#custom embroidered garments

[customclothlondon]

Crafting Personal Style: Custom Cloth London's Expertise in Custom Embroidery, T-Shirt Screen Printing, Personalised Hoodies, and Caps in London

In the dynamic landscape of London fashion, Custom Cloth London stands as a bastion of creativity, craftsmanship, and personalization. From custom embroidery to t-shirt screen printing, personalised hoodies, and caps, they offer a myriad of avenues for self-expression and style exploration.

For more details visit here: https://customclotheslondonuk.blogspot.com/2024/02/crafting-personal-style-custom-cloth.html

[aworldofpattern]

Zendaya at the Met Gala 2024, wearing custom Maison Margiela Artisanal by John Galliano, and hat by Stephen Jones.

The fruit, flowers, insects and birds on the gown fit the dress code of the night, 'The Garden of Time', inspired by J.G. Ballard's 1962 short story (explained here by the BBC).

The gown also references John Galliano’s Spring 1999 couture collection for Dior, in particular the gown below, decorated with grapes.

Maison Margiela said:

'A sage lamé bias-cut ‘siren dress’ overlaid with iridescent electric blue organza with ‘retrograding’ in undulating bands of hand-painted metallic crin, swathed in an aluminium material and iridescent organza drape and bow, with a corsage hand-embroidered in a bacchanal of hand-painted impasto in the grammar of the electric blues and emerald greens of scarab amulets, with formations of birds, flowers, vines, grapes and nuts, worn over a boudoir-coloured duchess satin corset. A silver metal-wire ‘reverse swatching’ hat and a black hand-painted voile crafted in the memory of plume and enveloped in matching coloured stockings by Stephen Jones for Maison Margiela, and Eau de Nil velour and faux lizard Tabi interlaced ankle-strap pumps by Christian Louboutin for Maison Margiela.

Created for Zendaya by John Galliano for Maison Margiela, the haute couture silhouette was inspired by the 1930s mythological works of the photographer Madame Yevonde and imbued with the memory of the orgiastic sceneries of the bacchanals of Ancient Greece. In a dance between painterly cutting and draping techniques – unique to each layer of the construction – and the superposition of fabric textures such as tin foil with transparent iridescent organza overlay, the composition conjures the staccato brushstrokes of Giovanni Boldini. The bias-cut ‘siren dress’ is a key expression in the creative practice of John Galliano, which first appeared at Maison Margiela in the Spring-Summer 2020 Artisanal Collection. Infused with a certain ‘snobisme’, the look is given the epithet of ‘86 and Lexington’, a nod to the subway station near The Met.

The dress was crafted with ‘retrograding’, a technique through which variations of thread-work, appliqué or encrustation degrade from the bottom to the top of a garment like the linear base drawing of a painting that hasn’t yet been finished. The ‘reverse swatching’ technique employed in the hat exchanges the fabrics traditionally used for certain parts of dressmaking with materials of a contrasting value.' X

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 36)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (35) | Next (37)

Content Warning: fatal hard vore with blood, soft unwilling vore, multiple prey

Word Count: 2.9k

------ Chapter 36: Royal Visit ------

The day had come for the foreign dignitaries to visit. The royals of Giganterra were all dressed in new, custom-made clothes of the latest fashion. Ronny stood stiffly alongside his father, scratching at the lacy collar of his fancy outfit. He felt like a mannequin, with how many layers he was stuffed into and how constricted his limbs were. His suit was a royal blue with a line of brass buttons up the middle, epaulettes on the shoulders, and elaborate designs embroidered into the chest and arms with golden threads. He could hardly bend his elbows or knees. He was tense and irritable, wearing his characteristic frosty scowl to complete his wardrobe. His only comfort was Tanya, his secret little ally and companion, dangling from his necklace. He kept her with him for moral support, tucked into the hem of his outer jacket, for which he was eternally grateful. He liked having her tiny body so close to his beating heart. 

Princess Bianca, on the other hand, was vibrant with excitement. Her dress was a flowing green garment of resplendent silk that made her hazel eyes pop. It was decorated with sparkling emeralds stitched into the fabric, with tasteful ruffles on the sleeves, collar, and skirt. She swished her dress around her ankles, giggling to herself with amorous daydreams. She felt foxy and attractive, and she couldn’t wait to show off her beauty to her fiancé, in all his handsome, sexy glory.  

A royal carriage, followed by an entourage of servants on horseback, appeared on the horizon. As it drew closer, Ronny observed that the carriage was unbalanced, leaning slightly to the side. The group entered through the gate into the courtyard. King Richard, flanked by his children and his guard, came out to greet the visiting royals. 

The reason for the imbalance soon became apparent, as the foreign king stepped out of the carriage. He was an elephantine, hairy giant with a thick black beard and a prominent gut that protruded over his waistline. The carriage groaned as he transferred his mammoth mass to the pavement. 

“Richard!” he boomed in a bass voice. “Good to see you!” He slapped his fellow king on the shoulder with a massive fat paw and vigorously shook his hand, nearly knocking the crown off the smaller king’s head. Hardon smiled, masking his minor irritation, and reciprocated the handshake warmly. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Ivan,” he replied. “And how is your son?” 

“Oh, that useless maggot? He’s right here with me, as promised.” The foreign prince, his lips pressed into a thin line, joined his father. He stood with rigid posture, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed neat and trim, clean-shaven except for a small black mustache and short hair smartly groomed and parted under his crown. He was not as large as his obese father, yet still possessed a pudgy belly, and was gifted with a broad, hefty frame. 

Bianca was drawn to his most striking feature, his eyes. They were as bright blue as robin’s eggs and complimented his handsome face. The princess smiled at him and gave him a small wave. After a moment of hesitation, he waved back stiffly. A smile failed to grace his lips, but Bianca internally swooned as those beautiful blue irises turned her way. She was smitten. 

King Ivan kept talking. “I have high expectations for Prince Ray, and he’s disappointed me countless times, but he’s made progress! I’ll whip him into shape eventually.” He wrapped a thick arm with a black forest of hair around his son’s shoulder. Ray kept a neutral expression, impervious to the degrading comments, but a hardness entered those striking eyes of his. “At least he isn’t as useless as your boy!” Ivan guffawed obnoxiously. 

Ronny frowned at his rudeness, holding his fingers to his chest where Tanya’s comforting form was hidden. A shadow passed over King Richard’s countenance. “You’re not wrong,” he agreed, piercing Ronny with his pale, icy stare. Ronny shuddered, as if he’d fallen into a frozen lake. He grasped Tanya tighter in his hand, but was cognizant not to squeeze her too much. 

“Anyways, I’m sure you’d like to freshen up after your long journey. Come inside, and our servants will pamper you and show you to your rooms,” Hardon offered. 

“What about some FOOD? I’m starving!” King Ivan complained, rubbing his prodigious gut. “I haven’t eaten for at least a couple of hours!” 

“Of course! We’ve been preparing a special meal just for you!” Hardon responded. He motioned to one of his servants, who rushed off to the kitchen to inform the chefs. He guided the prestigious guests to the dining room and settled them in. King Ivan had to smash his belly up against the table to fit, nearly scraping the sturdy wooden structure across the floor. His chair moaned underneath him, the legs struggling not to bend. 

“I know you’ve been wanting to sample the ‘special crop’ of Giganterra,” Hardon remarked, wearing a mischievous leer.  

King Ivan smirked. “You know what a gourmand I am. I’ll try anything, and live prey sounds delicious. You’ve certainly hyped them up enough to whet my appetite.” He slapped his belly as it grumbled eagerly to be filled. 

The two kings continued to chat as the other dinner guests sat in uncomfortable silence. Ronny was tense. He didn’t anticipate they’d be eating so soon, and he didn’t want Tanya to be at the dinner table with him. Her presence was unavoidable, however, as King Richard had informed them beforehand that they’d be eating their personal humans for dinner so their visitors could enjoy the rest of the humans in a feast. Ronny determined in advance that he wouldn’t eat Tanya again, no matter what. 

Bianca, sitting across the table from Prince Ray, kept sending him flirtatious winks and gestures. Ray avoided eye contact, looking around the room awkwardly and pinching at his mustache. She tried to reach his feet under the table with her own, but he shied away from her touch. In a futile effort to ease the discomfort, Ray attempted to make light conversation with Ronny instead. Unfortunately, Ronny was incapable of carrying a civilized conversation and merely grunted stilted responses. Both Ray and Ronny began to sweat. 

While they waited for their food in the dining room, the chefs back in the kitchen scrambled to get dinner out earlier than they had originally planned. Bucky was in a foul temper, screaming until his face turned red and whacking workers who were too slow with a big wooden spoon. The efficient flow of the kitchen had been disrupted with Gore’s conspicuous absence: Cruor was breaking his back to pick up the slack and do the job of two men. 

“Cruor! Hurry up with those humans!” Bucky snapped. “We need to use them all!” Cruor grabbed a handful of humans and plopped them in a big bowl of hearty stew intended for King Ivan. He scooped up the remaining humans—Jackie, Eren, and Iris—into his hand and tossed them into Prince Ray’s stew. 

“You better not cause trouble,” he warned Eren, wagging his finger. “You may’ve gotten away with murder, but if you embarrass King Richard in front of his guests, he might actually kill you. And trust me, you DON’T want to be butchered by that bloodthirsty sadist.” Eren crossed her arms, but her face blanched. She knew she’d only escaped death before because nobody wished to invoke the ire of the king. 

“Are they ready?” Bucky interrupted, stomping over. He glared down at the plates. “Cruor, I said ALL the humans!” 

Cruor surveyed the rows of human terrariums, now devoid of life. He scratched his head, confused. “Huh? This is all the humans.” 

“What about that little doll you’ve got stashed away in that jar?” 

The giant chef jolted. “No, not her! She’s not ready!” Bucky ignored him and prowled over to the cupboard where Addison was hidden. He threw all the miscellaneous junk out of the way and tore the jar from the shelf. He unscrewed the lid and tried to stuff his hand inside, but it was too fat to fit, so he violently overturned the jar and dumped out the contents. Addison yelped as she tumbled into Bucky’s wide palm. 

Cruor winced as he watched Bucky’s big tongue slide up her bare thigh. Bucky licked his lips and cleaned off his saliva with a rag. “Not the best, but she’ll do.” He lumbered back and tossed her into the king’s stew with the others. “Finish prepping the remaining servings and get them out,” he ordered. 

Addison whined in terror as she floundered in the warm, thick, brown liquid, surrounded by chunks of meat and vegetables larger than her. She waded through the muck, climbing over a lump of potato and passing by other scared humans, until she reached the edge of the bowl. She attempted to scale up the slick surface, but the smooth texture did not provide sufficient grip, and she slid back down into the stew. She looked up to see Cruor’s familiar figure towering over her. He had a pained expression on his huge face, the natural wrinkles etched into his skin deepening into darker grooves. 

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re here! Help me!” she cried pitifully. Cruor grimaced. His enormous hand hovered over her, engulfing her in its shadow, and Addison believed herself to be saved. Instead, a single drop of liquid splashed on her head, and the giant hand disappeared from view. “Huh? W-what was that?” Addison whimpered, her insides clenching with dread. She suddenly felt very heavy, as if she would sink into the stew and drown. 

“I’m sorry, Addison,” Cruor lamented. “But we both knew this day would come.” 

“Noooo...” the tiny woman moaned, fixating on Cruor with wide, frightened eyes that were rapidly moistening with tears. “You’re not... going to rescue me?” 

Cruor stared down at her, not saying a word, before turning away. Addison let out a choked sob as one of the servants picked up the bowl and carried it out to the dining room. She slumped against the cold, unforgiving ceramic, wallowing in broth and misery. She had erroneously believed, for once, that somebody cared for her. She should’ve known it was too good to be true, and that she was just a worthless nobody as her mother had reinforced to her for her entire life. She ought to be bitter, but she realized she only had herself to blame, for indulging in a fantasy that she knew was a lie. Reality was more than willing to slap her in the face.  

She was torn out of her thoughts when the bowl clunked onto the giant table. Addison noted a shadow looming over her and looked up to see the rotund mass of a mountainous belly above her head, gurgling audibly with hunger. She craned her neck further back to behold with horror a huge, fat, bearded giant leering down at her, drooling with hunger. The other humans swam to hide in the curve of the bowl, hoping to not be seen or consumed, but there was no escape from the gigantic ravenous maw above. 

“Ohoho! These little morsels do look appetizing!” King Ivan boomed, making all the small humans jump in alarm. After a brief check of his meal from his food tester, he seized his spoon in a monstrous hairy fist and without warning plunged it into the stew, scooping up one of the naked women. She let out a shrill screech as he opened his mouth and shoved her in. Addison shuddered hard as the loud crunch of bones split the air, and blood dribbled down the giant’s lips and black beard. 

“Mmmmm! Such a treat!” the king proclaimed, licking the lurid scarlet off his lips. He washed down the remains with a hearty gulp of mead. 

Hardon frowned. “Ivan, I’d prefer if you didn’t chew them up. Usually we swallow them whole and then let them out after a few hours. The feeling of them squirming inside your stomach is the best part of enjoying live prey, after all.” 

“Let them out? They don’t get digested?” Ivan was baffled as he scratched his beard. He took another bite of stew, oblivious to the screams of the miniature people down below. 

“No. We use magic to keep them alive. They are valuable,” Hardon explained. 

“Valuable?” Ivan scoffed. “Give me a few, and I’d have a breeding factory set up in no time, producing enough to fill this gargantuan gut of mine every day!” He laughed heartily as he slapped his jiggling belly. He captured another human with his spoon and slurped her up with delight. This time, he respected Hardon’s wishes and swirled her around on his tongue, enjoying her flavor, before swallowing her whole. His face lit up with pleasure when he felt the small woman thrash about, as she traveled the long distance through his esophagus before dropping into his capacious stomach. He massaged his belly with a sigh, clearly enjoying himself.  

King Richard was about to inform his fellow king that the humans would not retain their luxurious flavor if contained in a breeding facility, but as he watched Ivan devour his meal, an idea entered his head. “I can see you approve of their flavor,” he mentioned slyly. 

“Oh, absolutely!” Ivan confirmed, gulping down another human with gusto. He hummed with contentment as he rubbed his bulging midsection more, belching obnoxiously. “Ahhh, that hits the spot!” 

Hardon knew well that food was a strong motivator for the giant glutton. “I’m sure I could find a way to sweeten our alliance, perhaps, if you’d like some high-quality human stock as seed for a breeding program. I’m sure you have things of equal value that you could share with us.” His pale eyes gleamed. 

“Mmm, of course, of course,” Ivan confirmed. “Anything you’d like! You know the lengths I’ll go to for quality vittles.” He guffawed, his expression smoothing over with satisfaction as he experienced the novel sensation of tiny people struggling around inside his stomach. “Oh my, that feels so good... mmm, let’s not discuss business at dinner. I want to eat first.” 

“Understandable,” King Richard agreed, taking a sip of his mead. “Enjoy yourself.” 

During their conversation, Addison had splashed and sloshed through the stew desperately to evade the giant spoon chasing her around. She whimpered as she was forced to witness her fellow humans get spooned up and swallowed down, with the knowledge that her time was coming soon. If she strained her ears, she could discern the muffled cries of her compatriots from inside the body of the massive man, intermixed with the rumbling of his digestive tract. The sound was petrifying. 

The stew drained around her as the giant ate, allowing her to wade through the sludge faster. Even so, she didn’t stand a chance. The spoon shot down and swept her off her feet, quick as a flash, raising her high in the air. She squeaked when she lost her balance and fell back into the curved metal bowl of the spoon, helpless to resist as the enormous, slavering mouth opened before her like the gates to hell. The spoon lurched forward towards the foreboding gullet, and the colossal jaws enclosed her in a solid cage of ivory and red flesh. She plopped onto the squishy tongue as the spoon exited the maw. She was swiftly drenched in slobbery filth as she clawed her way towards the front row of teeth, which were firmly sealed shut. The tongue wrestled her into submission, overpowering her feeble struggles. The giant hummed in his throat, vibrating the cavity with deafening bass. Addison hardly had time to process all the overwhelming sensations before she slipped down the slope of the tongue like a waterslide and straight into the gullet. The throat muscles closed around her and suctioned her down into the pit.   

Addison couldn’t even scream as the wind was crushed from her lungs. She descended at an alarming rate, the slick wet tube forcing her deeper into the giant’s noisy body. After an eternity of a claustrophobic nightmare, Addison collapsed into the churning stomach, dimly lit with glowing humans fighting fruitlessly against the current. She gasped for breath, straining for air as a bucketful of stew followed her course through the esophagus and dumped on her head. Even though she knew, logically, that she wouldn’t die, panic seized her and she flailed to find a way out, to no avail. 

She had suffered through many abuses in her life, but being eaten alive was by far the worst. After struggling for a while, pounding on the wrinkled lining, she gave up and allowed herself to be rocked and stirred by the shifting stomach walls. She listened to the whimpers and moans of the other humans, the thundering rumble of the giant’s voice, his resounding heartbeat and the wind current of his lungs. The whole experience was surreal, too horrid to be real or for her mind to grasp.  

Trying to distract herself from her grotesque surroundings, she thought about Cruor. His betrayal was still a fresh wound in her heart, but she understood his position. She could forgive him; she wasn’t worth the sacrifice he would need to give to save her anyways. At least he’d treated her with superficial kindness, before tossing her to the wolves. It was the most she could ask for. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from weeping, as she was ensconced in the belly of the beast. 

Chapter 37 (coming Monday)

Tag List: @tinycoded360 @yummynomms

[amphetamine-keen]

Battle Jacket Tips! Yippee!!

I'm hyperfixating, so be warned that this might be rambly and a lot longer than it needs to be, but I promise these are good tips

I'll try to put all my rambles in small text and if it gets too long, I'll stick it under a read-more-- oh, would you look at that

For starters, what is a battle jacket? Maybe you've just stumbled across this post and have no context, or maybe you're researching bc you think you might be interested in making one, here's a short explanation:

Battle jackets are a popular garment in a lot of alternative communities. Punk and metal are the biggest two that I'll be focusing on, but there's genuinely no limit to the "genres" that a battle jacket could belong to. I don't like country music, but like, if you want to make a country battle jacket, do it! Have fun!

Battle jackets are typically either leather or denim and covered in patches and pins to the wearer's taste. Punk battle jackets might include more political sentiments and DIY than say, a metal battle jacket, but of course, there are no rules, and my battle jackets tend to be a bit of a mix of punk and metal. Remember: There are no rules, these are all just suggestions.

The Base:

A few suggestions for your first battle jacket:

Do thrift your starting garment. If you can't find something exactly like what you're looking for, don't sweat it. Find something "good enough" and get started. That's what fabric dye and scissors are for. DIY or Die is the motto here. My most recent battle vest started life blue and with sleeves. Now it's black with big yellow panels in the sides.

Do get your jacket a little bigger than usual. Patches can stiffen up the garment and make it feel tighter, plus, if you wear it year round you'll wanna be able to put it over your coat in the colder season. I actually have two vests, a warm weather and a cold weather vest. The warm weather vest is a lot smaller so it doesn't hang off me when I'm just wearing a shirt, but I recommend starting with a larger vest and doing the "warm weather" vest as a second project.

Don't buy a premade battle jacket, especially fast fashion. The whole point is to make it to your tastes, so buying a jacket with someone else's patches and pin picks kinda mucks up the best parts of making a unique, custom garment. Also, the fast fashion industry is horrifically exploitative, and supporting it financially isn't very punk. If you've already done so, don't beat yourself up. We're all learning and growing. Take the things you learn and grow from them in the future. That is punk.

The Patches:

The biggest patch on a battle jacket is your "back patch." They're huge and seen as the sort of "keystone" of a jacket. They're not a requirement, but I like them a lot. Usually, the patch is of the wearer's favorite album, or something similar, but they can be anything you want. Tarot cards, art pieces. Go nuts and find something that brings you joy. My first vest was very "traditional" with a Metallica Master of Puppets patch, but my second one has painted + embroidered handprints from all my long-distance friends so I can keep them with me <3

Do buy directly from band websites, or from the merch stands at live shows! That's my favorite way to get patches, even if they might be expensive or have iffy manufacturing ethics because it shows where my vest has been and what it's seen.

Do buy from small businesses and online vendors. Try your local craft fairs, or Etsy shops for patches you like. They might be pricier, but that's just because the seller isn't exploiting factory workers and valuing their own time.

Do make your own patches! I might go more into this later, or on a different post, but there are a lot of ways to make your own patches. Embroidery, paint, stenciling, etc. You can get fabric quarters at most craft supply places for like $3 USD tops or free if there's a local Hobby Lobby. Acrylic paint works, though it might crack a bit over time. Fabric paint is pretty widely available and gives a smoother look.

Don't just buy wholesale packs of patches on Amazon. Like the above point about premade jackets, bulk patch packs are often made in exploitative sweatshop conditions, and Amazon should be used sparingly because even if the manufacturer is ethical, Amazon's warehouses are not. Also like the above, don't beat yourself up if you already bought a pack of patches. I did it too, when I first started, you live and you learn.

Don't wear patches for bands you don't know. I mean, you can, I'm not a cop, but you will look like a poser.

Non-Patch Editions:

I said it before, and I'll say it again. There are no rules. You don't have to limit yourself just to patches to customize your jacket. Have fun with it. Here's a list of options to give you ideas, based on things that I've done or want to do on my own.

Embroider directly on the fabric! I put spider webs and violets on my vests just because I like them and think embroidery is fun.

Spikes and studs!! You can get packs of spikes from lots of places (some more ethically than others) or you can make your own. As a disclaimer, some music venues may raise issues with pointier bits, as they could cause injury to other people, so use your best judgment.

Add other metal bits! Can tabs, lighter hoods, chains, keys, washers, nails, bolts, and pieces of scrap metal are all pretty fun to play around with!

Corsetting. Whether as a resizing measure or just for the aesthetic, get some eyelets and throw some ribbon in there. Could be fun!

Pins! I've mentioned them before, but also you can make your own with some bottle caps and a safety pin. Or repaint buttons you already have. I've kept the same little pronoun pin I repainted with nail polish for almost a decade, and it's still in great shape.

Putting it all together:

These are some general tips for putting all the pieces together, and honestly was supposed to be the whole post, but I like to talk so here we go!!

Lay out everything first before sewing it down. I have ripped up more patches than I care to admit, just to sew them back down on another part of the jacket.

Big tip for the mix-patch crowds, keep all your political patches on the front of the jacket. The idea is, if some asshole has a problem with your opinions, you want to see them coming. You don't want them sneaking up behind you.

Thread. Elder Punks often recommend dental floss for fastening patches to your jacket bc of its strength and rightfully sew (hahaha!). However, if you'd like more colorful options, try upholstery thread. It's super strong, and it's what I use on all of my own jackets. Though, I do keep floss and a needle around for convenient repairs. The box has its own thread cutter!

Needles. If you're like me and have shitty old person hands at the ripe old age of 23, those tiny dollar store needles will make your hands cramp up like a motherfucker. For this reason, I use doll needles. My default needle came in a walmart pack, and I use the smallest gauge, 3 in long needle. The thicker ones are too hard to get through the fabric. It's much easier to grab and easier on my hands.

Thimbles. Even with big-ass doll needles, sometimes it's difficult to grab them well enough to get through really thick fabrics. That's what thimbles are for (not to keep you from pricking yourself with the sharp end). Get yourself one, or improvise something similar, it will save your life.

Stitching. Sew down all of your patches, even the ones that claim to be "iron-on" because in my experience the iron-on adhesive fails pretty quickly. I recommend a whip or blanket stitch, so the edges don't peel up or fray (as handmade patches might). If you're moshing, a lot of folks claim that floss is best because it keeps people from ripping off your patches. Respectfully, I think that's a bunch of horseshit. If you don't want your patches ripped off, make them harder to grab onto. Keep your stitches small and close together so assholes can't get a grip on them. That said, I've never actually had someone try to rip off my patches in the pit or otherwise, so use your own discretion.

Washing. A lot of hardcore crust punks will tell you never to wash your battle jacket, but crust punk isn't for everyone. I wash my jacket every year or so, and it's pretty easy to do as long as nothing on your vest is susceptible to damage in water (I had some early patches that I finished with Modpodge that were ruined in the first wash, so keep that in mind). If you're confident in your stitchwork, just toss the vest in a garment washing bag or a pillowcase and chuck it in the wash with everything else. If you're a little more cautious, it's easy enough to hand wash it in a tub/sink and hang it out to dry. Don't use bleach or you'll probably ruin something.

[deirakizuna]

Kalim's Birthday Fanart

As some of you may be aware already, for each twst character’s birthday i tend to make art of the birthday boy to celebrate, and my plan for this year was to use said art to promote different charities and local stores from countries in need. The next birthday on the list is Kalim’s and I wanted to make it special to promote a lot more charities than usual in a single post for the following countries: Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine, Syria, Turkey, Tunisia and Yemen (I wanted to include Sudan as well, but I’m not sure if it would be okay to do so given the fact that it’s in Northeast Africa, either way I’ll be making another special art piece focused on African countries for Leona’s birthday but I really want to add Sudan to Kalim and Jamil’s art as well, please do let me know if that’s alright).

My plan for these is to put Kalim in these countries’ different traditional clothing (yes, all of them if possible, I like to put the boys in at least 2 different outfits for their birthday and I don’t mind putting them in more if given enough time), and while I’ve found something in my investigation I also feel unsure of how accurate said information is, as well as the fact that I haven’t been able to find good reference for each article of clothing (most pics I’ve found are low res and I can’t see the details like that). So, after consulting with my sister about it, I decided to make this post to ask for help for this, since I’m not from any of the countries mentioned and I truly don’t want to end up doing something offensive due to lack of information when my objective is to try and bring more attention to what is happening there and hopefully spread the charity links to help the victims.

So please, if you can help me in any way to verify the information I gathered or link me more sources and references I can use (especially if you’re a part of any of these cultures) I would be incredibly grateful!

Notes and List of sites I gathered and consulted under Read More.

Notes:

My plan for Kalim’s outfits based on the information I have so far goes like this:

First outfit: white Thobe w/ embroidered neckline and cuffs + red and white Kuffiyeh/Shumagh (possibly over his shoulders instead of in his head, but I might change it) – OR – Kurdish traditional clothing (sharwall, long sleeved jacket, dress shirt and pshtwen/pshten).

Second Outfit: simple white Dishdasha + Champagne colored Bisht (given his social standing, please let me know if it’s innapropiate) + classic black and white Kuffiyeh/Shumagh.

Third Outfit: Dishdasha w/ blazer + embroidered belt + Jambiya + Shawl wrapped like a turban (colors and patterns not yet decided).

Fourth Outfit: Jalabiya + scarf + skullcap (colors and patterns not yet decided).

I don’t really know if that number of outfits is enough to represent all of the mentioned cultures or if I should add more, so please let me know! I’m also trying to find more reference pictures so that I can be as accurate as possible, so links to online shops that sell these garments also work pretty well for me (preferably, with models wearing them so I can see how the fabrics and layers interact with movement).

Sources I’ve found/consulted so far:

Arab Clothing: The Ultimate Guide | IstiZada

Video: Muslim Dresses Around The World Countries 2022 | Islamic Traditional Cloth For Men | Islamic Updates - YouTube

What is a dishdasha and how is it worn? (custom-qamis.com)

What is the Difference Between a Thobe and Dishdasha? – newarabia

Bisht | Abu Dhabi Culture

Clothing – The School of Abbasid Studies

Home - Nationalclothing.org

Clothing - Kurdish Central

Again, thank you so much for the help! If you also want to send me links of charities whose proceeds go to the mentioned countries, that would be just as appreciated!

[melodrama-ticcc]

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨�� 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ʳ*ᵖᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵘⁱᶜⁱᵈᵉ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

Evocative of the coruscating film stars or prurient women in those blue films he would find rummaging in the back of the cinema house, her striking appearance draws itself in a classy yet promiscuous custom. Golden tresses pushed back by a scarlet headband, a voluminous pouf tailored neatly behind it. Her curls fall loosely down her back and her bangs frame perfectly that intricately carved face. Done up in sultry makeup, the black that smears about her eyes and lashes only accentuate those sapphire orbs. They dazzle in the light of the setting sun, half lidded as they observe him in blasè.

The little white dress suits her womanly figure, Johnny thinks. The tight fitted bodice hangs just off her broad shoulders, her bare neck on full display for his viewing pleasure. The full circle skirt does little to compliment the ass he knows she’s hiding from him, but nonetheless, the idea of her skirt flipping up is all the more arousing. And her wedges perk it up just enough that he can make it out of the shape of her petticoat. Little red flowers are embroidered over the garment, a trivial detail he cares close to nothing about. But they match perfectly the shade of crimson that glosses her velvety lips.

She carries herself as though she’s someone to venerate over, her head held high and her nose tilted upward. He leans against his truck, arms folded over his chest as he watches her kiss her father goodbye. It’s endearing how close they are, redolent of he and his own mother. The man sends a nod and wave his way, a proud smile over his features as he bids them good wishes.

“Have her home by ten, have fun you two.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll have her by nine fifty five sharp.”

He hasn’t put much effort into his look, wearing the same old tight jeans. But he has opted for a shirt with sleeves on it. Free of holes or tears, it’s just a simple black t-shirt. Though, it does look as though he’s made an attempt to slick his hair back more neatly. That same strand that always stuck out in front still falling forward and into his face. She supposed he looked nice, handsome as always. She hated that about him.

He opens the car door for her, offering his hand as aide. As she steps inside she does not acknowledge his offer, instead she shimmies herself in, gathering up her dress and it’s petticoat and slamming the truck door shut. Rebecca won’t so much as glance in his general direction. Her snuffy guise is enough to convince him she’s still huffy about their exchanges the day prior. Not that he can say he’s surprised, he’d half expected this.

Johnny chuckles, moving to get in the driver’s seat. His attention shifting to her for but a moment. She’s stunning, he thinks. A breath of fresh air, a tall glass of cold water. An astonishing refreshment to the girls he met at the bar or on the streets. It’s odd to think of a woman in such a way, beautiful or winsome. Normally he’d fancy the notoriously provocative and salacious, girls he’d describe as hot or sexy. And sure, Rebecca fit the criteria, but those girls were just a piece of meat to Johnny Sawyer.

“You look real nice, all dolled up like that.” She doesn’t say anything, just stares forward. She clutches the small handbag in her lap and ignores his superficial compliments. But he’s as stubborn as a mule, and nothing or nobody would deter Johnny. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though. You’s a looker after all.” He starts up the truck, engine sputtering as it misfires before springing to life. The faint scent of gas fills the cabin.

“You ain’t ever answer me.” She quips up, her gaze unwavering from beyond the windshield. “What is it yer’ after, what’s the point in all this?” Her voice is brusque with the splenetic emotions that had simmered with her all that time.

Her waspish attitude peeves him but he knows better to say something amiss. Instead he begins driving, his own speech levelheaded and collected.

“I’d like to take ya’ out and show ya’ a good time, that so hard to believe?”

Yes, it is. For someone like Rebecca Payne it is. She’s cynical of his motive, skeptical and apprehensive. The entire ordeal seems much too pure for someone as loathsome and devilish as him. She partly believes his version of a good time is getting under her skirt and into her undergarments. Just the thought disquiets her. Her gaze finally darting away from the windshield and towards him in astonishment.

“‘Nd you expect me to believe ya’ and that horse shit answer?”

“Believe what you want darlin’, you’ll find out soon ‘nough.”

The inside of the truck falls into silence. A blistering silence that pangs at the anxieties within her, stretching apart the ever-growing tension she feels. She wonders if he feels the same, it upsets her that he might not. Why should she be forced to suffer? His ludicrous behavior was only ever rewarded, and she felt envious of that to some extent. More so infuriated by his coyness and ability to veil his true intentions.

Before too long she’s realized she’s been staring at him with a pouty face and quickly adjusts her stare to watch out the windshield once more. At least, until it traverses down to watch her thumbs fiddle together.

“Where ya’ takin’ me?”

Finally a normal conversation. He’s pleased it came sooner rather than later. Better late than never.

“It’s a surprise. I ain’t much the romantic type but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

She has to stop herself from saying some backhanded comment, in fretful dismay at her current predicament. Perhaps he’d plotted to kill her just like she longed to do him, drive her out to the the middle of nowhere and cut her up. Maybe he’d behead her, too. Or maybe this had been yet another one of his games. She didn’t know why she though it, she just did. Conceivably it had been her own guilt nipping away at her that caused her to believe such an accusatory claim. She wanted to kill him, so she needed another way to make him into the bad guy. No, he’d shown his crazy. That was reason enough to think him capable of murder.

Whatever the matter she isn’t moronic, so she knows it’s best not to do something drastic. If they’d gone someplace with people around, she’d be able to utilize the environment to her advantage, against him. For now she stays put in silence, sure to keep a cautious eye on his person.

“Yer’ neck, ya’ ain’t got no necklace to wear? Thought a pretty gal like you’d have quite the collection. Daddy ain’t get you nun’?”

“It ain’t like that,” she says dryly. “I gots these here earrings and a bracelet, and I’m quite fine with that thank you.” She gestures to the pearls in her ears and wrapped around her right wrist. They’re slightly discolored with age but their beauty holds regardless, he’s sure they must’ve been an heirloom.

It’s unladylike to lie, and she’d of been lying if she told herself she wasn’t just a little uneasy. The possibilities of the night flooding her conscious at every passing moment. Did he think he was going to get lucky? Did he want to kidnap her and keep her for himself someplace far off? Was he going to kill her? It hadn’t been that she thought she couldn’t handle herself against him, she knew she’d be able to. It’s precisely why she’d kept the blade in her purse. When the going got tough, she’d make a show of him like she’d always wanted to do. Albeit not with the axe, but this would be a close second.

It’s clear she isn’t much in the mood to conversate, so rather than dampen the mood he flicks on the radio. The hand lowers carefully to rest atop her knee and he can feel the sting of her stare burn into his hand, he swears it tingles. But the softness of her supple skin extinguishes the fire she ignites. Therefore he only keeps it there, even when she looks to him in utter disbelief.

The audacity this man had was truly astounding to her. She turns her leg a bit in an attempt to break free from his touch, repulsiveness written in her expression as she squirms rather uncomfortably. She’s sure this is his first move of many, one of his fanciful methods to get her to sleep with him. To seduce her, but she will not be tempted. If it were a man she felt inclined toward, she might’ve liked the sort of protectiveness and possessiveness the notion carried. But not when it came from Johnny. When it came from him, it was just no good.

The trip by car to the nearest city was approximately an hour drive away, that city would be Pfluegerville. In the opposing direction there had been Cypress Hill and Bandera about two hours out. Given the simple fact that Newt hadn’t much as a means of date night spots, Becca figured they’d be spending their “date” elsewhere. The downtown area of Newt spanned over just a few acres and establishments came few and far between. From what she could tell, there’d been a post office, sheriffs and fire station, gas station, and small convenience store that sold soda pop and cigarettes. It was an empty little town with a whole lot of peculiar personalities. But they’d passed through the downtown area long ago.

The gentle serenade that plays softly from the radio tunes in and out of static. The cacophonous buzz interrupting the sweet sound of rock ‘n roll music, a genre Rebecca often enjoyed. Though she’d never let her father know, he may have a heart attack if he found out. The rebellious yet classic sense of the type suited her just well, her traditional values and adherence to the role of a housewife combined with her willingness to get outside and do the dirty work made her a primary muse for such an exhilarating type of music. The suggestive nature of the Raspberries Go All the Way imitates just that, a refined sensibility combined with the wildness associated with the provocative and coquettish. She hums the piquant lyrics benignly, watching out the windshield in an unamused manner.

The susurrating motor of Johnny’s truck rumbles faintly beneath the melody of the music. It’s a comforting sound that soothes and puts one to sleep. In the distance, there is a spectacular display of vibrant oranges, pinks and purples spread about the sky. The sun kissing where the sky meets the horizon as it begins to set. With it, the moon rises and dark is spread about central Texas. A little further, the glow of city lights draws attention from over the hill. Her interest piques as she shifts in her seat and raises a brow. They’d only been on the road about an hour, this had to of been Pfluegerville, she was sure of it.

As though the universe had been reading her thoughts, a sign passes on the right shoulder:

Entering

Pfluegerville

POP 452 ELEV 686’

Rebecca’s brows quirk upwards in a curious way, eyes flickering to Johnny as the street lights shine delicately onto her features through the front of the vehicle. Still uncertain, she isn’t sure what he has in mind nor whether or not it was much good. Though as they drive into the town, they’re met with busy streets full of people young and old. Smiles written in their faces as they walk the strip in a joyous display.

“Never actually been down here b’fore,” observant eyes watch through the window, examining the street developments and miscellaneous buildings, lots of which are still under construction.

“It ain’t much,” Johnny acknowledges, “but it sure as hell beats what we got, I’ll tell ya’ that much.”

A left turn down the next paved road leads to a twisted driveway, to which acts as the entrance to a fenced off lot. In it, parked cars and patrons in chairs enjoy the movies that play on the big screens above. A line of cars finds itself awaiting the ticket stand just shy of the entrance. A line which they find themselves waiting in. The surprise made sense then, ah, she’d never been to a drive in theater before. Let alone a movie theater.

Out on the street corner a sign in flickering lights advertises the names of what she can only assume to be films, the top of the sign reads in neon pink lights DRIVE IN, and the remainder of the sign is filled in with crooked stick on letters that look as though they might just fall off. The overgrown grass makes it appear as though it was just an abandoned lot, if it weren’t for the run down sign and line of cars she wouldn’t have thought otherwise.

1 1776 THE MECHANIC

2 SISTERS IT AIN’T EASY

“What typa’ movies you like?”

“Oh, never been much of the movie type. Momma said pictures was the devil, seent a few scary movies on the television though with ma’ daddy, we both liked Dracula.”

“Well lemme teach ya’ a thing or two ‘bout the movies darlin’, they ain’t the devil and they ain’t gon’ hurt ‘cha. Think you’d find some real interest in ‘em, they might just teach ya’ summin’.”

“Always got summin’ to say doncha’?”

“Ain’t my fault you ain’t been taught. Say, I heard that one Sisters is a scary movie, they say it’s the best one since Psycho.”

“Come again?”

“Psycho, ya’ know, the one with that batshit crazy guy who thinks he’s ‘is mom.”

“Ain’t ever heard of it.”

“Ain’t heard of it? My, I think you’d find it swell. Should give it a look when ya’ can. Now, what’s you say to a scary movie? You can hold my hand if you need to.”

“Johnny I aughtta smack you upside the head.”

“How can I help you sir?” An older gentleman works the ticket booth with a sincere smile and fervor. His eyes glowing as he sends a benevolent nod towards Becca in the passenger’s seat.

The side of the ticket booth displays the posters for each movie, listing them off in two separate sections. Screen one shows 1776 and The Mechanic, screen two shows Sisters and It Ain’t Easy. Each double features to play on two separate screens inside. The posters are fantastical and full of color and showy characters. They advertise big names like Ken Howard or Margot Kidder, but also heinous statements involving the devil and things like dozens of ways to kill. It’s puzzling but she need not draw too much attention to it, lest she be caught up in the devil’s work.

She’s surprised to see Johnny knew a thing or two about movies, for what he’d mentioned to her is advertised in bold letters: The most genuinely frightening film since Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho!’. Her gaze narrows and her brows screw up, both intrigued and somewhat off-putted.

“So, what’s it gon’ be girl?” Johnny quirks up, “you too chicken?”

“Oh fooie!” She exclaims, rolling her eyes. “Go on ahead I ain’t scared, you’ll see.”

“Screen two, please.”

Johnny pays a few cents, the man hands him a sheet of paper and he drives off. But she doesn’t pay much attention to the remainder of the exchange. Her eyes were fixated on that poster, examining its contents with the Siamese twins conjoined at the hip. She’d heard of that before, but never seen anything like it. What really has her panties in a bunch is that phrase about it being caused by the devil. It frightens her, and all the while her mind is honed in on that Psycho movie he mentioned. It had to of been good if it had been used as grounds for an advertisement. If it’s really all that well known, how had she not heard of it?

Past the fence there’s a fork in the road, each labeled with signs to each screen respectively. The one on the right leads to screen two, and down it she watches the groups of younglings about her age gather round and head towards the concessions stand in the middle. The large screen up front plays advertisements for miscellaneous things and the noise is quite loud. Across the way she can see the other lot, with the same types of pictures playing about the screen as cars gather in front of it. Johnny flicks off the radio, nestling the car someplace in the middle of the lot. Not too far, not too close. It offers the ideal view of the screen without having to crane the neck a certain type of way or squint the eyes. He parks the car, rolling the driver’s side window down just a crack as he nods his head towards her to do the same.

As she does, she can hear the booming noise of the videos playing above, the contents of the screen becoming much more evident to her. It captivates her, eyes in awe as she watches previews play for all sorts of movies. Comedy, action, horror, the like. It must’ve been a while, but Johnny hadn’t interrupted her at all. In fact, he quite liked her blatant disregard of her surroundings and the way she immersed herself in the show. It was, winning.

The man smiles, chuckling softly as he shakes his head. The act must’ve caught her attention, as she snaps her head back round to catch his gaze in an offended stupor. Her cerulean eyes fiery with aggravation.

“What’s the matter? Thought you was enjoyin’ it, movie ain’t even started yet and you seemed pretty content.”

“You laughin’ at me like I’m a joke, I knows it. Think it’s funny I ain’t seen summin’ like this before.” She frowns, her hands balling into fists as she toys with the closure on her clutch. She thinks about it, just for a fleeting moment. She could slice at his neck right then and there. What was it he said about her having no necklace earlier, bare necked, she’d give him something to look at.

“Nah, it’s cute.” He beams. “Never seen someone so impressed by the cinema. Glad I could be here to give ya’ yer’ first.”

She lets out an exasperated groan, shaking her head as she whips her head back in the direction of the screen.

“Shut yer’ trap Johnny I ain’t here to feed yer’ ego, let me at least enjoy the movie. You toyed with me ‘nough!”

“Oh, I ain’t say summin’ to offend ya’ did I?” He shakes his head. She knows he’s playing his same old game, getting her riled up enough to make a scene in front of all these people. This time when her daddy isn’t around to step in and put a fork in it. She should’ve known he’d set out to do this. “Go on ‘n enjoy it, I ain’t stoppin’ ya. B’fore the shows starts though, you wanna come down with me ‘n grab sum’ popcorn ‘nd a coke? I’m buyin’.”

The way he taunts her with flagrant disregard for her own personal comfort is obscene. She’d never met any man who’d have the courage to do such a thing to a poor woman. But she keeps her composure, sucking in a deep breath as she shuts her eyes for but a moment. When she opens them, she releases the breath and with it returns a pleasant smile. Fine. She’d play his game and use the playing field to her advantage.

“Sounds lovely.”

For the entirety of their rendezvous, he’s a gentleman. He comes around to help her out the car, gives her his arm as they walk about the street to the stand, ensures he walks on the outer edge of the road where the cars drive by, opens the door for her, offers to hold her clutch while she fixes up her makeup in line, tells her to order whatever she likes, and does it all again while they walk back while simultaneously carrying their drinks and popcorn. All the while she glared at him with an embitter look, features contorted in a heinous gaze. A deviant countenance of execration and contempt.

He’s taunting her, she knows this. Utilizing his nubile looks and charisma to get her to fall in love with him. She cannot shake the ominous sensation that something dire was about, lurking in the shadows and waiting for the perfect opportunity to take hold of her. She cannot pinpoint which it is; whether he wants to score her or he wants to kill her. He’d shown that side of himself, the deranged one that spoke of malignant intentions and the mentally disturbed. She knew he had it in him, but what set them apart was his willingness to act and her refined determination to stay true to her life in the dollhouse. He was an uncivil heathen who lacked morality and desirable values. She must remind herself that, don’t fall for his personable behavior. They were nothing but temporary acts of service meant to lure her into his trap.

Yet, the way he holds the truck door open for her and lifts her into her seat by the waist is coitally inducing. His firm touch a burning sin on either side, tingling an intoxicating pleasure within her. It lingers there for a time, not before he lets go and hands her a coke. But then, his eyes. They gaze into hers and she feels transparent once more. Completely see-through, vulnerable and violated. They ravage her inner mind just in the way he had done all those times before, only this time up close. Their dark rings taking her in and spitting her out all at once. She cannot distinguish what way they sway her. Are they disturbing and dangerous or thrilling and spellbinding? They beckon her to come hither but she stays put, entranced by their engrossing tenebrosity. Oh, and the way in which he so gently tucks the fullness of her skirt into the cabin before he shuts the door, nodding his head in a gesture of semiotic recognition. It’s all too quintessential. He is too idyllic.

She catches herself spectating him as he moves around towards the other side of the car, quickly aligning her line of sight elsewhere and shaking her head. She looks to her lap, panic-stricken as she searches through her thoughts for some sort of explanation. This fine illustration of a man is not the real Johnny Sawyer, she’s falling victim to his own game of pretend. It was all an illusion, a facade meant to reel her in. She would not be moved.

Adjusting in her seat she peers over whilst he steps into the vehicle, settling in his seat and meeting her with an urbane simper. To which, she smiles back, in order to mask the intense paranoia that ills her.

“Not so bad after all, huh?”

“Now do not think for one moment-”

“Shh, movies startin’.”

It is a revolting series of images, unborn fetuses and underdeveloped embryos. It serves as the background to a series of titles and credits before the opening act, which, had given her quite the shock. While distasteful and vile, she cannot seem to take her eyes off of it. Baby blues glazed and wide as they are captivated by the story of such a gut-wrenching piece of art.

It’s the very first time she’s heard of or seen a woman kill a man. And as the woman on the screen draws back the kitchen knife to impale the man in the groin and chest it exhilarates her. It’s the perfect combination of the macabre and erotic. Pretty red and horrid screams enticing her into her darkest pleasures.

It is a strange premonition, one that is rooted in both her sheltered upbringing and innermost desires. Of course she’d thought about doing it, considered it. Why she all most even went through with it, but she’d never seen it done before. The scene was just too perfect, it was precisely what she would have liked to do. But it was only make believe.

But what if it wasn’t.

She wonders how it would feel to carry out such an act, how she’d love to do the same to Johnny.

Rebecca imagines it then, fetishizes it. The fantasy playing about in her brain like the fiction it had been. She’d play him a fool, and just when he thought he was going to have sex with her she’d spring out from the sheets like a mad woman and force the knife into his dick. Then back out, and in again. She’d listen to the abhorrent screams that would emit from his mouth, begging and pleading for help. She’d watch him writhe and contort in pain and suffering, his face plastered in hurt. She’d keep going, keep stabbing and slicing. Until his manhood had been mutilated beyond recognition and the blood pooled beneath him in a bountiful heap. Then she’d take that same blade and shove it through his chest, pierce his heart and break it. Like she was certain he’d done to other women, she’d enact their revenge. Then he’d tumble down dead, and she’d laugh and grin over his deceased corpse. It was the only way she’d take back the control he thwarted from her, the power she would hold over him, it would be unrivaled. Oh what a date that would be!

Her leer is unsettling and frightful, spreading across her face as she presents the toothy grin. Her breath hitches in her throat and that harmonious feeling pools in the pit of her stomach, teasing that delightful sensation of sweet release.

A fantasy was only that however, a fantasy. But the idea is both compelling and invigorating. In order to take revenge on the men who stomped all over the hearts of women like her mother, she’d have to kill them. Savor their death and blood before leaving them to die a pitiful death all alone. Just as this woman had. Of course, why hadn’t the thought occurred to her sooner. This was the ultimate form of control!

Again when the woman would take the knife and stab her ex-lover repeated in the genitalia and chest, Rebecca would feel that thrill return to her. The disturbing expression returning to her face as she leans forward and watches in delight. She fantasizes it like she were the woman in the film and Johnny her victim.

Control was the single most important part of life to her. Maintaining control over the household and her faultless little persona was key to her success and happiness. Killing was the ultimate form of control. Especially killing the men who tarnished her ability to act or keep her power. She loved the idea of murdering a man, loved the euphoria it would grant her. After years of observing men and their disgusting mistreatment and power over women, the roles could be reversed. Now she could garner such control over man. She can feel her mouth salivating just thinking about it, the thought just as tantalizing as it is taboo.

Be it the rhapsody the influx of sovereignty gave her through the act of killing or the felicity that seeing someone in such great despair at her own hand caused, the very concept of murder had become an arousing phenomenon that could and would push her over the edge of her pious virtues. It was sinful the way she grind her legs together in her seat, a filthy crime that only a whore would commit. But she can’t ignore the lustrous urges her newfound passion offers her, the transgression of self-indulgence is one she finds difficult to ignore. So she wouldn’t stop, getting off on the image of the dead with a stained blade in her hand. Their cries of anguish enough to bring forth that intense wave of pleasure.

The movie ends just as she aches for more, the credits rolling as she feels Johnny’s calloused hand plant on her shoulder. Through the film’s entirety, she had not once realized his arm had been snaked around her. The action startles her, she jumps a bit as it snaps her out of her daze and shifts her audience elsewhere.

“What’d ya’ think?”

“I quite liked it. Wasn’t as scary as I’d thought it might be.”

“Well you aughtta see Psycho then, you’ll love it.”

Johnny isn’t oblivious. He knows the familiar gleam in her eye and he’s well aware of the pool between her legs. That isn’t the point, though. He knows just how badly she’s itching to kill, knows the way her body craves the gruesome way the blade cuts into the flesh. The overwhelming sense of pleasure and fulfillment it gives them. He knows it because he is just the same, they long for that high. He knows she wants to kill him and knows how powerful it’d make her feel, knows that her epiphany has led her to realize the fullest extent the notion of being a serial killer carries, knows the sense of control it would grant her, knows that she would revel in it, and he knows she’d be damn good at doing it too. Johnny isn’t without strategy or knowledge, oftentimes careless, but not an absolute imbecile either. He knows the game and how to play it. He’d make her into the perfect wife, the foundation had been there, he just needed to inch her forward.

“Well, we best be headin’ out, would love to stay for the second showin’ but don’t want the old man gettin’ on me now, a deal is a deal.” He smiles, removing his arm from her and leaving a cold, empty sensation in its wake. That’s odd, it’s all most as though she misses it. “You finished with ya’ coke? I’ll go on ‘head’n throw these out b’fore we leave.” He glances at the time as he starts up the truck. “There’s a jacket in the back if yer’ chilly, hopefully the truck warms up by the time I get back.” He glances at the time on the dash, 8:45. “We got about an hour, you hungry?”

“I’m finished, thank ya’,” Rebecca nods, watching him and those strong arms as they gather up the trash. She’s not even paying attention to his words, only the soothing sound of his smooth Texan drawl. He’s so, dreamy. “I’m quite fine.” The girl smiles, watching as he laughs and steps out the car. He sends a wink her way before he shuts the door and walks off with their trash. She mustn’t let his cunning manners and striking looks distract from her true intentions. She is only playing to his advances.

Sure, he’s painted himself the ideal man. The type her father would have liked her to marry and start a family with. Johnny knew what he was doing though, and she knew what he was doing too. She hadn’t forgotten how much she hated him, nor how much she longed to kill him dead. His own perfect picture was just one big lie, a lie just as much as any other man had been. She loathed the way he’d made her heart flutter just a bit or her innards heat up. Despised how handsome he looked or how charming that grin was. Detested the way his well tempered personality shines through on their little endeavor. It was so perfect and she hated it. Hated him for making her feel such a way. If she didn’t know any better she might’ve just fallen in love with him.

The briskness of the cold fall air bellows in through the cracked windows, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin. She has to adjust herself, clasping her arms around her midsection to offer some kind of warmth. She’d be damned if she were to take him up on any of his offers. When he returns though he’s akin to her nippy skin and slight shiver, and without a second thought he reaches back to grab an old leather jacket and hand lay it over her shoulders. The leather is freezing at first, yet the coverage does do nicely to act as a barrier to the cold temperature outside.

“You coulda taken it, I wouldn’t of minded. Offered it for a reason.”

She hates how much of a gentleman he can be, it would be much easier to abhor him if he continued to act like he had before. When he pushed her past the point of no return and got her to act out, but now that they were alone it was as though everything had changed. Was he trying to prove a point before?

“I ain’t want ya’ damn jacket.” She huffs, that fire returning once more.

“Really? Seems to me like you do.” He gestures to her arms that huddle in its warmth. “It’s ah’ right, I ain’t gonna tell nobody.” He teases. To which his playful banter is met with a cold glare.

Why is he like this? Why does he think everything is something? Why does he need to make a big deal of every little thing? It’s bothersome and confounding.

The drive home is eerily quiet and alarmingly peaceful. Rebecca pretends to be asleep for most of it, staring out the window into the night with half-lidded eyes as she awaits the perfect time to confront him. She knows he’s crazy. She knows he has malicious intent written in him. She knows he’d take advantage of her if given the opportunity. It’s on her to make the first move, to protect herself. She’d like to weasel all the information out of his pathetic little mouth, squeeze all his secrets out of him while she kept the blade to his neck. For her own sanity, she needed to know what he was after. It was harrowing to live in the constant presence of a predator. She needed to make her point.

“I know you ain’t asleep.” His deep voice beckons her from her cognitions. “Not as clueless as you think I am, darlin’.” His actions and antagonistic words only support her theories. Unsurprisingly they vex her, the scowl returning to her face.

“What’s it matter to you?” She doesn’t move, she can watch his reflection in the glass pane of the window. Her scrutiny shifts from the grass planes outdoors to his silhouette. She can see him smile, shaking his head as he thumbs something in his hand that she can’t quite make out. Her gaze narrows, confusion and paranoia flooding in her when she sees the tip of what she believes to be the blade of a knife.

“Don’t matter,” he sighs. “Just figured you’d have more to say ‘s all.”

“What’s the supposed to mean?” She’s only humoring him to keep him talking, it’s a distraction. Lucky for her it’s easy to pinch open the handbag in her lap under the cover of his jacket.

“Well it ain’t no surprise you got a whole lot to say ‘bout everythin’ when it comes to me. I know you ain’t like me. I don’t blame ya’.”

“So you’re admittin’ you’s a piece of shit, that this was all a front?” She’s able to pull carefully the blade from her clutch, gripping its handle in her right hand as she prepares herself to strike. Now, now had been the ideal moment.

“No. I ain’t sayin’ that.” Johnny chortles, shaking his head. “There’s a whole lot you ain’t know ‘bout me girl. Things you ain’t even seen. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” So he’s lying. This is his own way of getting her to talk. “I really did wanna take you out ‘n treat ya’ right. Ya’ know that? Wanted to show ya’ a good time.” She doesn’t know how, but she’s certain he’s telling the truth. Rebecca wavers for a moment, her look softening gently when it begins to dawn on her. How peculiar, she just knew he was telling the truth just then.

“Shut up Johnny Sawyer.” She lashes out, snapping her head around to look at him. It’s a guise of disbelief and anger. She knows he isn’t lying now, that what he said has been real. But she hated that. He made things so much harder to accomplish. Her heart pangs just a bit and that familiar feeling of affection returns to her. It’s flustering and nonplus, something that causes her face to heat up and turn pink. Rebecca can’t bare the feeling anymore, upset by her own lack of control in her feelings and emotions. Whenever he did this, acted like such a model man, she couldn’t help herself. It made her feel weak inside, and the fleeting sense of control on her own psych would drive her insane. How could he have such a firm grip on her?

In an effort to take back power, she flings off the leather jacket and pulls the blade to his throat in one foul swoop. The thing falls to her feet. Then comes the overpowering reality of her emotions. They crash on her and she feels as though she is drowning, she simply can’t handle it. The sensation is one rooted in fear and trepidation. It plagues her like a disease, a condition of the mind. The thing causes her to shake vehemently, fretful of the amity she experiences. There is a barmy glimmer to her eyes. Wide and discombobulated with lunacy. Much like a madwoman, she twitches and walks the line between what is real and make believe. Unable to make out which is which, her thoughts blend themselves with the truth of reality. It doesn’t matter any longer, it’s all real to her.

She guides herself to kneel on her seat, facing him as she leans in and sucks in a sharp breath. A quick observation of the interaction reveals Johnny’s confident grin, his eyes still unwavering from the road. But the cold feeling of steel presses itself against her throat. Shit.

“Tell me just who the fuck you really are and what you want with me. You tryna get into my pants? Get me out of wedlock? You a killer? You wanna kill me? I’m tired of you not answerin’ my questions boy.”

“You’s real bold for havin’ a knife pressed up against yer’ throat.” He is intoxicating, like whiskey in a tea cup.

“I ain’t know much ‘bout you Johnny boy but I know one thing for certain, you a uncouth redneck with no inklin’ of respect for others.”

“You right.” He laughs, pressing the blade in just enough so that it stings her tender skin. “But there’s a lot you don’t know ‘bout me darlin’. I know everythin’ bout you.”

“Like hell you do-”

“I know you wanna kill me. Wanna take that axe of yer’s and tear me apart. I know you’s loose your composure when you loose control of that perfect lil’ fairytale you made ya self. You got a thing ‘bout that, whenever someone comes and fucks it up you loose your damn mind.”

“You ain’t know shit! Shut up!” Overtaken by paroxysm, her temper becomes her and she shoves the blade into his throat. It isn’t enough to cause much harm, only gets his blood to dribble from it and down to the neckline of his nice shirt. “You don’t know anythin’ bout me boy! Quit it or I’ll kill you!” Her tremors thrash her body around violently, tears brimming at the cusp of her lash line as she struggles to hold herself together. Her head is ringing with rage, an overwhelming buzz that floods her thoughts.

“I know I drive you batshit crazy. Know that I can get you to loose control so quick it makes ya’ head spin. I know you hate the type of men who play women for the fools they are. Know you ain’t like me for that same reason, cause you think I’m like that. But you don’t know a damn about me girl.” He is taunting her with an arcane smirk. “I know that control you love so much, I take that away, ‘n that’s why you wanna kill me so bad.”

“That ain’t true.” It barely escapes her lips in a strained whisper, as she twists the knife in his skin to draw out more of the crimson liquid. She’s gritting her teeth in an attempt to hold back pathetic sobs of defeat, she knows he’s right. But she’d kill herself before she caved to his hand.

“There’s one thing I ain’t know bout you though,” there he speaks up again, eyes flickering to her in absolute delight. “I know you got the urge to kill in ya’, you lots like me, more than you know girl. Your crazy is my own. I know you have needs that can only be achieved through sadistic satisfaction and bloodshed. You want it, I see it in yer’ eyes. What I don’t know is if you’ve killed before or not. Either you have, or you really want to do it.”

Overcome with grief she draws the knife back and cocks it up, letting out a scream of effort as she goes to strike again, this time towards his groin, just as the woman in the movie would have done. But before she can get there, he’s taken his own knife away from her neck and grabbed onto her wrist with that same free hand. Her weak, shaky state makes it easy for him to stop her. That firm grip on her arm enough to make her drop the knife into his lap.

“You’s a fuckin’ killer? You wanna kill me is that it?” She shouts, but Johnny only laughs.

“Nah, not you. You different.”

“Different? Different than who, the other girls you’ve killed?”

“Why, you scared?” He laughs.

Without saying another word she uses her left hand to pick up her knife, stabbing it into his thigh as she yells something incomprehensible.

“I fuckin’ hate you Johnny Sawyer.” She leans closer, driving the blade into his flesh further as she gets real close to his ear. “You ain’t scare me, eat shit and die you backwoods fuck.” Her titillating whisper is just a means of pushing him over the edge. His own composure faltering as he lets out an irritated groan. The knife in his leg doesn't hurt much, he's had worse chasing down victims. But the fact she'd gone and do something so insulting and degrading to him is all the more anger inducing.

Johnny isn’t stupid though, and he wants to best her. So rather than inflicting a wound, he accelerated the truck and makes a sharp left turn that sends her flying back into the passenger side door. Her body flings into into it with a loud thud, her head smacking the glass window with a harsh crack! Rebecca yelps, her eyes scrunching shut for a moment as she falls forward into the center console. She lifts herself up with trembling arms, wincing in pain as she growls between grit teeth. She watches as he pulls the blade from his thigh and laps the blood up with his tongue. Scarlet paints his mouth and white teeth, a cheeky grin shot her way before he tosses it to the back, blood oozing onto his blue jeans as he glared daggers at her.

“Two can play at that game girl.” He grabs a handful of her hair and pulls her up to him. “Now you’ve got me excited. I like a girl who thinks she can just kill me.” His own whisper is baleful and foreboding. Infused with the deviance and hellish energy he exuded.

He isn’t lying to her, she’s given him quite the experience. He knew she had a wild side but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy to get her to commit. He enjoyed the way she pissed him off and pressed his buttons, liked the fact she was willing to go through such hurdles to make him feel something. His prior impression still remained true, she would be a perfect wife.

“Now we can keep playin’ this game, but we both know you gon’ end up gettin’ yer self hurt. Or, you can be a good lil’ lady and pipe down. Maybe we can sort this thing out.” His grasp on her hair tightens and she can’t help but groan, glaring at him through her partially shut eyes. He pulls her closer, grazing his teeth over her ear. “I’ll tell you what you wanna hear, just sit down and shut up.” Finally he yanks her hair back, throwing her into the seat with a huff.

Rebecca watches him through her wet lashes, body convulsing as she thinks about all the ways she could kill him right now. She could kick his head in, grab the knife and slit his throat, shouldn’t of held back on her efforts the first time. She wishes she would’ve gone through with it.

“Don’t look so upset.” Johnny smiles. “Prettier when you’re angry.” The tears fall down her cheeks slowly, but she does not move or say a thing. “You wanna know what I am? I’m just the same thing as you are.” Becca’s brow crooks up. “Whatever you think yourself is, the way you see Rebecca Payne, that’s what Johnny Sawyer is. You’s as much of a killer as I am. You’s as deranged as I am. You and me, we’s two sides of the same coin darlin’.”

“Take me home damnit.” Becca mutters through estranged tears.

“Yer ‘fraid of the truth. Always runnin’ from what don’t fit in your lil’ box. Come on, face it. You and me are lots more alike then you’d like to admit.”

Theres an issue with becoming confrontational now, it’s that he enjoys it. He’d said so himself. So rather than feed into his desires she turns in her seat and pulls out her compact, addressing the smeared makeup and wetness that muddles her face.

Johnny watches her and laughs derisively. The man shakes his head, looking back out to the windshield.

I might just fall in love with you.

She remembers the time he’d told her that, as he sauntered up the drive of the homestead. How it disturbed her in many ways since and littered her mind with God knows what. Now this, his confession to his sinful pleasures of her unhinged self. Sure he’d put her through the wringer, but even the lord knows a woman can’t resist an attractive man who had the potential to treat a woman right.

“You mean whatcha say, when you said you’d fall in love with me, you mean that?” Becca questions dryly, dabbing the streaks off her face and the blood from her neck. Her daddy would have a fit if he saw her like this.

“What you think?” That was his answer. “Whatever question you got for me you can answer ya’ self. I told you, you’s just like me.”

“I ain’t take you as the type to settle down. But I suppose any man would for the right woman.”

“We’s almost home, get ya’ self cleaned up ‘fore we get there ya hear?”

She isn’t accepting his bold claims of their telepathy or likeness, but she’s ceased denying it too. For she knew him as well as he knew her, even based off the little details shared between them. The way he was akin to her inner conflicts was the way she could tell his. The way she read him to be some ladykiller was true to a literal extent too, just the way he had known her to be a woman of more obscure interests and desires. Dislike it all she wanted, but she cannot condemn what is fact.

Before long she’s staring up the porch of the farmhouse, watching the carriage lights flicker on and off and listening to the crickets chirp out in the tall grass. Her watch is hollow and obsolete, a shell of what it was when she’d embarked on their little escapade. The truck creaks as it shifts gears to park, but she only sits there staring. She cannot bring herself to move, only to stay there in silence. She doesn’t even notice when he comes around the car to open the door for her, again flashing his courteous demeanor as he lifts her out of the car to carefully plant her on her feet. He even goes as far as dusting the jacket over her shoulders to keep her warm.

Before he departs he snakes a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to look at him as he meets her bleak utterance. His own mirroring her’s.

“I hope you enjoyed ya’ self darlin’, I sure as hell did. You watch ya’ self though, next time I ain’t gon’ go so easy on you.” He brings the fingers over to dust against her cheek, caressing it rather roughly as he intertwines his fingers into her blonde locks. His hand tilts her head to the side to examine the small slice on her neck he’d inflicted, a grin spreading over his features. “Crazy girl, you sure do drive me wild.” He licks his lips. Not before giving her a wink and a quick nod. “I’ll see you real soon.”

Rebecca watches as he and his truck disappears down the dirt road, before turning towards the door and staring at the doorknob. Her hand ghosts over it and her brain works to piece together the events of the evening, free hand clutching the jacket against her shoulder. She shakes a bit, just slightly, confusion and shock dance a tedious dance in her mind. What’s happened, it hasn’t quite been realized, not yet.

Inside is dark, but when she flips the light switch and the electricity illuminates her surroundings she’s quick to find her father sat at the table with a glass of watered down whiskey in hand.

“So, how’d things go kid?”

“I don’t ever wanna see Johnny Sawyer again. If I do, I might just fall in love with ‘em.”

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun

[larvasmoon]

Portrait of the pale elf (1) - Torn Satin and other things ruined

Chapter Summary : Astarion has opened his tailor shop in the higher city, Carmine Red. There he welcomes all sorts of customers, but more often than not, his clients cross the threshold of his shop for all the wrong reasons … or the most delighting ones.

Warnings : Mention of past abuse. Fear of intimacy. Blood drinking. Biting. Fetish.

Word count : 2,5k

Author's note : This is the first time I'm sharing something I've written, but my love for Astarion as a character has surpassed my fear of posting. So here I am :) You can also find this story on my Ao3, thank you so much for giving this story a chance !

Astarion had always had hands that could either make or unmake, create or destroy.

Hands that were made to kill. 

Hands that had killed so many people that, sometimes, he could still smell the faint perfume of gore on them.

Hands that longed to kill when thirst turned him into a slave once again.

But also, fingers that knew all the secrets of a ‘little death’.

Fingers that remembered how to caress and hold bodies, until they were all but flushed with unshed blood.

Fingers that could raise someone to the height of such pleasure, that they would ineluctably shatter when falling down from it. 

Those very fingertips now strangely belonged to the most successful tailor in all of Faerûn. 

After all of his adventures, Astarion had unexpectedly decided to dedicate his nights to creating the finest garments in all of Baldur’s Gate and beyond. 

He’d opened a luxurious tailor shop in one of the biggest avenues of the higher city. It was a place where Astarion could put to use his wonderful talents for sewing and stitching, ones he had one practiced during centuries on the only pair of miserable clothes he’d ever been allowed to own by Cazador.

It’s name, Carmine Red, was beautifully painted on the storefront in the bloodiest of color. In the window display below, one could marvel at countless shiny and beautiful things. 

Astarion often saw little kids dragging their mothers towards the shop, with sparkly eyes, and wide smiles that had a few missing teeth. "I want this princess dress, please mother !" the little girls would always say, pointing at the most expensive piece he’d ever sewn, all but made of pearls, crystals and shimmery silk. He’d laugh at the way the mothers tried talk them out of such unreasonable idea, before finally pulling away the pouty and frustrated child. 

Other times, there would be a charming lady or a young adonis, shyly approaching his shop window in the dim street lights. Their eyes would wistfully linger on a satin corset, or on gold thread embroided doublets, as if they suddenly entertained the illusion of wearing it. But then, soon enough, they would notice the small price tags attached to the garments. It was always hilarious the way they’d squint their eyes, as if to double check because such outrageous amount of money couldn’t possibly be the true price. And yet, alas, it was, and the beautiful strangers would furiously blush and turn on their heels. They would hastily disappear into the night, as if the fact that they’d even entertained the idea of owning one of Astarion’s creations was ludicrous.

It was one of the reasons why his designs were exclusively coveted by nobles, princesses and even kings. They’d all come late at night in his shop, discreetly pushing the door of his workshop, to order the finest tailored outfits.

Nobody had ever seen anything like it before : the way he would cut dresses in a slightly provocative, yet elegant way. He’d always loved dancing on fine lines, after all, it was his signature. 

Delicate lace would effortlessly fall a little lower than acceptable on the cleavage of a lady. The pale skin of her breast tentatively, yet barely, outlined through the fabric. He would make puffy yet see-through petticoats, just enough for onlookers to make out the shadows of long legs through the modesty of a woman’s attire. The doublets he imagined were always more fitted than they usually would have been in other shops. The cinched waist highlighted men’s small hips while casting light on the width of their shoulders, the fabric all but holding their bodies in the right places. 

There was always something impossibly sensual about the silhouettes Astarion imagined. 

He had one day realized that, the centuries he’d unwillingly spent perfecting his mastery of the sensual arts, had bestowed upon him an incredible knowledge of body anatomy. One small compensation for all his sufferings, but one nonetheless. 

Every good tailor, to excel at his work, needed to first be knowledgable on bodies, on their curves and bones, on their proportions and mesures. That’s exactly what Astarion was : a contemplator of physical forms, and a master of sublimed physionomies. He only had to look at someone once to know what part of their body was the most magnificent, and how to pin, stitch, drape, or sew the finest of silks around it. 

Needless to say that his little business, was doing more than well. He spent most of his nights working on  attires for bals, masquerades, and soirees alike. His payment usually included an heavy purse of money, but also endless invitations to said parties, to admire his creations in the dim lights of ballrooms and palaces.

His new friends were baronesses, duchesses, or dukes, kings or princesses, and he only truly felt at peace in wide reception rooms, eased by the sound of violins, laughters and champaign glasses colliding.

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

That night, Astarion was sitting at his workshop table, working by the candlelights, when someone entered the shop. The little bell on the doorframe rang, and a rush of cold perfumed air entered the room with his guest. 

Jasmine and wood. He already knew who it was without having to turn around. 

Clarissa Tillerturn. 

"What owes me this impromptu visit, darling ?" he asked with his back to her, his eyes never leaving the delicate needlework he was focused on. 

Her dress and cloak shifted around her as she approached him to sit on one of his red velvet meridienne. 

"I need a new ball gown, Asti", she dramatically sighed, lying down on the plush cushions. 

He thanked the god that he was not facing her, otherwise she would’ve seen the way his face involuntarily contorted into one of pure annoyance. The pet name that she had unilaterally decided to give him was atrocious. Each time he heard it, the most vile retorts crossed his mind, but then he remembered what type of client she was. 

She was high nobility and one of his most generous customers, in more ways than one.

So if Clarissa Tillerturn wanted to call him "Asti", then "Asti" it was. 

"For what occasion, love ?"

"Oh but Duke Ravengard’s masquerade, of course ! It will take place in a tenday or so in his manor!", she exclaimed in her usual child-like tone, all but leaning on one of his shoulder with her gloved hand, "I need you to make me look angelic."

Ah yes, that masquerade, he dully thought, the one he was also supposed to attend. 

"That won’t require a lot of work on my part. You already do."

He heard her giggle behind him, her high pitched and annoying voice sounding uncomfortably loud in small space that was his shop. 

When he finally turned, his tape measure in hand, he was once again reminded of the reasons why he didn’t like her in the first place. Everything about her, from her long blond hair to her heady perfume, reminded him of the people he used to seduce for his master. 

She was the perfect kind of gullible, feeble and vain, noble girl that he would’ve easily lured into the dark with nothing but a bag of sweets and empty promises. These days, he was luring her all the same, but for his own benefit, and that knowledge made it almost bearable.

Predators hunt to eat, vampires seduce to drink blood, it was the old ways of this world. Who was he to even try and escape this vicious circle of hunger ?

"Do we really need to measure everything again ? I would argue that you know my body quite well by now."

Stupid girl, he thought, fighting the urge to not so kindly send her on her merry way. He was far too thirsty for that, and far too greedy to deny her heavy purse of money. Astarion forced a smile on his face and took her gloved hand in his to bring her to a stand. 

"I only need to take your waist’s measurements, darling."

When he bent over to glide the lace the tape around her, she pressed a clumsy kiss on his neck, right on his scars of all places. He braced himself before straightening up, and indulged her with a languid kiss he despised every second of. It was a small price to pay, just a little amuse-bouche so to speak, for her to give him what he needed. 

Sweet oblivious Clarissa melted into his arms anyways, pressing herself onto his chest and mewling with each slow and deliberate motion of his tongue.

"Are you sure you are only here to order a dress from me, lady Tillerturn ?" he breathed on her flushed cheek, as she made quick work of getting her out of her cloak, to bare her neck and décolleté to his eyes. 

Say you want me to feed, he silently begged as he looked into her wide blue eyes, I need to feed. 

"Do it, Asti. I want it."

Clarissa Tillerturn had a secret, you see. 

She had a vampire fetish, like a lot of other nobles in Baldur’s Gate.  

Between a few tailored dresses orders, she would regularly let him feed on her as a form of sexual gratification.

It never included anything other than a bite, and perhaps a kiss, on Astarion’s part however. 

"Not on your neck", he frowned, not willing to leave a mark in such a visible place, "Lie down for me, love"

And as though she was spellbound, she did. 

She settled on the scarlet velvet once again, hiked her skirts up her legs, and offered her pale thigh for him to feast on. It was already littered with faint scars near her groin, little punctured wounds he’d left the previous times she’d asked him to feed on her in the last months. 

Her hand shakily reached out of the pink ribbons holding her knee high stocking and she swiftly untied it to reveal more skin. 

"How scandalous darling …", he cooed in this irresistible silky tone he’d practiced for centuries, "What if anyone walked in on us and witnessed me debauching you in such way ?"

Clarissa bit her lips and furiously blushed, her hair pooling around her like a crown of gold. 

He didn’t need any further invitation and quickly kneeled at her feet, expertly bracing her leg on his shoulder to pepper kisses near her femoral artery. 

Her pulse raced under his lips, and he felt like he couldn’t play pretend any longer. 

The moment Astarion bit her thigh, her warm and sweet blood coating his mouth and throat, she moaned obscenely loud. It was the kind of noise people would expect to hear near brothels, not in tailor shops. If he still had a mind to himself, it would’ve worried him, but each and every one of his concern was drowned by the euphoria of feeding. 

Well, almost every single one … 

Each time he fed, from silly clients with vampiric fetishes, or from faceless strangers that offered their blood to him in parties or balls, Astarion was always reminded of her. 

Tav. 

The memory of the first time he’d fed her flashed in his mind. He sometimes wondered if the taste of her was somehow sublimed in his memory, glorified by the longing he would always feel for the only woman he’d ever loved. 

No one had ever tasted as wonderful as her. Some part of him seethed at the fact that no matter who he bit or touched, the ghost of her still visited him. Even after all this time. 

It was better than to be haunted by the memory of Cazador, of course, but he had a special place in his heart for kind of suffering the thought of her revived in him.

A beautiful thorny flower he couldn't help but sting his fingers on. A bittersweet remembrance.

He’d bared himself in front of her, in every possible way, admitting that he could not easily be intimate with someone anymore. And as expected, because he could not pleasure her with his body, she had denied him, rejected him, to offer a mere ‘friendship’, instead of patiently staying by his side. What a fool he’d been to think that what they had was special …

In the end, he would always be just a body to use for the people around him. Nothing more.

Astarion’s fangs involuntarily dug deeper into Clarissa’s flesh as he got lost in his memories. Her hands gripped her petticoat hard, her knuckles all white near his forehead, when he rhythmically sucked on her. From the corner of his eyes, he saw her accidentally rip the precious satin fabric it was made of. It tore and crumpled between her shaky fingers, as she moaned harder and harder. 

"It’s enough darling, I wouldn’t want you to go home bloodless", he mumbled from between her legs, lips and chin dripping with wasted delicacies. 

He carefully licked the wound, before grabbing a scrap of blue satin lying on a table next to him. Methodically securing it around her leg to stop the bleeding, he then quickly covered her with what was left of her skirt, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. 

"Are you alright ? I could make you some tea if you’d like." 

He’d once learnt from Shadowheart, back when they were camping, how to brew herbs to make Tav feel better after he’d fed on her. It was now a generosity he liked to extend to his very satisfied "victims". 

She was still pink all over, and the scent of arousal lingered around her, but it inspired nothing in him but disgust. 

"No, Asti, I need to be on my way. I have a dinner tonight" she groaned as she sat, and collected herself. 

She hastily arranged her head of golden curls, put her cloak back on, and extended a heavy purse of money that he gladly accepted. 

"I’d like for the dress to be ready on wednesday, is that quite alright ?" 

"Of course, darling. It’s a pleasure to deal with you, as always", he purred, placing a chaste kiss on her hand. 

And with with that she was out in the streets once again. To any oblivious onlooker she was simply out and about, but the faint limp with which she walked made Astarion smirk. 

His smile fell when he looked at the purse of money that was still in his hands. 

Don’t be mistaken, he warned himself, you’re no prostitute, the money is for the dress. 

For a few seconds, the nagging thought that nothing had really changed came back to plague him. 

It often did, when he was all alone with himself, sewing, trancing, or lying in a warm bath. A constant source of doubt and despair. 

He was free, or as free as a slave to vampiric urges can be. His master was long gone. He could roam wherever he pleased, feed from whoever he pleased, make use of his time however he pleased ...

And yet, he was still begging, performing, seducing, in exchange for a few drops of blood, and indirectly, for a purse of coins. 

Some crueler part of his mind even mocked himself, wondering if anyone had ever crossed the threshold of his tailor shop because they were interested in his designs in the first place. 

The voice in his head morphed and merged with the one of his master, and as he sat before the unfinished doublet on his table to start working on it once again, it whispered :

"Still loveless, still used, you pathetic child who never amounted to anything... You are nothing without me, I told you so."

[visionkept]

" —tada! Now, I had to guesstimate a little on the shoulder measurement, but, I think it should work. " it being a very handsomely tailored silk haori... hewn from a pretty fabric: deep red-violet base interwoven with wisps of black and gold, and pale chrysanthemum blossoms embroidered throughout. A tinge flashy, perhaps, but undeniably luxurious; and is that not what someone deserves on their special day?

" Happy birthday, Tomoya-kun— and here's to many, many more."

HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY TOMOYA !

Trying out new clothes felt. . . WEIRD, ━━━ should specify that they mean it in a good way, of course. Rarely do they ever have the necessity to seek out for a change of wardrobe or the replacement of any of their current pieces. Besides the disruptances regarding the prices compared to their gains, Tomoya never found themselves pulled towards anything in particular. Both, their symbolic red haori and the old-fashioned lavender scarf, have lingered by their side for far more than any of the past companions the ronin have had on their travels. They hold SENTIMENTAL value in addition of their practicality, two clothes they have never thought of renewing nor changing any time soon . . . or so they had thought.

When their employer came in with a big box in hand, Tomo couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about. Their incertitude getting an answer when they opened it together. IT WAS A GIFT. A custom-tailored silk haori, similar in shape to the one they are used to be seen with. But in contrast to their worn-out rags, this cloth could inarguably be described as luxurious, with intricate details that made it stand out in every possible way. It's beautiful, refined, unique, something Tomoya would never be able to afford in ordinary circumstances. Their thumb gently brushes over the embroidered blossoms, and for a moment, they surrender to the urge to trace over every detail it possessed. It's so specific to their liking that they are left there, admiring what they considered a piece of art.

❝ Is. . . this really meant for me ? ❞ What a déjà vu, it's as if they have said something along those lines before ( and they sure have ). Before they can ask again, Honey insists with a chuckle, encouraging the ronin to try it on. And once they do, the new garment falls on their shoulders just right. It fits flawlessly and Tomo knows it by the excitement growing her features, her "guesstimate" being completely right on this occasion. ❝ You made it yourself right ? Gods, Honey, it's so ━━ PERFECT. ❞ For someone to pay close attention to the things they like, to know what suits them best and make something out of it. Ah - it's hard to describe the feeling this gives them. Tenderness might be the closest to it. A mix of red hues spread on their cheeks, her smile contagious though a hand tries to cover it up. ❝ I fear a simple 'thank you' won't do, it's just not enough to put into words my gratitude. ❞

A nervous laugh follows after, the flustered look on their face has never been this apparent. ❝ I will treasure it greatly. ❞ More than an employer, Honey truly felt like a friend. ❝ I'll find a way to repay you. Perhaps not in mora but hopefully, with something greater. Please, look forward to it. ❞

[alexadreamer09]

Western Elegance: Addicted Bespoken's Custom Country Suits

In the enormous world of fashion, the country western suit is a singular icon of timeless style, cultural heritage, and tough elegance. Addicted Bespoken, a company renowned for its commitment to unique designs and bespoke craftsmanship, presents a traditional country western suit that captures the spirit of the American West with a contemporary twist. We'll talk about the appeal of the country western suit, its key elements, and why Addicted Bespoken version is a need for every fashionable person in this blog.

The Classic Appeal of the Country Western Suit The country western outfit has a deep connection to the long-standing cowboy culture of the American West. Originally designed for longevity and functionality, these suits have evolved into a fashion statement that blends style and functionality. The country western suit is a tribute to uniqueness and self-expression with its intricate embroidery, vibrant colors, and distinctive cuts.

Historical Importance The country western suit originated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when cowboys needed durable clothing for their harsh way of life. Eventually, these practical garments left the ranch and appeared in country music and Hollywood Westerns. Stars such as Gene Autry and Roy Rogers helped popularize the western suit, which came to be linked with Americana.

Contemporary Revival Recently, there has been a resurgence of interest in western clothing as designers have begun to reinterpret classic western wear for modern consumers. The country western suit is a popular option for style enthusiasts, celebrities, and anyone looking to make a great impact. It is a helpful addition to any wardrobe because of its unique blend of contemporary design and traditional craftsmanship.

Addicted Bespoken: Redefinition of Western Style Addicted Bespoken has established a reputation for providing custom made clothing that combines traditional tailoring techniques with modern design. Their country western suit, which epitomizes the brand's commitment to quality, customization, and painstaking attention to detail, serves as an example of this idea.

Personalization and Artistry One of the best things about Addicted Bespoken's country western suit is how customizable it is. Because every suit is custom made, the perfect fit will compliment the wearer's body type and preferred style. Customers can choose from a variety of materials, colors, and embroidered designs to create a suit that is entirely unique.

There is no better craftsmanship than in these clothes. Skilled artisans meticulously create each piece, paying close attention to every tiny detail. Every part is meticulously and precisely completed, from the sewing to the embroidery. This dedication to quality ensures that every suit is not just stylish but also comfortable and durable.

Special Qualities Addicted Bespoken country western suit stands out from traditional suits thanks to its distinctive elements:

Detailed needlework: The suit's elaborate needlework was motivated by classic western designs. Whether it has flower themes, geometric designs, or animal representations, the embroidery adds a distinctive and creative element to the ensemble.

Bright Colors: Unlike traditional formal suits, country western outfits come in a variety of bright and eye-catching shades. From classic black and brown to striking shades of blue, red, and green, there is a color to suit every taste.

Unique Cuts: The suit's design uses unique forms and cuts to accentuate its western flair. Features like piping, yokes, and pointed cuffs add to its distinctive look.

Superior Materials: The best materials available are used to make these suits. Superior wool, cotton, and leather ensure that the suit is not only stylish but also warm and long-lasting.

Versatility and Style One of the reasons the country western suit has endured in fashion is its versatility. It can be dressed up or down, depending on the circumstances. Wear it with cowboy boots and a white shirt for a classic western look, or go more current and pair it with loafers for a more modern look. The suit's eye-catching design makes it suitable for a variety of events, such as weddings, music festivals, and rodeos.

Choosing Addicted Bespoken: Why?

For your country western suit, Addicted Bespoken offers the best in terms of style, quality, and customization. The following are the reasons why their suits are better than the others:

Custom Made: Since each suit is made to measure, an appealing and cozy fit are assured.

Premium Embroidery Suit: A handcrafted suit with intricate embroidery, luxurious fabrics, and personalized tailoring for a distinctive and elegant fit.

Customized Design: With so many options for personalization, you may create a suit that perfectly captures your unique style and personality.

Excellent Craftsmanship: Each suit is a work of art that exemplifies the brand's commitment to excellence and is meticulously crafted by skilled artisans by hand.

Versatile Style: The country western suit is a fantastic addition to any wardrobe since it can be styled in a multitude of ways.

In Summary The country western suit by Addicted Bespoken is more than just a basic piece of clothing—it's a statement of style, heritage, and individuality. With its intricate embroidery, vibrant colors, and handcrafted design, this suit embodies the modern elegance of fashion as well as the timeless charm of the American West. Whether you're going for a formal event or simply want to add some western flair to your ensemble, Addicted Bespoken's country western suit is the perfect choice. Don this eye-catching and stylish ensemble to embody western sophistication and make a lasting impression.

[awellboiledicicle]

I'm going to have Dot romance Astarion because i can, but also in isekai tradition she accidentally makes everyone fall for her.

Okay more specifically all the guys because the women know what the word platonic means. Is this me joking about the game being buggy here and there? yes. Is it also a comment on cultural differences sending a mixed message? also yes.

Gale gets his hair braided so it stays out of his face while he fights and cooks, doesn't know how to emotionally process how nice it feels to have someone play with his hair and pat his head and say he's good to go.

Wyll finds himself suddenly the one explaining what manners are, even after clarifying he's been a wandering hero for like 10 years. He's also the one teaching her how to use rapiers, and feeling very odd about all the touching to correct her stance and posture. Not so much because he can't separate the context, he's just not used to the excited hugs after he tells her she's doing well or the little taps she gives him when they're just in camp and he's slouching. "Posture, Wyll!" before snickering and asking how he's doing.

Astarion meanwhile is just entirely convinced she's going to be the easiest mark he's ever gone after that's sober. Because, by her own admission, she was a very lonely woman with no time for companionship outside occasionally meeting with friends. No real time for fun or release, as far as she tells it. So it feels like he's having an easy time seducing her... but she keeps like. Asking if he's doing ok. Offering him hats they find and cloaks, on the off chance the sun is TOO much for him. He'd never admit that it sometimes IS, but he deals with it because he missed it so much. She asks after his food preferences, if he can even have normal food, and then after his wine preferences when he lets slip that alcohol is the only thing that vaguely tastes like anything anymore aside blood. She finds out he embroidered his clothing and keeps asking him how he learned [he doesn't remember], if he'd like her to keep an eye out for thread, if he'd like her to get him some needles so he could be ready if they found some. If he'd like some of the garments they loot enough to unravel them into something he could use-- he doesn't point out that most of them are too coarse a thread or generally worn enough that the thread will snap. He's not sure why he doesn't point it out, after a bit. Like, she'll flirt with him when he flirts with her, and seems not to hold the whole first meeting against him, but she's just... nice. Cheery. Upbeat to the point of making his teeth grind. Until she's not. Until they're all limping through making camp so they can all lick their wounds and she nearly snarls at him for taking her spot. Or offers up some cutting remark after a goblin mouthed off, shortly before its head left its shoulders.

Because like, Dot is very customer service habit having. Very used to the whole culture of "yeah, we're a team!! go team!! Efficiency!" of a workplace. She's very prone to pulling up the smiley happy face most the time, and then going absolutely fucking hog wild. Because she doesn't HAVE to do that anymore-- she just knows she's the leader and best she has for template on that is team meetings where there were donuts and coffee she had to bring in.

The stark difference intrigues Astarion, i feel. If only because he can tease her about it and she just pouts at him.

i'm pondering

[customclothlondon]

Tailoring Trends: The Rise of Personalized Clothes in London

As the fashion landscape continues to evolve, personalised clothes have emerged as a powerful force in shaping the way individuals express themselves through their clothing. From custom printed garments to intricately embroidered pieces, Londoners are embracing bespoke fashion as a means of asserting their individuality and creativity.

For more details visit here: https://customclotheslondonuk.blogspot.com/2024/02/tailoring-trends-rise-of-personalized.html

[aworldofpattern]

Alison Oliver at the Met Gala 2024, wearing custom Loewe.

Crystal-embroidered trapeze coat, train, and hosiery boots in brown silk duchess satin with a patchworked lining of 16th century garments and fabrics.

[thelatekayejames]

open to all!! when: the afternoon before the Dance-a-Thon where: Blush Boutique, Celestial Hills

The first thing they’d done when they got Blush back was change the loft-like second floor back the way it should be. It wasn't storage, it wasn't overflow, it was a studio. An atelier, sorta, but part of the store as well. It all worked together, see? They'd told this to their new staff, feeling dangerously proprietary about it. A sturdy desk sat out in the open, sewing machine, shears and tapes carefully perched on top. Three full length mirrors placed just so, to make multiple angles visible at once, a cluster of half-dressed mannequins. Brightly stencilled paper screens blocked them from view of the shop as they worked, but they could still peek down to keep an eye on things. It was the closest thing to a comfort zone that they could find—contained and simultaneously open. Protected by the presence of others, and yet isolated from them.

Right this moment, the day before a big dance, they were deep in work mode. The chime of the door and the customers' footsteps down on the floor faded to soothing background noise, familiar in its own mild way. A jacket blooming with embroidered flowers was pinned on one mannequin, inspired by the festival that Kui had seen glimpses of on their quick errands. A second version of it floated directly in front of them, an illusory copy to test things out on. "Having trouble in the shoulders there, Suzie Q..." they murmured to the jacket mirage, frowning and lifting a seam half an inch to see if that helped.

And actually, Kui realized, so were they. With a sigh, they stretched their arms up and across the back of their neck, breaking loose of the hyper-focused state that consumed most of their days. They hummed, chanced a glance down at the various heads bobbing about the shop, and then got distracted when they saw someone—someone perfect for—

Kui's wings burst from their back, emerging without incident through the tailored gaps they left in all of their own clothes. They glided off the end of the balcony, directly towards a specific rack they knew had—there, yeah—and removed a garment on a hanger. They stepped up to their unwitting model. "Take this," they said breathlessly, and then paused and added, "Just, like, if you want. It'll look right on you." They felt heat rising in their cheeks. "On—on the house, just this one," and resisted the urge to fly back upstairs immediately.

[bananarose]

FFXIV Write - #12 "Dowdy"

adjective not stylish; drab; old-fashioned:

*gestures excitedly* My boy! Here's a peek into Lav's adventures in self-expression through clothing. *squishes him gently* I love him

Stormblood zones mentioned, no major spoilers though

Masterlist

Lavandin had never dressed himself in any particularly thoughtful way, fashion not being at the forefront of his priorities as a wood-warder in training; still not a priority after he had left home and found himself living on the Azim Steppe, wearing what he had kept from home and any old hand-me-downs from Cirina and the Mol. He hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest, what options were out there for adorning oneself in fabrics. The purpose of his clothing was for protection, and comfort, he didn’t see much sense in fretting over the colors and styles.

Upon arriving in Kugane, Lav was taken aback at some of the beautiful clothing and adornments he saw while wandering the markets. Luscious silks, long garments he would later discover are referred to as kimonos, and pieces of clothing in the most gorgeous colors he had laid eyes on. 

He had not been in Kugane long when he started making a habit of visiting the markets. Lav walked down the now somewhat familiar path, scanning the displays of each stall as he passed. He stopped abruptly, causing a minor disruption to foot traffic, when he laid eyes upon the most beautiful garment he had yet seen. It was long, a dress, the bottom of the fabric nearly brushing the ground; and it was a most stunning shade of light purple. A spread of embroidered flowers stood out against the fabric, starting near one hip and fanning out towards the bottom hem, as if the flowers were falling, carried aloft on a light spring breeze. Other patrons of the market pushed past him, muttering in annoyance, as he stared overlong at the dress. The proprietor of that particular stall noticed his gaze, coming over with an incredibly fake, salesman smile plastered on his face.

“Ah, I see I’ve got another customer with exquisite taste!” he schmoozed, obviously going for the sale. “Perhaps a dear one’s nameday is coming up? Must be quite the lucky lady to have a keen-eyed lad like you shopping for her.” Lav’s lips twisted into a frown as his brows furrowed. A dear one… What had he meant by that? Lucky Lady…

Lavandin had not been contemplating purchasing the dress as a gift, he had been wondering what it might feel like to be the one wearing it; to have the soft fabrics drift around his legs, twirling as he spun. 

It turned out he didn’t have enough money for the dress anyway - he barely had any coin at all. 

Lavandin picked up odd jobs during his time in Kugane. He trotted across the city, delivering things for various merchants, even once retrieving an order from the markets for the Sekiseigumi. He spent some time apprenticing for a kindly merchant, who took pity on him as a confused newcomer to the city, teaching him the ways of the city and its markets. He worked endlessly, saving up coin. He earned enough to buy nice treats from the market, reveling in the sweet desserts and rich meals. Eventually, he earned enough.

He went back and bought the dress. He lied, when the merchant asked again if it was for a woman he was courting, he lied and handed over his hard-earned coin, and the dress was finally his.

He rushed back to his room at the Bokairo Inn, immediately placing the box down onto the bed, tearing aside the fine paper it had been wrapped in. He stared at it, uncertain for only a heartbeat before a smile spread across his face. He reached down, feeling the fabric underneath quivering fingertips. Pulling it out of the box reverently, admiring the way the fabric moved as he held it up, Lav felt giddy. 

Lavandin tried on his new dress, and in a flurry of emotions, found it to be a perfect fit. 

divider credit - @cafekitsune

[vaarabella2611]

✨ Embroidering happiness into every garment, Vaara Bella tailors joy for our cherished customers! 💃 Our delighted clients can't resist the allure of our stunning dresses! 😍 From indowestern to glamorous gowns, we've got your style covered! Discover the magic in every piece! ✨ 💖✨

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[beensoon]

■紗剪刀Thread Clippers BBB

Product Name : Thread Clippers

Item Number:BS-701

Description:

Professional quality seamstresses/ tailors thread snips. These make light work of machine sewing and embroidery.

This item is extremely sharp. Use with caution. Hand and eye protection is recommended at all times

Good quality spring-actioned Thread Snips to remove all unwanted threads from your work.

After sewing up a storm, we are all left with several loose thread “tails” from changing colours or moving to a new line of sewing. With these spring-actioned Blue Thread Snips, you are able to effectively and quickly remove all unwanted threads from your work. Featuring an ultra-sharp tip, these snips are a valuable tool in any sewers arsenal.

A must-have tool for all sewers, embroiders, and quilters.

Color: Blue

Material: Alloy Steel

Brand:BS (original BBB)

Blade Material: Stainless Steel,Metal

Product Dimensions: 4.25"L (10.6 cm)x 0.98"W

Style: Classic

Item Weight: ‎0.6 Ounces (16gram)

Manufacturer: BEENSOON OF TAIWAN

Made in Taiwan.

Product Details

EASY TO USE: With small size, it is easy to carry. It can fit your palm well, get close to where you really want to cut, and clip it preciously without being stuck. When cutting, just press the handle, which is easy to open and close.

WIDE APPLICATION: It can be used in our daily manual works, such as sewing, cutting thread, embroidery, knitting, clipping plastic paper, office paper and other office supplies, cutting fishing line and other DIY projects.

SHARP AND DURABLE: It is extremely firm and sharp, as the blade is made of high-quality high-carbon stainless steel, while the handle is made of one-piece, elastic metal material, fixed by a metal ring in the middle. Thus it is not easy to break.

PRODUCT INFORMATION: Overall size: 4.25×0.98×0.59 inches, blade length: 1.49 inches, single weight: 0.6 ounces

IMPORTANT NOTES: To prevent it from rusting in transportation, we smear it with oil. You may think it looks a bit dirty. So after receiving it, you should wipe it clean with tissue before use. Besides, it is very sharp, so please make sure that they are away from pets and children.

 The scissors are designed with a unique pinch design that allows them to operate like tweezers, making it easier to get to hard-to-reach places. While they don't come with a blade cover, they do come with a plastic sheath for storage and safety. Many customers have expressed their appreciation for the snips, claiming they are sharp and easy to use. One user claimed it was perfect for snipping off thread from freshly sewn garments, while another said it was great for cutting beading thread.

Measuring just 4.25' long, these thread snip scissors from the Beensoon are compact and easy to use. Their sharp pointed blades make them idea for beadwork and projects where you don't want to have to grab a traditional scissor. They cut a variety of cords and threads. Thread Snips 4.25 Inches Long,

We have confidence that you will be satisfied with our quality products, services and price. We look forward to your favourable reply and we hope that will be trust upon to kindly patronage our product. For more information please visit our website at http://www.beensoon.com.tw

■Thread Clippers BBB

(Scissors , Sewing Scissors, Yarn Scissors , Thread Snips, Thread Snippers, Blue Thread Clippers Metal, Sewing Scissors for Fabric, Thread Yarn Embroidery Clipppers Cutter, Small Snips Trimming Nipper, Great for Stitch, Art Craft, Mini DIY Supplies, Mini Sewing Scissors, Beading, Embroidery Multi-Purpose Small Thread Cutter, Suitable for Making Handicrafts, DIY Supplies )

https://www.beensoon.com.tw/