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fledglingwings · 2 years ago

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Cute Sharara for Girls Indian Festive Wear in USA in 2023

A sharara set is a combination of clothing that consists of a straight Kurta and loose, wide-legged trousers. Shararas are flexible to stroll and whirl in since they are loose-fitting. Sharara benefits all body types very nicely and comfortably. If you are thin, it makes you appear fuller; conversely, if you are a little healthy, it makes you appear thin. Sharara suits are therefore a suitable outfit for both festive parties and weddings.

This is one of the most well-known ethnic clothing ensembles that are renowned for giving festive look and regal charm to your princess. Additionally, the Sharara sets market provides Indian women with a unique range of sets that perfectly match their body curves. Sharara sets are popular for summer weddings.

What is the Main Factor to Choose Sharara Sets for the Wedding Season?

Comfort is one of the main factors making sharara sets the ideal choice for the Indian festive season. No one can resist these trendy yet comfy ethnic clothing items for little girls. Sharara sets are available in a variety of patterns, motifs, and colors, with short or long Kurtis. Nevertheless, they do not sacrifice the wearer's comfort. Each pattern is simple to wear for extended lengths of time. They are without a doubt the most classic and portable ethnic clothing items for girls.

Where Can You Buy kids sharara sets in the USA?

Without a doubt, sharara sets are quite fashionable right now. They are unquestionably the best choice for celebrations and weddings. However, you must check out the huge selection of sharara suits offered by Fledgling Wings if you want to buy a gorgeous sharara outfit. Our selection offers sharara sets with distinctive patterns and motifs. We designed kids' clothes with high-quality and comfortable fabrics.

Here are some beautiful sharara sets for little princesses.

● Nazakat Sharara Set

Nazakat Sharara Set

The pink sharara set is crafted in cotton. The beautiful floral print pattern makes this outfit more eye-catching. Net dupatta and gotta lace detailing on sharara and shirt give it a classic look. It is perfect for summer weddings.

● Darpan Sharara Set

Darpan Sharara Set

The stunning Sharara Set is designed in pure cotton. Floral prints boost their beauty. Gotta lace work on Sharara and kurta makes them more attractive. The yellow dupatta gives it a chic look.

● Gulmohar Hand Block Sharara Set

Gulmohar Hand Block Sharara Set

Gorgeous Sharara Set crafted in cotton. HNd block print pattern makes this outfit more. Gotta lace detailing on Kurta and Sharara to give a chic look. Net Dupatta makes it more graceful and trendy.

Conclusion

In the USA Indian women want to buy traditional wedding dresses for summer wedding festivals. Fledgling Wings provide perfect outfits for your little princess with high-quality fabric and elegant design and Indian prints. You can buy your little girl gorgeous outfits with free shipping, easy returns, and refundable custom duties. Our special offer Buy 3 get % also here for you. Enjoy shopping!

#indian kurti usa #indian clothes online usa #salwar kameez online usa #girls lehenga choli #convertible dress #block print cotton dress #boho beach dress #frill dress #short caftan dress #kids ethnic wear #kids indian clothes #anarkali suit

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literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

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Word List: Fashion History

to try to include in your poem/story (pt. 2/3)

Exomis - a short, asymmetrical wrap garment pinned at the left shoulder, worn by men in Ancient Greece

Eye of Horus - or Wedjat eye, is an ancient Egyptian symbol that represents the eye of the falcon-headed god Horus and symbolizes healing and regeneration and was often worn for protection

Faience - a man-made ceramic material that was often used in ancient Egypt to make jewelry and devotional objects; it is usually a blue color

Falling Band - a flat and broad white collar often with lace on the edges, worn by men and women in the 17th century

Fibula - served as a pin to both hold garments together and to show status of those with prestige or power within society; was popular in Greek culture

Fichu - a triangular shawl, usually worn by women, draped over the shoulders and crossed or fastened in the front

Fontange - a linen cap with layers of lace and ribbon, worn flat and pinned to the back of the head

French Hood - a rounded headdress for women that was popular in the 16th century (from 1540)

Frock Coat - a collared man’s coat worn through the eighteenth to the twentieth century; rose to prominence mainly in the nineteenth century, especially Victorian England; characterized as a knee-length overcoat, buttoned down to the waist, that drapes over the lower half of the body like a skirt

Frogging - ornamental braid or cording that can function as a garment closure, or be solely decorative

Gabled Hood - a woman’s headdress that is wired to create a point at the top of the head and has fabric that drapes from the back of the head

Gigot Sleeve - a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist; also called leg-of-mutton sleeve

Guipure Lace - a type of continuous bobbin lace made without a mesh ground; its motifs are connected by bridges or plaits

Himation - a rectangular cloak wrapped around the body and thrown over the left shoulder worn by the ancient Greeks

Huipilli/Huipil - a woven rectangular shirt worn by women in Central America beginning in ancient times

Jerkin - a close-fitting men’s jacket, often worn for warmth, sometimes without sleeves; worn over a doublet in the 16th and 17th centuries

Justaucorps - a long-sleeved, knee-length coat worn by men after 1666 and throughout the 18th century

Kaftan - (also caftan) is an ancient garment, which originated in ancient Persia but then spread across Central and Western Asia; a kind of robe or tunic that was worn by both men and women

Katazome (stencil printing) - a traditional Japanese method for printing designs onto fabric using a stencil and paste-resist dyes

Kaunakes - one of the earliest forms of clothing; made from goat or sheep’s wool and meant to be worn around the waist like a skirt, it is recognizable by its fringe detailing

Kente - a Ghanaian strip woven textile that has striped patterns and bright colors with corresponding meanings

Knickerbockers - or “knickers” are full or baggy trousers gathered at the knee or just below and usually fastened with either a button or buckle; were initially worn by men in the late 19th century and gradually became part of women’s fashion; the garment was usually worn as sportswear and became especially popular among golfers and female cyclists, hence the term “pedal pushers”

Kohl - a black material made out of minerals such as galena and used for eyeliner and eye protection in ancient Egypt

Labret - a type of lip-piercing worn by various cultures to indicate wealth, prosperity and beauty

Love Lock - a lock of hair from the nape of the neck hanging over the chest to show romantic attachment; it was a popular hairstyle between 1590-1650

Lurex - a shiny synthetic fiber made of aluminum-coated plastic with a glittering metallic sheen

Mantua - a jacket-like bodice with pulled back overskirt that bustled in the back, often in elaborately patterned fabric, first worn in the 17th century

Medici Collar - a collar that stands upright on the back of the neck and opens in the front; this type of ruff was introduced to France by Marie de’ Medici in the 16th century, taking her name two centuries later

Moccasins - a type of soft animal skin shoe that were worn by Indians in North America

Muff - a tubular padded covering of fur or fabric, into which both hands are placed for warmth

Mule - a backless shoe

Muslin - a simple plain-weave textile made out of cotton and available in varying weights and finishes; historically, there were also varieties of muslin in silk and wool

Needle Lace -often known as “needlepoint lace”; is a term referring to the technique in which the lace is made of entirely needle work; it developed in the 15th century and then became very popular throughout the 16th century

Nemes Headdress - starched, striped linen headdress that draped on the shoulders and had a tail at center back worn only by royals in ancient Egypt

Panes/Paning - a method of decoration using long parallel strips of fabric arranged to reveal a contrasting fabric underneath that was fashionable from the 15th-17th centuries

Panniers - an under-structure used in eighteenth-century fashion that created a shape wide at the sides and flat at the front and back

Pantalettes - (also referred to as pantaloons) are loose, pants-like undergarments that covered women’s lower halves in the late 18th and early 19th century

Particolored - the combination of different colors within the same garment along the vertical axis

Passementerie - an additional accent or embellishment in silk or metallic threads, such as an embroidered braid, tassel or fringe

Pattens - wooden-soled platform over-shoes, which were commonly worn from the 14th century to the 18th century

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Fashion History ⚜ Word Lists

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lotties-ashwagandha · 1 year ago

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POLAROIDS

pairing: lottie matthews x fem!reader

word count: 705

notes: this ended rlly abruptly and is short but ive been sick and im on my period so im a bit out of it rn . also not proofread

summary: you find old pictures of you and lottie when you were in high school, and she reminds you of how bad you played the long game with her. requested by @may-z3 <333

You sat on the floor, next to where the spilled pile of pictures laid, and dug through them. There were years worth of them, most of them random shots you’d taken during Lottie’s soccer games but many of them also pictures with each other that you’d made Shauna and Jackie take during sleepovers or when you went out for pizza after games. There were also a few candids of Lottie that you’d snuck, and looking back at them you resisted a laugh — if only you’d known then that all these years later you’d still be with her, that you would wake up with her every morning and go to bed with her each night.

There were even a few pictures of the two of you post-crash. There were less of them than the ones before, and it was obvious how much the two of you had been struggling when you took them, but they were beautiful nonetheless.

A knock at the open door caught your attention, and you turned to see Lottie leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a soft smile. She was radiant, as she always was, clad in her dark blue caftan, her dark hair hanging over her shoulders and down her back in heavenly waves.

“What are you looking at?” She asked, her voice like honey as she approached you and sat on her knees on the floor at your side.

“I was trying to clean the closet for once, and all of these fell out,” you said, and handed her a few pictures of the two of you by the field at one of her soccer games. “Most of them are before the crash, and they’re so…” you trailed off, nostalgia overcoming you, and you reached for her hand.

Lottie picked up another picture and giggled, and when you reached for it she hid it to her chest, shaking her head. “No, you can’t have this one.”

“Why not? What is it?”

“I took it,” she said, but she wouldn’t provide any explanation.

“Lottie,” you asked suspiciously, failing to suppress a smile, “what is the picture?”

She didn’t respond, and your jaw dropped.

“Is it dirty?” You asked, and her eyes widened.

“No!” She urged, shaking her head. “God, your mind is horrible, no, it’s not dirty. I got pissed at you one night when we were at a sleepover at Shauna’s and I… I painted your face while you were asleep. Just a little. But then Lara Lee made me take it off.”

“What the fuck?” You asked, your tone light, and you snatched the picture. In it you were laying in a sleeping bag in Shauna’s room, and the words I LOVE STINKY ASSHOLES had been painted on your face in what appeared to be red lipstick. “Oh my god,” you breathed, not sure whether you were going to laugh or cry, and beside you Lottie turned red.

“I was mad because you weren’t going to prom, and I didn’t have the courage to ask you to go with me,” Lottie explained, her embarrassment obvious. “But in my defense, I was getting incredibly mixed signals with you long gaming me.”

“Oh, I was not long gaming you!” You laughed, shaking your head. “I was just terrified that you’d reject me.”

She gave you a dubious look, raising her eyebrows. “It’s the same thing.”

“In any case, I won in the end,” you said. “So even if I was playing the long game with you, it worked out pretty well.”

“Don’t make me paint your face again in your sleep.”

“I feel like that’s an empty threat,” you decided, handing her back the picture of you with your face painted. “You can keep that picture, though, if you want to reflect on your past victory.”

“Oh, I’ll be framing it,” she smirked. “I’ll put it on the dresser so you can see it every morning.”

#lottie mathews x reader #lottie matthews #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader

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lizzybeth1986 · 6 months ago

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Laylat al-Henna

Book: The Royal Romance

Rating: PG

Pairing: Kiara Theron x Hana Lee

Word Count: 1, 882 words

Summary: It's the night before Kiara and Hana's wedding! What fun things do Kiara's cousins from Fes have in store for their henna night?

A/N: You'll find details and visuals on the fashion and henna designs (as well as faceclaims for the OCs!) in this post.

Tagging @kiaratheronappreciationweek for KTAW Day 1: Culture, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW/LGBTQ Archive, @choicespride as well even though it may be a bit early for the pride event.

It is tradition - Kiara has been told over and over, wedding after wedding, from the time she was twelve - for a woman to have her bridegroom's name hidden in the designs of her henna.

Their families back in Fes would make a game of it on their wedding night; the groom could touch his bride only when he found his name, tiny and dark and perfect - leaving the most beautiful stain on her palms.

At least four (well...three, really) of those cousins had giggled over how it all went down at their own wedding nights. Nour's henna had her husband's name written in extremely small print, squirreled away among a row of curls. Imane's flowed along the curves of a large, floral paisley. Nissrine's husband was rumoured to have taken hours searching for his name in her henna and poor Fatimazahra's collapsed into an eight-hour slumber before he could even truly try.

All four of them laughed even harder when they were told that Kiara would be marrying a woman.

At first Kiara assumed it had to be the fun of celebrating two brides rather than just one. Double the joy, double the dancing, double the bridal henna!

Should've known better, Kiara mutters to herself as her eyes search frantically for telltale signs of calligraphy along the darkened vines on Hana's palm.

She almost lets out a triumphant yell when she catches a lovingly inscribed kaaf, deceptively mirroring the vines. That's before she realises the other four letters are scattered in Arabic all over Hana's palm.

Kiara purses her lips, immensely annoyed. Why did she think this to be so romantic in the first place?

"Oh!" Hana whispers in delight, "Look! I've found mine." Her finger lightly traces the soft skin underneath Kiara's little finger, caressing the spot where her own name is inscribed, in Mandarin....as a whole word. Her eyes sparkle in childlike glee.

Kiara manages to catche an alif peeking out from behind a flower on the soft skin just below Hana's thumb. She lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking her head.

Perhaps she should thank every deity of every faith that her parents' gave her a name as short as Kiara. Imagine her plight if it had been as long as Fatimazahra's, zut alors.

"My darling cousins," she says, her eyes still roaming over Hana's palms. Now...now she understands all those hearty cackles Nour seemed to be making, at the idea of arranging a henna party for two women. "Elles me conduiront à ma tombe!"

Every woman at the henna party in Castelserraillan that night shared very knowing grins as Kiara and Hana entered - completely blissed out, skin dewy and aglow, a mixture of a french lavender scent and the earthy aroma of ghassoul clay emanating from their bodies.

They'd been brought into the hall like princesses of old, carried in jewelled palanquins, dressed in caftans and takchitas whose golden threads reflected the soft light of the hall, the candles that seemed to receive their own henna treatment in tones of pink, purple and rose gold, and their light glowed softly in trays of pure gold.

Having experienced the joys of the pre-henna night hammam baths themselves, most of Kiara's aunts and cousins could tell how good the treatments must have been within the first ten minutes of a bride entering the ceremony.

Beneath her golden veil, Kiara's eyes roamed around the hall, in awe of the sheer love and detail that must have gone into planning this party alone. Both women being daughters to a multitude of cultures meant that Kiara and Hana had to pay their respects to several of their homes - Bethulia. Castelserraillan. Udvada. Orleans. Fes. Shanghai. Cordonia. - in different ceremonies, and include a multitude of relatives.

Which meant that Kiara's aunts and cousins knew this night was their moment to shine.

Hana was whisked to another corner of the room before Kiara could even get a chance to speak to her - a bevy of ladies already surrounding her to fulfill requests, give her mint tea, admire the henna's artist's craft or just for a small chat. Anything and everything Hana wanted. Tonight (and this was exactly how Kiara wanted it) Hana was going to be treated like a queen.

From under her lashes, Kiara sneaked a look at Hana. The woman she would call her wife tomorrow. Listening, nodding, her silken brown hair catching the glow of the lights as she threw her head back at a joke her aunt Hala said.

"If you stare any harder you'll bore a hole in the wall behind her," Nissrine came to her, grinning as she followed Kiara's gaze. She looked around the hall, slightly doubtful. "How did we do?"

Kiara laughed, placing her free hand on her cousin's arm, reassuring her with the word they would all use to describe something as beautiful. "Zwina."

Fatimazahra - who had been minding the caterers this whole time - seemed to appear out of nowhere, chukling. "Tomorrow is her wedding night. Of course everything will be zwina. The macroute will be zwina, her henna will be zwina, her wife will be the most zwina."

Kiara moved her gaze from Hana to her own palms, admiring the naqasha's speed and precision. The henna felt cool on her left palm, the designs on her arms already beginning to dry a little and the paste itself smelling pleasant and earthy - the way real henna should.

The naqasha - an experienced henna artist from their hometown whose team had become popular among the family circles for their vast knowledge of different henna styles (Indian, Pakistani, Khaleeji, Fassi, Marrakechi, Meknessi, Saharawi - you name it) - had finished making a beautiful dome at the centre of Kiara's palm, and was now referring to a tiny piece of paper Imane seemed to have given her before carefully writing out Méihuā - the name Hana's paternal family often used for her - in Hànzì script.

Kiara smiles mistily as she watches Soraya, the naqasha, labour over each character of the script, making sure she never got a single line or slant wrong. Hana often told her that that name reminded her of happier times, far more than her own birth name did. It meant plum blossom - the flower that grew fragrant and resilient in the snow, China's national flower. Her Năinai's favourite flower.

And over the past year...she'd begun to answer to it a little more too.

Kiara mouthed a silent "thank you" to Imane as she sauntered to her side, looking very pleased with herself.

"Wonderful work, Soraya," she patted the naqasha lightly on her shoulder, "What oils did you add in the henna paste this time?"

"Tea tree, geranium and lavender," Soraya said, smiling, "She can hold her hands in front of some herbal incense later. A lovely rich colour and the scent will be incredible."

"Ohhh...what a deep stain it'll leave behind when the henna comes off!" Imane looked back at Kiara, winking. "Remember what our aunts used to tell us, Kiara? The darker the stain of the henna, the deeper the essence of his love. Or her's, in this case."

Kiara was grateful for her golden veil as heat creeped up her neck. Maman loved that adage, ever since her own wedding where - if Kiara's aunts were to be believed - her henna deepened to a dark, rich brown without even holding her hands to a brazier like everyone else did.

Kiara always liked to call herself a practical woman. But this didn't stop her from dreaming of showing Hana her palms, rich and deep brown from both henna and their love.

"Is Hana liking her designs?" Kiara asked Imane.

"Iyyeh," Imane nodded. "Soraya's girls have really outdone themselves. Indian designs are usually very elaborate, but Hana wanted something simple, a little floral."

She gave Kiara a wolfish grin, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I think you're going to love it."

Kiara narrowed her eyes at Imane. She knew that look. It was the kind she would give all her cousins when, as children, she was about to do skin her knees climbing the branches of a fig tree.

Kiara was going to open her mouth to ask what Imane had in mind, when the low, deep strains of the guembri rang throughout the room.

It was Nissrine's younger sister Nour, closing her eyes in reverence and plucking the strings of the family guembri - a legacy from her father, a renowned Gnawa master himself. The guembri had been in the family for generations, itself decorated with henna patterns so intricate it would amaze even the best of naqashas.

As the women in her family got up to dance to "Toura Toura", a song Kiara would listen to and relish in 12 hour lilas every year in Fes (singing in Bambara - a language neither she nor her cousins truly understood but loved to hear), she found herself somehow dancing next to the woman she had been craving to see for the last few hours.

"Well, hello there," Kiara said, sneaking a kiss to Hana's cheek.

Hana giggled. "Fancy running into you."

They danced until their feet were sore, until their eyes begged for sleep, until their henna dried - leaving behind a stain that was a deep, dark, rich brown.

"They did that on purpose!" Kiara huffs, ten minutes after she has triumphantly shown Hana the final letter - the rāy curling at the base of her wrist. "They were planning to annoy and vex me this entire time. If they were here right now I'd tell them to go cook themselves an egg."

For all her grumbling, however, Kiara was quite overjoyed. She had hoped that her extended family in Fes would adore Hana just as much as she did, that they would love her and pamper her silly. They went above and beyond; they made Hana's first real experience of Morocco practically unforgettable.

It was. In every sense of the word. Even if that involved secretly pulling Kiara's leg.

Hana pouts, her fingers still tracing the name on Kiara's palm. "I wish they scattered letters for me too. Seems like more of a challenge." She shifts a little more into Kiara's arms, turning her gaze to her own palms. "Not that I don't love your henna already. It's gorgeous; look at these curls in the center! They remind me of a compass rose."

Hana runs her fingers purposefully along the length of Kiara's body. She presses five tiny kisses along her face.

"A kiss for each letter," she hums happily against Kiara's skin, "A just reward for your hard work."

Laughter bubbles in Kiara's throat. "Only five?"

"Kiara Yasmine Thorne," Hana's voice takes on a raspy, sultry quality, "Don't be greedy."

"Ma moitie," she whispers back, "I believe tonight's the one night when greed is allowed."

Hana bites her lower lip to stem her own laughter, then lets her lips roam free over Kiara's face.

"Fine, then," Hana huffs in mock-petulance, only too happy to go along with the joke, "Eighteen kisses it is."

Kiara buries her hands in Hana's hair as she breathes in the fragrance from between her shoulder and neck. "I won't mind if you give me more...but alright. Eighteen's a start."

Translation -

Darija:

Kaaf (ك), yaa (ي), alif (ا)(twice), rāy (ر) are the isolated letters that - I think - will form Kiara's name in Arabic. I believe that it may look somewhat like this (كيارا) when written as one word, but the letters are meant to be scattered around Hana's henna just to tease Kiara.

Ghassoul/Rhassoul clay - a type of clay that some people use as a cosmetic product for their skin and hair. It’s a brown clay only found in a valley in the Atlas mountains of Morocco. The term “rhassoul” comes from an Arabic word that means “to wash.” Typically used in hammam baths.

Zwina - a compliment, literal meaning is beautiful or good.

Macroute - a diamond shaped sweet cookie filled with dates and nuts or almond paste.

Naqasha - Henna artist

Guembri - a three stringed skin-covered bass plucked lute used by the Gnawa people

Lila - a rich ceremony in the Gnawa community, of song, music, dance, costume, and incense that takes place over the course of an entire night, ending around dawn. Learn more here.

Toura Toura - Popular Gnawa song. Here is a version by Innov Gnawa.

French:

zut alors - an expression of annoyance, like saying "darn!" or "damn!", mostly used in non-serious instances.

Elles me conduiront à ma tombe! - They will lead me to my grave!

Va te faire cuire un œuf! - Literally, "go cook yourself an egg!". An expression of annoyance, similar to "go take a hike!" or "leave me alone!"

#kiara theron #the royal romance #the royal heir #the royal finale #kiaratheronappreciationweek #KTAW #KTAW Day 1 #KTAW Day 1: Culture #content: fanfic #lizzybeth1986

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paganimagevault · 1 year ago

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Kizil Cave 8 - aka Cave of the Sixteen Sword-Bearers 5th-7th C. CE

Murals from the Kingdom of Kucha, whose language was Tocharian B. The Kizil Caves are the oldest Buddhist major cave complex in China. Tocharians were very influential in spreading Buddhism in China.

"As the territories ruled by the Hephthalites expanded into Central Asia and the Tarim Basin, the art of the Hephthalites, characterized by the clothing and hairstyles of the figures being represented, also came to be used in the areas they ruled, such as Sogdiana, Bamyan or Kucha in the Tarim Basin (Kizil Caves, Kumtura Caves, Subashi reliquary). In these areas appear dignitaries with caftans with a triangular collar on the right side, crowns with three crescents, some crowns with wings, and a unique hairstyle. Another marker is the two-point suspension system for swords, which seems to have been a Hephthalite innovation, and was introduced by them in the territories they controlled. The paintings from the Kucha region, particularly the swordsmen in the Kizil Caves, appear to have been made during Hephthalite rule in the region, circa 480–550 CE. The influence of the art of Gandhara in some of the earliest paintings at the Kizil Caves, dated to circa 500 CE, is considered as a consequence of the political unification of the area between Bactria and Kucha under the Hephthalites.

According to the Jinshu, Kucha was highly fortified, had a splendid royal palace, as well as many Buddhist stupas and temples:

There are fortified cities everywhere, their ramparts are three-fold, inside there are thousands of Buddhist stupas and temples (...) The royal palace is magnificent, glowing like a heavenly abode".

— Jinshu, Book 97.

Lu-Guang mentioned the powerful armour of Kucha soldiers, a type of Sasanian chainmail and lamellar armour which can also be seen in the paintings of the Kizil Caves:

They were skillful with arrows and horses, and good with short and long spears. Their armour was like chain link; even if one shoots it, [the arrow] cannot go in.

— Biography of Chinese General Lü Guang"

-taken from Wikipedia

#tocharian #indo european #ancient history #art #history #art history #buddhism #ancient china #china #ancient art #hephthalites #pagan

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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago

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Congrats on 1k followers!! Your fics are amazing 🫶🏻 Can I request old Victorian mansion and seance with Johnny x reader?

1k game here

tysm for reading my stuff!!! the victorian mansion isn't exactly present here, but it's the end goal!

2.2k of Soap x Reader with an old Victorian manor & a seance (ft. scam artist reader and asshole ghost johnny. no smut!)

Your newest clients are odd. That's all you can think as you show up on their property, surveying what they claim is haunted.

Usually your clients live in just slightly run-down homes - old enough to have setting bones (or "strange sounds in the night"), some odd air circulation (cold spots), and usually on at least a bit of an incline (uneven flooring that leads to "things falling off shelves at random"). A house just old-enough to cause seemingly impossible things, but not so old that the people moving in already knew what to expect.

But this house... well, it's a bit of a different story this time. Mainly because it's not a house. It's an old RV that, quite frankly, you wouldn't even bother to try and turn on.

The couple who's hired you - Mr. and Mrs. Stewart - had told you over the phone that they planned to take the old RV on a cross-country roadtrip. Seeing it in real life, you're not sure how they ever thought that would happen even before the supposed haunting.

"Oh, fantastic!" Mrs. Stewart, whose first name you can't recall no matter how much you try, rushes up to you and away from her husband. She's middle aged - you'd guess older than forty but not quite fifty - with brown hair and gray streaks, a pair of round-rimmed glasses making her eyes look bigger than they are and a tie dye caftan. "You must be the medium, Ms...?"

You give your name with a small, hopefully non-threatening smile. Poor Mrs. Stewart looks fit to jump out of her skin at any moment, her hands twitching as she lifts them to shake your outstretched hand. She cups yours in both of hers, leaning closely to you.

"Yes, yes of course. We're so happy you agreed to a consultation! Honestly, we've just been terrified, I can't even sleep at night these days, what will all the flashing and the noise and..."

You tune her out a bit as she shakes your hand endlessly, letting your eyes run over her shoulder to her husband and your project of the night.

Mr. Stewart is at least a decade older than his missus, if not more. He's fighting a losing battle with his hairline, leaving him with one of the most insane receding hairlines you've ever seen - the man nearly has a mohawk. His khaki shorts reach his knees despite being belted nearly around the ribs, and a faded polo shirt is tucked into them.

"...and my husband doesn't believe me, you know. No, he acts like I'm insane! Hah! Can you believe that?"

When the endless rambling goes quiet for a beat, you tune back in. Years of zoning out during long winded stories from your mother have given you the great gift of hearing just enough of a speech to respond.

"Well, not all of us are true believers," you say with what you hope is a slightly wise tone. You're still not great at playing the character you've constructed, but you're getting better. At least, you're getting paid more.

Mr. Stewart lets out a loud bark of laughter, then descends into a fit of coughs. Mrs. Stewart quickly moves to his side, patting his back and ignoring the way he waves her off.

"True..." he coughs again. "True believers my ass. Honey, I told you this would be a scam! Look at her - you think a medium shows up to her clients in jeans?"

You fight a blush at that. You knew you should've changed - people are never as doubtful when you wear floor-length skirts, something about pants apparently makes people think you can't see ghosts.

Not the most unfair assumption. You can't see ghosts. But not because of your pants, because they aren't real.

But that's not what you're selling to this couple. So you duck your head a little, try to keep your smile soft. "I'm sorry my informality, Mr. Stewart, but I came as soon as I got your wife's call. This situation sounded... well, I'd hate to use the word dire, but..."

Mrs. Stewart gasps dramatically, right on cue. "Dire! Oh, Lewis, did you hear that? Oh, I told you something was wrong with this damn vehicle!"

"Honey, she's just trying to-"

You cut him off quickly. "I'm here to do whatever needs to be done." You wince at the terrible line, but hurry on. "If there's a lingering spirit here, I'll be more than happy to help them move on. If there's not, no harm to you."

"Harm to my wallet," Mr. Stewart grumbles, scowl only deepening when his wife whacks him on the arm.

"We'll pay whatever we need to to have a safe vehicle," Mrs. Stewart says, her tone very pointed. "Please, we just want to be able to start our trip. We've been looking forward to it for years now!"

"I understand," you nod sagely. "I do prefer to perform my initial inspections alone, so would you mind...?"

Mr. Stewart looks positively indignant, even as his wife begins to drag him away. "We are not leaving this girl alone with our property, Cheryl! She'll rob us blind!"

"Oh, Lewis, you've got to stop seeing the worst in people! You give us a call when you're ready for us to come back, alright?" She steps quickly back over to you, dropping a keyring in your palm. "Here. The damn thing doesn't start, but the doors still work properly."

You nod at Mrs. Stewart and give her as comforting a smile you can as she and her husband make their way over to the bus stop you'd stepped off at, leaving you alone in a dark and frankly creepy parking lot. You're not sure why they chose such a shady part of town to keep their property in, but as long as no one's around you're not going to complain.

It takes a bit of effort to yank the door open, the metal a bit warped, but you manage it without too much trouble and shut it securely behind you as you finally step into the vehicle.

It's.... kind of a dump.

You're glad you brought a flashlight, flicking it on and scanning over all the contents of the RV. You can see dust particles floating through the air and there are cobwebs in every piece of furniture that has a corner, each surface covered in a thick layer of dust.

You can't help but wonder how long it's been since anyone's even bothered to try and turn this thing on, and scowl a little to yourself. If it's been that long since someone was here, there's a good chance it's devoid of anything of value for you to nick.

You scoff and let your flashlight drop, making your way to the driver's seat and flopping into it with a sigh. If you can get the engine to start thig might not have been a total waste of time.

It takes a couple tries for you to even get the key in the ignition, and a couple more turns for the engine to do more than sputter loudly, but the old beast eventually rumbles to life, the lights on the dashboard and above your head brightening the car.

"Than God," you huff. It might be a bit of a pain to steal this hunk of junk, but if you can manage it... well, it would be nice to not have to shell out money for motels every couple of nights. "Full tank of gas," you hum to yourself, frowning a bit at the little gauge. For some reason that strikes you as odd.

"Where you takin' us?"

You scream at the sudden voice behind you, jumping nearly a foot out of the chair as you whirl around.

There's a man standing in the middle of the RV. Tall and young, with broad shoulders and a dark brown mohawk.

And he's transparent. Well, at least partly transparent. The soft yellow glow of the cabin gives him an odd coloration, and you can... oh God, you can see the door to the back through him.

You can't speak. You're left standing there, gaping a bit like a fish, and staring with wide-eyes.

"Well, lass?" He asks, smirk growing on his half-there lips. He takes a few steps forward, hooks his arms around the passenger and driver's chairs and leans forward into your space.

You yelp as you jerk back, landing on the dash board and brandishing your flashlight as a weapon.

"Get the fuck away from me!" You shout, heart nearly beating out of your chest.

"Och," he tilts his head, adopts a fake-hurt expression. "But aren't you the medium? Thought your job was to make contact with ghosts. C'mon then, bonnie." His grin gets... almost salacious as he leans as close as he can to you, nearly brushing noses. "Make contact."

You can't believe it. Honest to God, you think you might've died. There's simply no way you're really seeing a ghost, and there's doubly no way that that ghost is flirting with you.

He seems disappointed by your lack of response, leaning back and letting his expression fall to a more neutral expression. "Not into it then?"

You shake your head as best you can.

He sighs dramatically, like you've done him a terrible inconvenience. "Alright then. Well, if you want to take this thing, you're only taking it to one place."

You still can't quite manage words. Even as he steps to the side, throwing himself into the passenger's seat and somehow not slipping through.

"I wouldn't mind a bit of a roadtrip with you," he goes on, heedless of your shaking and overall terror. "You're not a bad view. But this piece of shite is only going one place. If you don't want to go there, you can get out now."

It takes you a minute to work up the nerve to speak. "Wh...where?"

His eyes flick to you, and he grins again. "My home - nice old house on a hill, left to me by my granny. I was on my way there when the bawbags who own this car ran me down. Didn't even stop to make sure I was alright, can you believe that?"

You shake your head, a little numb as you slip into the driver's seat. You're unintentionally facing him, and he angles his body more towards you and laces his hands between his kness.

"You take me to my home, and I'll let you go. How's that sound?"

"You can't..." you lick dry lips, work a little more moisture into your mouth. "You can't drive yourself?"

He makes an angry noise, leans back against the window and crosses his arms. His legs - intangible as they might be - are long enough to rest on either side of your feet.

"Can't touch anything anymore." You'd almost call his expression pouty, if a ghost could be such a thing. "Can do anythin' else to this thing - turn it on, play music, make it hotter than hell, but can't drive the damn thing."

The lights flicker above you as his tone gets more angered, and you suck in a quick breath.

"Alright," you breathe, hoping maybe he'll calm down and not... what? Blow up the RV? What's the worst case scenario here. "I want to leave town, you want someone to drive you out of town. I can do that."

He eyes you, a little suspicious gleam in what look like they might've been blue eyes once. "You're taking this very well. You met other ghosts before?"

You can't help the laugh that bursts out of you, wiping a hand down your face. "No. No, as a matter of fact, I didn't think ghosts were a thing until about five minutes ago."

A little smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Well, rough day for you then, huh?"

You giggle a little hysterically. "You could say that again. Where's your house, anyway?"

You turn to face forward, moving the chair up so you can comfortable reach the wheel as he rights himself in his seat too.

"Oh, it's a stunning thing. Old Victorian building, up on a hill like in all the best movie. Gran always said her own pa built the place, but I'm not so sure myself. Figure if I'm stuck haunting anything, it might as well be that."

"Sounds pretty," you hum, pulling the car out of the parking lot. It's not easy to drive, but you try and keep the jerky starts and stops to a minimum.

"Oh, it is, lass. We MacTavish's have been up there for centuries now, if Gran's to be believed. Might even get to see her again, if this whole ghost thing works out."

"MacTavish?"

You see him grin as he leans forward, holding out a hand. "Johnny MacTavish, ghost extraordinaire, at your service. Long as you take me where I want to go, you and I will get along just fine."

You glance over at him as you pull up to a stop sign. You introduce yourself, reaching out to grasp his hand. It doesn't.... quite work. There's something there, certainly, but it sends shivers up your spine when you try to grab it, and you feel almost like you've been doused in ice water.

He pulls you a little closer by the odd not-quite grip, grin sharpening as he nearly brushes noses with you.

"You try and trick me, lass," he rumbles, lights flickering above you. "You might just find yourself trapped in here with me."

#1k celebration #these are getting written SLOWLY but they are getting written! promise!#soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #cod fanfic #bo writes

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indiatrendzs · 29 days ago

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suziwest-dresscollection · 8 months ago

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Acquired: clothes mentor, asheville, nc, march 2024

#dress #mini #black #b&w #polka dots #eva franco #caftan #short sleeve

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vemante · 1 year ago

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#nightdress #nightwear #nighty #kaftan #nightgown #sleepwear #cotton nightwear #short dress #caftan

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sageandred · 8 months ago

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Some LGBTQ+ Shows + Movies that aren't talked about enough

□ Key : ❤️Netflix 💚Hulu+ 🧡Max 💙Amazon

Sense 8- a sci-fi series featuring queer and polyamorous relationships that follows 8 strangers, who become connected mentally and must survive as hunters view them as a threat to the world's order

Nuovo Olimpo- a story through the years that follows two 25 year old men who fall in love, get separated, and try to find each other again over 30 years

Mutt- a transgender man is swept into a whirlwind of emotions when people from the past return to his life over 24 hours

Merlí- a drama surrounding a philosophy teacher, along with his gay son, and the unconventional methods taken to influence the student's rebellion

Heartbreak High- an Australian tv series that features asexual, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and nonbinary characters navigating the ups and downs of high school, life, and romance

In the Flesh- a post-apocolyptic short series in which zombies get rehabilitated back into the normal world (disclaimer: was cancelled after 2 seasons)

Plan B- a comedy movie about a girl and her best friend who have 24 hours to track down the morning after pill following her regrettable first time experience, with commentary on women's sexuality + double standards

Pose- an upbeat drama mostly about trans women and gay men who are POC building a community in New York City during the late 80s and early 90s (disclaimer: season 2 gets darker, but it's still got some happier moments)

Vida- a story about 2 Mexican-American sisters who return home following their mother's death unearthing her secrets as one sister goes on journey of exploring her own repressed feelings

Gentleman Jack- a historic lesbian love story within the British monarchy

Looking- an intense look on how internalized homophobia can deeply impact life and love; there's some negative critiques in some areas, but it's a realistic look at how the way you grew up can affect, particularly in regards to gay relationships

Animal Kingdom (2016)- a crime drama centered around the dealings of a family involved in shady business when a teenager goes to live with them following his mom's od

Anne+ - Anne examines multiple past relationships and how they have contributed to who she is

The Blue Caftan- a middle aged man and his wife run a store where they hire a young apprentice that he falls for

Demain Nous Appartient (Tomorrow is Ours)- soap opera that features gay storyline after a plane crash accident in which a boy has lost his eyesight

Eismayer- openly gay soldier and a tough officer in the Austrian army fall in love

Glue (2014)- crime drama series that features a bl relationship (warning: tragic love story)

Le Paradis (The Lost Boys 2023)- a forbidden love story in which it is prohibited to engage in physical contact for boys at a detention center

The Trace of Your Lips- lockdown movie where 2 men living across the hall from each other break the rules

#putting this here for me to come back to #movies and tv #lgbt movies #lgbt shows #recommended #lgbtqia #heartbreak high #merlí #mine #lists #lgbt

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calaisreno · 2 years ago

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Clues

This is how Sherlock Holmes seduces me, with long fingers and murmured Italian, with midnight violin and inexplicable clues.

May 19: Clues

Note: This one is dedicated to @totallysilvergirl and @keirgreeneyes for their remark: "@calaisreno could make a compelling story out of a drugstore receipt." Well, I tried!

“What do you make of that?”

The long, thin fingers of Sherlock Holmes dangle before my eyes, holding a slip of paper.

A clue, I think.

He drops the paper in my lap and I examine it. A receipt, from the corner shop. Cigarettes, £6.51.

He’s muttering to himself in Italian, dropping pieces of clothing on the furniture and floor. The door to his bedroom closes.

This is how Sherlock Holmes seduces me, with long fingers and murmured Italian, with midnight violin and inexplicable clues.

Clues. It means something, this piece of paper. It’s always something like that, insignificant to the point where an ordinary man (me) dismisses it, only to see it reappear hours or days later, the key piece of evidence that unravels the mystery.

I am, unfortunately, ordinary. To me, it’s just a receipt.

Sometimes Holmes takes my hand in his long, white fingers. He kisses the knuckles, and looks up at me, pale eyes through dark lashes. And he murmurs, alkaline.

Later, I’ll know what it meant. We’ll be standing around a body, and Holmes will have his pocket lens out, examining the curtains. Lestrade will be impatiently shifting from foot to foot, wondering why he’s let a madman into his crime scene. And Holmes will say, The sole of a shoe is like a passport. And he will explain.

Solutions are for explaining. Clues are not. And explanations are rarely forthcoming when there are still more clues to be found.

Just once, I’d like to be holding the final clue, to produce it when he’s putting it all together, to hand it to him with a smile. To see his face light up, hear him exclaim, Watson, you’ve done it!

But I am ordinary.

I hold the paper between my short, ordinary fingers, wondering what it could mean.

When Holmes comes out of his room, he is wearing a long caftan and a head wrap, and smells of vetiver. “Don’t wait up for me,” he says as he leaves.

Like a soldier at the front, I sleep lightly on the sofa, waiting for the summons. If inconvenient, come all the same.

It’s never inconvenient; I live for such moments.

He doesn’t return until the following day, late. This time he’s wearing a flat cap and dungarees.

“Drayman?” I ask.

“Plumber’s assistant.”

He accepts the tea I make, takes two sips, stares into the void for some minutes, and goes into his room, still holding the cup.

I know that look. The game will soon be afoot. At a moment’s notice, we’ll be off— running down an alley, cornering our prey. I fall asleep on the sofa, dressed for action.

When I wake, he is gone again. His bed has not been slept in. I berate myself for sleeping deeply while Sherlock Holmes has been tracking dangerous criminals.

I have put his dinner plate in the refrigerator, washed the dishes, and looked for clues. His deerstalker hat is on the floor beneath his chair. The remains of a cigarette lie crushed in the ashtray. There are crumbs on the table. A half-drunk cup of tea sits balanced precariously on the mantel.

The call eventually comes. We jump into the waiting cab and race to the crime scene.

He’s pacing, humming. My excitement builds. I can see that his mind has almost broken the puzzle.

It’s the moment, I think.

I offer it to him, the final clue, the receipt. I have no idea what it means, but I’m sure it’s the missing piece. I’ll hand it to him, and his face will go slack with surprise for a moment, and then he’ll seize the paper and tell us what it means. And his fingers will brush mine, and I’ll know that I have— even if just for a moment— impressed him.

I hold it out. He stares, reaches out a trembling hand and takes it from me. Our eyes meet. His shine, and strong emotion fills them with tears.

“You were right, Watson,” he whispers. “You’ve always been right, dear friend.”

I don’t know how, but I have done it. For once, I have handed him the solution to the case.

“Do you see?” He holds the receipt, his long fingers trembling. “It’s outrageous! Six-fifty for a pack of cigarettes! My God! How can I afford this habit?” He sighs. “You’re right, Watson. I must quit smoking.”

Tagging: @elwinglyre @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @lisbeth-kk. @momma2boys @7-percent @jrow @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @peanitbear @bertytravelsfar @thetimemoves @copperplatebeech @mydogwatson @thegildedbee

#may 2023 prompts #johnlock #microfic #clues

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miffy-junot · 5 months ago

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Felix Yusupov on his first meeting with Rasputin

This was 1909 and the year in which I met Rasputin for the first time. We were back in St. Petersburg where I was spending Christmas with my parents before returning to England.* For a long time I had been on friendly terms with the G. family,** and more particularly with the youngest daughter, who was a fervent admirer of the starets.*** She was too innocent a girl to understand his ignominious nature, and too guileless to form an unbiased opinion as to his motives. He was, according to her, a man of exceptional spiritual power who had been sent into the world to purify and heal our souls, and to guide our thoughts and actions. This extravagant description left me skeptical, and although at that time I knew nothing definite about Rasputin, something inside me made me suspicious of him. However, Mlle G.'s enthusiasm roused my curiosity and I questioned her in detail about the man she so much admired. She looked upon him as an apostle come straight from Heaven; he had no human weaknesses, no vices; he was an ascetic whose whole life was devoted to prayer. I heard so much about him that I felt I ought to judge him for myself, and I accepted an invitation to meet the starets a few days later at the G.s' house.

The G.s lived on the Winter Canal. When I entered the drawing room, mother and daughter were seated at the tea table, wearing the solemn expression of persons awaiting the arrival of a miraculous icon which was to bring a divine blessing on the house. In a little while the door opened and Rasputin came in with short quick steps. He walked up to me, said "Good evening, my dear boy," and attempted to kiss me. I drew back instinctively. He smiled maliciously and, going up to Mlle G. and then to her mother, he calmly put his arms around them and gave each of them a resounding kiss. From the very first his self-assurance irritated me, and there was something about him which disgusted me. He was of middle height, muscular and thin. His arms were disproportionately long, and just where his untidy crop of hair began to grow there was a great scar, which I found out later was the mark of a wound received during one of his highway robberies in Siberia. He seemed to be about forty, and with his caftan, baggy breeches and great top-boots he looked exactly what he was - a peasant. He had a low, common face framed by a shaggy beard, coarse features and a long nose, with small shifty gray eyes sunken under heavy eyebrows. The strangeness of his manner was disconcerting, and although he affected a free and easy demeanor one felt him to be ill at case and suspicious. He seemed to be constantly watching the person he was talking to. Rasputin remained seated for a few moments, then began to pace up and down the room with his short quick steps, mumbling under his breath. His voice sounded hollow, his pronunciation indistinct. We drank tea in silence as we watched him, Mlle G. with enthusiastic attention, I with great curiosity. Soon he sat down and gave me a searching look. We began to talk. He spoke volubly in the tone of a preacher inspired from above, quoting the Old and New Testaments at random, often distorting their real meaning, which was a trifle confusing. As he talked I studied his features closely. There was something really extraordinary about his peasant face. He was not in the least like a holy man; on the contrary he looked like a lascivious, malicious satyr. I was particularly struck by the revolting expression in his eyes, which were very small, set close together, and so deep-sunk in their sockets that at a distance they were invisible. But even at close quarters it was sometimes difficult to know whether they were open or shut, and the impression one had was that of being pierced with needles rather than of merely being looked at. His glance was both piercing and sullen; his sweet and insipid smile was almost as revolting as the expression of his eyes. There was something base in his unctuous countenance; something wicked, crafty and sensual. Mlle G. and her mother never took their eyes off him, and seemed to drink in every word he spoke. After a little while Rasputin rose, and giving me a soft, hypocritical glance pointed to Mlle G. and said: "What a faithful friend you have in her! You should listen to her, she will be your spiritual spouse. Yes, she has spoken very well of you, and I too now see that both of you are good and well suited to each other. As for you, my dear boy, you will go far, very far." With these words he left the room. When I went away, my mind was filled with the strange impression he had made on me. A few days later I met Mlle G. again; she told me that Rasputin liked me very much and wanted to see me again. Shortly after, I left for England where a very different life awaited me.

*at the time, Felix Yusupov was attending Oxford University in England.

**Yusupov exclusively refers to this family using the letter "G", presumably out of discretion for a family who were not public figures.

***a 'starets' is a type of religious leader in Russian Orthodox Christianity. Rasputin went under this title.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 15

#felix yusupov #imperial russia #romanovs #history #rasputin #grigori rasputin

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