#but they aren’t the right era :(((

[daydream-draws]

@todaywasamaritale said biana is so Glinda coded and you are so right and probably didn’t realize I am a major theater kid so here are my wicked crack au doodles 😭

[wolvesandshine]

Okay but we all agree that Lily is a mastermind right? She just didn’t get caught. Like the marauders wish they could be like her

[applysome]

Dramatic Synchronicity at Webster Hall - Everything You’ve Come to Expect

for @crandberrysaucewithpulp

Not shown directly after this - introduction to The Meeting Place

Alex: this is a good old fashioned love story, about what might have been

Miles: this one’s for you Hannah, baby…

💙💜🩷

[sarcasmandships]

so much (for) stardust constellations

[undead-moth]

I'm also just thinking about how people's frustration with The Bear this season in general and not just with SydCarmy is so indicative of how little people understand about story writing.

I got my BA in fiction writing which doesn't make me the world's leading expert or anything but I know enough to know that The Bear is exceptionally well-written and most of the complaints about this season stem from not knowing anything about writing a story.

And on top of this, the same people who don't know anything about writing a story are used to consuming really bad stories because right now, we're in one of the worst eras of television and honestly, writing in general, ever.

Because right now there's no expectation or requirement for a show or book to be well-written before production or publication. There's no requirement for it to actually be good, or for it to even make any sense at the writing level. All that matters is that people will watch it or read it and since people can't tell the difference between good writing and bad writing and largely aren't watching or reading for that reason anyway, who cares?

It's just an endless cycle.

Audiences don't recognize nor want good writing > Producers and publishers don't require nor pursue good writing > Writers that ultimately become successful can't nor need to write well > And the cycle starts over.

And because people are so used to bad writing, and can’t tell the difference between good and bad writing, and don’t want good writing anyway, when a show like The Bear comes around, a show that doesn’t hold their hand and explain everything to them or doesn’t spoon-feed them exactly what they want, a show that isn’t going to sacrifice the narrative through-line just to cut to the romantic chase - people are not only confused but pissed.

And then the most frustrating part of all this is that people then come to the conclusion the writer’s are bad at writing.

It is so bleak to be an aspiring writer right now, I swear.

[boag]

I think tumblr peaked for me personally in the late 2010s that’s when this app was at its most enjoyable and had the best vibe

[smilesrobotlover]

I just realized that I accidentally wrote some of the dads similar to the Links that are not connected to the dads.

Leon and Warriors: self proclaimed leaders of the group. Takes the journey seriously and feels responsible for everyone’s wellbeing. Have some anger issues but they have a soft spot and love their friends. Kind of a pain to deal with since they’re very anal about things.

Sky and Rusl: the heart of the group and keeps the group together. They allow everyone to rest when they’re pushing themselves too hard and keeps things lighthearted. They love their wives unconditionally and are also very… VERY deep sleepers. They sorta balance out the strict leaders.

Kass and Legend: the positive kind souls that are comforting to be around. They have a chill attitude and keeps the energy down when needed. They’ve explored the whole world and know a lot to do with different places and environments. They’re musically gifted and relax the group with many songs, legends, and stories.

Ammon and Minish: the certified grumps of the group. They’re not actively grumpy towards people, but they get annoyed very easily. They’re rather reserved and keep to themselves, but they’re strong and capable, vital to the group. They’re not grumpy all the time, but they seem to be grumpy whenever they’re interacting with people. But they are pretty friendly when you first meet them, sometimes.

[lupinedreaming]

Title: And she made swine of men

Pairing: M/M (Original characters)

Rating: M (nothing particularly sexual happens here, but there are very much kinks present, so I don’t feel comfortable rating it T)

Summary: A foolish king is transformed into what he always was — a pig.

Content warnings and tags: Animal transformation, self-pity, humiliation, weight gain via transformation, romantic feelings for a friend, generic European fantasy setting

A/N: This story is heavily inspired by a fun conversation I had with a good friend. Thank you for indulging my nonsense <3

Also available on AO3.

It had been several days since that wretched woman had transformed him, and he still wasn’t certain where he was. Edmond had always been much better at directions and spatial awareness … and, oh, how he wished his friend was here now.

Winston squinted his small eyes at the bright morning light drifting down through the trees. It was the fourth day, he thought. He was impressed that he’d even been able to make it four days in the body of a pig. He hauled himself to his hooves, wobbling unsteadily, still unused to four legs – and unused to bearing such a heavy body. 

He swung his head from side to side, once again mentally cursing the woman who had done this. Yes, perhaps he could have approached her with more … delicacy, but surely what he’d said hadn’t been so offensive as to warrant this. After dinner and after Edmond had left to check on the horses, Winston had merely suggested that he could take her to bed to show his gratitude for allowing himself and his advisor shelter in a storm. He was the king — wasn’t it a compliment of the highest order to be offered this?

She hadn’t thought so, apparently. Instead, she called him a glutton and a bore, and as he was about to stridently object to her accusation and threaten her with arrest, he found a strange squeal issuing from his throat, and then he was falling to his hands and knees and then, and then — he changed.

Although he knew that witches existed, he couldn’t make sense of what was happening at first, not when his fingers twitched and flexed against his own will, then started to fuse together and harden. He watched it as if in a dream, despite the bone-deep pain that lanced through his digits.

Once his nose flattened and his face started to push outward, only then did he understand what was happening. He listened to another sharp squeal come from his throat and the damn woman just stood there and laughed. Tears of shame at being seen like this flowed, and he raised his head, glaring at her, which only made her laugh all the more. Her dark hair fell into her eyes and the low flames in the fireplace made her eyes glitter like a demon.

His arms buckled and he fell onto his front. A shudder ran through his body. He felt his normally fairly lean abdomen widen, ripping the confines of the red tunic that he wore. Winston now felt his belly press against the dirt floor, expanding and contracting as he panted with the exertion of his change. He closed his eyes tightly but he couldn’t block out another round of raucous laughter from the woman. If he were still human, he’d have had her arrested for this on the spot. But he could do nothing but groan and tremble, falling over onto his side, a thick cheek pressed to the ground.

The first hours after his transformation were a little difficult to remember, but he recalled that she’d turned him out into the muddy pen with her three other pigs. He didn’t even know how he’d managed to make it out there, for he couldn’t lift himself. Winston couldn’t quite understand how to properly stand on four legs for longer than a few seconds before feeling his legs tremble and fold beneath him. 

Winston was a man of average height and weight. This body was not. Even lying down, he was aware of the new layer of fat covering his belly and flanks, the way it shifted and rippled as he tried to scoot across the mud and become more comfortable. 

And that was another unpleasant thing — the mud. It wasn’t as if he’d never encountered mud in his life, having participated in many hunts, but he was never laying in it, never face down in it. The wet muck coated his body, clinging to his bristling hairs and drying in the crevices of his fat. Winston flicked his ears and made a low, rumbling sound of displeasure in his throat.

Soon enough, however, the sound of footsteps made him raise his head. Through the slats of the pen, he saw Edmond’s legs move quickly with purpose toward the witch’s small house.

Winston’s legs scrambled in the mud, splattering the other pigs with it. One large male pig snorted and looked at him with what he interpreted as disdain. He didn’t care what the opinion of a pig was.

He shoved himself to his front, then propelled himself to stand on four shivering legs. Lifting one leg, he meant to turn toward the fence and run at it, call out his friend’s name, but the moment he lifted another hoof to take a second step, Winston stumbled and fell and no words came, only high-pitched squeals. The steady rain pattered on his skin, the other pigs looking at him with their small, dark eyes. 

This woman would be punished, certainly, he thought. It would be suspicious in anyone’s eyes if the king disappeared in her presence without a trace. He lay helplessly on his side, breathing hard, flexing his legs every so often, listening to the voices in the hut. The door was shut, so he could not hear the words, but he heard tones rise and fall, shouts, what sounded like accusations.

A pink and spotted in the sow nudged at him with her snout, trying to push him out of the way. He lifted his head with a snort, offended that this creature would try to shove him aside. She gazed impassively at him. Pushed again with her flat snout.

He managed to roll onto his front, forelegs folded and compressed beneath the bulk of his chest. He lifted his tongue, running it along the foreign teeth in his mouth. Most of them were flat, but he did have tusks. They were not as long as the tusks of a wild boar, but he felt their sharpness with the tip of his tongue. Angling his tusks at her, he snapped, a tusk scraping against her. It didn’t break her thick skin, but it did succeed in startling her. The sow squealed at him, scurrying away on her short little legs.

Satisfied that the sow was no longer bothering him, he set his mind to pondering how to fix this predicament. Clearly, this woman was a witch, and this was some sort of curse. He needed to convince her to reverse the curse even though he could no longer speak.

Winston was capable of being charming and witty. Perhaps that would be hard to translate to a porcine context, but he could try. She couldn’t be completely heartless, could she? She must see that trapping her king in this body would be a terrible mistake for everyone — including herself.

Taking a deep breath, Winston flexed the muscles in his legs and attempted to push himself up to a standing position. For a moment, he succeeded, but soon he fell into the mus again with an undignified grunt.

How awful everything had turned out so quickly, he thought mournfully.

The door to the house slammed open, Edmond stomping out. He raised his head hopefully again, nose sniffing the air vigorously, taking in the Edmond’s warm scent, then emitted several high-pitched sounds at the man, hoping there would be something familiar in the animalistic noises that his advisor would recognize. 

He glanced at Winston, and, for a moment, his heart soared in hope as he saw his friend’s eyes sweep over him. Edmond looked grave, his dark hair slicked against his head by rain, his soft jaw set hard in frustration. 

Winston soon the grey eyes that typically looked at him with fondness were cold, his mouth drawn into a firm straight line.

One more squeal. One that said, “Please, it’s your king. … It’s your friend, Winston.”

Nothing dawned in his eyes. He turned away, blue cloaking flaring behind him, walking back in the direction of the horses.

 Winston was so frustrated and disappointed in that moment that he thought he might cry — but his eyes only stung with the memory of tears. None sprang forth. 

He just collapsed back into the mud. The last remnants of the rain drizzled onto his face, clinging to the long hairs about his eyes.

——

The morning after his advisor had left him in the cruel hands of the witch, he awoke to the sound of something thick and wet. Winston blinked and raised his head from the ground. The right side of his face was smeared with a thick layer of dried mud. Pieces of it flaked off. 

In the clear morning light, he saw the witch bending over the fence and tossing an assortment of old food scraps into the pig trough situated at the front of the pen. His three compatriots rushed to the trough immediately, shoving and jostling each other for the finest of refuse. 

The witch dropped the bucket with a clatter and leaned against the fence. She propped her head up on her crossed arms and smiled wickedly at him. Winston looked away. He feigned disinterest with a snort and an ear flick.

“Oh, what’s wrong Your Majesty, my food isn’t good enough for you now?” Her voice was sneering, and if he looked at her, he knew that she would have a horrible gloating smile on her face.

In the silence, the other pigs grunted and snorted, the trough clanking as they shoved their faces into the slop, their teeth scraping against the metal in their haste to inhale the witch’s offerings.

“I’m quite surprised,” she continued, “considering how eager you were for dinner last night. You practically gorged yourself on it.”

It was another jab at him, he knew that. Letting him know why she’d turned him into a pig. 

“Very well, then. I certainly can’t make you eat. You’ll get quite hungry soon, though. Pigs have voracious appetites, as you can see.”

The wood creaked when she pushed away from the pen. Footsteps crunched against dirt and gravel and the wooden door shut behind her.

After that, Winston had assumed she would keep him trapped in the pen. But that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t know if she changed her mind, but soon enough she was opening the hut’s door, striding pen, and prodding at him with a long rod.

Stubbornly, he wouldn’t leave — he didn’t even know if he could make himself do what she wanted — but the prodding became more insistent and even painful. Winston squealed at her in warning, popping his jaws open and grinding his upper and lower tusks together as he had seen wild boar do before they turned and charged his hunting party head-on.

The witch narrowed her eyes and exhaled sharply. This time, she gave him a sudden thwack to his rump. Winston jerked to all fours then, his flesh throbbing and stinging in the aftermath. She raised the rod again. It lowered a measure, and that got him moving, his body somehow finally allowing him to not just walk by run on four legs. She continued to poke and prod at his hindquarters and sides until they were far beyond her home and were deep in the forest. 

Once they stopped, he whirled to face the witch, fully intent on charging her, but she had vanished, leaving him alone. Something rustled in the nearby bushes. 

Winston jerked and shuffled to the side, his large ears perked. There had been wolves seen in these woods last winter. No doubt a wolf wouldn’t turn down a juicy ham dinner. 

His skin flinched and shivered. The bushes rustled again. But nothing emerged. 

He exhaled slowly and gazed around him. The forest was dense and thick, with bushes and undergrowth rioting across the ground. There were no recognizable trails or paths. 

He was lost.

——

By that fourth day, he had somewhat managed to come to an understanding of at least how to forage for food. 

He hadn’t known much about what pigs ate in the first place, and it didn’t seem that the curse had equipped him with such knowledge. But he did know they seemed to eat anything he could, so he would nose at the ground for whatever he could find and avoiding anything that looked or smelled suspect. 

For one of the first times in his life, he wished he’d been born a peasant. Then he might’ve known what was truly safe. 

But as he foraged that fourth day, he found his mind turning to his beloved advisor. Surely Edmond would have immediately set about trying to discover what happened to his king. 

Winston lifted his head to watch the branches say overhead. A squirrel was leaping across them.

But then …

What if Edmond secretly was glad to be rid of him? It was no secret that many people found him temperamental and childish at times — they simply didn’t voice it. But he knew. 

Maybe he thought the witch had done them all a favor. He sat down heavily on his haunches, working a piece of old fruit between his jaws. The thought made his heart heavy. 

Edmond was one of the few people he counted as a true friend whom he could really trust. He smiled indulgently at his antics, even sometimes joined him. The man was a cool, steady presence who gave him genuine wisdom when he needed it. 

Edmond would probably be a better king that he was. 

Winston shook his head and clacked his teeth together. No! That was simply sadness talking. Edmond was a gifted advisor, but he was not born to rule and reign. 

Winston needed to find his way back to the castle. Surely Edmond would know what to do. Winston stood again, swallowing the fruit. Hunger still clawed him. The witch hadn’t lied about that.

He was hungry all the time now, never sated. There was always a yawning ache there, his stomach growling in complaint. 

He turned to continue his search for sustenance when this time something did crash out of the bushes. 

A boar. A wild one. 

He raised his head high, glinting black eyes regarding Winston. A chill clutched his stomach. Boar were one of the most dangerous beasts to hunt. Certainly one would not take kindly to another hog in his territory. 

As he looked at the beast, he knew that he would be no match for it.

The boar was lean and longer legged than he, the tips of his white-yellow tusks pushing up the edges of his lips. Winston was larger than the boar, but was also bulkier and shorter legged. His tusks were were toothpicks compared to the boar’s dagger-like tusks.

This creature understood the laws of the animal kingdom in a way he never would. He would have no mercy or care for human ranks and niceties for hierarchy. All he knew was that there was another hog invading his territory, threatening his dominion of this patch of land. 

Winston began to back away. 

The boar opened his jaws and turned to the side, the hair along his back bristling. His head lowered. Winston knew what the beast intended to do. 

He whirled away and ran as fast as his shorter legs would allow, the boar crashing through the brush and leaves, growing ever closer. The boar’s long, angry squeals pierced his ears. 

Finally, the beast gained on him and turned his head with open jaws and sliced Winston on a back leg with a tusk. He shrieked and stumbled just as the boar turned away, trotting back into the forest, satisfied that he had removed an intruder. 

Winston fell to the ground, groaning and whimpering softly to himself. A steady stream of blood leaked from the gash. He couldn’t imagine what sorts of dirt and filth were getting into the wound. It could even get infected. He’d seen one of his hunting dogs die from an infection that had originated from a wound much smaller than this.

He closed his eyes and pressed his back teeth together. No matter what body he inhabited, he was still a king. That could not be taken from him. He couldn’t waste time pitying himself. 

With a loud grunt, Winston pushed himself up. This hind leg protested with a new jolt of pain but he ignored it. 

Spurred on by a determination not wallow in pity, at least for the moment, he walked in the opposite direction of the boar’s territory. He traveled, leg growing steadily more pained, until he came to a small stream. The water was unlikely to be truly pure, but he hoped that it could at least wash away some debris that had gotten into the gash. 

Winston slowly walked across the pebbles on the bank of the stream, his hooves dangerously sliding against them. His whole body tensed until he managed to enter the stream. As the cold water touched him, an immediate shiver ran through his body. His lips curled up but sat in the stream to submerge his hind leg in the frigid water. He trembled again, but there was a sense of relief at the feeling of the slow moving water passing over the gash. The wound still stung, but the cold of the water soothed the burning, inflamed flesh. 

Perhaps he would be able to survive long enough to return to his castle after all.

——

Winston awoke on the fifth day with a startled grunt. The long brush and grass he’d pulled over himself to create a nest trembled with nearby footsteps. 

He lay still beneath the bent foliage and listened to the cadence of the steps. They were the steady rhythm of human feet. Winston tensed. A human was now a potential predator to him. Many individuals would see a lost, plump pig as a blessing in disguise. A large adult hog could easily feed a family for quite a time if stored properly.

But something made him second guess his decision to remain hidden. As the steps grew closer, an intimately familiar warm, masculine scent drifted between the leaves of his den. 

Edmond. 

His heart soared. He had another chance! Now that he was no longer confined by a pen, surely he could convince Edmond of his identity. 

Winston burst from the grass and brush just as Edmond walked by, an exciting squeal coming from Winston’s throat against his own will. 

The other man jumped back, hand going to the sword at his side. His eyes still held no recognition. 

How to make him understand? First, perhaps he needed to set Edmond at ease. Edmond’s fingers still flexed hesitantly near the sword. 

Winston flicked his tail from side to side as he had seen happy pigs do in the past and grunted in a way that he hoped seemed friendly. Edmond finally lowered his hand to his side. 

“I’m certain someone is quite upset that they’re missing a big hog like you, but I have more important matters to attend to,” Edmond said, turning from him. 

Winston’s tail stopped flicking. No, no, that wouldn’t do at all! He had to make his friend stay. 

He rushed up to him and grabbed the hem of the man’s cloak in his jaws, tugging insistently at it, trying to drag him along with him. 

Edmond stiffened and pulled back, pulling at the cloak to extract it from his jaws. He wasn’t successful. If nothing else, his jaw muscles were now much stronger than they had once been. He jerked his head and Edmond stumbled forward. 

He was met with a swat on the snout. “Let go of me. What are you doing?”

Winston ignored Edmond’s annoyance and further strikes to his snout and instead dragged him over to a patch of dirt. He released Edmond’s cloak. He hoped he could act quickly on this plan. He’d given it thought last night as he’d drifted off.

Edmond frowned at the wrinkled and saliva soaked patch on his cloak. He drew it up in his hand.

“This was one of my favorites, you know.”

While Edmond was distracted, Winston nudged a large stick with his snout until it was in a position where he could grab it in his mouth. 

Winston looked up at the man. Edmond’s brow furrowed and he blinked. 

“What are — “

He began to jab the stick into the ground, head tilted to the side to see what he was writing. Slowly, and crudely, he scratched his name into the dirt. He was displeased at how the writing looked like the scribblings of a brain damaged child, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped. 

Winston rolled his tongue and adjusted the stick in his jaws. He looked up at Edmond. 

The man was staring at him with a hand covering his mouth. His eyes flicked from the writing in the dirt to Winston and back again.

“Your Highness, is it … ? But — “

Winston’s demeanor brightened, his tail flicking from side to side again. 

“But how?”

Winston pressed the stick into the dirt and laboriously wrote “witch.”

Edmond’s expression fell into a deep frown.

“Ah. I see. The thought had crossed my mind, but I doubted the likelihood of it. We did go back to that woman’s house to search or but … “ he spread his hands, “she was gone.”

Winston closed his eyes. Despair welled up again. While magic wasn’t unknown in this region of the world, its practitioners were few and secretive. Without the witch, what was he to do? He dropped the stick from his mouth, about to pace, when a hand touched his snout. 

Instinctively he flinched, almost expecting to be struck again, but as he opened his eyes, he saw Edmond kneeling down and gazing at him with open fondness. His heart pounded. That was the look he had been hoping for from the moment he awoke in the pen. His tail flicked more vigorously than ever. 

“Don’t lose hope, sire. It may certainly be harder to reverse this without the help of the witch, but we’ll return you to your true form.”

Winston pushed his snout into Edmond’s hand in gratitude, almost nuzzling it. He wasn’t shy about being affectionate towards his friend, but he felt that there was something deeper to this, though he wasn’t sure what. 

Edmond slowly removed his hand from his snout and his eyes roamed across Winston’s body, presumably taking in his new appearance. Shame rolled through him. He was certain he was quite an unpleasant sight. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the stream yesterday — the first time he’d seen his new reflection. And he’d flinched away from it. 

In that stream, he saw a pink hog with thick jowls, a long, flat snout covered with a splatter of dirt and leaves, and uneven whiskers and bristles growing from his chin and cheeks. His lips were pushed up slightly from the presence of his tusks. His eyes were small and beady, gazing back with a pathetic, forlorn look in them. For the first time, he thought of himself as ugly. 

He could only imagine that’s what Edmond saw now — a pudgy pig covered in the dirt and debris of the forest floor, a beast fit for the muddy wallow, not the throne room. 

But as his friend touched his body, he didn’t feel any trembling or hesitation. Winston risked a glance at Edmond’s face. His lips were pressed together, hand slowly brushing down his side. Fingers paused as they approached his hind leg. Edmond frowned. His index finger drifted toward the gash in his leg. 

Winston’s skin shivered and twitched, suddenly oversensitive and he found he had to look away from Edmond.

“Winston, what is this? How did come find by this wound?”

Edmond rarely addresses him simply by his name. Hearing the man speak his name with such concern made his skin shiver again. 

The finger circled the wound, though not touching it. It drifted a little further, and suddenly Winston was aware that Edmond was touching his rump. He had never been touched there by his advisor. There had never been any cause for it, but now he found embarrassment and something else squirming inside him as he did so and he wondered if he wouldn’t mind being touched there again by Edmond if he were human. 

But certainly Edmond wasn’t thinking of that. Why would he? All he saw was his friend, though now a pig. 

Silently, Winston moved away from the touch and stood. He snorted, hoping to catch Edmond’s attention. Edmond blinked and looked in his direction. He looked startled and a little sheepish. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Winston looked in the direction that he thought his castle might be and back at Edmond. 

“Oh. Yes, yes of course. We must get you back home.” Edmond gently placed a hand over Winston’s shoulders. 

“I’ll take you there.”

Home, he thought. Home with his friend again by his side — just as it was meant to be. 

The worst part of all of this perhaps hadn’t this new body but being parted from Edmond. 

Edmond smiled softly at him, patted him across his pink shoulders and stood. 

“Come along, your highness.”

As Edmond turned and walked away, Winston followed, tail flicking joyously. 

[iwatcheditbegin]

I know some idiots love to act like Taylor just throws albums together in weeks, but she spent two years working on TTPD and tweaking to get to the final product. Her potentially releasing a new album so soon is not a reason to be worried about quality. She was already working on ts12 before TTPD was announced.

You gotta be new if you don’t know that she writes in real time and only puts what she feels fits with an album

[website-com]

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

These two have been living in my head rent free since I loosely adapted them from a dream of mine and the folks on Instagram voted for me to add them to my Artfight account, so they both finally get some polished art and lore.

[chameleonfoots]

[ID: A spray painting on top of a box freezer in a garage. The sky of the painting goes from light to dark pink with a few stars. The painting is bisected by black mountains. Underneath is a blue lake, with the darker blue fading to a lighter blue at the bottom of the painting. ]

Finally did a painting based on the omnisexual pride flag! I got asked about it a few times in the past year, and now it’s finally a reality! Omnisexuality is defined as attraction to more than one gender, so it overlaps a bit with bisexuality, but it is still a distinct identity! Happy Pride!

[folksy]

I can’t submit a pic to your ask box but @feelsnotfeelings

[deerlisteners]

can we talk abt how many times felix like checks in on dimitri abt eating. can we talk about that

[mo0nagedaydr3am]

You’re so close to me, yet I can’t touch you.

Why do you seem so far away?

The moon, so so beautiful, it’s one of a kind.

Yet it is all alone. Far far away.

A star, the brightest one, calls out.

You don’t have to be alone anymore.

[darkandstormydolls]

PSA to all historical fiction/fantasy writers:

A SEAMSTRESS, in a historical sense, is someone whose job is sewing. Just sewing. The main skill involved here is going to be putting the needle into an out of the fabric. They’re usually considered unskilled workers, because everyone can sew, right? (Note: yes, just about everyone could sew historically. And I mean everyone.) They’re usually going to be making either clothes that aren’t fitted (like shirts or shifts or petticoats) or things more along the lines of linens (bedsheets, handkerchiefs, napkins, ect.). Now, a decent number of people would make these things at home, especially in more rural areas, since they don’t take a ton of practice, but they’re also often available ready-made so it’s not an uncommon job. Nowadays it just means someone whose job is to sew things in general, but this was not the case historically. Calling a dressmaker a seamstress would be like asking a portrait painter to paint your house

A DRESSMAKER (or mantua maker before the early 1800s) makes clothing though the skill of draping (which is when you don’t use as many patterns and more drape the fabric over the person’s body to fit it and pin from there (although they did start using more patterns in the early 19th century). They’re usually going to work exclusively for women, since menswear is rarely made through this method (could be different in a fantasy world though). Sometimes you also see them called “gown makers”, especially if they were men (like tailors advertising that that could do both. Mantua-maker was a very feminized term, like seamstress. You wouldn’t really call a man that historically). This is a pretty new trade; it only really sprung up in the later 1600s, when the mantua dress came into fashion (hence the name).

TAILORS make clothing by using the method of patterning: they take measurements and use those measurements to draw out a 2D pattern that is then sewed up into the 3D item of clothing (unlike the dressmakers, who drape the item as a 3D piece of clothing originally). They usually did menswear, but also plenty of pieces of womenswear, especially things made similarly to menswear: riding habits, overcoats, the like. Before the dressmaking trade split off (for very interesting reason I suggest looking into. Basically new fashion required new methods that tailors thought were beneath them), tailors made everyone’s clothes. And also it was not uncommon for them to alter clothes (dressmakers did this too). Staymakers are a sort of subsect of tailors that made corsets or stays (which are made with tailoring methods but most of the time in urban areas a staymaker could find enough work so just do stays, although most tailors could and would make them).

Tailors and dressmakers are both skilled workers. Those aren’t skills that most people could do at home. Fitted things like dresses and jackets and things would probably be made professionally and for the wearer even by the working class (with some exceptions of course). Making all clothes at home didn’t really become a thing until the mid Victorian era.

And then of course there are other trades that involve the skill of sewing, such as millinery (not just hats, historically they did all kinds of women’s accessories), trimming for hatmaking (putting on the hat and and binding and things), glovemaking (self explanatory) and such.

TLDR: seamstress, dressmaker, and tailor are three very different jobs with different skills and levels of prestige. Don’t use them interchangeably and for the love of all that is holy please don’t call someone a seamstress when they’re a dressmaker