#but shorter and plainer

[chronomally]

Orestes of course would be the classic young hero: Handsome and dashing, making his descent into madness all the more disturbing

In the expensive and insanely over-the-top version of The Oresteia that torments me in all my waking hours, I imagine Clytemnesta played by someone with Gwendoline Christie's height/build

[swordsandarms]

I think a big part of equalling "Stark looks" with plainness or even straight up ugliness is because THE in-house remaining Stark for the sake of reference is Ned, and Ned is notably plain. But the thing about that is he seems to have been an outlier at that. He and his siblings all had the "Stark looks", coming from a marriage of two Stark cousins.

Truth be told, Ned is rather ascertained by Catelyn as merely "shortER and plainER" than Brandon, but Brandon was the desirable fuckboi of the North back in the day. Lyanna, likewise, isn't only described as pretty only by Northern relatives, but also by a Southern marriage pretender with notable wandering eyes for anything pretty, and even an indifferent Lannister just putting it out there as some off-handed, irrelevant fact. No one cares enough for Benjen to note on his looks because he is an irrelevant figure to the outer world, gone to the NW since near childhood, so statistically Ned remains an outlier as a "plainER" (again, not even ugliness which the author is never shy to outright point out in a character) guy among the Stark family, while simultaneously being the only reper for "Stark looks" among anyone alive.

It would make sense that even not necessarily ill meaning fans would be blindsided by not looking at the full picture. But the fact is "Stark looks" aren't inherently unattractive or even merely plain or indifferent, and that Jon is of course logistically likened to Ned from the outside by default (as "father" and only Stark reference around for most people), but he himself is Lyanna's son (with a notably handsome man), and a young Lyanna is mistaken for Arya in a vision memory, not merely assured by an indulging father.

But, most importantly, at the end of the day, AGAIN, "looking like a Stark" is statistically/historically associated with attractiveness, particularly as ascertained by the other sex.

[petertingle-yipyip]

NEVER FELT SO ALONE - MARC SPECTOR

Pairing: Marc x Reader

Word Count: 2,579

Summary (Request): hey!! i just finished moon knight and was wondering if can request a marc spector x reader fic or basically all of the moon knight boys where marc cheats on the reader so she doesnt get hurt and by cheating on her there would be no questions or suspicions coming from the reader n all. (basically same way how marc tries to divorce layla but she ended up finding out the truth in d end) angst with happy ending pls <33

//i don’t like cheating tropes so i didn’t actually have marc cheat and also… marc spector brainrot. love it. him and matty have permanent spaces in my brain//

“He’s been gone too long.” You paced your living room with your phone in your hand.

You were speaking to yourself, of course, given that your boyfriend was out on the town yet again doing God knew what. You knew he kept secrets, he always had. Just getting him to talk about what music he liked or what movies he liked was like pulling teeth. But of course, it wasn’t always like that. There were more goods than bads so you were willing to put up with his distance and fight and poke and prode to get him to tell you something of substance because he knew you.

He loved to hear you talk about your life. Your childhood, family and friends, work. He liked to hear you talk about your favorite shows and books, ranting about what stupid things your beloved fictional characters were doing and how you knew they were smarter than that. He asked you about school and sometimes brought food to your campus if he had time before he disappeared on some job. He’d leave a few hidden notes before he left too - usually under your pillow, in your wallet, and under your favorite bowl. You once found a note between pages of your book, his own anticipation of how far you’d get while he was gone.

Problem this time around was that there were no notes this time. There was no text or voicemail. There was no explanation. Admittedly, it happened sometimes. Sometimes it was so sudden he didn’t have time to let you know anything, but even then, he was never gone that long.

This time around, before he left, you noticed some odd things. You noticed more hushed conversations, hidden phone messages, darting glances, looking over his shoulder. He spoke even less than usual, as if he was building a wall between you two. Looking to put distance. You noticed his phone was being turned off when he left the house and a few times during his absence, you could’ve sworn you’d seen him running into the local museum.

Usually you could shrug off his odd behavior because, overall, Marc Spector was an odd man. You knew his life had been challenging and naturally, it closed him off in some regards. But shutting you out completely, going radio silence at the drop of a hat, that just wasn’t like him.

So you did some digging.

Given his phone was off, you couldn’t track any sort of locations from there. You didn’t know who he worked with when he left, save for one woman named Layla who was often as off grid as he was, so you couldn’t ask anyone. He hardly talked about family and you weren’t even sure he had friends other than you so that was a dead end. The only real starting point you had was that museum.

When your last class ended, you hopped on the crowded bus and headed over. You were welcomed by the man at the front security booth and wandered the vast space. You had to squeeze past tour groups and couples on dates, kids running around with novelty swords and replica headpieces. You squeezed between people until you found a bench that allowed you to breathe, despite the heavy crowd. You hadn’t expected it to be quite as busy and you were so tired. Just as you were about to give up, you saw him.

The spitting image of the man you loved. Only his clothes were different, baggier and plainer. His curls fell across his forehead more and he seemed to hold hismelf shorter than Marc. Maybe it wasn’t him after all.

You sighed to yourself and headed towards the exit, catching a small snippet of his voice. It was softer, tinted with an almost fake accent, with more inflictions than Marc had. You shook your head slightly as you headed out, trying to clear the idea of the doppleganger from your head but the notion seemed to keep you around the museum. You found yourself sitting on the steps outside, near a streetlight so you could try some of the assignment you needed to finish. You hadn’t even realized how long you had been there until your headphones beeped in your ears that their battery was low.

As you were putting the headphones into your bag, you noticed Marc’s doppelganger heading to the nearby bus stop. He noticed you at the same time and made his way over to you, which made your body run hot for a moment.

“Hello.” He smiled slightly. “I, uh- I saw you inside. Can I ask why you’re still out here?”

“Yeah, it looks a little weird, huh?” You laughed, trying to contain the whirlwind of thoughts set off by the man’s voice. It was so strange to hear such a soft, relatively hesitant tone coming from a face that you knew to be much more confident. “I just thought I saw someone I’ve been looking for… Turns out it wasn’t him.”

“Old friend?”

“Boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh…” He nervously wrung his hands and you almost laughed at how out of character that movement seemed. “Wait, why are you looking for your boyfriend?”

“No reason.” You shrugged. “Just thought I saw him.”

“Right… Well, are you alright to get home? It’s not like a… “we’re in a fight and he kicked me out” situation?”

At that, you did laugh.

“I’m alright, thanks.” You shook your head with a smile. “But if you hear about a guy named Marc coming around, tell him Y/N needs to talk to him, yeah?”

“Marc? Uh.. Alright, yeah. Yeah, okay. You said Y/N?”

“Mhmm…”

“Have we…”

Your brows raised while the gears turned in his head. His eyes darted around your face, down to your clothes and back to your eyes while he tried to put the pieces together. He opened his mouth to say something before he shook his head, seemingly confusing himself in the process. 

“You okay over there?” You asked carefully, leaning in slightly for your own examination.

“Yeah, just… I don’t know. Deja vu maybe.”

“Hmm.” You nodded and leaned away. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Steven.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket and you saw a little pinsized hole for where you assumed his nametag usually sat. “Steven Grant.”

“Cool.” You said simply. But you recognized that name as one of the characters that Marc told you about, from one of the things he used to watch with his brother that turned into their own little roleplaying game. And maybe it was a coincidence but something was strange. “See you around, Steven.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

A few days went by before you saw him again. You had tried going by the museum but he wasn’t there. You even asked the man who watched the cameras and he said that Steven - though he called him by some unrelated name - hadn’t been in since the night you met him. You were at another dead end.

You wandered the streets when you got a vague text with an address. It was an unknown number and the relatively common text style gave you no clues. Automatically you assumed it was Marc from a burner phone. Who else would it have been? With as much of a hurry as you could without drawing extra attention, you made your way to the apartment.

You gave a quick knock to the door and it popped open, seemingly on its own since no one was on the other side to greet you. You wandered the cramped space, finding a bed in the center of a sand circle, books stacked on books on every table, a small trashcan overflowing with crumpled balls of tape, A vast fishtank stood in the middle of the room and you leaned in to see the fish, a small thing missing a fin, and caught glimpse of the man watching you from the other side. His near sudden appearance made you jump and bump your head against the glass.

You mumbled an apology to the fish as he scurried to another corner of the tank and you stood straighter.

“You’re the one who texted me?” You asked simply, not wanting to take a guess if it was Marc or Steven that stood before you.

“Yeah.” He said in the same plain tone and you didn’t catch any accent. It was definitely Marc. “Heard you were looking for me.”

“Wouldn’t have to look if you would’ve told me where you were going or that you were alive, at least.”

“”Yeah... I never meant to worry you.”

“Clearly.” Your brows raised quickly. “Nice place.”

“It’s not mine.”

You made a small noise in your throat before wandering the space a bit more. You peaked through some of the books, finding a book of French poems by a woman who you knew Marc didn’t read. But someone Marc knew and worked with did.

“This Layla’s place?” You asked simply, swallowing the rising bile in your throat.

“Layla?” He asked, arms crossing over his chest but not moving from his spot. “What makes you say that?”

“The French poems.” You said honestly. “Not to mention all the Egyptian stuff, you having a fake accent and working at the museum in the Egypt wing… It’s a lot to do just to be a good partner.”

“Right… Look, about all of that..”

“You didn’t answer my question.” You cut in firmly.

“I’m trying to.”

“No you’re not. You’re avoiding. You’re choosing a piece of what I said rather than the actual important part.”

“This isn’t Layla’s place, okay?” He rolled his eyes slightly.

“So this is your place?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of.” You repeated with a scoff. “Right. So, what, it belongs to that fake persona I talked to a few nights ago.”

“Fake?”

“Steven. Come on, that accent? And he’s named after that thing you told me from you and your brother… Did you think I was stupid?”

“What do you think is going on?” His brows furrowed.

“Well, I have a couple working theories.” You said with a shrug as you dropped to sit on the edge of the bed. “One is that you’ve been cloned. You know the American government, doing experiments with soldiers and not telling them.”

That one made Marc chuckle.

“Not a clone, baby.” He smirked. “But keep going.”

“Okay, good to know.” You nodded. “Second is that you’re just working.”

“That all?”

“Well there’s the idea that you’re cheating on me but…”

“But what?”

“But if that was true then I’d have to leave your ass and I don’t really want to do that. Which is why you’re gonna tell me right now if that’s the case or not.”

“And who would this mystery woman be?”

“Layla.” You shrugged.

“Layla?” His brows raised incredulously, almost insulted that you would say that.

“You have her favorite poet on your desk, Marc. You two constantly go off on little excavations and jobs. She’s cute, fiery, not afraid of challenge, just your type really. Not to mention, you’ve been pretty close since you met.”

“You know why we met.”

“Yeah but did you ever tell her? I bet she wouldn’t fuck you if she knew you killed her dad.”

“Wow.” His eyes went wide. “You had that one ready, didn’t you?”

“Well you’ve been gone for a while. I had some time to come up with some good ones.”

“Y’know what…” He pushed his tongue against his cheek with a small scoff, as if something just came to him. “Yeah.. Yeah, I’ve been sleeping with Layla. Every time I ‘go to work’ I’m just meeting with her.”

“Hmm, funny.” You offered a sarcastic expression. “Just tell me what’s really going on.”

“I just did.��

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Course you don’t.” He mumbled and ran a hand down his face.

“Wanna say that again?” You challenged sharply, daring to close the distance between you two. You glared up at him, ignoring the fact that the height difference made you less intimidating than you were aiming for, but you stuck to your guns. “Or do you want to say something else?”

“I love you.” He put his hands on your shoulders and turned you around. “But there’s the door.”

“You son of a bitch.” You twisted out of his grip and spun again to face him. “You don’t get to kick me out after you tell me you’re cheating.”

“You’re the one that said you’d walk out.” He shrugged.

“If you two shack up here, then I'm sure she has some clothes here. Bathroom products, maybe. Toothbrush? Hair brush? She’s gotta have some underwear here at least, right?” You kept pushing as you stepped deeper into the small apartment in an effort to mate Marc couldn’t throw you out.

“Y/N.” He sighed and followed after you.

“Just tell me the truth.” You stopped and spun quickly to face him, almost colliding with his chest as he was coming up behind you. “Because I’ve never felt so alone. These few weeks without you have been like my world is falling apart. It’s gut-wrenching to wake up without you. No calls, no texts, no little notes around my place…”

His heart twisted when he realized how much he had been hurting you.

“You’re right… I’m not cheating on you.” He admitted with a sigh as his eyes fell to the ground.

You breathed a small sigh of relief and reached out to take his hands in yours. His thumbs ran back and forth along the backs of your hands. You gave them a small squeeze and he managed to meet your eyes again.

“I… Jesus, this is gonna sound nuts.” He sighed.

“I'm listening, Marc.” You said softly.

“You won’t believe me.” He shook his head.

“I believe you love me. And I love you. I believe you thought you were being noble and protecting me, but I always feel safer and more protected when you’re with me. Just be honest and we can work it out.”

“I serve Khonshu.” He said suddenly, as if it was his only chance to get the words out. “He saved my life before I met you and my servitude is how I repay that debt.”

“Khonshu…” You repeated, an expression of uncertainty on your face. “Is that the Egyptian moon god that looks like a bird version of Jack Skelingtion?”

At that, he chuckled and it brought a small smile out of you.

“Pretty much.” He laughed and nodded.

“And Steven?”

“That’s a longer story.”

“So let’s go home. I’ll make some food and we can talk about it.”

“You sure?” He gave your interlocked hand a small pull so you were chest to chest. He guided your hands to rest on his shoulders while his found their place at your waist. “You’re about to find out how much of a trainwreck I really am.”

You shrugged slightly. “Good thing I’m in it for the long run. I’m gunning for your last name eventually so I better buckle up, huh?”

“God, I love you.” He grinned.

[yuri-is-online]

I hereby curse thee with thought of Victorian romantic goth Fem Riddle

So when it comes to gender bending twst I always lean back in my chair and have a think about whether or not it would change the character arc/personality of the individual character. In the case of Riddle, would a Fem Riddle feel even more pressure from her mother? She's not just a status symbol anymore, she's literally another version of her mother... would she find it even harder to escape the abusive cycle because of that? Her clothes are all picked out for her, she's so strict about the rules of her style she barely has any fun with her clothes. Would she come to resent the color black, would her overblot allow her to finally let her friends in and slowly allow them to add more color? Or would she find a way to empower herself by taking control of her clothes and thinking of them as just hers?

Vil's whole thing is that he is a man who dresses in a more feminine manner, but still identifies as a man while rebelling against concepts being "gendered." He is who he is and he will not allow anyone or anything other than himself define what that is. If this was Fem Vil, would she lean more into masculine clothing? I tend to see Fem Vil as being kind of butch? She's still really bougie and elegant but she wears her hair shorter than canon Vil and leans towards plainer looking suits. I could see her pulling off cooperate goth really well (or perhaps I am just projecting because I think that style is so fucking cool)

Leona is too lazy to be into alt fashion. The only thing Fem Leona wears is expensive athleisure clothes and she's not sorry about it. She's walking around Savanaclaw in a sports bra, sweats, and those birkenstock sandals canon Leona wears. Fem Ruggie could totally be punk, but I also see her as not bothering with alt fashion in favor of thrifting whatever she can. She's wearing those clothes, not styling them that's for people who don't have 20 jobs. Jamil probably doesn't have much freedom to express himself??? And I could see it being worse with Fem Jamil, I could see her loving punk and alt fashions and looking forward to getting to be herself at NRC until Fem Kalim shows up and she has to take off the piercings and make up to be a proper retainer again.

Fem Deuce is a delinquent pretending to be a prep. She is failing miserably and we love that for her.

[welcomingdisaster]

golden birch, silver oak

russingon, M, 1k. for day one of @russingon-week .

“I must speak with thee,” Russandol says. They are stretched out side by side in the hypaethral in front of the great hills and caverns of Manwë’s temple. Findekáno’s feet ache, and so does his lower back; three days ago they have started on a horse-race around the isle, which turned into a barefoot track across the shallow tide pools of the starlit beach, then a climb across the rocky cliffs, and in all of it, eating as they did the fruit of whatever tree happened to be in their way, grilling fish and clams over a fire, they have neglected any sleep at all.

It calls to him now, wrapping heavy about with the certainty of the coming tide. But next to him Russandol watches him with cheerful grey eyes, though something of his mind is awfully veiled and sad.

“Soon,” Findekáno promises, not meaning it in the slightest, “we shall talk, if thou wishest. But remember, cousin, what I have pulled from the earth.”

He holds out his hand. In it are mushrooms, white-stemmed, brown caps reaching for the silver light of the distant trees. Russandol laughs, and takes some from him. Findekáno likes to watch him eat mushrooms, and feels a little mean for it; despite his best efforts, Russandol is awfully choosey about the textures of his food. He breaks some off and pushes it to the very back of his mouth, squishing it with his molars and swallowing quickly as not to taste it, his nose wrinkled and eyes squeezed shut. Washes it down generously with watered wine, and laughs when Findekáno rolls atop him and kisses the look of his disgust off his face.

“How wouldst thou live in the East,” Findekáno asks him, “in the olden days, when we had no butter nor bread nor tamed beast, and fed ourselves on any manner of scavenged root and twig?”

He pops his own dose in his mouth, chewing with pleasure.

Russandol turns from him, groaning. “I suppose I would be a whole lot shorter,” he says, “with so little to sustain me that I should be willing to eat. Perhaps that is where all the designs have gone amiss in my coming here, for often I think I ought to have matched better the rest of my kin.”

Findekáno ignores the heresy in it. There are other things, like the warmth of Russandol’s body and the tempting curve of his ear, the strong white column of his neck. They kiss lazily, for after the days’ exertion it is hard to muster any urgency; they had spent the first night together, whispering and shushing each other, in Findekáno’s childhood room in Tirion, then had tangled together in the shallow tide, engaging in the pointless exercise of licking salt from each other’s skin, then had each other again in the mountains, where purple clover had looked very pretty in Russandol’s long braid.

Findekáno is determined to have him again, because he can, because there is no one here to see them. He works open Russandol’s robes, bites at the open expanse of his chest, his stomach, trails kisses along his sharp, jutting hip-bones. There Russandol cries out, and says, “Oh, there thou art. There it is.”

“Mm?” Findekáno asks. “Dost thou feel it, now?”

“Uh-huh,” Russandol says, “oh, I see stars. Red and blue.”

“’Tis not the color stars ought to be,” Findekáno says, “look again, love,” and Russandol laughs, though truly it is not funny, and Findekáno takes him into his mouth, half-hard, and hollows out his cheeks, and then he begins to feel it too, twinkling around him in the air like bells.

For some time he is there, working Russandol up to his pleasure, feeling the pleasant things of the world wash over him in waves. Then somehow time passes, and his head is on Russandol’s thigh, and he traces the little patterns of freckles on his knee and bright firelight bursts chase each other in the woods around them and the music of the sky is plainer and louder than he can remember it being and that is all very well. “Wouldst thou still love me if I were a birch and thou wert an oak?” he asks, and in response Russandol hums a little tune, ta-ta-ta.

“Are the birches at war with the oaks?” he asks.

And Findekáno says, “They are kin, I think,” and knows it does not answer the question.

Later still he’s on his back on the marble and Russandol is atop him and inside him, kissing his temples, biting the junction of his neck and his earlobes, hands in his hair, and Findekáno catches his right wrist and takes his fingers between his lips, running his tongue over his thumb-pad, mouthing at the joints of his long fingers. For a moment he tastes blood, he thinks, and it is cold within him—but then he swallows, and there is nothing but dirt and seed on his tongue, and Russandol senses his unease and tucks him closer, into his arms, whispers, “only the mushrooms, heed them not,” as though heeding them is not the whole point.

Then they lie in in the grass, having lost somewhere the the great marble columns, and Russandol says, “truly we must speak,” so Findekáno looks up at him, and asks of it, though just them it all seems very far away, and Russandol sighs.

“My father asks me to watch thee,” he says, “to report in secret thy deeds to him, and learn what I may of thy father’s mind.” It must be that Findekáno is quiet for too long, because Russandol nudges him, and asks. “What dost thou think of?”

“Flying,” Findekáno says quietly, “I think of flying.”

Russandol groans. “Come back to me,” he says, “this is important.”

But all around him there are great feathered wings, brown and mighty, and their fathers are small as dolls in the green and blue world below them. “Come back to me,” Russandol says again, and turns and whispers against his skin, I did not go, I never left. It is not I, it is not I who goes.

[faridian]

Prologue

You hadn't expected this. Two envelopes sat side by side in front of you on your bedspread. The left was a crisp white and the wax seal was gold with a dragon curling around the left side of it. The right envelope was plain and cream colored, secured by a black wax seal with the same insignia as the first but on the right.

You'd sent two applications to the dragon academies in the Corvis kingdom, half-heartedly hoping that one would accept you, but you had never expected to be accepted by both. So now you were left with a choice. Which academy would you study at?

Deciding to go over what you know of the two schools, you deliberated. The white envelope was from Vercilia Academy, while the plainer one was from The Burrow Institute. Both were schools that taught their students about dragons, from caring for eggs to raising a hatchling to adulthood. But, of course, there were differences.

Vercilia Academy was the fancier one of the two and it only admitted students who could afford it, which meant that most of the students were nobles. Its lessons were known to be mostly studying with books and through controlled interactions for the safety of its students and dragons alike. The teachers are all highly qualified and all of the courses are structured to ensure maximum results. The academy is shorter than The Burrow Institute's, only having four years of learning.

The Burrow Institute accepts its students based on their aptitude for dragons. What or who decides a person's aptitude is unknown, but no amount of bribes will get a student admitted that didn't pass the application process. Its lessons are very hands on to gain experience in the subject, and some lessons in later years are rumored to be very dangerous, resulting in maiming and disfigurement, with even one recorded death. It was well known that every year, around half of the school's first years failed the year and flunked out, with more students failing as the years progressed. However, students that graduated from the school were always elite. The teachers vary, but most are experts in their fields, and each has a unique way of teaching. The institute has six years of learning, longer than Vercilia Academy's.

You mulled it over, taking into account all of the information you'd heard. By the end of the night, you'd made your decision. You grasped your letter of acceptance tightly in your hand, crumpling the other and tossing it. School opened a week from now, so you had plenty of time to gather your supplies. You'd chosen, and by this time next week, you'd be studying at...

You can continue the prologue from here or skip to your first day at school! If there are any questions, send them to the inbox.

[florsial]

Hey bestie I’m trial and erroring a Rabastan design and I’m struggling so what does he look/dress like in your gorgeous mind because no one gets him like you do

Hello :D and thank youu <3333

Okay, I have been thinking about his appearance from time to time. the main consistent detail is that he isn't very "sleazy" in looks. He's pretty put together. He is wearing an expensive suit, maybe a couple buttons undone, and a loose tie with those shiny black loafers, but overall he's pretty clean. His most casual would be dress pants and button up that's kinda undone.

(HIS FANCY STYLE GETS REGULUS SO GIDDY!!! Like if you ever saw those photos of someone standing on their s/o feet THATS SO THEMMM)

I've been torn over having him with long hair or short hair. But in the end, shorter hair is more fitting for him, I think. In a way that expresses that he doesn't have the luxury of keeping his hair long like Rodolphus if he's constantly fighting for something. So I imagine something like the short wavy hair you see when you search it up on Pinterest for men (don't ask me how I know that). When I first sketched him out, I gave him long hair but it didn't fit.

I couldn't find a proper description in the HP wiki nor do I remember what he is described as in the books when he first shows up. Only that is a thin man. So I think his face is slightly sunken in and his entire body is pretty lanky. And he's pretty tall (HEIGHT DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HIM AND REGULUS HEIGHT DIFFERENCE!!). His hair and eyes are both pretty dark and his skin is a little tan since I actually see him as a very outdoorsy person and amazing, like, really smooth without blemishes (for some reason).

(Pandora starts breaking out when she hit puberty and she contemplates torturing Rabastan's skincare out of him) (he has none)

Don't take this as seriously, but I picture something like Victor from The Corpse Bride (I've never seen that movie honestly) but yk, just for fun lol.

He doesn't have this overly messy style because he's like this black sheep (Like Sirius or Barty) because of his mother's family influence. With his maternal (a side branch from Averys), he's very well dressed and groomed, they made sure of that! The Avery side of his family loves him, though it's partly because Rabastan looks/acts more like his mother.

This brings up another thing that is: he is very much a jewelry person. His suits, expensive but plain, are often decorated and slightly weighted down by layered necklaces with heavier stones and real metals and his fingers are more cold than warm by silver rings. He got his ear pierced at a young age and has so many passed down from his mother, like all his other jewelry. In a way, all of that seems almost like armor that covers/protects him.

Side note: HE WOULD'VE WIPED THE FUCKING FLOOR WITH THOSE SILVER FINGER GUARDS!

He would've HATED cheap jewelry and when mood rings were released in 1975, he choked when he saw Sirius wearing one for the first time. Rodolphus and Regulus almost called a healer because he was turning blue. (Sirius bought more out of spite after that)

Modern Au Rabastan would have a Rolex collection. I said what I said.

I know I bring up suits when wizarding folk don't wear that so, his robes are often plainer (compared to Rodolphus, keep that in mind) but still pretty expensive looking with complex embroidery. His more extravagant robes came from his mother (since I don't think that size mattered all that much between men and women or boys and girls). Cliche moment, but his clothes were very much darker in color, but not always black. More like a darker purple or a darker blue or green, I'm thinking something like what you would get when you use velvet, how colors are almost really shiny or almost black.

I can also see him using makeup! Though very light I think he's very open and knowledgeable about a lot of things since he was basically treated as a doll by his mother's twin sister :D

[batterymaster01]

A male Shovelperson (Astutocentaurus alluvium), getting ready for some farmwork.

Shovelfolk are a basal species of sophont Astutocentaurini that lives almost exclusively in the river valleys of the Takaran Western Weave. They are a small yet very ancient species, having survived for over 3.8 million years and outlived all four previous iterations of global civilization. Not only that, but they are the only living sophonts that retain a cultural memory of these advanced prehistoric societies, which has led to many of Borea's other cultures to regard them as a wise and experienced race (although not everyone agrees.)

Shovelfolk are mostly pacifists, living in primitive albeit egalitarian clans. Due to a fairly long cranial lifespan (about 100 to 150 years compared to the 70 to 90 years of other closely related species) and relatively slow fecundity, warfare is very rare among them, and a more subtle sexual dimorphism means that men and women are not nearly as segregated regarding their societal roles, which has likely played a part in their species' persistence across deep time. Despite existing mostly outside of Borean feudal interspecies society, they regularly cooperate with the Borean oliphaunts and the Plainer tribes in their everyday lives and are on fairly good terms with the former in particular. They are also skilled at masonry and metallurgy, and they take pride in their rather extensive use of excavating tools, particularly their namesake shovels. Their greatest achievements, however, would have to be their warrens, vast underground villages that they bore directly into cliff faces of solid rock and clay. They've been building and living in these warrens for millions of years, which has resulted in their current condition of shorter, more robust limbs and smaller body sizes (only about 3 feet to be exact.) Their distribution is largely relegated to the river valley, and as a result, their cultures and religions are largely identical to each other. Despite this, they have managed to maintain a stable population and healthy gene pool by regularly outbreeding with neighboring Shovelfolk clans. Rather fittingly, a particularly common theme in Shovelfolk cultures is their reverence for the Takara River itself, and it is a fairly common motif in their clothes and artwork.

[esther-dot]

Idk how attractive jon is supposed to be but he has the stark look and sansa has a thing for the stark look, i mean look at waymar and loras, their descriptions match jon's exactly. Sansa's opinion at the end of the day>>>

I love Sansa’s Waymar and Loras crushes! So cute! I kinda think a good part of what attracts Sansa to any given guy is the romantic notions she can attach to them, not strictly their physical appearance? So while I certainly agree with the Jon and Waymar parallels and think martin intentionally wrote similarities between Jon and her crushes, I believe her romanticized view of knight was a factor as well. Personally, I wish Martin talked about Sansa’s body/ how beautiful she is a lot less, so this isn't a topic I enjoy discussing, but the convo kicked off because of a poll and here’s a screenshot of my totally unremarkable tags:

And here’s what an angry Jon fan posted because they didn’t like the tags on the poll:

They go on to criticize other tags by Sansa fans/Jonsas, but mine were based on specific lines from the books because the question wasn’t vibes but canonical beauty, and it so happens, these are lines I am very fond of because I love NedCat:

And was it really such a terrible thing, to want a pretty wife? She remembered her own childish disappointment, the first time she had laid eyes on Eddard Stark. She had pictured him as a younger version of his brother Brandon, but that was wrong. Ned was shorter and plainer of face, and so somber. He spoke courteously enough, but beneath the words she sensed a coolness that was all at odds with Brandon, whose mirths had been as wild as his rages. Even when he took her maidenhood, their love had more of duty to it than of passion. We made Robb that night, though; we made a king together. And after the war, at Winterfell, I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face. (ASOS, Catelyn V)

It’s a beautiful passage with a lovely sentiment, so I take exception to classifying this as petty fandom shit when there was nothing intentionally insulting behind what I said, I just think Cat's thoughts about a man she dearly loves were pertinent. Also, Jon’s Stark looks are a big R+L=J clue which is teased a lot in AGOT so it’s intentional and important:

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. "What are you reading about?" he asked. (AGOT, Tyrion II)

Martin described Jon’s face the same way he does Ned’s here, although the point was ha ha! he has the Stark look not because of his father but because of his mother, Lyanna.

Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. (AGOT, Arya I)

Arya heard and whirled around, glaring. "I don't care what you say, I'm going out riding." Her long horsey face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful. (AGOT, Sansa I)

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. (AGOT, Sansa I)

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her." (AGOT, Arya II)

Now, Ned goes on to say Lyanna is beautiful so a lot of fans really emphasize that and say it means Jon and Arya are/will be attractive, and maybe! It doesn't bother me for people to read it that way, but if you look at the other uses of long face in ASOIAF, or the Stark look, I think it indicates, it's not particularly attractive, and one might even say, it's unremarkable. I didn’t say ugly, its simply unexceptional imo. Obviously the horsey face/horse faced stuff is an insult so we don't have to take that to be a neutral assessment, but I don't think it actually means pretty either, not when you look at how it's used elsewhere.

Anyway, it doesn't matter if Jon is handsome or not because we all were supposed to have already learned that what matters is who he is, not his face. So, while I have no investment in how attractive/unattractive these characters are, I imagine that Jon being Jon is what will make Sansa fall for him, not how pretty he is. Something that might sound kinda like this:

I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's Jon's solemn face

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 34 - wedding gowns in 1920

Time for the actual stars at the wedding events! In Mary’s case, that’s an eye-rolling “fucking finally!”, in Edith’s case… it’s a deep sigh and “she deserved better”. But I personally think Edith made the better deal fashion-wise. Shame that dress went to waste; she should have kept it. Cut it six inches shorter, dye it golden and wear it as an evening gown?

Here’s what I thought might have been a hot take, but turns out that I don’t stand on my own with my opinion: Mary’s first wedding gown was kind of underwhelming. I’ve read somewhere it was “show-stopping”, “stylish”, “very elegant”… and I kind of went “well, it’s nice, I guess.” But @thescarletlibrarian is probably right: The glamor of this doesn’t translate well to camera, as all the lace and beading are so white that they simply get washed out. So the dress looks somewhat more plain than it would be in the making. The lighting in her getting-dressed scene shows that there’s actually a lot of decoration on that fabric, but once she steps out onto the stairs, it is barely visible.

I’m not opposed to the shape itself, but I suspect it might have fallen more elegantly if it weren’t for the drop-waist sash. Tying the dress down there gives it overall more of an apron effect. I’m not sure how I feel about the neckline. I guess it frees her from having to choose a necklace, but I think I wouldn’t cringe at thought of how the fabric must have felt on her throat if she’s just left out these upper two inches of lace and instead used the boat neckline that’s still visible on the under layer. But showing her collarbones is probably scandalous. In a way, this dress fits Mary’s personality well; her dresses are in general a tad more conservative than Edith’s and Rose’s. And Sybil’s pantaloons, since we’re at it.

In all fairness – the veil is a dream. I’m hopelessly biased in favor of long veils, and this one coordinates so well with the trim on her train. It has some rather lovely trim itself; in the last picture, the tiny pearls are visible that must be there all along the at least two yards. And of course, she has the family tiara that @tiaramania can tell you more about and that’s the only piece of jewelry she wears because she obviously expected her dress to do most of the shiny job. It didn’t quite live up to the task, but that tiara is an antique, and it is gorgeous. Maybe it’s for the best it doesn’t have company there.

--------------

Edith also wears the tiara for her wedding, and while admittedly she does combine it with a necklace, it’s a small, understated number with a little drop pearl on it. Her veil is similarly long as Mary’s, but it looks plainer so she can dramatically throw it down the hall without conscience bites, apparently having no trim to speak of, and I think it has a little more structure to it, with the way it hovers a bit above the back of her head. Although that might also be because Edith’s hair has more structure.

Ironically, Edith’s neckline is pretty much exactly what I just imagined would have looked good on Mary’s dress. It’s not deep, but it curves enough to leave her collarbones uncovered. And where Mary opted for beaded lace, Edith goes with “plain” silk satin that’s flowing down her body into this dream of a train. Can we talk about the train? This flower-and-leaves embroidery is gorgeous. And I love the ruching on the hip; it gives her dress a shape that I personally find more flattering than Mary’s apron-with-a-sash style. I semi-recently tried, and mostly failed, to attempt this kind of hip ruching on a dress I made. Perhaps because I didn’t have the embroidery to pull it off.

You know, the entire drapery of the dress and the branches of her back embroidery reaching to her shoulders remind me a little of ancient Greek gowns. Which I realize sounds silly when I just described Mary’s style as more conservative, but it’s the impression I get from this smooth fabric and the asymmetrical design where Mary went for lace and symmetry. Now if only Anthony Strallan would have come to his conclusion a little earlier, maybe this beautiful dress wouldn’t be associated with a great injustice to Edith.

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

A Tale of Two Dragons

1/6 - The Reject Prince

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| Ao3 | Next Chapter -> |

Roman was everything a prince should be and more.

He was beautiful, he was powerful, he was loved by all in their kingdom. Even the earth bent to his will.

Remus was nothing but a distorted mirror of his brother.

At least maybe that could work in his favour for once.

Not that anything ever really did.

----

Warnings: Negative self talk/image, thoughts and discussions about kidnapping/murder

Pairings: endgame anaroceit, pre-established Roceit, platonic LMP

Word Count: 1174

Notes:

Inspired by This Post by @fangirltothefullest (absolutely brilliant art, have a look :3) though of course I've added my own fantasy royalty twist xP. (Sorry for the tag if you don't want it lol I just want to give credit where it's due :3)

A fic that's been in the works for a little while!! I have a few chapters already written which is fun! Hopefully you'll enjoy! :3

I'll be posting this every Monday (hopefully)

----

Roman was everything a prince should be and more.

He was beautiful, he was powerful, he was loved by all in their kingdom. Even the earth bent to his will. 

Roman’s hoard of gold was something any other dragon would be envious of, his friends were lovely and loved him in return, they treated him well and never once made him feel like he wasn’t enough. In return Roman protected them all. Gifts and beautiful things were bestowed to everyone he cared about, the kingdom was happy with their Prince - the most powerful being they’ve seen since the beginning of the royal lineage, with both goddess and dragon ancestry. Roman was truly perfect, in every sense of the word. 

With his power he had enchanted a set of jewellery to give a piece to each of the people he cared most about. He himself wore a crown of course. Janus, his spymaster and a magical refugee from a neighbouring hostile kingdom - had earrings. Logan, his advisor, had a bracelet and Patton, the palace chef, had a necklace. 

The jewellery was enchanted to warn Roman when its wearer was in danger, so he could rush to the aid of the people he loved whenever they needed him. 

Remus, of course, hadn’t gotten a thing. 

It wasn’t necessarily Roman’s fault. Roman was more powerful, more beautiful, more loved, brighter and bolder in every way. Remus - his brother who’d inherited none of the same power - faded into the background. Sometimes even he wondered if he still existed. Remus didn’t think Roman loved him, but he wouldn’t blame Roman for that, Remus was difficult and weak, he was shorter and plainer and lacked all the magic Roman had. All he’d gotten were golden eyes and short stubby dragon wings that had never grown in fully. He couldn’t even fly. 

Remus sighed as he watched Roman laugh with his friends, all of them sitting together having a picnic Patton had put together next to the fountains in the palace gardens. Remus hadn’t been invited, all he could do was watch from the balcony in his room and sigh, wishing he could be in his brother’s place for just one day. 

He could kill him - but Roman was some kind of dragon cross demigod, it would take a lot of effort and power that Remus didn’t have, and what good would that do anyway? Remus.. Well, he couldn’t say he loved his brother, but everyone else did, killing him would be cruel. 

Kidnapping him was another option, but again Remus would gain nothing… maybe if he looked more like his supposed twin he could take his place, but…

An idea popped into his head and Remus fully sat up with the force of it. It was a great idea, one with the potential to get exactly what he wanted. All he had to do was convince the hermit witch who lived out in the forest to give him what he wanted. He’d pay any price, it didn’t matter to him, maybe he’d finally get to know what it felt like to be loved. The witch could make them care about him, he could make the whole kingdom care about him. The witch could make Remus powerful or strong or beautiful and then he could do it. Yes, it was the perfect plan! He’d get their respect somehow, no matter the cost. 

—-

“No.” The witch said sharply, before attempting to slam the door in his face. Remus stuck his foot between the door and the frame, wincing at how hard the door was slammed but otherwise not wavering.

“Pleeeease?” Remus said, “Please please? I’ll do literally anything, any cost whatever - I just - I want them all to notice me! I wanna know what it’s like to be my brother y’know?”

The witch stopped for a moment, taking in Remus and his desperation, before finally letting out a heavy sigh.

“Fine, but don’t touch anything, and if you don’t want what I’m offering I’m gonna cast a memory spell on you to make you forget you were here, is that agreeable?” The witch said, tone almost bored. 

“Yeah sure fine whatever, what do I need to do?” Remus said, hurriedly following the witch into his house.

The interior was just about as dark and gloomy as the witch himself. The house was covered in spider webs, the room they stood in was dimly lit and cluttered enough that Remus had trouble picking a place to stand. Everything was black or purple aside from some of the clearly magical items littered around shelves and sitting on top of cabinets in bowls or pots. At the back of the room was a bigger open fireplace than anything they had at the palace, probably because it was made to hold a large cauldron. The witch himself was pretty similarly decorated, clad in black and purple and a cloak covered in spiderwebs, his hair was long and black too though curlier and highlighted with purple (this guy must be dedicated to his colour scheme). 

The witch looked almost the same age as him - unexpected when most stories depicted the witch as an old woman, but whatever. He was currently mumbling something as he picked through a large bookshelf. 

“So,” Remus said, standing there awkwardly and trying not to touch anything, “You got a name?”

“Not for you,” the witch huffed, “You’re Remus, the reject prince.”

Remus winced, but nodded, “Yeah - that’s me, so uh - what’ve you got for me then?”

“Well -” the witch said, mumbling something else as he pulled a book from the shelves, “The easiest way to get what you want, would, I believe, be to become your brother.”

“I- what?” Remus asked.

“I told you you could go if you don’t like it,” The witch shrugged.

“No no- that’s not- elaborate? Please?” Remus said holding up his hands, the witch groaned. 

"You kidnap your brother, bring him here, I make you a potion that turns you into him, hurray you have the life you want and I have access to the Prince, we both win as long as you can keep up the charade, sound good?" The witch asked, flicking boredly through the book he was holding, Remus' eyes widened. 

"What do you mean - access to him?" Remus asked, frowning, "I don't wanna hurt him." 

"Right -" the witch huffed, like he really didn't want to be explaining at all, "Well - I need his DNA to make the potion, and I need to be able to get more of that when it runs out, besides, you can't have him hanging around if you're pretending to be him, right?" 

"...Right," Remus nodded, frowning, "You're right, so what do I do?" 

"Give him this,' Virgil said, going over to another shelf before pulling out and offering Remus a little bag of herbs, "Sprinkle it on his food or something, he'll be asleep in minutes, then bring him out here and I'll do the rest." 

Remus hesitated, before reaching to take the bag, "Okay - I'll do it." 

----

@imhere-imqueer-ilikedeer (you asked to be tagged when I posted this one specifically :3)

Tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti @scalesfeathersnfur @oatmealdaydreams @littlerat2 @goldnskyart (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

[fouryearsofshades]

Hi! Sorry to bother you, I noticed you opened your ask box but the pinned comment still says asks closed so I apologize if its still closed + feel free to ignore this 😅 I was just wondering if you had any resources on a more regional history of clothing? English and Chinese are both okay, I've seen quite a bit regarding class, gender, etc. but I was wondering about style/fabric/design variation by region, influenced by climate, contact/living closely with other nearby cultures, etc.

Hi. Oh yeah ask is closed because I won't bother to research for my ask.

Short answer: No I don't.

People had mentioned that there are regional differences in Ming dynasty clothing, particular the royals in Beijing vs Jiangnan (Suzhou, Hangzhou area - close to Shanghai except Shanghai didn't exist at that time), as in the royals dressed in a more "plainer" style with shorter sleeves and length compared to the Jiangnan area, which was the economy centre. And in Song dynasty, Han clothing in the north (non-Song-dynasty area) was influenced by other cultures, and are wilder and not in a H-shape silhouette. Some bloggers on weibo could also tell regions and periods of Qing dynasty clothing based on their style and embroidery, but I have no idea if there is a book on it. Most books on historical clothing, at least for those talking about pre-Qing clothing (I don't know about Qing dynasty, since there are much more artifacts around but I don't care about Qing fashion), only discussed things by time.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Two (Part 3)

It is a long climb up the hill that leads us to the south strand, but the street lamps are coming on and the sea looks beautiful from up high. Tonight the rising moon is huge and the clouds are pink, another clear night is ahead. I wish that I was alone on the beach instead, lying in the sand and waiting until everything was dark and silent and completely mine, finding shooting stars and watching the milky way drift across the inky sky. Instead, we have to go to Flavio’s house. Pasta was promised, and I’m starving. I tell myself this is the only reason I’m not staying home tonight. 

Flavio’s holiday home is beautiful. My first thought as we walk through the door is how much the rent must cost. Everything looks new and it is so tastefully decorated that it looks like it could be in a magazine. Large windows look out over a landscaped yard, and beyond that I can see the distant lights of the nearest town glowing on the horizon. The house is filled with pop music that I don’t recognise and the smell of sizzling garlic and onions. My stomach rumbles. 

Flavio greets us, and gives Claire a kiss on the cheek. “Ciao, Bella.” He says to her, and then we are introduced to his friends. There are two of them: Luca and Stefano. Luca is a tall, light haired man with a floppy 90s era fringe and a funny little scarf around his neck. Stefano is shorter, plainer, with a thin mouth and rectangular glasses. I feel a deep disappointment within me, as I know he will be assigned to me. A plain girl for a plain boy. I know I will spend the evening forcing excruciating conversation out of him. I wish I had starved at home.

“Come, sit.” Flavio gestures to a table that has been set already. Two bottles of red wine sit in the middle, but I have already seen that there are four more on the kitchen counter. I feel anxious. I sit across from Claire, flanked by Stefano and Luca. They are both staring at her transfixed. Flavio serves steaming tomato pasta and pours wine in each glass, and as I take my first mouthful I keep an eye on the men on either side of me. 

There’s a thing I never understood about boys, and I think it’s the notion of a hierarchical structure within the dating pool. I’ve only ever known girls closely and can only speak from what I’ve heard, but girls always seem aware of their playing field. I mean, they generally have a rough idea of how high they can punch, and at what point they realise that a certain guy is too attractive for them, and they will no longer pursue him. Guys – and this is something I’ve learned from being around Claire this last year – have no such notions. One will crawl from the gutter, smelling like he’s never been in a shower and still feel that he can ask her out. All around her, every day, men take a chance on her. They stop their cars dead, they sit next to her on empty buses, they stop her in the street to talk, all on the possibility that they might become someone lucky enough to know her. They are old men, married men, ugly men, men of all walks of life, strutting around this world in dirty socks believing they could have a flying chance with Claire O’Gorman. It’s a level of confidence that I will never know. 

The pasta is delicious, and I am so hungry. It seems such a simple recipe; linguine and tomato sauce with a sprig of basil on top, but I swear Flavio put some sort of charm on it. My mouth explodes with flavour as I take bite after bite, it’s like a religious experience. I realise eventually that I have forgotten to engage with the conversation around me, and am mortified to discover that I have eaten most of my dinner already while the rest of the table has barely started. I plant my cutlery on either side of my plate and clasp my hands in my lap, physically restraining myself. 

Flavio is talking about how he’s studying finance at a university in Milan, and looking self congratulatory as he talks about the kind of salary he might expect when he graduates. It strikes me as tone deaf, considering the economy, but nobody seems to care about that except for me. I try to talk to Stefano, mostly because I feel obliged to, but his English isn’t very good and we run out of basic conversation topics very quickly. I give up trying and let myself finish my meal and wine. Flavio is too annoying to bear too, so I give up listening to him as well. 

Around eleven o clock, we all clear the plates from the table and stack them in the dishwasher, and soon after a group of people who say they’re from the holiday apartments down the road show up with a plastic bag full of cans. Luca changes the music to some kind of hideous electronica and within an hour there is a heaving party of strangers in their twenties in the living room. I have never felt younger or more naive or more out of place as I perch on a sofa and pick at my fingernails. I spot Kelly in the kitchen with Luca, she’s laughing and pouring glugs of wine into his glass, filling it all the way to the top and he’s trying to get her to stop before it overflows. I watch the blood red liquid spill out onto the floor. I can’t tell by the back of his head if he’s annoyed at her or enjoying her. She’s so charming, I feel as though she could do and say the most outrageous things you could think of and get away with them. 

I look around for Claire and Flavio but I can’t see them. I worry about her. I get up from the sofa and slip out the living room door into the hallway where the lights are off, only the streetlamps outside are casting a pale glow on the tiles. I peek into the empty bathroom, then make my way quietly upstairs. I feel like I’m way out of line, but I don’t mind being caught out as a rude guest if it means that Claire is safe. 

The first bedroom I check is empty, and so is the second. I open up to another bathroom to find it empty too, lights off. By the time my hand is on the knob of the third bedroom I am sure that Claire is in there. I crack it open and slowly peer inside, fully expecting to walk in on some lewd scene, but she isn’t there either. I sigh. The moon is framed perfectly by the window in the room, and curtains blow gently in the breeze. I step closer and rest my hands on the sill, my ears ringing now in the silence, the floor throbbing beneath my feet, and then I hear her laughing. 

Of course, she’s right under my nose, literally. I look down to the garden below me and see Claire and Flavio on two folding garden chairs drinking wine, and see that there was absolutely nothing salacious happening. I am relieved, but at the same moment I feel sad and a bit jealous of her. And Kelly too. Just like I predicted, they both ended up paired off with boys, and I ended up alone. Sad little Evelyn, all by herself in the corner of the party. I’m annoyed at myself for how pitiful I feel, and I can’t help but recall what Kelly said earlier. Maybe I am too picky, and I just need to choose a boy and go out with him. Maybe after a while the whole ordeal stops feeling so horrible and embarrassing. Although I’d never admit it, the fact that I’m seventeen and have never had a relationship feels so pathetic to me. I wish I could just find a boyfriend and get it over with, at least then everybody would stop prying into my love life, pitying me for my lack of experience. 

I head downstairs and try to weave around the crowd to get to the front door, needing some fresh air, suddenly Stefano comes from nowhere and puts his hands on my waist, wrenching me backwards. He is trying to drunkenly dance with me. His eyes are heavy lidded and his breath smells like beer. I am repulsed, and I wrench his sweaty hands off me. “I’m seventeen.” I spit. “That means I’m legally a child, you rotten pedo.” I run away from him, out the door and over the road to the cliffside, where I stand, my face hot, breathing hard and trying to force myself to cry. 

My vision blurs with tears, and I look down at my feet willing the drops to fall, my shoulders shaking, but the tears never fall. I peer over the cliffs. They aren’t high, but they’re rocky. Big round boulders stack on top of one another like some ancient giant placed them there. I picture what would happen if I were to slip down them, and in detail I imagine the way that I would fall, bouncing from one boulder to the next, a horrible gruesome sequence all the way to the sand below. Sometimes I have intense fantasies about things like this, and it’s not that I want to die, it’s just that I’m terrified by how easily and quickly it can happen. I decide that dying via the rocky cliffside would be the worst, and so I take a step backwards, suddenly wary of heights. 

As I turn away from them, I see the glint of metal in the moonlight. There is a steel railing on the cliff edge not far from me, and as I walk closer to it I see that it’s a stone staircase leading down onto the beach below. There is access to the beach the whole way along the coast via these kinds of steps, and I’m surprised that I hadn’t spotted them earlier. 

I decide to walk down them, and it’s so quiet out here that I can hear only my footsteps on the concrete as I do. When I reach the bottom, I take off my runners and my socks and am pleasantly surprised to find that the soft sand is cold under my hot feet, all of the heat it has absorbed from the day is gone again, drawn out by the cool air, and it’s like it’s resting before another hot day tomorrow. I wonder what time it is. I wonder if my friends have noticed that I’ve gone. 

I’m in tune with myself as I walk the silent beach, my stomach still knotted with frustration and sadness, but I find peace with it, my bare feet grounding me to the earth below. The cliff softens into rolling dunes at the end of the beach, and boulders taper off and give way to soft marram grass that softly ripples in the breeze.

There is a house in the dunes ahead, but I don’t see it until I’m close to it. It’s as though it emerges from nowhere, nestled into the cliffs, warm yellow light spilling from its windows out onto a wooden balcony that faces the water. It is flat roofed and clad in corrugated iron, and I can see there is a smouldering fire pit outside a set of large patio doors. They are wide open, inviting the night time breeze inside, and as I get closer I can hear music and laughter coming from within. I stop walking and I stare up at the house, enthralled by it somehow, not wanting to move any closer while simultaneously sensing warmth, juxtaposed entirely with the hostile house I had just walked out of.

I freeze suddenly as voices draw closer to me and a girl emerges onto the deck. She is about my age, maybe a little older, and her hair is short and dyed a bright red colour. She is mid conversation with somebody who is still inside the house. 

“It’s a bit like… so you’ve seen Lost, obviously, have you?” She’s saying. She speaks like she is from Dublin. “Kind of that vibe, like you think it’s a simplistic kind of run of the mill thing, then all this bonkers shit starts happening and like… oh hang on, c’mere, can you bring me out that lighter in there? Yep, on the table.”

A boy walks out behind her, and she continues her conversation with him, and catches the lighter as he tosses it. I stop listening to what she’s saying then, as I feel suddenly stunned by the boy. He is beautiful. His hair is dark and pushed away from his face, a few strands of it are falling over his forehead, and he stands tall next to her, facing in my direction. I step in behind a patch of marram, but I don’t think either of them can see me anyway. I’m cloaked by the darkness on the beach. He has the prettiest face, I think. Its planes catch the moonlight, high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and almond shaped dark brown eyes that are concentrating intently on what the girl is saying to him. 

There’s something about him that paralyses me. I’ve seen nice looking boys before, of course I have. The best and the brightest have waited outside of our school for their girlfriends, but the boy on the balcony has an energy. It’s in the way he holds himself, the steadiness of his gaze, the aura that surrounds him feels static. I realise I am holding my breath and it’s burning my lungs. I can’t help but let it all rush out of me at once. The girl pauses her conversation and looks over her shoulder quizzically. I’m convinced she’s heard me. She turns back around though, and starts flicking her lighter. 

“Feck sake.” she says. “This one is out of juice. Here, I think there’s another one in that bowl downstairs.” They both turn and walk back inside, and they’re gone again. I take my chance to dash back up the beach then. As I’m running, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I thank God that it didn’t do that while I was literally spying on someone from the bushes one minute ago. When I’m far enough away, I read the message. It’s from Kelly. 

Where are you Evie? Can’t find you. 😦

 Another one pops up as I read 

We’re thinking of leaving. Turns out everyone here is a creep. lol.

I text her back as I hurriedly clamber back up the concrete steps. 

On my way, sorry… just needed some air.

I stop for a moment at the top of the stairs and look back down the beach. I can’t see the lights from that house anymore, it’s hidden from view once again, but my body feels alive, nerves tingling with excitement: about seeing the boy, about almost getting caught, the thrilling discovery of the little house… I won’t tell Claire and Kelly about it, I decide then in a more sobering moment. There’s no point, I will put it out of my head now. I’ll probably never see those people again.

Prev // Next

[asoiaf-fancasts]

Eddard Stark - Fancasts

Age: 08 - 36

18 - 20 [Tourney to End of

Rebellion]

26 - 27 [Greyjoys’s Rebellion]

Appearance: He has a long face with long brown hair. His beard is closely trimmed with grey starting come in making him look older. He has dark grey eyes. He is shorter than his brother and is allegedly plainer looking.

Character: Edmund Pevensie

Actor: Skander Keynes

Movie[s]: Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian & Voyage of the Dawn Threader

[He’s 13/14 - 16/17 during the first two movies so good for when he is being fostered by Jon Arryn. He is the perfect age for during the Tourney of Harrenhal in the last movie. He has brown hair, dark eyes but not grey. He wears medieval ish clothes/armour along with 1930’s/1940’s clothes.]

Character: Piero di Lorenzo de Medici

Actor: Louis Patridge

Show: Medici [2016] [Season 3]

[He was 15/16 during this season so good for Ned being fostered by Jon Arryn. He has a long ish face,brown hair, dark eyes but they aren’t grey. He wears 15th century Italian clothes.]

Character: Gilbert Blythe

Actor: Lucas Jade Zumann

Show: Anne with an E [2017]

[He is 17 - 19 during this show so good for just before the Tourney at Harrenhal and during Roberts Rebellion. He has a long ish face, brown eyes that are dark but not grey. He wears 18th century clothes so he is better for close ups.]

Character: King William

Actor: Sam Claflin

Movie: Snow White and the Huntsman [2012]

[He was 25/26 during this movie is the right age for him during Greyjoy’s Rebellion. He has a long ish face, long brown hair, a closely trimmed beard and his eyes are a dark grey/brown. He wears fantasy medieval clothes.]

Character: Gawain

Actor: Dev Patel

Movie: The Green Knight [2021]

[He was 30/31 during this movie so too young for him in the book timeline. He has a long face with long dark brown/black hair and his beard is relatively short. He has dark eyes but they’re not grey. He wears fantasy clothes.]

Character: Uthred of Bebbanburg

Actor: Alexander Dreymon

Show: The Last Kingdom [2015] [Season 4]

[He is too young for Ned during the books at the start of the series at 32 but is around the right age for Ned in season 4 at 36/37. He has a long face, long brown hair and has a somewhat closely trimmed beard. His hair from season 1 is more accurate to Ned though. He unfortunately has light eyes of the wrong colour. He wears Norse ish clothes.]

Character: Alfred

Actor: David Dawson

Show: The Last Kingdom [2015] [Season 2 & 3]

[He is too young for Ned in season 1 but is around the right age for him in season 2 and 3 at around 35-36. He has a long face, his has somewhat long brown hair and a closely trimmed bread that has grey in it that makes him look older than his age.His eyes are dark but not grey. He wears Saxon clothes.]

Character: Ross Poldark

Actor: Aiden Turner

Show: Poldark [2015] [Season 4 & 5]

[He is too young for Ned during the first book at 32 -34 in earlier seasons but is around the right age at 34/35 - 36 in the last two seasons. He has a long face, long dark brown hair and dark eyes but they’re not grey.He wears 18th century clothes.]

Character: Robert Bruce

Actor: Chris Pine

Movie: Outlaw King [2018]

[He is a couple years too old for book Ned at 37/38 but I think he’s still okay because Ned is said to look older with the grey in his beard. He has long hair but it’s more grey than brown and his eyes are light blue. He does face a long face with a brown and grey beard. He has a wife that looks like Catelyn but is too young for book Catelyn but has a daughter perfect for Arya.He wears 14th century clothes.]

[mengyan]

Hello! If you have read the novel, could you give us some details about Furong and Mofang? :) I am curious about their story since the drama unfortunately doesn't show much about them

sure anon! actually speaking, as the drama’s script was also written by jiu lu fei xiang (aka the author of the novel), she’s doing a fantastic job of expanding further on mo fang and fu rong’s relationship! there are actually more moments and, in a way, feelings between them in the drama compared to the novel. but that’s just my opinion as someone who has seen both!

in the novel, this is what we get (WARNING FOR PLOT SPOILERS):

the selling tickets thing doesn’t happen in the novel. mo fang and fu rong first meet when fu rong gets drunk in that wine shop. mo fang is furious at him for dragging shen li’s reputation down with him and thus goes to pick him up, taking him away. before he can do so, fu rong says he has “eyes like stars, with such soul” and kisses him in front of everyone. mo fang is dumbstruck but the second he recovers, he immediately knocks fu rong out before dragging him home. this scene was edited slightly to attempt to pass censorship and presumably filmed, but ended up being cut— thus resulting in that weird cut to the knockout and a shorter runtime of the final produced episode (which was only 36 mins).

although in the novel it is not explicitly stated how fu rong ends up grabbing mo fang’s pendant, he does do so while drunk (i headcanon that it happens while mo fang drags him back) and he does spend a long while trying to return it to him, just like in the drama. jlfx actually managed to keep 95% accuracy of their scenes and lines said, with the 5% amount of deviation due to censorship.

one of the lines cut was mo fang saying that he's "never hated/never been more annoyed by anyone in his entire life" which i wish they kept but it's okay

when xing zhi ends up clarifying that mo fang was rejected by shen li, fu rong is overjoyed and says something like “this is a good chance for me [to pursue him] then!!”

again, like the drama, fu rong is kicked and escapes to the mortal realm, and when fu rong returns, he clings every day to mo fang’s side. one detail i like that the drama added was that we got to see mo fang regret it and hold out his hand to help him up, but fu rong didn’t know he was trying to help and fled!! 😭

you lan still warns mo fang to stay away from fu rong and says all that stuff about how her brother normally doesn’t pursue men like this, like i am not kidding when i say jlfx is keeping everything she can

this is where plot spoilers begin so look away if you must!

while the demon realm is in crisis, mo fang is “swallowed” by demons upon fighting them, and “dies”. when fu rong finds this out, we learn from you lan that he went crazy, his spiritual power exploded, and because his powers are so pure, he ended up washing out all of the colour of his plants and exploded his courtyard.

he was unconscious for a long time, and when he woke up, he learned of mo fang’s betrayal, which broke his heart even further. he became silent and uncommunicative and did not let anyone fix his courtyard, so it’s still broken to this day.

from then on, fu rong dresses in plainer clothes (as if he's mourning... 😭) and swears to work hard to help guard the xutian abyss's barrier for the rest of time.

from one of he yu (fu rong) and xin yunlai (mo fang)'s interviews, it seems like we will be getting a lot more of their bond in the drama which makes me really excited! xin yunlai says that mo fang eventually ends up finding fu rong quite cute and that he doesn't want such a cute and kind person to be in danger. he yu says that later, when mo fang is revealed as a traitor, fu rong is the first to believe that he's not a bad person, and that he understands mo fang the most.

suffice to say i am NOT READY for the second half of this drama!! i hope this helps you out, anon!

[starzzmissthesun]

Welp I should be doing my assignment for class but I will never shut up abt my ocs for this story given the chance so character designs!!!

For Margaret she has hazel eyes, dead straight black hair, shoulder length but a bit longer/shorter at random parts bc she cuts it herself, she's unnaturally pale so people make jokes that she's a vampire, it makes her insecure, her eyes are more on the downturned side- kind of droopy, and she's always got dark circles from laying awake at night, she's got beauty marks that she thinks of as imperfections (even though she adores Lydia's freckles) they're placed above her lip to the left, one to the right of her nose/on her cheek, and another above her right eyebrow that she tries to cover with her bangs, she's got long lashes, heavier on the bottom than the top, and on the rare occasion that she does give a real smile, it's wide awkward and all her teeth show, including the pointy canines that's always pokes her lip when she's bites on it, she's skinny, too skinny, she often doesn't have an appetite but she's got a love for sour candy and twisslers

Jamie doesn't have a solid design just yet even though she's been around for 5 years😭 but I imagine she's got short brown hair, just past the ears, as long as she can get it without her parents making her get a hair cut, she used to have it bleached so the very tips are just a bit blonde, she's tall, more than she would like to be so she's always hunched, dark brown eyes that make her feel even plainer (especially when she compares her self to Lydia), and that's all I've got for Jamie :(

Lydia's also not that flushed out design wise but she's a red head with dark green eyes and freckles all over, it makes her feel like the average red-head stereotype, her hair is just below her books, curly and layered, she's got warm skin that gets a honey colored tan during the summer and dimples on only one cheek, heart shaped lips

Some stuff abt Lydia

Her favorite colors are yellow and orange like the sunrise, her favorite books are The Outsiders and Speak, her favorite movies are The Craft, But I'm a cheerleader, and the Nightmare Before Christmas, some of her favorite songs are Lover Rock, Are you bored yet?, Pleaser, and Roslyn, she loves to pick flowers and press them between the pages of her books, she can't ride a bike, and will eat just about anything, but she's got a hard time saying no to people and never gives herself breaks, constantly burying her own emotions till she burns out

I don't have a sketch book rn, so none of these sketches are good. But here's the owns I did of Margret. I really wanted to the others, but I NEED my sketchbook. I kind of just went crazy w ur description. (Also I literally love these characters SO much)