa's shirts without him ever having to ask.
He dresses quickly, tucking in his mended shirt, buttoning his trousers, adjusting his suspenders. He wasn't a vain man, but he takes pride in his work, and his mama always told him "It ain't about vanity, Joel. You take yourself and your appearance serious, others will too."
He grew up with little, but his mama was an accomplished seamstress. Her mending was impeccable, and any time she found a discarded bit of fabric, she'd bring it back to life and make it twice as pretty as she found it. Joel reckoned she was the best dressed woman in all of Texas. She collected issues of Good Housekeeping and Harper's, taking account of all the latest fashions. She built corsets and cages and all the ladies would flock to her to do them up just as pretty.
Joel combed back his hair. Stared in the mirror for just a moment longer, lost in his memories. Nodded, and stepped downstairs.
"Pa!" Sarah grinned at him as he entered the kitchen, "Lookin' mighty fine this morning."
She pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
"Thank you, baby girl," he grinned back, "You makin' us breakfast?"
"Yep!" She nods, and hands him a plate. Drop biscuits, a little burnt, swimming in gravy, a cup of wild berries on the side, and a hot cup of coffee.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the spiraling tendrils of coffee vapour and let out a delighted hum. "You spoil me, kiddo."
"'Course," she nodded, and took a big bite of her own biscuit.
"Uncle Tommy home?" Joel asked, and Sarah shook her head, a couple of biscuit crumbs scattering around her, "Nah, he went out early today. Said he wanted to get done with his work early so he can celebrate your birthday."
Joel raised an eyebrow. "Celebrate my birthday?" he scoffs, "Stop by the saloon or lose all his money at cards and still make it on time to dinner is more like it."
He took one last gulp of his coffee and placed the mug down.
"We'll have a nice night," Sarah assured him, "An' I told Uncle Tommy he best be here in time for supper or else. And I'm makin' you a cake."
"Okay, baby. You'd best be off to school, now. I'll get these dishes taken care of."
"You sure?" She asked.
"Positive."
Sarah nodded, pulled off her apron, tossed a few of her favorite books in her satchel and tore out the door.
Joel went off for his work. Only two years they'd been in the Black Hills, Joel, Sarah and Tommy, but they'd made a nice little home. They came up after Sarah's mama passed, and Tommy heard about the gold rush. He insisted it was all because of the rush he wanted to come, but Sarah always suspected he came because he knew Joel would follow, and her pa needed a change of scenery. He'd almost faded into a ghost himself, sitting round their empty old house, nearly lost in memories. Grief had a way of consuming him.
So they'd traveled North, left Texas behind for good, and made a new life for themselves.
The schoolhouse had been around since before the Millers arrived in Deadwood, but there hadn't been a teacher till Spring of this year. Joel was glad Sarah finally had a chance for a proper education. Smart as a whip, that one, and hungry for knowledge. He couldn't wait to see what she was gonna do.
There weren't a lot of kids, or even that many women in the community outside of the brothels, but the Millers had established themselves. Tommy was something of a wild card, getting into bar fights more often than Joel would prefer, but he'd never gotten on the wrong side of a quick draw, and he had enough charm he managed to get out of most of the trouble he found himself in. And Joel–Joel was reliable. Whether he was fixing someone's step, or making sure to haul that extra meat back after a hunt to ensure one of Sarah's friends would have enough to eat, he could be depended on.
The day the world ended, Joel saddled up Delphine, his dapple grey, and mounted her, tools packed neatly in her panniers. Today, he'd be working on repairs at the general store. They rode from their home at the outskirts towards town.
As he approached, he slowed to a walk. Something felt off, like there was a tension about to snap. But no one was bleeding, and some days on the frontier that felt like a high enough bar to clear.
Along Main Street, he could hear strained voices.
"The telegraphs stopped coming-" He heard one man say.
"Problem with the wire?" Another asked.
The first man shook his head. "Naw, had some of my guys inspect it. Everything should be workin'. It just- it ain't."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Been five days now. Never seen it like this before."
"Ain't seen any coaches for weeks now, too. It's like the route just stopped altogether. Don't know how to get word to my folks back east about the new baby if we've got no mail and no telegraphs."
The day the world ended, Joel made it home by sunset, just in time to find Sarah plating up their dinner.
"Good day?" She asked, and he nodded.
"Yeah, got lots done. Next time you go by the general store, you'll see a door that swings smoothly on its hinges and brand new windowpanes."
"That's great, Pa!" she smiled. It warmed her to see his pride in his work.
"Uncle Tommy home yet?" Joel asked.
"No," Sarah frowned, "Thought he'd be back a couple hours ago, too. Guess you're right."
"Reckon he's lost track of time. Though- Huh, I didn't see him at the saloon when I rode by."
"There's always the cathouse?" Sarah suggested, and Joel snorted and shook his head. It wasn't an impossibility.
"Well-," Sarah paused, "There'll be cake waiting for him, but at least have your supper before it gets cold."
"Thank you baby," Joel smiled, took his plate from her, and dug in.
The night felt heavy, something in the atmosphere pressing like a weight through the world. All the food was eaten (besides a small plate left for Tommy) and the cake was cut, when the gunshots started outside.
Sarah started and Joel bolted upright, swinging around to grab the rifle by the door without a second thought.
"What's happening?" she asked.
Joel shook his head, crouching down by the window, pushing the curtains aside and peering through.
"I don't know, baby. Just stay calm, stay low. We're gonna be okay."
There was no one directly outside, but the gunshots continued, and the more Joel stared, the more he could see smoke rising from town.
"Looks like a fire," he told her, "Don't know what the shootin's about, though. And–" His eyes narrowed, heartbeat pounded. "We gotta block the door, baby, there's someone coming."
"Is it Uncle Tommy?" She asked, eyes wide and voice small.
"No, I don't think–" Joel had grabbed the heavy mahogany table by the legs and started tugging, but did a double take out the window. "Wait, you're right!"
It was Tommy, galloping towards their home on a mount Joel didn't recognize. Before Tommy was even a hundred feet away, Joel could hear him call out his name.
"Joel!" Tommy bellowed, "We gotta get outta here!"
Joel swung the door open and Tommy stumbled in.
"Somethin's happening," he wheezed, breaths coming quickly, panic etched across his face, running to the cabinet and filling his pack with ammo. A knife. Another revolver. "We gotta pack up anythin' we can't afford to lose. The town's on fire. There are these people, fuck, Joel, it's like they're the Devil's got 'em."
"Like the Devil's got 'em?" Joel asked, pulling two bags from pegs by the door. "The fuck you mean? You been on the shine again?" He turned to Sarah. "Start packin', baby. Clothes, medicine. Cash, too, you know the drawer?"
She nodded and ran upstairs, and Joel turned back to Tommy, fumbling through papers and photos, knowing he had no time for sentiment but couldn't bear to leave without trying to think of everything.
"They're fuckin' possessed," Tommy explained, "Won't listen to reason. It's a fuckin' mess in town. A few coaches came through today and there were men on it raving, saying some kinda devilry was coming through. They seemed crazy, so we just laughed. Didn't think much of it."
He shook his head and ran a palm down his face. That's when Joel noticed the blood on his sleeve.
"Jesus," Joel said, "You hurt?"
Tommy shook his head, confused, and then looked where Joel was looking and exhaled. "Naw," he exhaled, "That blood ain't mine."
"So what happened?"
"Well," Tommy continued, "An hour or so later we heard screaming. Turns out a couple folks who'd come in by train from down South a day or so ago, who weren't feelin' all that well, they'd been to the doctor and went crazy. Started twitchin'. Bitin'. Proper bitin' people. They got these things in their mouths, these weird fuckin' tendrils-"
Joel stared at him, a muscle in his jaw tensing.
"I know it sounds crazy, Joel, but something bad is fuckin' happening. Don't know what it is. All I know is people are tearing each other up. And we gotta get outta here."
Joel was silent a minute and then nodded, solemn.
"Okay." He took a deep breath. "We're gonna get outta here."
"We are," Tommy agreed, "But we both know the only way out is through town, and it's a shit show right now."
"Fuck," Joel hissed and looked out the window again, "Looks like the whole town is on fire."
"It is," Tommy nodded, "But we can avoid Main Street. Go to the outside, and around to the thoroughfare."
"Fine." Then Joel called upstairs, "We gotta go, baby!"
Sarah re-emerged, two bags packed full. "I got clothes for both of us. Money. Few other things."
"Thank you, baby."
They saddled up their horses, Tommy on his stolen mare, Joel and Sarah on Delphine.
Joel hated this, hated that they had to pass through town to pass by Deadwood and across into the Black Hills, but they were at the edge of the gulch. No way to go but through.
Before they rode, Joel cupped the back of Sarah's head with one hand, closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He nearly didn't, worried her pa would be embarrassing her. But he did. For the rest of his life, he was always glad that he did.
As they rode through flames, they saw the foundations of the place they called home begin to crumble. It was chaos. It was worse than Joel ever could have imagined. The town was engulfed in madness, men eating one another toppled over onto the dusty ground. Smoke choked them and made their eyes water as they rode through with cloths pressed to their mouths, trying to avoid the worst of it. There were a few folks who had built barricades and stood beyond them, guns aimed, trying to take down the most violent of the possessed. It was horrifying, their friends, colleagues, and neighbors engaged in a fight to the death. It was wrong wrong wrong and by God it was the end of the world.
They saw the younger Adlers torn to pieces, and the elder running on all fours as she tried to rip apart someone else.
"Hold onto me, baby," Joel said, pulling her in in an attempt to shield her from the bodies. She'd already gotten a glimpse and couldn't help but stare, and she stared for a moment before she felt nauseous. Then, she screwed up her eyes and held on tight.
They saw Jimmy's place in flames. The baker's. The saloon. There were women running from the brothel, still rouged and bright as they aimed their guns at the monsters around them.
Through side paths and shortcuts, down alleyways and in the gaps between houses, they rode desperately through Deadwood. The buildings Joel had helped erect and the repairs he'd completed in the past few years had given him an intricate knowledge of the settlement. They rode fast and sure, evading the devils that clutched at the air, reaching for their ankles as they rode by.
Makeshift barricades had been put up all along the outskirts of town. Each way they turned, there was no way through. They rode back and forth, crisscrossing the streets as they tried their best to pull away from the writhing bodies in the dirt.
It wasn't till they passed the very last buildings down Main Street, right by the edge of town, that they slowed.
The sheriff lay dead, a bullet right between his eyes, bleeding out on the dusty street corner. A circuit rider loomed ahead of him on his mount, hands resting on his shotgun that, slung over his shoulder. Blood drenched his forearms, spattered against his coat, so soaked it shone visible even against the heavy wool. There was a fear in his eyes, a terror that unsettled them.
When he saw the Millers, he straightened and raised the weapon.
"Preacher, let us through," Tommy said, and the homilist darted his eyes between the men.
"Can't let anyone past," the man said, "This here's the reckoning. No one's gonna escape the inevitable."
Tommy raised his revolver. "I ain't askin' again. Let us through."
The preacher steadied his shaking hands and aimed his shotgun "But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up-"
It's hard to say who fired first.
In a split second, two gunshots rang out, fragmented echos of one another. The preacher fell. So did Joel and Sarah.
The bullet grazed through Joel's side, and he clutched at his abdomen, holding the wound.
"Joel-!" Tommy cried as he flung himself from his mount, the preacher dead and already forgotten.
Joel rolled over and crawled towards where Sarah lay. The bullet that had gone through Joel pierced her belly and she shook, blood spurting and pooling from the wound.
He tried to apply pressure, tried to slow the bleeding, but her screams and sobs stilled him.
"I'm sorry, baby," he cried, and she shook, eyes darting around, trying to focus and failing.
"Pa-," she croaked.
"It's okay, baby girl," he lied, "You're gonna be okay."
She exhaled in a final gurgling puff, blood spattering across her perfect face, and Joel howled.
She was gone, he knew it, but still he cradled her.
Tommy stroked her hair and wiped the blood off her cheek. Joel pressed his head to her chest and wept, horrible strangled heaves caught in each exhale.
The day the world ended, Joel's world ended, too.
They carried her body with them for miles, Joel holding her close even as he felt her begin to cool and stiffen. Time escaped them as they rode, and around sunrise, they found a creek with wildflowers blanketing the banks. A small herd of pronghorns leaped along the water.
Tommy dug a hole and Joel told her stories, rocking her back and forth in his arms. All the ones he could remember, that she loved so much when she was little. Told her to rest easy now, baby.
They lowered her into the ground, and Joel wept. Tommy assembled a small cairn at the head of her grave. Joel looked down at his mended shirt and realised it was ruined with blood. The last gift from his daughter, and he'd ruined it.
Joel embraced Tommy. Held his brother close and told him he loved him. Muttered something about needing a moment to himself and wandered off.
The day his world ended, Joel tried to follow her into the darkness. A gunshot rang out, echoing through the hills.
Tommy ran to the sound and found him, crumpled but very much alive. He held his big brother close, cloth pressed hard to his bleeding temple, brushing away his streaming tears as he cried himself, terrified to lose all of his remaining family in a single day.
The day the world ended, the last two Millers were covered in blood and filth and tears. All they had was each other, their horror and their fear.
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(Portrait of a young lady c. 1800-1805. Louis-André-Gabriel Bouchet. Fondation Napoléon, Paris.)
Flimsy Female Fashion in the Age of Napoleon
From NGV:
The garments worn by fashionable young women following the Revolution were famously dominated by muslin. In imitation of the ancient Greeks and Romans whose simplicity and elegance of dress was synonymous with democracy and the Roman Republic, post-Revolutionary Fashion set itself in opposition to the opulent artificiality of the Ancien Régime with its hooped and panniered skirts and elaborate embroidery and trimmings, by strutting a pared down simplicity in both style and material. Simply gathered, high waisted dresses of fine soft fabric, especially muslin, became the rage. The French interpretation of these classical garments came to be known as Empire style, whereas in England it became known as the Regency style. While muslin was the preferred fabric it came to have political and economic ramifications that were highly problematic for Napoleon.
Muslin is most typically an unbleached or white cloth, produced from finely combed cotton yarn. It originated in Northern India and first appeared in Europe in the 17th century. Becoming increasingly available with the English occupation of India in the 18th century, it found great popularity at the end of that century in France. Popular with British women in India, its open weave allowed the movement of air, and therefore was suitable for hot, dry climates. Muslin clothes were traded by ancient Greeks from the Indian port of Maisolos (or Maisala) and perhaps the name muslin originated from that place name. Marco Polo apparently praised the muslins available from India. The word muslin is also used colloquially. In the United Kingdom, many sheer cotton fabrics are termed ‘muslin’ and their uses are many; for instance, muslin is used for making various cheeses which require the milk solids to be separated from the whey.
Because the muslin trade was essentially cornered by the British, this delicate fabric had to be imported from England. This posed a serious problem for Napoleon – not only because he has closed French ports to English trade because of the hostilities between their countries (the Continental Blockade), but also because Napoleon was anxious to re-establish the textile industries in France following the Revolution. He was famously impatient with women around him who continued to wear muslin and was known to lose his temper with both Josephine and his step-daughter, Hortense, reportedly either tearing their fashionable dresses or spoiling them by dousing them with coffee and officially banning the wearing of muslin. His reasons were serious (though his temper must have been irksome) and connected with propping up France’s textile industry. He required formal dress to be worn at all times at court, thereby reintroducing a clientele for silks and velvet largely made in Lyon.
(Source)
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i guess only the stars would know the truth - chapter four - jason todd x reader
series summary: there's something going on in gotham. you transfer into gotham university's journalism program. simultaneously, people are going missing in gotham at record rates. it's only a matter of time before your curiosity gets the best of you.
words: 2.9k
ao3 | series masterlist
You were right about Gotham being a hub for activity to report on. This goldmine, however, makes it a bit difficult to find the specifics of what you’re looking for. Truly needle in a haystack territory, you think. Your morning had started early, you brewed a large pot of coffee to prepare yourself for the day ahead, and once it was ready, you began your research.
It had taken several hours straight of research and ignoring your homework to get to where you are now. You’d nailed down every article written about each of the attacks. Some were more thorough than others, but there was a throughline in each that you were able to pin down.
No matter the article, each eyewitness said there was at least a group of three people kidnapping the one person. That’s pretty standard, you assume. But there is something you find that’s a bit less standard.
Of the fourteen articles you found, only three mentioned what the kidnappers were wearing. And because of what was described, you’re not so sure how much weight to put into it, as it sounded a bit ridiculous.
These witnesses described the kidnappers as wearing owl masks.
Which, at first, you thought was a bit fucking absurd. Owls? But when you thought about it for more than thirty seconds, you remembered that’s probably the least absurd thing you’ve seen around Gotham. With that thought in mind, you began a long deep dive into Google to find out more about the owl masks.
And unfortunately for you, owl masks gotham city wasn’t exactly yielding the results you were looking for. At one point in your research, you had to get another cup of coffee and pace around your apartment to keep from blowing a gasket.
So, here you are, several hours later, reading through old Gotham town records trying to find some mention of owl masks. You’d combed to the 1800s before you found anything you felt was remotely relevant.
The Court of Owls.
Huh. In your (limited) research into Gotham, you hadn’t heard of them before. A few searches into academic databases didn’t yield anything worth wasting time over. When you put it into Google, the only thing you found worthwhile was a book available at Gotham City Library.
Well, time to get a library card.
As you’re packing up a tote bag to go, you wonder if this is just a wild goose chase. If those witnesses were traumatized, they saw an owl nearby, and their brains created a weird connection. But now the issue is you need to know. That little voice in the back of your head isn’t letting this one go, and you can’t lie and say you don’t want to know what the hell is going on around here.
As you’re getting your shoes on, you hear your phone ding.
Tim: Hey, are you free to come over and work on the project later?
You: Yes! I have a couple errands to run, I can text you when I’m done
Tim: Sounds great.
//
The building in front of you looked more like an old church than a library. You idly wonder if it’s considered a landmark as you heave open one of the heavy double doors and enter the ornate space. As you approach the front desk, you’re met with an older woman in bright red glasses with a smile on her face. You think that this is the first time you’ve seen some southern hospitality up here.
“Hi, dear. What can I do for you?”
“Hi. Just a library card.”
It’s a quick, easy process. You hand over your ID, and a few moments later, she hands it back along with a fresh library card. You feel like an official Gothamite as you look it over. Everything feels so… official now. Set in stone. You really live here now.
“Anything else I can do for you?” She asks, and as much as you hate asking for anything, this place is way too large for you to find anything you’re looking for in a reasonable amount of time.
“Actually, I’m looking for a book, but I’m not sure where I’d find it. It’s, um,” you open your phone to make sure you get the name right. “Gotham Secret Societies Volume Two.”
You watch as her face contorts into confusion as she thinks for a moment before she nods. “We actually have an entire Gotham History section, I’m sure it’s in there. Follow me.”
She makes her way around the desk and leads you around the opulent, labyrinthian hallways. You wonder if you’ll be able to make it out of here without a guide. It’s hard to pay attention to the route when you’re distracted by stained glass windows and antique light fixtures.
She stops after entering a doorless entryway to a small room packed wall to wall with bookshelves.
“If we have any book related to Gotham, it’ll be here. Can I do anything else for you?”
You shake your head. “That’s it. Thank you so much.”
You take a deep breath before starting at the left-hand wall. You’ve got quite a bit to look through, but your spirits lift when you realize the books are in alphabetical order. Upon that realization, it doesn’t take you long to get where you need to be. You skip a few bookshelves to get to the Gs, and you’re able to find it pretty quickly after that.
As you pull it from the shelf, you flip it around to give it a once-over. It’s clearly pretty old, but still in good shape for a library book. You decide to flip open to the table of contents to see what’s in store for you, when you hear your name being stage whispered from behind you. Your head snaps up, and you look around to find the source of the sound.
There, at the entryway, you see Jason with two books in one of his hands. He’s got a grin on his face, and he waves slightly before he makes his way over to you. “Hey. Fancy running into you here. What d’you have there?”
Your face goes warm before you respond. “Hi. Good to see you. It’s, um, for a research project.” You flash him the cover, and he chuckles.
“Volume two, huh? Sounds riveting. Hey, I know a couple in the free masons if you need a source.”
Your brow quirks. Money, connections—what does this family not have? “I’m not sure if I do, but I’ll definitely let you know.” You pause, looking down and trying to figure out what books are in his hand. “What’d you get? I figured you had all the books you wanted at home.”
Jason laughed, a haughty sound that you couldn’t help but smile at. “I wish. I got the demon an anime book, and I got this for me.” He turns the book around, giving you a good look at the cover of Brave New World.
“You ever read anything from this century?”
A look of mock offense takes over Jason’s face as he struggles to stifle his smile. “You little—I’m not letting you get away with that.”
“What are you gonna do? Bore me to death by reading me one of your books?”
“Oh, that’s it, get over here.”
You let out a quiet yelp before bolting to the other side of the room. You weave in between bookshelves, hoping to lose him. As you look back to see if you can spot him, you run into something solid. You can’t help the surprised sound that leaves your mouth, and you drop the book and your phone to the ground.
“Gotcha.” Jason’s grinning as he leans down to grab your stuff. When he stands to his full height to hand them to you, he speaks again. “I wasn’t trying to be nosy, but your phone keeps vibrating.”
You smile. “Thanks.”
Tim: What’s up?
You: All done. I can head your way now
Tim: Need me to send a car?
You: Don’t worry about it
You look up at Jason, an attempt at puppy dog eyes covering your expression. He rolls his eyes expectantly. “Can I get a ride?”
“Of course, sweetheart. You’re lucky I didn’t take the bike today. Follow me.”
//
When you arrive at the manor, Jason opens the car door for you before you even realize he has gotten out. With a shy smile, you tell him thank you. He gives you a shy smile in return. Your face heats up, and you look at your shoes.
He opens the front door for you, and there stands Tim, an amused expression on his face.
“I guess that’s why you didn’t need a car.” He says. You give him an apologetic smile and he shakes his head. “Come on, let’s go finish this thing.” Tim turns around, expecting you to follow. You do, only you turn around to get one last look at Jason. He’s staring right back at you, a small smile on his face the whole time. You finally have to look away when you get to the stairs.
As you stare at Tim’s back, following him to the library, you can’t help but think about how kind Jason has been to you. He’s sweet, a quality you’re not used to seeing in men. Of course, you’ve only really spoken to him at surface level, but you really do like him so far. And his family seems to adore him, and that says a lot, too, you think. Despite how… chaotic they may seem on the outside, you can tell they all have a strong bond that’s very important to them. Seeing all fifty (exaggeration, you’re aware, but sometimes it feels like it) family members each regard Jason with the same reverence makes it easy to feel the same way about him.
You’re literally snapped out of your reverie by Tim’s hand in your face, as you’ve come to a full stop in front of the table in the library. Your face feels warm as you unload your bag and plop into a chair. Tim chuckles.
“What?” You ask, confused by his prying eyes as you open your laptop.
“Oh, come on. You showed up here with Jason and you’re just not gonna tell me what happened?” His eyes are alight with excitement. You hate to burst his bubble. (And your own.)
“It wasn’t like that. We ran into each other at the library and I asked him for a ride.” You tell him, loading up the project document on your laptop. He rolls his eyes.
“But you want it to be like that, right?”
“I mean…” You can feel your face go hot. “How could I not?” You put your elbows on the table and bury your face in your hands. Muffled, you say, “can we change the subject now?”
“Yeah, let’s finish this so you can go hang out with Jason more.”
You groan, Tim chuckles. After a brief pause, he speaks again.
“Seriously, though?” He says, and you sober up out of your embarrassment for a moment to pay attention. “He’s a great person, and he doesn’t… take interest in other people that often. I just think, whatever it is, it’d be good for the both of you.”
It was finally about 7 p.m. when the project came to a close and you were both satisfied with the finished product. It was exhausting, a lot of back and forth and finding sources for everything, but you were glad to have it completed so you could dedicate your time to other projects.
Like those fucking owls. As much as you’ve tried to stay focused while working on this project with Tim, there’s a part of your brain just itching to go home and crack open this book. This was the only tangible mention of The Court of Owls, and you were determined to follow this trail. Even if it leads to a dead end.
“You staying for dinner?” Tim asks, breaking you from your (obsessive) thoughts. You let out a sigh before you could control it—as great as dinner at the manor would be, you also neglected all your other schoolwork today.
“As much as I’d love to, I’ve got four billion assignments due by Sunday, and if I don’t start making a dent in them now, they’ll never get finished.”
Tim shakes his head, waving off your apologetic tone. “I get it. It’s like they purposely overload us this time of year. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
After loading your stuff back into your tote, you follow Tim out of the library and down the stairs. You perk up when you hear Jason’s voice in the foyer. Tim notices, ever the watchful eye, and you try to ignore the knowing smirk on his face by focusing on Jason’s voice.
“…think they’d follow us the whole—hey sweetheart. You staying for dinner?” Jason’s attention so quickly goes from his conversation with Alfred to you that you worry he’s given himself whiplash. The amused smile on Alfred’s face tells you he doesn’t mind.
“Hi to you too,” Tim says, poking Jason in the shoulder as he walks past him, and Jason retaliates by slapping him upside the head.
“I see you all the time.” The sour look on Jason’s face leaves immediately as he turns his attention back to you. “Dinner? It’s homemade pizza.”
You groan. “You’re making this so hard for me, I really need to go home.”
Alfred chimes in this time, “You’re sure we can’t convince you?”
With a sigh, you say, “Unfortunately, no. Believe me, if I had the time, I’d much prefer to be here.”
“At least let me drive you then,” Jason says, already fishing around in his pocket for his keys. You begin to shake your head, already writing that idea off.
“No, you don’t have to—”
“I insist, come on.” You give him a look, and he gives you one back, to the point where you both have a mini standoff to see who will break first. It still doesn’t look like you’re going to budge, so he says, “Just let me do this for you. Please?”
And fuck, how can you say no to that?
You just nod and follow his cues to say goodbye to Tim and Alfred. You ignore the sly smile on Tim’s face as you give them your goodbyes. You and Jason make your way to the garage, and get into the same flashy red sports car he put you in at the library. When you buckle in, he asks for your address, and you easily give it to him.
“Oh, Roy’s place. Cool.” He says as he begins pulling out of the never-ending driveway.
“Y’know, Tim said the same thing, but I’ve still yet to meet this Roy.”
“I’ll introduce you, don’t worry. Oh, hey, did you guys finish that project?”
You fall into easy conversation with him about school work and weather and just about anything else that pops into your mind. It just flows with him, you think, as you can’t help but stare at him while his attention is on the road. He’s so easy to talk to that you don’t even realize you’ve made it to your apartment building until he parallel parks the car and absolutely books it to make sure you don’t have to open your own door.
It’s sweet, and you can’t help your face heating up as you give him a small thank you. He shuts the car door behind you and walks with you to the door of your building.
“Thanks for the ride, I really appreciate it.” You smile up at him, unable to contain it even if you wanted to.
“It’s no problem, really, I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” He pauses, taking a deep breath and looking at his feet before returning to look in your eyes. “I also wanted to ask if you would maybe… want to go to dinner tomorrow night? There’s this Italian place that’s really good, but if you—”
“I’d love to go to dinner with you, Jason.” You’re grinning, one of those cheek-splitting smiles you just can’t help. He smiles back, and the look in his eye gives you butterflies. Everything about him gives you butterflies.
“I’ll pick you up at seven, if that works?”
“That’s perfect.”
His smile, if possible, grows even wider. “Perfect.”
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You turn to scan your key, and he’s there to open the door for you. As it shuts, you give him a wave goodbye. He returns it as he walks backward toward his car, a matching grin on his face.
And when he finally can’t see you anymore, you break out into a happy dance. Dance might be a generous word for it, as you were far too excited to put any thought into what you were doing. You’re too busy jumping up and down to notice the elevator beeping to signal its arrival, or the man hopping off the elevator and stopping in the hallway to watch you with an amused look on his face.
“You good?”
You jump, startled, turning to face the voice. With his red hair, trucker hat, and tank top combo, he reminds you of the kind of men you saw back home. The familiarity puts you at ease. “Hi. Very good. Sorry.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Good.”
When he exits through the front door, you continue your happy dance.
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Intoxicating
Sevika x Fem!Reader MINORS DNI
CW: NSFW, eating Sevika out, she calls herself momma, inexperienced reader, loving Sevika
Words: 1800+
Tagging: @nora-xox @colourfulkidglitter @midnightsk13s @witxhy-lexx @dumbdoll-420 @biphrogg @thebleccbird @lucky13les @petitepersephone
What would you like to see more, Toxic Sevika or Werewolf Sevika? Make sure to request AoT, and Horizon characters while I'm in the mood. Comment to be tagged for anything :)
You didn't know which part of her was more intoxicating, the way her large palms gripped your scalp, long rough fingers combing through the thick roots of your hair tugging the strands ever so slightly to guide your tongue along her curves. Bits of white cut at your vision while you drowned in her. One of those magnificent hands has connected to each side of your head pulling at your skin. With just enough force only to sting. Dull nails scratching into the back of your neck as she lets you work on her lips. Only allowed to suck, and lick and nip at her as she ordered. Her muscles tightened around her shoulders ready to pull you in further whenever she wants.
You didn't know if it was the way her large body hung over you extruding copious amounts of heat and tension, it felt with the way she curled her back keeping you close to her heaving chest as your tongue lapped at her clit, fighting it's way through the thick hair that covered her skin. She mercilessly closed her legs around you, her thighs now pressed to your ears as she smothered you with her.
Or maybe it was the way she'd coo at you, the way you could see the smirk without even needing to raise your eyes to look. The loving insults that fell out of her mouth like second nature. The love that could only be said with that arrogant tone of hers.
Maybe it the her eyes went dark, clouded over with lust when you tease her, when you're naked, or how those stormy grey eyes would linger on your lips when you pull yourself away for air. Her slick leaking down your chin as she had her fun with you..
Every so often she'd lean forward to kiss your sweaty forehead. Wiping away strands of hair that stuck to your face.
"You said whatever I wanted, baby, don't you need a break?"
You'd answer but the palm of her hand shoved your tongue further inside of her pussy. She clearly didn't actually care if you needed one. She's always such a tease. You squint your eyes nodding, knowing she would keep teasing if you didn't answer her.
"Aww c'mon baby, you can talk with your mouth full I won't judge" a snort behind her words as she lifted a hand away from you, however you weren't worried about it yet trying to satisfy your girlfriend.
You couldn't, you could only mumble into her clit, your arms wrapped around her legs, nails scratching into the sides of her thighs as she squished you a bit more, strong calves pulling you closer. Her free hand lifted your bangs so she could see your eyes peek over the top of her.
"Look at me"
Yet no matter how much she teased, how meant she was, how cruel she could be, you obeyed. Your eyes fluttered open to see her staring at you, familiar grey eyes boring holes into your head. Heavy lidded as her smoky eyes had sweated a bit down her cheeks leaving stains along her perfectly scarred skin.
"You look beautiful like this angel"
Your eyes closed, lips wrapping around her clit as you sucked the sensitive bud , arms lifting to rub your palm against the muscles of her stomach. Her soft skin was scarred through and through, rough patches covered every other inch and you love ghosting your fingers memorizing each and every imperfection.
"Fuck, youre so good baby"
Her hands combed through the front of your hair as she moved your head exactly how she wanted to, grinding her clit further and further into you, as your face paled.
She was so intoxicating sometimes, like now. How you struggled to breath, how you'd fight away tears and the sting of asphyxiation to make your lover finish.
"Make me cum" her thighs squeezed you more as you struggled to breath, excitement only was keeping you going, desperate to please her, your fingers unclenched her thigh moving inwards underneath the tongue that played with her clit. You inserted one finger, that made her groan, you felt her other hand reach your head once more, gripping your hair tight.
"Just like that" she said, pushing you into her harshly.
One finger had dipped just as easily as two. Your two fingers are lost inside her wetness. Fucking the spongey skin inside of her as full as you could, your fingers felt small. You felt almost inadequate. Like you couldn't please such a beautiful, powerful woman.
But with the grunts escaping her, the way her limbs cut off your vision as her clit throbbed in your mouth proved otherwise. The tips of your buried digits scissored inside of her brushing the spot only slightly over and over pushing her.
Breathy deep chested groans left her, your eyes peering up for only a minute. To see her sweaty body heaving above you, her neck thrown back as her hands and legs kept you in place, her tits bounced perfectly as she rubbed her clit into your face.
When you added another finger it was all over, it sent her over the edge. Full moaning as you felt her cunt squeeze onto your fingers, her perfect nub convulsing in your lips as she came.
Slews of curses fell out of the woman's mouth as she loosened her legs enough for you to breathe, her hand going to the bottom of your chin to lift your face up. Her fingers pressing into your cheeks. Only now could you feel how uncomfortably hard the floor was beneath your bones kneecaps. How cold and sticky you were, you wanted her back on you so bad. But you obeyed, you let her lift your head without resistance, eyes following to see your lover pant.
Her cum was still dripping down your face, when she leaned forward to kiss you. Her warm hands found the sides of your face, her thumbs rubbing circles underneath your eyes on the sharps of your cheekbones. Her lips connected to yours as she pressed harder, her tongue swirling around your mouth to taste herself on you.
"God you taste so good like this"
She sighed leaning back against the soft cushiony couch she sat on. Both of you butt naked. You began to lift yourself, the palms of your hands pushing against the tops of her thighs, before wrapping both thighs around hers, your clit brushing against the rough bush right below her stomach.
"Hi baby"
"Hey princess"
She replied with her hand pulling at you waste, motioning you to rub your clit on whatever's closest, for now it was her chiseled abs. Her eyes watched the way your body grinded against her, she pushed you lower so the two of you were basically scissoring when you thrusted forward your clits would rub when you motioned back your lips wrapped around her thigh. It was sticky, and wet and hot and you couldn't get enough.
Sevika seemed to be in a good mood, the after taste of whiskey and expensive cigars lingered in your mouth from her kisses. The feeling of calloused skin wouldn't leave your hips, and the strings of soft compliments and praises ring through your ears.
You barely blinked when she switched your positions and now she was on top, her metal arm held the back of the couch, her body curled over you as you could only sink further into her couch, she positioned her hips above yours and began to grind her clit roughly into you, it was hard and it was big. Probably a result of the testosterone taken to work out, or maybe every bitch this muscular had a bigger clit. You didn't know or care, but the way she expertly fucked you with it, how the sofa kept banging into the wall. You couldn't get enough..
The room was quickly filled with your moaning, and her panting. You heard a rip as her sharp claws sunk into the fabric of the couch behind your head. She was already wet and warm. She used her cum to help slide your lips together, melding into one another only made you wetter. She lifted her hips and used her good hand to push two fingers inside of you with ease.
"Good fucking girl, do I really make you this wet?"
You could only moan, words left your head as she kept abusing the wet skin inside of you, fingers opening and closing stretching your poor little pussy out. Your hands lifted and locked behind her neck attempting to bury yourself in her chest.
"Fuck"
"Damn, your all fucked out already?"
She smirked at you, her fingers working at your core pulling strings of moans and cries from you.
"Please, please please Sev mmh."
"Yea?"
Fingers twirled inside of yoy her metal hands moving to wipe away stray strands of hair dangling in your face. Other hand still mercilessly fucking you.
"Seeev" you whined her name.
"Do you need to cum already, doll?"
"Pleeease" your eyes squinted shut as she kept dancing around the spot inside of you purposely. Whines of protest left your lips.
"You look so good angel, momma's gonna fuck you until you can't think"
"Seeev" the way your mouth couldn't stop saying her name. The way her lips left black lipstick stains across your neck, the way she sucked your skin leaving marks on her girl, tears left your eyes as she kept pushing your limits.
"You're so pretty when you cry for me" she chuckled her lips moving to wrap around your nipples taking them into her mouth one at a time, black lipstick marks all over your torso. Yet all it took was that palm rubbing your clit, and her fingers thrusting into that spot and it was over.
Her name fell from your mouth, over and over like it was the only way you could breathe. "Sevsevsevsevsevsev" your juices spilled over her arm and thighs, making a nice wet spot on her sofa. Your face flushed a bit in embarrassment.
You felt warm hands wrap around you and pull you into her. She was once again sitting on the couch, you now cradled in her arms. As she lifted your face to hers.
"You did so good for me" she whispered her nose nuzzling into the soft part of your cheek, her words lingered on your skin as you close yoy eyes trying to catch a breath.
"I'm so proud of you baby, remember when you could barely handle one finger" she smiled, and you grinned a small laugh coming out of your throat.
"We're way past that aren't we baby" you said taking one of her hands and ghosting your lips on her knuckles.
"I think you're ready to try my strap"
"Next time right? I can't move"
"Of course, if I fuck you anymore now I'm afraid your gonna knock the fuck out."
"I ammm" you groaned, burying your face in her shoulder.
"You could keep going even if I do" you smirked.
"I can do whatever I want"
"Like me?"
"Like youuu." She smirked, nuzzling herself into you neck.
"My pretty pretty princess"
#queue never learned patience#sevika#sevika fanfic#arcane sevika#sevika x you#sevika imagine#sevika x reader#arcane
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[D]omesticated attack dogs [...] hunted those who defied the profitable Caribbean sugar regimes and North America’s later Cotton Kingdom, [...] enforced plantation regimens [...], and closed off fugitive landscapes with acute adaptability to the varied [...] terrains of sugar, cotton, coffee or tobacco plantations that they patrolled. [...] [I]n the Age of Revolutions the Cuban bloodhound spread across imperial boundaries to protect white power and suppress black ambitions in Haiti and Jamaica. [...] [Then] dog violence in the Caribbean spurred planters in the American South to import and breed slave dogs [...].
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Spanish landowners often used dogs to execute indigenous labourers simply for disobedience. [...] Bartolomé de las Casas [...] documented attacks against Taino populations, telling of Spaniards who ‘hunted them with their hounds [...]. These dogs shed much human blood’. Many later abolitionists made comparisons with these brutal [Spanish] precedents to criticize canine violence against slaves on these same Caribbean islands. [...] Spanish officials in Santo Domingo were licensing packs of dogs to comb the forests for [...] fugitives [...]. Dogs in Panama, for instance, tracked, attacked, captured and publicly executed maroons. [...] In the 1650s [...] [o]ne [English] observer noted, ‘There is nothing in [Barbados] so useful as … Liam Hounds, to find out these Thieves’. The term ‘liam’ likely came from the French limier, meaning ‘bloodhound’. [...] In 1659 English planters in Jamaica ‘procured some blood-hounds, and hunted these blacks like wild-beasts’ [...]. By the mid eighteenth century, French planters in Martinique were also relying upon dogs to hunt fugitive slaves. [...] In French Saint-Domingue [Haiti] dogs were used against the maroon Macandal [...] and he was burned alive in 1758. [...]
Although slave hounds existed throughout the Caribbean, it was common knowledge that Cuba bred and trained the best attack dogs, and when insurrections began to challenge plantocratic interests across the Americas, two rival empires, Britain and France, begged Spain to sell these notorious Cuban bloodhounds to suppress black ambitions and protect shared white power. [...] [I]n the 1790s and early 1800s [...] [i]n the Age of Revolutions a new canine breed gained widespread popularity in suppressing black populations across the Caribbean and eventually North America. Slave hounds were usually descended from more typical mastiffs or bloodhounds [...].
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Spanish and Cuban slave hunters not only bred the Cuban bloodhound, but were midwives to an era of international anti-black co-ordination as the breed’s reputation spread rapidly among enslavers during the seven decades between the beginning of the Haitian Revolution in 1791 and the conclusion of the American Civil War in 1865. [...]
Despite the legends of Spanish cruelty, British officials bought Cuban bloodhounds when unrest erupted in Jamaica in 1795 after learning that Spanish officials in Cuba had recently sent dogs to hunt runaways and the indigenous Miskitos in Central America. [...] The island’s governor, Balcarres, later wrote that ‘Soon after the maroon rebellion broke out’ he had sent representatives ‘to Cuba in order to procure a number of large dogs of the bloodhound breed which are used to hunt down runaway negroes’ [...]. In 1803, during the final independence struggle of the Haitian Revolution, Cuban breeders again sold hundreds of hounds to the French to aid their fight against the black revolutionaries. [...] In 1819 Henri Christophe, a later leader of Haiti, told Tsar Alexander that hounds were a hallmark of French cruelty. [...]
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The most extensively documented deployment of slave hounds [...] occurred in the antebellum American South and built upon Caribbean foundations. [...] The use of dogs increased during that decade [1830s], especially with the Second Seminole War in Florida (1835–42). The first recorded sale of Cuban dogs into the United States came with this conflict, when the US military apparently purchased three such dogs for $151.72 each [...]. [F]ierce bloodhounds reputed to be from Cuba appeared in the Mississippi valley as early as 1841 [...].
The importation of these dogs changed the business of slave catching in the region, as their deployment and reputation grew rapidly throughout the 1840s and, as in Cuba, specialized dog handlers became professionalized. Newspapers advertised slave hunters who claimed to possess the ‘Finest dogs for catching negroes’ [...]. [S]lave hunting intensified [from the 1840s until the Civil War] [...]. Indeed, tactics in the American South closely mirrored those of their Cuban predecessors as local slave catchers became suppliers of biopower indispensable to slavery’s profitability. [...] [P]rice [...] was left largely to the discretion of slave hunters, who, ‘Charging by the day and mile [...] could earn what was for them a sizeable amount - ten to fifty dollars [...]'. William Craft added that the ‘business’ of slave catching was ‘openly carried on, assisted by advertisements’. [...] The Louisiana slave owner [B.B.] portrayed his own pursuits as if he were hunting wild game [...]. The relationship between trackers and slaves became intricately systematized [...]. The short-lived republic of Texas (1836–46) even enacted specific compensation and laws for slave trackers, provisions that persisted after annexation by the United States.
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All text above by: Tyler D. Parry and Charlton W. Yingling. "Slave Hounds and Abolition in the Americas". Past & Present Volume 246, Issue 1, pages 69-108. February 2020. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]
#abolition#its first of february#while already extensive doumentation of dogs in american south in 1840s to 60s#a nice aspect of this article is focuses on two things#one being significance of shared crossborder collaboartion cooperation of the major empires and states#as in imperial divisions set aside by spain britain france and us and extent to which they#collectively helped each other crush black resistance#and then two the authors also focus on agency and significance of black resistance#not really reflected in these excerpts but article goes in depth on black collaboration#in newspapers and fugitive assistance and public discourse in mexico haiti us canada#good references to transcripts and articles at the time where exslaves and abolitionists#used the brutality of dog attacks to turn public perception in their favor#another thing is article includes direct quotes from government and colonial officials casually ordering attacks#which emphasizes clearly that they knew exactly what they were doing
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Pictured above are Victorian moustache cups, a quaint little invention first crafted around the mid-1800s by British potter Harvey Adams.
Throughout different historical periods, facial hair has fallen in and out of fashion. The 19th century in particular saw a boom in popularity, as the growth and preened appearance of a man's moustache became a symbol of his masculinity and prestige. Men would widely use wax, combs and other grooming tools to keep their moustaches in perfect condition.
Harvey created a 'moustache guard' inside the teacup, which is a ledge that run across the rim of the cup, leaving a small opening to sip the tea through. The moustache would rest on the ledge, allowing it to keep dry and also preventing the wax from melting into the hot tea!
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Fifteen Seconds, Sixteen Years
WC: 1800
Rating: T
Warnings: grief, angst, language, alcohol mention
Summary: Two years into the breakout, the Miller brothers recount their time spent with Sarah
The end of the world changed a lot. It stirred up a justifiable distrust of other humans. It turned everyday privileges originally taken for granted into luxuries, things like soap and toilet paper. It upended transportation systems and landlocked the entire population, shattered families, infrastructures, and governments. But some parts stayed true, flickers of hope unable to be stamped out. Little hints that maybe some day, this would all blow over. Things like frogs singing at night, lightning bugs coming out of hiding, songbirds in the morning, and the way the July heat beats down on a man’s back.
Tommy’s brow creased with worry as he combed the city looking for Joel. The crowd of other bodies only making the sticky air feel heavier. His shirt thoroughly drenched in sweat clinging to him like another skin. He gulped down another mouthful of hot air, trying to ignore the slow increase of his heart rate. His older brother had left their shared apartment before sunup this morning. All Tommy knew was that he was helping clear out an old warehouse for food storage. He caught a glimpse of a familiar face, and quickened his pace.
“Hal! Was Joel with you today?”
The man stopped to face Tommy, shaved head glistening with a layer of sweat, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to temporarily shield his eyes from the sun, “Yeah, he worked a double, was there when I came in for second shift.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Said something about the docks when he took off.”
“Thank you,” Tommy nodded, trying to mask any urgency in his voice as he weaved through the crowd, darting between two brick buildings to head towards the water front. The shade offered a welcome covering from the sun’s biting rays. He and Joel had ended up in the New Orleans QZ. It was relatively new, plenty to be done setting everything up. They figured the work would keep them busy for a while as they made their way slowly east, hoping to build up some extra rations and supplies.
This side of town was relatively empty compared to the bustling city center he had just worked his way through. The shadows of dusk slowly edging their way up through the sky, painting it a deep purple. There were a few men milling around the water’s edge, trading pills and cigarettes for ration cards. Tommy felt a flood of relief as he spotted Joel’s figure resting against a weather beaten docking post. A bottle of bourbon sat uncorked beside him. Tommy dragged his feet a little harder than normal to make sure his approach was known, stopping a few feet back from where Joel was propped up.
“That new?”
“It was,” Joel said flatly, lifting the half empty bottle to his lips to pull another long swig. His eyes were glazed over staring out into the direction of the water but unfocused on anything in particular.
“I was worried about you today, couldn’t make heads or tails of ya anywhere.”
Joel sat unfazed by his brother’s words, arms limp beside him, dark hair slick with sweat.
The two of them rested in silence for a long time. Tommy was afraid to push too hard when he got like this. Joel had been known to lash out over small questions. He had been walking on eggshells for almost two years and figured he would be for the rest of his life. Tommy had tried countless times to diffuse the bomb that sat behind the pair of brown eyes he had always looked up to, each attempt leaving both of them battered, faces covered in ash with tears streaking down.
“Do you know what tomorrow is,” Joel said quietly.
“Shit, course I do,” Tommy said, scuffing the toe of his boot against the worn wood.
“She would’ve been sixteen,” Joel whispered, voice cracking on the last syllable.
Tommy shut his eyes and swallowed hard, willing the tears not to spill over just yet. His eyes opened again and he slid down the post across from Joel, legs stretched out in front of him. The sound of water lapping against the docks filled the empty space. Joel’s eyes fluttered shut as he slipped into a memory, Sarah’s 13th birthday party.
She begged Joel to let her take her soccer team to the local skating rink and spend the day. Of course he obliged. He would’ve taken her to the moon had she asked. Joel set everything up himself, reserved a corner for them, bought an ice cream cake, had rolls of quarters wrapped and ready to go for all her friends to play in the arcade.
A couple of the team moms stayed to help keep an eye on the girls, much to Joel’s relief. Tommy wasn’t much help on the supervision side of things today, rather he had gladly taken the role of hooligan in chief and was skating hand in hand with Sarah, doing tricks to keep the other girls laughing. Joel couldn’t hide the smile on his face if he tried.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Sonya, their goalie’s moms said to Joel leaning up against the rail with him. Sarah had slept over at her house plenty of times since they joined the same team. “Watching one is hard enough with two parents.”
“My brother helps a lot, I think he tries to make up for being gone when she was younger.”
Sonya nodded, “Well you guys are doing great, she’s a sweet kid.”
Between the praise for his Sarah and watching her giggle as she chased Tommy around the rink, his face was permanently lit up. She looked so much older all of a sudden. Her hair was in long, beautiful braids with light blue beads on the end.
“Fulani braids, just like Alicia Keys!” she had squealed when they left her hair appointment the prior week. Her face was slimming down, features becoming more defined. She looked like her mother, but she was all kindness and determination, the kind of steady love that changed everyone who gave her a chance. Joel bit back tears wondering what she would look like today.
A herring gull that lighted on the end of the dock crying loudly pulled him from his trance. He shifted his gaze slightly to Tommy who was glassy eyed, head stuck in its own minefield of thoughts.
“It’s okay,” Joel whispered, giving him permission to speak.
Tommy buried his head in his hands and drew in a deep breath of salt air, his voice coming out with a tremor. “I was sixteen when we got her,” he choked out. Tears streaming down his face that he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.
Joel swallowed a new lump down. The reminders piling on year after year. The dates, weeks, times that reminded them both of her absence. The fifteen seconds too late Tommy had been hanging over him like a ghost every night. The color of the sky when he would pick her up from soccer practice twisting the knife in Joel’s chest each night at sundown. The thought of his baby brother holding his baby girl for the first time.
Tommy shot up like a weed that summer. Shoulders filling out, jaw getting stronger, but still just a kid himself. He paced the hallway anxiously for hours waiting for the news that she was here and safe. When Joel finally emerged from the room, blue paper gown still covering his clothes, eyes full of tears, Tommy’s face broke out in a grin.
“I’m an uncle?”
Joel nodded, “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Tommy bounced with excitement and rushed to hug him, “Can I see her?”
“We’ll be in the room soon and you can visit, I gotta go help them get moved,” Joel said retreating back down the hall.
Tommy’s heart stopped the moment he saw her. He pulled his hat off of his curly head in reverence. She was sound asleep, wrapped in one of those striped hospital blankets, mouth hanging open as tiny snores fell from her little lips. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans and held out his arms to take her from Joel.
“Careful with her head,” he said softly, adjusting her into his brother’s arms, “This is Sarah.”
“Hi Sarah,” Tommy grinned, “I’m gonna be your best friend.”
No one could make her laugh like her uncle Tommy could. Their bond was instantaneous. Joel joked that she had imprinted on him like a mother duck. Countless Saturday mornings Joel had come into the living room to find them next to each other on the couch sharing the box of donut holes Tommy would pick up every weekend. Some cartoon Joel had long since forgotten the name of blaring on the tv.
She would look up at him and smile, long eyelashes and powdered sugar dusted lips, “Good morning daddy.”
“Good morning baby,” he would lean down over the back of the couch and kiss the top of her head, grabbing a blueberry donut hole for himself. It was always the three of them when Tommy was home.
The memories washed over each of them for hours. More liquor than words passed between the two as they watched the sky turn black. The absence of bright city lights filling the sky with more stars than they had seen when they were younger.
Tommy tentatively broke the silence, “You know, she would’ve hated the way things turned out. She was too kind for a world like this.”
Joel nodded solemnly.
His brother chuckled before continuing, “I could just see her with a bullhorn yelling at people to get along and stop being so goddamn mean to each other.”
A small smile darted across Joel’s lips.
“She was too good for all this shit.”
“You’re right,” he added quietly, “I wish it had all played out differently. Cordyceps and everything.”
“There’s your chance,” Tommy pointed to the sky.
Joel raised his eyes just in time to see the tail end of a shooting star falling across the sky. Eyes flitting down to catch the distorted reflection in the choppy water. Maybe they would wake up tomorrow and it would all be a bad dream. But they had both fought enough nightmares to know that wasn’t true.
“Happy birthday, Sarah girl,” Tommy said softly. He dumped the last shot of bourbon into the harbor for her. The brothers wordlessly clasped hands and hoisted each other up to head back into the city, shower, and relive it all again tomorrow.
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Hob loves to ramble about history and Dream loves to listen, as he always did at each and every one of their meetings, but as Hob starts going into another tangent about the mid 1800s - because the textbooks got it all wrong, as they often do - he stops mid-sentence at the feeling of Dream's head resting on his shoulder. Dream doesn't need sleep, not really, but Hob is one of the very few people who make him feel safe enough to let his guard down and just rest.
If he feels Hob's hand gently combing through his hair, well, he can't say he minds that much, not that he'd admit it to anyone. He just shifts a bit closer into Hob's side and lets himself be taken care of, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly disappear as he breathes into Hob's scent and relaxes under his touch.
#hob gadling#dream of the endless#dreamling#the sandman#me: i shall write angst of the highest calibre#also me: my man has suffered enough he deserves some good ol fashioned fluff#i promise i'll write dreamling soft hours in an honest-to-god fic#but for now have this#i just think dream would be very sensory aware#hob's voice and warmth and scent and just‚ his presence are very comforting for him#you might as well give him a blanket and warm milk with honey‚ it'd have the same effect on him#this is a very fancy way of saying he loves to cuddle lmao#and hob is more than happy to oblige#i'm very‚ very normal about them#ty for 200 notes!#alec.txt
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Sunday Steve - Day Eight
Things that would be new or unfamiliar to Steve in the 21st century, either due to the time period he grew up in, or his social-economic status and other such factors.
Day Eight: Shampoo and Conditioner
Shampoo: The origins of the word shampoo comes from an Indian hair and body massage called champooi/champo.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s shampoo was a water soluble, dry shampoo powder that would be dissolved by the teaspoon in a cup of hot water (Link). Shampoo could also come as bars of soap, which could lather or be grated and dissolved into boiling water and left to cool and solidify.
A 1908 New York Times shampoo guide claims "hair is best shampooed at night, following thorough combing and brushing, and singeing split ends. Castile soap is applied with a stiff brush and rinsed four times every month to six weeks." (Link)
Bathing had become more and more common as part of the hygiene routine in the early 1900s, but shampooing was generally recommended every two weeks—or every four to six weeks (preferably using castile soap or tar soap) because shampoo was known for drying out and damaging hair. (Link)
While at-home shampooing was slowly becoming more common, it was more common—for those who could afford it—to get it commercially done. Most shampoo ads were targeted towards women, but men in barbershops "transitioned from using hair tonics to using shampoos to remove the build-up of heavy styling products" (Link).
The liquid shampoo first really started hitting the market in 1927. So by the 30s at-home shampooing became even more common. This is due to a combination of most Americans have in-house plumbing, their own bathrooms, and the shampoo formulas becoming less harsh and drying. The combination of all this meant one could wash their hair every week. (Link) (Every day shampooing began to be marketed in the 70s since oily hairstyles were out of fashion.)
Liquid shampoos were sold in glass bottles, while powdered shampoos came in tins.
Bottles of shampoo and lotions manufactured in the early 20th century by the C.L. Hamilton Co. of Washington, D.C., United States
It wasn't until 1934 that detergent-based (no-soap, modern) shampoos came onto the market (Link).
Sarah Rogers likely wouldn't have been able to afford to get her hair shampooed, but she could have made her own shampoo from castile soap bars (example youtube video) or bought shampoo powders which were then dissolved in water.
She would only wash her hair every few weeks, most likely brushing her hair and keeping it up in styles in-between washes. (Link) Using a clean brush to brush ones hair helped remove and evenly distribute oils.
In 1933 shampoo cost about 25-50 cents. (Link) (Link) I haven't dug deep to know exactly what kind of things Steve and Sarah would be able to afford. But it wouldn't surprise me if there were times they could and couldn't afford hair care products.
As for if Steve would shampoo his hair, he probably just used soap. Shampoo had soap in it until 1933 (which was why it was so drying) (Link). But men could afford to use soap on their hair since they usually had shorter hair and their natural head oils could help mitigate the damage.
I can find less information about men's hair routines if they couldn't afford to go to barbershops, so I'm less certain of what Steve would do. But 20s, 30s, and 40s men's hair styles had a lot of oil or greasy styling products. While these would need to be washed out for re-styling (probably weekly like women) the oil products would help against drying out the hair.
Men also always wore hats. Having stiff or slick-down hair was important so that hair styles wouldn't be ruined by putting on and removing hats. Hair oils would stain hats, chairs and other things heads came in contact with.
Circa 1920 Glostora hair oil and brush ad and Hair Slik ad
Don't be fooled by the ad. This vintage bottle of Glostora is 5 inches or 12.5 cm tall. It would be put on after shampooing, like conditioner.
In the Captain America: The First Avenger movie we can see that Steve's hair isn't slicked back. This could just be a modern day styling choice, but it could also show that Steve did not care about styling his hair.
Cleanliness was was important so he probably washed his hair every few weeks with soap and bathed regularly. But it doesn't look like he put heavy product in his hair. (Unlike Bucky, who probably had more reason to shampoo his hair. It wouldn't surprise me if Bucky went to the barbershop when he could afford it.)
Steve probably couldn't afford to do more to his hair than wash it with soap every few weeks. He likely made his own shampoo with castile or tar soap. This method makes more shampoo than the bottles of liquid shampoo being sold.
Conditioner: Conditioners originated from a product called brilliantine (developed in 1900) which was used to soften beards and moustaches. This product would be put on after styling in barbershops to make the hair shine and soften it. (Glostora and Hair Slik are similar products.) (Link)
"It was oil based, giving off a slimy residue to anything it touched. Homemakers knit lace doilies to cover the backs of high back chairs and couches to protect the furniture from men’s greasy heads" (Link)
Other items used similar to conditioners were hair tonics, or Wildwood Cream.
Conditioner became a necessity because of shampoo, as it is drying to the hair. So it wasn't used much until shampooing became more common (oil has a long history of being used to tame hair, but commercial conditioner products became more common along with shampoo use.) (Link)
Women caught on to these types of commercial products. I've had a hard time finding specific conditioner products from the 30s. Here is a hair care routine for women circa 1930 that mentions brillientine, so it looks like women began using brillientine as well before more specific conditioning products were developed.
There seemed to be more conditioner products developed by the 40s. Here's a conditioning cream from around the 40s, and a different one with a price (about 39¢).
1942 Drene Shampoo Hair Conditioner Vintage Print Ad
(Drene was the first modern synthetic (no soap) shampoo and you can see in the side panel of this ad they say "Don't rob your hair of its glamour by using soap or liquid soap shampoo—which always leave behind a dulling film that dims the natural lustre and color brilliance!")
Wrap up
Modern day hair routines would be recognisable but still somewhat unfamiliar to Steve. This is partially because men's hairstyles have changed drastically from the slick-back styles he is used to. Hats have also gone out of style.
Also, it is common now in America to wash one's hair around three times a week. This shift came about with the change in hair styles. Woman leaving hair down and covering it less necessitates the need to shampoo and condition it more. (Women shampooed their hair once a week in salons up to the 60s).
The products are also slightly different. Liquid shampoo is the dominate form now (I doubt Steve ever bought liquid shampoo) and they come in plastic bottles. The liquid shampoo is likely a much different formula than he's used to. Additionally, conditioning is a very specific step in the process and hair product ingredients have evolved.
There are also combination products like 2-1 shampoo and conditioner which came about in the late 1980s.
Along with the cultural changes, Steve's socioeconomic status would effect his perception of hair-care routines and buying hair products.
With modern (no soap) products, Steve's hair is probably softer and shinier. Steve would have been aware of no soap products, but I don't think he would have bought them. However, he could have had these products used on him during his USO tour. Interacting with the women there probably introduced him to many products he was less familiar with.
Men's hairstyling in the 1920s.
This post kind of got away from me! But I hope you enjoyed my deep dive into 20th century hair care.
#steve rogers#steve rogers meta#meta#sunday steve#1920s#1930s#1940s#american history#us history#history#shampoo#conditioner#hair care#vintage hair#hair styles#hygiene#20th century#long post
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