#Tailored Consignment

[edwinspaynes]

Looking over this screenshot posted by @enby-calamity and there is SO MUCH here now that I'm looking at it in high-res.

Call him out for being a virgin sacrifice and add insult to injury, why don't you? Lol. This amuses me but isn't a real point.

Intrigued that he canonically spent over four years in limbo. I wonder how long he was there, and I wonder how many times the bell was pressed.

I can't tell if it says 15 years old or 16 years old at the time of death? Someone else said they thought 15, but I think that's a 6.

But this is the most interesting to me:

"Edwin Payne is to spend the next century in Hell for living a [?] sinful life. After completion he will be assigned to a more pleasant state."

So this means that:

Edwin's stay in Hell was of a finite, predetermined duration. Is this the exception or the norm?

Was Edwin aware that he was only consigned to a century there rather than an eternity? It is odd that this is never brought up even once in the show unless he's completely unaware of it.

The show is pretty clear that Edwin being in Hell was not because of anything he personally did. So why does the form claim he lived a sinful life? I would say "clerical error," but he's a high priority case, so surely not.

"More pleasant state" feels... vague. Too vague. I'm guessing this is because when the blue light comes the afterlife is tailored to the individual, but like ? So vague

[laiiaaa]

Carmen definitely knows how to sew, repair, and obviously find clothes. He loves his vintage denim, he has his staple pieces, he covets his patchwork jacket, and over time he’s learned the skills to take care of those items.

Naturally, that passion extends to you. He’ll get all particular about the laundry and will do it for you, graciously and without asking—separates whites from colors, treats the different fabrics accordingly, folds and hangs and puts it all away, assuring you that it’s just something he felt like doing.

Not a big deal, baby, jus’ wanted to do it for you.

He sews back on lost buttons, gets any stain out of any fabric, knows a guy who knows a guy who tailors clothes like a pro and gets it done for you for dirt cheap. Goes to the thrift shops, consignment stores, and flea markets, and somehow finds fucking fortunes. Forages Facebook Marketplace like his life depends on it. Gets you little trinkets and a few pieces he thinks you’d like. He’s just got an eye for that type of thing, especially when it’s for you.

Saw this and it reminded me of you.

You said you’ve been wanting a jacket like this, right? and you find out he harassed the fucking seller to get it for a decent price??? Demanded pics of the topstitching too to make sure it’s legit???

If I find these in your size, do you want a pair?

Thought you might like this dress, sorry if the measurements are off :( and he’ll hand you the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen??? And you’re just like??? Where did this come from??? And how did you find it???

Was walkin’ by that jewelry shop you like…saw these earrings and thought you’d look pretty in ‘em. (He was planning on going in there all week, but you didn’t need to know that.)

And to him it’s not even about spending money or trying to make big gestures, he just does all those sweet little things as second nature, knowing it’s what his girl deserves <3

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 37

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 37: The Image of a Son

AO3 - Masterlist

The process of preparing for a wedding proved to be more taxing than Daenera had ever envisioned. It consumed her days, leaving her physically drained and weary as the sun dipped below the horizon. 

Much to her surprise, the Queen extended a helpful hand in the preparations, and for once there was an amiable truce between them. Together, they navigated the intricate decisions surrounding the feast, the selection of performers, the adornments, the floral arrangements–every meticulous detail. Despite the their history, Daenera couldn’t help but appreciate the assistance. 

Nevertheless, a pang of longing for her own mother’s presence lingered beneath the surface, wishing that it was her mother who helped her with the preparations instead. 

Daenera found herself perched upon a modest dias, encircled by an array of mirrors, where two diligent tailors meticulously put the finishing touches on her wedding dress. Her feet ached, mirroring the relentless pounding in her head, while her hips and knees protested each shift. She had been standing in the same spot since early morning, reduced to a living dummy. 

Though the physical discomfort weighed heavily, there were small mercies to be found. Joyce intermittently provided her with morsels of food and a soothing cup of tea. In the midst of this dress-related ordeal, Joyce broke the seal of a letter she had received. 

“I’ve received a missive from our Northern acquaintance,” she informed Daenera, handing over the letter. 

Daenera held it gingerly, mindful not to disturb the tailors’ work as one of them moved around her, focusing on the fabric along the right side of her ribcage. 

      I regret to report that there’s no progress on the investigation of the attack.  

      Regarding your future husband, I have established a good rapport with his men, and have been invited to the next hunt. However, I must inform you that when he is not hunting, he visits      the brothels of Flea Bottom where he indulges in drink and fat women. If this troubles you, I believe myself capable of arranging an humiliating accident, or if you prefer, I am willing to be by your bedside in his place. 

Daenera couldn’t help but respond to Finan’s insolence with a playful roll of her eyes, finding it amusing rather than offensive. 

During the exhaustive preparations, Boris had been present, but his attention seemed perpetually fixed on the matters related to hunting, rather than forging a deeper connection with her. 

Surprisingly, this state of affairs didn’t particularly trouble her. In fact, she found a degree of solace in it. If Boris was inclined to dissipate his vitality on hunting and his affections on the women in Flea Bottom, she’d be granted the much-desired solitude she secretly craved. 

      I should also inform you of Prince Aegon’s ventures into the city. He spends his time gambling in fighting pits or fucking whores. He seems predisposed for younger women, and prefers virgins. As for Aemond, I have no news.  

     From now on, I will not contact you unless it is urgent.  

     Your loyal and obedient servant. 

Daenera carefully folded the letter, a shroud of secrecy in every fold, before passing it to Joyce. She watched her read over the letters contents, her reaction marked by a somewhat amused huff before she promptly consigned the parchment to the crackling flames of the hearth. The letter had been penned in a code, a safeguard against prying eyes. Caution was paramount. 

“I think it’s time for my blue shawl to get some fresh air, Joyce,” Daenera remarked casually. “Would you mind hanging it out on the balcony?”

Joyce nodded, her understanding implicit. As she lifted the elegant blue shawl, it served as an unspoken signal to Finan – a request for him to refrain from further communication unless it was absolutely indispensable. 

Daenera couldn’t help but be vexed by the lack of resolution surrounding the recent attack, though the absence of closure hardly surprised her. She harbored strong suspicions that the Hightowers were behind it, their aversion to her presence in King’s Landing and her impending marriage to Baratheon far from a secret. 

As the doors swung open, Daenera’s reflection in the mirrors caught a glimpse of pale locks and dark skin. Moments later, she heard the exuberant exclamation of her name, and her half-sister, Baela and Rhaena, entered the room.

A sudden, unexpected jab at her side made Daenera yelp, her gaze swiftly shifting downward to the apologetic tailor responsible for the mishap. She then turned her attention back to her step-sisters, her previous irritation giving way to a warm smile at the sight of their familiar faces. 

“The dress is absolutely stunning!” Baela exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she circled around Daenera on the elevated dias, meticulously examining every intricate angle and delicate embellishment of the dress. 

Daenera responded to the compliment with a gracious nod and a wide smile. Then, with a gesture, she signaled for the tailors to depart. “Thank you. Can you finish the adjustments without me wearing it?”

The skilled tailors nodded in agreement, their hands loving with precision as they carefully assisted in removing the exquisite dress. They ensured it was wrapped in layers of silk before they respectfully exited the room, leaving the princess alone with her step-sisters.

Daenera embraced Baela and Rhaena, hugging them tightly, relieved to have their support. “And what of Corlys?” 

“Corlys is still aboard the ship overseeing the crew, but he’ll be arriving soon,” Rhaena assured her, tossing a cascade of lustrous locks over her shoulders, the style only serving to soften her features. 

Daenera couldn’t help but feel a pang of the old envy that had once consumed her in the presence of the twins. How much easier life would have been if she had inherited similar coloring. Somewhere deep down, the envy still lingered, longing to grow into something horrendous. 

Her voice grew hesitant as she posed her next question, trying to temper her hopes. “And Rhaenys?”

The twins exchanged a knowing glance, their voices dropping to a soft, confidential tone as they replied. 

“She’s in the Godswood,” Rhaena informed Daenera, her voice carrying a note of reassurance. 

“Corlys managed to persuade her to join us,” Baela chimed in after her sister, her gaze fixed on Daenera’s reaction. 

A surge of elation mixed with apprehension surged through Daenera upon hearing the news. Baela, understanding the turmoil within her, reached out and gently clasped Daenera’s hand. “Let’s assist you with your dress first. Afterward, you can go and personally welcome her while we settle in.”

Daenera felt a profound sense of gratitude for the comforting presence of her step-sisters, their support serving as a reassuring balm. She needed them, more than she could ever express.

Stepping into the serene enclave of the Godswood, Daenera felt a flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach. Her fingers fidgeted with the delicate ends of the red shawl draped around her shoulders. She spotted Rhaenys, standing with her back turned, her gaze drawn to the white weirwood tree adorned with the crown of blood-red leaves. The setting sun painted the sky above in a mesmerizing palette of deep orange hues, slowly darkening as the sun slipped from the sky.

Summoning her courage, Daenera ventured closer, her voice gentle as she addressed the older woman. 

“You came.” She stopped her approach, eyes seeking the evidence of Rhaenys hearing her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Rhaenys seemed to draw in a deep breath, and Daenera could almost envision her closing her eyes, as if steeling herself for what lay ahead. When she finally spoke, her words cut through the air like a blade, and Daenera’s heart sank with each syllable.

“I didn’t come for you,” Rhaenys replied, her voice distant and laden with weariness, the words landing with a devastating impact. “It was Corlys’s relentless insistence, along with Baela’s persuasion, that compelled me to come. I couldn’t refuse them.”

Despite bracing herself for the biting words, Daenera couldn’t help but wince, a reflexive action that made her bite down on her trembling lip. Her fingers continued to fiddle restlessly with the strings of her shawl, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to shake. The pain, unwelcome and sharp, bloomed within her chest, settling in as a heavy ache. 

She understood Rhaenys’ sentiment, but that didn’t diminish the searing sting of her rejection. Ever since the death of her father, Rhaenys had distanced herself from Daenera and her siblings. She had cast the blame upon Rhaenyra for the loss of her son, and even went as far as to accuse her of the murder. 

Over the years, Daenera had penned numerous letters, each one an earnest plea for her grandmother’s love, yet none had garnered a response. 

And now, here she stood in the tranquil embrace of the Godswood, once again beseeching for that elusive affection.

“I am happy nonetheless,” Daenera managed to say, summoning a fragile smile, despite the lingering ache in her heart. 

“I cannot fathom why,” Rhaenys murmured, her tone laced with icy dismissal and a hint of exasperation. 

Daenera’s heart sank, her desperation palpable even to herself. She felt like the little child who had once stumbled upon her father’s unrecognizable, charred remains, and Rhaenys’ piercing screams of anguish. For a brief, fleeting moment, in the throes of that pain, Rhaenys had enveloped the little girl in her arms, clinging to her as if seeking something substantial. It had been a mere moment that had soon been replaced with rejection, the arms withdrawing from her to leave her cold and alone. Everything had abruptly changed. And since then she’d been denied her grandmother's love. 

Love that she so fervently yearned for. 

Facing her grandmother now, Daenera could see the transformation in Rhaenys’ expression, her face now etched with coldness and a jaded weariness. 

“I cannot provide you with what you desire, Daenera,” she declared, her words a stark and painful truth.

“Why?” Daenera’s voice quivered, her words laden with vulnerability as a lump formed in her throat, an insurmountable weight that felt like a stone slowly expanding within her. Tears welled up, threatening to spill from her eyes, and she fought to blink them away. 

The response she revived was equally heavy.

“You know why,” Rhaenys replied, her voice laced with a strange blend of pity and cynicism. She drew a deep breath, her lips drawn into a thin, unforgiving line, and as she approached Daenera, she extended her hand to gently grasp a lock of her hair between two fingers. 

“When I look at you,” she continued, her words cutting through the air like a blade, “I see none of my son. Instead, I see a constant reminder of the affront to his memory and the disgrace it brings. It is impossible for me not to feel disappointment in what you represent and insulted by your mother’s audacious attempt to pass you off as his.”

The dagger, sharp and cruel, plunged deeper into Daenera’s chest, its painful twist causing her heart to ache. Bitterness etched across her features, its tendrils entwining around her, and she found herself ensnared in its unrelenting grip.

‘ I see nothing of my son .’ Rhaenys’ words echoed within her, each syllable a damning indictment. It was true that Daenera bore little resemblance to old Valyria or the Velaryon lineage. Her lack of silver hair was a glaring absence, one she had often lamented. If only she had inherited her mother’s distinctive silver locks, perhaps things would have been different. 

With a resigned sigh, Rhaenys released the dark lock of her she had been holding, the silent confirmation that Daenera could not possibly be Laenor’s child. There was no trace of the silver hair, not a hint of the dark skin shared by Baela and Rhaena. Only the lingering stain of insult remained. 

Rhaenys walked past Daenera, her departure signaling a wish to end this conversation. Daenera was not ready to let it go just yet. 

“Laenor loved us,” Daenera asserted, drawing in a deep breath that felt like inhaling water, as if she were drowning. “He loved us as his own. He embraced us as his flesh and blood. He raised us, comforted us when we were unwell, and read us bedtime stories. He is our father, and his love for us was indisputable.”

Rhaenys turned her gaze back to Daenera, her expression unyielding, her tone unrelenting. “That doesn’t matter.” 

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Daenera implored, her voice trembling with desperation and frustration. It should be all that mattered. 

“Because he is dead,” Rhaenys retorted bitterly, her words carrying the weight of her grief. “My son is gone, and I have nothing tangible in this world to prove that he ever existed.”

Tears welled up in Daenera’s eyes as she clutched onto her grandmother’s hand, her grip desperate, almost pleading. She couldn’t understand why Rhaenys couldn’t see that they were his legacy, his cherished children. Blood may not have tied them, but he had been their father in every meaningful sense. Why did that not matter? Was it naive to hope that it would?

“We bear his name. We are the children he loved. Please… ”

Rhaenys regarded her supposed granddaughter with a touch of pity, her fingers gently brushing over Daenera’s cheek in a soft caress. “It is not sufficient.”

The weight of rejection bore down upon Daenera like an unbearable burden. It felt as if the very ground beneath her feet had given way, leaving ehr teetering on the precipice of collapse. 

Yet, she summoned her inner strength, swallowing the searing pain as if it were a cascade of tiny blades slicing down her throat. With sheer determination, she corralled all that anguish into a box, clamping the lid shut even as it threatened to splinter from the pressure. She locked it away inside. She couldn’t allow it to break; she had to endure this pain for a little while longer. 

“Father, he would have thought it was enough,” Daenera insisted in a murmur. “He would have believed we were enough.”

Rhaenys’ demeanor appeared softer, her head tilting slightly, her eyes bearing a mixture of gentleness and piercing insight. “Laenor is no longer with us. What he thinks does not hold weight in this world anymore.”

Daenera swallowed hard, the dry lump in her throat seemingly resistant to her attempts to quell it, and she offered a nod. “I am still deeply honored by your presence.”

Their conversation had reached an impasse. Daenera recognized that she wouldn’t find the solace she sought from this encounter. Wrapping ehr shawl tighter around her body as if it could hold the fragmented emotions together, she felt the lid of the metaphorical box jerk, the pain within threatening to overflow. With a courteous curtsy to Rhaenys, she turned and began to make her way out of the Godswood. 

As she passed through the doors, she was met by the sight of Corlys, his eyes filled with a profound sadness that mirrored her own. Daenera didn’t need words to convey her grandmother's unwavering stance. 

“I will speak with her,” Corlys offered quietly, his voice touched by a sense of resignation. 

Daenera managed to respond. “There’s no need. It is unlikely she’ll change her mind.”

Corlys was intimately familiar with his wife’s stubbornness, and he understood the depths of Rhaenys’ resolve. His hands landed on her shoulders, dragging her into a warm hug. Daenera closed her eyes. 

Corlys released her and with a sigh ventured deeper into the embrace of the Godswood, while Daenera retraced her steps back into the castle. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and she felt the pain begin to spill out the box as it began to splinter and fray.  Her feet carried her swiftly across the stone floor, the echoes of each step resonating through the seemingly empty corridors. Every beat of her heart seemed to thunder in her ears, drowning out all other sounds. 

“Princess,” a familiar, deep voice called out to her, the words barely audible above the thunderous thrum of her own heartbeat. Unwavering, she maintained her pace, not yielding to the summons. The voice persisted, however, and after a moment, it spoke up once more. “ Daenera .”

Startled, Daenera came to an abrupt halt, her gaze swinging around in confusion. She hadn’t even registered Aemond’s presence when he had passed her moments ago, and his voice barely registered through the fog of her inner turmoil. Her eyes, previously fixed on the floor, now stared at him as if she couldn’t quite comprehend his sudden appearance, as if his presence itself felt strangely out of place. 

“Do you finally realize that you are to marry Boffus Baratheon, I mean, Boris Baratheon?” Aemond taunted, his words laced with a snideness, seemingly entertained by the devastation upon her face. “I assume that is why you’re crying.”

Despite her best efforts, Daenera couldn’t help but fire back at his mockery. Her voice defensive as she swiped away the telltale traces of her tears with her hand. “I am not crying.”

Aemond’s smirk widened at her response, his eye gleaming with a sharp, spiteful glint. “It certainly looks like you’re crying.”

He was being childish and it only served to infuriate her more. The sadness she had been trying to contain spilled over into a fiery anger. Was it too much to ask for a moment of solitude in which to grieve? She didnøt need this right now, she didnøt need his taunting words, the perpetual smirk on his lips, and the cruel need to mock her when she was at her lowest.

“I am not!” Her exclamation echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet corridor. Frustration prompted her to lower her voice into a sneer. “And if I were, it would be none of your concern.”

Aemond’s response was laced with malice, his satisfaction evident in the way he relished in her distress. “Mm… It may be none of my concern, but I do delight in your tears.”

Of course, he reveled in her suffering. She was on the verge of launching another scathing retort when he suddenly snatched her wrist, pulling her into a nearby alcove. In the dimly lit space, shadows enveloped them, shrouding their forms in secrecy. With a defiant yank, she wretched her wrist free from his grip, her glare directed squarely at him. 

“Why are you crying?” His voice remained steady, an enigmatic mask obscuring his feathers as half of his face remained hidden beneath the eyepatch. 

“Why does it matter?” Daenera’s response was laced with a biting sarcasm. She was acutely aware of the futility of sharing her true feelings with him, but an inexplicable urge welled within her, tempting her to confine in him about the pain of Rhaenys’ rejection. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

Daenera released a breath that teetered between a sardonic chuckle and a disdainful scoff. “I can’t tell you because you’d only use it against me.”

She sensed his unrelenting scrutiny, his single eye dissecting her stubborn countenance–the slight crook of her mouth as she bit the inside of her cheek, her shoulders squared, her fists clenched in silent resolve. How he managed to pierce the darkness of the alcove and read her expression remained a mystery to her. For she could not read his face, the shadows seemingly a veil between them. 

“Just as you can’t tell me who was behind the attack,” she continued, her words tinged with bitterness. 

They couldn’t afford to share these secrets with one another, for doing so would be a betrayal of their respective allegiances. They were firmly entrenched on opposing sides. If Daenera were to divulge the discussion that had taken place in the Godswood with Rhaenys, Aemond would undoubtedly be obligated to report it to his mother.

To think otherwise was sheer folly.

“Am I…” Daenera paused, wetting her lips as she averted her gaze. “Should I be concerned about the possibility of another attack? Soon, I mean.”

Her eyes found his face again. She knew what she was asking, but she needed to know–needed the solace if there was some to be had. 

“No,” Aemond responded with a short shake of his head. It wasn’t an admission of any involvement, nor did it acknowledge who was behind the attack. But it did serve to ease her nerves. 

Daenera nodded, looking down at her hands before drawing in a deep breath, locking her gaze back onto him. “Stop appearing out of nowhere; it’s annoying.”

They had to sever whatever semblance of intimacy that had developed between them. Such weaknesses were dangerous. But it seemed that the roots had taken hold, and for a brief moment, she felt an irrational urge to confide in him, no matter how careless it might be. Yet, she resisted. 

She had to uproot those feelings. 

Daenera left Aemond standing in the shadows. 

[puppycheesecake]

I DEMAND ALLYSON LORE 😶

She makes weird modern art, most of which involves smashing/breaking/ripping up something. (If you don't like it then you just don't get it, obviously. 💅)

Gets all her clothes from thrift stores/consignment shops/dumpster diving and tailors them herself. (Considers sewing a basic life skill everyone should know.)

Terrible driver. Will rage if you point this out to her.

Armchair philosopher.

Smoker. (But would never be caught dead vaping.)

Her guilty pleasure is going dancing at country western bars.

[wcdonaldo]

hiiiii gweeeeeen

top 10 gottest ffxiv chatacters. go

hiiiii julieeeeee

10. honorary g'raha spot. im not into guys but he made me question myself a lil. maybe he should try being a girl 9. gaia. i am not immune to kingdom hearts goths 8. drusilla from the reaper quest chain. hi. unbelievable that endwalker gave us a gilf with a giant scythe. we should have more characters like this 7. omega f hi. hi omega f can i get your phone number pls pls pls i've got intergalactic service pls 6. hilda (idr her last name. the machinist you meet halfway through hw that disappears after half a plot beat. anyway i need to nibble on her ears) 5. y'shtola. my god. do i need to explain 4. yugiri. sadly she's never ever getting screentime again forever because she's been consigned to Advisor Hell. 3. my wol. unfortunately i was always doomed bc i tailor-made her to both represent and appeal to myself. which means something, maybe, 2. sadu. incredibly violent woman with horns save me 1. venat. it always had to be venat right. within your first two conversations she asks you if you want to beat each other up in the woods so that her dog likes you. she's a little under six foot two with eyes that look into your soul. technically she's eighteen feet tall. i think i hauve covid

[adureus]

At his heels lie beds of near every hue ( pampered, thriving ), though their floral collection is limited. It's not for lack of ambition, or a lack of labour. Nay ⸻ the Blight has robbed the land of much. In that quiet morning, his only company is the babble of rills throughout the backyard's nursery, an echo of a lifestream in all sense. Not too long ago, this sight was consigned to fantasy. During their nascent years, they had naught ⸻ no seeds, no preparations were salvaged since Kupka's assault. All which remained would serve as monuments, mementos, proof of an existence lost to time and dust. He bristles at that. They need not desecrate memory with a want so trivial as a sample of a wildflower. Would he have thought the same of this passing request, some moons ago, regarding the harvesting of Snow Daisies and their seed ? Their temperamental needs were attributed and tailored to their environment. To mimic these conditions would normally be considered a trivial use of resources already strained thin. Once vernal lands choke on hibernal corruption, half-buried dreams, and an unprecedented scarcity both flora and humans alike must face. Yet their gardeners had achieved the impossible. Despite the odds, despite the difficulty. In secret, they'd mottled what they could. A modest patch, tended and nurtured. And now, their patience is rewarded, with the added boon of resilience.

Daisies aren't a common choice, but they embody a particular beauty. Refined, reticent in their presence, yet deadly. As is one Jill Warrick. Horticulture wasn't his forte, though he'd been informed of their toxicity. A fitting comparison perhaps, considering her skill with a blade. Roses, while cliché, deliver messages of affection effective and clear. Though, he gathers them this day not for the uniqueness of the arrangement, rather for a union of loyalty unwritten. Both flowers serve as vestiges of home, bundled in delicate parchment, suspend the glory and essence of nations beloved and bold. Rosaria and the Northern Territories, respectfully. Now they rest as bitter shells of yesteryear.

It’s a small, meaningful lull to days of activity and no pause. He’d even gone as far as inscribing words of appreciation onto paper ⸻ far from a letter of love ( and uncharacteristic ), he’d never been the sort to find himself fanciful with language. But she needed to know her importance to him : her contributions, his pride in seeing her grow and heal, and her ascension to personhood ⸻ unfettered, she climbs closer to the fruits of freedom.

The quill pauses then.

In youth, following her arrival, she held a predictable reticence. Yet, she also lacked a certain regality about her ⸻ no pretension or haughtiness embittered her words. The Princess of the North graced them all : a sharp interruption within the walls of Rosalith. So different. So stark. Blue to red. Red to blue. The Rosfield heirs welcomed her as any other, lacking prejudice and honouring her origins. It wasn’t long before she established roots for herself, now warmly settled despite her apprehension. And as they grew close, he’d learned much from her. With her, she'd brought wise perspectives, intentional words. Emotion guided her, true, as it did all youth ( before logic and maturity stunted their wonder of the world ), but she enlightened him with what many would consider an ancient wisdom. Perhaps the conflict had acquainted her with worldly knowledge, of lessons seldom taught so early. But war was not courteous enough to spare anyone. She’d protected him, cured him of indiscretion and lapsing confidence, remained realistic. She'd kept his expectations within the realm of man, constrained and attainable, promoted his success. Even at an age so tender, she carries words so wise. A song honed through generations, as though the Queen of Rime sung them within her ear, imbued through slumber. She’d done much for him ( down to catering to his own hound ! ) and in return, he’d incurred naught but debt ⸻ debts she futilely reminded he need not pay.

He’d insist.

During one of his father's annual tours, he'd reciprocate. Once they'd broken from the procession, exploring field and wood unseen, he'd aimed to surprise her with sights wild and wonderful. It would not be. The heavens wept, drowned his hopes, and earned her a nasty cold. Yet, she laughed nonetheless. Laughed lovely and sweet. He apologized post-haste. Bashful. Ashamed. Still, she forgave him. In retrospect, that’d been the day he’d come to love her much more than a friend. But fate is not so forgiving, and their separation stung deep and malignant as a wound ⸻ perhaps more so. Physical wounds mended with time and patience. The brunt of emotional wounds had a lifetime to foster their potential. And it’s precisely what he’d feared would happen. Once reconciled some thirteen years later, she forgave him. And again, he requests a pardon. It’s naught but apologies which he gifts her, or torment, or eves marked by worry. She gives unconditionally. He wishes to do the same. It took their reunion to rend him from a myopic, transactional relationship to war and destruction and a devilish temper.

To him, love is not overt. It’s intentionally unassuming, expressed through touch. The sweep of a strand too keen upon her brow, or a reassuring stroke to the small of her back. It's delivered through questions regarding her well-being, through attentiveness, through notes of her preferences. It's expressed through a protective glance in battle, or an assist ( akin to a dance. Poetic, albeit macabre, but harmonious nonetheless ). It's through the way he trusted her wholly with his affairs, both personal and professional. While she supports, she also challenges his ire, grounds him, reminds him of the alternatives. He needn’t be so headstrong, and throughout the years, she has reinforced his empathy, strengthened and nourished his soul.

The letter is completed, with melted wax to seal. It's melded with the pigments of woad and rouge leaning stains, not quite overtaking the default alabaster in its bleed. Two fingers press to lips, fall downward, impress atop parchment. Unseen, as an incantation, yet present. It’s the gesture which mattered most. He'd likely find her hovering about the map table of their shared chambers ⸻ her routine was predictable. She’d sift through newly delivered missives and glean any urgent matter. If she hadn’t dealt with them then he would upon his return. In that time, he hopes she will appreciate the gift in full, in the peaceful hum of shared company and thought. And, as predicted, as he emerges from those oaken doors, he is greeted by his beloved and a silken hello. She is usually the first to initiate, but he’d done so first, sinking into her approach, leaning, pressing lips flush and wanting into her own. It’s comforting. It’s sanctuary. The flutter of lashes tickle cheeks, as does her giggle ; in times like these he doesn’t feel so scorn. As they retreat to their short distance, fingers entwine with the bouquet and foreheads press. They fall into step naturally, recalling bygone days and the countless lessons for galas they never wholly got to appreciate. It’s only the creak and whispers of the Hideaway which serve as their tune. He didn’t mind. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable appreciation of the company they kept. He needn’t honour a day to show his gratitude, but at times he needs an arresting realization to slow down. He didn’t just live for himself anymore.

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫. @nievea

[soobrat]

I got suddenly busy planning for an event, so here's a snippet for FUML. Things are delayed:

“What was the occasion?” The consignment shop owner asks absentmindedly, glancing at Jisung after he doesn’t get an answer. Jisung gapes at him, brushing his sweaty palms off on his pants. 

“A lot of men sell their suits after their weddings,” he starts again, rubbing the material of the suit between his fingers, “women are a little more sentimental about this stuff–”

“How much? Um, h-how much for it?” Jisung interrupts the owner’s chuckling. The owner looks up again, this time he seems to take in Jisung’s disheveled appearance and his agitated state. He doesn’t comment on the obvious, just offers Jisung a tight smile.

“This was tailored to you, correct?”

Jisung exhales tightly, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t even think about that. “Yeah, but–”

“Then I’m sorry, it’ll slice the price down.”

Jisung lets out a heavy sigh, the stress making him want to lay on the floor and yell. 

“I think… maybe around one thousand.”

“One thousand?” Jisung’s mood immediately flips. Both men look at each other, puzzled. 

“This is designer, right? Cucinelli?” The owner asks like he’s confused why he even has to.

“I-I don’t…” He didn’t buy it. His father in law did. “I’ll take it.”

The owner beams, looking happy to have such a nice piece for sale. “Would you like it in cash?”

(If you want another, let me know)

[yeahcurrahhe-e]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

〚 𝐑. 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐒 〛

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐍𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐘 like a woman scorned.

Sexist? Certainly. A shred clever? Perhaps.

Particularly when the woman was a superior shot with her sterling Garand rifle, and already was grappling for a seat at the table with the sniffy, big headed men of her battalion, snarking them with a hell of an attitude that christened their faces crimson most days. Now, she had to embark the battleground of distinction and worthiness with her enemy being a young woman — much like herself if she were to be fashioned into a French rebel. The reward? Her childhood best friend; Ronald Speirs.

It was incredulous — revoltingly petty — to lay out a breathing person as the trophy for a spiteful rivalry between a pair of impetuous women. Yet, it was all she could do when the ghastly creature of jealously reared its head in the wake of her already shortening fuse. Ronald Speirs wasn’t hers to possess, hang onto like the threadbare rag of a childhood toy, but perhaps it was the subtle reminder of home…the echoing of a few words the evening of the Normandy jump.

Amidst their backwater town, he had been the most sought after boy, yet always was following blindly a girl consumed with zany pipe dreams — her. If it weren’t for her greatly religious loon of a mother fancying her hair and adorning her in florid dresses from the tailor of the town each day, anyone would’ve supposed the brazen young girl was a boy. And whilst she appreciated her share of dolls, antique tea sets, and the like, she almost always would be seen racing the fields with her brothers and a young Ronald Speirs.

For all of her life, wherever she was, so was he.

Frankly, that was until their battalion was withdrawn from the front lines, battered and internally butchered by war. They were bunked with French families racked by the conflict, their vacant rooms only untouched because the prior inhabitants were casualties consigned to a makeshift grave on the outskirts of the town. Y/N was refuged with a young family in their moderately shelled brick house in the center of town, adjacent to the delegated houses of the other lieutenants and their commanding officers.

Interaction with Ron had been touch and go since every marked day since their touchdown into Normandy at the initial rolling days of June — for all she knew, the days could’ve been far more than was acknowledged. Time was obscured by the confines of death and infiltrated by the poison of screams, gunfire, and dense thickets of smoke. Minds were more engrossed in a prayer than a pondering thought for the day of the week.

And now her own battle-riddled mind was intrigued with the nightly observations of the leaden shadows of Speirs and the neighbor’s daughter in the separating alley of the houses. When Y/N was fields of nightmares and a pile of reports away from sleep, and sat at a pine desk residing in a window’s airflow — one posed above the aforementioned strip of alleyway, her stupefied glimpses retreating to the whispers against the bricks and balling the paper in her hand absentmindedly when the murmurs partly passed from the mouth of Ronald Speirs.

Some lonesome ache in her threadbare conscious pondered if any shred of truth lay beneath his sickly sweet nothings. Yet, when the bitter daylight shone its revealing beacon, and the lieutenants would be massed at CP for their morning briefing, Ron’s typical rigid attention would be hindered when she’d shuffle into their shelled building, hair pinned and makeup brushed across her supple features with an experienced hand, bearing a tray of her mother’s pastries of gratitude. Y/N would watch his eyes as she strode about their table of leading officers — a sight for his sore eyes — and it was evident to the wound in her confidence that he was mesmerized. And she wished it was her. Because it was increasingly blatant to her numbing mind that she was no good for him.

Her daily appearance seemed endlessly defined by a thick layer of mud from head to toe, her clothing a baggy uniform for the skinniest of privates. Her hair was a scruffy, awkward mishap, a broken hairbrush in her belt not much good, and her own features ill-defined by muck. The last time her face had been eleganced by makeup was their last evening in Aldbourne, the makeup bestowed by a forlorn elderly woman with no use for it no more — its owner a deceased nurse on the frontlines of Germany. That was the very evening when Ron had snatched her into an alleyway with the damp warmth fraying the whirlwind ringlets poking from beneath her garrison cap, and he admitted every feeling of his to her; uttered of his love for her that had branched from their childhood shared on rolling green hills and cornfields. It’s when he had kissed her.

Now, she amused a displeasing thought as she slouched in a chair alongside Intelligence officer, Lewis Nixon. Perhaps that the admission erupted from a feeling of fright, a reckless upheaval of emotion because, hey, we may die tomorrow! She roughly trilled her fingernails against her ridged glass of whiskey as tendrils of fury thrashed through the thought. Would Ronald Speirs be as much of a douche to do that? Make her his false confession? Lead her on?

“You gonna actually drink that or glare at it until it boils?” Lewis murmured around a cigarette suspended from his mouth, perking an eyebrow over the paper ridge of his intelligence report.

“Perhaps I’m just enjoying the fact that its coming from an actual glass and not your rusty, diseased canteen, Nix,” she smiled sweetly at him when he rooted her with a piqued eye roll.

“Yeah, yeah,” he shook his head in slight whilst inhaling a brief puff of his cigarette, “Last time you ever get a sip of my Vat, kid.”

Y/N glimpsed at him, unimpressed, and sardonically uttering from behind the rim of her glass, “I’m devastated.”

Not truly until she peered nonchalantly out the adjacent window and its bullet-ridden glass, the half-light of the evening partly shading the passing figures of Ron and the town girl — Fleur. And then they halted with an ignorance for the presence beyond the window, the shadows concealing the flustered lieutenant and the oblivious intelligence officer. They stand with her holding his hand. And she felt herself getting colder.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Y/N mused, teetering on a bout of rueful laughter whilst essentially slamming her glass to the pine surface of the desk, nearly spoiling it into a heap of shards from fury.

The tousle of paper from her left indicated a startle from Nixon and he would’ve ripped her a new one for the outburst that resembled the rebound of artillery or a gunshot, if she didn’t scuffle out the room just as vehemently.

In calculated steps did she approach the front door of the battalion headquarters, a stoic expression infiltrating all recognizable composure along her features. It would be Ronald Speirs getting ripped a new one now. Was that all Ronald Speirs was good for? Hurting a nice girl like her that merely was attempting to infiltrate the negativity that always seemed to obscure any sense he had? She clenched her fist, bitten nails veering over the groves of bloodied knuckles.

And sure as anything, she strode out onto the gravel footpath, anchoring her helmet onto her head to emit a scrap of warmth in the crisp evening. From beneath the curved rim of her helmet as she tweaked it on the crown of her head, Y/N caught glimpse of Fleur pressing a whisper of a kiss on Ron’s lips, lingering there with fury igniting her veins, and kindling the ticking bomb of wrath of her core. But he likes her better. And she wishes again that it was her. Why had he ever kissed her? All that damn time ago in Aldbourne?

“Lieutenant Speirs!” she belatedly exclaimed, cinching her helmet straps taut beneath her rigid chin.

The oh so harrowing lieutenant of Dog Company leapt back as if a pitcher of bitter water was thrown down his backside, scuttling to dignify himself with a hasty hand combing through his hair and the other yanking his uniform into a straightened place around his torso. Fleur remedied the furls in her dress and trawled manicured fingers around her mouth to clear up the blemishes of askew lipstick. And Y/N couldn’t suppress the lapse of confidence that bittered her nerves as she stood in her rumpled and threadbare OD’s, her braided hair muddied and unfurling with humidified curls, face disbelieved with muck and blood. A far cry from the modish woman standing as sure as anything alongside Ron.

Yet, she matched the radiating poise of the French girl with ease whilst striding towards the pair of them in the dusk of night. And the peripheral glimpse she captured of Fleur rooted her with the unspoken yearn — a crave — like a fiendish beast to see her break down, mourn, and realize where she belonged wasn’t and would never be at Ron’s side. To learn to lose him wasn’t something she could afford. Y/N was the woman who had long since made a name for herself since Toccoa, got detested for her existence on this very planet by Sobel himself, yet still managed to pluck Easy Company from his blundering clasp. She was the most esteemed woman in the entire battalion, and she wouldn’t be disparaged by some hotspur of a French girl.

“You seem to be enjoying the locals,” she halted before them, her radiating dismay and frustration could nearly be felt in the confined alleyway, standing in its midst, burning it off like a furnace.

And Ronald Speirs mentally prepared himself for a reprimanding of his life.

“Particularly if it’s sticking your tongue down their throats,” she shifted to face him, almost amused at the vexation that festered beneath his stony gaze, his shut up unspoken but pristine in his jagged eyes.

“I mean, for fuck’s sakes, if I went around batting my eyelashes at every man, I’d be getting ripped a new one by every man with a gold bar pinned to their jacket!” In her cruel attempt to inflict a good cut into Ron’s esteemed ego, something — his hand — heaved her abruptly backward.

“What were you thinking?!” He essentially growled in nearness to her face once the rooftops shadows cast down privacy.

His voice — it was all just a billowing cape of anger and confusion that was girdling them in the alleyway. Yet, it was so completely uncanny and out of character for him that she couldn’t — didn’t want - to acknowledge that it was Ron shrilling in her face and previously yanking her away by her shirt. He wouldn’t hurt her. Yell at her.

She hastily wrenched her shirt out of his grasp, well aware that he saw the inferno glare in her gaping eyes in that fleeting moment of confrontation.

She twisted around furiously so she could push him away for the security of distance, “What was I thinking?! You’re the one sneaking, no, lodging your tongue down the throat of the daughter of the family you’re rooming with!”

Y/N was glowering at him, eyes searing holes into his soul. And a matched anger seemed to ooze out of every pore of his body.

“And why do you fucking care?!” Ron clamored vehemently, his hot breath fanning over her crimsoned cheeks, which fell sunken as she inhaled with uncharacteristic reluctance. Therefore, he veered into the opportunity in her silence and delved an allegorical knife further into her conscious,

“You said you didn’t want to do this — that you couldn’t jeopardize your position in the battalion. And I’m not just going to throw every girl aside because your feelings get hurt!”

Then, he regarded how she winced like she was in anguish yet was swarmed with resolve at the same time, and her own internal conflict released through a lump in her throat , “You said you’d always be there for me, and you’re not. Was I supposed to choose between you and fitting in where everyone expects me to fail?!” She suppressed a hideous sob with a hurtful bite of her bottom lip, and there was a sadness in his moonlit eyes.

“You know you always got me, Y/N,” his response was clear of his razor blade patience and the pair were simultaneously now a disaster of convoluted emotions as their headstrong mental barriers fortified.

“And to be your side to do what? Kiss your ass?! Because it seems clear that all I fucking do is put my own ass on the line for you!” Y/N ticked with pristine waves of fury rolling off her petite frame and he glanced towards her in utter incredulity, as if denying her zealous words.

“And you don’t even care,” she murmured with interception of his bewildered gaze and her chest throbbed hotly with a fallen hollow. Furiously, she propered her posture to standard of her rank that the war at her back beckoned, aiming a bitter glance upon Ron, “Have your fun.”

And for him, the hostility from her eyes exposed the betrayed young girl — his best friend — within.

Her back shot towards him flippantly rather than shouting up more of a fiery storm in the alleyway, reducing both of them to the children aching distantly in a defenseless ravine in their consciouses. And, perhaps, this is where that curious tie between their very souls would be pitifully burned away by their own contempt for the other.

“I don’t want you to leave my side!” Ron abruptly boomed, rounding in front of her and hindering her departure from this dispute that he didn’t want to conclude like this, with her marching off in unbeatable wrath.

And it had to reach this degree for him to say something like he meant it — for her to realize that it wasn’t mutterings of bullshit and a shield of measly excuses.

She halted when his futile exclamation poked holes through her contempt, crimson head-fog, silent for a heartbeat as she faced him at their meager distance. Her narrowed eyes observed Ron bring his hands to his face, kneading around the weariness and subtle stubble on his stern jaw.

“You give me a reason to be better, to do better, Y/N,” he sternly confessed, drawing hesitantly closer to her, only for her to take a few steps back to maintain the still rigid distance. A icy sting cascaded through his veins; was it actually too late to mend this?

“And I was an ass to do what I did — but she initiated that kiss out of nowhere and it frankly means nothing because….fuck, Y/N.…it wasn’t you,” Ron hastily asserted, somber as ever to polish over the hopeless numbing of the lump in his throat. Emotional vulnerability was potentially the sole weakness he had to his name.

“There was never any connection there and she knows it,” he lowly acknowledged, glance digressing to where the French girl had been, only for vacant space to be adrift in her new absence, and he exhaled rather contently.

“Why the hell did you even do it in the first place?” Y/N pressed, rightfully so in her defense, easing her tone but her eyes pointedly exuding her disappointment in the man before her.

“After Bastogne, my confidence was in the shitter and I was desperate for an….outlet….. It was never meant to happen….” he murmured, his typical poise absent from every edge of his express and curve of his eyes — and she had never quite witnessed it before. “I’m a shitty person.”

His hands trembled ever slightly as they wrenched out a grotty carton of Lucky Strikes, wrangling out a cigarette and straining to kindle its lethal end as his grasp fell futile with the lighter. Ron grunted with a tasteless amount of frustration radiating from him and Y/N hastily stepped the distance between them, plucking the corroded metal of the lighter from his hand, his brow furrowing when she cast it to the gravel.

“Stop,” she murmured as his weary eyes sought around hers so acutely, “You are not a bad person, Ron. You care about people, you care about these men — care about me. Yes, you have rumors and whispers of fear that follow you around, but that’s not who you are. And….if it’s true that this wasn’t supposed to happen….you made a bad call because you felt stuck. We all feel it.”

Her left palm rose to cradle his cheek, thumb grazing about the short reaches of stubble on his jaw; they were both broken differently and yet somehow still the same.

Her chapped lips were pressed against his before he could erupt with more grovels, and he returned in an unabashed desire. He could feel her lips form the bow of smirk, it being a rush in the tenderness of the kiss, his hands toying with the hem of her shirt.

And despite the pair of them being hotheads that tread on simmering ground, they loved each other. They steadied each other, encountering the other in the middle of a vacant field rather than a battlefield razed by devastation of death, smoke, and artillery.

[kassil]

For @ofstarstuff, for this week's Whispering Infinities:

A spool of thread that no one can ever quite agree on the color of, no matter how many look upon it. It's all but unbreakable, requiring a pair of sharp tailoring scissors to cut - not even the sharpest knife can so much as fray it. Clothing mended with it has a peculiar durability, after, shedding filth like a duck sheds water and resisting nearly any harm, while works of art made it it seem to shimmer like a rainbow dances within the threads. The story most often told about it tells of a young woman who used it to mark her way when cast into an ancient cave, using it to lead the others consigned there by a tyrant back to safety and freedom.

[ceescedasticity]

A probably incomplete list of Tirion's guilds

In fact probably some of these have duplicate, competing guilds

Beekeepers Cowherds Drovers Fowlherds Herders Hostlers Shepherds Swineherds Drapers Dyers Fullers Menders Ropemaker Spinners Weavers Sculptors Earthmasons Masons Plumbers Stonemasons Watersmiths Brewers Butchers Cheesemakers Distillers Foragers Foresters Millers Spicers Vinters Weirkeepers (fish traps) Bookbinders Jewelers Potters Tailors Saddler Shoemakers Tanners Coppersmiths Goldsmiths Ironsmiths Metallurgists Nailmakers Tinsmiths Wiredrawers Drumwrights Drumwrights Flautists Harpers Lutenists Luthiers Pipers Reedwrights Coopers Engravers Fletchers Glassblowers Glaziers Jewelsmiths Lampwrights Lensmakers Locksmith Wheelwrights Astronomers Historians Linguists [Lambengolmor] Mathematicians Naturalists Clerks Consigners Copyists Mongers Taverners Carpenters Joiners Sawyers Turners Architects Lorimers (horse gear) Nedellers (needles) Painters Playwrights (includes anyone involved in production)

[kingfakey]

feels weird to write! i keep having to remind myself that it all still counts, even if i haven't gotten to the point where i'm ready to write for real. i'm sorta starting from the ground up again and it feels so good. back to basics, like asking myself to define a characters style for the first time ever.

Fashion/Style:

Influence 1: Uniform/Workwear. When you’re restricted to a uniform with a strict dress code, you find your ways around it. Enter needle and thread. He’s a sneaky bastard. They can’t write you up for the infraction if they don’t see it. He started sewing hidden messages into his clothes when he was 15 and never looked back. Influence 2: Punk Fashion. A close friend of the uniform, if you can believe it. How does one add any sense of individuality to their clothes? If it’s not treating the fabric in one way or another, thread and needle will take him very far with a fresh tailor or a pop of color in the seams. Plaid is a friend, leather is a lover.

Influence 3: Street Goth. Color-phobic, black is what feels the most comfortable, able to blend into a crowd or stand out with a mere straightening of his shoulders. Other than the color, the note he takes is that of the silhouette, paying special attention to the way his clothes fall and the shape they create on his body.

Influence 4: Consignment Couture. Thrifty is taken to a whole new level when you’ll suck dick for a 2013 Gucci sweatshirt, but Ivan does what he can. He’s the menace of every consignment store, fearlessly turning a Chanel pencil skirt into a pair of shorts that fit him like a glove. “Fashion school drop out,” they scoff.

Influence 5: Leather & Lace. It’s not just chains and leather cuffs pair well with the whole goth and punk thing, it’s that they’re a little risqué. He won’t outright wear a collar, unless it’s a special occasion, but he’ll fasten an O-ring to his lapel, and wear a harness over a turtleneck or over jeans. If leather chaps weren’t so uncomfortable, he’d go whole hog. He’ll settle for the finer details, and the occasional lace hem poking out of somewhere daring.

[waitmyturtles]

Tracking away from my usual drama content for a moment to take you on a walk where my mind is going -- I’ve been thinking a lot about fashion lately and want to meditate on it a little bit.

I’ve been posting/cheesing a lot on my faves lately in my reblogs -- Machida Keita, Akaso Eiji, Seo In Guk, etc. -- not only in part because they are gorge, but also because I’ve long subscribed to the belief that Asian fashion magazines just DO fashion better than in Western content. Editorial spreads, analysis, a focus on fit and tailoring, mixing textures and styles, pushing the boundaries of what can be *carried* on a body (say, like, pairing a handbag with a large tote bag, or experimenting with hems and shoes), documenting a much wider variety of high and street styles -- and doing it in a way that doesn’t seem exclusive to each of the populations that the magazines are targeting. 

This is, of course, related in part to the fact that Japan has quite a few more fashion magazines on their newsstands than typical American bookstores. In the States, for edgier content, we have, say, Hypebeast or V or Complex. The sheer slew of *men’s* fashion magazines alone is astounding in Japan, let alone the jawdropping number of women’s fashion magazines. Through my stanning of Japanese actors and actresses through the years, I’ve discovered some magazines that I love, but I’m also just generally drawn to HOW the fashion is depicted and styled. On my highly underutilized IG account, I devotedly follow a number of Japanese stylists and photographers, just for inspiration, while I troll vintage and consignment websites for my actual closet.

Anyway, besides cheesing on my Asian faves (holy crap, the number of covers Machida has had this year is mindblowing, and Akaso is getting more covers, too!), the reason why this is clicking in my mind is because one spread that really got me over the recent holiday weekend is NOT Asian in content or publication -- it’s of one of my fave bands, MUNA, in NME Magazine (London). 

I mean, first of all, I just CAN’T. 

So if you don’t know MUNA (the majority of Tumblr HAS TO KNOW MUNA, RIGHT?! AAGGHH THEY’RE SO GOOD), they are out of Los Angeles, and how else to describe them? The NY Times said that they’re “breaking out of their cult following and bringing its anthems about queer joy to a wider audience.” MUNA is unabashedly queer, their songs have always reflected this, and they’re just ridiculous pop magicians. They signed to RCA until the pandemic, then they were dropped, then they signed to Phoebe Bridgers’s indie label, Saddest Factory, where they released their self-titled third album this year.

Besides the fact that I’ve been utterly obsessed with their newest album from this year (and I got to see them on tour last month, AMAAAHHHHHZING), this NME spread really blew me away for a couple reasons.

All trends come back, right? There’s something deeply 1990s about what we’re seeing in the pictures -- the heavy boots, the boot-cut pants, the sheer midriff top on Katie (redhead), the sheer bodysuit AND low-rise miniskirt on Katie, the generally brown-red theme of the cover.

But. And. Naomi (curly hair) and Josette (short hair). I fucking don’t think I’ve seen a cover this year where people, either alone or in a group, just fucking owned the AIR of a cover. Not even my gorge Asian faves have owned a cover like this. Look at Josette! Hand on her THIGH, legs spread, owning the ROOM between her stance. Josette in the second pic, all black, muscle-cut shirt, heavy belt, the GAZE at Katie. It’s pure OWNERSHIP OF THE SPACE. 

What I love about this NME cover and spread is that the air of the coverage is not about SEX or implied sex, which to be honest, a lot of my fave guy covers and spreads are kinda about. (I mean, look at this -- it’s SFW, it’s Machida on the cover of Nylon Japan. And Seo In Guk’s recent cover from Elle Singapore -- sizzling.) 

(And, interestingly, many women’s magazines in Japan very often focus AWAY from sex -- I could meditate more on this vis à vis modesty, but I don’t want to overgeneralize until I can cite much more research.) (Tangent, sorry.)

This NME cover, to me, is about presence and awareness. It’s not about making a damn STATEMENT. It’s about capturing a MOMENT, a breath, a moment in time where MUNA, after a pandemic filled with uncertainty, have found their certainty. (And, honestly -- the spread IS SEXY. But you can tell that they, and the photographer, didn’t need overt signs of SEX to make this moment happen.)

And looking at this spread made me think on queer fashion for a second. Last year, THEM Magazine had an amazing article on what exactly “queer fashion” means. Is it that fashion is created by the queer community? Are there signals, values, visual ticks, that make fashion “queer”? When I read this piece for the first time last year, it really got my antennae up regarding what I would see, critically, in your regular Western collections (say, like, Balenciaga) and to try to see if I could spot a derivative cop from the queer lens. 

But I think I understand “queer fashion” better, if the term isn’t already outdated, by seeing this NME spread. For me, at least, I see the presence of a project, of people coming together to make TRUE AND LASTING AND LIFTING ART, by queer people being utterly and unabashedly THEMSELVES. To me, MUNA here is showing themselves visually with the sheer power of their presence, in part by what they’ve chosen to wear, and how to wear it, along with representing and bringing with them the incredible music that they’re celebrating in this spread.

This is really powerful to me. It gives me a chill down my spine -- it makes me think that, as a timid girl in my teens and twenties, that I would have loved to have a little of this confidence growing up. 

And I think this spread gives me joy because we’re at a moment in our world’s history where a queer band CAN DO THIS -- own the cover of one of the world’s most important music magazines, breathlessly, confidently, by staring down the camera lens and being their true and honest selves. And they just blow away the spread with layers and layers of deep confidence that, to me, is unbelievably powerful to see.

God, I am just so obsessed with this spread. It gives me so much confidence in being a person. I hope my daughter can be moved by amazing people like MUNA as she grows up.

[the-blind-one-speaks]

A Long-Expected Meeting

Previous

The building’s lobby was pristine, elegant in the cold, empty, functional way that such places were. Matthew glanced about to locate the bank of elevators against the wall, his eyes skimming across tailored suits and patent leather shoes as he avoided the eyes of the people that actually belonged there. When his gaze landed on the building directory, he dropped his eyes to the waxed tiles and began shuffling across the lobby, intently studying the gleaming floor. Before he could panic about choosing an elevator, a voice cut through the low murmurs of people talking into cellphones and complaining to colleagues. 

“Mr Echald?” He startled, glad that he hadn’t been leaning on his crutch when the person called out. He turned his head, his nerves skyrocketing as a person in a crisp, immaculate suit strode across the lobby towards him, a polite, meaningless customer-service curving their glossed lips. He offered a shaky nod as their gaze raked over him, unable to muster anything more than a nervous half-smile. 

They must have liked what they saw — somehow — because the charming smile warmed and softened, dimpling their plump cheeks in a grin that was simultaneously friendlier and more menacing. He dropped his gaze to their glossy stilettos, intimidated by the prolonged eye contact. He shrunk further into his ragged coat and hoped his voice would begin working again when he met the man he’d risked so much to see. 

“Mr Senket is expecting you. This way, please.” They spun and led him to a key-access elevator. Grateful to be spared the awkwardness that came with trying to figure out where he was to go, he followed them in relief. Once they were in the elevator, the person used a different key to take them to the required floor, the motions of selecting the key from the multitude on their ring and inserting it while keying in a code abundantly familiar to them. 

“Mr Senket has been looking forward to this meeting,” they said cheerily. He swallowed, wishing he had thought to bring water with him. The silence stretched beyond the socially acceptable response time. 

He resigned himself to death then and there. 

They rode together in suffocating silence as the elevator rose. Matthew leaned against the elevator wall and tried to ignore the way his entire body felt like a single ache. His hands were still shaking; they hadn’t really stopped since the cab had pulled up beside him to pick him up. 

….

Quin allowed the man pressing himself into the back corner some space to collect himself. They didn’t understand Adriano’s fascination with the man, but they weren’t blind. They’d been trying to get Adriano to express interest in someone beyond his immediate attention circle for years (because they knew from personal experience there was no potential there, aside from themself, and they could do so much better). Now that he finally found someone he was choosing over his pet projects, Quin planned to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. They already had a cute little cafe picked out that would be perfect for a first date. 

They ran a critical eye over the man struggling not to hyperventilate in the corner. That awful coat would have to go. He seemed to like the way it swamped him, so an oversized sweater, perhaps? He would look adorable with droopy sweater paws. They narrowed their eyes at the thought. Maybe a cowl neck, to let him hide in it. Yeah, that would be cute. 

Adriano wouldn’t consign himself to a life of hermitude if Quin had anything to say about it. They’d have to figure out if Matthew was straight or not, though. Goodness knows Adriano didn’t care what gender he was. Quin really hoped that Matthew would be some flavor of gay, they had invested way too much into this ship already. 

Also they really wanted to see the anxious man currently hiding behind his grubby apparel in something that would make him shine. Seeing people look in the mirror and feel good about themselves for the first time was one of Quin’s favorite hobbies. Maybe they’d invite him to go shopping even if he was straight. Everyone deserved to feel their best, right? Cisgender people missed out on gender euphoric experiences far too often, in their opinion. 

Besides, it would be fun to drag Adriano shopping and surprise him with a Matthew fashion show. That would be worth paying for. Poor Mr Echald. He had no idea the kind of attention he had brought down upon himself. 

….

Adriano had never been more pleased to have Quin enter his office without knocking. The person had a slightly manic gleam in their eye that he filed away to ask about later, but his attention was quickly redirected to the man following in his elegant friend’s wake. He stood from his chair to get a better look, the move easily attributed to a polite greeting. 

The man trying to disappear into the shadows of his office was utterly unremarkable, in every way. His hair and clothing were beige and rumpled, his face lined with years of hard work and no relief, his eyes focusing on the immaculate floor as he shuffled his insubstantial weight forward on a crutch that looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in a museum. 

Adriano had never felt more floored by another human being in his life. 

He felt his most charming smile stretch his face without permission. Quin had a knowing look and he decided that they definitely needed to leave his office, right now. With a gesture, he beckoned them over and picked a file off his desk at random, handing it to them. 

“Take this to Samson. Mr Echald, please, take a seat.” Adriano heard the suppressed snicker as his assistant accepted the folder, meaning they likely didn’t employ anyone named Samson. Without a word, Quin strode over to the elevator and left the trembling man to Senket’s undivided attention. 

The man had yet to lift his gaze from the floor. Adriano watched avidly as he slowly made his way to the most comfortable chair in the office, one Quin had pulled out prior to seeing him up. The silent groan of mingled pain and relief as he sank into it was worth the trouble. That godforsaken crutch was arranged across his lap with trembling hands, his weight leaning entirely on the armrest opposite the side his mobility aid was usually tucked under. The fine tremor in his shoulders did not go unnoticed. 

Adriano decided to have mercy. “You said you had a proposal for me to consider. An untapped market that I have yet to branch into? I’m intrigued.” He raised an eyebrow, hoping it came across as teasing rather than condescending. It had been a while since he had tried to come across as anything besides superior. 

The man drew in a deep breath. He began to speak, his gaze fixed in the desk, still unable to meet Senket’s eyes. The words were stiff, memorized and recited many times. 

“Your name is well-known for advancements in many different areas, but there is one field you have yet to touch: the medical field. Beyond hospital equipment, which would endear you to the industry, there is an area that could greatly benefit from your insight and would gain you the admiration of the public: prosthesis.” His voice trailed off into a near-whisper, though he had never quite managed to make it strong in the first place. The pitch was brief, but Adriano knew he had already run out of either words or courage, so he spared him the awkward pause and hummed thoughtfully. 

“The medical field has never interested me,” he admitted plainly. “The amount of beauracracy and red tape disguised as safety measures is appalling.” He wrinkled his nose. “Creativity thrives with constraint, but I have other areas of innovation that pique my interest without having to jump through hoops.”

He studied the man’s rigid posture. His shoulders were trembling, the circles under his eyes deep enough to look like bruises. Matthew Echald showed no sign of disappointment, just a bone-deep resignation that Adriano was start,ed to realized he loathed. 

“Of course,” he continued softly. “That is the medical industry as a whole. Your case was brought to my attention when you began searching for me.”

Matthew’s eyes shot up. Naked terror shone in their sunken depths. The utter lack of hope was what made up Adriano’s mind. 

“You are wasted where you are, Matthew. You’ve spent your life catering to the whims of a life plan that others have crafted for you.” He rounded the desk, leaning on its edge across from the man. “You have been drained and decimated and destroyed. Your whole being given to a man who only demands more.” He tilted his head. Matthew’s face was distinctly grayer, now. “You are a remarkable man, Matthew, for having lived so desolate a lifestyle. I must admit, now that you are here, I have no intention of letting you go. The others in your life, they don’t deserve you.”

He laughed to himself. “Well, aside from your charming sister, perhaps. She seems to be the only of your inner circle not to take you for granted.”

The man pushed himself upright, struggling to speak. His shaking hands were clenched tightly to the arms of the chair, eyes gleaming with desperation. Adriano closed the distance between them to assist him as he propped himself up on that abominable crutch. He held his gaze. 

“You came to me for help, Matthew,” he reminded him gently. “I’m going to help you, now. Not in the way you were hoping, perhaps. But you came to me, so you’re one of mine.” He smoothed the greasy hair away from the other’s brow. The man flinched from his touch as though he’d been struck. “Your health is the first thing we’ll work on, of course. You’re far too weak to be fitted just yet, but don’t worry, you’ll get there soon enough.” He smiled at him. “You are an employee of mine now, after all.”

Matthew Echald had tears in his eyes. He struggled to swallow, but Adriano steadied him with patient hands until he found his breath again. The man shuddered, his shaking shoulders collapsing forward until he was slumped against Adriano’s thin chest.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was muffled by Adriano’s shoulder. The genteel supervillain smiled. He cupped his hands around the sobbing man’s skeletal form, pleased. 

“Welcome to Senket Industries,” he purred. “We’re so pleased to have you.”

@creweemmaeec11 @itsleighlove @whumpzone @thegreatwhodini @unicornscotty

[inpariswetrust93]

BlackPink Ice Cream Rose Outfit Inspo

Ashley Williams Love Corset :

Feather Skirt:

Dior White ABC Bag:

https://sovrn.co/bkpgehp

Aquazurria White Heels:

https://sovrn.co/1bmpl37

Her story Origami Bracelet:

https://sovrn.co/xjxk1ni

Zoe Chicco Heart Earrings:

https://sovrn.co/6fjvny8

Diamond Ring:

https://sovrn.co/gy725vh

Necklace:

https://sovrn.co/v4zr2p7

[innytoes]

And I cannot resist the clothes sharing, so how about either 15 or 30 for caleb/ray/reggie?

(Also I feel like 14 can be implied for literally any of the other prompts in this verse as that has essentially already been established)

(ABO-verse isn't so much 'Every time I come home there are more tiny pumpkins everywhere and it’s driving me insane' as 'every time I come home there are more tiny pumpkins everywhere and I have accepted my fate because Reggie is too cute to say no to’.)

The fashion at the Hollywood Ghost Club was over the top even on a regular Tuesday night, Reggie knew. It was a very exclusive club for very rich people. Caleb had a tailor on the payroll who literally tailored the suits of the staff once they got out of probation.

The first time he'd gone over, because Caleb called him and asked him to please, please come bring him some important documents he'd left in his home office, Reggie had shown up in torn jeans and one of Ray's threadbare Henleys and he'd never felt more underdressed. And that was coming from a guy who spent five years in a shelter wearing the worst donated clothes on purpose.

The whispers that had come from the staff had almost made him cry. When Caleb found out, he'd torn them a new one, but Reggie never went to the club in anything less than his nicest jeans now, even when it wasn't open yet. And okay, still in clothes he stole from Ray and Caleb, but like, nice ones.

So when Caleb invited him and Ray to the big show for LA Fashion Week, Reggie had been dithering what to wear for weeks. Ray just shrugged and said he'd put on whatever Caleb laid out for him (which Caleb absolutely would, else Ray would show up in his nice jeans and maybe a button down.) But Reggie, for some reason he didn't quite know how to articulate, wanted to impress.

Not just all the snooty rich people, or the few staff members that still looked down on him (he'd won most of them over either through his friendship with Willie or by bringing in the baked goods he had left over). He wanted to impress Caleb.

If he failed to find something, he could always just wear the red butterfly suit Caleb had gotten him. The one from first time Caleb invited Reggie to a show at the Club and Reggie had been worried about embarrassing him. Caleb had taken him to his tailor and had it custom made for him, and he'd never felt more special. He was pretty sure if Caleb saw him in the crowd wearing that, he'd be happy.

"You'll look gorgeous in whatever you wear, kitten," Caleb had reassured him, when Reggie told him he wanted to pick his own outfit. But he'd also slipped Reggie his own credit card, not the omega-designated one with a limit on it.

So Reggie had gone shopping. He'd dithered over pretty dresses, before admitting to himself he wasn't ready to wear those out in public, even if he got to hang off Ray or Caleb's arm all night. He'd scoured the consignment stores, finding a nice pair of slightly pointy leather shoes. And then, in a little vintage boutique, in the women's section, he'd found it.

The shirt was a black button up, with long sleeves and pretty shiny black buttons. The sleeves and collar were solid, as well as where it buttoned up, but everything else was a pretty, floral lace. The dark flowers stood out beautifully among the sheerer fabric, and with his pale skin, they would look stark and perfect in the dark of the room during the show.

It would look even cooler with the torn up black skinny jeans that people had scoffed at.

Ray had looked surprised when he'd come out of their room dressed the way he was. He'd put his hair in a low bun, still covering his scar, but he wanted Caleb to be able to see the full effect of the lace. "You look ah, fashionable," he said, but not in a mean way. In fact, from the way Reggie could smell his scent changing, he was trying very hard not to say something that would make them both late.

"You think Caleb will like it?" he asked, hopeful.

"Tesoro, I think Caleb will have to work very hard to keep his eyes off you the entire show," Ray said. He wrapped his arms around Reggie, and his hands were warm through the lace.

The club was already filled to the brink when they got there, but Willie lead them to their fancy reserved table right front and centre. Reggie tried to ignore the eyes on them, sitting straight and obnoxiously sipping on the straw of his Mountain Dew. Ray just serenely looked back, commenting to Reggie about how he didn't really understand fashion as he subtly pointed out some rather... interesting choices.

The show started, and Reggie beamed, scooting his chair closer to Ray's. He loved the shows at the Hollywood Ghost Club, always caught up in the glitz and glamour, the dancing and singing, the music and the spectacle. He always tried to pick Willie out of the crowd when he could, though usually his eyes were on Caleb.

Who, when he came right up to their table during his song, looked Reggie up and down and licked his lips in the little pause between lines. Reggie preened, and Ray chuckled.

After the show, the food was great, as usual. Caleb usually had to schmooze his way through the crowd before joining them, but Ray and Reggie dug into their meals, talking about the show, the food. He startled a little at the warm hand on his shoulder, before his nose caught up to his brain and he could smell Caleb. "Enjoy the show?" he asked, leaning over to kiss Ray's cheek, then Reggie's.

"Very much," Ray said.

"It was amazing," Reggie gushed. One of the waiters magicked a chair for Caleb to sit down, and someone else produced a plate for him to eat. They spent the rest of the evening enjoying each other's company, Caleb's warm hand tracing the lace flowers on Reggie's back whenever he got the chance. And whenever he was called away, Reggie got to dance with Ray, swaying in his arms during the slow songs, nose to nose.

At the end of the night, when the Club starting to empty out and Reggie's four Mountain Dews were starting to wear off, Caleb came to find them. "Let's go home," he said, wrapping an arm around each of them. They both leaned in, making their way out of the building and walking the short walk to where Ray had parked. The late night air was cold, and Reggie shivered slightly. Being fashionable had its price.

"Are you cold?" Caleb asked, not waiting for an answer before slipping off his velvet suit jacket, draping it over Reggie's shoulders. He didn't even try to protest, the warmth easing his tense shoulders, Caleb's smell surrounding him.

Caleb drove them home. He never drank when he was working. Reggie crawled into the back seat, content to listen to his alphas talk, cozy in Caleb's jacket. It was the perfect night. Especially because neither Caleb or Ray knew that under his torn jeans, he had some pretty black panties that matched quite well with his shirt.

He couldn't wait for them to find out.

[houseofcravenart]

Everything you need to know about Naple’s auction house  

House of Craven proudly announces the Naples auction house, a premier destination for fine art, luxury goods, and rare collectibles in Southwest Florida. Nestled in the heart of Naples, this new venue continues House of Craven’s tradition of curating exceptional auctions that attract collectors, art enthusiasts, and luxury connoisseurs from around the globe.

At the Naples auction house, clients can expect a seamless and personalized experience. From initial consultation to post-auction services, House of Craven’s team of experts offers tailored support to both buyers and sellers. Whether you are a seasoned collector or new to the auction world, Naple’s auction house provides access to a wide array of high-quality items, including fine art, antiques, jewellery, designer handbags, and estate treasures.

One of the key features of the Naples auction house is its commitment to modern technologies. Leveraging House of Craven’s Blockchain Authentication Services, the auction house ensures the authenticity and provenance of each item, giving buyers peace of mind. Additionally, online bidding platforms allow participants from around the world to join live auctions, ensuring a competitive and exciting atmosphere.

As part of its expansion into Southwest Florida, House of Craven’s Naples auction house will also host exclusive events and consignment opportunities, giving local and international clients unique access to rare and valuable pieces. From pre-auction previews to curated exhibitions, the Naples location is designed to be a cultural hub for both seasoned collectors and emerging enthusiasts alike.

Join House of Craven at the Naples auction house for an unmatched auction experience in one of Florida’s most vibrant communities.