#fur overcoat

[hulloitsdani]

DAY 2: New Years!!!

Guys playing dress up with Kiran is so fun actually. I want to give them the fluffy hood all the time now.

[twobella]

fem!fyodor to cope with chapter 112

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1947 Burberrys ad by totallymystified

[indigobackfire]

@missnight0wl kindly let me know Victor did get an adult model and since I haven't seen posted here on tumblr

Apparently, HP vampires are in fact mortal...

[anmolsmsblog]

Bellivera Womens Leopard Print Fleece Coat, Fall and Winter Fashion Fuzzy Jacket Faux Fur Fluffy Cardigan Overcoat

Price: (as of – Details)

[susoriginals]

Vintage 1960s 1970s Great Western Coat Beige Tan Wool Coat Sherpa Faux Fur Lined Overcoat Men's Large Size 44 Only $44

[aventurineswife]

Hello, my sweetheart!

Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭����❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.

Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.

Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.

A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍‍♀️🙏😭

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.

He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.

For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—

"You're awake, aren't you?"

You held your breath, keeping up the act.

A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.

"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."

He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.

Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"

Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.

His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.

"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.

You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."

Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.

You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.

Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"

His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.

"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."

There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.

Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.

"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."

You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.

"Cheat," you muttered.

"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.

The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.

You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?

You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.

Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.

Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.

You almost smiled.

He knew.

Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.

"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."

A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.

"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."

Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.

"Good morning," he murmured.

And just like that, you melted.

[beansprean]

Is now a good time to post this one

Prints available on Redbubble!

Support me on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Full body of Nandor, dressed in a fine buckled tunic and fur overcoat, lounging in an ornate persian-style throne. Guillermo is sitting on the ground between his knees, facing the audience with his knees tucked under him and his head tipped back with a confident and seductive expression, lips parted in the subtlest of smiles. His left arm is draped casually over Nandor's left thigh and his right is gripping Nandor's right thigh from beneath. Over his usual sweater and chinos, Guillermo is draped in finery: a fluffy fur cape, chunky jeweled rings on nearly every finger, gold and turquoise bangles on his wrists, dangling boteh earrings, and a gold chain diadem dripping with garnet stones haphazardly draped over his head. There is a flood of necklaces spilling down his chest: a gold choker, a small turquoise stone collar, a large gold usekh collar, turquoise beads, gold beads, pearl beads, and dozens of beaded bangles with garnet, azurite, pearl, and other precious gems. Nandor, left elbow draped over the arm of his throne, is gazing down at Guillermo with an affectionate and satisfied smile, gently stroking his cheek with the back of his right hand.

2. Same image, cropped to just their faces. /end ID

[radioscribbles]

Alastor x Reader - Chest Fluff

Details: Established relationship, honeymoon phase, light teasing. You discover Alastor's chest fluff! Warnings: None, this is pure fluff - literally. No pronouns used. No use of Y/N. Not beta read as usual. Author's note: I’m fully convinced Alastor has chest fluff. I don’t have any proof except I think it’s CUTE. Word Count: 992

You’ve always loved cuddling Alastor. It’s the closest form of intimacy you had gotten so far in your budding relationship. And he was so, so comfortable.

Looking at him, you’d think he was all sharp edges and pointy teeth, but lying on his chest, as you were right now, you could swear this man was secretly a pillow.

Both of you were lying on a chaise longue in his room, soft jazz playing in the background. While he was busy reading over some papers, he’d allowed you to indulge in some cuddles, so long as you didn’t disturb him.

But you just couldn’t help yourself. You nuzzled your face into his shirt, his overcoat discarded on an armchair, and sighed.

“You’re so soft, Al.”

He peeked at you from behind his papers, a lazy grin on his face, and raised a brow at you in question.

“I’m serious, it’s like you’re a plushie. Or maybe you’re actually an alpaca demon instead of a deer. It’s as if you’re all fluffy or something.”

Alastor let out an amused laugh.

“Ha! Maybe it’s because I am.”

You raised your head to look at him. Now it’s your turn to cock an eyebrow at him.

“What? An alpaca demon?” Another laugh escaped him.

“Goodness, no! That’s a stupid notion, my dear.” He let his papers fall to the floor and gave you an amused smirk.

“It’s winter, darling. Not only do I have to deal with shedding my antlers, I also happen to grow a bit of a thicker coat of fur.”

His brows furrowed a bit in annoyance as he told you of his situation. He was obviously displeased by it, but by god, if you weren’t intrigued. You made a mental note to squeal about how openly he talked about it with you later. But for now, you needed answers.

Your gaze shifted down to his chest, now noticing that it did seem a bit fuller than it used to.

“Can I see it?” - “I beg your pardon?”

Your eyes widened at your impulsive request, as did his. Only now did you realize that that would include him dropping a layer. You’ve never seen one another in a state of undress, except perhaps in your night clothes. And even then you had both always been fully dressed.

But you made your bed, now you had to lie in it.

“U-uhm, I mean…I kinda…wanna see it..?” You stammered. You could feel your face heating up under his gaze, while his grin only grew wider. You were sure he was enjoying how flustered you were getting.

“Well, since you asked so nicely! Only because it’s you.” A dark glint flashed in his eyes as he said it. He then nodded to his shirt, challenging you to undo the buttons. “Go on, darling. Don’t be shy now.”

You sat up in his lap, head reeling and ears buzzing as if all your blood had risen to your face. You couldn’t believe you were doing this. Your shaking fingers undid his bowtie first, neatly folding it and placing it on the back of the chaise. Then you reached for the first set up buttons, so close to his neck. You could swear you heard a soft chuckle as you undid them.

Your eyes flit up at him for a second, before quickly snapping back down as you caught him watching you intensely with narrowed eyes and his wicked grin.

“Stop looking at me while I do this…” 

“No~.” Alastor teased.

If you could bush any further, you would.

You decided it was enough after three more sets of buttons. Now no longer focused on the task at hand, you spotted what looked like fur peeking from the gap in the shirt.

Without thinking, you spread his shirt open, even startling Alastor with your bold move. Eyes wide, you gazed at what you could only describe as soft looking brown fluff right in the middle of his chest.

If you had looked up, you’d see Alastor’s smile twitching. Now he was the one being stared at so thoroughly, and it unnerved him. He suddenly felt…exposed? Insecure, maybe? No, not him, never!

He stiffened up as he felt your fingers slowly moving through the tufts of fur, essentially stroking his bare chest.

The fur was dense and soft. Certainly made to keep him warm during the cold seasons - and possibly to serve as a pillow for yourself.

You thought it was so cute. It didn’t go at all with his reputation as the big bad Radio Demon, so it’s no wonder he keeps it a secret. A secret only you knew now.

“Wow, it’s really soft, Al! No wonder you’re so comfy all the time.” When you looked back up at him, you could see the faintest of blushes along his cheeks. You were sure your own blush was still there as well, but you felt reassured knowing that he was also affected by your intimate position.

You batted your eyelashes at him in an attempt to butter him up some more. He probably knew what you wanted to do next anyway.

“Can I..?”

He let out a theatrical sigh, but opened his arms to welcome you in.

“Fine. Since you’re being oh so sweet, my dear.”

You hummed in satisfaction and slowly laid your head down into his chest fluff. It smelled so much like him. You could hear his heart beating much faster than it had before and you grinned to yourself.

You let out another hum as you felt his arms come to rest on your back, his chest rumbling as he spoke.

“I hope you understand that this is to stay between us, darling?”

“Mhm~.” You agreed as you closed your eyes. There’s no way you would ever share this knowledge with anybody. This was just one of the many little secrets Alastor carried with himself. And this one was only for you to know.

[darqx]

If you didnt come to party [get the hell out of this club]

In which there's some links to old art - I've been getting a number of asks that are already technically answered so that's just what I'm gonna be doing if i can even remember what RAD they originally came from lol.

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

UNFORGIVEN.

Yes he can speak at least two demon languages (commons and a more specialised one).

Not really cos the ichor will eventually disappear if it's not in contact with Rire for a while lol. You ever wonder how someone could mysteriously drown whilst not being around anything they could have drowned in? Yeah.

I have drawn several such instances a long time ago. But it's not really Rire flirting with Ren it's more him being like...subtly condescending to Ren since Ren's submissive level is not very interesting to him |D

I...think you may have possibly mistaken me saying Rire might cry if he was in severe pain to mean that's the only time he could cry XD; To answer your q, yes Rire can cry from emotions - the point is he would choose not to (esp in public) as that would be a weakness.

🤔 You could probably get away with the same dress design but in black, tbh (if it was Lady Rire). Since the outfit design is 1930s/1940s based Rire's equivalent would be like...a 3 piece suit with a long overcoat/trench coat.

Got you covered bro [from a suit meme I did before]

Rire has a very long life span, but he's not immortal XD;

Tbh I don't really have thoughts about any of other peoples headcanons. Like I'm generally quite neutral towards headcanons because I primarily deal with the canon; the extent of my thoughts would be like "hm i wonder how they came up with that" lol.

This is actually in my FAQ :d but good of you to check for permission! If it's your own artwork then yes it is ok to make fanmerch of Rire. Similarly Gato allows fanmerch of her BTD and TPOF characs as long as it's your own art you are selling (and not like, our art/someone else's fanart that they didn't give permission to turn into merch).

It would be in Cain's best interest not to.

Cain is literally saying Olé Olé because i happened to be listening to this song at the time.

I can barely keep up with my ask box as myself let alone do it while pretending to be a charac lol, so no 😅 You can find a bunch of the most common qs in the FAQ pages though.

No and not really - though he is a bit more sensitive to light compared to a human as he has much better night vision than a human. He may also be able to see more colours than humans 🤔

There is technically no "stereotypical" demon in my 'verse, there's a bunch of different species each with their own looks/powers, so if he was another species then he'd have their physical characteristics. Rire's species is considered "plain" because outwardly they can pass more easily as a human than say; Izm's species (who have a really noticeable Glasgow smile-esque mouth as one of their physical features).

Yes he was born a demon...to his demon parents...|D;

He's the king of his sector and his sector is pretty well-to-do, I think you can draw your own conclusions from that lol.

Maybe, depends on what the human in question does with that.

Your second q has two answers depending on what context I answer them in, so I'll reply in the BTD context keeping in mind a charac like EP's Cain :d Basically yes Rire would be able to sense them like he does other demons. It's not a specific sense of "THIS CHARAC IS AN ANGEL" but more like "this charac is not human" and depending on what else he gets from it a "in your best interests to not engage".

Something big with long black fur and yellow eyes, maybe like a Norwegian Forest Cat or a Maine Coon.

[hel-looks]

Eleonora, 28

“Almost everything I am wearing is secondhand from flea markets in Helsinki and from Tori.fi. My balaclava is from Etsy, and my overcoat is from & Other Stories, bought 8 years ago. My beige leather bag is from ATP Atelier; I got it from my sister who works for them. My style varies a lot in terms of colours and shapes; some days I am wearing all black, and some days a lot of colours, faux fur, rhinestones and tulle. K-pop, films, and Pinterest inspire me.”

10 February 2024, Simonkatu

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

When it comes to cold weather, the main rule (regardless of gender or presentation) is: when in doubt, choose warmth and safety over style. 

Some basics: 

Layering is your best friend: Start with moisture-wicking base layers to keep sweat off your skin. Follow with insulating layers (like fleece or wool), and finish with a weather-resistant outer layer (like a puffer jacket or waterproof coat) to protect against wind, snow or rain.

Keep your sensitive areas warm: Make sure your hands, feet, and head are covered! Gloves, warm socks and a beanie can prevent cold-related discomfort or injuries. 

Waterproof: If you're facing snow or rain, make sure your clothes are waterproof. Wet clothes lose their insulating ability, so staying dry is a big part of staying warm! 

Reflective Gear: If you’re out in the dark or in poor visibility conditions, consider adding reflective elements to your outfit for safety.

People can react differently to temperatures. A temperature that feels super cold to you could feel comfortable to someone else, depending on what you’re used to (and some other factors). As a very basic rule, we can say: Gloves, beanies, and other cold-weather accessories typically become necessary when temperatures drop below 40°F (4°C). In more severe cold (below 32°F (0°C)), it’s even more important to wear them to protect yourself from frostbite and maintain body warmth. But it goes even in milder weather: if you feel uncomfortable or if it’s windy or damp, it’s a good idea to add these items for extra comfort.

With all that being said: Clothes are not just for safety and temperature control, they also help you express yourself - and that doesn’t suddenly change in winter. 

Dressing for cold weather doesn’t have to mean sacrificing your personal look. Whether you want to present more feminine, more masculine, or more androgynous, here are some tips to help you layer up and feel like yourself: 

(Note that these are suggestions, not hard rules. Style is highly subjective as everyone has different tastes, preferences, body types, fashion inspirations, budgets, cultural influences etc. I could suggest something here that you’d feel super uncomfortable in - if so, that’s not a sign you’re “doing it wrong”! Cherry-pick what feels right and ignore the rest) 

If You Want to Present More Feminine

Base Layers: If you want to wear skirts or dresses in winter, start with thermal leggings or tights! These can be nicely paired with cozy, long-sleeved tops or lightweight thermal shirts. (But also keep in mind that plenty of women, cis or trans, do not wear dresses all the time! Nothing wrong with choosing jeans!) 

Outer Layers: There are plenty of styles to choose from that have a feminine touch, such as a belted trench coat, a pea coat, or a long wool coat. Shawls are also excellent for adding a touch of style while keeping you warm! 

Footwear: Knee-high or thigh-high boots lined with faux fur or fleece can keep your legs warm and add a polished look to your outfit. Ankle boots with thicker socks are also a good alternative.

Accessories: Scarves, gloves, and beanies can be both practical and stylish. Knit hats or earmuffs can add a soft, cozy vibe to your look.

Style Tip: Go for a mix of fabrics like wool, faux fur, and knitwear to create texture and warmth.

If You Want to Present More Masculine: 

- Base Layers: Start with thermal undershirts or moisture-wicking base layers. Consider long underwear for added insulation beneath your pants.

- Outer Layers: There’s plenty of outerwear to choose from, like a puffer jacket, parka, or wool overcoat! (Faux) Leather or bomber jackets layered over sweaters can also add a masculine edge while keeping you warm.

- Footwear: You might want to opt for sturdy boots, such as work boots, Chelsea boots, or combat boots. Thicker socks can keep your feet warm.

- Accessories: Don’t skip out on scarves, beanies, or gloves for being “too feminine”. They can actually be great for adding a more rugged feel to your outfit! You just gotta find a color and style that fits you well. 

Style Tip: Focus on layering in a way that adds structure. Sweaters, button-ups, and jackets work great together for a sharp, put-together look. Play with dark, neutral tones and thick fabrics like wool or denim for extra warmth and style.

If You Want to Present Androgynous

- Base Layers: Neutral-colored thermal tops or turtlenecks can serve as great foundational pieces. You may want to pair these with straight-leg or loose-fitting pants that allow room for layering underneath.

- Outer Layers: Oversized coats, puffer jackets, or long trench coats can work well for an androgynous look. Try layering with oversized sweaters or fleece pullovers for extra warmth.

- Footwear: You could go for sneakers, lace-up boots, or loafers paired with warm, thick socks. But really, any pair of shoes can work for an unisex outfit. 

- Accessories: Neutral-colored scarves, simple beanies, and fingerless gloves can add to an androgynous look. Minimalist accessories like oversized scarves or gender-neutral caps are both practical and stylish.

Style Tip: Aim for a balanced mix of structured and relaxed pieces. Try loose layers on top with more fitted pants, or vice versa, to create an effortless, warm, and non-gendered appearance.

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[calamityjoan]

A DAUGHTER'S CURSE ✮ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

SUMMARY | "Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons."

PAIRING | Dutch van der Linde x Adoptive Daughter!Reader

TAGS | Canon-typical violence, mention of sexual assault, daddy issues (a lot of it) and angst.

WORDCOUNT | 3.5k

NOTE | This verse screams Damned!Dutch's daughter. Enjoy the product of that. It is chaotic and messy and not proofread but⏤oh well⏤isn't that fitting for RDR2? The final part contains direct quotes from the game and, thus, may be a spoiler. But come on, it's been seven years.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Like the marvelous country that was the West, the loyalty of men knew no bound. It went beyond law and reason, and sometimes drove the purest hearts to the worst horrors.

Some had dedicated poems to its beauty, its dangers too, but no soul had ever created pentameters faithful enough to the loyalty of daughters for their fathers.

The daughter's loyalty was the father's weapon, a silent but destructive ammunition on which men could always count. The father sculpted his daughter and molded her to his will.

Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons.

It all began when he found you on Chicago's government pier, at the edge of Civilization and all its sins.

Above his head, night and its thick, speckled tapestry wove, as usual, the perfect place to conceal a plethora of crimes.

But certainly not the weeping—it drowned out the creaking of the merchant ship Dutch and Hosea had managed to plunder.

The outlaw turned and squinted, forgetting the bear fur to investigate the sound anomaly. It took him a few seconds to make out the small figure lurking in the shadows.

Wrapped up in an overcoat too big for you, you—a mere child at that time—shivered behind a barrel that reeked of rotting meat.

“What are you doing?” Hosea asked, his hand elbow-deep in a jewelry box. “Hurry up. Arthur and John are probably already on Dearborn Street.”

Dutch ignored his friend's protests and took a step towards you. Your face, innocent as can be and distorted by the ugliness of fear, blanched at his sight.

Your frightened eyes guided me to you, your father always said. Their tears aligned the stars, and I only followed my destiny.

You knew the truth—what had really caught his attention that evening had been the bloody knife you had brandished at him with trembling hands.

You would never forget the sparkle that shone in his eyes at the sight, nor the hand he offered you.

When your tiny fingers brushed Dutch's blistered ones—the fingers of a sinner—and the man promised you bed and a hot meal, the first poisoned drops of loyalty flowed and mingled with the night so easily that you didn't see their crimson color.

The first lesson Dutch taught you was how to shoot a gun. He gave you his, then too heavy for your small hand.

The dissonance between the tender skin of innocence and the ominous iron barrel disturbed Hosea (“Isn't it a bit too early for that? She's only seven. Show her how to pick pocket instead,”) but not Dutch, who merely smiled and corrected your grip on the weapon.

“For now, hold it with both hands. One on the stock, the other under the barrel. Your fingers should always be on or against the guard. Never on the trigger, unless you want to shoot yourself in the foot. Only pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.”

“How will I know I'm ready?” you asked in a timid voice.

A second passed. Dutch shrugged.

“You'll know when the time comes. Now, feet apart.”

His boot pushed against your frail ankle. 

“Bend your knees. Good. Now hold still.”

The man walked away. You almost reached out a hand but, remembering his words, quickly put it back under the barrel.

From a leather satchel, Dutch drew four glass bottles and placed them in a row. The remnants of a strong spirit, no doubt. The pungent aromas scented the camp often enough for you to recognize them.

The outlaw returned soon enough, and your shoulders relaxed. You had not been aware of their contraction until the scent of powder and musk embraced you again.

“You know how it works, don't you?”

You nodded shyly. A strand of hair escaped your braid and fell before your eyes. Dutch tutted. With a distracted hand, he tucked it behind your ear before pressing his palm against your shoulder blades.

“Now, both hands on the stock.”

You complied, hands trembling. Dutch pointed to the bottles with his chin as his hand at your back became more insistent.

“Try aiming for a–”

A deafening crack shook the barrel before Dutch had finished his sentence. The sound reverberated against the surrounding trees and the accompanying jolt struck your wrist with such force you were forced to let go of the gun.

Dutch's hand pressed against your shoulder blades.

“It's all right, it's all right. I've got you.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Dutch! I didn't mean to– ’m sorry!”

The words stumbled from your lips, drowned out by panic and the ghostly buzzing that persisted against your eardrums.

“It's very... noisy.”

“You'll get used to it,” the outlaw's voice snapped. “Do it again. But this time, breathe out before you fire. Your lungs must be empty, understand? It'll help with the recoil.”

Childlike fingers searched for the trigger.

“Empty lungs,” Dutch repeated.

The bottle, still intact, glinted in the sunlight. One of the rays shimmered against the barrel before disappearing as you aimed at the glass; a gloomy eclipse that made you shiver.

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled until you felt your ribcage fold in on itself, and hesitated only a second before firing.

The bullet whistled.

And disappeared in the bushes. 

You sighed.

“It's all right, Kid,” he reassured you. “We've got all the time in the world.”

You borrowed only an hour of the world’s time before a bottle finally exploded. Enchanted by the shattering glass, you turned back to Dutch, grinning from ear to ear.

And that singular sparkle reappeared in the man's brown eyes.

Years later, you would recognize this glint as that of an outlaw who had got his hands on a gold mine. For the time being, you were a mere seven-year-old and relished in the attention you were receiving for the first time in your life.

With your veins as the thread, loyalty wove its first stitches in your chest and condemned you to the worst curse of all: a daughter trying to make her dather proud.

At the age of twelve, you thus asked Hosea to teach you how to hunt. He took you to a forest on the edge of Chicago, not far from the camp, and placed a rifle in your blistered palms. Trapped between the silence of the forest and birdsongs, you shot a doe for the first time and regretted that Dutch could not be with you to see it.

At the age of fourteen, Arthur realized you weren’t going anywhere. Like him several years earlier, you had taken root and become a member of the pack—one of his to protect. When you were nearly killed during a stagecoach robbery, he handed you his old shotgun, muttering words about being more careful next time and left you standing there, with a new weapon in your arms.

At the age of fifteen, John tossed a bag full of throwing knives at your feet and dared you to hit the target drawn on the oak tree. Never one to pass on a challenge, you drew one out and weighed it on your finger. The steel, lighter than that of a revolver, nicked the pad of your index. John laughed. You raised an eyebrow and threw the dagger, stabbing it in the trunk as John looked on in disbelief. Behind you both, Dutch burst out laughing and you felt alive again.

Other members came and went over the next few years. Mary Linton didn't stay, but Susan and Tilly did, as Bill, Javier and Davey. You were introduced to other weapons—snipers, dynamite, bows, even axes—but you would always return to your revolver and the first memory of Dutch.

Loyalty wrapped itself around your neck for good when, at seventeen, you killed for Dutch for the first time.

Nothing remained of the sensation of that night on the pier, when the blade had sunk into the fat belly of the drunkard who had tried to rape you.

Today, dread was replaced by jubilation, as you reloaded the barrel of your revolver and blew the head off yet another O'Driscoll. Crouched behind a rock, adrenalin pounded your temples and sharpened your senses.

“Come out! Van Der Linde!” a voice taunted behind her. “Colm wants to say hello!”

A shadow in a green scarf swooped down on Dutch. You choked out a scream as the O’Driscoll threw the first punch.

“No, Father!”

Dutch fell in the mud with a grunt. The O'Driscoll turned back to her, a toothy grin on his lips. His fist, still clenched, was dripping blood. Your father's blood, you realized.

The butt of your revolver lacerated your palm as you tightened your grip around it.

“I didn't know good ol’ Dutch had a daughter! Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to see me blow your daddy's brains out?”

The Irishman grabbed Dutch's hair. You saw red and jumped.  

Three blows echoed through the clearing. Dutch fell back to the ground. The O'Driscoll raised a hand to his chest and blanched.

Empty lungs.

He collapsed, his scarf green no more.

You dropped your revolver and rushed to Dutch. The man was still lying on the ground, his face covered in mud and blood, but his bewildered eyes moved frantically as he caught sight of you.

“Are you all right?” you asked, breathless.

The look of disbelief didn't go away. Louisa thought at first of head trauma—his head, after all, had slammed against the floor—but when he got to his feet without your help, your own words came back to taunt you.

Your whole body froze before you straightened up and, avoiding his eyes, turned around to rush to your horse.

You straddled him and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“You called me ‘Father’,” he told her that evening, when you finally summoned the courage to go see him.

In silence, you sat at his bedside before grabbing a clean rag and soaking it with whisky. With a trembling hand, you wiped the clotted blood from the corners of her lips, searching their familiar shapes for the right words. Dutch always knew what to say.

“I did,” you admitted in a quiet voice.

He grabbed your wrist.

You tensed.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Dutch searched your face for something, but didn't seem to find it. He abruptly let go and pulled a cigar from his jacket’s patch pocket before lighting it. You watched the man take a short puff; for a moment, the arabesques of smoke diverted your mind from the anguish that swarmed within.

But Dutch's sigh plunged you right back into it. He spread an arm out.

You flinched but a hand between your shoulder blades prevented you from falling.

“Come here, Kid.”

You promptly burst into tears and fell into his arms.

Several minutes passed without either of you speaking. Dutch broke the silence first.

“Can I count on you?”

“I'll follow you all the way to Hell,” you immediately replied, unaware that the Styx and Phlegethon started from your father's wounds.

 “Dutch is just trying to get us out of here,” you sharply whispered to Arthur as you scoured tonight’s dinner’s dishes.

The incessant splashing of icy water was doing a poor job at masking your anger. The feeling of betrayal had cut too deep at your chest for that. It made your fingers shake as you rubbed a dirty coffee cup a little harder. 

Of all the members of the gang, you had never thought Arthur would doubt Dutch.

You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, reddened not by blood but by effort—a rare sight indeed. Lately, not a day went by without you being sent to kill someone.

You grabbed another plate to shake off the weight of guilt. The sponge squeaked against the iron and drowned your thoughts for a second.

“He ain’t been the same since Micah came,” Arthur began, “and you know it as well as me. Always talking about his big plan, dangling mountains of gold in front of us, but we both know it won’t happen.”

You slammed the bowl against the table, startling Pearson who was butchering a doe, and turned back to Arthur, your finger pointed at him.

“You don't know what you're talking about!”

“And you're blinded by your love for him! Look around, Y/N. We're the last. Civilization is on our doorstep. Dutch can't fight it. We've got to get out. John, Sadie and Abigail agree. Come along.”

A bitter laugh forced its way out of your chest.

“Please, love.”

You lowered your head and, with a lump in the throat, said softly: “Go away, Arthur.”

The gunslinger sighed and did just that. The strange sight made your lips part, ready to take back what you had just said, but no word came out. You clenched your fist.   

Dutch, you thought. Dutch will know what to do.

You abandoned the dishes and headed for your father's tent. Voices escaped from the canvas, and it only took you a second to recognize Micah's. You gritted your teeth. You didn't trust this snake any more than Arthur did, but one rotten apple did not spoil the whole barrel.

Both men fell silent when you came into view.

“Can I talk to you?” you asked Dutch.

“Not now, Kid. Micah got a lead that could be very good for us.”

Although his voice was soft, you couldn't help the pain that lacerated your chest. For the first time, Dutch had dismissed you. Beside him, Micah watched on with a victorious eye.

For a second, your fingers brushed against revolver at your belt, but you quickly recovered and, flashing your most convincing smile, nodded.

As soon as you turned, the facade dropped. You pushed back the tent flap with a trembling hand and, trying to ignore the crack that had just appeared, returned to your bedroll, where nightmares brought you back to the Chicago pier.

This time, no man reached out a hand.

Loyalty knew almost no bound—for only jealousy was a worthy rival and could, piece by piece, unravel the sacred stitches it sewed in hearts.

Micah Bell, more snake than man, had hissed his lies and perfidy into Dutch's sick ear—a modern reincarnation of the Garden of Eden where Eve would not bite the apple. No. This time, the sinner had only one name, ironic as it was.

Father.

The Daughter was and would remain a figure cursed by her sex—apple in the eyes of the Father, turned rotten with the appearance of a Son.

And what a son, you thought as Micah pointed his gun at an emaciated Arthur and a bruised John. A son who had ratted them out to the Pinkertons. A sellout. A traitor.

This thought awakened a rage you had hitherto tried to bury deep within yourself. It bubbled up in your veins and rattled your chest.

Slowly, your fingers slipped to your belt.

“All of you...” Arthur began, his revolver pointed at the crowd. “You pick your side, because this is over. All them years, Dutch... for this snake?”

“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke. Be quiet!”

You could not look away from your father. He hadn't answered. Why hadn’t he answered?

An enraged Susan Grimshaw sided with Arthur and snapped you out of your reverie. The rifle she was holding clashed with the strict image you had built up over the years.

“No. You be quiet, Mr. Bell… and put down your gun.”

“There’s Pinkertons coming, fast.”

Javier's announcement sent the camp into a deadly frenzy. Seizing his chance, Micah shot Mrs. Grimshaw, who collapsed to the ground in a bloodcurdling scream.

 “No!”

You fell to your knees and placed your hands on the gaping wound perforating her stomach.

“No, no, no, no, no... Not again, not again,” you whispered frantically.

You pressed harder on Mrs. Grimshaw's wound as she continued to writhe in pain. 

“Come on. Don’t die on me. Please,” you begged.

Kieran, Sean, Lenny, Hosea... How many friends had you lost? How many more names would join the cursed list? Would you be next?

Why hadn't Dutch answered Arthur's question?

Despite your pleas and efforts, Mrs. Grimshaw soon stopped moving.

When you felt the body exhale against your palm, you froze. As if they had a mind on their own, your hands slid to the muddy ground, now soaked with innocent blood.

You watched on with dull eyes.

“Who amongst you is with me…” Dutch's voice echoed behind her. “And who is betraying me?”

You raised your head and stared into Mrs. Grimshaw's dead eyes. Your hand shook. A few drops of blood dripped from it. You wiped them off on your jeans and clenched your fist before standing up on wobbly legs.

Meanwhile, the camp had divided itself: John and Arthur on one side, Dutch and the rest on the other.

And you, in the middle of this abyss, stood motionless, your chest empty.

It was only when Arthur collapsed in a coughing fit that you came back to life. You rushed to your brother and placed a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur's grip on his revolver wavered. The sight, so far removed from the gunslinger you had known all your life, tore at your heart. All had changed. Everyone you’d ever cared about was either a ghost of themselves or a decomposed corpse.

“He's lying... Cowpoke is lying,” Micah taunted, his two revolvers pointed at them.

That was the last straw. You let out an inhuman scream and drew your weapon.

“You!Shut the fuck up! I've had enough of your words!”

A toothy grin appeared on the blond's face.

“Oh... It seems the little one got claws after all.”

“Kid,” Dutch began but you kept your eyes and revolver on the traitor.

It's all his fault.

“Kid, put the gun down and come here,” Dutch ordered in a distracted voice.

No, in a confident voice.

After all, why should a model daughter disobey her father?

For the first time, you hesitated and glanced over your shoulder.

Arthur was watching you, his eyes tired but pleading. You recalled your conversation from weeks earlier.

He's not the same. We both know that.

You turned back to Dutch and searched his eyes for the familiar spark of the early days, but nothing but greed and arrogance swam in those irises.

You bowed your head and admitted defeat.

The Father's image withered before her very eyes. Loyalty evaporated in a second. The blood of the pact coagulated. The heart dried up. Already, the mind was feeling the poison’s effects and destroying the golden images to leave only the cold hard truth.

Suddenly, the choice seemed obvious.

You took a step towards Arthur and John.

“No,”

“What do you mean “no”?” Dutch laughed. “Come here, Kid, or–”

Your blood ran cold. The stitches of loyalty loosened and those of hatred replaced them.

“Or what? You'll shoot me? 

“Cut the crap and get over here, Kid!”

“I ain’t your kid!” you exploded.

Your voice echoed through the clearing. Dutch froze.

You took a deep breath and, hand trembling, pointed your revolver at him.

The sensation of déjà-vu strangled you. All you had to do was close your eyes to be transported to the Chicago pier. You could almost hear the creaking of the merchant ship and Hosea's muttering.

But Hosea is dead.

You tightened your grip on the butt of the revolver. The dozens of blisters covering your hands burst into flames. Dutch was the sole reason for their presence. If you burst them, would the blood of the victims you had killed for him flow?

“You're not my father,” you continued despite your quavering voice. “My father died when he chose to side with this traitor.”

Her index finger left the grip.

“Kid, put the gun down.”

If he'd wanted you to be an obedient daughter, why had he taught you to shoot at seven?

You went over the guard.

Empty lungs.

You exhaled.

A daughter's loyalty to her father knew no bound, except for the one Betrayal erected.

Then, filial rage spared nothing.

Not even the Father.

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1956 fashion photograph by Michel Molinare by totallymystified Via Flickr: From The Tatler magazine.

[frmulcahy]

Listening to an episode of the @antiquesfreaks podcast where they cover the costuming in The Terror and here are some amazing moments:

"But Ken, are you the only one of us that put themselves through reading the book?" "I did. Because John Bridgens was trapped inside and I had to get him out and if I read the book good enough, perhaps I could save him"

"If you don't tell these men what to wear, they're gonna look like straight up hoochies."

"As we see in the later episodes of The Terror and discipline does break down and Dundy just starts showing up to command meetings with his suspenders out! Slattern that he is!!!

"Victorian Navy: one to one analog to working at present day Target."

"I heard they flog you at Target."

"I was press ganged into working at Target."

"It's Victorian times. Everyone's wicked fucking repressed and they're about to get wicked un-repressed whether they like it or not, and they're going to show that through their clothing."

"a blur of muttonchops"

"I pre-gamed the show for 5 years with gifsets on tumblr to makes sure I would be able to tell at least the major speaking roles apart, and I still could not tell Little and Jopson apart until I figured out they had different eye colors."

"And now I'm Pilkington SpottingTM as a hobby"

calling JFJ a "fashionable boy" with his "nippies out" because he doesn't button up his coat all the way like Franklin and Crozier

The two regular hosts repeatedly comparing themselves to a delinquent class that their guest is stuck substitute teaching

"I think my character would be hitting a fat doobie right about now"

Discussing Jared Harris being obsessed with his own costuming details like all the mending on Crozier's clothes

Jopson's first appearance - "he's normal and they're normal and everyone's having a normal time here on this completely routine expedition." "It's so normal. Do you ever fall in love with your boss???" "It couldn't have been more erotic if they had just had gay sex."

Stanley and McDonald's button grouping on their uniforms to denote rank

THEY TALK ABOUT THE ICONIC JFJ GANSEEEYYY

Also Irving's Sanquhar scarf :')

"the red sweater of tenderness" sobbing screaming throwing up

"I think The Terror would have been improved if all of the marines had Boston accents for no reason"

Also marines vs normal sailors

comparing sailor's clothes to fast fashion because it's not very tailored lmaooo

The canvas overcoats being period inaccurate but still neat because they're referencing later polar expeditions like what we see on the guys in the Shackleton expedition etc

They talk about irl Goodsir's letter about clothes and the many many shirts!

Nive having to wear a cooling vest under her costume since it was real caribou fur and her coat being patched with sail cloth later.

They go into Yup'ik masks which is super cool! As well as have a conversation about the ethics of visuals/information/knowledge about indigenous artwork being shared with folks outside of those communities.

Repeated! Dan! Simmons! Roasting! As! They! Should!!!!!

Reapted! Nive! Nielsen! Praising! As! They! Should!!!!!!!!

Sophia's "oceanic color theme"

"They let the dresses have colors. The dresses have colors. The dresses have bright beautiful colors, and it's great."

"They had invented aniline dyes and they were about to make it everybody's problem!"

Lady Jane in more solids vs Sophia in more patterns

"'A woman could never possibly understand polar exploration' meanwhil Silna's up there doing it better than all of them."

Clowning on how other period pieces never use bonnets and always fuck up in the hair and makeup department

"I found Harry Goodsir's fursuit btw"

"On a scale of Calypso's Birthday to Fitzjames's Carnivale, how's your impromptu nautical drag ball going?"

"It's actually exactly like The Purge." "It's like a little Victorian maritime Purge."

"As far as metaphor and literary analysis and whatever, scurvy understood the fucking assignment."

"I punched in Scorbutic Nostalgia so that I could remember to read about it later." "I have some literature for you if you want." "Yeah fantastic! I love disease"

"CGI bear expensive"

"This episode comes with a heavy caveat of 'go to Terror Camp'" amazing.

THE DRESSTM

Tozer's Hotspur costume and Dundy's Henry VI costume and their relevance

"This is the last we see of Party!Dundy"

(About Little) "Every day he gets emails :("

Bridgler and Apollo/Hyacinthus stuff fuuuuuccckk

"Hodgepodge, my boy"

"Oompa loompa doompity dacticals, don't indulge your morals over your practicals"

"Rip Hickey you would've loved Joker"

Not a silly quote but just a really fantastic one: "That is what the best historical designers do, is they find these nuggets of information that allow them to tell a story with authenticity, both in a way that is historical but authentic to the characters as well." EXAAAACCCTTTLLLYYYYYY

"Whomst among us has not Joplarped to get through the workday?"

[ripstefano]

From The Russian Army 1914-18

Early War Uniforms (1914-1915)

At the outbreak of the war, Russian Imperial Army uniforms were traditional and formal, inspired by 19th-century European military fashion. Key features included:

Infantry: Soldiers wore the gymnastiorka, a pullover-style tunic with a standing collar, often in olive green or khaki to blend with rural landscapes. Rank was indicated by colored collar tabs and shoulder boards.

Headgear: Soldiers wore the M1910 peaked cap, which had a leather visor and badge. Officers and guards regiments wore the iconic shapka, a tall fur hat, especially in colder climates.

Footwear: Soldiers wore sapogi (knee-high leather boots), which were sturdy but hard to maintain on the battlefield.

Cavalry and Specialized Units: The cavalry wore the traditional long blue or dark green overcoat with distinct colored cuffs and collar insignia. Cossack and other specialized units had specific, unique uniforms, often featuring traditional garments like the cherkesska (a type of coat) and decorative braid.

Mid-War Changes (1915-1916)

As the war progressed, Russia’s economy and industry struggled to keep up with demand, leading to simplifications in uniforms:

Tunic: The gymnastiorka became simpler, often without the colored collar tabs or decorative elements. Khaki shades became standard as brighter colors were deemed impractical.

Greatcoat: The heavy wool shinel (overcoat) remained a staple, especially during harsh winters, but there was a shortage of quality fabric, and lower-quality cloth began to appear.

Headgear: Caps were simplified, with many soldiers receiving the budenovka (a soft, pointed wool cap) by 1917. This cap became especially popular in winter regions but had limited protection.

Late-War Uniforms (1917-1918)

The Russian military was increasingly influenced by revolutionary sentiments, and practical, minimal designs became the norm:

Tunic and Coats: Uniforms were pared down further, with basic olive-drab tunics and greatcoats. Rank insignia were minimal and often overlooked as soldiers became more focused on function than formality.

Insignia: Some units began to remove the imperial insignia altogether due to the influence of the Bolsheviks. Instead, red armbands or patches occasionally appeared.

Boots: Soldiers frequently substituted traditional boots with puttees (long cloth wraps) due to the shortage of leather, a trend seen across European forces during this period