#back-flared lace cuffs

[angstandhappiness]

NEAT

Lady, half-length, in white bejewelled dress and headress. Circle of Frans Pourbus the Younger (location ?). From tumblr.com/blog/view/antiquelaceartist 1245X1672 @72 747kj. She may be wearing a cape.

1570-1599 Lavinia Biglia, Countess Pallavicino, attributed to Juan Pantoja de la Cruz (Antony House - Antony, Cornwall, UK). From pinterest.com/lindsaysmithfox/baroque-fashion/; fit to screen 959X1400 @72 393kj.

Ritratto di dama con figlio by Francesco Montemezzano (auctioned). From mutualart.com/Artwork/Ritratto-di-dama-con-figlio/07514105FD201DD6 2562X2800 @144  2.7Mj. Originally found on tumblr.com/blog/view/history-of-fashion/688220081239490560. I believe this is late 1500s based on the two-spike hairdo and the width of her upper skirt that resembles a French farthingale.

Lady by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger (location ?). From tumblr.com/blog/view/jeannepompadour/684657296048078848 966X1300 @72 260kj.

Woman by Roman artist (Sotheby’s - 20May21 auction Lot 3) 1592X2000 @300 913kj. I can not date this one.

[greedyhoneyz]

On Bended Knee

ೃ࿔*:･pairing: bruce wayne x reader

.ೃ࿔*:･synopsis: upon newly blossomed wings comes the season of spring, freed at last as wedding bells ring.

.ೃ࿔*:･cw: none.

.ೃ࿔*:･authors notes: this is a modern take on bruce. like i imagine him being a major socialite (like jfk jr) in the late 90s/00s (him being so closed off from the media) and his kids (nepo babies) when they are older use social media and show off their parents for people who are curious about what bruce’s been up after his parents murder. ….or it can be hella modern like battinson or something idk 🤷🏾‍♀️

When the first day of spring bloomed, buds sprouted from beneath ageing trees and flowers sang hymns of spring’s deep soul and blessed the warm air.

April 15th. The early morning sun had peeked over the courtyard, and a pleasant breeze from the north rustled through, cooling the guests and family members as they waited in their seats, across from the walk leading to the pavilion. Flowers and white streamers decorated the bannisters, a ceremonial mixture of whites and champagne pinks.

Sweet strains of classical music fluttered through the air, tuning out the occasional conversation as the groom wadded through feelings of nausea and discomfort. He swayed on the heels of his dress shoes, his arms tightly glued to his back and nipped at his bottom lip. His careful eyes dressed the courtyard, scouring across the row of friends, family and his groomsmen before he squinted at the grand doors latched above.

The groom heaved, shifting anxiously on the heels of his feet, and pulled at the cuffs of his shirt for the fifth time that hour. He bit his lip, eyed the backyard door from afar, and mumbled a few words of prayer, interlocking his fingers together and peering up at the sky.

The bridal chorus, a vivid and light piece, began to play from the orchestra as the grand doors flew open, a wash of petals fluttering out into the air.

One by one, in a synchronised fashion, the bridal procession descended from the mansion steps towards the aisle. Flower girls, dressed in the sweetest whites, showered pink roses across the aisle as the bridesmaids, dressed in blush gowns veiled the accession of the bride with gleeful smiles.

The bride, arm in arm with her father, bared herself from behind the procession and merrily ascended across the aisle. Her gown, a princess-cut bodice encrusted with heavily laced beadwork, layered with a soft skirt flared below her veil, floating along as she waltzed, in her hands a bouquet of Stephanotis’.

She was magnificent, beguiling and alluring. All were words that floated through the depths of the groom’s head as he stood with bated breaths, gazing at her with a heavy heart and glassy eyes.

As they drew closer, the groom slowly stepped down from the pavilion and extended his arm to unravel the chain between father and daughter once the pair came to the end of the aisle. He peered at his bride with pride riddled through his eyes as her father turned and placed a longing kiss on the side of her head. He loosened her arm from around his and raised it. He set her hand in the groom’s and slowly retreated into the audience, watching with dread and contentment as the groom carefully guided her up into the pavilion.

The bridal tune faded, and the pastor stepped up to the microphone, Bible in hand. He smiled at the assembly of family and close friends and began. "Cherished family and honoured guests, I would like to thank all for coming out on this glorious day,"

The sound of his polished voice carried well from the speakers on either side of the pavilion as the pastor opened the Bible before him. "Let us begin by offering thanks to the Lord." The procession bowed their heads and the pastor began his prayer.

The groom’s eyes softened at the sight of the swooning silhouette of his bride. His bride gleamed, in awe at the pure poetry pooled within his eyes and replied with a flustered smile shadowed from beneath her veil, before fluttering her eyes shut.

“Dear Lord…”

Once the prayer had concluded, the pastor led the bride and groom through their vows. Their vows to each other expressed their tenderness and devotion to one another. And when it ended, their rings were exchanged.

Scampering across the aisle, the bride’s nephew dressed in a blue tuxedo waddled up the stairs, a pillow nestled between his tiny fingers and hurriedly handed the groom the rings before scampering off to his mother who waited expectantly at the bottom of the stairs.

With an enamoured smile across his face, the pastor turned to the groom and began. “Do you, Bruce Thomas Wayne take….as your lawfully wedded wife?”

Bruce gaped at the woman in front of him. Though her beauty was sheltered behind her veil and the glaring sunlight, he still caught a glimpse of the bashful smile that lingered on her face. “…I do.”

Twirling the ring between his fingers, Bruce grinned at his bride. He held her smooth hand, scoring his thumb across her skin and gently slid the ring onto her finger till it rested by her knuckles.

The pastor smiled and turned to the bride. “Do you…..take Bruce Thomas Wayne as your lawfully wedded husband?”

(name) giggled, flustered at Bruce’s bright stare and nodded. “I do.”

She took the ring resting in her palm and slid it onto his finger.

"By the power vested upon me, I now declare you, husband and wife." The pastor held up his hands, bringing the crowd to their feet.

"You may now kiss your bride."

Lifting her veil, Bruce gently draped the white fabric behind her head, letting it fall across her back and stared at his wife.

As their eyes met, the world seemed to fade away, the world around them forgotten. She felt his hand tenderly touch her cheek, his fingers tracing a line down her jawline.

She beamed, tilting her head ever so slightly and fluttered her lashes, luring him in with a simple, feathered whisper.

He kissed her, soft and gentle, then with a growing intensity. Their kiss was full of tenderness and passion, a dance of two souls perfect in harmony.

His arm wrapped around her, pulling her close as they found themselves castaway, the world around them ceased to exist.

Their embrace lasted for what felt like an eternity, their lips parting only for brief moments for air. They explored each other's mouths with a gentle urgency, their tongues intertwining in a dance of passion and desire.

And as they finally broke free, they peered into each other's eyes with an inviting warmth. It was a moment that would be forever remembered, a moment of softness, tenderness, passion and pure exquisite love.

[danika-redgrave124]

Umbra Witch Yuu Couture Bullet (Heartslabyul)

Heartslabyul Dorm Uniform

A delicate white Headband adorned with a small handcrafted white rose painted red at the center. The Headband has golden accents to give a regal touch.

Yuu's hair is styled in loose flowing curls with a slight pouf at the top, similar to Alice's hairstyle.

A tailored, deep red velvet jacket with black and white checkered trim. The jacket features a prominent white rose on the keft side of the chest, covered in faux red paint. The jackets back has a pattern of playing cards suits and crowns, intricately embroidered in gold and black.

A fitted vest in black with a gold playing card suit pattern interspersed with small crowns. The vest's lining is subtle, shimmering gold.

Skirt: A high-waisted, black skirt with a layered design that features a hidden checkered pattern on the inner layers. The skirt flows gracefully, with the chessboard pattern subtly visible.

Pants: Alternatively, the skirt can be paired with form-fitting black pants that have red rose embroidery running down the sides.

Accessories

Gloves: Elbow-length black gloves with card suit symbols embroidered in gold along the forearms.

Boots: Knee-high black leather boots. The boots have gold accents that complement the overall look.

Queen of Hearts

Crown: A large ornate gold crown with heart shaped rubies and intricate details.

Yuu's hair is styled in a voluminous waves.

Top

A luxurious, black velvet bodice with a high, stiff collar lined with red velvet. The bodice features gold embroidery in heart and card suit patterns.

The bodice has puffed, red velvet sleeves with gold trims and heart-shaped accents.

Bottom

Skirt: A short, flared skirt made of layered red satin and black tulle. The skirt is adorned with gold hearts and card suits.

Shorts: Underneath the skirt, Yuu wears black, form-fitting shorts, providing comfort and practicality.

Accessories

Gloves: Elbow-length black gloves with red and gold hearts patterns, featuring delicate lace trim at the cuffs.

Boots: High-heeled, thigh-high black leather boots with red heart-shaoed embellishments and gold detailing.

Alice

A delicate Headband featuring a large black bow.

Yuu's hair is styled in soft, flowing waves, mimicking Alice's hair.

Outfit

A light blue, A-line dress with a white apron, made from soft, flowing frabic.

The dress features intricate lace trim along the necklace and hem. The apron has a subtle heart-shaped pocket and blue ribbon detailing.

Soft Puffed sleeves with white lace and light blue accents.

Skirt: A full, knee-length skirt with layers or blue frabic, creating a voluminous and playful appearance. The skirt is paired with form-fitting, white leggings adorned with small blue bows.

Accessories

Shirt, white gloves with blue lace trim and blue bows at the wrists.

Shoes: Classic black Mary Jane shoes

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XVIII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Lucien adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, wanting to look his absolute best during the dinner his father had decided to personally invite him to. 

The corridor was empty and quiet, Eris was his only company as they both waited for Elain to finish getting ready for the evening. Lucien could sense she was equally as nervous to be spending more time with his family. 

He bit the inside of his cheek as he straightened his jacket. 

“Stop worrying,” Eris snapped, voice cold and uncaring, as if he could not be bothered to reassure his youngest brother. Lucien thought It sounded more like an order than an attempt to settle him. 

He sighed as he faced the High Lord’s heir. “Are we late?” 

Eris rolled his eyes, the torches along the walls flashing momentarily. “Take a breath and stop fidgeting, this dinner is a peace offering.” 

While his brother had not actually answered his question, Lucien was almost sure Eris would have made an effort to rush them if they were at risk of upsetting their father. He had once believed wholeheartedly that Eris would not let any harm come to him. After Jesminda’s death, he had come to the conclusion that Eris only had his own best interests in mind. 

Lucien looked at Eris as they continued to wait for Elain, questioning if his eldest brother fell somewhere in the middle of his assumptions. Eris had gone out of his way to ensure Lucien had been released from the dungeons, and had proven himself an ally to Elain. 

Lucien’s golden eye clicked into place and Eris turned to face him. 

Eris frowned as their eyes met, almost as though he knew exactly what Lucien was thinking about. The torches flared once more as he opened his mouth to speak, but the doors to the chambers opened suddenly and they both turned to face Elain and Cora. 

All of Lucien’s thoughts about what Eris might have said had they not been interrupted quickly left his mind as Elain walked elegantly into the corridor.

Lucien straightened as she approached, her dress was lovely, the material fading from black to orange, her skirts looking like the forest floor as they dragged along the stone ground. Like most dresses in Autumn, it was modest, and very little of her skin showed. Elain had pinned her hair up with the comb of pearls Eris had gifted her, and Lucien’s eyes fell to the pale column of her throat. 

Elain Archeron was stunning, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and Lucien suddenly became very aware of the scars that marred his face.

Elain looked at him and blushed, she paused, skirts in her hands as she spoke. “Sorry to make you both wait, it took Cora ages to figure out the ties,” she laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the corridor, echoing loudly in Lucien’s mind. 

“Did it?” Eris raised a brow at Cora as she shut the doors to the suite and walked to Elain’s side. 

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she said, “I hate Autumn Court gowns.” 

“Some lady’s maid you are,” Eris replied with a scoff, clearly intending to annoy her.

“Do all the clothes really need so many laces and buttons?” Cora clipped, gesturing to the back of Elain’s dress. “Hardly my fault the females here have to suffer in such a fashion.” 

Eris waved a hand lazily and Lucien watched with great interest as his brother’s lips tilted up at the corners, flames in his eyes. “You should have stayed in Night, where the nobles have much simpler tastes.” 

Cora looked prepared to bite back a response, but Lucien pitied the poor female for having to put up with Eris’s moods and spoke before the situation could escalate.

“You look beautiful, Elain.” 

His mate blushed an even darker shade of red. “Thank you,” she said softly, trailing her eyes from his booted feet to the high neckline of his jacket. “You look nice, too.” 

Lucien bowed his head, keeping their gazes locked. It felt as if just the two of them were in the dark space, that no one else existed beyond them. 

Lovely. 

Elain was breathtakingly beautiful, and Lucien questioned the cauldron’s decision to make them mates. 

Eris cleared his throat, shattering the silence between them along with the illusion that only Lucien and Elain were present. 

“You also look very handsome, Eris.” Elain added as she reached for Lucien’s arm. He offered it to her without hesitation, and she grabbed onto him with no consideration. If it were not for the amusement ringing in her tone, Lucien might have been irrationally jealous at the statement. 

Cora hummed in agreement, and Lucien could have sworn a flicker of shock flashed across his brother’s features as he glanced at the Night Court female. “Are family dinners always so… formal?” She asked none of them in particular. 

Eris merely shrugged in response, “It’s not every night you welcome back an exiled son.” 

Lucien nodded, keeping his expression serious. “I’m so flattered.” 

Elain giggled at his side and Lucien caught himself genuinely smiling. 

“Wish your lady’s maid a goodnight,” Eris interrupted, “we should be going.” 

“I’ll find you in the morning,” Elain promised, waving at her friend as Eris began to walk away.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Cora called after them and Lucien almost snorted, knowing the evening would probably be torturous. 

Elain was comfortable as she loosely held onto his arm, her heartbeat steady, nothing negative making its way down the bond. Eris slowed his steps, letting them catch up, and he walked next to Elain. 

As soon as they walked up a flight of stairs, ensuring there was enough distance between them and Cora, Elain used the hand that was not holding onto Lucien to swat his older brother. 

“You could use her name,” she scolded, "it's not as if you don’t know it.” 

Lucien’s mouth fell open in silent shock. He wondered when his eldest brother might have last been chastised, who might have been brave enough to dare. 

“Whose?” Eris said, disdain dripping from the one word, although it was obvious he knew who Elain was referring to.  

Elain hit him again, this time with more force. “You could be nice,” she suggested, disappointment lining her lovely features.

“Being nice might actually kill him,” Lucien mumbled, but they both seemed content to ignore his presence. 

“Stop hitting me,” Eris said, sounding unbothered.

As Elain raised her gloved hand one more time, Eris did not miss a single step as he winnowed to Lucien’s side, maintaining their pace effortlessly. 

Elain attempted to get through to him one last time, leaning past Lucien so she could frown at him. “It’s rude, Eris,” she observed. “You ought to know as much.”  

Lucien could have told her that arguing with Eris was akin to arguing with a stone wall, but he watched as they interacted, surprised at how comfortable they seemed to be with each other.

“Remember yourself at dinner,” Eris warned, “I’m not too sure that the rest of my brothers will appreciate your more violent side.” 

While Lucien could tell Eris was not being serious, he felt as Elain tensed, clearly worried by the words. 

Lucien shot Eris a glare, but his brother had already begun to speak, paying attention only to his mate.  

“You’ve managed to charm even my father, Elain Archeron,” Eris added, having noticed her change in demeanour, and Lucien was grateful as she straightened her shoulders back. She already looked more confident as Eris gave her a final piece of advice. “So keep at it.” 

Eris’s praise was enough for Elain to maintain an attitude that made her seem entirely at ease among the most important family in the Autumn Court. While the High Lord sat at the head of the rectangular table, no one else faced him from across the other side. 

Lucien’s mother was at his father’s left side, and Eris was on his right. Elain had quickly found her place sitting between Lucien and the Lady of Autumn, who she spoke with softly, answering all of his mother’s pleasantly worded questions while everyone else ate their perfectly cooked meal. 

Lucien was surprised with how well-behaved his brothers were, considering how he had witnessed more than enough brawls during their family dinners before he had been exiled. Beron watched with observant eyes, paying attention to the conversation between Elain and his wife. 

Eris had said very little, just like Lucien remembered, choosing to eat slowly and avoid meaningless small talk. Callum was expectedly next to their eldest brother, looking at the very least like he was carefully listening to Elain as she spoke. Ronan had drunk so much wine Lucien was wondering if he would be able to walk out of the dining room on his own, which seemed a bit unusual. Felix had his elbows on the table, head resting on his fist, decidedly choosing to be disrespectful. Lucien was surprised that their father had yet to say anything, knowing how much the High Lord valued appearances. 

“I was thinking of sending invitations out in the next couple of days,” Lucien heard his mother say, a repressed excitement in her voice. She placed her napkin next to her full plate. “Of course, Night will be receiving theirs first.” 

“Thank you,” Elain added, “We’d been planning a smaller affair, very few knew about it outside our little circle of friends.” She glanced to Lucien shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear endearingly before turning her attention back to the Lady of Autumn. 

“We could send Spring an invitation,” Beron added, voice quiet but authoritative. He looked at Lucien with a raised brow, “We wouldn't want to offend Tamlin.” 

“How considerate,” Lucien said, feeling his teeth grit in annoyance. 

“And we must invite the human queen and her general,” his father continued.

“I don’t expect them to travel into our court.” Lucien responded, wanting his friends to stay far away from the Forest House. 

“Why not?” Felix asked. “We have such a lovely court,” he flashed Lucien a grin daring him to argue. 

Lucien set his cutlery down with a loud sound as it hit against the side of his plate. 

“I don’t care much for Queen Vassa,” Elain interrupted before Lucien could say anything. There was honesty in her words, he could tell, perhaps even a hint of jealousy, but he knew she was only saying it for his benefit, 

Elain had come to his defence in the hopes that Beron would leave his friends alone, and the respect he had for his mate only soared at the thought.

Ronan chuckled, raising his glass in a salute towards Elain, which she returned elegantly despite her clear discomfort at being addressed directly. “I like your mate’s honesty, little brother,” he confessed before drinking deeply.

Beron hummed in response, placing his hand, palm up, onto the table. Lucien watched as his mother laced their fingers together, the gesture coming to them naturally. His much larger hand engulfed her smaller one, and Lucien had to fight the urge to wince.   

Everyone went back to eating in silence, and Lucien recalled the countless family dinners he had silently sat through. With Beron present, his brothers were achingly careful with their words and their actions, not wanting to upset him. It was like trying to walk in the woods without snapping a branch, nearly impossible without practice, but each of them had learned to read their father’s moods. 

As though Elain could sense the troublesome direction of Lucien’s thoughts, she placed a comforting hand on his knee. Covered by the table, no one else noticed the startlingly soft gesture. 

Lucien realised quickly that Elain’s action had not been for show, that it had not been a part of their roles, it was simply a moment shared between the two of them.

[rdng1230]

Bucktommy WIP

This is a little bit of my "Sal accidentally crashes Buck and Tommy's romantic night in" wip. Maybe if I post a snippet my motivation will come back to actually finish it:

Oh shit, hang on I got some sauce on my sleeve.” Tommy cursed. Buck whined in protest as his boyfriend slipped away to run some water over the offending cuff. Before he could return there was a knock on the door, and Buck begrudgingly relinquished his place on the sofa to answer it. 

He opened the door to a stranger with two day old stubble and piercing blue eyes. The man looked just as surprised to see him, taking a not very graceful step back. 

“Uhh, You’re not Tommy.” 

Buck’s eyes narrowed, not at all liking the familiarity with which the brutishly handsome man said his boyfriend’s name. “Or if you are,” He gave Buck a slow up and down look of appraisal. “I mighta had a couple more than I thought.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Tommy appeared at Buck’s side. “On a Tuesday? Really?”

The stranger neglected to answer, his eyes shifting slowly between the two men, his lips curling into an amused grin. “Picked yourself a pretty one, Kinard.” He laughed out, leaning too far forward and losing balance. Tommy, in a well practiced grab and turn, caught his uninvited guest between his well muscled arm and torso, lifting him back up and marching him wordlessly towards the spare bedroom. 

Even in his drunken state, the man clearly knew his way around Tommy’s place. Buck was doing his best to tamp down the flare of jealousy curling in his stomach. Whatever intimacy Tommy had with this guy, Tommy didn’t exactly look happy to see him. 

Buck watched through the flung open door Tommy practically dumping the man onto the bed with his long legs still dangling off the side. “Take your damn boots off Deluca.” Tommy ordered. “Alright already just lemme get the room to stop spinning like a damn tire first.” He replied, raising his arms to hold his head. He took in a few steadying breaths and started reaching down for his shoe laces. “You used to sweet talk me, you know that?” He squinted. Tommy crossed his arms, his face twisting into a faux sympathetic smirk. “You used to call first.” 

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 16, 19 avril 1902, Paris. Groupe de toilettes pour dames et jeunes filles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(3) Robe de dîner pour jeune femme. Jupe en dentelle sur transparent blanc, bordée d'un volant bouillonné en liberty vert d'eau ou en crêpe de Chine. Au-dessus du volant, croisillons de velours noir.

Veste bouillonnée à la taille et formant basque mi-longue, ouverte sur un dessous de dentelle et rattachée devant par des velours croisés, avec de gros boutons fantaisie. Col fichu en mousseline de soie, souligné d'un volant froncé. Manche courte en dentelle, avec grand volant bouillonné.

(3) Dinner dress for a young woman. Lace skirt on white sheer, edged with a bubbled ruffle in water green liberty or crepe de chine. Above the ruffle, black velvet braces.

Jacket gathered at the waist and forming a mid-length peplum, open to a lace underside and attached in front with crossed velvets, with large fancy buttons. Silk chiffon kerchief collar, highlighted with a gathered ruffle. Short lace sleeve, with large bubbled ruffle.

Matériaux: dentelle en laize; 8 mètres de liberty.

—

(4) Robe de ville pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen, en lainage rayé abricot, de ton effacé. Jupe plissée derrière terminée par trois volants en forme, découpés en créneaux et bordés de biais. Au volant supérieur, un biais souligne la tête. Jaquette ouverte et découpée sur un plastron de liberty noir. Manche à coude, revers assez large.

(4) City dress for young women or middle-aged ladies, in apricot striped wool, in a faded tone. Pleated skirt at the back finished with three shaped ruffles, cut into crenellations and edged at an angle. On the upper ruffle, a bias highlights the head. Dust jacket open and cut on a black liberty bib. Elbow sleeve, fairly wide lapel.

Matériaux: 8 mètres de lainage, 0m,75 de liberty noir.

—

(5) Toilette de visites pour jeune femme, en foulard rouge glacé. Jupe en forme; au bas, quatre volants légèrement badinés, soulignés de comètes de satin noir et surmontés de quatre rangs de comètes. Jaquette dentelée devant, bordée de biais à dépassant noir. Un biais semblable s'arrondit par des pinces en arrière. Ceinture de satin noir passant sous les devants. Col arrondi incrusté de guipure. Guimpe de soie noire. Manche pagode à pèlerines dentelées; celle du milieu est semblable au col.

(5) Visiting ensemble for young woman, in iced red scarf. Skirt shaped; at the bottom, four slightly embellished ruffles, highlighted with black satin comets and topped with four rows of comets. Serrated dust jacket in front, bias-edged with black protruding. A similar bias is rounded by darts at the back. Black satin belt passing under the front. Rounded collar inlaid with guipure. Black silk wimple. Pagoda handle with serrated capes; the middle one is similar to the collar.

Matériaux: 14 mètres de foulard.

—

(6) Robe élégante pour jeune fille ou jeune femme, en bengaline bleu-pastel. Jupe plissée devant, ornée d'un volant en forme que surmonte un large entre-deux. Corsage plissé; col empiècement en guipure; sous ce col commence un pli genre Watteau qui s'évase sur la jupe. Manche plissée sur l'épaule et séparée en deux bouffants par un bracelet de guipure. Poignet haut et collant en guipure. Ceinture ronde en taffetas blanc, rayé de velours noir.

(6) Elegant dress for a young girl or young woman, in pastel blue bengaline. Pleated skirt at the front, decorated with a shaped flounce topped with a wide in-between. Pleated bodice; guipure yoke collar; under this collar begins a Watteau-style pleat which flares out on the skirt. Pleated sleeve on the shoulder and separated into two bouffants by a guipure bracelet. High, sticky guipure cuff. Round belt in white taffeta, striped with black velvet.

Matériaux: 12 mètres de bengaline.

—

(7) Robe de visites pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen en drap satin chamois. Jupe en forme cerclée de biais en taffetas pékiné. Boléro très ajusté, ouvert sur un gilet de drap blanc à revers. Grand col de moire, rayé et bordé d'entre-deux. Cravate de mousseline de soie noire. Manche courte à petits revers.

Bas de manche collant en soie blanche moucheté de noir.

(7) Visiting dress for young or middle-aged ladies in chamois satin cloth. Bias-rimmed skirt in pekiné taffeta. Very fitted bolero, open over a white cloth vest with cuffs. Large moire collar, striped and bordered with insertions. Black chiffon tie. Short sleeve with small cuffs.

Fitted cuffs in white silk speckled with black.

Matériaux: 5 mètres de drap; 1 mètre de soie mouchetée; 0m,30 de drap blanc; 0m,50 de moire.

—

(8) Robe de visites pour jeune femme, en lainage fantaisie vieux rose. Jupe en forme, cerclée de biais posés en dents de soie et tombant sur un volant en forme liséré de biais. Même garniture au corsage et à la manche demi-pagode. Devant, coquillé de dentelle; au col montant, liséré de liberty noir; ceinture ronde en l'étoffe de la robe.

(8) Visiting dress for young women, in fancy old pink wool. Shaped skirt, surrounded by bias placed in silk teeth and falling on a shaped ruffle edged at an angle. Same trim on the bodice and half-pagoda sleeve. Front, shell of lace; with a high collar, lined with black liberty; round belt made from the fabric of the dress.

Matériaux: 7m,50 de lainage.

—

(9) Toilette de réception pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen, en surah vieux rouge très pâle. Plis cerclant la jupe. Veste Louis XV en grosse dentelle. Plastron et manche de dentelle. La manche se termine sous un revers arrondi orné de plis. Col arrondi en forme. Echarpe de mousseline de soie, même ton, nouée sous le col et tombant jusqu'au bas de la robe.

(9) Reception ensemble for young or middle-aged lady, in very pale old red surah. Pleats encircling the skirt. Louis XV jacket in large lace. Lace bib and sleeve. The sleeve ends under a rounded lapel decorated with pleats. Rounded shaped collar. Silk chiffon scarf, same tone, tied under the collar and falling to the bottom of the dress.

Matériaux: 10 mètres de surah; dentelle en laize; 4 mètres de mousseline de soie.

[inkyteaart]

DISTRACTIONS

Dick Grayson x Reader (vaguely implied that reader is also a vigilante)

Rating: M for Implied nsfw

Tags: Established Relationship, Flirting, Fade to Black

" Do we have to go to this Gala? I'm sure Bruce can handle it without us." Dick sighed at your complaint, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He glanced to the full length mirror against the wall, and adjusted his tie. The couple was getting ready for one of the Wayne Enterprises charity galas. It was something none of the Wayne children excelled at, but they did it to support Bruce.

"We told B we would be there, we can't just not show up…" He called to you as you were fixing your make up in the en suite bathroom. He heard the annoyed sigh, and the distinct clink of a compact hitting the bathroom counter.

Moments later you walked out of the bathroom, heels clicking on the hardwood. You were gorgeous, and while irritated, you had more confidence than when you first attended a Gala. Your confidence made Dick swallow down a lump in his throat. There wasn't enough time. The dress you wore was tight on your lean muscular body, defining your curves.

He was fixing the cuffs on his sleeves to occupy his hands when you walked…no strutted up to him. Suddenly his collar was too tight, but he maintained his composure. That was, until you smiled at him and turned. Brushing your hair over one shoulder you lowered yourself to sit in his lap.

"Could you zip this up for me?"

Strong scarred shoulders were on display as the back of the dress hung open. He watched them flex as you shifted to glance back at him. There was no way that look was on accident. With bright entrancing eyes, encircled with dark make up. He wondered briefly how you'd look with it tracking down your face.

He couldn't lose focus, couldn't let you distract him. "I'm on to you…" He warned you, grabbing the zipper and pulling. Still he couldn't resist a kiss between your shoulder blades,, then on the back of your neck as the dress zipped closed. He relished in the soft gasp and gentle shiver he received in response. After. He would devour you, after the Gala.

With the dress zipped, you stood, and he realized the dressed hugged your figure even better now. His gaze dragged up your body. Starting at strong thighs that could end his entire career, one being revealed by a slit in the dress. The dress hugged snug on the flare of your hips, dipping with your waist line. Up to your breasts, pushed up and together by the material. What he would give to be the one holding them right now, to feel the soft give of your body. Something so powerful that gave only to his touch. It was addicting.

All thoughts were brought to a screeching halt as one heel pressed into his chest. You had lifted one leg to press your heel into him.

" I don't know whatever you could mean, sweetie. Now would you be a doll and fasten these for me?" He followed the line of your leg, noting the tantalizing bit of hip the slit exposed with the motion.

It was hard enough to maintain control before, but you really were testing him tonight. His slacks felt particularly tight, the formal suit now much too warm for him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and calm himself.

As though sensing him regaining control, you gave a small whine. You reached out, grabbing at his tie and pulling softly, making his eyes snap open. "You're not going to leave me hanging here are you? Come on, please Dick?" He couldn't help the choked noise that came up the back of his throat. There was no winning this for him.

A sweet kiss was placed to your ankle as Dick reached up to fix the strap of your heel. "Wouldn't dream of it…" You smiled at him, letting go of his tie to card your hand through his hair.

One heel was replaced by the other, with you looking down at him expectantly. With how the dress moved now he caught a glimpse of the black and blue lace underneath. How was he supposed to say no? He repeated the same steps as before, kissing your ankle as he secured the shoe. Then his hands trailed up the soft skin of your leg, and he watched as your head rolled back at the feeling.

" You don't play fair…" He whined, moving to kiss up you calf, your knee, then the inside of your thigh.

You laughed, he'd almost call it a devilish giggle as you pulled back. "I don't know what you're implying about me Dick Grayson…" You turned from him, looking over you shoulder. "But you don't get to seduce me out of going to the Gala…B needs us, remember?"

To hell with Bruce, he could survive one Gala without them. Dick stood, crowding up against your back. "Too late, temptress…You've already won." And you could feel that as he pressed against you.

He spun you round, and you saw the dark look in his blue eyes. One would think them black with how blown his pupils were. You shivered, grinning up at him. You didn't have time to react before he had you bouncing on the bed. Dick was on you in seconds, his hips slotting between you thighs perfectly.

"Now you get your reward…" He breathed against you lips, hands steadily sliding the dress up for easier access. His voice was dark, dangerous as he warned "But don't think it will come without consequences…"

[amuseoffyre]

I adore the significance of Stede’s clothing (and the way it and he get framed) in the flashbacks to his life before he runs away to sea. There’s colour, yes, but when you look at the colours he’s wearing in context, a lot of it seems to be chosen to let him fade into the background. 

He matches the shades of the decor, his cravats mimic the drape of the curtains, the gold trim like the edging, his green cravat like the greenery behind him, even the pattern of the lace in his cuffs matching the floral pattern of the tablecloth his arms are resting on.

In the scene in the carriage, his suit’s pattern matches the lining of the carriage in a moment when he’s being told that he is only useful as a sales chitty to get more land. He is Bonnet property, furniture and decor in his own home, bleeding into the background, present but not really seen.

By contrast, Mary and the children stand out clearly from the background and surroundings in lighter and more contrasting colours. Similarly, his father is dressed in stark black with not even a flash of colour or pattern anywhere.

It makes his return fascinating because he is back in a more staid version the teal suit that we first saw him in at the beginning of episode one.

On one hand, it almost looks like he is trying to blend back in - look at the lines and colours of the trim and the buttons, but his sleeves are exposed, highlighting him rather than letting him fade into the background. In earlier scenes, he almost always wore jackets (except in the playing pirates scene). We see him like this throughout his time on the Revenge, especially when he’s doing his storytime.

It makes me think about Stede using clothes as his armour and his shield. His battle jacket, if you will. Which makes his final costume all the more delightful to me because he’s stripped back all the show and flash and flare. He’s not hiding himself anymore, whether in a battle jacket or hiding himself in plain sight.

(I have a whole other set of flappy-handed thoughts about the fact that he and Mary have their breakthrough when they’re both in their most vulnerable and intimate clothing, stripped back as much as they can be to the bare essentials, no longer hiding in symbolism, clothing or anything else. Like his scene with Ed on the beach when they’re both pared back to the bland, beige clothes instead of the snazzy outfits that make them so recognisable. They are themselves. No decoration, no artifice)

He loves his clothing of course, he enjoys it and I don’t doubt he’ll come back to it as he finds his feet in his new and happier life, but when he finally leaves all his disguises behind, he leaves as a blank slate, ready for a new story.

[myreia]

Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER FOUR: TRANSPOSITIONS

Chapter Rating: Teen (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 2,078 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

Aureia examines her reflection with narrowed eyes.

The woman in the mirror is stunning. Her dress is a gorgeous confection of lace and satin, black intermixed with subtle layers of dark purple. Long sleeves extend to the wrists, their cuffs trimmed with exquisite embroidery. A structured bodice is overlayed with a decorative corset that laces up the back, giving her magnificent figure and accentuating the way the skirts flare out around her hips and fall flush to the floor. Despite the mussed hair and smudged makeup from too much trial and error with her outfits, the dress gives her an ethereal beauty and confidence befitting of the Warrior of Light. 

The woman in the mirror, however, is not her.

The sleeves are too tight, stretching awkwardly when she moves her arms and shoulders. Without her legs sheathed in leggings or trousers, she feels naked beneath the skirts. And then there’s the matter of the corset. Though she is more covered than her regular clothing, the corset does something to her chest that makes her uneasy. It’s not that she’s uncomfortable in her own skin. She likes her body the way it is and she has never really thought of it in these terms. But there’s no doubt that too many eyes will be drawn directly to her cleavage the moment she steps foot outside her room. The sensuality it gives her body is so divorced from her actual self she can’t help but feel she is putting on a performance by wearing it.

She is too busty for her own good. Which is rather unfair, come to think of it. Why should she be judged just for existing the way she is? 

She sighs and turns to the side, chewing her lip as she smooths down the dress. How long has she been carting this thing around? A year? Two years? It was a gift an adventurer friend in Mor Dhona and one of the few personal items she has dragged with her from adventure to adventure. It even survived her flight from Ul’dah to Ishgard. She has never had the opportunity to wear it.

Until now.

A sharp rap knocks on her door. Aureia turns in surprise, fingers clenched in her skirts, prepared to leap across the room and seize her weapons. Before she can move, the door unlatches and a familiar face pokes through the threshold, ruby eyes twinkling with mischief.  

“Thought I’d find you in here,” Hilda says, strolling in without invitation.

Aureia exhales, forcing herself to relax. Some instincts are impossible to break. “Is that common knowledge now?” she says, tugging on the trim of her bodice. If she could only move it up an ilm… “Don’t make me return to House Fortemps or I’ll never hear the end of it from Artoirel.”

Hilda smirks and pushes the door closed with a foot. “Oh, cheer up,” she replies. Her eyes flick over the mess, taking in the empty wine bottles stashed near the hearth and the piles of far-flung clothing. Only Aureia’s collection of weapons—staff, rapier, lance, even Fray’s greatsword, though it has gone unused for moons now—have any manner of organization. “You know my lips are sealed. That the great Warrior of Light prefers the local inn to her luxurious lodgings in the Pillars is a secret I’ll take to my grave.”

Aureia smiles half-heartedly and returns to the mirror, distracting herself with the dress. Words like this—and the playful, mocking tone—would have gotten a laugh out of her once. But now a dark, ugly feeling knifes inside her. She hates herself for it, this deep-rooted envy coursing through her veins, slowly poisoning one of her few remaining friendships in Ishgard. Hilda is dear to her and she can’t fathom pushing her away—but she also cannot bear to acknowledge what she witnessed the night of Thancred’s departure.

In the weeks that have passed since that night, Hilda has not mentioned or enquired about him once. Aureia thought perhaps she would broach the topic, but she has remained unusually silent. Then again, she has never been one to discuss her intimate relationships in depth.

Or perhaps she thinks Aureia doesn’t care.

“Well, that is quite the change, if I do say so myself,” Hilda says, sauntering across the room. She draws up behind Aureia and peers over her shoulder, taking in their reflection in the mirror. A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of her lips and she brushes Aureia’s hair to one side, running her fingers through the dark locks. “You look nice.”

Aureia pauses, a strange feeling rolling down her spine at her touch. The self-assurance Hilda exudes is magnetic. She can’t blame Thancred for falling for her. She may very well have, too—in another time. Or another place. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

Hilda flashes her a grin and steps away, slipping her hands into her pockets as she surveys the room. “What’s the grand occasion?” she asks. “You never struck me as someone interested in that much frippery.”

“It’s not frippery, it’s���”

Aureia flushes and cuts herself short. Hilda raises an eyebrow, shooting her a questioning look, and comes to a halt in a stream of later afternoon sun. Dust motes dance around her as she curiously pokes at a line of terracotta pots on the windowsill.

They were once filled with flowers from the meadows outside Idyllshire. Aureia had been nurturing them for moons, finding small joys in her little attempt at gardening. The Dravanian Hinterlands will never not make her heart ache. Since the moment she first stepped foot on its grassy slopes, the land reminded her of the lost Scions—and of Thancred. But the flowers are dead now, wilted and lifeless. When did she stop caring for them? It must have been before the Grand Melee, around the time he returned to Ishgard.

“Right, then,” Hilda says, taking a serious tone as she turns around. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”  

Aureia blinks, jerked out of her thoughts. “It’s nothing. Really.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Aymeric invited me to dinner.”

She snorts with laughter. “He did, did he?” she says, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “About time.”

Aureia frowns, irritated by the tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorts, watching through the mirror’s reflection as Hilda tosses herself casually onto her bed and leans back on her elbows. 

“You’ll find out tonight, I’m sure,” Hilda says wryly. “Particularly if you wear that—provided the sight of you doesn’t stop the poor man’s heart first.”

A shiver of annoyance rolls down her spine. Matters of romance, attraction, sex… She may not have an inherent understanding of them like so many others, but even she isn’t so oblivious as to not take her meaning. But Aymeric is Aymeric and the dinner is between friends. It would have occurred moons ago had events not spiralled out of control. The only difference is that they have even more in common now than when he had originally proposed the idea.

Between the two of them, how many dear friends have sailed in and out of their lives? Estinien vanished from his sickbed only a handful of days ago, and, true to fashion, left without so much as a goodbye. His abrupt departure shook them both in different ways, and yet it was the last push they needed to finally determine a date. In a way, tonight’s dinner may not be occurring at all if it wasn’t for him.

Aureia pauses, flushing as she recalls the moment in the hall. The feel of Aymeric’s hand on her cheek as he brushed her hair behind her ears. The chaste kiss he pressed to her hand. Something passed between them that night—something honest and genuine and kind—and yet whenever she is alone, she is desperate to pretend those feelings do not exist.  

Why is she like this? Why?

Is it too much to accept that something good could happen to her, of all people?

“Aymeric’s a friend,” Aureia says finally, turning around. She crosses her arms protectively over her chest. “Nothing more.”

Hilda smirks. “That’s the second man you’ve said that about. But I reckon—”

Aureia rolls her eyes and reaches behind her, gritting her teeth as she tugs at the corset’s laces. The dress may be pretty, but it isn’t her. It isn’t right. And she wants it off. Maybe it’s delusional to think that a single gown could cause such a drastic change, but the performance of it leaves a foul taste in her mouth. She can only be herself. Not someone she is not.

Gods know she’s spent too many years denying herself that freedom.

Hilda purses her lips together, a look of concern flashing across her face as Aureia tangles her fingers in the laces. “Here,” she says, rising to her feet. “Let me help.”

Aureia says nothing and lets her seize the laces from her hands. She drops her arms to her sides and stands still, heart thundering in her chest as Hilda tugs the corset loose.

“By the Fury, what did you do to these?” she grunts, struggling with a knot.

“The last thing I wanted was for it to come loose—”

“This ain’t coming loose, it’s as good as a rat’s nest back here—”

Hilda grunts and the knot slips, loosening the final lace. She jerks back and presses her hand to her mouth, cursing as she nurses red fingertips.

Aureia pulls the corset off and tosses it into the pile of discarded garments. Breathing a sigh of relief, she yanks the layers of lace and satin off over her head, ignoring the tangles it makes in her hair. Stripped to her underclothes, she strides across the room and crouches down, searching through the mess for her favourite shirt, trousers, and coat. They should be here somewhere…

She can feel Hilda’s eyes on her.

She kneels in the cushion of clothing, a strange flush prickling across the nape of her neck. Her back is on display and every scar along with it. The series of gnarled brands that snake across her skin. Her robe melted into her flesh that night in the Praetorium, creating a distinct pattern not unlike a circle of power. It took her moons to recover from the wounds Lahabrea dealt her almost two years ago.

And Thancred—she is quite certain—never fully recovered from his.

Gods damn it all.

She squeezes her eyes shut, her mind racing. She has done so much, tried so hard not to think of him—or how furious she is with him, and yet frightfully worried. Where is he now? No one—not even Alphinaud or Y’shtola—has heard from him in weeks. How many times must he run off on his own, determined to see things through on his terms and his alone?

“Time for me to go, eh?” Hilda murmurs, the floors creaking underfoot. “You have enough to be concerned with tonight.”

Aureia glances over her shoulder. “Wait,” she calls. “Hilda, Thancred hasn’t tried to contact you, has he?”

“Hm? Oh.” She pauses, a strange look flickering across her face. “No, I haven’t. I reckon he’d speak to you before me, no? Given you’re both Scions and all.”

Aureia bites her tongue as several responses come to mind, each more questionable than the last. Though the ugly part of her—the envious part—is desperate to lash out, she can’t bring herself to do it. Their friendship is too dear to her, too important to risk ruining over this.

“Thanks,” she manages finally, her throat raw.

Hilda smiles hesitantly. “Enjoy your dinner.”  

The door thuds closed behind her. Aureia sits in her heap of clothes, absently searching through the pile, distracted by her thoughts. It isn’t until the sunlight fades from the windows and the dark of dusk creeps in that she jolts herself out of her stupor. Cursing her tardiness, she dresses as quickly as she can, hastily washing her face and reapplying her makeup for good measure.

She may not be able to bring herself to dress formally, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be presentable.

Aureia shrugs on the long red coat and grabs the nearest weapon out of habit, attaching her rapier and focus to her belt. Taking one last look in the mirror, she brushes her hair over her ears and strides from the room.

[missfrieden]

Tech as a father Chapter 8

Nice sunday to everyone. As far as I can spoil all that read, next chapter will be a mother reveal.

Masterlist

Chapter 8: The persistence of the Kaminoans

The call for another mission echoed through the quarters of Clone Force 99, drawing the attention of the squad members. Their shared routines and moments of camaraderie were interrupted by the reminder of their duty as soldiers. As the squad began to prepare for the mission, the air was charged with a mixture of determination and anticipation. However, a new presence entered the scene, a group of Kaminoans, their expressions a mix of professionalism and hidden intent and Lama Su on the front the long arms folded behind his back. Tech's gaze sharpened as he recognized their purpose, a sense of unease settling in his gut.

Lama Su, the leader of the Kaminoans, addressed Tech with a calculated smile. "Tech, we understand the nature of your responsibilities. However, we believe it would be in Orion's best interest to remain in our care during the mission." Tech's grip on the tiny armour pieces he had been assembling tightened, his protective instincts flaring to life. He cast a quick glance toward the Havoc Marauder, his mind racing with the decision he had to make.

Hunter stepped forward, his stance assertive. "Orion stays with us. He's part of our squad." Crosshair's voice was firm as he added, "We don't leave family behind." Tech's gaze remained fixed on the Kaminoans, his expression resolute. "Orion's well-being is my responsibility. He stays with me." As the tense standoff continued, Tech shifted his attention back to the crate in front of the Havoc Marauder. The sight of Orion's tiny armour pieces placed next to the baby, gleaming and waiting, served as a reminder of the bond they shared and the lengths he was willing to go to protect his son.

With practiced hands, Tech began to carefully outfit Orion in his miniature armour, the process both meticulous and deliberate. The squad members observed in silence, a mix of respect and understanding in their expressions. As the tiny armour was put on piece by piece, it became a symbol of Tech's commitment to Orion's safety and his determination to stand by his decision.

Lama Su's expression remained unchanged, but his tone took on a hint of impatience. "Tech, consider the benefits of cooperation. We can ensure Orion's safety and well-being while you fulfil your duty." Tech's voice was unwavering as he replied, his attention still focused on Orion. "Orion's safety is not negotiable. He stays with me." The tension in the hangar remained palpable, the squad members united in their resolve to protect their own. The sight of Tech's meticulous preparation, the glint of Orion's armour, and the unspoken determination in his eyes served as a testament to the strength of their bond and the lengths they were willing to go for the sake of their makeshift family. Lama Su watches with an unchanged gaze as Tech places Orion in the carrier on his chest. Which is not a part of the equipment, but for now he allows it.

Hunter's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his words measured and assertive. "Prime Minister, Lama Su, we've been through enough of your experiments. Orion is not a clone, and he's not a subject for your tests." The squad members stood united behind Hunter, their expressions unwavering. Tech continued to outfit Orion’s ear cuffs in his miniature helmet, a symbol of his commitment to protecting his son from any potential threats.

Lama Su's gaze shifted from Hunter to Tech, his expression remaining inscrutable. "We simply wish to ensure his safety. Our intentions are genuine." Tech's voice was firm as he replied, his gaze steady. "Orion's safety is my responsibility. We've made our decision." Crosshair's voice was laced with scepticism as he added, "Funny how you're suddenly concerned about safety when it suits you." Echo's tone was laced with determination. "Orion stays with us, with his family."

Chapter 9

Reblogs are very welcome and I am open for feedback, as english is not my first language, so maybe my sentences may be weird sometimes, or I write a word wrong even with google, or I use a wrong word for an item.

Tag:@spectacular-skywalker @aalizazareth @neyswxrld @clonethirstingisreal

[dyxtd21]

Rhodochrosite aesthetic moodboard!!

Rhodochrosite:

Appearance: Rhodochrosite embodies the sweet, kind, and pure essence of a farm girl, making her the "It" gal of her village. Her dark pink coloration with white patterns enhances her natural beauty, making her a beloved figure among the townsfolk and village folk.

Body Coloration: Her entire body is a lovely dark pink, reminiscent of the rhodochrosite stone. The white patterns that adorn her skin resemble delicate floral designs, adding to her innocent and charming appearance.

Hair: Her hair is a rich, dark pink, flowing in soft, natural waves that cascade down her back. It is often tied with a white ribbon, keeping it neatly in place while she works on the farm.

Eyes: Her eyes are a sparkling shade of pink, filled with kindness and warmth, reflecting her pure-hearted nature.

Gemstone: Her pear-cut gemstone is located on her navel, symbolizing her unique identity and connection to the earth.

Attire: Rhodochrosite's attire is practical for farm work yet charmingly stylish, making her the darling of her village.

Top: She wears a dark pink blouse with puffed sleeves and delicate white lace trim along the neckline and cuffs. The blouse is fitted at the waist, highlighting her slender figure.

Skirt: Her dark pink skirt is knee-length, adorned with white floral patterns that match the designs on her skin. It flares out slightly, allowing her to move freely as she tends to her chores.

Apron: Over her skirt, she wears a white apron with pockets, useful for carrying small tools and produce from the farm. The apron is embroidered with pink flowers, adding a personal touch.

Footwear: She wears sturdy, dark pink boots that are both practical for farm work and stylish enough to reflect her status as the village's "It" girl.

Accessories: She often dons a wide-brimmed straw hat with a pink ribbon, protecting her from the sun while adding a touch of elegance to her outfit.

Personality: Rhodochrosite is the epitome of sweetness, kindness, and purity. Her personality endears her to everyone in her village, making her incredibly popular.

Sweet: She always has a kind word for everyone she meets, and her sweet demeanor makes her approachable and beloved by all.

Kind: Rhodochrosite is always ready to lend a helping hand, whether it's assisting her neighbors with their chores or offering a listening ear to those in need.

Pure: Her innocence is evident in her actions and words. She sees the good in everyone and approaches life with a sense of wonder and optimism.

Innocent: Her genuine and naive nature adds to her charm, making her a beacon of light in her village.

Popular: Her kindness, charm, and beauty make her the center of attention in her village. Everyone knows and loves Rhodochrosite, and she is always invited to social gatherings and events.

Quirks:

Green Thumb: She has a natural talent for farming and gardening. Her plants always seem to thrive under her care, earning her a reputation for having a "green thumb."

Animal Whisperer: Animals are drawn to her gentle nature. She has a special bond with the farm animals, often speaking to them as if they understand her.

Homemade Delights: Rhodochrosite loves to bake and cook. Her homemade pies and cookies are famous in the village, and she often shares her treats with her neighbors.

Storyteller: She has a knack for telling enchanting stories, captivating the village children with tales of adventure and magic.

Village Belle: Her natural beauty and charming personality make her the belle of the village. She is often the center of attention at village fairs and gatherings.

[gogmstuff]

Susan, Mrs. Henry Hoare by William Hoare of Bath (auctioned by Sotheby's). From their Web site; navigation marks and a few spots in the background removed with Photoshop 1595X2077.

[idiotwithanipad]

Gore AU: The Parents

(A part 2 to: https://www.tumblr.com/idiotwithanipad/754120512986300416/gore-au-first-meeting

Ft Silver, @moonah-rose 's OC)

(In my Gore AU, all the ghosts memories and mental states are warped due to trauma and time. They're constantly in the mindset they were in moments before their deaths)

The energetic ebony haired, pink fringed girl fluttered her hands about Amy's face, her fingers pinching and stroking her cheeks like an over involved aunt.

"Your cheeks are so soft! Your eyes are so big! You're like an owl! Maybe in your past life you WERE an owl?" The girl beamed.

Amy grimaced and leaned her face away as best she could, her neck craning awkwardly as she fought the urge to drop her mouth open and scream for help. But she couldn't anymore. Luckily she'd stepped back far enough for the strange girl's fingertips to slip from her skin.

"Where are you going friend? Why are you hiding from me?" The girl chirped, bringing her hands forward more, feeling around for Amy's head. Any could only shake her head and hold up her hands for personal space.

The girl's face dropped as she felt around more.

"Aw c'mon, new friend! Can't we go play-" She cut herself off with a quick gasp.

"Maybe you can't talk? I know what to do! Clap your hands, friend! One for 'yes', two for 'no'! Can you clap?" The girl proposed.

Amy paused and rose her hands, unsure if giving a response would just dig this pit of over friendly hounding deeper.

*clap*

The girl gasped again.

"You can't talk, new friend?! Oh no! That's sad! Well, are you in a girl's body? Or a boy's?" The girl asked, still maneuvering herself to find Amy.

"One clap for 'girl' and two for 'boy'."

*clap*

"That would explain the softest hair then!" The smiley girl squeaked. The treeline behind the girl's shoulder seemed to darken, Amy couldn't squint anymore, but if she could, she would. The surrounding was almost completely obsidian black, a plume of smoke rose from somewhere beyond the trees.

"My names Silver! Silver Ravenstar! You- can't really tell me your name, new friend- maybe you can spell it?!" Silver suggested. She rose her palm to face Amy.

"Write your name on my hand! I'll fell the letters!"

Amy inspected Silver's hand briefly. Thick dirt gathered under her fingernails and smears of blood ran across the back of her hand like gory snail trails, presumably from sloppily wiping away the blood from her nosebleed.

Amy prodded her fingertip against Silver's clammy palm and wrote.

"A... Huh?- Oh! M... Y... Amy? Is your name Amy?"

*clap*

Silver's smile widened and a fresh blood clot dribbled from her nostril.

"Amy! My new friend! Amy the owl girl!"

Silver's joyful beaming cut to a close. Her nostrils flaring and her eyebrow twitching.

"... Mummy's coming"

Amy watched as the clouds above seemed to darken and billow of their own otherworldly accord. They darkened and darkened, billowed and thickened, filled the air around them with a dense and suffocating heat.

"Back away..."

The voice was unfamiliar and eerie, it's malice and fear overthrew any hope Amy had of there being a calm moment.

Silver spun on her heel and held out her arms to feel her way towards the voice.

"Mummy, look! I made a friend! She's called 'Amy' and she has the eyes of an owl!"

"Darling girl, do as your mummy says, come here..." The voice threatened.

Silver slumped her arms down with a sigh and carefully trod forward away from Amy towards a slowly rotating and billowing miniature tornado of smoke. Amy watched as the smoke stilled and evaporated, revealing the horror beneath. A humanoid figure emerged from the black smoke and orange embers which faded to dull particles of ash. It wore a soot covered faded yellow overshirt with freyed cuffs beneath an equally soot stained blue laced corset vest. The flesh beneath the tattered and scorched garments had burned away, leaving dried flakes over it's charred skeleton.

"But mummy, she's so sweet, dear girl can't even speak" Silver begged, reaching her hand forward. The figure's skeletal hand rose to clasp onto Silver's with the tenderness and love of a devoted mother.

Amy watched as the figure's skull rose to her level slowly. It eye sockets secured the sunken and dried out eyeballs which glared at Amy with a deep rooted and fiery fear, their baked corneas seemed almost alit with flames.

"Darling girl, there be no friend for you here" The ghastly shape spoke, eyes still fixed on Amy who began to back away.

"She be a house dweller, she did become the ward of another" The 'mother' explained, her other boney hand coming up to clasp onto Silver's shoulder, pulling the teen closer.

"But-"

"No 'but's, darling girl. Though she hath no tongue to accuse, she may still brings down a judge's wrath. Look what her kind did do. Think, darling girl. Think back on the history of our peoples, ducked, burned, lashed, broken upon the wheel! That shalt befall you if you do not stays away, darling girl!" The mother's voice rose, shaking Silver's shoulder and gripping her hand.

Amy just barely let out a gargling squeal as a hard hand clamped over her shoulder. The sickly liquid that ended her life years ago gouted from her mouth onto the gravel between the mother and her. Amy gripped onto her mouth with her palms in a flash, embarrassment and sickness pooling in her gut.

"Amy? You alright? You're not hurt or anything?" Humphrey panicked, pressing his fingers to Amy's jaw to move her head from side to side, checking for burns. Amy looked between the mother and Humphrey, she couldn't decide which was worse; A crazy witch accusing her of being a dirty lair and a snitch, or an occasionally decapitated Tudor Nobelman convinced that she was his daughter. She just wanted to leave these place.

After finding no damage on the girl, Humphrey rose his gaze to the witch, who also tugged her daughter close to her middle. Her dried eyes inspecting the fizzing liquid which began to sink beneath the rubble. Silver's glazed eyes fluttered in the direction of his voice, but her arms sat motionless, clamped against her sides by the witch's tight grip.

The mother watched as the cloaked man draped a billowing sleeve over the owl eyed girl's shoulder and clung to her softly. She could detect the same parental charge to protect the girl that she had towards Silver. Gesturing towards the spot where the fizzing liquid had splattered to the ground, the witch spoke in her dried and grizzled voice.

"Be it poison? Venom? Nectar of hell? What be thy child's business on the lands, cloaked one?" She asked, more in curiosity than in the bitter hatred she had displayed just moments ago. Humphrey stepped forward, guiding Amy behind him.

"I don't know what it is... But it keeps her from talking, it comes pouring from her mouth whenever she opens it" Humphrey admitted.

The witch looked from Humphrey to the girl peering out behind him.

"Does she bare a threat?"

Humphrey looked behind himself at Amy and shook his head.

"No. She wouldn't hurt a fly, so there's no need for any violence. We're just trying to hide from the guards. My wife took leave, but- she'll come back soon, she has to come back, she has nowhere else..." The Nobelman admitted, his eyes flicking across the lawns hoping to catch a glimpse of his aforementioned wife returning at last.

"Be thou accused? Of what crimes?" The witch pried, stepping back with Silver who kept squinting and straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of the new visitor before her.

"My wife and I have been framed. An acquaintance of my wife plotted against the queen and we've been given the blame for something neither of us have done." Humphrey spoke, his voice quiet and on edge as his eyes scanned the surroundings, keeping a tight gaze open for the non existent guards and their return.

"A father you be. A mother I be. We shalt do what's best for our girls. Thou will understands why I will be returning to the woods with my darling girl, and thou shalt return back behind those walls and remain there with yours, cloaked one...." The witch spoke in an unsettling calmness which almost seemed like a threat as she turned slowly on her heel and lead Silver away back towards the dark treeline.

Humphrey gave a nod towards the witch who peered back over her shoulder as she guided Silver through the first line of trees, a nonverbal agreement to stay out of each other's way and do what's best for their children. She won't bring harm to him, and he won't bring harm to her.

"Alright, c'mon, Poppet, back indoors now, you'll get even sicker out here in the cold" Humphrey hushed, bundling more of his cloak around Amy's shoulders to keep her warm after she had upchucked the fizzy contents of her stomach. Amy pressed her lips tightly shut and gripped her stomach as Humphrey led her back through the wall, no chance of escaping again now.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Iron Blood.

A Whumpy AF snippet from my Lancewain fic, based off of Cursed on Netflix.

Spoilers for the TV Show, and aforementioned fic which may or may not ever be posted. This can be read as a whump piece, just replace the names with the relevant titles;

- Lancelot/The Weeping Monk: Whumpee

- Gawain/The Green Knight: Caretaker/Whumpee

- Brother Cain*: Whumper

*OC, Brother Salt's tutor and a feared torturer in employ by the Trinity Guard/Pope/Red Paladins.

Premise:

Years after he was previously tortured by Brother Cain, Lancelot is recaptured, and awakes to find himself alone in a room, injured and restrained. As Fey, they are allergic to iron, which causes burns on contact with skin, and the shackles at his wrists are made of iron...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Lancelot listened to the curious sound, slowly opening his eyes and wrinkling his nose at the sickening stench of fear that mingled readily with the similarly heavy scents of iron and blood. The air was cold and damp, and, feeling a fresh twinge of pain in his aching shoulder, he turned his attention to the sound.

Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips. Oozing slowly from the carving upon his left shoulder, it traced rivers of crimson down his arm before collecting between the iron shackle and his skin. So severe were the iron burns, and so close was the metal to his sore, abraised skin that the blood now pooled up and over the outside of the cuff like an overflowing dam. It offered his burned wrist a modicum of relief. Scarlet glistened in the low light as it invariably flowed down down down, following the swell of his knuckles and the length of his fingers to splash into a coagulating puddle on the floor, steadily staining the cold ashen stone into a dirty red.

As Lancelot's eyed adjusted to the low light he was struck with an air of... familiarity.

No, it couldn't be.

It was...

This, the very same room he had once been tortured in before, but as a boy, not a man, this, the room he knew without a shadow of a doubt had been picked on purpose to hold him, to break him. This, the place that echoed in his nightmares day after day, the same sight, the same scents, even the sounds were achingly, hauntingly familiar.

His own, shuddering breaths. The incessant sound of blood splattering across the floor. The flickering of the torchlight in the brazier across from him. The awful tang of iron, the pain of his wrists... the restraints bolting him upright to the slab of wood and metal he was strapped to. The thick belts across his chest, hips, and thighs. The shackles at his wrists and ankles. All of it, all of it, the Goddamn same.

Shit. Shit!

They had let him keep his boots and trousers this time, but his torso was bare, his back and his healing scars pressed firmly into the slab. As if on cue, pain flared within them, yet this was different, somehow... it took him a moment to figure out why. The realisation that the wood was laced with iron nails struck as sharply as they did when they bit into his skin.

This was new...

Lancelot struggled first to swallow his panic at what him being brought here, now, must mean. Brother Cain would have been the one to order this, for he was the one- the only one- who knew such... intimate details of his time here before. He tried to focus on what was different, the nails, but it did nothing to stop his fear as it threatened to consume him. Nausea, fear, desperation all swelled within him, giving in to blind panic he struggled fiercely against the restraints, biting back a groan as the nails pricked into his back, slicing him with every slight movement and every gasp of air. No matter how hard he tried it was utterly in vain.

He felt something snap within him as the terror gave way to a soothing wave of icy numbness, it set his teeth on edge and his head spinning, his arms, legs, face even his tongue prickled and tingled like he'd been struck by lightning. Some part of him knew well enough if he'd had thought enough left to speak, it would have been slurred and nonesensical and if he had not been chained, he would have passed out. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't.

From the eerily detatched state now found himself in, he recognised that the only movement they had allowed him was that of his head. All the better to watch when Brother Cain would surely arrive...

He knew better than to hope that particular time came quickly.

The hours stretched on and on in the dark, and in the biting swarm of his own panic, Lancelot found himself losing every shred of will he'd held onto so firmly. His body shook and quaked. At times he cried out, whimpering and weeping, whilst at others he laughed near maniacally from the utter absurdity of the situation he had somehow found himself in. Again. He knew not whether he was now as he was before a boy of just ten years old, screaming till his lungs gave out and he could scream no more. He knew not whether he was locked into his nightmares, tossing and turning in a cot in some Paladin's encampment somewhere, just begging, waiting, praying to wake up, just wake up, just w-

The sound of a man screaming down the hall stirred his mind- no... he was not dreaming. Lancelot the boy craned his small head towards the sound with an urgency he could not understand, why, what was so familiar about this sound? A man was screaming, men often screamed here. The boy knew no others here so--

Gawain.

The screaming was Gawain.

No...

And that realisation jolted him from the depths of his brush with madness, the boy retreated back into his memories once more. Brother Cain surely must be here, and he had focused his attentions on the Green Knight... Leaving Lancelot blissfully, silently alone in the dark. For now...

Lancelot couldn't explain why the sound of Gawain's agonized cries made his chest clench in grief, why he wished he could scream instead, why he knew in his heart that to spare the Green Knight the pain he, the Weeping Monk would not hestitate to take it all... Yet he could not. And to ask for that would be to betray a weakness, to show these bastards that hurting Gawain hurt him too.

To show anything other than apathy in the face of Gawain's torture would be to give their torturers another way to break them both...

He stayed silent and listened.

So it was, that the sound of Gawain's agony that succeeded in keeping Lancelot grounded against his memories for the hours upon hours that continued, no longer a boy, no longer dreaming, listening in helplessness to the one man he trusted succumb to the same tortures that had broken him before and would surely do so again...

All he could do was wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[padme-looks-showdown]

[image description 1: a stock photo of Padmé wearing her indigo senate dress. the outfit consists of a beaded gown under a velvet overcoat. both layers are floor-length, and the collar of the overcoat is an open turtleneck. the sleeves of the underdress are slightly flared & have small undersleeves that cover her knuckles. the sleeves of the overcoat are cape sleeves that are almost as long as the coat itself. she is wearing a multi-layered gold choker, and her hair is pulled back into a cage like gold headpiece tray shapes her hair into a cylinder. end image description.]

[image description 2: a promotional photo of Padmé in her refugee disguise from attack of the clones. her dress is floor-length and mustard yellow with a repeating floral pattern. the sleeves are loose and flax yellow, while the cuffs are fitted and mustard. the shoulders are covered by a short capelet, and an amber-colored cloth veil is wrapped around her head & neck. she is wearing a golden lace veil to cover her metal headdress, giving it a distinct disc shape. end image description.]

[royaletiquette]

I was gonna talk about Hibi’s fashion preferences and Edo trends but instead I couldn’t stop thinking about pretty maid outfits so hi, uniforms. A simple, mostly focused pinterest board though while I figure[d] out real world logistics. 

Their family crest (which I rejected the idea of deciding because I’m not visually creative but I accidentally found this and it touched me) is stitched to the back of the shirt collars and cuffs, as well as inside of different parts of the lining of all clothing. This is to keep a sense of uniformity from the gradual flexibility adopted for peoples’ personal preferences in dress and appearances, which are the two easiest sections to split this up in. 

Clothes: 

Maids are given five of each full uniform, three shoes and one pair of winter boots. These clothes are uniquely made for the Suburashi maids, down to the placement of seams, unnecessary details, fabrics and weave types. When a maid is let go, they must return all items that were catalogued to be in their possession. If anything that is not returned, they are given a hefty fine and all current uniforms are then changed with the ‘help’ of that previous-maid’s pay.

The specific design of the uniforms changes periodically, after a none specific span of time (not just because they make a fired maid pay for it, but) for concerns of security and the adoption of current fashion trends. 

What they’re given in the package of clothes: long sleeve blouses or polos (they may choose which but not go back and forth between them), short sleeve blouses/polos, long and knee-length skirts, and pants. 

Summer and winter uniforms are dictated by the average highs and lows of the month. 

In the winter, employees are allowed to wear black leggings for extra warmth if desired and are given one jacket, hat, and gloves each that can be worn if working outside. The jacket can be layered over something outside of uniform, so long as it is a neutral color and is mostly covered by the jacket. 

Nothing outside of uniform is allowed on their person unless given explicate permission.

Between verses, the core concepts are the same, but the style of dress changes to of course fit the fashion of the time. 

The historical verse non surprisingly is more stereotypical of what you might expect of maids. Suits and ties vary based on the occasion and long dresses/skirts and blouses varying on the weather. Aprons can either be provided by the home or made/bought by the maid themselves as a way to have a sense of separation from other employees, but they still need to be approved of before being worn and have the family crest stitched into it.

The uniforms are more uniform in this verse with less room for a personal touch because such stark difference between kingdoms isn’t as welcoming to visitors. Guests don’t want to guess who is who.

Appearances: 

Hair should look well groomed and put together (ie, it’s okay to do what you want until someone decides it’s not). 

Longer hair that would cover the crest on the collar must be pulled back and up as to not cover the crest and to prevent hair from getting in the way. This rule has significantly loosened over the years to allow for more individualism among employees. Again, one of those rules that’s in place as an excuse to flex it whenever someone feels like drawing a line.

Like all great private schools, no unnatural hair dyes/styles are allowed. 

Jewelry is fine so long as it is not dangling or a possible hindrance to work. Rings are heavily suggested to leave in personal lockers. 

General exceptions:

Uniforms during special events (parties, balls, more important dinners and events) are different. Depending on the event, a new uniform may be made and worn for that one evening and never again. These can be so much as a colorful, thematic dress and pants suit, to so little as being their regular uniform but with added flare like lace, trims, so on; stuff that would make their every day uniforms less practical. 

These “one time use” uniforms are typically for birthdays and balls, large parties of the sort, where a drab muted uniform sticks out poorly and doesn’t reflect wealth. The more subtle different uniforms are for the smaller events such as dinners. Typically the changes to these uniforms can be undone to save waste.

These events, if there are children in the home, are the only times nannies are in a uniform coordinating with maids in style and color as to not be confused as a non-employee. 

Butlers have no specific uniform out of ease and are largely left to dictate themselves what is and isn’t appropriate. They are also the ones to enforce the other rules. 

Other Heads like the top chef, maid, gardener, etcetera, are also welcome (forced) to have more of a decorated uniform, but one that still correlates with the rest of their team. This is of course to separate them from the pack since they’re in charge, but not so much so that it is distracting.