#winter springs pressure washing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

Text

Winter's King 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: yo, work is driving me nuts.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Lady Jazlene, a queen by marriage, cries herself to sleep. You stay until she snores and snuff the candle as you leave her on her stomach atop the stuffed mattress. You emerge between the guards and wonder if they keep people out or keep her in.

They don’t react to you. No one really does. A shadow approaches. The thickset man grunts at you as the moonlight shines off his dark mail. Bryce waits patiently as you near him. He turns and walks beside you in silence.

Much of the camp is asleep. The only fires that remain are those of the soldiers on watch for marauders and bandits. Your soles kick loose pebbles and trample flattened grass further. You yawn as you reach the luggage carts and find the one you rode in. The grey horse is tie to the axle, dozing on its feet with puffing nostrils.

“The road will not get any less turbulent,” Bryce warns as he grabs his bedroll from across his mount’s rump. “You will need sleep, maid.”

“Thank you, sir,” you lift the canvas draped over the back of the wagon.

He grumbles and unfurls his roll across the dirt. You climb up and nestle down beneath the cover, pressed against a chest as you curl up. You hear the soldier lay down with a groan, “...too sweet...”

You close your eyes and rest your head on a bent arm. The darkness quickly swallows you up into slumber and the day fades into obscurity. You’re not conscious long enough to dread the one ahead.

As the sun rises, heat gathers in the cart. You wake in a damp sweat, nearly suffocating as you gulp up cool air. You slip down onto your feet and grab onto the cart to keep from stumbling. Bryce grunts as your soles crunch on the ground.

“Eh, where’re you off to?” He sneers.

You look down at him. His eyes are still closed as his grey steed sniffs at the dirt close to him.

“Sir, I... I haven’t... relieved myself since... erm, well...”

“Go on, but not too far,” he opens his eyes and sits up. “Holler if you meet trouble.”

The horse huffs into his steely hair and he pets its nose. He grabs onto its reins and hauls himself up. You quickly spin and flit away. You go off into the brush where its thick and squat down, your skirts gathered above your knees. You miss the springs behind the castle where you would bathe with the other maids, you could use a wash now.

You finish up and peer over the stretch of bodies, horses, and carts. You set off back toward the cart and as you come in sight of Bryce, he unties a dented kettle from his saddles. You feel much better without the pressure beneath your guts.

“I could fetch water,” you offer.

He looks over his shoulder. You think you surprised him.

“Quiet mouse,” he mutters and faces you, gripping the bent handle, “I can manage a potful of water.”

“Yes, sir, I only was being helpful.”

“You stay, take Daisy to find some fresh grass,” he points to the horse.

“Daisy?” You look at the beast, “is that her name?”

He shrugs and stalks off. You go to the reins and loose them. You glance around and lead her over to an unyellowed swath of grass. She dips her long neck and grazes, tearing the strands noisily as her teeth clack. You pet her ear as she comes rather close to the hem of your skirt.

Heavy steps tramp up behind you. You don’t bother looking as you assume it’s Bryce. Those who are stirring are barely able to lift themselves out of their rolls. The lazy rise of dawn does not inspire fastidiousness as the clouds haze amber and rose.

“Fine horse,” the king’s timbre rumbles over you.

You turn and bow your head, “your highness.”

He inhales through his nose before he speaks again, “are you a fast rider?”

“I’ve never... I don’t ride, your highness,” you reply, staring at his black mail, just at the center of his chest. “It isn’t my horse.”

“I know it, I thought perhaps...” he begins and shifts his weight in his boots, “you might’ve secreted away the mare. That you would be sick for your home.”

“Your highness? No, I wouldn’t--” You put your hand to your apron, “I am not a thief.”

He pauses and his thick fingers toy with his belt, fiddling with a leather purse, “that isn’t what I...” he blows out in exasperation, “I do not think you dishonest. In fact, you are the most honest creature I’ve met around here.”

You keep your eyes down, “I only mean to feed the horse.”

“Yes, I believe you,” he assures, his tone glum, “forgive my inference. Truly, it wasn’t intended as such.”

“I understand, your highness,” you say.

“It was a jape, a poor one, I suppose,” he hooks his thumb in his belt and turns to pace. “I wanted to thank you. I have yet to figure out how to handle Lady Jazlene but you keeping her company, I do appreciate it.” He stops and crosses his arms as he faces you again, “last night, what you heard and saw... we are strangers still, her and I.”

“I am a maid, your highness, I serve the lady and you now,” you reply, “that’s all I do.”

His arms bulge before he drops them, “yes, I suppose for you, the matters of nobility are dull.”

“It is not of my concern, your highness,” you say, “I am to see that all the wine and food and little things are taken care of.”

You peer up at the sky as the dimness slowly recedes. His figure looms below and he slowly treads closer. You squeeze the reins.

“You serve the queen, the king, and... a horse,” he reaches to touch its snout, dragging his knuckles along its grey fur. “Make certain we are fed and content.”

“Whatever is needed, your highness,” you answer and watch his hand stroke the horse.

“And what do you need?” He asks.

You quork your head and stick out your lip. It's an odd question. You have what you need. You have a place in the cart, you have some nuts left over from Bryce’s generosity, and you have some hours sleep behind you.

“Nothing, I think,” you say.

He scratches behind the horse’s ear, “and what do you want?”

You purse your lips. You think. Another strange inquiry. What should you want? That’s not something anyone ever worried for. You only troubled after what others wanted.

“I... I want to see the snow,” you say at last, “I think I dreamt of it but I can’t remember. I don’t really know what it would look like but I remember once Merinda spoke of it. She knew a stable hand who once lived in the north.”

He’s quiet. Your answer isn’t very interesting. To him, the snows must be so tedious. Nothing more than ordinary. He makes a clicking noise.

“I want to see the snow too,” he pulls his hand away from the horse and for a moment, he seems to reach for you, recoiling short of touching your grasp on the reins. He withdraws and presses his thumb to his teeth. He hums. “We have far to go before the snow...” he rasps, “should you require anything for the road ahead, you may ask.”

“That is kind, your highness, but I don’t expect I require much,” you assure, “thank you.”

“Mmm,” he drones as he faces the sunrise and sets his posture, “onward.”

He marches away as you stay and watch Daisy munch on the grass. You comb your fingers through her main, loosening the tangles. When another approaches, you glance over. Bryce tidies his own hair with his hands.

“Water is boiling, maid,” he declares, “I have some spare mint leaf for tea.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you smile down at Daisy and move out of reach of her teeth. “I will stay with the horse until she is done.”

“Hm, aye, I understand,” his forehead lines, “she is much more pleasant than I.”

He nods and turns back the way he came. You watch after him as he goes to sit before the hanging kettle, a low flame burning beneath it. He rolls his shoulders and hunches forward as he plants his elbows on his knees. These people of the Hinterlands are not so cold as they pretend.

⚔️

The long train continues through the lands. Some days slower than others. There are some where progress stops at midday in favour of passing through a village or approaching a nearby farm. The king departs from the larger party, riding with his soldiers to greet the commonfolk. Lady Jazlene refuses to accompany her husband in favour of her silk tent and wine.

The pauses in your trek makes you curious; you only ever heard of King Waleran showing his face to the citizens during the harvest festivals and self-aggrandizing ceremonies. You never saw the king yourself, only heard Lord Dustan and his wife resentfully complain of how the king never made the journey to Debray. Did he not recall that once a duchess was married to his great-uncle?

You spend the hours in Jazlene’s company. She wants her wine and mutton. You notice that her appetite for the former has grown since the first day’s travel. She even requested that some casks be sought during one of the king’s visits. He acted as if he did not hear her entreaty. Their few encounters since that first night have been terse and short, neither offering much more than a word or two.

The queen swirls her cup, watching the motion of the wine within. She giggles and puts it down, picking up the looking glass and admiring herself. She sits on a wooden stool, her skirts dusted with the dirt of the road. Despite the filth, she insists on sporting a new gown each day, no matter how extravagant.

“What a fool? To think he is wasting his time on commoners,” she trills, “you know, he should be here, worried about his wife and queen. Not married a week and all we’ve done is ride anon. I’ve had no wedding, no feast. How I am neglected for these dirty farmers.”

You say nothing. You’re not certain she recalls you’re there. She speaks to herself often as if her mother is there. A few times, she has even called for the duchess. Often when she’s nearly finished the bottle.

She pouts and sniffs. She drains the cup completely and puts it down heavily on the crate next to her. She grips the mirror with both hands and looks at her reflection. She contorts her face, sucking in her cheeks, pushing out her lips, turning her head this way and that.

“Aren’t I beautiful?” She nearly whispers. You don’t flinch. You stare at your hem. She sighs and stomps her foot, “I’m asking you!”

You peek up at her, surprised.

“Yes, your highness, you are very beautiful.”

She frowns, “you lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t lie, your highness.”

“Don’t argue with me,” she snarls and slams the mirror down, cracking the glass on the crate. She stands and blusters around, her skirts catching between her legs, “if I am beautiful, what makes me so, hm? Tell me!”

You stare at her. She is beautiful. You always thought so.

“Your hair, your curls, your highness, they are beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes, “just my hair?”

She wobbles slightly as she struts towards you.

“Your eyes. They are pretty too. And you have a nicely set nose. And your lips are finely curved, your highness,” you explain as she looms closer and closer.

“Hmph,” she stops, slouching drunkenly as she leans in to consider you, “of course you would say so. Look at you. So plain. An ugly handmaid.”

You stare back at her, a strike in your chest, then drop your gaze. It is the wine. She huffs, her alcohol-laden breath tinging your nose.

“The king,” she babbles as she turns on her heels, swaying dangerously, “we’ve only lain together our first night. It was... quick. He didn’t want me to sleep with him,” she raises a hand and flutters her fingers, “he shooed me away like some whore.” She spins and falls onto the stool, “if I am so beautiful, why does he not want me?”

You watch her. She isn’t looking for your answer. She’s talking to talk. Lady Rezlyn isn’t there so she has only herself and stagnant air trapped in the tent.

“It is my duty to have his babies. To give him heirs. I cannot do that if he will not touch me. But perhaps when are in one place, he might try again,” she smiles and lifts the broken mirror. She tilts it and lets her hand drift down to your bodice. She pushes her chest up, “when he lets me take this off, he will see. He will want me.”

She convinces herself as she preens at her reflection, “perhaps it won’t hurt.” She looks around and sees the bottle of wine. She grabs it by the neck. She grips it and wiggles it at you in the air. “He’s even thicker than this,” she puts the mirror down and balances the bottle on her palm as she circles her fingers around the bottom of the bottles neck, just before it rounds out, “and longer.”

You stare at the silk wall, mortified by her words. She giggles and the movement of her hand draws your eyes up. You watch from under your lashes as she brings her hands up and down the bottle neck.

“Mother says, just like this,” she pumps it, “that he should like it very much.” She stops and focuses on the bottle, “mmm, he is a man underneath it all.” She tosses the bottle away, “and I am a beautiful woman. He will want me.”

You lower your eyes again and twine your fingers together. You can’t help but feel bad for her. You only wish you had some words of wisdom or comfort to offer her. Or that she would hear them. You can’t help but touch the fading bruise along your stomach as you languish in the tepid silence. It’s better to let her forget you.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king #dark fic #dark!fic

323 notes · View notes

formulaforza · 1 year ago

Text

—the seasons of love masterlist

or; the situationship fic. summ. charles leclerc x female reader. all chapters 18+

—one: winter, the first time

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.

—two: spring

He’s in control, navigating every corner and chicane with precision, never once giving into the pressure of the bullet behind him. Max tries, he tries and tries, to close in on Charles, but he holds him, defends his position with skill and tenacity that makes you attracted to a helmet, to the mind it protects.

—three: summer

He hesitates, locks his gaze on the path ahead. “Life, I guess. Responsibilities, expectations, the weight of it all. It’s easy to forget to appreciate the simple things.” He shifts his steps slightly, brushes his arm against yours and makes you shiver. He makes you so nervous. You fucking hate that he makes you so nervous now. He’s looking at you, and you’re the one fixed on the trail. It’s a simple swap, but it feels heavy, it does. “Hey,” he says, soft. Comfortable.

—four: autumn

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed when he gets back from media day, Ferrari polo and light wash jeans and a dumb smile greets you, grumpy with arms crossed over your chest. “Did you have to send me a fucking plane ticket?” You snapped.

—five: winter, the second time

Arthur’s eyes dart between the two of you. Charles, you, and then back again. Charles is lucky, his back is turned to the whole thing. You’re the one who has to deal with his questioning glances. He stirs sugar into his cold coffee, and the spoon clinks against the sides of the mug painfully loud.

#seasons of love #i hope u take this as a threat. because it is.

527 notes · View notes

genericpuff · 1 year ago

Note

Ahem. I know what other brushes LO uses ;)

(Forewarning: most of these brushes are from early LO and as such aren't used anymore. I will put an * next to the recent brushes Rachel uses.) Pastels, Gouache, and other textured brushes (used mainly for backgrounds):

Pastel Palooza (Kyle's Megapack)

Pastella (Kyle's Megapack)

Fat Fun 100 (Kyle's Megapack)

Fat Fun Spongy (Kyle's Megapack)

Hard Square Pastel (Kyle's Winter 2019 set) *

Pigmentia (Kyle's Fall 2021 set) *

Sheriff Coal (Kyle's Spring 2022 set) *

Watercolors (used for backgrounds like clouds and texture)

500 Giant (Kyle's Watercolors)

Medium Wash Texture (Kyle's Watercolors)

Soft Irregular Wash 150 (Kyle's Watercolors)

Soft Wash 120 (Kyle's Watercolors)

FX:

Kyle's Splatter Brushes - Splatter Bot C (Kyle's Splatter set)

Stars 1 and 2 (Kyle's Splatter set)

Pressure rake (Kyle's Rake set) (warning: while this brush can be imported into CSP, this brush only properly works in Photoshop and Procreate because of their specific brush engines that allow 360 brush tip rotation)

Wet Ink Dynamic (Kyle's Splatter set)

Wet Ink Random (Kyle's Splatter set)

Bird Mix (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Bird Mix Vintage (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Break Glass (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Crackup (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Downpour (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Gulls 1 and 2 (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Manga Line Varied (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Manga Lines Broken (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Any of the smoke brushes (Kyle's Concept brushes) (warning: like the pressure rake brush, they work properly in Photoshop or Procreate)

Get the concept brush set. I'm not joking.

The entirety of Kyle's Winter 2022 set (Rachel is using these for how winter looks in the mortal realm) *

Foliage:

Fall Color Save (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Color Mix (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Mix 2, 3, and 4 (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Mix Dry 1 and 2 (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Brancher Big, Medium, and Small (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Pro 1 - 8 (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Small Color (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Foliage Ground cover (Kyle's Concept brushes)

Maddy Bellwoar's Ghibli-inspired brush sets* (can be found on Gumroad for the cheapest price)

Hope that helps!

listen here my dear sweet anon

first of all, there is no forewarning needed here that these are mostly from early LO, early LO is what I'm dying to recapture so you already struck gold and you can stop digging (or don't, because holy shit finding this in my inbox was like christmas for puff round 2)

second, i hope you're happy choosing this timeline where you're my new bestie because goddamn this is COMPREHENSIVE

and third (and most importantly) how in the flying FUCK did you know about some of these

like it's clear at this point rachel uses a lot of the kyle webster brushes, i kinda figured that out ages ago and it was just a matter of figuring out which ones she uses which you've done me the solid of putting together for me

but the ghibli background set?? the brushes that are exclusive to the newest episodes ??

either you've just become the champion of being the most hyperfixated on old LO orrrrr you know something we don't and there's a reason you're using the anon tag-

#i will mention btw there are some i couldn't get thru my usual download sources #the winter 2019 fall 2021 and spring 2022 set #thankfully they only contain one brush each all of which are from the newer episodes as labelled #but i'd still like to nab 'em so if anyone has any leads or can share these brushes with me pls lmk in my asks <3 #everyone thank our almighty anon for passing on these resources #i've gone ahead and updated the brush pack post which now includes almost all of these as a background brush set #lore olympus critical #lo critical #anti lore olympus #lore olympus redraw

256 notes · View notes

7ndipity · 9 months ago

Text

Army of One

Jin x Reader

Summary: You've struggled with depression for a long time, but Jin will never let you fight on you own...

Warnings: angst, depression, mentions of scars but nothing detailed, not proofread

A/N: This is kinda messy, but I’ve been going through some stuff and just wanted to get some of it out, and decided to share it on the chance that maybe it’ll make someone else feel a little better or comforted too. It’s loosely inspired by my favorite Coldplay song of the same title. Love y’all💜

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

It was well past midnight, everything washed in grey-blue light, the only sounds that permeated the space around you was the distant white-noise of the traffic outside and the faint sound of your own breathing.

“Hey.” His voice was so soft you could almost miss it, not wanting to disturb the peace around you.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing up?” He asked.

You shrugged.

“Couldn’t sleep.” You kept your eyes fixed on the window in front of you.

The view over the city had been one of your favorite parts about this place when you’d first moved here, able to sit and watch thousands of tiny lights flicker through the streets below, each one its own tiny universe.

He sat down next to you, careful not to disturb you. “You wanna talk about it?” He asked, already knowing the likely answer.

“Not really.”

He nodded. He knew you weren’t always comfortable sharing what was going on in your mind. He was the same way, it was part of what had made him feel so at ease with you early on, the two of you understood what it meant to communicate without speaking, through half-smiles and quiet hums of acknowledgement. It was for this same reason that you had also made it easy for him to open up, to let the mask fall and show his vulnerable sides.

You had given him a safe place to show his true self, but he noticed that you held back from doing the same, at least in full.

You had told him a bit about your struggles, about the shadows that haunted you, clinging and lurking close, no matter how hard you tried to ignore their cold, clammy grip, waiting to pull you down at the first sign of weakness, but you had tried to protect him from the worst of it. You hadn’t wanted him to know about the days when they won, when you could barely drag yourself from your bed, when everything seemed to fade out as if viewed through fogged glass, close enough to see and hear, but never able to make full contact, the warmth never able to sink in.

The first few times it happened you had tried to hide it, saying you just weren’t feeling well or that you were busy or whatever else was fague enough to sound convincing, at least to you, but Jin was far from clueless.

He’d noticed how tired you were sometimes, the distant look in your eyes, but he hadn’t wanted to pressure you to talk about things you weren’t ready to share yet, you’d only been dating a few months after all, but after your third day of single sentence texts, he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d shown up at your door with food and an overnight bag and the statement that he refused to leave you to suffer on your own.

A statement that had turned into a promise.

“The flowers have started to bloom.” Your voice almost startled him, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I noticed.” He said, watching you attentively.

“It’s spring.”

It’s a simple statement, but Jin understood its underlying meaning. Another winter passed, another year survived.

His hand came to rest over yours where it brushed over the faded marks of the past, reminders of the storms you weathered before and survived.

You’d been through enough autumns, waiting to wither away like the leaves around you, that you had started to believe that they didn’t faze you anymore, until you noticed the tremble in your hands as he held you, reminding you that you were still very much connected to this world.

Do you ever regret it?” You stared down at your intertwined hands, the way his fit so neatly over your own.

“Never.” He said without a moment’s hesitation, with a certainty that you feel reverberate in your chest.

“Even when I’m like this?”

“Especially when you're like this.” He said, leaning closer to lend you some of his warmth.

“Why?”

“Because, you’re worth fighting for.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You are to me.”

You still struggled to believe it, but that was his truth. If he could, he would go into battle for you, fight till his hands were ragged and bloodied to protect you from the things that hurt you, from the thoughts that ambushed you and tried to lure you away in the middle of the night.

But he knew he couldn’t fight this battle for you, not entirely, but he did the best he could to help you, to arm yourself against the darkness. He gave you his time, his strength, his patience, his love. He would give you everything he could think of, until he feels you revive, until you win.

“Thank you.” He said softly, bringing his face to rest against the juncture between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in.

“For what?” You ask, staring out at the ocean of lights spread below you.

“For staying, even when it was hard." He said. "For fighting for yourself, and for us.”

You said nothing, squeezing his hand as the tears you’ve been fighting back finally began to slip down your face.

He pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as he wiped your face.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @main-bangtansmauyeondan @feminympho @a-gayish-unicorn @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters

#seokjin scenarios #seokjin comfort #seokjin blurbs #seokjin x y/n #seokjin x reader #bts x reader #bts x y/n #bts one shot #bts blurbs #bts blurb #bts comfort #bts fluff #bts scenarios #7ndipity

116 notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 1 year ago

Note

Reader who steals clothes from both Steve and Robin (maybe a poly, maybe just the best of friends) but they always let it happen, neither of them complain! Until one day you notice half your closet missing, and when you go into family video, both members of the himbo and lesbian dynamic are covered head to toe in your stolen clothes

as per the request criteria, they all swap clothing so it's implied that they're relatively similar sized!

You find it rather unfair that, out of all of the clothes in your closet, your favorite jeans have gone missing. The ones that you wear every day, the ones that you've nearly worn holes through, the ones that fit you so perfectly they might as well be a second skin. They've got deep pockets and a good waistband, but the ones you'd had to shove on last-minute to get to work on time are too-tight and the pockets are sewn shut to the rest of the fabric.

You're already in a bad mood when you storm through the doors due to the uncomfortable pressure around your waist, and your belongings dangling from your hands instead of tucked safely into your pockets, but your eyes zero in on Robin's pants immediately. She's waiting for you at the door, holding a stack of tapes in one arm as she smirks at your disheveled appearance.

Her pants are your pants.

"Morning, Sunshine," She drawls, that lazy smirk over her face fitting her features like a glove, "Jeans shrink in the wash?"

"The hell- those are mine!" You accuse, jabbing a finger towards her lower half. The jeans fit her just as snugly as they do you, and you see a pen barely visible in the pocket. Your pocket.

"We decided to get you back," She explains, "You take our clothes all the time. It's time we stole yours, too."

"We?" You ask, "Where's Steve?"

"Here." He calls from behind a few shelves down, "Your jacket's really comfy, by the way."

You stalk over to where his voice is coming from and find him snugly fitted into your lush pink zip-up, the hood fleece-lined for cold winters. There's rhinestones on the back that say 'babygirl', and when he peers up at you through his lashes where he's crouching to shelve tapes, he looks the part.

"You rats," You conclude, jaw perpetually agape, "I- I'll give back your clothes, I swear! Just don't stretch out my jacket, Steve." You cast a wary glance down to the zipper that looks like it may spring free from its constraints and smack you in the forehead, "Your boobs are too big.”

#steve harrington x reader #robin buckley x reader #steve harrington imagine #robin buckley imagine #steve harrington fluff #robin buckley fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #robin buckley fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot #robin buckley oneshot #steve harrington blurb #robin buckley blurb

338 notes · View notes

waywardxrhea · 3 months ago

Text

Part of Your World - George Weasley

Chapter 11

pairing: George Weasley x fem!Muggle!reader

installment list / previous chapter / next chapter

word count: 2,266

content: homesickness, budding friendship

“Dinner’s ready!” your mum called through the halls of the rental house the three of you were residing in, in upstate New York.

“Coming!” you called back through your closed door, continuing to write furiously in your journal before the idea you had gotten for a scene in your play slipped your mind. Tonight was one of the rare nights that you were home for dinner with your parents. Most other nights you were either at a friend’s flat in the city working on your play for school, or else working at the job you had gotten in Hell's Kitchen after a few months of school at the New York branch of your university.

Ever since your family moved from London to Poughkeepsie, every member of the family had kept busy with their own respective jobs and hobbies. Your dad was working at a top orthodontist office in the new town; your mum got a job giving voice lessons at the local youth club; and you were juggling university, a waitressing job, and occasionally playing your guitar at one of the local pubs where your parents performed as a duo since they had to leave their band behind back home. All in all, things were going great for the family!

“You’re really stuck on that one scene huh?” suddenly came your mother's voice behind you. You jumped in your seat, the lead of your mechanical pencil breaking as you applied too much pressure on it in your fright due to her quiet appearance behind you.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you slumped against the back of your chair and nodded, telling her, “Yeah… I just can’t seem to find the right words I want these characters to say. We have to have this finished before Christmas break so we can present it when we come back and then hope that it’s good enough to be performed in the black box for the spring play… We’re counting on it to do well…”

“But then even if it doesn’t, you still wrote a play! That’s definitely something to write home about!” your mum told you with a smile, massaging the tension out of your shoulders. “And I think you should. I haven’t heard you talking with Abbie and Jaz in a while, is everything with them okay?”

“I just miss them a lot and it’s hard seeing their faces on video chats and not being able to be there with them…” you admitted quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “They both got lead roles in the musical this winter and I know they’re excited about that, but I just wish I could be there… The plays and musicals we’re rehearsing for are fun and all, but it just doesn’t feel the same without them…”

“Oh I know, sweetheart, but sometimes you have to do things that you aren’t comfortable with in order to grow as a performer,” your mum assured you gently. “Now, you didn’t get the role you wanted in the musical this semester, but I think we can put that up to nerves and being at a new school with all new classmates and directors. You don’t know what they want out of you and you don’t know what they want out of an audition, but maybe this move will be a lesson in getting outside of your comfort zone and learning to adapt to situations you aren’t sure of. I know you’ll only get better from here and soon enough I know you’ll be getting the lead roles you want!”

“Thanks Mum, I really needed that…” you whispered, tears finally falling from your eyes as you leaned into your mother’s embrace.

“Anytime,” she said. “Now go get cleaned up and meet me in the dining area, your dad should be home any minute. He’ll be pleased to see you home to eat with us.”

“Yes ma’am,” you told her before heading off to your bathroom to wash your hands before the meal.

“What’ve you got an airplane diagram on your desk for? I didn’t know you were into airplanes,” said Claire, your friend from uni whom you were writing your spring play with.

By the end of last semester, the play you two wrote had been approved by the directors to be one of the spring black box plays! So you were nearly constantly working on finalising details that included staging, costumes, casting, lighting - the works. Despite the massive task, the two of you had still auditioned to be in the spring musical and landed larger roles in the program that required some time and effort, but not as much as if you were the leads. Because of all the craziness of that combined with the hustle and bustle of New York City, you two had travelled together from the city to Poughkeepsie for the weekend so you would have a more relaxed environment to focus on the finer details of the play.

With a small smile on your lips, you smoothed out the diagram and told your friend, “It’s just something I was working on back home. There’s something so fascinating about how aeroplanes stay in the air and I wanted to try and figure it out. I still don’t really get it, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it…”

“Well there’s a reason we’re majoring in performance and not engineering,” Claire joked as she turned her attention to the hamster cage right beside the diagram, reaching in to pet the little fuzz balls and handing them a couple of the baby carrots that you had brought up with you.

After a long while of ironing out details, a substantial amount of crumpled up notebook paper, and a couple bouts of chasing the cats when they ran off with one of the papers you actually needed, you and Claire decided to take a break for a bit. While the two of you walked around the town's streets to get some fresh air, Claire said, “You know, I’ve never heard you talk much about life back in London. Ever since we were paired up to write the play it’s been nearly all talk about that and not much of our personal lives…”

“Oh, wow, I never even realised. We’ve been working so hard on everything I didn’t realise that I don’t really know you as a person,” you said with a quiet laugh as you shoved your gloved hands into the pockets of your coat. “How about a game of twenty-questions?”

“Let’s,” Claire replied before you two took off into the game, venturing vastly further than the intended twenty questions, but neither of you seemed to mind how much time you were spending away from the play.

By the end of the game, you had figured out that Claire was actually from Texas and was at the university so she could try and get the proper connections so she would be one step closer to a spot on Broadway. You also found out that she used to date one of the girls in your class who had auditioned for the play and got a swing position as recommended by the main directors. Not that Claire had anything to do with that decision… It turned out that she played the same role in Mary Poppins that Jaz had which resulted in an impromptu park performance of Brimstone and Treacle that ended in both of you holding your sides during fits of laughter when a group of children walking past got scared by Claire.

Claire learned about Evan and why you were afraid of getting into another relationship after that, but that you also felt like ever since you left London, there was a piece of you missing, which had led to many conflicting emotions on the subject. She learned about your grandmother’s passing and how you always sang Sweet Caroline at your performances at pubs to honour her. There was relentless teasing in your direction when the girl figured out your most embarrassing audition moment when you were younger, but it was all in good fun in the end.

As the two were nearing your family’s rental home, Claire mused, “You know, I think it’s crazy how you managed to get this weekend off. Aren’t the weekends the busiest times at Broadway Rose?”

“They are,” you said as you opened the door for the pair of you and walked into the warm home that smelled like fresh baked cookies. “But when I explained to Loretta that I needed the weekend to finalise the play we were writing she let me have the time off. She said writing a play like this at the university level is just the thing I’ll need to get my foot in the door once I’m done with school, so she was all for the idea.”

“Not to mention that you regularly get scouted by big names every time you work!” Claire said, the slightest bit of envy in her voice before the two of you greeted your mum in the kitchen.

“How’s everything going girls?” your mum asked as she handed you a warm cookie each.

“Great!” you both replied in unison, giggling when you realised what you accidentally did.

“I think we’ve finally got staging down and have a plan for lighting to run by Josh. All we really need is to start rehearsing soon!” Claire detailed after finishing her cookie.

“Well I’m very proud of the both of you!” your mum said with a warm smile. “May will be here before you know it and that school will get to witness one of the best black box performances ever put on!”

“Thanks Mum,” you told her with a smile and a sparkle in your eye. Even though all of this was exhausting, you were glad that you decided to lose yourself in something you were passionate about.

“How are things going back home?” you asked into your laptop’s camera one day when you were finally on summer break from school. You of course were on a video call with Abbie and Jasmine, something that unfortunately had been a rarity in the near year you had been gone due to how busy you kept yourself.

“Good!” Jasmine told you with a smile on her face. She took a teasing jab at you as she said, “Now that little miss perfect isn’t here, we’ve both been getting more lead roles in school and the local troupe!”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you replied with a playful roll of your eyes.

“What’s this I heard about you writing a play?” Abbie asked curiously. “I saw on your Instagram that you were tagged in this Claire girl’s post and the caption said you two wrote a play together?”

“Oh yeah! Claire and I wrote a one act romantic comedy for the school’s spring black box performance series!” you said with a wide smile. The smile faltered a bit as you added, “I-I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you two, I just didn’t want to get my hopes up in case it fell through and then when it did get approved it was crazy trying to get it all pulled together.”

“Girl don’t apologise, you did the dang thing!” Jaz told you enthusiastically. “I’ve also seen videos of you singing at work and I must say your mum must be working overtime on those pipes because damn!”

You couldn’t help the giggle that tumbled out of you at the compliment, telling your friend, “It’s still weird to see myself online…”

After a few more minutes of performance talk, you asked, “So how are things going with Thomas, Abbie?” You wiggled your eyebrows teasingly as you added, “If I remember correctly you two were getting quite cosy together in the months before I moved.”

A furious blush radiated onto Abbie’s cheeks that she attempted to hide by taking a drink of tea from a cup while deciding what to say. When she finally composed herself, Abbie replied, “We’re doing well actually! We made it official a few weeks after you left and have been going strong ever since. He’s a great scene partner and we bring out the best in each other.”

“It’s painful how single I am in comparison to her and it actually disgusts me,” Jasmine said with a laugh as she playfully shoved Abbie off the screen for a moment. “Still haven’t found anyone since Evan?” she asked once their play-fight ended.

You sighed and shook your head, telling Jasmine, “Dating really isn’t something I’m looking for right now, I just want to focus on my studies. You only get so many chances to get yourself connected in our industry and I need to focus on that.”

“You’re so brave,” Jasmine said, a smirk teasing her lips which earned an eye roll from you.

“Maybe if the right person came around I would consider it, but until then I think I’m leaving the idea alone. I need to be sure this time. I need someone who is going to take care of me and protect me, but who also isn’t afraid to have some fun. That would be my ideal partner.”

Little did you know that your perfect partner was doing just those first two things halfway across the world which was why you ended up in New York in the first place. And while the danger of You-Know-Who was gone, defeated by Harry Potter, George Weasley hadn’t come back for you because he was struggling with demons that presented themselves after losing his twin brother to the war.

Reader still having foggy memories of the people she loves and feeling like a piece of her is missing kills me 😭😭

on a lighter note, as a Daredevil girly, i would like to believe that Reader has run into Daredevil at least once when she's gotten off of work in the later hours of the night. it's my headcanon and i'm sticking with it!

this one was short n sweet, and in the next one we'll see how George has been dealing with things, not only on the front of his relationship with Reader, but also with dealing with Fred's death (and no, now you now know this isn't going to be an everyone lives fic, sorry! 😅)

dividers by: @firefly-graphics

taglist: @reidmarieprentiss @v1ckycheesue @superduckmilkshake

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley angst #harry potter fanfiction

18 notes · View notes

leiawritesstories · 11 months ago

Text

1778 (my soldier boy) pt. 2

Oh it's @sjmromanceweek??? here have some rowaelin romance 🥰

part 2 to 1778 (my soldier boy)

word count: 2.8k

warnings: injury, pregnancy, minor swearing

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

14 February 1779

Heart of my heart,

I miss you. We miss you. After you went back to your troops, after you marched down to Savannah, I held off the desperation for as long as I could. I turned back to the pub, my second home, and let my customers and fellow pub staff–who are far too good to me–comfort me. They cheered me up, told me to have hope in our brave soldier boys.

But for weeks and months, there was no news. And then, just after Christmas, there was news, but it was terrible, awful news. The worst news. Your name stayed out of the papers, and so I clung to hope. I keep clinging to hope. I hope for you, and I hope for our child. Yes, my love, our child. I ignored the signs for as long as possible, until I started to swell and the landlady, bless her dear sweet soul, sat me down and asked, “How long?”

Four months, now. Over four months since we conceived a child. Four months since you marched down South, leaving silence in your wake.

I miss you so desperately, Rowan, my soldier boy. Every night, I fall asleep with your portrait, praying for your safety and return. I felt our baby move for the first time today, and it nearly cracked my heart in two wishing you were here to feel the little flutter. Even so, I cling to the hope that you are safe and well and leading your fearless troops.

Come home, my soldier boy.

To whatever end,

Aelin

After months of bitter winter, the snow was finally melting away, leaving room for the first timid patches of green spring life to bloom. Watery sunlight shone through the gray, chilly skies, and Aelin wrapped her woolen cloak tighter around herself as she headed home, her boots squelching in the slushy mud that had overtaken the streets. Instinctively, one gloved hand dropped to the curve of her rounded stomach, rubbing soft circles over the little one within.

“We’re almost home,” she promised. “Then you can eat, I promise.” She cracked a soft, fleeting smile; the baby was a ravenous force of hunger, always wanting food at all hours of the day and night.

A few minutes later, she was at her house, and she unlocked the door and entered, leaving her muddy boots and cloak in the small mudroom. Pressing her hands to the small of her back, she stretched for a moment, easing some of the pressure in her back, and went into the kitchen. After a hearty dinner, she felt much improved–and rather sleepy–so she headed into her bedroom, intent on washing up and tumbling into bed.

Her eyes snagged on the miniature portrait above the bed, and tears clouded her eyes. The baby kicked, sensing Aelin’s emotional shift, and she cradled her growing bump, murmuring words of comfort. “Don’t worry, little one. Your father will be here, hopefully soon.” Sighing, she sank to her knees and pulled a small, beautifully worked wooden box out from beneath the bed. She opened the box, laid its lid carefully to the side, and sifted through the stack of cleanly folded papers, each one tied with a bright green thread and bearing the same name on the front.

Rowan.

Four–nearly five–months of letters addressed to her soldier boy, none of them sent because she did not know where to send them. Four–nearly five–months of hoping, praying, crying, and loving the little life that had yet to enter the world.

It was her dearest wish that he be at her side when their baby came.

Far to the south, in a cramped, swelteringly humid room, Rowan lay slumped on a lumpy straw mattress with his broken wrist immobilized in a sling and four-day-old bandages tied around the stitched-up gash across his stomach. The doctor who’d sewn him up said it was a small miracle the gash wasn’t any deeper, or something vital might have been hit. All around him were the groans and moans and stenches of wounded soldiers, the faintly rotting air of battlefield gore that never quite went away.

Heavy, labored bootsteps thudded towards Rowan. Summoning as much of his depleted strength as possible, he turned his head and cracked his eyes open, blinking in the muted light filtering in through the few filthy glass windowpanes. And gawked, speechless, at the figure beside his bed.

Just as battered and grimy as Rowan was, Aedion Ashryver summoned a smirk. “You look like shit, Whitethorn.”

Incredulous, Rowan blinked. “Ashryver?” he rasped, his voice rusty from disuse.

“One and the same.” Aedion sat down in the simple wooden chair beside Rowan’s cot. “I’d hoped to cross paths with you while we were both stationed here, Whitethorn, but not like this.” His keen scout’s gaze scanned Rowan’s injuries. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll live,” Rowan deadpanned.

Aedion chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder why my sister fell in love with you and your sarcasm.”

Mingled pain, grief, and longing rippled across Rowan’s bruised face. “Do you have anything from Aelin?”

“I’m sorry,” Aedion murmured, “we haven’t received mail in months.” He patted Rowan’s good shoulder. “Knowing Aelin, she’ll likely have a whole stack of letters waiting for you when you’re home.”

Bone-tired, Rowan simply nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Aedion helped himself to the flask of water sitting on the bedside table. “Good to see you alive, brother.”

“Good to see you still have both legs,” Rowan returned.

Aedion flashed that trademark Ashryver smirk. “I’d be more concerned about losing an eye.” He got up and walked across the ward, stopped, and spoke to the field doctor for a few minutes, then tipped his hat at Rowan and strolled out of the hospital.

The doctor came to his bedside. “Captain Whitethorn? I need to look at your bandages.”

Rowan grunted in assent and pushed himself slowly up into more of a seated position. “Any reason for this?” he asked as the doctor cut through the old bandages.

“General’s orders.” The doctor—probably in his early thirties, with bland brown hair and puffy circles shadowing his eyes—shrugged. “He should be in to see you shortly, Captain.”

“Hell,” Rowan muttered. He hissed as the doctor pressed a warm, wet cloth to the stitched-up wound in his abdomen.

“It’s healing cleanly, no sign of infection so far,” the doctor said, unruffled by Rowan’s grunt.

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Rowan returned, his words acerbic.

The doctor nodded. “Indeed.” Swiftly, he finished cleaning the wound and rewrapped the bandages around it. Just in time, too, because General Salvaterre stepped into the ward just then, his sharp dark eyes searching for Rowan.

He crossed the room in a small handful of strides. “Whitethorn.”

“Sir.” Rowan managed to salute.

Lorcan glanced at the bandages wound around Rowan’s middle and the splint binding his wrist. “You look like shit.”

“Others have said so,” Rowan grunted. “What do you need, sir?”

“Drop the damn title, Whitethorn.” Lorcan sat down in the chair that the doctor had just vacated, waving him off to go see other patients.

Rowan tensed. “What do you want, Salvaterre?”

“I’m sending you up to Baltimore.”

“Right, because I’m in perfect condition to get on a damn horse.” Rowan scoffed.

Lorcan rolled his eyes. “In a cart, you idiot. You’re one of the best men I have, and I can’t let you rot to death in this stinkhouse while your stupid ass recovers from jumping in front of a goddamn redcoat patrol.”

Rowan shrugged. “Any man in my patrol would have done the same.”

“Yes, and that’s why you’re getting shipped off to Baltimore to handle the paperwork until your idiotic ass can hold a gun again.”

“I am so thankful for your trust in me,” Rowan deadpanned.

Lorcan bit back a rare half-smirk. “Careful how you speak to your superiors, Captain.”

“Didn’t you just tell me to drop the titles, General?”

“Just be glad you won’t be stuck in this sweltering hellhole,” Lorcan said, standing. “I’ll send in a pair of your patrol to get you when the cart is ready. Try not to fall off on the way to Baltimore.”

“Aye, sir.” Rowan saluted as Lorcan left.

About an hour later, two of the men in his squad came into the hospital, a stretcher between them. They helped Rowan onto the makeshift cot and carried him out of the hospital, where he drank in huge gulps of air that didn’t reek of blood, sweat, and shit. When he had stopped heaving for fresh air, his men hoisted him into the back of a hay cart that was in front of the hospital. The farmer driving the cart clicked his tongue, and the horses plodded into motion. Rowan settled back as best as he could into the hay. He might as well appreciate the small comfort.

It took two weeks to reach Baltimore, and by the time the cart pulled into the outskirts of the city, Rowan felt strong enough to sit properly. He’d gotten to know the farmer, a stoic, close-lipped older man whose fierce devotion to the Patriot army was buried beneath his even fiercer devotion to owning his farmland and taking care of his family.

The farmer stopped at a pub. “This is where we part ways, soldier boy.”

Rowan nodded. “Thanks again for the ride and the company, Malakai.”

Malakai helped Rowan out of the cart, and, unexpectedly, handed him a pair of smooth wooden poles. “To help you walk,” he said.

“I…thank you.” Rowan settled the crutches beneath his armpits, testing out their balance, and took a few careful steps. Satisfied that he had control of his movements, he stopped, waved to Malakai, and started the long trek towards the city.

Towards Aelin.

Aelin gripped the frame of her bathroom door, breathing deeply as a shooting pain raced through her abdomen. She was still at least a month and a half away from giving birth, but the midwife had warned her that she might experience pre-labor pains. Calm down, little one, she thought, rubbing circles on her swollen stomach. I know, you share my worries. We will be alright.

We will not be afraid.

Somewhere in the back of her heart, Aelin felt a familiar tug, as if some divine hand had reached into her soul and nudged the piece that was wholly Rowan’s. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cradled her bump, as if soothing her baby would soothe her too. As if the faint flickers of hope that she still nourished would come alive with the sight of her soldier boy.

She went out into the kitchen and boiled some water for a tea, then clasped her hands around the pottery mug and stared out into the bright, sunny, early spring day. The cheeriness of the late-March sun and the clear cornflower blue of the sky contrasted so sharply to the shades of gray clouding her heart, and she tried to let the sunlight through, but her mind kept drifting back to the news.

It had been months since she had heard from Rowan, let alone from Aedion, and although she tried to keep her hopes up, her heart whispered that they were gone.

Towards the end of her street, a lone figure walked slowly up the dirt path, too far away for Aelin to see any features clearly. It was probably just another resident, but still—her heart fluttered at the tiny, tiny possibility that it could be her Rowan.

She shook her head. He was in Savannah. Turning away from the window, she washed out her now-empty mug, dried it, and set it back in the cabinet. Her baby kicked as she reached up to close the cabinet door, and Aelin smiled, resting her hand against her stomach. “Hello, little one,” she whispered. “Mama loves you so much.”

A knock thudded against the front door.

Baby kicked again, this time as if in distress.

“Shh,” Aelin murmured, carefully padding over to the door so her footsteps didn’t creak. “’Tis likely just a neighbor.” She gently nudged aside the small flap of leather over a knothole in the door that served as her security window and peered outside.

Then she flung the door open with shaking hands, her heartbeat thundering like the ocean surf.

For there, standing on her front stoop, was her soldier boy. Dust and dirt streaked his clothes and skin, bandages wound around his stomach, a splint wrapped around his left arm, and crutches propped him up on his feet, but it was…

“Ro?” she gasped, her trembling hands reaching out, half-afraid he was a dream.

“Fireheart,” Rowan rasped, teasers gleaming in his eyes as he looked at her. As he saw the swell of her stomach.

A sob cracked her chest as she all but yanked him into her house, throwing her arms around him. He was warm and solid and real in her embrace, and she felt the heat of his tears in her blouse as he tucked his face into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I could not write.”

She wiped her face. “Of course you could not write, Rowan. Just…just look at you.”

He brushed a tear from her cheek. “I wanted to. It…well, the army didn’t have paper, nor did the hospital, and I’ve spent the last two weeks riding in the back of a farmer’s cart.”

“You’re alive,” she whispered, clinging to the tangible reality of the words.

“I am.”

She sniffled. “We missed you so, so badly, my love.” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “Will you say hello to your father, little one?” With a bright, teary smile, she grasped Rowan’s hand and placed it on her stomach, right next to hers.

And the baby kicked, little feet fluttering up against their hands.

Rowan choked on a sob. “Aelin…”

“Your future daughter. Or son, however it turns out.” She let him cradle her stomach, watching him fall in love with their baby until he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Her nose wrinkled. “Ro, I wasn’t going to say it, but you stink.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I haven’t exactly had a bath available to me lately.”

“We can fix that.” She took one of his crutches and let him lean on her as they went to the bath.

At the edge of the tub, he paused, faltering. “I…Aelin, love, I’m injured.” A deep breath. “I don’t know if I can…bathe myself.”

She tugged a chair over to the side of the tub. “Sit down.” He did, with a groan of relief. “Will you let me help you?”

His response was a wordless mumble as his head tipped forwards, right into her arms.

She chuckled, running her fingers through his dirt-caked hair. “All right.” It took some creative maneuvering and a handful of grumbled expletives from both of them, but she eventually got Rowan into the steaming hot bath, and once he was clean, she left a set of clean clothes on the chair for him.

He came slowly out of the bathroom some minutes later with his shirt open. “Ae?”

“Yes?” She was perched on the end of the bed.

“I need to change my bandages, love, but I’m not sure I can do it myself.”

“Come here.” She patted the space beside her, and he reluctantly walked over and sat down. She ran her fingers through his damp hair. “I know you don’t like being dependent, Ro, but I want to take care of you. And you should know that I have some medical training.”

He sighed. “I know, and I trust you. It’s just…this damn injury is keeping me away from my men, and I hate it.”

“I know.” She reached for his shirt. “Hold still, love.”

A gleam sparked behind his eyes. “Say that again.”

She smirked, and the danger edging her expression had him thinking of many, many things. “Hold still for me, love,” she murmured, her voice a soft, silken caress.

He went completely still as she slipped off his shirt and unwound the bandages, her keen eyes assessing the healing wound on his stomach. She went into the bathroom and came back with a roll of fresh bandages and a warm, wet cloth, and she carefully cleaned the skin around his stitched-up wound and wrapped clean cotton around it. “There.”

“Will you kiss it to make it better?” He was only half teasing.

Aelin grinned. “Of course.” She leant down and gently kissed the bandage over his stomach. Her smile morphed into something devious, and she dipped her head just a bit farther down and—

“Fireheart,” Rowan groaned, his hand automatically cradling the back of her head. “N-not yet.”

She braced her hands on either side of his lap and brought her head up to kiss him, lingering in its sweetness. “All right. You tell me when, my love.”

For now, they would just drink in the sweetness of reunion.

~~~

TAGS:

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@kittykatsogsreads

#my writing #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #1778 my soldier boy #revolutionary war au #soldier boy au #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #sjmromanceweek2024

42 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 1 year ago

Text

painting at the edge of the world (CWFKB #16)

Fill for Tearful Kiss, Cowboy/Western AU (minor gun use, not fired) @codywanfirstkissbingo

There is a known rhythm to life at the edge of the world; the slow bleed of sunlight across the plains that brightens to a golden wash that begs to be captured in oils and pastels, memorialised in a flimsy grey photograph. Obi-Wan smears his thumb over the rough surface of his notebook, and the rough lines of the horizon blur beneath his touch. He glances up, checking and rechecking the slow dimming of the land around him. He is still alone out here in his small homestead, his bed empty and cold inside his home.

The blanket wrapped around his shoulders isn’t his. It’s close enough to pass for his preferred palette of myriad browns and pale colours, but the underside is a deep orange woven through the warp to break up the pattern. There are a couple of uneven spaces, the threads pulled too close together and the orange is completely obscured by the brown on top of it, but Obi-Wan loves it fiercely regardless. Love is a strange emotion, untethered to anything concrete that Obi-Wan could place his hand on and yet…

He has built a life with Cody.

Warmth blooms through Obi-Wan’s chest as he thumbs back through his notebook, lingering over a few of the earlier pages. There is a chest beneath their bed, a heavyset thing treated against damp and fire and locked against the possibility of prying eyes, and Obi-Wan keeps most of his artwork of Cody there. He can keep those memories safe even when he can’t keep the other man protected. He only has a few in his current notebook, remnants of a fleeting winter that charged headlong into a spring that stole Cody away weeks before he normally would leave. Cody’s smile is beautiful, wide and unrestrained and held close for a moment in a few dark pencil lines. Obi-Wan blinks back tears, a pressure building behind his eyes and the base of his nose, and he can’t help but glance towards a horizon he has already committed to memory.

Still empty.

He draws the blanket closer around his shoulders, pressing his knuckles into the hollow of his throat, swallowing around the weight of expected grief, and settles back against the creaking back of the chair. There is a second chair next to him, recently pulled out of the small shed off to the side of the property because the empty space is easier to work around than the deliberate emptiness of the extra chair, the extra bowls, the extra expanse that Obi-Wan has carved out of his existence to let Cody in. He loves him with every thread of his being.

The horizon is still empty.

Obi-Wan’s breath fogs in the heavy air and he stands, a lingering ache in the small of his back from his posture, turning back towards the house. One more day alone isn’t something he needs to worry about; if Cody is delayed, he can turn back to town and wait out the night or there are decent boarding houses in the farther flung settlements, even spending the night out on the plains wouldn’t prove a hardship yet. The nights are cool but not overly unpleasant making for a rough night’s sleep but Cody would be safe and warm enough to make his way back to Obi-Wan. Inside his home, Obi-Wan places his plate and mug into the basin, resolving to wash up in the morning. Tomorrow would come quicker if he slept and the absence of Cody is weighing on him more than he would have expected after so long apart. If he didn’t love Cody, then it wouldn’t hurt as much. The town thinks they are just good friends who have gone into business together, not uncommon enough to draw any suspicion, and there is always a careful distance between them, even here. Obi-Wan wants to kiss Cody, to hold him, to love him in the way he deserves to be loved.

Soon. Obi-Wan scratches over his jaw, his nails rasping against the regrowth of his beard, and makes his way to his bedroom. The bed is big enough for two, often shared and yet it isn’t enough. Rage burns at the edges of his eyes and Obi-Wan grinds the base of his palm against it, settling himself down for an uneasy night’s sleep.

He wakes a handful of hours later, long enough that Obi-Wan feels the heavy duvet of exhaustion slide away from him, crumpling onto the floor. He’s awake, uneasily so, sitting upright in his too-big too-empty bed, blinking out into the dappled darkness. Tears have dried on his face, flaking away as he yawns, beginning to sink back beneath the covers. The front door creaks, the latch sliding back, and Obi-Wan is awake and moving. The rifle on the wall is old but still serviceable, well-maintained in Cody’s absence, and Obi-Wan loads it, his head cocked to one side as he strains to listen.

“Obi-Wan,” Cody calls, laughter colouring his words a deep shade of orange. “I’m home.”

Obi-Wan can’t remember putting the gun back onto the stand, unloaded once more, or the scant handful of steps back to Cody’s side, but he’s there, smelling like sunshine and horse. Obi-Wan throws his arms around Cody’s neck, hugging him tightly. He’s crying, he notes distantly, tears pressed between his skin and Cody’s, salt damp against his lips, and he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer. Obi-Wan cups Cody’s jaw, his thumb burning against the rough line of stubble Cody always has when he returns and the familiarity of it would break him open once more if Cody wasn’t holding him close. He kisses him, tears streaming down his cheeks and Cody grins against his mouth.

“What a welcome,” Cody murmurs, drawing back enough to wipe his thumb over Obi-Wan’s cheek. His eyes are bright, wavering film drawn over them too, and a tear falls free as he blinks. “I missed you.”

#codywan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #star wars #cwfkb2023 #cwfkb #my writing #fanfic

34 notes · View notes

not-a-space-alien · 8 months ago

Text

Car culture is annoying and deeply harmful and owning and maintaining a car is expensive and burdensome, but one thing I do think is enjoyable is the first nice warm day in the spring when you can take your car to the self service car wash. And scrub it with the big soapy brush and get the big hose gun and spray all the crud of winter and early spring off. It's warm and the birds are out and there's nobody else here yet since it's early in the season and you just give your car a nice rinsey and check her tire pressure and stuff. Spa day. Massage for her.

16 notes · View notes

primepressureservices · 7 months ago

Text

Our team at Prime Pressure is committed to providing top-notch customer service and exceeding your expectations. We understand the importance of maintaining the appearance and cleanliness of your property, which is why we use only the best equipment and environmentally friendly cleaning solutions. Let us help you restore the beauty and curb appeal of your property with our professional pressure washing services.

#pressure washing winter springs #winter springs pressure washing #power washing winter springs #Pressyre washing Services

0 notes

kookaburra1701 · 1 year ago

Text

WIP Wednesday - Nostos

HA! This week I have my act together - it is I who will be tagging!

@mareenavee @thana-topsy @dirty-bosmer @greyborn2 @gilgamish @archangelsunited @paraparadigm @inquisition-dragonborn @skyrim-forever @elfinismsarts @polypolymorph @orfeoarte @tallmatcha @snippetsrus @rainpebble3 @saltymaplesyrup @thequeenofthewinter @changelingsandothernonsense.... STAND AND DELIVER (those WIPs) Khemor gro-Skaven still has me hung up on those wonderful orc tusks. Here's the opening scene for Nostos, the fic that will be a sequel to Aristeia.

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence, mushy stuff [kissin' not viscera]) Category: M/F Genre(s): Romance Main characters: Borgakh the Steel Heart, Khemor gro-Skaven (Male orc LDB)

Summary: Khemor gro-Skaven thought that after he defeated Alduin, he would not have to worry about anything more dangerous than a quill knife for the rest of his existence. But when jarl of the Pale asks him to investigate the destruction of the Hall of the Vigilants, it sets off a chain of events that ultimately leads him to wash up at the feet of Borgakh the Steel-Heart of Mor Khazgur. But what can a crippled conjuration mage-scholar half again her age possibly offer to a future Shield-Wife?

14 Rain's Hand, 4E 205 The snowfields of the Druadachs were melting in the spring rain that drew a gauzy gray veil over their jagged peaks. The dripping rivulets joined larger streams, carving ever-deeper grooves down the granite faces of the mountains, where they joined together in glades just greening with the waning of winter. The streams became myriad rivers whose names were known only to the inhabitants of the remote wilderness where they roared and foamed over jagged rocks on their way to the great river Karth, and finally to the sea.

Khemor gro-Skaven, Thane of Eastmarch and The Pale, the Last Dragonborn, Vanquisher of Alduin, Confidant of the High King of Skyrim, and disgraced former Magus of the College of Whispers, was now drowning in one of those rivers. The violent current wrapped Khemor's thick traveling robes and cloak around his limbs as he struggled to grab onto passing debris; his head rang from the blow it had taken on a rock as his feet had been swept from under him, preventing him from even attempting a rudimentary waterbreathing spell in a last-ditch effort to save his sorry hide. Shouting was out of the question.

Calder is going to kill me. Khemor's lungs burned for want of air and the cold water squeezed his chest, the deluge pinning him against a submerged tree trunk as coherent thought left him.

Something was pinching Khemor in half. Unbearable pressure resolved itself into a narrow band of fire across his stomach: Khemor tried to squirm away but his arms and good leg refused to move, as if weighed down by anchors.

Breaking the surface of water he had not known he was under, the heavy wet canvas of his cowl plastered itself to his mouth as he tried to draw a desperate breath. A wracking cough caused him to twist in the hands that were hauling him by his belt through the shallows. A torrent of muddy, foul-tasting water spewed from his mouth as he hit the ground, his face in the clay of the riverbank.

He coughed again, his sopping cowl now hanging away from his face enabling him to take deep draughts of air in between wrenching paroxysms. As his lungs cleared, so did his mind.

Calder is never going to let me live this down, Khemor thought, waiting for the inevitable indignant lecture his housecarl was wont to give whenever Khemor did something particularly foolhardy.

"Are you able to stand?" said a gravelly, yet unmistakably feminine voice above him.

That is not Calder.

Khemor lifted his head, peeling the hood of his cowl and a lock of his hair back to peer up at his rescuer. As he blinked the river water from his eyes, the blurry figure above him came into focus.

An orc stood above him, silhouetted by the noonday sun. Water droplets twinkled as they fell from her dark hair and traced the severe angles of her face. Her yellow-green eyes gleamed in the dark hollows under her heavy brow, framed by deep madder paint that graced her high cheekbones and was now dripping and streaking towards the two white tusks peeking out from behind her lower lip. Her tunic and trews clung to her figure, revealing every bulge and groove of her well-muscled arms and legs.

Khemor shut his mouth with a snap, words crowding his throat but none of them would come out.

Say something, you idiot!

Instead of words, another coughing fit gripped him, leaving him breathless and retching as he brought up more river water. The orc knelt next to him, heedless of the mud and clay of the riverbank, and gave him several back blows that made him see stars.

#hot orc summer #fic: nostos #oc: khemor gro-skaven #skyrim fanfiction #kb writes #it's not easy being green #wip wednesday #skyrim #tesblr

39 notes · View notes

keeira · 1 year ago

Text

DCASS2023!

Sorry it took me a minute to finish up! I saw that you liked slumber land and coffee shops so I decided to leave my comfort zone a little bit and dabble into something on the more romantic side of things haha. I hope you like it c: @korral-craftin Slumberland/DCA FNAF crossover

Stardust

“Is there anything more you’d like to add to that?” your colleagues' attention was focused on you as your hand desperately twitched under the cafe table.

“I have nothing more to add, however, I’d like to pass this opportunity off to Helen so she can discuss our project’s plan moving forward,” you spoke in forced composure. A wave of relief washed over you as your project manager began to lead the meeting, commanding the attentiveness of the board while you ducked away from the camera for a moment to rub the sleep out of your eyes. These early morning meetings were killing you, not to mention your sleep schedule has been down the drain the past… You can’t remember quite clearly.

A message popped up at the corner of your screen but you were quick to dismiss it. It was something you could address later. If you even wanted to look a it at all.

“Careful,” the gentle clink of a glass cup diverted your attention, “it’s hot.”

“Thank you!” You turned to the barista who gave you a small smile.

“-Are you still with us?” The annoyance in Helen’s voice was evident. You will be hearing about this later.

“Yes, please continue.”

This was your everyday. Early mornings, coworkers, and coffee. That was until you headed to lunch and then home to do project work. It was eleven twenty-six, meaning you only had about a half hour left of this before you could really start your day. At least the work was remote, or that’s just what you’ve been telling yourself.

The first sip of coffee drew a long sigh from you. Well technically this was your second cup but after the first round of meetings hell you needed another. Its rich flavor excited your tastebuds with the caffeine rush you desperately craved, only soothing them with a cool wash of sweetness to compliment. It was no wonder this place became an instant hit for you the second that delicate steam rose from the mug, not to mention the lovely latte art.

But was coffee really enough?

By the time your meeting finished, you had already downed the last of your liquid addiction and passed off the dishes to the barista with a simple farewell. You always felt sluggish getting out of the cafe’s sofa chairs. Hours of sitting haven’t been kind to you, but not much could be helped about it. It was your job after all. You packed your laptop into its bag and left for home, the endless ambiance of the city drowning you amongst the masses. The walk home was always nice. The spring air held the crispness of winter but the summer sun kept it just warm enough the get away with a light jacket.

But even with all these wonderful things, the day just couldn’t end any faster.

Lunch was microwavable and in your apartment, before you spent the last hours of your shift riffling through the endless tasks upper management was trying to drown you in. By the time your shift was over, you were collapsed on the couch with your laptop in your lap. Another message popped up and you clicked on it against your better judgment. You knew what they were. And yet a frown pulled on the edges of your lips.

Bedtime.

That twisting pressure that built in your chest pressed you towards your bedroom. Sure it was a bit early to sleep but what was the harm of getting to your real day faster? Your nervous smile was masked with the familiar giddiness that drives your days. Your clothes were long forgotten as you pulled on plush pajamas. Coffee may be the highlight of your days, but the real highlight begins once you close your eyes. Light off and covers pulled up to your chin. The bustle of the city mixed with the gentle quiet that came with the night.

It took a minute, but you finally had your apron in your hands. After tying the strings behind your back, you all but danced behind the counter that sparkled in your eyes. The same mug you drank from today was in your hands as you poured freshly brewed coffee into it. Sure you were still a bit sloppy with the latte art, but in time you would learn the proper way to do it. Plus, you were sure your only customer wouldn’t mind.

He started appearing in your dreams weeks ago, at first hiding away once you spotted him in the corners of your vision before waiting so patiently for a cup as he was doing now. That dangerous smile and all. Orange sun rays reflected the dim, mood lighting while his dark appearance drew all the attention from the pink shop onto himself. His black coat did not improve how badly he stuck out with a rose cup in hand and those amber eyes ensnared your heart with just a glance.

“Your latte art is getting better,” the rich, velvety sound of his voice always caught you off guard, “and tastes good too.”

“Thanks, I've been practicing.”

“Any way I can convince you to just stick with practice this evening?” a metal eyebrow raised whilst Eclipse swirled the contents of his cup.

You slipped into the seat across from the mechanical giant, “Absolutely not. Where are we going today?”

This was the life you really craved. Not stupid project planning or cooking dinner alone. You wanted to be immersed in a world of adventure, clinging to Eclipse’s hand as he pulled you off to the newest wonder to see. Maybe he would take you to the Ferris wheel again? Or, no, he would bring you for a ride on another giant goose? All you knew was the tap of the glass against the table and gentle, fiery claws extending in your direction. And your heart soared.

With your hand in his, he pulled you across your little coffee shop hand and hand. His life-filled cackle mingled with the excited strums of your heart. In an instant, the back cupboard was thrown open and the both of you tumbled into an expansive sea of vibrant coral, its neon patterning rippling along with the camouflaged fish that danced in between its homely pockets. In the real sea, the salt would have stung your eyes shut, but here its cool embrace encouraged you to look further into its beautiful depths. With dark hands to hold you steady, you were invincible.

Waking up in the morning was always your biggest tragedy.

Your alarm blared, jolting you awake as usual. Just five more minutes was all you craved, but it was always too late to go back once you were awake., So you mechanically dragged yourself out of bed, threw on an appropriate outfit, and began the cycle again. Cereal, laptop, and bag. It was cold this morning but at least the sun was up. Its warm rays prompt a shy smile from your lips.

The bell rings as you enter the coffee shop, its pink interior is only a further reminder of the dreams you craved. As always, the barista waved to you in welcome. You slumped into the same seat as yesterday and the days before, prying open your laptop and logging on. The open messages send a jolt down your spine but you close them with forced composure. Instead, you find yourself exchanging morning pleasantries with the people you couldn’t stand. Discussing project plans you can't bring yourself to care about and wishing that time would quicken its dragging pace. When Helen spoke, you could feel the underneath of your skin cringe but you endured her grating voice.

Instead of tuning in, you found yourself daydreaming of that wild smile again. He twirled with you in the water, hands interlocked with yours and eyes focused solely on you. He only broke his hold to tuck away the hair that floated into your face from the water’s current. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’ is what he promised and you couldn’t help the butterflies that roosted against your ribcage.

Your name ripped you back to reality. Your coworkers stared at you expectantly and you felt helpless under their ridged gaze.

“What are your findings from the spreadsheets you sorted last night?” Panic gripped at your heart as you tried to rewind back to reality, clicking through your work files with sputtering nonsense. A ping alerted you to another message. You pulled up your data from last night. You treated their stares like a lifeless screen and like a machine you spit out numbers to satisfy its asking. Even your body movements were rehearsed like a fine-tuned program capable of churning without feeling. Flawless except for the rapid thundering of your heart that betrayed your false confidence. Another notification pinged an icy trickle down your spine. You didn’t spare it a glance.

A glass clinked down beside you, and a panicked spasm ran its course inside. You did not thank the barista as you remained in character for the wolf-like audience before you. By the time you were done performing, the coffee was cold.

There was no joy to your walk home this afternoon. There was no warmth in the food you ate. There came no relief to the end of your work day, the endless haunting messages on full display. Instead, you sought the only real comfort you knew in cotton clothes. You will know joy when you see him. You will feel warmth in his hands. Your relief will come once your eyes are closed against the endless city light.

Your alarm blared you awake, as it always does. But that couldn’t be right. You must have forgotten your dream.

You let your feet drag you through the daily motions. Coffee, coworkers, walking. Messages. And as soon as your work was finished for the day, you launched yourself into bed. It didn’t matter how much you tossed and turned, your body fighting against the early bedtimes to satisfy your need for the fantastical. And when you finally felt as if you could drift away to your dreams, your alarm blared you awake again in the morning.

Two days of dreamless nights. Perhaps you had grown too dependent on your dreams to face reality. Perhaps the month you’ve spent with your celestial savior was nothing more but a fantasy to hide behind. But his hands felt so real. Those burning claws were gentle against your waist as he dipped you during a ball dance. You remember the night clearly while resisting crawling out of bed to start the daunting day that awaited you. His sharp eyes bore into your own as the music enveloped the both of you. That lazy smile that painted his lips responded to your own gleeful grin. That night was magic. He leaned in close and pressed his forehead against your own.

“Will you spend every dream with me, my dear stardust?” his amber eyes twinkled like starlight.

“If you’ll have me.”

You hadn’t realized the quiver in your lip as you dragged yourself away from the safety your covers provided you. The real world does not wait for your promises. And neither would she. Everything was more difficult today. Your clothes wouldn’t settle nicely. The bag you carried was nowhere to be found. Even the weather was cold. It felt like your world was silently crashing down around you only that world wasn’t the one you were currently in. Part of you wondered how you had become so attached to a dream. Something that couldn’t be real.

Your favorite barista wasn’t in today and the work you were assigned only got harder. And the messages only got worse. You had to dream tonight.

When you finally lay yourself to rest, you awoke to find the apron you’ve grown to love resting gently on the counter. Yet, you ignored it. Instead, you burst into the cafe, eyes searching for the sore thumb that always sat at your favorite seat. The lights were dim, making the shop seem so cold like the heart of its joy was missing somewhere between the gates of your dream and the next. He would be here. You would wait. Wait as the lights only grew darker in your loneliness. And when they went out, you jolted awake. There was no alarm on the weekends.

He never came.

The feeling instead wasn’t unlike one you’ve felt before, only now it grew into a vast pit within your chest. The comfort you’ve relied on abandoned you. You felt like crying. The tears never came. You never realized how alone you were in this world until Eclipse wasn’t there to chase the nightmares away. You never knew how much you hated this life until your false reality was gone.

Despite not needing to work, you found yourself aimlessly walking to the coffee shop you spent your morning in. The air was slightly chilly like always, even with the morning sun trying its best. It just didn’t feel as bright as it used to. The city was grey and its walls were your concrete prison. Even the people seemed more secluded today.

The bells of the coffee shop door rang as you walked inside. The barista smiled at you and waved. You could not return his kindness this day. Instead, you sought the comfort of your favorite seat without ordering a drink this morning. Just somewhere to relax the edging pain that ate away at your insides. There wasn’t another soul in the shop today outside of the bartender and, honestly, you preferred that for today. You could get a drink in a minute, but for now this spot was all you needed. Just a small slice of happiness.

“Excuse me,” the barista set a cup down at your table. But you hadn’t ordered anything today?

You glanced up at the man with mild shock, your sorrowful eyes meeting his unreadable amber ones. His orange hair was messier than usual, like someone whose been desperately trying to sleep only to roll against their pillow for hours. You imagined you looked much the same. He lingered at your table, seeming unsure of what to do with himself.

“Thank you,” your pleasant smile was forced.

The barista stood at your table for a moment more, glancing at his station before ultimately sliding into the seat across from you. Much to your bewilderment. He seemed troubled. His hands fidgeted with each other and his eyes darted wildly around the room before settling back on you. You had no idea what this guy was doing. He never tried to talk to you more outside of a simple hello or goodbye. Perhaps he could tell you weren’t all there today? Or maybe he’s curious why you’re in on your day off.

“We haven’t properly met,” his voice rang with the familiarity of your everyday visit to the shop, “I’m Saros.”

He held his hand out to your cautious form like a dear friend meeting you again. You took his hand, giving your name in turn. The awkwardness you felt rang against your emptiness. You could tell he felt out of place too.

“I wanted to say sorry for not being there,” his hands rubbed nervously together, “I had something going on and I just couldn’t seem to get there.”

Was he talking about not being at work yesterday?

“You don’t have to apologize to me for not making it to work?” This guy had to be out of his mind.

“No thats-” Saros sighed “I’m not talking about work.”

Now you were thoroughly confused.

“I’m sorry I’ve never approached you sooner, I wasn’t sure how well you would take hearing this but,” he paused for a moment, those fiery amber eyes like ones you knew so well, “would you like to daydream with me, stardust?”

You never told anyone about your dreams. Much less did anyone else call you that nickname. His black dress attire was paired with a dark apron and on it was his nametag. Beside his name was a dark circle with orange triangles jutting out of it. Fiery red hair that spiked out and those wild eyes. Your dreams.

“Eclipse?”

His relieved smile cradled your crying soul, “the one and only.”

That piece you were sorely missing began to swell.

“Will you dream with me tonight?”

“Why wait to dream when we have right now?”

#fnaf dca #fnaf #eclipse #dcass2023 #fnaf au #writing #slumberland

11 notes · View notes

letitrainathousandflames · 2 years ago

Note

goth counter culture was your thesis??? do tell. thats so metal my dude do tell please I need the facts and information.

(not me reading tags because Im curious)

*flails excitedly* aaaah yes I have a degree in Fashion Design and Goth subculture (with an emphasis on its fashion aspect, of course) was the focus of my thesis. I'll go on into the fashion aspect bc otherwise this post will be gigantic <3

Subcultures are SO cool because they resist to the pull of the mass culture. They are where aesthetic, fashion, ideology, art, politics and more meet and create entire movements that refuse to conform and be blended into what is deemed Normal and Acceptable.

Punk and Goth are two amazing examples of movements that go against what fast fashion and consumerism culture dictates.

Punk fashion looks cooler the more worn and frayed by use each piece is. Stains and holes in the fabric are irrelevant, poems and art is scribbled with markers on the jeans of pants and canvas of shoes, all those chains and spikes on belts and bracelets are bound to yank or rip at a seam here and there and no one cares.

Punk got that jacket at a second hand shop twelve years ago and has been covering it on patches and song lyrics and they will not bat an eye at some pre-ripped, pre-frayed, overpriced jacket because there are twenty of them that look exactly like it on the same rack and they all lack soul and history.

Any Forever 21's pre-made "punk" jacket with false pockets and perfectly symmetric frayed ends will never have what an old-school haphazardly patched and scribbled jacket where one's hands can sink past the wrists in its pockets have.

Similarly, Goth fashion is contrary to fast-paced consumerism culture in the sense that it rejects the concept of trends and of certain styles/colors/accessories/etc being "in" or "out".

That does not mean that Goths are cheap, though! A high-quality, sturdy corset can cost about $120, more if it's made to measure, and one will be happy to buy it because it's a staple piece that can be matched with most of a goth's wardrobe and will last decades if properly taken care of.

An interesting point about the complete disregard for Autumn/Winter or Spring/Summer and the whole "oh I can't wear this, it's so last season!" is the fact that most goth shops - many of which sell handmade fashion - sell the same pieces in and out of seasons.

If a classic, Wednesday Addam-esque black dress with white lacy collar and underskirt for volume works and is selling well, why ditch the design at the end of some arbitrarily created period of time? Why stop selling pieces that work and are good just because you theoretically can't sell sleeveless dresses during winter?

Another aspect is that, if everything you own is mostly black, you'll hardly have issues matching pieces together, and if you love a particular dress or jacket too dearly and they are in good state but their color has been washed into a pale grey, you can always have them re-dyed back into their original raven-like glory.

Needless to say, fast-fashion wear-it-and-discard-it-in-a-year people are... not very fond of such subcultures and their refusal to renovate their wardrobes every goddamn year.

In my course of studies, we go through two evaluating processes for our thesis: one at the writing, data-gathering, book-quoting phase; and another one at the debating, using what was studied as a base, creating your fashion collection phase.

I had to defend my thesis twice, and I would be failed a third time if my favorite teacher who really liked my work hadn't infiltrated the evaluating border while pretending not to know me and gave me a score high enough to pass to the next phase despite the other teachers' low score.

Because those teachers really really hated that I had picked a target audience that demanded quality over quantity and were mostly immune to the market's pressures as the focus of my study. They wanted me to do like 17 out of the 19 other students in my class and just do beachwear instead.

Y'know, because "this is Brazil, and why are you picking such a complicated topic like Goths and how they need breathable, lighter fabrics here because the U.S. and British brands usually makes clothes in warmer fabrics so buying clothes online isn't really a solution..."

(these are the same people who told the girl who wanted to make clothes for tattooed, female bodybuilders that her target audience didn't exist, and I had turn to her and loudly say that I knew a female bodybuilder, and she could easily get her in touch with others for her research. Oh. I think I just traced back to why those teachers might hate me. Oops lmao)

Anyway I passed to phase 2, had a blast working on my designs with my fav teacher as my guide, and even though I'm seeking out a career path more focused on art rather than fashion, I'm really proud of how it turned out.

That thesis was my baby and I think both passion and spite were my fuel to make it <3

#long post/#lu rambles #fashion design #punk & goth my beloveds #never change #also those teachers have since been fired so 💅#ana paula my beloved teacher I owe you my life uwu

30 notes · View notes

sapphireglyphs · 1 year ago

Text

*shyly waves*

tagged by @shineyma & @thestarfishdancer! thanks for thinking of me, friends!

name: Jan

pronouns: she/her

where do you call home: Southern California. I don't currently live there and the prospect of moving back there is growing more and more bleak as cost of living continues to rise every day but the thought of calling anywhere else home hurts too much. So, even if it's just in my dreams, SoCal will always be home to me.

favorite animal: If you know me, you know I love otters! 🦦 And cats but mostly otters.

cereal of choice: If I want a treat, I really like Reese Peanut Butter Cup and Cinnamon Toast Crunch but most of the time, a good granola cluster based cereal will make me happy.

visual, auditory, or kinesthetic learner: Mostly Kinesthetic but I do find that I enjoy group discussions, podcasts, audiobooks, and that I have a knack for languages, therefore I'm probably an Auditory learner as well.

first pet: My first pet that wasn't a family pet was a hamster named Chip.

favorite scent: So after getting Covid, my sense of smell has never been the same. I usually love all types of clean and fresh scented perfumes but I think my favorite scent used to be freshly washed sheets. And now, everything smell off or muted and I kinda feel like I am experiencing the world a little less. 😔

do you believe in astrology: I kinda hate to admit it, but I sorta do. Like, I am very aware that it's so unscientific and not based on any substantial research at all but it's also kinda fun to think about. Plus, there is a level of cultural elements of astrology that I subscribe to (especially Lunar Astrology) that influences how I view certain things about the world. All in good fun.

how many playlists on spotify/apple music: Oh so SO many. Never too many... always just the right amount of many. lols

sharpies or highlighters: I am a sucker for stationary of all types but pretty pastel highlighters make my knees weak.

songs that make you cry: "Home" by Micheal Buble. "Fix You" Coldplay. "Spring Day" by BTS. "When You Come Back Down" by Nickle Creek.

songs that make you happy: "Feels Like A Dream" by Emilee. "Spells" by Cannons. "Super Shy" NewJeans.

do you write/draw/create: My days of fanfic writing are so far and few between nowadays, my time being filled with only research papers and essays. This was literally the last thing I wrote in March of this year for a Genshin Impact fic I had rattling around in my head:

Clear skies greeted Eula as she stepped out from the front doors of the Kamisato estate and onto the courtyard. The grass beneath the lacquered sandals that Lady Ayaka had lent her glistened with the morning dew that sparkled upon the blades of pristine greenery that lined the perimeter of the outdoor seating area where the family often dined for meals. Kneading the shoulder that the Fatui agent shot at the day prior, Eula's bruised muscles protest under her firm fingers as they worked at the rawness there. She would literally shrug it off for the time being, though, as she took in the morning weather and breathed in a deep lungful of crisp Inazuman air. She smiled wide then; the scent of snow danced on the breeze, and not even a sore shoulder could dull her mood at the thought of winter approaching. As much as she enjoyed the warmth of southern islands offered in the summer,

And that's it... didn't even get to the good stuff I had planned. *sigh* Maybe someday I'll finish it...

tagging but no pressure: the usual suspects? You know it! @meghan84 @ilosttrackofthings @batsonthebrain @missbreephoenix @safelycapricious @doiloveyou-myohmy

#about the blogger #long time no post #hope yall are doing well

5 notes · View notes