#embossing tools

[eppujensen]

Wow! What a seriously impressive faux metal crown made from cardboard (cereal box type stuff), sequins, paint and embossing tools. Tutorial by Heather Tracy at The Graphics Fairy. I have to remember this!

[conservethis]

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[ghw-archive]

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1857.

[giuggioloo]

Trying out embossing :o

[a-hearts-a-heavy-burden]

Hey lovelies,

I recieved a custom book embosser for Christmas!! I love it so much, however, it is hard to see the imprint on the paper.

So I want to get cute (themed) stickers to emboss. All I am finding are the gold and silver, round, boring ones. Can y'all leave some ideas or links for some cute themed embossing stickers??

Embossed in question 😍😊🥰😌

[crossbackpoke-check]

Dysprosium, Mary Soon Lee

dysprosium, AN 66, is a silvery-white rare earth metal. its name is derived from the greek dysprositos, meaning “hard to get at”, owing to the difficulty in separating and isolating this rare earth element. dysprosium is used to measure neutron flux, to fuel reactors, and to activate phosphors. terfenol-d is a magnetorestrictive alloy, meaning that it changes shape when a magnetic field is applied, and is used to manufacture underwater acoustic systems.

jason “robo” robertson, dallas stars #21 for @simmyfrobby’s nhl periodic table poems <3

[leon-on-the-froggy-chair]

im telling yall i feel like Luis would really like those yeehaw ass fringe jackets

you know the ones

[thedowntown500]

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Alabama Notary Public Kit

Elevate your notary game in Alabama with this professional Notary Public Kit! Includes a crisp MaxLight rectangular stamp and a classic desk seal embosser—perfect for official use. Durable, reliable, and compliant with Alabama state requirements. ✔️ Get yours today!

[craftystampin]

You Can Create It - International Challenge & Inspiration - December 2024

You Can Create It I’m so excited to be part of the international “You Can Create It!” group of Stampin’ Up! demonstrators.  The group was started by German demonstrators Anja Luft and Heike Fallwickl as a challenge to see what different and beautiful projects can be created from the same list of just a few materials. Every trimester there are 4 monthly envelopes plus an extra envelope.  Each…

[ghw-archive]

[saatorus]

remember when?

pairing — satoru gojo x reader

synopsis — while cleaning the attic, you stumble across photos of your husband from his school days.

wc — 5.2k

warnings — mentions of scars (au where satoru survives shinjuku showdown), angst but in the yearning way, so much fluff, husbandjo, domesticity, not proofread! i also made hc's behind some of the photos hehe

author's note — the new illustrations from the jjk movie completely broke me :( so i had to whip up a little something from the jjk fold of my brain.

It was just some random Tuesday, and your husband Satoru wasn’t due home until after six — something about looking over a pile of reports on rising cursed energy in the Kanto region. Even with Sukuna gone, chaos liked to linger.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, like it always does when your mind drifts back to that winter two years ago. The Shinjuku showdown. You’d been convinced you’d lost him — his cursed energy disappeared, his body literally split in two. The moment still plays in your nightmares: the blood, the silence, your own voice screaming. You remember clutching his hand — or what was left of it — while Shoko fought to bring him back. And somehow, impossibly, she did.

He survived. Scarred, different, quieter in ways only you can read — but alive.

Sometimes you still wake up and run your fingers across the long scar that traces the soft skin of his abdomen, as if to confirm he’s really still here.

After that day, everything shifted. You left your role as a teacher at Jujutsu Tech — too much pain, too many memories, and honestly, too much peace. Not many cursed spirits dared show their faces anymore. These days, you exorcise a lingering curse here or there, but mostly? You spend your time being what Gojo Satoru once joked about during a late night walk back when you were still just colleagues: a housewife. A relaxed one at that — sans the apron clichés.

And truthfully? You don’t hate it.

Your house — the one Satoru picked out, of course — is enormous. It sits just outside of Tokyo, nestled high enough to offer sweeping views of the city skyline on one side and forested hills on the other. Wide windows. Sun-drenched walls. Room for both quiet and chaos. "A house that can hold all of our egos," he’d grinned when you moved in, but when he saw you spinning barefoot in the sunlit kitchen, he’d gone quiet. You’d looked over and seen it in his face: this is home.

You decide to clean the attic today. Partly because it’s been ages, partly because the place is a mess of dusty boxes and half-forgotten memories, and partly because you just want to surprise Satoru with something useful. Maybe you’ll find that old vinyl player he swears he didn’t lose.

You spend a solid hour sorting through stacks of cardboard — some labeled with scrawled handwriting (Nanami’s, definitely), others with faded Jujutsu Tech stickers. There’s a whole box of broken sunglasses you recognize immediately. Another of loose-grade mission reports that probably should’ve been shredded, like, a decade ago. You toss what you can into piles — keep, ask Satoru, burn before someone finds it — and you’re wiping sweat off your brow when you find it.

It's in a box labeled “JJT archives”, a thick, heavy book tucked beneath a pile of old uniforms and loose cursed tools wrapped in cloth. The cover is cracked leather, and there’s a faint, almost unreadable embossing on the spine.

It’s not labeled.

Curious, you tug it out, brush the dust from its cover, and flip it open.

Instantly, you realize what it is.

Photos. Dozens of them. Smiling, chaotic, deeply youthful energy practically radiating off the pages. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Shoko Ieiri. Haibara Yu. Kento Nanami. Their classmates, their mentors, the Tokyo branch in all its raw, messy, golden-era glory.

You blink, and your throat tightens. There’s a warmth in your chest — fond and aching all at once.

You close the book gently, your fingertips resting on the worn leather for a moment longer. This isn’t something you want to rush through alone.

You set it aside carefully, ready to go through it together when he gets home.

He always said he wanted to show you what he was like back then.

–

The front door clicks open at exactly 6:14 p.m.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys, the rustle of his coat as it hits the entryway hook, and then—

“Honeyyyyy,” Satoru’s voice calls out in that signature sing-song tone, the one you always say makes him sound like a bored housewife in a drama. “I’m hooooome and emotionally exhausted!”

You can’t help the smile that breaks over your face. “Kitchen,” you call back.

A beat later, you hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor — not quite heavy, but still loud enough to announce his presence. He never really learned how to walk quietly. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He leans into the doorway like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, white hair tousled from the wind, shirt wrinkled from too many hours slouched at a desk. His jacket’s half-off one shoulder, and his blindfold’s gone — replaced by tinted glasses that slide slightly down his nose as he tilts his head at you.

“Whoa,” he says, deadpan. “Who’s that absolute beauty in my kitchen?”

You snort, stirring the sauce on the stove. “She’s married.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs, crossing the room and slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

His body is warm — always — and it fits against yours like muscle memory. You feel the hard line of his chest, the loose way he rests his chin on your shoulder, the way his breath ghosts against your neck when he exhales like he’s finally safe again.

“Hey,” he says more quietly this time. “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“Yeah,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “but that was twelve hours ago and I almost died again from boredom.”

You turn around and press a soft kiss to the spot just below his jaw. “You hungry?”

“Starving. For food and love. In that order, but barely.”

You flick his forehead and he pouts, but he lets go so you can plate the food.

Dinner is nothing fancy — rice, grilled fish, the sauce you were working on, a couple of side dishes you whipped up out of boredom. But Satoru reacts like you’ve served him a five-star meal, moaning dramatically with every bite.

“My beautiful, talented wife,” he groans, flopping sideways in his chair like he’s been slain by deliciousness. “You’re always spoiling me.”

“You spoil yourself,” you mutter, pouring him tea with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “I saw your UberEats bill last week.”

“Hey,” he says, mouth still full of rice, “those were all emotionally necessary. There was a lot of paperwork. Such labor requires tiramisu.”

“Three separate orders in one day?”

“They were from different places. Variety is key to mental wellness.”

You shoot him a flat look as you sit back down. “Pretty sure buying four desserts doesn’t count as a balanced diet.”

“I got one of them for you.”

“No, you got it for you and said, ‘you can have half if you want.’”

“And you didn’t want it,” he points out smugly. “Which means it became mine by universal law.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You always sit across from him — it’s become a quiet habit over time, a way to read his expressions even when he’s being dramatic. Like now, when he’s chewing with exaggerated slowness, eyes half-lidded like he’s in some kind of blissful trance.

Sometimes he nudges your foot under the table, tapping his toes against yours like a child trying to get attention without using words.

Other times, like tonight, you catch him staring mid-bite — not in a silly way, but in that strange, still quietness he gets sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. Like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is his life now: a warm dinner, soft light, your voice in the kitchen, no curses waiting around the corner.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you set down your chopsticks.

“Hmm?” He blinks, then smiles, and it’s all teeth and softness. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He kicks your shin lightly under the table. “Thinking about how I tricked the prettiest person in the world into marrying me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Oh come on,” he groans, laughing, “at least let me pretend I’m a catch.”

“You are a catch,” you say, voice softer now, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Just… a really expensive one with terrible food delivery habits. And you hog the bathroom a lot.”

He grins and laces his fingers with yours. “I’ll take it.”

After dinner, he insists on helping with the cleanup, which mostly means he dries dishes while doing an elaborate stand-up routine with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like a bartender. You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you feel a cold splash hit your back.

You pause. Slowly turn.

He’s holding the sink hose, blinking innocently.

“…Did you just—?”

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “did someone get wet? That must’ve been a malfunction. Tragic, really.”

You squirt him back instantly. He lets out a squawk like a wet cat, and before long, the floor is a mess, one of you is definitely going to slip and die, and he’s trying to use his body as a shield while cackling like a maniac.

“I live with you,” you mutter, wiping water off your face.

“And what a gift that is,” he says grandly, leaning in to kiss your damp cheek, water droplets still clinging to his ivory eyelashes. “Totally worth the near-death experience.”

You shake your head, but let the moment linger, let him hold you there by the sink, his lips brushing against yours like a silent thanks.

Eventually, he drags you to the bathroom.

The shower is big — another Gojo-specific choice when you built the house. He said he needed “space to dance dramatically during hair-washing.” You hadn’t realized he meant it literally until you walked in one day to find him swaying under the water, humming some ballad with shampoo running down his face.

Tonight, though, it’s quiet.

You both strip down without fanfare. He steps in first, holding out a hand like a gentleman even though he’s already dripping wet. The steam fills the air as you join him, the water warm and soft as it runs over your skin.

You wash his hair, carefully, gently, nails scraping his scalp in slow circles. His eyes are closed the whole time, a rare expression of serenity on his face.

Next up is washing his body — an act you love a bit too much.

His hands are by his sides, water cascading down the large expanse of sinewed muscle and scarred skin. There's a glimpse of a jagged scar that runs diagonally across his collarbone — one of the many pale remnants of the battle that nearly ended everything.

Your fingers brush against it absently, and Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He never hides them anymore — the scars. They scatter across his body now: fine lines, brutal gashes, faded burns. A slash across his abdomen from where Sukuna’s curse split him in two. A jagged cut down his spine that he jokes looks like a zipper. An old puncture near his hip that Shoko sewed shut with her own hands, mumbling curses the whole time.

You’ve memorized each one. Some days you trace them like constellations. Some days he lets you.

He doesn’t talk, not much. Just stands there and lets you take care of him.

Later, he returns the favor — fingers combing through your hair, rinsing soap from your back, holding you steady with his large hands reverently roving across your body when you lean into him just a little too much.

When you’re both towelled off and dressed in pajamas (his: old Jujutsu Tech sweats and a faded tee; yours: one of his shirts and soft shorts), you crawl into bed.

He flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling everywhere. You make a sound of protest when his knee knocks into yours, and he just grins at you lazily.

“Can we watch that dumb baking show?” he asks, already pulling the blanket over the two of you.

“The one where they all sabotage each other?”

“Yes. It’s healing. Sorry that I said it was boring before.”

You roll your eyes but grab the remote anyway.

He shifts closer as the episode starts, arm sliding under your neck to pull you in. Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thrum of his heart, strong and sure beneath old wounds.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Good. Stay right there. I had a long day of being the strongest and I need my beautiful wife.”

You laugh into his shirt.

This — the warmth, the closeness, the scent of his skin mixed with soap — this is the part no one sees. Not the world, not his students, not the remnants of the Jujutsu world that still whisper his name like a myth. Just you. Just him.

The baking show is halfway through an episode. Some poor contestant has just dropped their chiffon cake while another is sabotaging the whipped cream station. You’re tucked under the covers, your head resting on Satoru’s shoulder while his arm holds you close, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. The glow of the TV casts soft light over the room, flickering across the ceiling in pale pastel hues.

You’re warm. Safe. Your husband smells like your shampoo, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest is starting to lull you into that lovely, sleepy post-dinner haze.

But then — like a light flicking on in your brain — you remember.

“Oh!” you sit up suddenly, disrupting the blankets and causing Satoru to yelp, “I almost forgot. I cleaned the attic today.”

He groans like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Babe… why would you voluntarily enter the attic. That’s the one part of this house I refuse to enter.”

You ignore him, already swinging your legs off the bed. “No, listen — I found something. I think you’ll really like it.”

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting through his glasses. “Oh? What is it? Old love letters from your angsty high school boyfriend?”

“You mean the one who cried when he found out I liked Gojo Satoru more than him?” you smirk, heading toward the walk-in closet. “Yeah, no.”

You pad barefoot across the room and slide open the double doors. The closet is huge — because of course it is. Satoru insisted on custom shelving, backlighting, and enough hanging space for what he called his “seasonal drip.” But your things have taken over half of it by now, neatly folded sweaters, coats, your woven baskets for accessories. You had tucked the book on the upper shelf earlier after finishing the attic, too tired to sort through it just yet.

It takes a second of rummaging, but you find it: a thick, heavy photo album with a fabric cover that’s fraying slightly at the edges. You had found it in a box labeled with faded marker: JJT Archives.

As you walk back into the bedroom, Satoru’s sprawled on the bed like a lazy cat, hair wild, blanket pushed down to his waist. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the album.

“Oh? What’s this, a cursed object?”

You roll your eyes, climbing back in beside him.

He smacks your butt lightly as you settle under the covers again.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “You turned your back on me. That’s an invitation.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but you're smiling. “Figured we could look at it together. I think it’s a photo album of sorts.”

His expression softens instantly. “Yeah? Alright. Let’s see what kind of damage my past self got up to.”

You flip the cover open.

The first photo is grainy and a little off-center — a picture of him and Suguru pulling exaggerated faces at the camera, their expressions wild, faces contorted in a weird expression. Satoru snorts.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Look at us. I told him I’d look better than him if we both pulled a dumb face.”

You study the image closely. Suguru’s hair is tied up, not unlike most of the photos you’ve seen of him, which were during his time as a wanted criminal. 

Satoru’s laugh fades into something quieter.

“That was my old phone. Shoko looked at this picture and said we looked ‘ugly enough to preserve for future generations.’”

The next is a selfie — Satoru smiling into the camera in his black sunglasses, unlike the round ones he wears to protect his sensitive eyes. Suguru is beside him with sunglasses, and Nanami just barely in frame, scowling at the lens like he’s half being forced at gunpoint to participate and half wanting to do it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amused. “Kento looks so cute. His hairstyle… He definitely had an emo phase.”

“Because he was,” Satoru grins. “And he did have an emo phase. The amount of Visual Kei he listened to… We made him go shopping with us in Harajuku that day. Got the sunnies as a treat for doing well on the mission. And because they were on sale.”

You both laugh, the warmth lingering even as the sound fades. You flip the page.

This one’s softer: Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru sitting at a dinner table at someone’s house, a dinner spread between them — looks very much like homemade food. It’s candid. Suguru’s laughing at something and posing with a peace sign. Shoko’s mid-clap, mouth open in laughter. Nanami looks slightly more relaxed than usual, a peace sign on his fingers too. Satoru’s grinning widely, and your heart melts at how lively his smile used to be when he was a teen.

“That was Shoko’s family house,” Satoru murmurs. “She invited us over after a mission. She lived nearby. We just… stayed. Slept in her living room. Talked until like, three in the morning.”

“She really was part of your trio, wasn’t she?” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah. People always think it was just me and Suguru. But Shoko was there too. She was always there. Holding us together.”

You flip to the next: the entrance ceremony.

A selfie again — this time it looks like Shoko’s doing. They're all grinning like idiots. Principal Yaga is in a corner. Suguru is holding up a peace sign. Shoko’s teeth are out as she grins. Satoru, front and center, is glowing with the kind of cocky, pure-hearted energy only youth can give you, throwing a thumbs up, rounded glasses slipping down his nose.

“Your smile is so big in these, sweetheart. You look beautiful when you smile,” you say softly.

Satoru presses a kiss to your neck in quiet thanks, arm coming around your waist as you both continue flipping through the album.

The next photo is pure chaos: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara standing in the bathroom mirror, toothbrushes in their mouths. Looks like they were having a sleepover of some sort.

You let out a startled laugh.

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute. Was it a sleepover?”

“It was,” Satoru says. “Haibara had to practically force Nanami to come. Too bad Shoko and Utahime couldn’t come. For some reason, dorm restrictions were actually quite strict — not that we’d ever do anything like that. We were like a family.”

You laugh, squeezing his knee under the blankets.

You keep going.

A photo of Suguru with his hair mussed, smiling into the camera like he doesn’t know it’s pointed at him. It's intimate — the angle low, soft light filtering in.

Satoru's voice drops. “I took that. We’d just woken up from a nap in the common room. He hated being caught without brushing his hair, but… he let me keep it. He never had a bad hair day, you know? Was always so particular about it. Only used a specific shampoo that he said his mother would buy for him in the countryside.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, hand flexing slightly on the luminescent film of the album page.

“He really loved his mom.”

You rest your cheek against his arm.

There’s a photo of Shoko tying her Converse, crouched down, her fingers deft and focused. It's an ordinary moment — a cute smile on her face — but something about it feels lived-in. Real.

“Shoko loved this pair,” he chuckles. “She wore them to annoy the elders. They claimed proper shoes were needed if we were to go on missions.”

You grin. “Respect.”

The next is crowded: all of them standing outside a classroom door. Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, Haibara, and Satoru — shoulder to shoulder, smiling like they’re just normal teenagers, not the weapons the Jujutsu world molded them into.

The key highlight of the photo is Satoru’s arms are around Suguru and he has this big, goofy smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe they’re all…” you trail off.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are wet.

“They were… good. All of them,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “They should’ve had more time.”

You nod, curling into his side.

Another photo makes you both pause. It's taken from behind: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko in matching red soccer jerseys, standing on a field. They're holding up peace signs with their backs to the camera. You can almost hear their laughter, imagine the mud on their shoes, the heat of the sun.

You run your hand down the page.

You flip through more: snapshots of their friend group — sleeping, on trips, in classrooms, in ceremonies. Candid, fleeting, young.

And then — the final ones: close-ups of Suguru.

Photos taken with quiet intention. One where he's clearly caught off guard. One where he's looking out from the bridge. Another where his back is to the camera and he has a small bear keychain on his bag. The sight makes your stomach clench.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Satoru.

The weight of the past settles thick in the room, like dust stirred from an old shelf. The baking show continues on in the background — a contestant shouting about a collapsed ganache — but it feels distant. Muted. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

Your hand finds his where it’s resting on the bedspread. His fingers twitch, then curl slowly around yours.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet in that particular way he gets when he’s fighting to stay intact — jaw locked, mouth set, shoulders wound tight with grief. His eyes are glassy, tracking the same photo over and over, like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears.

Nanami with his dumb emo haircut. His peace signs. Haibara’s joy, how young he looked when he laughed. Suguru’s sleepy, messy hair. That crooked smile. The ghost of laughter in his eyes.

It’s rare to see Satoru this still. Not just physically — but inside. No quip. No grin. Just silence, and the slow breathing of someone on the edge of something sharp.

“I used to think,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, “that we’d grow old together.”

You don’t interrupt. You let the words come, raw and aching.

“Me, Suguru, Shoko,” he murmurs. “Nanami and Haibara. I pictured it sometimes. Thought we’d be old and bitter and still calling each other dumbasses over desserts. Thought maybe… maybe we’d all be able to come back from the shit we did. Thought we’d last”.

He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Thought I could save him.”

Your thumb strokes his knuckles.

He blinks fast. Swallows hard.

“I see these pictures and I—I forget he’s gone. Just for a second. And then it hits me all over again. Every fucking time.”

You press your forehead gently to his shoulder. “He was your best friend.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. It sounds like it hurts. “He was everything. The only person who ever really… got me. Not the strongest. Not Gojo Satoru. Just… me.”

You wait.

You let the silence stretch — thick, aching, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I hate that I still miss him,” Satoru finally says, voice raw. “I hate that he left. I hate that I couldn’t stop him. But I miss him. Every day. Like an ache in my ribs I forget about until I breathe too deep.”

You turn toward him, hand still wrapped in his. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower — a man who’s used to keeping the world up with one hand, now struggling just to hold his own heart in place.

“I miss him too,” you whisper. “I never even met him — but with the way you talk about him, I miss him too. I miss him for what he meant to you. For who he must’ve been, to leave this much of a mark.”

His breath falters. A quiet shudder works through him. You lean up and kiss his cheek, slow and steady, then press another to his temple, just where his hair is growing back in, short and soft. He leans into it, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — like he’s been brittle for a while now and you’re the only thing keeping him from cracking open.

“He would’ve loved this house,” he murmurs, voice thick. “He’d pretend it was too flashy. Say I was compensating for something. But then he’d steal all the good tea and claim it was just to humble me.”

You smile gently, warm against the side of his face. “Well. You do have terrible spending habits.”

That gets a sound out of him — a real laugh, shaky and low in his chest. He presses his forehead to yours.

“He’d have hated the mirror in our bathroom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, the faintest curve to his lips. “Would’ve said it makes me look even more insufferable than usual.”

You laugh. “To be fair, you are insufferable.”

“Mm. Don’t forget stunning.”

“Of course,” you breathe. “That’s a given. My beautiful, insufferable husband.”

You kiss away some of the tears that have fallen down his pale, scared face, wiping away the tracks as you pull back.

The silence settles again, softer this time. You tug the blanket higher over both of you. His thumb is rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand now — absent, but insistent. Like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to anything that won’t vanish like the rest.

You watch his face, watch the way his expression drifts somewhere far away and comes back a little more worn every time. A man standing in the ruins of his past, trying to build something worth living in.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He turns, only slightly. But it’s enough. His eyes find yours — wide, blue, shining a little too much even in the low light. You see everything there. The love, the grief, the guilt, the ache. The part of him that never really left that bridge. That battlefield. That moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s seeing the future and the past crash into each other in the shape of your smile.

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand lifts — trembling just faintly — and he cups your cheek. His thumb swipes gently across your skin, reverent. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something sacred inside you. A promise. A memory. A hope.

The baking show buzzes quietly in the background, someone yelling about a collapsed meringue, the absurdity of it all somehow making it feel more real — more here. More now.

Grief still sits in the room, thick like fog, but it no longer feels unbearable. It lingers, yes, but it’s softened at the edges by something gentler. Something like love. Something like healing.

You curl back into him, resting your head against his chest. His hand comes up to cradle your back without thinking. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your ear — a rhythm that tells you he’s still here. Still trying. Still holding on.

You hold each other in that silence. In that ache. And in the quiet miracle of still being able to love, even when it hurts.

You close the album gently, smoothing your hand over the cover like it’s sacred. And maybe it is. The only reliquary you have left of those years — of who he was, of who they all were, when the world was still a little less cruel.

Satoru shifts a little closer, nosing into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to burrow into the safest place he knows. His hand finds your waist beneath the covers and rests there, thumb absently stroking small circles against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old? All wrinkly and stubborn and falling asleep at nine?”

You smile into the dark. “We already fall asleep at nine.”

He laughs — a soft, sleepy sound. “Okay, fair. But I mean like… old-old. Like, arguing about soup and forgetting where we put our keys kind of old.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, hair messy and soft and just barely starting to silver at the edges. You think about him with deeper lines around his eyes, laugh lines etched into his skin from years of grinning too wide.

“I think we’ll be annoying,” you say.

“Hell yeah.”

“Annoying and still obsessed with each other.”

“Obviously.”

“Still holding hands in public and making waiters uncomfortable.”

“I plan on kissing you in every checkout line we ever stand in,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to your shoulder to prove it.

You laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love that about me.”

You turn in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are warm in the dim light, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I do,” you murmur. “I love everything about you.”

He leans in, kisses you — slow and unhurried. Not out of need, but out of affection. Out of something deeper. His hand cradles your jaw as he does it again, then again, softer each time, like he’s trying to say things he doesn’t have words for.

You kiss him back, just as slow.

He pulls back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want it all with you,” he says. “The boring parts. The little arguments. Taxes. Grocery lists and laundry days and late-night walks when we can’t sleep. All of it. I want to grow old with you.”

Your throat tightens, but not from grief this time. From something tender. Something whole.

“You have me,” you whisper. “For as long as we both get.”

He kisses you again, this time on your nose. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your lips again, just because he can.

Eventually, you settle into the silence, warm and safe under the covers, his arm around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin. His breathing evens out first, deep and steady, but his hold on you never loosens.

You stay awake a little longer, just watching him. Memorizing the curve of his mouth, the softness in his face, the way he looks at peace when he’s finally, finally allowed to rest.

And before you let yourself drift too, you whisper it one last time, just to be sure he hears it — even if he’s already asleep.

“I’ll love you when we’re old. And after that, too.”

And in his sleep, Satoru smiles.

u guys i'm genuinely sooo devastated over jjk it isnt funny i cried to sleep the other night thinking abt satoru :)

[celestial-sphere-press]

Book Decoration: AKA All The Ways I Don't Use a Cricut

(this post is for people who don't want to buy an expensive cutting tool, or for those that do have an expensive cutting tool that would like to mix things up a little)

1. Print That Shit

If you're already printing your own textblocks, an easy step for titles is to print them. Above is a title printed onto an "obi" of decorative paper. I measured out where I wanted things on the finished book and laid it out in Affinity, then printed it on a full sheet & trimmed it down to wrap around the book. A more simple method is to print & glue on the label into a slight indent in the cover (to protect it). A third option is to do the spine in bookcloth, while you print on paper for the cover and then glue that paper onto the boards (this usually looks even better when it is a three-piece bradel bind).

2. Foil Quill / Heat Pens

The heat pen is one of my go-to tools, but it can be a bit touchy about materials. The most popular version is the We R Memory Keepers' Foil Quill (which is one of the most ergonomic), but other pens exist that can get you to a higher heat temp, finer lines, or more consistent foil. For example, I have a pen created by a local Japanese bookbinding studio that fares way better on leathers than the WRMK quill & with a finer tip, but it's hell to control. Best results in general are on paper or smooth bookcloth (starched linen, arrestox, colibri - even duo will work but its less solid). The fuzzier a bookcloth is, the less your foil quill wants to deal with it. This means the heat n bond method of making bookcloth does not play nice with a heat pen usually, but there are two solutions: 1) use this tutorial on paste + acrylic medium coated bookcloth instead that will get you a perfect surface for the heat pen, or 2) use the pen on paper & then glue onto the cloth. I did a video tutorial for both foil quill use and this type of homemade bookcloth for @renegadeguild Binderary in 2023.

You get the most consistent results by tracing through a printed template that is taped in place, as I do in the video above.

3. Paint That Shit

Acrylic paints will do you fine! The above is free-handed with a circle template, because I wanted that vibe. If you need straight lines that won't seep, lay them down with tape first & then paint over it first with a clear Acrylic medium, then your color. Same goes for stencils. Two more examples of painted bookcloth:

4. IT'S GOT LAYERS

By using layers of thinner boards, you can create interesting depths & contrasts on your cover. You can also make cutouts that peep through to the decorative paper behind. The most important part to this technique is the order in which each edge is wrapped. To get a good wrapped inside edge, you will split the turn in into tabs to get them to conform to a curve. You can also layer multiple colors of bookcloth without multiple layers of board, as seen below left, so long as you mind your cut edges for fraying.

5. Inlaid... anything

Mirrors! Marbled paper! I saw someone do a pretty metal bookmark once! The key is creating a little home for it to live in, which is pretty similar to the above layering method. On one layer you cut the shape, & glue that layer onto the bottom solid board before covering. You can do the top layer as an entire 1 mm board (like I did for the mirrors) or a sheet of cardstock, like I would use for inlaid paper.

6. Decorative Paper

Decorative paper is always helpful & adds to the paper hoard... & its effects can be layers with other techniques, as below. Marbles, chiyogami, momi, or prints & maps of all kinds can be great additions. Some papers may need a protective coating (such as wax or a sealer).

7. Stamps (with optional linocut)

While I've not used many more regular rubber stamps, I do know some who have, successfully! And I've used one once or twice with embossing powder (see photo 3 up, the gold anchor on the little pamphlet bind). What also works is to carve your own linocut or stamp, & then use block printing ink to ink it onto your fabric (as i did above). A bit time intensive, but it was nice how easily reproducible it was, and I liked the effect I got for this particular bind.

These methods are not exhaustive, just ones I've used, and there are of course many others. I haven't gone too into detail on any of these for the sake of length (& post photo limits) but feel free to ask about more specifics. Usually I'm using them in combination with other options.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some European Renaissance Art Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Acanthus - A prickly plant with large leaves; used as ornament in ancient Greece and the Renaissance.

Altarpiece - A religious painting composed of one or several compartments or panels; intended to stand on or hang above an altar.

Apocrypha - Literally, things that are “hidden.” The Apocrypha are not universally accepted as official scripture and are excluded from the old and new Testaments.

Blue - The color of the sky. In Christian painting, it symbolizes Heaven. Mary, known as the Queen of Heaven, wears a blue mantle. Blue pigment was derived from either the mineral azurite, a copper carbonate mineral, or ultramarine, made from lapis lazuli. The latter was very costly.

Burin - A pointed tool used to engrave lines into a metal plate that is used for printmaking. Ink applied to the plate will sink into the engraved lines and transfer to the paper.

Cartouche - An ornament in the shape of a scroll with ends folded back.

Coffered - “Divided in squares,” usually refers to a popular Renaissance ceiling treatment that used recessed squares.

Coat of Arms - A heraldic device identifying a person, family, or institution of the nobility.

Confraternity - An assembly of lay persons dedicated to strict religious observances.

Cronice - A horizontal band that crowns the top of a building.

Cuirass - A piece of close-fitting armor for protecting the chest and back.

Damascened - Metalwork ornamented with an inlaid design.

Diptych - A painting, usually an altarpiece, made up of two hinged panels. A triptych has three hinged panels.

Doge - The chief justice in the republics of Venice and Genoa.

Embossed - Metal that is hammered, molded, or carved so as to create a bulge or an image in relief.

Engraving - A process used by printmakers who cut grooves or pits into a wood block or metal plate with a sharp tool called a burin. When the plate is inked, the printer’s ink sinks into the grooves; then the plate is wiped, to remove the ink from the smooth areas. The inked plate is pressed against damp paper by running both between two heavy rollers. The pressure forces the softened paper into the grooves to pull out the ink, which we see as lines.

Entablature - The part of the building that is above the columns, encompassing the architrave, the frieze, and the cornice. This element was first found in Greek architecture.

Foreground - The part of the painted image that appears closest to the viewer, usually the lower area of the painting or other composition. The background, usually the upper area of the painting, appears to be farther back. The middle ground is everything in between.

Gold - A symbol of pure light, the heavenly element in which God lives.

Grotesque - A type of decoration found on Roman wall paintings that we reexcavated in the sixteenth century, especially in Nero’s Golden House. The wall paintings were found in underground caves called “grottoes,” thus, the newly discovered ornamentation was called “grotesque.” These wall decorations featured motifs characterized by imaginative, organic connections between disparate elements, including human figures, animals, insects, and birds, mythological and other fantastic beasts, architectural and plant elements.

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists

[thefandomsfervent]

JayVik x Reader Personal Pigments (Part 23) - Transparent Earth Yellow

Gala chapter coming soooon <3

Find my imagine that inspired it here. Previous and next chapter will be linked at the bottom.

not that I'm losing steam with this fic, but it has inpsired so many other things that i want to write too. This fic may enter a hiatus after a few more chapters so I can start other projects. Stay tuned and Thank you for reading <3

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

As Mel said, there was an invitation later that week. A rich blue envelope and a golden wax seal delivered on top of a series of letters and books when Jayce walked into the lab. Viktor was first to see it, peeling the wax open with a screwdriver. He huffed as he read it, tossing the paper to the side. 

“Ridiculous,” muttering under his breath. “We should not go Jayce, we have more important work to do than to flaunt our feathers.” Viktor speaks clearer there, his words sharp when he points to Jayce with the tool in his hand. Jayce doesn’t respond right away. Instead he goes to look at the invitation himself. 

“To Talis and Co.,” He winces at that, his lips curling to the side and his brow furrowing. 

“You have been invited to the Innovator’s Gala, an event centered around Piltover’s finest and brightest minds.” Jayce is reading it to you, as much disdain and sarcasm as that man could truly try to muster lacing his words. His finger pointed in the air like he is imitating some elderly man. 

“Yes Jayce, I read it.” Viktor’s back is to you both when he speaks. “Help me with this equation.” He doesn’t see the way Jayce’s finger droops down, shoulders dramatically slumping. You can’t hide your giggle at Jayce’s pout. Viktor turns around at the sound, just in time to see you covering your mouth. Shaking your head when Jayce starts mimicking his partner, opening and closing his hand. He turns around to see Viktor’s deadpan face, a raised brow, and a smirk that only grows when your laughter gets louder. 

“Mocking Jayce. How unbecoming. Truly, I am wounded.” He gestures for Jayce to give you the invitation with one hand, and tilts his head back to the board. Jayce hands you the paper, fingers grazing your own. He was so warm, and you can only hope that the burning of your cheeks could be chalked up to your laughing. He’s stifling his own when he joins Viktor, letting his partner jokingly shove the chalk into his chest. 

It’s a thick parchment, barely holding itself open at the creases where it had been folded to fit into the envelope. Golden filigree at the corners and the symbol of Piltover embossed directly in the center top. It was good paper, expensive like all things were here. Viktor’s chalky fingerprints glinting softly as raised swirls around the edges. Jayce’s own were left in some barely there soot from his time in the forge that day. And now yours, in colorful pressed oils. It clashed against the paper, was too loud, if you had intended to leave a mark you would have chosen something more subtle. Instead of focusing on that you look over the words scrawled over the letter. 

Your eyes quickly skim over text. It would be held in The Academy’s own event hall as a pre–cursor to the Young Innovator’s Competition that would be happening later on in the year for different inventors of Runterra to converge at. Despite what Mel had said, it seemed that it wouldn’t be where they would need to show off new inventions, but to mingle and talk and garner interest. The idea of them both in something nicer than mandated Academy outfits did sound promising. Imagining them in another environment than the lab, what would that be like? The closest you had been to seeing that was when Jayce had gotten drunk off the wine they chose to keep in a cabinet of the lab. You almost put down the letter to get back to your own work when something catches your eye. Thick golden letters in a different font, also embossed to make them stand out against the pale paper, gracing the bottom.

“This invitation is valid for three guests. Jayce Talis of House Talis, Assistant to the Dean of the Academy Viktor, and -” your name was there. The title they had given you was “Arts Institute Guest.” And something bubbles up in your chest. It was embarrassment and shock. It was anxiety and excitement. Mostly confusion. Their labels were so impressive, although you were sure they would both dislike the chosen words. Your own was so… plain. You were here as a guest after all, you knew that. But then why were you invited in the first place? Was this Mel’s doing? Would they want you to go? Did they even want to go? You brush a thumb over the words, silently questioning the characters as if they had any of the answers. All you get in reply is the printed date, the numbers defined in thin strokes. It was about three weeks out. The competition itself was several months away. The two men are talking amongst themselves. Drag of chalk along the board, the tapping on someone’s foot, gentle shuffling. Sounds that ground you. 

You turn to the painting, you had left it by an open window to speed up the drying process. Summer was chasing Spring. Telltale signs of the season showing in heat waves distorting the horizon line as you looked out over the city. You let yourself settle against the frame, back on the wall and legs stretched forward. You hold the paper in one hand up to the window, letting the sun shine through the fibers. Letting the rays backlight the golden embellishments, turning that brilliant yellow to a dull glowing brown. You can see where the paper is thicker in some spots. It was smooth and high quality, but you can tell. “This was hand-made.” Your voice is quiet, and you are too focused on the craftsmanship before you to notice how Viktor and Jayce stop working to watch you. Your fingers feel the edges of the paper, deckled and soft, barely there fraying. 

Viktor has talked with Jayce about it before, how it was not fair that there was no one to draw you. And in this particular moment it feels cruel. The moment felt intimate. Domestic. The edge of your face golden in the sunlight, eyes focused and calm, a rosy glow on your cheeks. Jayce has dabbled in sketching before. Shared his own small drawing of Viktor from their first encounters. It was crude, cute even. And Jayce would admit that he has tried to draw you too.  But he couldn’t show that to you or to Viktor. So he takes the moment in, watching your eyes dart over the paper in your hand. Your attention to detail was endearing to him. To both of them. His affection for Viktor was overwhelming in a lot of ways. Caused his heart to jump to his throat, to stutter over words. With you it was warm and soft, like a hug. What either of them would give to walk behind you wrap their arms around you, settling their heads in the crook of your neck. When you start moving it startles them both, Jayce jumping in his spot and Viktor choosing to look at the books on the table. 

Staring at the paper you hear Mel’s words, “Afraid of a challenge?” If she was the reason your name was on the invitation, you should go. Just to get out of this stuffy lab and do something new if nothing else. Certainly not to prove a point. That there was nothing you needed to be aware of. And that despite your nervousness, you do not back down from a challenge. Not as a Zaunite. Not as an artist. You set your shoulders, steel your breath, and turn to Jayce and Viktor. 

“I’d like to go.” 

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-------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙-Part 22-.-Part 24.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .--------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[capicola323427]

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!

Fun fact, in making this image it was surprisingly my most easiest yet visually pleasing work. I've always viewed at as a graph like this

Of course, that isn't true! It's more like this

That is to say, I believe this illustration allowed me to focus on the efficient fundamentals I built!

Everything here was rendered with only three brushes. All of them the default brushes that come with CSP. Which includes Pastel, Airbrush, and Mechanical Pencil. Because it was a lineless style, that means I could be a lot more forgiving of mistakes here and there. Something doesn't look right? All I gotta do is add a little more with the GPen to the shape. Or can I just draw an outline in the color I want and fill it in with the bucket tool with a area scaling of 0.10! I have to practice more with lineless styles, it is fun! Rendering was a breeze too.

Which was a simple process of:

Create shape > Shade with Airbrush > Highlight with Airbrush > Shade with Pastel > Multiply Shading > Lower Multiply Layer Opacity > Overlay with Textured Fill > Move Textured Fill Layer > Finished!

It's a few steps, but once you get into the groove, it becomes very efficient. I'm sure there's ways I could shave off a few layers, like combining the Airbrush process into two layers instead of one but ehhh sometimes I do it, sometimes I don't. Usually, the bigger the shape the more likely I'll use more layers and the smaller the shape the less likely I'll use more layers! Of course, this process isn't a concrete ruling. Sometimes, I'll use more layers for extra things like the bell required more layers for rendering the shininess of metal! Anyways, I would like to believe I did a decent job at recreating the feel, the vibe, and or general look of an old Christmas Card that's more retro in nature. With a focus on simple shapes, a lineless rendering style, and using textured brushes to render, I think I got it down packed. I used a tiny bit of Chromatic Aberration to give it a little bit of a visual pop, and brighten up the colors. It's subtle, but it works.

Oh, and here's something cool! To get a more embossed Christmas Card feel, I used a new tool that came with Clip Studio Paint!

N O R M A L M A P !

Cool, right? I use a pirated copy of Clip Studio Paint 3.0 and it comes with a tool that allows you to create normal maps from illustrations. Which, from what Google tells me: "A normal map is a texture mapping technique used to add surface details to 3D models without altering their geometry" ...Neat!

Anyways, here's what it looks like

Freaky, right?

It looks like an embossed letter when you set a layer color to it too!

Anyways, I overlayed it on top of the finished illustration, set it to multiply and set the layer color to a warm yellow and it gives it not only texture but a sense of depth too! It's super cool, if you digitally paint you should try it!

With Normal Map Overlay Effect

Without Normal Map Overlay Effect

It's subtle but it's there.

Anyways, that's enough blathering from me! Merry Christmas everyone! I'll be answering some asks this week, so stay tuned!!!