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demaparbat-hp · 7 months ago

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Hiya!! 👋🏼😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️

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inky-duchess · 4 months ago

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Fantasy Guide to the Fashion of 1940s

The 1940s was a time for great change in the world and in fashion. Marked by rationing and shortage of fabrics, the silhouette and availability of different cuts was limited so the women of the era turned to more fitted, shorter cuts.

Undergarments

The undergarments of the era were not as restrictive or complicated in WW2 as they were pre-WW1, but there were a lot of moving parts to the set-up.

Bra/Brassiere: Bras got shorter in the 1940s due to the rationing of fabric. They look much like they do today, made of light coloured fabrics and hooked with metal eyelets.

Panties/Knickers: The underwear. Elasticated underwear was around and actually exempt from rationing.

Girdle: The girdle rests on the lower torso, past the hips and were used for shaping as well as support.

Garters: Were worn at the top of the stocking just above the knee to hold the stocking in place.

Garter Belt: Was a belt worn around the waist and used to hold up the stockings and garters thanks to fastenings.

Slip: A slip is a light loose dress that is worn under another dress. It is long or short depending on the size of the dress you're wearing over it. The slip has slim straps and was usually plain though lace and embroidery were no uncommon. Most younger women favoured the half slip which was like another skirt.

Stockings: Stockings were worn over the lower legs, clipped and held in place by the garters. If your lady is lucky enough to have a friend on the black market, she might be lucky enough to have proper nylon tights. But if not, some ladies in this period dyed their legs with tea bags and drew the seam up the back of their legs to give the effect.

Outfits

Most women still wore skirts and dresses in the 1940s though some women switched to pants. Most of the outfits of the time followed a similar silhouette due to rationing: it was simple, unsophosticated, fitted, belted and hems remained just below the knee. A suit jacket and skirt combo was popular. Blouses and jumpers were also worn. Dresses were worn as well. Women would pair their outfit with accessories. They would always wear a hat outside and gloves.

Shoes

Shoes were effected by the war, with leather and rubber being limited. Most were brown, black or two two-tone shoes were popular. Oxford shoes, saddle shoes, loafers, court shoes, slingback were popular. These could be lace ups or have fastenings. Heels were usual, but rather short and stocky if worn in the day time. Most would be plain but some would have embellishments.

The Reality of the 1940s

With war on and rationing well underway, the question of clothes was always on the mind. Most women did not have a large wardrobe and with clothing coupons little help, most women made and made due. Hems would be let down, larger sizes cut down and a lot of clothing reused. Fabric choice was limited, silk and nylon were used for parachutes and military applications. Clothing rations were the only way to get new clothes in the war. The average person was entitled at first to 66 clothing coupons per year. But that only would buy an outfit of clothes not including the necessaries. And the number of ration coupons went down as the war went on, down to 36 coupons in 1945. It was illegal to transfer coupons but even despite this, in 1947 hundreds of women offered the future Queen Elizabeth II their rations for her wedding dress. The offer was declined but the government had to approve the release of extra coupons to the Princess. Women also turned to alternatives to create clothes especially wedding gowns even made them out of parachutes!

Make up and Hair

Make up and perfume was one of the many things that was rationed due to their chemical components such as glycerine. Women could access make up but due to rationing and many make up companies not having the ingredients or changing to more profitable and patriotic output, supplies were low. Women often turned to DIY, burnt cork for mascara and eyeliner, natural stains such as beetroot or cochineal for lipstick, crushed rose petals for blush, soot/charcoal for eyeliner, facemasks of egg white or oatmeal, beeswax for moisturiser and cold cream. As for hair women often turned to DIY to care and wash for their hair. Homemade shampoos were made from soap, vinegar and baking soda. Egg yolks were used for conditioner. Lemon juice was used to lighten hair. Olive oil was used to make hair shiny. Some popular hairstyles of the era:

Victory Rolls: This is the hairstyle you're probably thinking ofwhen you think of the 40s. It involves rolling the hair away from the face and rolling them at the top of the head.

Pin Curls: This is a hairstyle involving the curling and pinning of hair overnight got tight curls for the next day.

Pageboy: This is a shoulder-length style, curled at the ends

Waves: This style involves soft waves

Pompadours: The hairstyle involves the sweeping up of hair back from the face and sculpting it to be more voluminous.

Snoods: This is a sort of net worn over the hair, usually with a rat (a sort of device used to increase volume at the front of the hair)

Scarves: Were popular replacement for hats, used to cover their hair when going out.

#Fantasy Guide to 1940s fashion #1940s fashion #1940s clothes #1940s #Ww2 #Ww2 fashion #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writer #spilled words #writer's problems #writer's life #wtwcommunity

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taylorswiftstyle · 9 months ago

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MTV Video Music Awards | September 11, 2024

Dior Resort 2025 Lorraine Schwartz earrings Stuart Weitzman ‘Ultrastuart Maverick Leather Boots’ - $1,550.00

Dior’s latest cruise collection was an ode to Scotland and the house’s first runway show held there in 7 decades. Creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri said of her inspiration, “Scotland is an important reference in the fashion world and I wanted to interpret it in a different way. For my generation, it’s so associated with punk.” The result was an offering full of voluminous skirts, dramatically cinched dresses, and hourglass jackets rendered in historically accurate tartans and, indeed, set off with certain punk sensibilities thanks to studded leather accessories and clompy buckled boots.

The VMA dress code typically leans towards the wacky and the outrageous. Hence why Taylor has felt comfortable appearing in alphagetti soup baby onesies (aka The Incident, circa 2014). I’ll put it on record again and again that I may pull a face at that look (and still do, a decade later) but I will always appreciate a risk (relative to the wearer). Fashion should be fun!

The collection filters Scotland’s most historic women into its fabrics. Namely, Mary Queen of Scots: a fiery Sagittarius woman I’d like to think Taylor might feel kinship with. During her years of imprisonment in England by QEI, Mary would insert veiled - often political - symbols into her embroidery. At one point even the phrase, "In my end lies my beginning" was embroidered into her state's clothes. Doesn��t that feel, “In the death of her reputation, she felt truly alive”?

In his review of this Dior runway, Mark Holgate for Vogue described the collection as one that “drew on the geopolitics of fabric[s …] and the way [Mary] gave political commentary through her embroideries.” He described the series as full of “defiant beauty and an equally defiant energy. It felt uncompromising. But then maybe women can’t afford to be anything but that, especially now.” If a possible connect, I admire this evocation in the wake of Taylor’s major political endorsement. Especially given Chiuri worked with the iconic Harris Tweeds for their artisan, loomed wool. This teed her up nicely for an onstage call to action to remind viewers to register to vote.

All-in, this felt like a cohesive night of looks to underpin TTPD’s aesthetic. The runway’s interplay of proportions and bustier-like top are very TTPD - sensual, emboldened, playing with what to reveal and what to hide. A look that’s dark academia adjacent.

I do find the biker gloves (also by Dior) confusing and I’m searching for insight on their ‘why’. At the Grammys, I could buy into the ‘Albatross’ reference in her black elbow-length gloves. These? I’m still trying to make sense of. A straitjacket allusion, perhaps? Were I to make some styling tweaks, I would have removed the gloves, opted for the coordinating tartan shorts from the runway, and changed the boots out to an equally tall but caged style to tie into the patterned effect of the ensemble.

Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris via Getty Images

#taylor swift #award #dress #accessory #shorts #jewelry #shoe #dior #stuart weitzman #lorraine schwartz #september 2024 #mtv vma

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 2 months ago

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[Sneak Peek]

Southern Hospitality

Summary: Sort of a synopsis. An introduction of Terry. This sneak peek will be two parts.

Warnings: Violence, Smut

Terry Richmond entered the basement of his townhome in Charlotte, North Carolina and opened his ruck. After a long, harsh winter, he decided to organize some things to prepare for Spring. Swiping dust off of totes with his calloused hands, he situated himself on his knees for a better look. There, folded neatly on top, were his old cammies. Desert cammies. Ratty and bleached by sand and sun and blemished with the petroleum rain that fell from the oil-well fires in Kuwait.

Terry rose to a standing position again, shaking out the camo pants. He slipped off his black ball shorts and stepped into them, memories suddenly returning. They still fit. He can’t shake the habit of staying in the best shape and active, especially with him being an MCMAP Instructor. During his earlier years as a Marine Raider, he exercised thirty hours a week. He buttoned the top and stroked the embroidery. Honorary pins still clung to the fabric.

Terry delve deeper and pulled out maps of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Patrol books. Pictures. Letters. His journal with its sparse entries. Coalition propaganda pamphlets. Brass bore punch for the M40A2 sniper rifle. A handful of .50 caliber projectiles. Terry wondered what he must look like to the late night walker passing by his basement windows: the mad old warrior going through his memorabilia, triggering his unresolved PTSD and looking for trouble.

No, he isn’t mad. Some days are better than others, but he isn’t mad. He’s after something. Memory, yes. A reel. More than just time. It’s almost a year since. Just at the end of April he’d be turning thirty–three. And a year prior he spent it with his fellow soldiers over drinks that lead to him dropping nine inches of whopping girth in seasoned pussy. Flashes of her haunted his mind like the sound of grenades and cries of pain. Then his thoughts drifted to a vibrant thing that wanted to see the world. Using his pleasure stick for her own no good reasons.

And there, amongst many photos with comrades, is the man that saw something in him. His own version of a super soldier. Like a son he never had. Terry blinked slowly as his thick fingers smoothed over the edges of the photograph…

August, 2021:

Lieutenant General Swanwick’s authoritarian voice could be heard over the public address system within the base gym. Terry Richmond was currently lifting a few hundred pounds over his chest with another Marine named Rodney spotting him. Terry was just twenty–nine years old then. Sweat poured from his body and onto the gym floor and his dog tags clung to his chest as if his sweat were glue.

Terry blew air from his cheeks that sounded like the low whistle of an exhaust pipe, “Six…seven…eight—”

“All personnel from MARSOC are ordered to report immediately to battalion headquarters. Get some, Raiders!”

Terry felt his chest grow tighter with anticipation. Deployment was inevitable. Terry rushed to gather himself, throwing on his tank top and buttoning his camouflage jacket. All things in order, he and the remaining MARSOC stationed in Virginia mad their way to Headquarters. He could sense the anxious energy from everyone in that room. Terry’s turquoise eyes veiled with dark lashes never blinked as Lieutenant General Swanwick’s outline of their battle against Iraqi and Kuwait unfolded. Terry gritted his teeth and tightened his jaw.

It’s war time.

On August 8th, the MARSOC arrive in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Terry debarked the plane, the oven heat of the Arabian Desert gripping his throat. In the distance the wind blows sand from the tops of dunes, cresting beige waves that billow like silk through the mirage. The tarmac is filled with American civilian jumbo jets—American, Delta, United. They flew United. The scene at the airfield is how any busy international airport would be, only they were dressed in fatigues and carrying loaded rifles, their gas masks strapped to their hips.

Just beyond the tarmac, artillery batteries point their guns East and North. Fighter jets patrol the sky. During the dreaded twenty–hour flight, their mode of debarkation was debated—tactical or general—and Terry hoped for a tactical approach—live rounds and a defensive perimeter could be the only authentic introduction to a theater of war. They marched in a single–filed line towards a series of large, bright green Bedouin tents. They entered and immediately went to retrieve bottled water and attempt to stay cool by draping wet skivvy shirts over their heads.

“Ya’ll better drink up enough water. I don’t need my Raiders passing out from heat stroke when we gotta keep our eyes open and on our targets,” Swanwick drilled.

His hat remained low enough to cloak his eyes, giving him a no–nonsense look. He meant business. Terry caught his eye while gulping down cold water. Swanwick motioned for him to come over. Terry came face–to–face with the Lieutenant General.

“Aight there, son?” Swanwick quietly said.

“I’m chill, Lieutenant,” Terry replied with confidence.

“Good to hear. Don’t let these fools throw you off your game, Richmond. You’re one of the best. And I need you alive.”

“After a rigorous seven–months to transform into the elite, I don’t plan on it.”

“That’s right,” Swanwick gripped Terry’s shoulder firm, “now, let’s show ‘em who we are.”

Terry cracked a smile filled with hunger for what was to come. He knew just how much the others despised his presence. Some felt he wasn’t worthy or qualified to be among them.

After an hour in the tents, colonel calls a battalion formation and proudly announces that they are taking part in Operation Desert Shield. He explains that the Kuwaiti–Iraqi conflict in not yet their concern, but currently their mission is to protect, to shield, Saudi Arabia and her flowing oil–fields. Low grumbles could be heard throughout.

“HEY. Not every day blood is shed!”

Terry chuckled while kicking away at sand beneath his boots. He was surrounded by a bunch of antsy men. That energy alone could get them killed.

“One step at a time,” Swanwick motioned to his men, “Let’s get to it.”

They dispersed to get a sense of the area, laughing amongst themselves with jokes about going from the Marine Corps to Oil Corps. Beneath the loud sounds of chuckles and belly laughs, they knew that reality was near, and death could be knocking on their door. Terry’s laughter drifted away like the swirling sand that painted his golden skin an ashy color.

As days stretched out, it consisted of sand and water and piss. They walk and drive over the sand and drink gallons of water. Six times a day they gathered for formation and swallowed two canteens per man, and between formation they consumed more water.

Six weeks later and Terry found himself sitting in a chow hall and watching Lieutenant General Swanwick talk closely with other high ranking officers. Terry tucked into his beans and sausages with a steady gaze locked on their table. His skin had browned so deep it was akin to burnished bronze. It made his eyes pop vividly and the ink on his arms more bold and daring.

His eyes were dry and irritated from staring at maps all day, his muscles ached from the makeshift equipment they used to pump iron. He grew tired of sleeping amongst men that couldn’t go a night without jacking off to crumbled polaroids of their women back home. Terry wanted to get in the field. He’d already gotten into several fights and the skin beneath his left eye had just began to heal from a nasty bruise.

Swanwick’s shoulders tensed. What could that mean? Were they heading for battle? He watched the father figure walk away and out of the chow hall. Terry scarfed down the rest of his meal before cleansing his palate with water. He made his way towards the exit in search of Swanwick. He was standing a few feet away, staring up at the full moon. Terry glanced up himself, his eyes taking in the pale white moon. It was beauty surrounded by an impending chaos.

“Lieutenant General…”

Swanwick glanced over his shoulder.

“Richmond. Enjoy your meal?”

“You can only have but so much beans.” Terry complains.

“Good fiber fuels the body.” Swanwick replied.

A stillness surrounded them for a minute.

“What we lookin’ like, Sir?”

Swanwick dipped his head.

“Can’t tell you much…but it’s looking like rifles at the ready.”

Terry’s back stiffened.

“I know that’s music to your ears, soldier.”

“Music to all our ears.”

No showers, no rack, no wadi in sight, no oasis.

Terry needed to feel as if his skills were being used. Tested. He felt trapped. Isolated.

Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick gathered the platoon in a school circle under the plastic infrared cover. It’s before zero nine and already one hundred degrees.

Their platoon commands three Humvees, and the vehicles are under IR cover. Ideally, weapons, vehicles, and personnel shielded under the netting will avoid detection by enemy infrared devices. Terry wasn’t convinced. Why believe in the effectiveness of IR netting when the drink tube on your gas mask breaks every time you don–and–clear during a training nerve–gas raid? When the best maintenance for the PRC–76 radio, the Prick, is the Five–Foot Drop?

Apparently, press will visit for a few days, and Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick already recited a list of unacceptable topics. No divulging data concerning capabilities of their sniper rifles or optics and the length and intensity of their training. They’ve been ordered to act like top Marines, patriots, shit–hot hard dicks, the best of the battalion. As the scout/snipers, they’ve been handpicked by the executive officer and the s–2 officer to serve as the eyes and ears of the battalion commander.

“Listen up,” James says, “I’ve gone over this already, but the Lieutenant wants to go over it again. Basically, don’t get specific. Say you can shoot from far away. Say you are highly trained, that there are no better shooters in the world than Marine Snipers. Say you’re excited to be here and you believe in the mission and that we’ll annihilate the Iraqis. Take off your shirts and show your muscles. We’re gonna run through some calisthenics for them. Doc John, give us a RAIDERS workout. Keep it simple, snipers.”

Terry spoke, “it ain’t simple. This is censorship. You’re telling me what I can and can’t say to the press? Why are they even allowed in this space anyway?”

Kuehn, a fellow marine says, “Not our place to say what we can and can’t do—”

“Wasn’t addressing you, Kuehn.” Terry quipped.

“I speak for all of us when I say this. You got a mouth on you, Richmond.” Kuehn argued back.

“Aight now,” Swanwick warned.

The tension between the Marines grew to a fever pitch.

“Oh, so you the voice of war now, huh? You call the shots? How that happen?”

Soft chuckles coming from the other Marines seemed to embarrass Kuehn.

“Shut the fuck up, Richmond! You don’t even belong here!” Kuehn shouted ragefully.

“My reputation for accuracy says otherwise, Kuehn. But you wouldn’t know about that though. Too much piss on your boots.”

The chuckling intensified.

Kuehn approached Terry with his chest puffed out. Terry stood at 6 '3 with his arms folded, towering over a 5' 9 Kuehn. The tallest man there. Terry’s stony eyes never faltered. Beady glacial–blue eyes stared up at him filled with rage. Kuehn’s usual pasty, alabaster skin was sun–burned and red from the scorching Saudi heat.

“You think you’re better than me, Richmond?! Huh?!”

“I know I am, pissy boots—”

“RICHMOND!” Sergeant James shouted.

Kuehn wouldn’t get out of Terry’s personal space.

“Don’t get your ass beat again, Kuehn, get up out my face—”

Kuehn shoves Terry and immediately a fight breaks out. Fists flying with connecting punches and heavy grunts. The circle widened and cheers amongst fellow Raiders drowned out the high ranking officers trying to call it off. Terry forced Kuehn into a headlock and slammed him to the sand, his eyes suddenly burning from the minerals coating his lashes. He repeatedly punched Kuehn, causing him to shield his face with his forearms. It took three men to get Terry off of him.

Terry was ushered into one of the green tents by a frustrated Lieutenant.

“RICHMOND! STAND DOWN!”

Shirt bundled up revealing a taunt six–pack, bottom lip poked out and bleeding from a hairline slit, face dusty and jet black hair stained with sand, he kept his fists balled and his eyes locked on Kuehn as he was lifted from the ground.

“You lost your mind, Boy?!”

Sergeant James marched up to Terry and pressed his face so close to his Terry could smell the nicotine on his breath.

“Swanwick you better get your star pupil in line before I do. You put your hands on Kuehn again, I’ll send you back to Virginia, understand?”

Terry remained silent with fury. Only his heavy breathing could be heard.

“Terry?” Swanwick called out to him, “You hear that?”

“Yes, Sir Serg.” Terry said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t like my orders?”

Swanwick pressed a firm hand against James’ chest.

“I got it, James. We’ll be out.”

James’ lethal gaze never left Terry as he backed away. Terry didn’t falter.

“What was that, Richmond?” Swanwick whispered.

“Self–defense. Kuehn put his hands on me first, Lieutenant. You don’t see Serg talking to him do you? I know what it is…”

Swanwick shut his eyes.

“Which means that you gotta be on your best behavior. I want you to succeed, Richmond. I already know you're the best of the Veteran Raiders. Stop letting them get to your head.”

Terry was released. He fixed his army green T-shirt that clung to his body like a second skin from the sweat. He rearranged the dog tags hanging from his neck. Swanwick grasped his shoulder.

“Terry…”

“I got it.”

Swanwick hesitated before stepping aside while Terry walked out of the tent with his usual gait. Just as he was attempting to simmer his anger, Sergeant James was giving another speech.

“…You do as you're told. You signed the contract. You have no rights, you can’t speak out against your country. We call that treason. You can be shot for it. Goddamnit, we’re not playing around. Training is over. Tell your complaints to Abdul Latif Rashid. See if he cares.”

He bit his tongue. Terry wanted to come to the defense of free speech, but he knew it would be useless. The language they own is not theirs, it is not a private language, but deprived from Marine Corps history and lore and tactics.

The Marine Corps birthday? 10 November 1775, The Marine Corps is older than the United States of America. Birthplace? Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, a gang of drunks and big balls. Tarawa? Bloodiest battle of WWII. Dan Daly? He killed thirty–seven Chinese by hand during the Boxer Rebellion. Deadliest weapon on earth? The marine and his rifle. Terry had to conform to those standards, speak like it.

Reporters are arriving to ask what they thought about the desert, waiting for war. He’ll answer that he likes it; he’s prepared for anything that might come his way. They’re due at their position by 0900. Terry leaves the free speech argument and walked to their straddle trench. He needed to empty his bowels. There’s no seat in a straddle trench, but he’s been punished many times, for hours on end, in the squat position. It reminded him of Korea, where he spent a month of his last deployment. Most public restrooms in Korea had straddle holes, he’d spent many times there emptying the contents of his stomach after walking away from a bar booth.

Terry looked at the sky, blue like no blue he’d known before, and at the desert that would not stop. This is the pain of the landscape, worse than the heat, worse than the flies—there is no getting out of the land. No stopping. After six weeks of deployment, the desert is in him, one particle at a time—his boots and belt and pants and gas mask and weapons are covered and filled with sand. Sand invaded his body: ears and eyes and nose and mouth and piss hole. The desert is everywhere. The mirage is everywhere. Awake, asleep, high heat of the afternoon or the few soft, sunless hours of early morning.

The destination to free Kuwait.

The following day, the press–pool colonel and his driver wait in the Land Rover, the air–conditioning blowing the colonel’s hair into fine white wisps of artillery smoke. Terry nibbled on his full bottom lip, gnawing at the tender spot where he’d been clipped while fighting Kuehn. He wore his blacked–out shades, a white tank, and his camouflage pants with sand–covered boots. They gathered under the IR netting and the reporters introduced themselves. There’s a man from the Boston Globe and the woman from the New York Times.

Terry recognized the woman

Toccara Chester. Broadcast and Political Reporter and Journalist. She’s committed to factual reporting, but known for being competitive and headstrong, which tended to rub people the wrong way.

Terry aligned himself next to Rodney, a friend and fellow Marine. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around him before focusing his gaze on Toccara. They took turns going down the line, shaking hands and urging them to speak freely, but they know about the scripted preparation. The answers to their questions have already been written on the Raiders faces, though maybe not in their hearts. Toccara Chester looked bored, or at least not very interested in what they might tell her.

She stood before Terry, reaching out a hand to shake his. He glanced down at her almond–shaped nails painted red. She wore a white tank as well, her layered blunt cut hair swept away from her face. Fitted, khaki cargo pants hugged her hour–glass shape and hiking boots in various earth–toned colors were on her feet. The beauty mark on her right cheek made her look glamorous like those old Hollywood actress’. A small smile teased her sultry lips.

“What’s your name, Marine?”

“Richmond.” Terry responded with an unreadable expression.

“I’m Toccara. Happy to be here. Looking forward to seeing how things go in your camp.”

Terry dipped his head slightly, his eyes trailing behind her as she moved on.

Rodney leans into Terry to whisper, “You see that ass on her? Fatter than I expected.”

Terry chuckled softly with a shake of his head. He never took his eyes off of Toccara as he tilted his head to whisper a reply.

“Calm down, Rod. She ain’t fuckin’ you.”

Rodney nudged Terry in his ribs.

“I ain’t have pussy in months! She just might work.”

“Chill, man,” Terry said with a laugh.

After the introductions, the MARSOC dispersed to train and perform for the reporters. Much to Terry’s displeasure. Toccara sashayed up and down that camp, recorder in hand and a camera hanging from her neck. She had a little spiral notepad in her back pocket. Beyond her aviators, Terry had a feeling she was watching him. She was positioned within his proximity too often. Like there weren’t many other Marines on duty. Swanwick and the other officers stood by with a hawk–eyed look.

Terry finished his workout and now he was busy cleaning his sniper rifle. The dainty sound of a throat clearing to gain his attention made him pause. Terry peered down over his shoulder at Toccara with her recorder at the ready, pointed at his face.

“Tryna keep from being interviewed, Terry?”

So, she got his first name, huh?

“Tryna stay on track, Toccara. If you didn’t notice by now, we’re pretty busy.”

“Mind giving me a few minutes of your time, Marine?”

Terry exhaled. Rather loud. She overlooked everything he said. Busy. As in leave him alone.

He turns, craning his neck so she could reach his mouth better.

“Go on.” Terry said.

Toccara tilted her head with a grin.

“Do you believe that your Special Ops will defeat the Iraqi?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe in our mission. I believe we will quickly win this war and send the enemy crawling home.”

Toccara nodded her head, “Sounds like you’re proud to be here.”

“Ye, ma’am, I’m proud to be here serving my country. Standing up to evil. Take ‘em all down.”

Toccara cracked a smile, “Well rehearsed, Marine.”

Terry clenched his jaw. He glanced to the left before fixing his eyes on her again.

“Where are you from, Richmond?”

“Born in Louisiana, raised in North Carolina, ma’am.”

“Uh-huh, what made you enlist?”

“I joined when I was eighteen rather than go to jail for a few years. Petty stuff. My grandfather was a Marine. And his father. And so on. It was this or a life of wrong choices.”

“What was the petty stuff?”

Terry quirked a brow at her. Toccara stood her ground, seemingly waiting for him to speak.

“Possession. Running behind my cousin.”

“Hm…over a little weed?”

Terry couldn’t help but laugh. Toccara’s high cheekbones shown.

“How ‘bout that shit? But I’m proud of what the Corps has made me.”

“What is it about being a Marine Raider? What struck you?”

“Uh,” Terry stroked his stubble, “This is about freedom, not about oil. It’s about–it’s about standing up to aggression…”

Sergeant James took his time walking around, drawing closer to Terry. Terry caught his eye. Toccara took notice at Terry’s body language. She felt Sergeant James’ presence on her back.

“…Like the president says. Nobody wants to go to war. We just got to be ready. I can shoot out someone’s eye ball from a klick away. Ain’t no better shot in the world.”

Toccara’s expression hardened.

“Are you proud to serve this country, Terry?”

Terry huffed, “Didn’t I answer this question?”

“Not really.”

Her response was met with dry laughter, “Ha…Okay,” Terry shifted his weight, “I’m proud to serve. This is what I signed for. I’m gonna make my pop and mom proud. I’m from Lincoln Heights. My mom talkin’ bout making a parade for me like they do back in NOLA. My mama say the whole neighborhood is behind me.”

“That must make you feel good.”

“Does.”

“Is your mother scared about you being here?”

“She don’t necessarily feel good about me being here. She writes me letters about watching my ass and don’t try being a hero and watch out for my buddies.”

Terry smoothed sand beneath his feet.

“And your dad?”

Terry’s eyes met hers. There was a momentary silence, one that created tension.

“I think our interview is over, Miss Chester. I gotta head back…”

Terry turned to leave. Toccara caught up with him and grabbed his arm to pull him back. Terry exhaled a frustrated sigh. Her beautiful face with wind–swept hair pleased his blue–green eyes despite his annoyance.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

Terry licked his lips, “aight. One more question.”

“Are you afraid?”

Terry blinked slowly at her.

“…I’m well trained and prepared to fight any menace in the world.”

“…so that’s a no?” Toccara sought clarification.

“RICHMOND!”

Swanwick ushered for him to come over.

“Looks like our times up. Hope you got what you needed.”

Terry jogged away.

“I STILL HAVE TWO MORE DAYS HERE!”

Terry rolled his eyes.

The taste of pecans lingered on his tongue. The Times reporter brought a football. Rodney and a few others tossed the ball back and forth, putting on a performance for Toccara. When eye candy is hard to come by so willingly, the men tend to act a fool, so foolish it turns corny. All day while she sauntered about with her recorder held high and hips swaying, none of the Raiders could focus. Terry couldn’t deny her sexy himself. They’re shirtless and revved up with flirtatious energy. The Boston Globe reporter, a frail, young caucasian man with bifocals and a man bun, stood next to Toccara. He’s soft–spoken, eager to hear from them.

Terry sat on the hood of a war machine with his foot hiked up. Toccara’s skin the color of maple syrup didn’t take much time to deepen beneath the blazing sun. She snapped photos from her digital camera. The sun was setting and it was almost time to eat. Terry planned to have a dinner and then use the portable shower. He hated the water pressure, but it’ll do for now.

Toccara tried her hardest to get detailed answers from them, and Terry could sense the irritation in her face as the first day came to an end. Looks like she wouldn’t be getting that juicy story she was expecting. Terry hopped down from his place on the war machine and tossed his empty packet into a nearby bin. He swiped his tongue over his teeth as he strolled with his usual gait towards the chow hall. Rodney had caught up with him, sweaty and shirtless, rocking into him before tossing an arm over his shoulder. His armpit reeked of sweat and musk. Terry pushed him away, swiping the air.

Inside, they accepted their meals and took their seats. Toccara and the Boston Globe Reporter took a seat at a nearly empty table. While the Boston Globe Reporter talked, Toccara stared off into space, water canteen hovering over her lips. Terry continued to eat, drowning out the conversations surrounding him. Swanwick and the other officers laughed amongst themselves, the most relaxed they’d ever been those six weeks.

Terry peered over his cup of water and noticed Toccara was gone, leaving the Boston Reporter to his notes. Terry checked his digital watch.

“Aight, I’m heading for the showers.”

Terry hopped up before getting rid of his empty tray of food. He wiped his hands and made his way out of the chow hall and toward the tent he slept in. He entered, retrieved his towel and wash cloth with the soap he used, and made his way towards the portable showers. It wasn’t a long walk. He made sure it was clear to undress. He quickly pulled his tank up and over his head, biceps bulging and torso flexing. Terry worked on his belt buckle and pants hastily lowering them with his briefs. His soft dick with coiled pubic hair surrounding it met the warmth of the night air.

He kicked off his boots haphazardly and began his shower. The soft droplets of water covered his body from head to toe. Terry scrubbed profusely, ridding his body of the sand and grime of the day. The scent of eucalyptus rose from his soap sponge. It reminded him of his shower times back at home. Just for a second. Terry cleaned every crevice before rinsing thoroughly. He opened his mouth, allowing the water to flood through before releasing it. He knew he was damn near over his limit, but the water felt too good.

Terry turned off the water and grabbed his towel. He dabbed away the water but not completely. It kept him cool at night. Terry wrapped the towel around his waist and slipped his feet into his boots, forgetting to bring his sleep bottoms with him. He took long strides back to his tent, happy to find it empty still.

He slipped on some grey joggers, a fresh pair of socks, and dropped on his makeshift bed. There was a hole above the tent that gave him the faintest view of the moon and stars. As he star–gazed, enjoying the peace and quiet before some of his bunk mates returned, he could hear noise on the outside of his tent. Terry cut his eyes towards the opening of the tent, and noticed the silhouette of a woman.

Toccara.

Terry sat up and slipped on his boots. He had a feeling she was up to something. He gently opened the tent and looked from left to right. Everyone was still inside of the chow hall. Terry walked out and searched around the camp. As he made his way towards the weapons section of the camp, he spotted Toccara with her camera like a typical reporter doing whatever it takes to get the latest scoop.

The low flicker from her trusty camera teased his ears. Terry wasted no time charging up to her. Toccara heard his footsteps and dropped her camera in the sand. She whirled around, eyes wide with shock. Terry furrowed his brows disapprovingly. Toccara’s brown eyes did a quick sweep over his naked upper half. When she met his eyes again, she looked guilty.

“What are you doing, Toccara?” Terry asked with a tone of anger.

“Just having a look. I can do that, can’t I?” She replied sassily.

“Not when it involves taking pictures. Pictures that can compromise our mission.”

Toccara crouched down to pick up her camera but Terry was quicker. He snatched the camera out of the sand and took it upon himself to see what she’d been photographing.

“Terry! Wait!”

“You crazy?” Terry flicked his eyes towards her, “Taking pics of our shit like it’s cool?”

“It’s just guns and grenades—”

“And we’re on enemy ground. They can see this shit if it gets out, you know that, right?”

Toccara remained silent and looked everywhere but at Terry. His eyes were too intense.

“Look at me. HEY.”

Toccara snapped her attention to his.

“I’m deleting every single one.”

“That’s my property,” Toccara said with a grimace.

“And this is my shit, right here,” Terry picked up his rifle, “my rifle, my pistol. My assigned weapons. All of this shit is assigned.”

“Whatever, just hurry up asshole!”

Terry glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was nearby. He walked up to Toccara, his chest almost touching hers.

“Oh, look, he wants to scar me.” Toccara replied with sarcasm.

“You’re dead wrong. Didn’t you sign a consent agreement? I bet you didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

Toccara glared at Terry with her arms folded.

“A fine up to a couple hundred thousand. Sound like something you wanna do?”

Terry cocked his head down at her. Toccara tapped her foot. She was pissed. Visibly seething.

“Sorry, Miss New York Times, but that shit don’t fly over here.”

Terry made sure to delete them all. When he finished, Toccara reached for her camera. Terry didn’t make any moves to give it back.

“You take any more pictures, I’m breaking this shit, aight?”

Toccara’s left eyelid twitched. She flipped her hair from her face with one hand before rolling her eyes.

“I get it, okay? Now give me my fucking camera back.”

Terry hesitated. Toccara pursed her glossy lips. Finally, he held it out for her. Toccara snatched it from his grasp, eliciting a deep chuckle from his lips.

“Little dick, motherfucker.” She fired at him with a vengeful whisper.

Terry cracked a smile, amused by her. He dragged his eyes over her frame before backing away, one hand over his supposed ‘little dick’.

“Have a good rest of your evening, Miss Chester.”

Toccara turned on her heels, marching away. She was mumbling something else that Terry couldn’t make out, and it made him laugh harder. She’s used to getting her way.

Little dick.

Pssst.

@theereinawrites @bombshellbre95 @planetblaque @trippyscotch @megamindsecretlair @thesweetestdrug @theblulife @blackerthings @deja-r @kanafunee @kaylabuggggg06 @skyesthebomb @blyffe @gwenda-fav @beenathembo @dremmmm @novaniskye @melaninhawtie @urfavblackbimbo @avoidthings @rose-bliss @xo-goldengirl @kinginwithbreezy-blog @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @sirenmouths @kokokonako @creartivefairy @soulfulbeauty19 @therealmrsrhodes @hrlzy @nayaesworld @playgurlxoxo @gg-trini @brattyfics @flydotty @writingsbytee @shiania @browngirldominion @notapradagurl7 @kismet83 @aristasworld @sl33p-deprived-princess @erynnnn @itssbrie @melaninangel @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @sweettea-and-honeybutter

#terry richmond #rebel ridge fanfiction #rebel ridge #aaron pierre x black!oc #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

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scrimblescromble · 3 months ago

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Welcome to Scrim shoves two things she loves together! Today we have a bit more of a historically "accurate" Rapunzel, with her main outfits from the movie and Tangled the Series!

I was thinking of doing Cassandra next :)

Detailed explanation for all my choices below!

These are all fashions from roughly the 1780s, although they wouldn't necessarily be worn all in the same place and time. The colours are also too bright in some cases to achieve at the time

The dresses from the movie and season 1 are both inspired by the robe a l'anglais, although she would wear the movie dress without stays or any extra padding

The movie dress' split skirt is an illusion, and the dress is simply folded over. In general it's quite simple, as Rapunzel made it herself, and shorter than a normal dress. The shift peeks throughout. The pattern is embroidery that she also did herself. I also stuck to the lighter colour palette as a means to show how young she is

Despite being a different rendition of the movie dress, I imagine that she would have worn something different once becoming Princess; thus it hits the same beats. The bodice is darker, and there is a real split, and overall more detail and bigger ruffles. She's more mature now, and growing into her identity as a Princess

Her season two outfit is a Redingote, or, riding coat. The white fabric is something that would have often been worn with many dresses, and the belt thing can be seen on other examples of a day robe a l'anglaise, and her purse hangs off quite naturally. I took away the belt she had since she weirdly has two(?)

The season three dress is a robe a la polonaise, which has that gathered skirt bit at the back. The extra gold and purple bits on the sleeve would be normally ruffled on top of the base sleeve. I gave her an extra little ruffle at the bottom to harken back to the movie, although I imagine it as just a bit of lace at the bottom. The sun motif has been moved to the centre, and the pattern with it, as asymmetry just wasn't much of a thing then.

And the coronation gown is the iconic robe a la francaise, the really wide one. This one would have been worn with a pannier underneath to support it, and were very heavily ruffled. By the 1780s, they were an older style. Her hair is actually less extravagant than expected, as often such tall hair would have large adornment; it would also include the lady's real hair.

She wears a ruffled choker for season three and the coronation, which is actually historical!

Further notes:

Besides the coronation gown, the main support that Rapunzel would wear would be stays and petticoats, perhaps some padding. This keeps in with the time, although she is looser than a Princess may have been

I wanted to base some fashion on the robe a la chemise, which was a much looser style of light fabric tied at the waist. It's very Rapunzel, but alas, the silhouettes weren't really close enough. It's a good alternative for her movie dress, though

At the time, dresses were not floor length! She is still weird for not wearing shoes, though

Hats were a very big thing at the time, but she just doesn't seem like a hat person. By and large I just left the hair untouched since it's so long that the usual loose ringlets of the time wouldn't work, and otherwise it's too short to do anything with. I imagine she gets away without a hat because Cassandra has given up on asking

#tangled #tangled the series #tts #rapunzel's tangled adventure #rapunzel #tts rapunzel #rapunzel fanart #tts fanart #tangled the series fanart #scrim's art #scrim's tangled art

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trusweethrt · 4 months ago

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— ✶ heaven!reader ༊*· dating single dad!rafe

✶ heaven!reader is the definition of a walking angel. her movements are graceful, much like her angelic voice that draws everyone in. everything from her hair down to her scent screams heavenly, making her even more alluring. you can find her in a flower field a cafe ordering lattes with extravagant and tedious foam art, or lounging on rafe's couch in her favorite white lace lingerie while she.

✶ heaven smells like...cinnamon. caramel. marshmallow. cashmere. white rose. her go to perfumes are killan paris angels, sabrina carpenter caramel dream, chanel paris riviera, and burberry body

✶ heaven's staples...silver jewelry. white knee highs. kitten heels. secret tattoos. leg warmers. lace trim. ruffled skirts. sheer dresses. pearl barrettes. white ribbon. matching lounge sets. lace shorts.

✶ she'll be in your thoughts when you see...folding fans. burning candles. white wine. clean sheets. embroidery tops. unique jewelry. lana del rey. old books. silk bedding. angelic music.

coming soon...

taglist 🪽: @bunbun-3 @drewscoquette @untitled10351 @rafesweetie @meetmebehindthemallrafe @supercutelovergirl @drewswife @plaidcowboy @missquantic @rafesdiorperfume @minitarayummy @this-one-weeb @akobx @mystianqel @lacebambidoll @dolletebun @amterasuu @milamilkie

#ᡴꪫ 𓂃 heaven!reader ׁ ᅠׅ ⊹ິ #demi's readers ꔫ #rafe x reader #obx rafe cameron #rafe imagine #obx x reader #!reader

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inaayajaipur · 4 months ago

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Shop High-Quality Short Embroidery Tops to Elevate Your Fashion Game

When it involves curating a wardrobe that balances beauty and versatility, short embroidery tops stand out as undying portions. Whether you are heading to brunch, a casual outing, or maybe a semi-formal event, those tops exude sophistication while allowing comfort. If you are looking for the perfect embodiment of this style, the white poplin short top from Inaaya Jaipur is a must-have. Let's discover why this trend is making waves and the way you could incorporate it into your wardrobe.

#short embroidery top

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bumblesimagines · 10 months ago

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Blood of The Dragon

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Still reeling from the death of Lucerys Velaryon and the failed assassination attempt that resulted in the death of Jaehaerys, Aemond seeks out his closest kin.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Typical HOTD warnings, spoilers for S2, brief Targcest (Older Brother-Younger Brother), (Y/N) is the twin of Helaena, mentions of the deaths of children (Luke and Jaehaerys), blatant manipulation but Aemond is touch-starved so, potentially ooc Aemond im still figuring out how to write him, kinda short

WFMF may take a bit to come out y'all! I'm waiting to get my hands on the book again so I can finally decide if/what I'll change from the show and what I'll keep.

~~~

Aemond scarcely paid the Small Council meeting any heed, his gaze shifting between staring at his brother's exhausted, dead-eyed expression and studying the golden coin pinched between his thumb and index finger. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the design etched into the coin and felt a strike of dread squeeze around his throat. The coin continuously served as a reminder of how close Daemon's vermin had been to stealing the air from his lungs, and how cruelly they'd taken his little nephew's head instead.

Aegon looked ruined, his anger and grief coaxing him into sinking further and further into his cups until he could no longer comprehend the words fleeing his mouth. Aemond found it pathetic most days, for the 'rightful' heir to be a whiny drunk, but now he found it in himself to be sympathetic toward him. Aemond knew little of losing a child but the death of an innocent child he watched grow up still struck pain in his gut. He never expected their older half-sister to be so cruel.

With the meeting ending swiftly after reaching nothing new or useful, Aemond retreated from the room in long strides that took him down the many halls of the Keep. His thoughts continued in circles, reminding him of young Luke and the horror that'd washed over him when he watched Vhagar snap her jaws around him and his dragon. The younger dragon had fallen to bloody bits from the sky and into the vast ocean below, washing up on a beach or so he'd heard. He hadn't desired such an outcome but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears when everyone whispered 'Kinslayer' behind his back.

Before he knew it, his legs had taken him to his older sister's room and he entered with some hesistance, unsure of what he could possibly say or do that'd ease the pain of losing a child. He immediately spotted Helaena seated on the floor with her skirt spread around her and her hands occupied with finishing an embroidery. Her fingers moved automatically, muscle memory from all the times she'd spent doing needlework. Her pale eyes remained distant, however, and red from constant weeping. Aemond always knew Helaena to be the most sensitive out of all his children but he'd never seen her cry before.

"Aemond," Helaena's twin, (Y/N), greeted him, his head tilted downwards from his spot on the couch as he brushed out the knots in Helaena's hair until her silver hair was smooth and detangled enough to braid. He set the brush aside and began braiding, a process he'd long become acquainted with when young Helaena refused to be touched by the maids. "Do you require something?"

"I wished to see how our sister was doing," Aemond replied and clasped his hands behind his back, grimacing when his words brought no reaction out of their sister. She'd always been a girl of little words but she never failed to at least offer acknowledgment with short words or glances. Helaena merely continued to thread her needle through the fabric.

"She is tired, Aemond. We all are." (Y/N) spoke, finishing the braid and letting it rest along Helaena's back. He leaned forward and pressed a fleeting kiss to the top of her head, his hands sliding down to cup her elbows and help her rise onto her swaying feet. Aemond made no move to offer his help, for he knew it'd be rejected whilst Helaena remained in such a state.

Aemond lowered his gaze to the floor and stepped aside, his head bowed as (Y/N) led Helaena to her bed and helped tug the covers up to her waist. He offered quiet words of comfort before peeling himself from the edge of the bed and approaching Aemond, casting him a brief glance as the two stepped outside.

(Y/N) lingered until the doors to her bedchambers shut and the guards resumed their positions, his arms folding over his chest and face unreadable, as was typical of his brother. The twins had always been an unpredictable sort, no one ever truly deciphering what went through their minds. Aemond found it troubling at times, being unable to read him as he did Aegon, but he trusted him regardless.

"Where was Cole, I wonder." (Y/N) simply said, his feet moving and voice devoid of everything but a flicker of annoyance that tugged Aemond's attention toward him. The one-eyed prince caught up with his older brother in quick strides, the direction they headed in being toward (Y/N)'s own chambers.

"He claimed to be abed." (Y/N)'s lips pressed into a line at his response. Aemond's brow twitched upward. "Cole is-"

"Cole is but a child surrounded by toys yet desires the prettiest one, one that belongs to another and should never be allowed into his foolish hands." His brother looked him directly in the eye when the doors to his chambers were opened for him, violet eyes as cold as ever. "He is pathetic."

Aemond swiped his tongue over his dry lips and followed his brother inside the room, his fingers tightening around his wrist. "Do you speak of Ser Criston... or me, dear brother?" He asked once the doors shut, leaving them in the silence of (Y/N)'s bedchambers, the air as chilly as the attitude of the older Targaryen. (Y/N) scoffed quietly and poured himself tea that'd no doubt gone tepid in his absence. "Have I not served our King faithfully enough?"

The prettily decorated teapot clattered against the wood of the table it'd sat upon, (Y/N)'s head raising to stare at Aemond. "Ao tymptan Jaes se vēttan aōla iā mittys." Aemond could hear the anger in his tone, barely contained but somehow pushed back to slowly drip through. "The boy you needlessly slaughtered was no Velaryon but he was our sister's child. Īlva ānogar. They killed Jaehaerys to avenge that child, Aemond. Helaena paid the consequences of your actions."

"Would you have preferred they kill me instead, then?" Aemond bristled.

"I would have preferred hearing of your success at Storm's End and how the princeling returned to Dragonstone without an alliance." (Y/N) snapped back, curling his fingers around his teacup and sipping from its contents. Aemond inhaled deeply, his jaw clenching and unclenching; teeth slowly grinding together and the tension in his shoulders easing into a sag.

Aemond walked forward, his hand lifting to tug the eyepatch from his face and letting it fall onto the table as he took a seat. (Y/N) followed his movements with keen eyes and a deep frown, one of the few times his brother so outwardly showed his disapproval toward him. They stared at each other for a few quiet moments, the coin searing a hole through Aemond's pocket.

"I only meant to frighten him. I did not wish such harm upon him; I did not want him dead or gravelly injured. I... feel sorry for how things occurred between him and I. I did not... I did not mean to bring pain upon Helaena or Aegon." Aemond leaned forward, broad hands pressing into the back of (Y/N)'s thighs to pull him closer gently whilst his forehead rested along his lower stomach. He exhaled softly when (Y/N) placed his palm upon the back of Aemond's head, fingers running through his hair. "I allowed foolish emotions to best me."

"Foolish emotions you've stewed in for years, Aemond. You are man-grown and a prince... a third-born son who will never sit the throne." His nostrils flared with a sharp inhale of air and he leaned away, back pressing into the chair and lips pressing tightly together. (Y/N) watched him, palm pressing back the strands that went astray with his movements before he curled his fingers around Aemond's chin and forced him to keep his head tilted upwards. "I am the King's heir, now that they've killed our poor nephew, just as you killed the other. Aegon had potential, Aemond, whether you believe it or not."

"He is a drunk-"

"Yes, but he pleased the smallfolk before sinking into his cups. They were happy and eager to accept him as their ruler. He will now ignore them, and with the ever-impulsive Cole at his side... it will not be long before we are ruined by one or the other, Aemond." (Y/N)'s thumb delicately stroked along his cheek, his eyes softening but the coldness tittering at the edges. Aemond leaned into his touch, his knitted brows easing as he soaked in the words of his brother.

"Aegon cannot rule, and neither can Cole," Aemond murmured, pressing himself further into (Y/N)'s hand when his brother gave a nod. "What is it you believe we must do?"

"Rook's Nest. Our sister will not be allowed to turn her cheek away when Cole and Uncle's army descends upon it, and neither will Aegon. He desires to prove himself, you've seen it. He'll try to in battle... and when he does, he must.. fall to injury. Vhagar knows the taste of war, and with you as her rider, Cole will have no choice but to ignore whatever it is you do. The Council will favor me over Mother as regent whilst Aegon recovers."

"And what will you do once you are named Prince Regent?"

(Y/N)'s lips curled upward and he bent down, both hands cupping Aemond's face to press their lips together. The action caught him by surprise, but the twinge of longing for a loving hand shot through his veins. The teachings from the septas and maesters told him it was wrong, but Targaryens were no ordinary men; the blood of the dragon coursed through them. Aemond pushed into him, rising from his chair to encircle his arms around (Y/N)'s waist. (Y/N)'s grip tightened and he forced Aemond to lean back.

"You... will be named Hand." (Y/N) told him, and Aemond's shoulders straightened, his single violet eye gleaming. He'd always be meant for such a position, and as much as Cole had been a father to him, he was still the mere son of a steward; someone hardly meant for the position of Hand.

(Y/N)'s grip loosened into a gentle touch, coaxing Aemond to lean into it once more. "I will not risk the fall of this family, Aemond, not like this. Enough of our sacred blood has been spilled. I will do what our mother and brother and grandsire failed to do. If Rhaenyra has withheld as much as she has in search of peace, I will test how desperate she is to obtain it."

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mysteryshoptls · 4 months ago

Text

SSR Rook Hunt - Room Relaxation Voice Lines

I must away quickly to my bed. If only so I can experience an utterly fantastic birthday.

Summon: Eheh, I received birthday tidings from everyone in my dreams already. I must make this a superb birthday that doesn't fall short of my sweet dream!

Groovification: As the birthday boy, I must have a grand appearance... Figuring out how I should look is both difficult and thrilling!

Home: My anti-bedhead counter-measure is flawless.

Swap Looks: This perfectly suits the spirit of my dormitory.

Home Transition 1: When was the last time I celebrated my birthday with my family, I wonder...? We aren't on bad terms by any means, but it's quite rare for everyone to gather together all at once.

Home Transition 2: With a flowy fabric, a satiny feel, and elegantly puffy sleeves... This is my absolute favorite sleepwear.

Home Transition 3: What are you looking at...? Ah, the pom-pom on my cap. Honestly, sometimes I also get the urge to play with them.

Home Transition - Login: On my birthday, I find there's more for me to write in my diary about. I received so many birthday wishes... Which makes me the happiest person in the world.

Home Transition - Groovy: When I zoomed in on the photo that Cater-kun took for me, I saw that the little bird I was reunited with then was also in the background! What a pleasant surprise!

Home Tap 1: What a beautiful feather... I must display it right away! It was definitely the correct choice to ask Ace for it when he mentioned he was on flamingo duty.

Home Tap 2: I received a handkerchief from Riddle. See this elegant embroidery...? It is just as beautiful as the roses that grow in his dormitory.

Home Tap 3: From those who wish me well with smiles and laughter, to those who casually tosses me a comment in passing... Each birthday wish I receive is tailored to each individual!

Home Tap 4: While I was in a friendly chat with a friend, I could see Idia-kun in the distance. He needed not say a single word, I could feel he wanted to wish me his warmest regards!

Home Tap 5: Oh là là... However could I have caught the hem of my top in my waistband? Thank you for telling me.

Home Tap - Groovy: My beloved hairclips are one of my dearest treasures― There are rare gems only available to members of the "Eternal Snow" fanclub!

Duo: [ROOK]: Show me how you'd celebrate, Cater-kun! [CATER]: Rook-kun, let's make this a rockin' year!

Birthday Login Message: Bonjour! And also, merci. How wonderful to have you come celebrate my birthday. Hm? Oh, sorry, I just received a message from Trey-kun. "I need you for something, so come to the club room." ...is what he said. He want's me to come all the way to the Science Club room, I see... Heh. Does it not seem like there may be a spectacular surprise waiting for me? Perhaps I'll be suddenly doused in a barrage of soapsuds... Or perhaps they'll hit me with a thrilling show with an explosion of powder? Oh, my. It does no good to imagine too grandly. Regardless, I plan to enjoy my day to the fullest!

Requested by @farfalla049, @mizumire and @thelonepearl.

#twisted wonderland #twst #rook hunt #cater diamond #twst rook #twst cater #twst translation #twst birthday #mention: cater #mention: ace #mention: riddle #mention: trey

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ryebread0605 · 11 months ago

Note

Hi! Are you okay with us requesting smut? If so, could I request maybe Jamil pulling Reader/Yuu into a private area after a basketball game and taking them? It's up to you if they won or lost, but he just has so much adrenaline after the game he needs to let it out somehow, and Reader/Yuu dressed up in a like cheerleading outfit and was cheering him on and he couldn't stop looking at them throughout the game. Bonus points for jealousy because the other team was checking Reader/Yuu out- thank you so much!

Smut is 100% ok to request! As long as it isn’t Floyd x jade, silver x Lilia, or anyone x ortho!

I love soft dom Jamil so I hope that’s ok if I kinda added that! Jealousy will be included cuz I find it cute to have him want your attention on him!

Includes: dom Jamil, public sex, fem reader, some light degradation

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY

Jamil never thought himself one to be jealous, especially not after he let his jealousy cause him to nearly harm you when he Overblotted. So when he felt the familiar twist in his stomach, seeing members of the opposing team watching your cheer routine? He tried to ignore it. Surely the feeling would go away overtime, right? Yeah, of course they would. And afterall, how could they not want to look at you in that cute crop top and pleated skirt, embroidery of the Night Raven College logo dead center across your chest. Those twirls, you bending down, the cute smile on your face.. sevens he had to try hard to focus on the match.

You ran to Jamil with a huge smile on your face as the match ended, NRC winning 7-5 making it a close game. Pom Pom’s still in your hands, you wrap your arms around his waist.

“Jamil! You guys did amazing! Did you hear how loud I was cheering? I hope so!” Your voice was cheery as you bounced in place, Jamil finding it harder and harder to keep his gaze on your face and not at your cleavage pressed against him. He was still annoyed at how the other boys had stared at you, but that annoyance and jealousy grew far FAR worse as Floyd and Ace decided to come over and make things worse.

“Heyyy sea snake? Did ya see how those Royal Academy boys were lookin at shrimpyyy? Looks like shrimpy’s got more fans than usss~” Floyd’s teasing tone made Jamil have to take deep breaths, trying to calm himself which he was almost able to until Ace’s snarky voice added in.

“Ha! I bet they’d die for a chance with you (y/n), better make them know you’re dating Jamil. Don’t want her to get taken as a Royal Academy cheerleader~” oh that was it. A low growl came from Jamil as he dragged you out of the gym, leaving behind a laughing Floyd and Ace along with the other team members looking confused.

“J-Jamil where are we going? Everyone is still in the-“

“You’re mine (y/n). Mine only. And I want to make sure everyone knows” in an instant, your chest was pressed against the wall as you felt yourself sandwiched between it and Jamil, his hand slipping under the crop top and groping your breasts. His voice was barely above a whisper in your ear, the sound of it causing shivers to roll down your spine,

“I bet you liked the attention, right? Liked having other guys ogle you? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they all stare~” his hands made quick work of the cheer uniform, tossing both the skirt and shirt to the ground and leaving you in the panties and bra you had on underneath. Your breath hitched in your throat as he pulled his jersey off and dropped it atop your uniform.

God, proof of how hard he worked at those practices was on display for your eyes to hungrily take in. His hands push your panties to the side as you are distracted by his abs, a finger pressing deep inside you making your breath hitch. His finger moved fast and soon one became two as he scissored your now dripping cunt open, stretching you for him as he felt his shorts tighten. Once he felt you were sufficiently stretched, he removed his fingers and chuckled at your soft whines from the loss of something inside of you. His shorts joined yours as he wrapped your legs around his waist, rubbing his cock up and down your slick folds and teasing his tip at the entrance.

“P-please Jamil please I need you!” Your voice held a soft whine, making his smirk widen as he left hickeys along your neck, removing your bra to access your breasts as well and leaving marks along the sensitive skin

“Oh? Do you really need me that badly? So goddamn needy, you wanna risk someone hearing us?” The soft moan you let out confirmed to him that even just the idea you *could* get caught had turned you on and, with that, he pressed the tip of his cock into your cunt with a grunt. Barely giving you time to adjust, he quickly bottomed out with only a few thrusts.

“There, that enough for you princess? So goddamn horny, just for me. Such a good little slut, wanting everyone to hear you call my name~” Jamil’s voice in your ear, so soft and sensual with his degrading comments just made your cunt clench around him, eliciting another groan of pleasure. Your soft begs for him to move soon faded to moans of pleasure as he started off rough right away, his hips slamming against yours and the sound of skin slapping filling the once silent halls. The brutal pace didn’t let up, not even as your head was thrown back from the pleasure and the knot forming in your stomach.

“Good little slut, so loud for me~ telling everyone who owns you” each word was emphasized with another hard thrust, his cock hitting that one spot that made you see stars and, before you could warn him, your fluttering walls convulsed around him as the knot in your stomach snapped. Fucking you through your orgasm, Jamil’s pace didn’t let up until hot ropes of his cum shot deep into you.

The two of you stood there panting, both coming down from your highs, basking in that post sex glow you always seemed to have. That moment, however, was interrupted by something that turned you both into blushing messes,

“God really? You two couldn’t have waited until getting to a bathroom at least?” Ace’s annoyed and embarrassed voice rang through your ears as you two turned to see him covering his blushing face and refusing to look either of you two in the eyes.

“Well, hopefully you’ve learnt not to make me jealous Ace, take this as a lesson” Jamil’s smug smirk returned to his face as the former muttered a quick ‘fuck you’ before walking past you two quickly

Returning his attention to you, Jamil leaned to whisper once more in your ear

“wanna go for a second round~?”

#disney twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland smut #twst smut #twisted wonderland x fem reader #twst jamil #jamil viper

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