#private label garments

[ameliaevansfashion]

How Will Technology And Automation Impact Fashion In The Future?

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[sharonallen246]

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[kapoor91]

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[clothingflannel]

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[activewearmanufacturer]

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[goenka01]

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[fionagomez-universe]

Alanic Global: Top Wholesale Clothing Vendors in Germany

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[oddfactory21]

[whorety-k]

Hello! If you get the inspiration to do so, would you write something with Roboute Guilliman + Gát from Azahriah. I think the song would fit him.

Also on another note, I love Ebony Coasts💜💜 Looking forward to the next part!

Nothing shows my absolutely awful schedule like Ebony Coasts having finished before I even got to your ask my love

I am SO SORRY

I had never listened to anything in Hungarian before this point so this was actually really pleasant for me. This song got me in a mood to destroy that blueberry though, so please forgive me.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman (40K) x gn!Reader

Song Inspiration: Gát - Azahriah [Youtube] [Spotify]

[Original Hungarian]

“Ezért nincsen bennem már szimpátia /

Elmegyek én bárhova, ha hívnak / Mert érezni akarom, amit régen /

Mert régen tönkrement valami bent / Valami bent, valaki bennem.”

[English Translation]

“That's why there's no sympathy in me /

I go anywhere if they call me / because I want to feel what I felt before /

Because in the past something broke inside / something inside, something in me.”

Warnings: Angst, Guilliman’s struggle to adapt to a new Imperium, relationship falling apart, heated argument, hurt / no comfort

Word Count: 2.5k (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 1000 OOPS)

The office light was dim, drained of warmth. Roboute could barely keep his eyes focused on his papers anymore, with how each stack continued to mesh and meld together in his mind. A request for aid in the Yannsi system. Reports of ork activity along an Imperial supplyway. Another noble house asking for his audience for a vaguely stupid reason in their horse-and-pony show. With a sigh, he pushed the expensive looking envelope off of the table and into the waste bin. 

Guilliman grew tired of it all.

But, in the name of the Imperium, he pushed onwards. Sheet after sheet, datapad after datapad, vox after vox.

He nearly missed the knock that rapped against the frame of the office doorway, timid and gentle. How he hadn’t seen them enter was either a show of focus or a token to his weariness, usually laser-focused senses dulled as day after day of piling issues droned by. Guilliman picks his head up out of his hands, rolling loose circles into his temples with his index and middle fingers. “Come in,” he beckons.

Your quiet footsteps echo in the chamber built to the size of a primarch. The scents of exhaustion and old sweat permeate the air, for even a being handcrafted by the Emperor himself is subject to the soil of exertion. 

Guilliman’s eyes soften substantially from their stress-induced glower as you draw near, but it’s not enough to fully smooth the deep-set furrow in his brow, or the everlasting scowl on his face. “My love, has something happened that needs my attention?” he inquires, leaning forward to get a better look at you. You stand before him in your favorite robe: a simple yet practical garment that he had gifted you for a holiday celebration, ultramarine blue silks embroidered with golden laurels along the neckline. He would give you so much more if you didn’t feel so guilty at receiving his affections, always so concerned with any excess spending given the state of the Imperium. He was too— more than you ever could be— but you were supposed to be his space away from the mess. It frustrated him to no end to be reminded of his family’s failings when he was actively trying to find an escape from it, and especially because he shouldn’t have you. 

You should have been long dead. After the failed Siege of Terra and the end of the Heresy, Guilliman had found you, a noble agent, desperately working far beyond your capacities within the Imperial Palace to keep things running. A tense friendship blossomed into an awkward, complicated relationship with private moments stolen whenever fate would allow. Neither of you were able or willing to put a label to it, given your pre-existing devotion to fixing the weakened state of the Imperium. Your knowledge of the parties both behind and beyond the Imperial walls proved invaluable to helping the Ultramarines hold it together, and Guilliman could not have been more grateful for your help. Roboute planned to express his gratitude and formally request your hand after your return from a diplomatic mission to help secure support from some of the world less affected by the heresy.

He never got the opportunity to do so. On the return voyage to Terra, your ship had been ambushed and knocked loose of its path in the warp. Your anticipated arrival date had come and passed, and no one heard any word from your vessel. Within an instant, any hope of creating a better future with you had been indirectly or directly ripped from him by his traitorous brothers, just as it had been before.

Roboute thought he had all but moved on by the time he was struck down by Fulgrim, thought had finally shaken the silent longing when he finally awoke from his ten millenia stasis into the disaster the Imperium of Man had become. The hellscape he has been thrust into gave him no time to dwell on any of the things he had lost ten-thousand years ago. It did not matter how hollow or angry he felt when everyone galaxy-wide was demanding something of him, and who better than the Avenging Son to fill the role? 

The day the vox came in that a ship with a downright ancient signature had entered Terra’s orbit is one he would never forget. Guilliman was prepared to have it destroyed, certain that the vessel had been overrun with chaos, but the sound of your voice asking for him over the vox channels stopped him. His hearts seized in his chest when you recognized him.

Roboute, is that you?

It’s been years. We just found a way out.

Roboute, can you hear me?

“Roboute.”

His head snaps up from his daze, not noticing how he had begun to nod off, lost in his ruminations. He hadn’t made the mistake of not asking for your hand soon enough a second time. The stern tone of voice alerts him that he’s missed whatever you had said before, and he sits forward again to reengage.. “I’m sorry, love. I am listening,” Roboute says, letting out the breath he had been holding.

You shake your head, gaze falling to the floor for a brief instant before your eyes find his again. “I asked you to come to bed, Roboute. You haven’t left the office for days, and I know you’re tired.” You call attention to his lapse with a gesture of the hand.

Guilliman’s scowl deepens, looking down at the paper before him on his desk. As tempting as that offer was... “I cannot, love. I am sorry.”

“Will there be a day I don’t hear that?” you rebut, stepping closer to his desk. Your head only barely hovers above it as you come near, resting a hand on the varnished wood. “Or shall I keep hoping?”

The primarch scoffs, taken aback at the rhetoric. He didn’t dismiss you that often… did he? His blue eyes burn into yours, expression hardening. “My work is important. It isn’t something I can just stop and abscond from. You know this.”

You fold your arms in response, doubling down. “Are these the conditions in which you can do your best work? Barely able to keep your head up?” 

For once, Guilliman can’t argue. His shoulders are tight, his neck tired and sore from staring down at a desk for longer than a baseline human could even stay awake without death. His eyes stopped burning after a certain point, now nearly numb. He tries to blink the feeling away, only to struggle with opening his eyes again.

It doesn’t go unnoticed under your gaze. “Come to bed, Roboute,” you plead, resting your chin upon his desk. Sapphires of the softest cobalt land on you, and you reach a hand out toward him. Your drowsy voice continues, “I hardly ever see you outside of this dreaded space. I don’t remember the last time we shared a bed together.”

His massive hand dwarfs your own when he takes it, stroking the delicate skin of the back of your hand. “I would like to join you– truly, I would– but I cannot afford to step away from this,” Guilliman asserts, voice gentle yet firm in his decision.

Your expression falls, as it always does. Guilliman expects you to nod your head and concede as you normally did, letting go of your hand to pick up a pencil once more. He finds the starting line of the report and begins to peruse the document. The Lord Governor of the—

“When will it be enough?”

Guilliman tenses up, tearing his gaze away from the words he was reading. Your voice completely blindsides him, and he isn’t even sure if he’s certain he heard what you said. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

“When will you have done enough, Roboute?” you repeat, stepping away from the wooden desk. As your full body comes into view, he can see how your limbs tremble with emotion. “When will you have reached a point that you are truly satisfied with what you’ve done?” Your voice comes as a challenge, crossing your arms over your chest once again. Your knuckles blanch with the force you grip yourself with.

It’s the second time you manage to render Guilliman completely speechless. When is enough, enough? He gawks as he looks you over, eyes jumping between your upset form and the page before him. It’s a question he didn’t allow himself to dwell on, unable to find a satisfactory answer. It has been, is, and always will be his responsibility to convert the raw data of a problem into something with a detailed solution; it was his strongest skill as a leader. He can stop when there are solutions.

You interrupt his train of thought with another siren call, holding eye contact as you tempt him away once more with your sweet voice. “Your standards you hold yourself to are honorable, but even the great Roboute Guilliman, son of the Emperor of Mankind, requires his rest.” 

And by the throne, he does. He well and truly does. Guilliman could use another ten thousand years in stasis if it wouldn’t make his problems any worse. Instead, though, he’s content to finish one more paper and go to bed. Finally, he nods, pushing aside a stack of documents to start tomorrow. It seems that Roboute would be the one conceding today, muttering, “I will join you shortly.”

Unfortunately for him, you aren’t having any of it. “No, you will come now,” you demand, putting your foot down. You continue, stern tone softening, “Please, if not for you, take care of yourself for me.”

The words make Guilliman’s head throb, irritation threatens to flare within him as the words cause an uncomfortable roiling within his chest. He buries his head into his hands with a grunt– it’s all he can do to prevent an annoyed growl of, “everything I do is for you,” from leaving him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries to cool his temper. “This final document is just a report from another world. It won’t take me long,” he promises.

“Then it can wait until tomorrow,” you argue, fed up with the barrage of excuses to continue. “I am serious, Roboute. One world’s ‘report’ is not the end-all, be-all of the Imperium. I know that you are under a lot of strain to fix the mess we’re in–”

Guilliman abruptly sits up, chair flying back as he stands to full height. You can barely perceive the flash movement before the clash of the chair hitting the wall makes you jump. “And you could possibly hope to understand?” Guilliman spits, slamming his hands onto the table. The shout of the primarch instinctually drowns you in dread, and you’re unable to stop the reflexive trembling that kicks in as you stare up at him. Guilliman is furious, all of the signs of exhaustion he had exhibited so plainly before replaced with vitriol. He continues, voice laced with venom, “You could hope to understand what it is to be left with the bloated corpse of my father’s legacy, forced to pick up the pieces as nothing but a tool in his stead as everything he fought for has been so thoroughly perverted? When the mere thought of how things were before is now heresy, despite those fanatics worshiping a book written by a traitor?” His breathing labors, desk creaking precariously with the force he’s exerting upon it. At your lack of response, Guilliman scoffs again. “No,” he growls, turning away, “your mind couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of the pressure placed upon me.”

Your eyes burn with tears, cheeks warm and wet. The outburst leaves you completely shaken, clutching at your sides like a cornered animal. The sight alone fills Roboute with remorse, but you don’t give him the chance to apologize. “I was there,” you utter through shaky breaths. Roboute’s mouth clamps shut. “I lived the old Imperium, picked up the pieces of it beside you. Do you think this has been easy for me?” you press, unable to look the primarch in the eye. “I spent five years in the warp, unsure of whether or not I would ever leave it. Would I die there? Would I find a fate worse? What if one of your brothers was to find me?” Each word punches him in his chest, hearts heavy with the weight of instant regret. He can see how you tremble as you relive what you went through, all at the cost of his loud mouth. “I never gave up, even when so many others had, driven to insanity or the depths of depression. I continued to fight when even the Astartes had one-by-one resigned themselves to fate.” Hot tears roll down your cheeks, and you begin to find confidence in your words as your fear turns into rage, jabbing an accusatory finger in Guilliman’s direction. “I survived to find you again, and I have done nothing but stand by your side and help you try to make heads or tails of the absolute fucking mess we’re in. Does that mean nothing?”

Guilliman doesn’t look away from you as you verbally lash into him. Despite his pride, he knows you’re right. You haven’t truly been wrong once this evening, and in his stubbornness, he has only managed to make everything worse for the both of you. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Of course you didn’t, because you’ve only been thinking about yourself and what will become of you. Will your torment ever end?” you spit back, cutting him off. He bows his head, lips drawn tight. Tense silence fills the room as your words hang heavy in his mind. You shake your head, letting out a muffled sob. “I will be in the bedroom when you remember yourself, Roboute Guilliman.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and march out of the room, leaving Guilliman alone in the office with his thoughts. He can only stare at the doorway before the rush of the moment leeches out of him, causing him to slump down into his chair. Guilt claws in his chest, up his throat like an angry badger. His head spins as it fills with everything he should have said, should have done, instead of making a damned fool of himself. The rift between the two of you grew evermore.

Guilliman picks up his pencil from the floor, drawing the planetary report in front of him so he can focus again on the only thing he’s actually sure he’s worthy of anymore: fixing logistics.

[ameliaevansfashion]

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[lurkinglilyrice]

No one asked me to, but I’m expanding off my previous post that Sarcean from Dark Rise/Heir gives me Yiling Patriarch (Wei Wuxian) from mdzs vibes. I apologize for gushing about these two characters from fandoms that have nothing to do with one another (aside from being mlm).

To get the obvious comparisons out of the way: they’re both societally infamous, morally gray bi icons with long black hair, a dark aesthetic, a bit of arrogance, and powers of some degree to raise people from the dead.

**spoilers for dark heir/rise and mdzs ahead**

Now past that, there is deeper a connection in how Sarcean’s and Wei Wuxian’s (in his Yiling Patriarch era) powers were labeled as “dark” or “demonic,” yet simultaneously perceived as useful when used in a manner aligned with the “light/good” side.

In the beginning, they both work for the good side while standing out as the black sheep. For Sarcean, the scene in particular that highlights this is the procession with the Sun King where everyone is described as a “river of sunlight, all those riding with the king dressed in shimmering white and gold,” until it cuts to, “All but one. With his long black hair and garments, Sarcean was like a crow among birds of paradise.”

This depiction is shockingly similar to Wei Wuxian amongst the other cultivators during the Sun Shot campaign. They both have this aura of darkness and have shockingly unique powers compared to the other “respectable” magic users that they work with. And this uniqueness was only tolerated as long as they toed the line of what the “good” side approved of.

Now, both of their pasts bring up the questions—exactly what magic is respectable and what magic is ethical? The stewards had no qualms about using the Dark King’s (Sarcean’s) chalice to gain their powers, but that was only after they denounced him. Likewise, years after the Yiling patriarch’s death, the cultivators continued to use his inventions and tried to recreate his yin tiger tally in private. It isn’t that the light/good side thinks that their dark powers are bad, they only think they’re bad if Sarcean or Wei Wuxian have control of them. It comes down to power, jealousy, and possession. On the surface the “good” side labels them as heretics and a threat to their traditional principles, yet this is only because they secretly covet their powers.

The Yiling Patriach isn’t a true villain, but he also does unarguably villainous things. And is that not exactly the same for Sarcean as the “Dark King”? The light side pushed both of these characters into the dark by making them out to be the villain, and as a result, obviously they do unequivocally bad things.

And both of these characters are reborn and get to evaluate their past actions, as well as the actions of the “good” side.

So yes I love my precious dark bicons with luscious long hair and morally gray pasts.

[kapoor91]

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[clothingflannel]

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[activewearmanufacturer]

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[nexility-sims]

have been feeling listless and unmoored re: sims stuff lately, but i got a healthy dose of inspiration from @warwickroyals & @prydainroyals this past week, so i did a little succession / magazine-ish thing :^) obviously beatriz's 2023 death would be commemorated in uspanian vogue !!!!! obviously !!!!

transcribed text below:

Fashion is a Royal (and Family) Affair

That Crown Princess Barbie is a student of Uspanian style isn’t a surprise. For this issue, she recounts the historical episode at the heart of our memorial for the late Queen Beatriz. Pictured above in private photos are: Mother Desideria in 1860; Mother Zuriñe in 1885; Mother Rowena and then-Crown Prince Alfonso in 1926.

THE “BIRDIE” ISSUE OF VOGUE USPANA debuted in 1973. At the time, the magazine was in its infancy. An issue shaped by the queen—and it was, from cover to cover, driven by her desires and presence—ensured longevity. It proved to be a bestseller. Clothes, too, flew off the racks as Uspana’s designers received a boost among popular consumers. A textiles renaissance commenced among women of a certain class who had been looking elsewhere for quality fabric. Then and now, this was the mission of the magazine: loyalty to Uspanian fashion. The Birdie issue was a testament to this, from the sensibilities it imparted to the sourcing of its materials. The queen’s favorite designers, stylists, and photographers filled the issue; it made them iconic, and they would continue to set national trends for decades to come. More importantly, the Birdie issue fit into a larger project underway during Beatriz’s reign. Foreign fashion’s creep into the Uspanian mainstream had started two centuries before Beatriz obtained the Crown, but it reached its cultural apex under the sway of her mother. Uspana’s people had long reviled Queen Rowena’s taste in one breath and wished to emulate it in the second. The two women were not seemingly opposed in a diametric sense. They overlapped under the label of “extravagant,” namely, but Beatriz was forgiven her excess. The Birdie issue, in retrospect, shows why. In an initial meeting with the queen, she told then-editor Lluc Soler that she cared deeply about a “revival” of traditional fashion in the country. Soler replied that traditional fashion was alive and well—“in the mountains, with the grandmothers.” Some in the annals have suggested that this retort led to control of the issue being ceded informally to a team with whom the queen preferred to work. (By 1975, Papan Ibarra had risen from those ranks to become the magazine’s new editor-in-chief, a position she occupied until 1991.) Nonetheless, a certain truth in Soler’s statement formed the foundation of the issue. It did draw heavy inspiration from those grandmothers in the mountains. This included people such as the queen’s own grandmother, Mother Zuriñe, who readily embraced the aesthetics of Yaas and was a master weaver in her own right. The cover reflected the elevated homage orchestrated within. On it, Birdie herself posed in a wool rebozo hand-dyed with cochineal. This garment was a perfect duplicate of the so-called suncloths the queen’s great-grandmother, Mother Desideria, wore on a regular basis in the late nineteenth century. Fittingly, it was also topped with a replica inspired by the time. One of the many jewelry pieces destroyed during the 1880s had been the Shield Flower tiara with its red fire opal set in gold and symbolic allusions to the sacrifice and self-immolation of Uspana’s founding mothers. Queen Beatriz wore tiaras on many occasions, but it was widely known that she preferred to wear the true Uspanian symbol of elite regalia: the jade necklace. For that reason, jade

BIRDIE, 1973 Shield Flower tiara by Xiuhcozcatl for the House of Tecuani. Rebozo by Quilatzli Castañeda. Necklace creator unknown. Fashion editor: Papan Ibarra.