#Colorful Finery {Clothes}

[popatochisssp]

The Court AU has me DEAD!!! If you’d be willing, what sort of outfits would they wear? I’d love to draw them!

Anon, I had so many tabs open looking up medieval-type fashion and armor, we're talking like 30+, felt super awesome finishing this and closing them all 😌

Anyway--

Sans (Undertale): What’s black and blue and white all over? Why, him of course! His jester’s motley features a black-and-white diamond pattern, offset by bright, rich, royal blue—a mark of his service to the king. He doesn’t wear one of those silly hats, though…because he wears a silly hood instead! Less chance of falling off, you see. When not in costume he tends toward simple tunics, of decent material and often still in blue.

Papyrus (Undertale): Almost never out of full plate armor, even in downtime, he has to dress for the job he wants and that means being a shining metal bastion of knightly glory at all times! …Though he does often remove his helmet and hold it by his sword at his hip, or fasten it to his steed’s side. He’s a very handsome skeleton, it would be cruel to deny the people the chance to see their hero’s face!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Soft blues and yellows, as a squire only lightly armored—greaves and pauldrons, a mail shirt beneath his tunic if he’s expected to go into battle—but he considers even that much armoring to be overkill for what he’s doing. Still, his Captain insists, and it makes his brother feel better, so he takes care protecting himself. He has some nicer finery to wear about court, as a nobleman, but tends simpler for anything that might be dirtied or torn in training.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Rich green and earthy browns, his clothing tends to be without ostentation—no embroidery, no gold buckles or buttons, or anything especially elaborate. He may be noble but he’s a scholar and a recluse and prefers not to stand out much. Still, the fabrics of which his clothing is made are always fine, as coarse or stiff materials quite put him off. Mostly cottes—long belted tunics—with the occasional robe over, if it's cold.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Blacks and browns, sturdy plain clothes which can stand up to considerable wear and tear. Often wears a short diamond-quilted gambeson and some leather armor (vambraces and greaves), but always has a sword belted to his hip and a cloak made of dire-wolf’s fur draped over his shoulders. If ever he should need to acknowledge his denounced family name, he does have some finer clothing stored away somewhere—in red—and a shiny gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate armor, dark metal heavily scratched and scorched, dents meticulously hammered back out. He also wears a tattered red cape about his shoulders that billows quite majestically behind him when he rides or runs into battle. He will occasionally dress down in laced tunics and breeches, still in red and black, fine but not too fine as to raise suspicion about his heritage. Should all that ever come out, he does have a suit of pristine night-black armor he’s been dying to inherit and a silken cape to pin about it with a golden clasp of the family’s crest.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Mostly black but flaunts his privilege and royal ties with purple accents wherever possible. Brigandine armor with a fine gold-plated gorget and pauldrons and a few other ornamental trappings—he is the Empress’ personal guard and must in some capacity be as elegant. Very fine doublets and tunics for his (rare) downtime, often with gold threading, but not fond of most jewelries.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Dark colors and crisp whites, noble yet eccentric, he has a lot of fine doublets and other such court-wear but tends not to actually…wear them. He can mostly be found in loose-fitting cottes, baggy sleeves often penned up by leather armlets to keep them out of his paints. He has a fur-hooded cloak for travel or cold weather, but he rarely leaves his rooms, much less the castle, so he doesn’t don it often.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Dark browns and off-white cream, simple rough-hewn clothing showing signs of wear and occasionally odd stains. He works in the stables, with animals, and being around animals so much makes it difficult to keep clean. He has a somewhat decent dark blue cloak that he’ll wear into town for errands, or in polite company—it has a hood to conceal the great jagged hole in his head that tends to make the squeamish or timid flinch away from him.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Still hasn’t quite shaken the habit to be armored, even when it isn’t necessary, but he’s cut down from full plate to chain mail only, much lighter and easier to move around in—which is vital when hurrying to the training field for an accident, or running to meet a wounded knight at the gates. He wears a simple tabard over his mail, blue with red edging (the Queen’s colors), and keeps a pouch of bandages and other aid supplies belted to his waist instead of a sword.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): The livery of the king’s court, gray and gold, but dyed into fabrics suitable for common folk. He still wears gray when not performing at court, tunics so thickly woven they could pass as a gambeson and often paired with hooded cloaks, but he keeps his golds set aside until needed to keep them in good condition. He takes equal care of his shiny brass sackbut (it’s a horn, with a very funny name but an instrument nonetheless) so it always plays well.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Off-white and tan linens, loose and breathable for hot work in the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and pinned at the elbows to keep them from getting in the way. Always an apron about his waist, occasionally with food stains after a long day’s work but these he quickly tends to as soon as he’s able. He has nothing in the way of real finery but tries very hard to make sure what he has is clean and presentable.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Fine brocaded doublets of rich red and shining gold thread, as a duke and brother to a king, he does have to dress the part a bit. He wears more jewelry, especially rings, but nearly always still has his dire-wolf fur cloak over his shoulders. When called for executions, he dresses down quite a bit, in simple black cloth with only a leather pauldron over one shoulder to help brace the weight of his axe before he swings.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Half plate armor essentially at all times, even formal or polite occasions—he’s the owner of a stolen throne and all too aware that it could be stolen from him the same way he got it. His breastplate is scaled and his pauldrons are elaborately spiked, but it’s all black. The only pop of color on him is his crown, the same worn by Asgore and Undyne, gold and sharp, with rubies inlaid.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Chain mail over a finely-made kaftan and beneath a traveling cloak, the latter two with signs of wear from a long journey. His head is notably absent of a crown—left behind in the kingdom he fled—but a new one awaits him soon, of flashing silver and blue stone, depicting the phases of the moon. When fully established in his new kingdom, he may begin dressing as a proper king again, draping himself in the blue and silver finery of the land that sheltered him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Browns, greens, and blacks, he wears light leather armor—really just a breastplate and vambraces—and a thick woolen cloak about his shoulders. He has no need of greaves for his shins, legs lost to an accident in the wilderness, but supplanted by magical prosthetics, living blackened wood provided by his land when he called upon it for aid. …Not that he’s fully accepted that it’s his land, keeping his crown of twisting copper and emerald tucked away in a saddlebag instead of on his brow. Maybe someday…

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Rich purple and verdant green, amidst a sea of black—he favors very fine fabrics with open lacing at the chest. Still not especially fond of jewelry, but wears considerably more decorative leather braces on forearms, shins, and even the occasional full-chest corset. (He has some chronic pain and the extra pressure and support in certain spots helps.) He wears considerably more plain clothes for knight-training purposes and when traveling wears a black cloak with a cowl that comes down over the hole in his face at a point, as the beak of a raven.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate splint mail armor for his patrols along the wall, but favors rusty oranges, brown and black for the tunics and boots and breeches he wears out of it. Often carries a lantern, and always has tinder in a pouch on his hip. Beside his pouch is a war-horn in case an alert would need to be called, loud enough to make everyone come running if it’s ever sounded.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A cavalierly styled courtier, at first having made do with graciously lent clothing and now being able to buy his own in a whole variety of rich colors—yellow, blue, magenta, and on. His aim is to look at home in court, which means he must dress as other courtiers do, so he has doublets and fine tunics and many, many fashionable capelets with embroidery and stylish pins, as well as a few equally chic plumed hats. The other courtiers look to him now for the latest fashion trends and he couldn’t be happier.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): A bit more subdued in style than his brother…though only a bit. He favors black frocks, almost as a cleric would wear, but beneath them, elegant doublets in greens and yellows as vibrant as anything his twin wears, with fine silver filigree work in his buckles and pins and clasps. He’s the pinnacle of restrained class and taste and it’s no wonder at all that the king should respect him so highly if his care in thought is as his care in appearance.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Deep, dark black from head to toe, most prominently a long hooded cloak with two eye-lights glowing in the darkness. He always wears gloves and never lets his hood down, as he’s not especially fond of his metal bones and doesn’t really wish to be seen. It’s difficult to see in the daytime, but at night he’s trailed by faint wisps of ghostly light in all colors of the rainbow, such a strange sight that many a drunkard who’s seen him has poured out their bottle presuming they’d had quite a bit too much.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): Full plate armor, of course, but as he’s now some sort of spectral entity, it (and he!) glows and is slightly see-through. Being ghostly has washed out his colors quite thoroughly which is unfortunate—mostly all white with hints of silvery blue—but on the up-side he seems able to change his appearance some by will alone, donning or discarding his helmet at will, manifesting a majestic cape for himself out of the ether, and so on. It seems a fair enough trade to him!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): A man at court now, he’s donned an eye-patch and abandoned the trappings of prospective knighthood, fully embraced courtier fashion…if a bit ‘eccentrically.’ He favors bright yellows and spring greens, flowing garments of fine cloth layered beneath and over leather vambraces, gorget, and tasset. All these are elaborately, intricately designed and certainly make the similarly intricate gold jewelry (with multicolored gems) that he wears at wrist and neck stand out, but it’s hardly in fashion… Still, the mystic’s thinking is often inscrutable.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Unlike his brother, very fashionable and eye-catching, in rich amaranths and brilliant turquoises, with even the occasional lavender. He has many fine embroidered doublets, threaded liberally with gold, and wears many pieces of gold jewelry as well—necklaces, bracelets, pins, and brooches. When showing the birds of the crown at court or bidding them on a royal hunt, he wears the livery of the crown-proper—royal purple and gold—and always has a thick leather falconer’s glove on his left hand.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): What’s black and white and red all over? Well, newspapers haven’t been invented yet, so it’s him, of course! He’s no jester so he hasn’t a motley to wear to work, but he is a performer and does dress in the livery of the king, which is red and black. The material is a bit finer than he’s used to, but being that he’s no longer wearing rags and rotting in a hole, he’s quite pleased with it and doesn’t mind the bright colors that help him attract the eyes of many comely nobles at court. Off-duty, he sticks to loose, somewhat open tunics—red still very much preferred.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Laced linen shirts, not especially loosely fitting due to his largeness in the chest and shoulders but he hasn’t burst any seams in awhile so the measurements must be somewhat correct. He’s fond of white and a true connoisseur of red, all shades from dark to very light. He keeps an array of small carpentry tools—hammers, chisels, things for measuring—in a roll on his hip, a dedicated apprentice to the core.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): All black, pourpoint armor beneath fine silk doublets but almost disappointingly plain otherwise—no embroidery, no ornament, or stitched pattern, or brocade. Over this he wears a cloak, equally fine and with at least some ostentation, a bit of silver stitched decoration that matches the intimidatingly clawed silver gauntlet he wears upon his left hand—a symbol of his wealth, if not his status. These flashy items are for matters of court only, as he has a much more nondescript hooded cloak and less identifiable sharp implement which he uses for matters of stealth and misdeeds when it is important that he not be recognized.

Hunter (Swapfell Frution Papyrus): A prince in princely attire…mostly. He happily flaunts the color purple but proudly wears it with the black of his old family name, and drapes himself in silk tunics, fine (mostly decorative) pauldrons, capes and capelets. He tends to show off a bit more of his chest than seems appropriate for a man of his station, and seems to wear his elegant silver jewelry in ways such that the eye is drawn there, and…other places, but few question the whims of royalty. His pewter crown is heavy and inelegant and he’s talked much with his brother about how angry people would be if he had it melted and recast into something more stylish.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Plain, rough tunics, in black and dark brown. He wears a heavy fur-lined gabardine as it gets quite cold in the dungeons, though it’s uncertain where he managed to get such a nice garment. He keeps a knife on his belt, large and jagged-toothed, and though he hasn’t had need to use it yet, the threat of it tends to keep most prisoners from attempting to bring him harm.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He’s traded in his full plate armor for a comfortably fit leather jerkin, accompanied by matching gauntlets to protect his hands and torso (inasmuch as they need protection, without flesh) from the thorns he trims back every day. He mostly wears black and white and brown, all things closely fit to his body, less they snag overmuch and need to be replaced too often. His clothing is simple but well-suited to his work, and he wears it nicely.

#anonymous #headcanons #court au #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell/fellswap #horrortale #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

[celluloidbroomcloset]

(This leads on from this post, which focuses on clothing and disguise in OFMD Season 1. I'm going to do a separate post on Ed's clothing change, and how this all culminates at "Calypso's Birthday," to avoid this getting too long and unwieldy for Tumblr.)

At the start of Season 2, Stede has abandoned most of his finery by necessity. He opens the season in a dirty shirt and trousers, a costume that he comes back to several times even after he returns to the Revenge. He's given up his wealth, and all of the money they earn at Jackie'z goes into the coffer to help them go back to sea.

Even this early, Stede's costuming is significant. He's not just dropped the finery that had defined, and after a while imprisoned, him, he's done it by choice. He gives up his wealth so that his family can be secure and he can be free. He doesn't take the money earned by the crew to rebuild his wardrobe, because those things don't matter as much to him as they did in Season 1. The goal for him is to support his crew and to find Ed. Everything else pales.

Stede goes through several changes, though, as the season progresses. He puts on a uniform when he joins Zheng's crew, and immediately discards it as soon as they steal the Revenge, going back to the dirty shirt and trousers. I think a lot could be said about the few times Stede puts on a uniform - here and when they steal the Royal Navy outfits - and how quickly he wants to get rid of them. They represent another form of a conformity that he's fled from, and are at odds with his individuality.

His first scenes with Ed after Ed has woken up have him back in the same shirt and trousers. In terms of plot, he's not had a chance to get any new clothes, but this is also symbolic - he's approaching his relationship with Ed without any of the clothes that he'd hidden in, or in which Ed had fallen in love him. It's just him. It's significant that it is in this guise that Ed accepts him again, and their relationship begins to move forward.

I think it's also significant that, where Stede has so defined himself by his clothes, Ed often sees him out of them, first when they meet, again when he appears as the mermaid. In neither case is this presented as explicitly sexual - in one Stede's half dead, in the other he's a fantasy image - though there is an undercurrent of desire. Ed doesn't define Stede by his clothing.

The next big shift is to the cursed suit, and the first time that we see Stede shifting his focus from Ed and the Revenge to finery again. He fully indulges his foppery here, posing in front of the mirror, whipping the tails of the suit around, asking everyone to admire what a great suit it is. But it's a different kind of foppery to what we see in Season 1 and the use of his outfits as disguise. Here it becomes more an expression of himself and how he feels - he's confident, he's happy, he's not buttoned up to the neck but wearing an open collar revealing more of his chest and body.

It's important here that the fine things don't stop being important to Stede; he doesn't just stop loving them now that he's out from the weight of his class. But he does become more comfortable in them. The cursed suit makes him into a peacock - it lets him strut around, change his posture, and he's honestly bereft when he has to give it up. But he does give it up - it's not as important to him as it once was.

But. He keeps the shirt. It's a piece of finery that he doesn't have to give up - a compromise with the crew - and he wears it into the next episode. Ed remarks on it; it's the shirt that leads to the "you wear fine things well" callback, the same color and fabric as the handkerchief Ed kept, and leads to their first kiss on deck.

Ed's comment is more than that, though - from the start of Season 1, Stede's clothes have been his form of self-definition and disguise. It's one of the first things that Ed and he talk about. Stede has now lost, or Ed has destroyed, most of those fine things that weighed him down (the hidden closet of a repressed gay man). The shirt is Stede retaining his love of fine things, a love that Ed admired and never found strange or offensive as others did but that wasn't what made him fall in love with STede. Ed's comment doesn't just recall that first night on deck; it recalls the entire beginning of their relationship, the love that they both share and that Ed himself tried very hard to (literally) throw overboard. But it's also not the only thing that makes Stede who he is. "You wear fine things well" is about the person, not the things. It is Ed taking Stede as he is, and loving him as he is.

All of this confirms what I think is a lingering fear Stede has - that Ed might not love him as he is. They first bond over fine things, but Ed loves Stede in the dirty white shirt he's been wearing for months, and in the red silk shirt, and in the blue shirt covered in the blood of their enemies. He fell in love with Stede in the finery, but loves him in anything.

Following the "cursed suit" incident, Stede obtains new clothes, but they're not the armor or disguises of his old wardrobe. He gets leather trousers that allow him to wear a sword and gun, and nice shirts of good fabric that let him work on deck, roll up his sleeves, wear gloves. He no longer buries himself in protective layers. His clothes reveal more of his body - without being artificially cinched at the waist or layered over his chest - showing off his chest and arms. They're appropriate to the world he now lives in, and expressive of his increasing confidence and his developing relationship with Ed. He's a man more at ease with his own body, who isn't afraid to reveal who he is not just to Ed, but to everyone he encounters. He's no longer ashamed of his sexuality. He's cast off the armor.

#ofmd s2 #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #our flag means death #stede bonnet #ed teach #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #ofmd meta #as someone who started writing about media in the dark ages #man i like having access to good gifs to illustrate points #gif makers are the best #cursed suit #rhys darby #taika waititi

[vibingandsimping]

hi there~

Thank you so much for writing my request, I loved it! I don't want to be a bother, but would you mind perhaps writing how Astarion would feel or react to her in awe over the clothing he has made for her? Being that she's poor, she has never seen or touched such rich fabrics before. Perhaps his reaction to her trying them on and being so shy and awestruck by them and his thoughtfulness? I love the idea of an all powerful, evil astarion going all soft for that one specific person. Like the big bad wolf willing to ready to maul anyone before ehim but that one specific little bunny that's just too sweet he wants to protect it at all costs. And the little bunny who knows all too well just how dangerous that wolf is, but believes he will never hurt her and feels so safe with him. It just makes my dumb little heart melt.

If not it's totally okay! I appreciate you even taking the time to answer my first request!

For those reading my posts lately and sending in asks… it may be a few days before I get to them. During my hiatus I received a decent number of asks and am now finally getting around to them. :)

The comment of the wolf and rabbit reminds me of a story. Anyone remember that youtube animation titled “Dear Rabbit”?

The silks lined your skin like a glove. Each seam pressed perfectly and every lace finely crafted. The colors rich and potent with a slight shimmer. The neckline dipping down your chest to expose your neck in it’s entirety. He must’ve spent thousands on this dress alone. The thought made you curl into yourself. Thousands on a dress is absurd. Such money is unfathomable to you. You’re so used to scavenging scraps of copper and silver to get by. You’re not sure whether to be upset or flattered from his spoils. You flatten your hands along the sides of your form. The dress hugs you perfectly and annunciates the curves you do have as well as creating an illusion of more. You do have to give it to him- he has an eye for the humanoid form and fashion. His halls and servants only reflected a sense of elegancy. You stare at the mirror for a few moments more. Taking in the sight and resisting the urge to claw it off. Feeling that you’re almost unworthy of such finery. You closed your eyes with an audible sigh. Running a hand along your head.

When you reopened them you nearly jumped out of your skin. Screaming when you spotted the pale man standing before you. He only takes amusement in your terror and circles his arms around your waist. Astarion presses his face against the side of your head and plants a kiss on your ear. He apologizes softly, almost strained, before eyeing you through the mirror. His hands explore the expanse of your dress and you sit like still prey. His eyes nearly glowing in content with your obedience and how delicious you looked in the fabrics. “Mm, every coin well spent. My dear, you’ve never looked better.” You weren’t sure if that was an insult to your previous poverty or a compliment to how dolled up you were. Either way, you still blushed from the intensity of his stare and voice. His lips connect with your neck and tease the skin with his fangs. It was brief but enough to trickle the icy feeling into you. Shivering as he finally pulls away. “You should get used to this, darling. You will only be wearing the best from now on. Forget the rags you wore before.” He hums and combs his hair with his fingers. You were puzzled on why he didn’t turn you like his other spawn yet. Was it for amusement? Or perhaps he thought you too precious to corrupt in such a way?

Either way, you knew he expected perfection when you arrived at dinner. He had some announcement to make to his palace. The contents of which unknown. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease at that fact. In your time there he’d never hurt you. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to ensure anyone who threatened you was punished. You were almost like a trophy to him. One to polish and flaunt to those around. It was strange to have to adjust from your previous life. All you knew is that you were too far in the wolf’s jaws to escape now.

#my asks #anon asks #my writing #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate iii #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 x reader #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur’s gate 3 x reader #baldur’s gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion x reader #ascended astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader

[cuubism]

No worries if the prompt doesn't inspire. I just want it out of my brain:

When Dream is captured, his ruby automatically goes to Hob, who is suddenly in charge of the Dreaming. He has to figure out what he's doing, realize his Stranger is missing/rescue him, and try to get answers on why the Dreaming chose him.

this could absolutely be a 100k epic, which... i just don't have the energy for right now, but here's a potential scene:

--

Hob's been to more than a few castles in his long life. Hob's as old as more than a few castles. He's seen them from afar, and in more prosperous times he's been in them, majestic old forts and comparatively modern palaces bursting with color and finery and legions of staff.

And the thing about castles is they're busy. It takes a lot of staff to run a castle. The only castles Hob's seen that were empty were the ruined ones, fortresses that predated even Hob, were nothing but crumbling remnants by the time he ever set foot inside.

More like tombs, those castles. Relics. Memorials.

The palace he's in now feels more like that.

It hasn't crumbled, still has all its glass intact, its draperies and rugs not yet moth-eaten, the strong pillars of the throne room still reaching up to an infinite sky. It's beautiful, fine stone and intricate carvings, stained glass murals and impossible bridges--but desolate. And quiet. Quiet enough his soft, bare footsteps echo loudly on the flagstones as he walks towards the empty throne at the end of the long room.

It's so empty. He hasn't seen a soul yet. Twilight falls through the stained glass, casting patterns of red and orange at his feet. Winding stairs meander up to the throne, nearly lost in the gloom. Melancholy blooms in his heart, like he knows, through some instinct, that this place should be different. The feeling of standing in ruins of stone and thinking, this was grand, once.

The ruby glows in his palm, pulsing steadily.

Hob slowly ascends the stairs, unsure exactly what he's looking for. Answers? A way to revive this place from its steadily deepening torpor? He just climbs, and he reaches the throne, and runs his hand over the hard cut stone. Imposing, unforgiving, and no trace of its master. The king's gone.

For all his many careers, Hob's never been any sort of king. It's not something one just becomes.

He wanders behind the throne, just below the high stained glass windows. The ruby warm in his palm. When he steps into the shadows, they change, and a new room appears around him. A softer, more enclosed room, for private musings rather than public audiences. A bedroom. The king's bedroom.

Morpheus's bedroom.

Hob startles, grip closing around the ruby. He doesn't know how the name comes to him. Only he holds the ruby, and he feels it.

The room is simpler than he might have expected of a king, almost sparse, as if little time is spent there. The draperies are dark, the bare stone floor cold underfoot, and the massive window looks out over twilit fields and mountains, an entire kingdom below.

Hob almost walks over to it, but his attention is diverted by the robe that lays strewn across the bed, disrupting the otherwise untouched lines of the linens. He picks up the hem of the long, black cloak. The fabric flows like mercury between his fingers for all that it's heavy and thick like a shield. Like a shroud.

Hob gathers it up in his arms, a quiet gasp escaping him. He knows such black clothing. He knows this ruby. Only he hadn't seen it before. Hadn't seen that he was dreaming.

Morpheus. His stranger. A king and he'd never said.

He'd always had that bearing, though, Hob thinks as he twists his hands in the impossibly soft fabric of the coat. He'd never have let Hob in here, especially not after how they'd left things. He'd never have given Hob his ruby, which Hob can now feel isn't just an expensive trinket but actually some sort of powerful object. If they'd even reunited, if his stranger had returned, Hob had expected at best concessionary forgiveness for his bluntness, and possible just sullen silence. Not an invite to his inner sanctum.

A space which his stranger is conspicuously absent from.

Hob doesn't like the feeling of what it adds up to.

He takes the cloak, and the ruby. Lays a hand indulgently on the bedspread, imagining his-- his friend, he'll be determined about it, sleeping there. Not he seems to sleep much, from the look of things.

Then he leaves Morpheus's bedroom be, and goes to see if there's anyone left in this abandoned kingdom who can tell him what's happened to his friend.

#dreamling #hob gadling #my writing #ask #silverdrip

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 28

Description: It's time for the gala, and you meet two surprising figures there. Pt 29

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your gown, the soft material clinging to you like a second skin, emphasizing your curves perfectly, and giving you one hell of an ego boost.

“Y/N are you almost ready to go?” Miguel calls from your shared bedroom.

You give yourself a final look in the mirror. Makeup? Perfect. Hair? Gorgeous. Outfit? Stunning. You have to hand it to Miguel; he knows your style. You adjust the flower pendant around your neck, then step out of the bathroom, joining Miguel by the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“Ready.”

He looks at you in the mirror’s reflection, suddenly losing his grip on his tie. “Mi Vida…you look—”

“Like a princess! Mamá looks like a princess.” Gabi says, throwing her body onto you and Miguel’s bed before rolling over onto her stomach and admiring you, her head resting in her hands.

You turn and beam at her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart, you look very pretty too.”

Gabi smiles and jumps up, twirling around in her dress. It’s a sparkly purple dress, the color matching your own, and Miguel’s tie. “What do you think, Papá?”

In an effort to make Alchemax seem more family friendly, they opened the gala up to family members, citing there would be entertainment for any kids that attended if their parents wanted for a break from them.

Miguel finishes tying his tie, then scoops Gabi up. “You look beautiful, mija.”

Gabi smiles and wraps her arms around his neck. “You look very handsome, Papá.”

“Like an emperor?” You suggest, giving Miguel a teasing smile over Gabi’s shoulder.

Miguel’s admitted he has a certain, and elaborate fantasy in which he is a superpowered emperor, and you are a princess that he whisks away and seduces. You haven’t yet given it a try, but even the mere mention of it nearly whips Miguel into a frenzy.

“No, that’s silly, he’s wearing clothes, Mamá.” Gabi giggles.

“Of course, I’m wearing—what?” Miguel’s brows furrow, and he looks to you for clarification.

“Oh, oh, we were talking about that story, The Emperor’s New Clothes, in class today.” You fill Miguel in, both proud of Gabi for remembering details about the story and glad she didn’t ask any other questions about why you referred to Miguel as an emperor.

“It’s a weird story, I like Beauty and the Beast better.” Gabi says, playing with the end of Miguel’s tie.

“It is a little silly, but the moral of the story is what’s important, remember?”

“Yes Mamá.” Gabi says.

“Why don’t we stop talking about people not wearing clothes and head to the party?” Miguel says, shooting you a look.

You smile mischievously at him, then head toward the door. “We’re waiting on you.”

You hold Gabi’s hand as you walk into the massive ballroom where Alchemax is hosting their gala. It’s in a nice hotel, one you’ve certainly never had the money to stay at before.

“It’s so pretty!” Gabi says, her eyes darting around the room as she takes in the finery before her.

“It really is.” You say, taken aback by how absolutely gorgeous the venue is.

“It was better last year, the CEO really slashed Monica’s budget, said she went too overboard last time.” Miguel comments, snagging two glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter.

You take it gratefully. “Well, I think it looks wonderful.”

“Miggy! Gabs! Y/N!” Monica’s voice rings out through the air.

“Speak of the devil.” Miguel jokes, turning to face his half-sister, who is rapidly approaching.

“Auntie Mon!” Gabi cries, rushing forward and throwing her arms around Monica.

“Hey kiddo!” Monica says, smiling down at Gabi. “You excited to see the petting zoo?”

“Yes, yes, yes, are there sheep?” Gabi asks, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement.

“You bet there are.” Brett, Monica’s husband says, smiling widely, and he bends down to be face to face with Gabi. “You want to come with Uncle Brett and see them? If that’s okay with your dad?” He looks up at Miguel.

“Please Papá, please, I want to see the sheep.” Gabi begs, giving Miguel her best puppy dog eyes.

Your fiancé predictably folds and nods. “Okay, but be careful.”

Gabi promises to be careful and takes Brett’s hand, letting him lead her out the doors and into the garden area.

“Sheep?” Monica asks, raising one eyebrow.

Miguel shakes his head fondly. “I don’t know, they’re her newest obsession right now.”

Monica laughs. “Remember when we were back in school, and you were obsessed with that really specific pen brand? What were they, G-something?”

“Sharpie S-Gel.” Miguel says almost automatically.

A catlike grin spreads across her face. “Like father, like daughter, huh?”

You stifle a giggle, there are dozens of those pens scattered around Miguel’s apartment.

“Monica, darling, are you teasing Miguel?” A voice you don’t recognize asks.

Miguel stiffens slightly, and Monica turns, a playfully annoyed look on her face. “Mom, he’s a grown man, he’ll be fine.”

Standing before you are two women. One, a tall red-haired woman with piercing blue eyes and an elegant air to her, you assume she’s Monica’s mother, and the other a slightly shorter Mexican woman with curly dark hair and warm brown eyes. She’s wearing the same pantsuit as Monica’s mother but in powder blue instead of black.

“Yes, but he’s sensitive.” Monica’s mother says, smiling brightly at Miguel. “Miggy, darling, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, Nancy, and yourself?” Miguel asks, stiffly holding his hand out for her to shake.

“Mijo, don’t be so stiff, hug your Aunt Nancy.” Miguel’s mother says, taking a step forward and lightly swatting him on the arm.

“Oh Connie, please, don’t push the boy, I know he’s not the biggest hugger.” Nancy chides playfully, giving Miguel a quick hug.

You’re torn between freaking out, quietly cussing Miguel out for not telling you his mom was going to be here, or introducing yourself, but luckily Monica makes the choice for you.

“Mom, Aunt Connie, this is Y/N, Miguel’s fiancée.”

Nancy’s perfectly painted lips blossom into a brilliant smile, but Connie’s brow furrows.

“What about Ava?” She asks.

Your stomach drops.

“What about her, Mamá?” Miguel counters calmly.

“She’s Gabriella’s mother, you can’t just replace her like that.”

And now your stomach begins to churn uncomfortably.

“Can we have this discussion in private?” Miguel asks, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

Connie nods, and you look between Miguel and Monica.

“I’ll be right back, cariño, enjoy the party.” He reassures you, before he leads his mother away from the main crowd.

Nancy purses her lips, then pulls out a chair. “Never liked that Ava girl.”

Monica sits as well, motioning for you to do the same. “She’s a bitch.”

You bite your tongue.

Nancy seems to notice and places her hand over yours. “Oh, don’t worry, she’s long gone, ran off with some Californian.”

“Oh, yes, Miguel told me.” You say, praying they’ll believe that’s the real reason you look like you want to vomit.

“Not everyone can make an affair work in their favor, it’s hard work.”

You blink owlishly at her.

“I saw Miguel and Monica in school together, made the connection, went to Connie to ask woman to woman what was going on behind my back. Turns out she had tried to end the affair multiple times, but Tyler wouldn’t let her, until one day she finally gathered her strength and broke it off. Now, Tyler and I were never soulmates, but it hurt to know what he had done, and I wanted revenge.”

Monica grabs her drink and downs it.

“I’ll spare you the boring details but, rest assured, Connie and me and made sure Tyler could never negatively affect our lives ever again.” Nancy finishes, picking up a knife and cutting into the food set before her.

“That’s good…?” You say uncertainly, looking to Monica for help.

Monica just shrugs. “Hey, I didn’t pay for college, or my wedding, I really can’t complain.”

“Needless to say, I keep my husband on a short leash, and I have no patience for cheaters, so Ava was never my favorite.”

“I…yeah, no, she sounds awful.”

Maybe it’s better to keep your mouth shut, technically you were kind of cheating on Todd with Miguel, but it’s different, right? Todd treated you horribly, he didn’t care about you, and you broke up with him before you and Miguel actually ever had sex, hell you didn’t even know it was Miguel until the end.

Besides, Todd would’ve jumped at the chance to get his dick sucked by his favorite female superhero, and wouldn’t have even felt bad about it, at least you felt bad…

Speaking of Miguel, you wonder what’s taking him so long.

Tag list: @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @youcantseem3, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650, @idolautism, @rheannajrs, @merakiq, @rexs-wife, @sukaretto-n, @twilight-loveer, @f1shb0nez, @callsign-blue, @marcelineormars

#meg's writing #miguel’s pastels #miguel o'hara x reader #another gala my Targ Inc besties know what it is #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x y/n

[dead-lights]

household // 1910s caleb & lilith & lily [DOWNLOAD]

It's so much fun throwing the Vatores into random historical eras. This is what you'll get if you throw my late Edwardian Zhu-Vatore household into your game! I may have gone a bit overboard.

↓↓↓ tl;dr household download link & required cc below the cut ↓↓↓

There's absolutely gorgeous Edwardian cc out there, so I collected it for you 💖

The Edwardian era was marked by excess and conspicuous consumption. They liked big hair and big hats, and by the end of the period people had come to agree that the sexiest shape a woman can be is cylindrical.

Caleb, Lily, and Lilith really pull off the look. Neither lady is particularly cylindrical, but they look great in these dresses and absolutely rock the Gibson Girl updo and fancy hats.

I aged Lily down and changed her hair color, removed Lilith's tattoos, and gave Caleb a basic dark form, but no other changes. I tried to make them cousins? But when I loaded the household onto my laptop, they weren't cousins anymore :(

You'll need Vintage Glamour, in addition to Vampires and Werewolves. A few of Caleb's outfits and his hair are from VG and you CANNOT pair side bangs with Edwardian clothing. It's a fashion law.

In order to cut back on the amount of cc, there's less variety of hats, hair, gloves, and shoes than I'd like. I also didn't include jewelry. If people are interested, I can put together a list of supplementary cc that can be swapped in.

Please tag me @dead-lights if you use these for anything! I'd love to see my pixel buddies walking around in other people's saves.

Now buckle up, y'all. This gets long.

download household [SFS]

Extract that into your Tray folder (in the same folder as your Mods folder). You should see the household in CAS when you open your gallery.

required cc

@happylifesims

fedora shape no. 2

peaky blinders outfit

wilbur outfit

1920s coat

rose's boarding outfit

rose's dinner dress

rose's lunch dress

rose's flying dress

rose’s jump dress

rose's swim dress

1910s day dress 01

my recolor of day dress 01

1910s day dress 02

1920s nightgown

@historicalsimslife

men's casual edwardian suit

edwardian men's underwear + sleep wear

edwardian women's hat + coat

edwardian women's nightgown

@gilded-ghosts

the hartfield shoes

summer swells dress

flower accessory

gilded gibson hair

fanny's finery gown (dropbox)

perfectly plain skirt

clair de lune nightgown (dropbox)

promenade dress

demure day dress (dropbox)

astor dress (direct link)

coquette corset (dropbox)

@linzlu

picnic tops 2 & 3

bathing belle

florence outwear (direct link)

miss scarlet evening gown

hattie dress (direct link)

&

vintage swimwear by @eirflower

duchess of xviii hat by @rustys-cc

white garden gloves by rustys-cc

sunday hair by @saurusness

season's greetings hat by @nolan-sims

edwardian satin bow pumps by @waxesnostalgic

knickerbockers by waxesnostalgic

gibson curl updo by @the-melancholy-maiden

vintage glam hat by @madlensims

avery skirt by madlensims

scholar vest by @magnolianfarewell

edwardian huntress dress by @elfdor

tyrell by @clumsyalienn

bespoke corset by @dzifasims

my recolor of bespoke corset

fur hat by @lilis-palace

carla by @buzzardly28

hattie dress by @dancemachinetrait

"tea time" vintage edwardian hat by shawnthesimmer

lingerie dress by @javitrulovesims

If you're trying to replace the default in-game:

move this household into wolfsbane manor with the default vatores, then delete the defaults

use mods/cheats to make the new lily the vatores' cousin (i think mccc and ui cheats can both do it)

move custom lily in with the volkov household - use cheats/mods to copy her default relationships if you'd like - and then delete default lily. you will also need to mod/cheat lily back into the moonwood collective if you want her to keep her position. all three characters still have their occult rank and powers. she does NOT keep her special moonwood mill gossip dialogue - not sure why.

TOU

don't put my stuff behind a paywall

don't claim my stuff as your own

don't violate the TOUs of the cc makers i've included

Please let me know if there are any problems - this is my first time putting up a household and I'm only mostly sure I did it right 😅 I managed to get it to work on my laptop, so there's that.

If you're just here for the download, you're done now! If you're interested in learning more about Edwardian fashion, let me ramble at you for a bit :)

my notes

This isn't the most historically accurate set, but I'm calling it close enough - if you're interested in learning more about the era, Edwardian Promenade is a great place to start.

Edwardians had really weird, complicated rules about hat and glove wearing. For most of these outfits, people would don and remove their hats and gloves based on social context - they shouldn't be wearing gloves when they eat, for example, but should always wear gloves when they're dancing. It's hard to find consistent information about the specific rules, but I've read excerpts from the Edwardian equivalents of Miss Manners and Good Housekeeping and they are fascinating.

I found some great reference images for sportswear from Silhouettes Costumes. Caleb's athletic outfit is based on this contemporary illustration. The unfastened bottom button is a nice detail to have - it was fashionable for men to leave the last button undone, as a nod to King Edward.

The ladies have 3 sleep outfits - the first are nightgowns that they would wear to sleep, the second are corsets, with other undergarments still on underneath, and the third are chemises, which were worn under their corsets - the underest part of the underwear, essentially.

For an in-depth explanation of Edwardian lingerie, check out The Fashion Archaeologist's Blog. For information about Edwardian nighttime hair care, check out Sew Historically.

The girls are wearing lingerie dresses for their hot weather outfits - lacy dresses made with the same materials & techniques as lingerie. These were good casual afternoon dresses, and were sometimes worn without a corset. Learn more about them from The Dreamstress!

#caleb vatore #lilith vatore #lily zhu #ts4 historical #ts4 lookbook #ts4 download #ts4 cc #s4cc #townie makeover #ts4 townie makeover #ts4 townie #ts4 premades #ts4 edwardian #ts4 1910s #ts4 vampires #ts4 werewolves #sim dump #dead-lights cc

[mollysunder]

Zaun Flexes Some Soft Influence in Piltover

A lot can be and has been said about the way Zaun's aesthetics changed under Silco's rule, especially in terms of fashion. It's clear that a portion of Zaun is economically doing better and wearing clothes that emulate Piltovan fashion, but the same can be said for Piltover. I noticed during the Progress Day Charity Gala that many of the guests (investors) that attended it weren't dressed in neither rigid finery as the Councilors, nor the style Piltovans that attended the Council's court processions pre-timeskip.

The guests actually seemed to be clumsily applying Zaun's aesthetics to their outfits.

Let me explain. One of the most concrete differences between Zaun and Piltover is that Piltover has the money for well made geometric symmetry in their fashion. In Zaun, most people live in such poverty where salvageable clothes are sewn together creating an uneven appearance to their outfits. Little Powder's literally wearing two different pants sewn together. Even with the rise of Silco's Shimmer empire, there's still an adherence to asymmetry, except it's more intentional rather than byproduct of scarcity. For characters like Silco, it's woven into the seams, straps, buttons, and wraps his figure, which are the portions that hold his clothes together.

At the Gala we see many of the guests in outfits that attempt to incorporate asymmetry superficially. Some guests wear outfits with a sleeve missing, or wear an arm sleeve instead, other are wearing faux-shoulder guards similar to the ones that Zaunites wear. I noticed one woman wearing garters one side of her leotard down to her legs to sort of look like tights. There are some that wear their make up, like eye shadow, just a little off in symmetry, one eye bigger than the other. Some guest apply face paint, but nothing permanent or intricate like the tattoos found in Zaun. They also use rich colors, that aren't available (at least not in large quantities) in Zaun.

At least one guest wore a choker similar to Jinx's own, except Jinx doesn't wear a choker, her tube top's collar is just ripped and worn out. A lot of this seems like they saw the end product, but didn't understand why or how asymmetry persists in Zaunite fashion.

Curiously, Amara seems to emulate Zaunite aesthetics a little better than the rest of the crowd. She wears multiple earrings that don't match in size or placement, her gems look imperfectly cut (maybe topaz?), and she wears a thick band of gold necklaces. Her outfit in general matches most of the cut of the Councilors, but her jacket collar is off, the waistline of her pants are off, and the hem of her jacket are all tailored to be off. It's interesting because she appears to be one of the older characters in the show (outside of Heimerdinger) and we know the least of her origins. Amara is another post for another day though.

It seems that Zaunite culture has gained influence Piltovan society over the time skip, which isn't suprising. There's a funny loop where the poor try to copy the rich, and improvise to make up for the difference. The rich see the creativity in the improvisation and tend to copy that for their outfits for leisure activities, but more dressed up. Then the poor see that and it all goes back and forth. On top of that, Zaunite culture seems to be more accessible than Piltovan. In Piltover, people enjoy concerts in opera halls, while Zaunite music is out on the street and seems readily available for jukeboxes and phonographs. Within 7-10 years of Silco's reign it seems Zaun's influence has managed to reach further into Piltover than most notice, and it makes me wonder how far that influence has gone past the border.

#arcane #zaun #piltover #this was originally going to be a post about how i thought the outfits at Mel's party sucked #but now i figured out why they annoyed me when i saw them #silco may not have the arms for military might but he sure does know how to work soft power #this all does beg the question about who in the party actually has closer than expected connections to Zaun #arcane meta

[gav-san]

A Vintage Bouquet | 2/5 | Mihawk x reader

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk / Fem Reader

Length: 2/5 Chapters

Summary: Trapped in a monastery and threatened with an impending marriage, you'll strike any deal with a Pirate to escape what your father has in store for you.

Previous/Next

The heist of a lifetime set off with much less fanfare than books would suggest. 

Getting packed wasn’t easy, even considering the circumstances. You had long been out of practice being on the ocean, and there was nothing to be done about the dreadful churning in your gut. 

It wasn’t easy to leave what had essentially been your home for over ten years, even if it was more of a jail than a warm comfort. There had been quiet chatter among the girls of escape but no one had so far been foolish enough to do so.

You’d like to blame fate for steering you towards dangerous and unseen paths, but you are too frank to lie to yourself. 

There is something unnatural about your desire to sail the sea, and it always has been that way. 

Throwing yourself into the chaotic ocean’s currents was dangerous, but there was something so dangerously seductive about that future. Add in an untrustworthy pirate (whose name you swore was familiar) whose cold gaze kept you cautious still was far more enticing than the most comfortable, cushiest life as the wife of a wealthy Celestial Dragon.

You would rather quickly drown than be forced to slowly suffocate as years ticked away and your ability to seek adventure faded. 

There was a distinct feeling of severing fate with a butter knife.

Those with weak wills had no place in the sea, but you would brave any danger to feel the presence of your mother again.

So you couldn’t doubt yourself. Once you spurned a Celestial Dragon there was no choice but to dance forward because there would be no return. 

So you made your decision.

Packing wasn’t a suspicious activity in itself, as you were supposed to be working on your marriage trousseau. Others would think you were just eager to leave the monastery despite the poor choice of your husband. Many other girls had done this exact thing. 

 So you feigned packing the overly fancy luggage, leaving the disgusting amounts of finery and jewels you had already been gifted, unable to sleep any of the night. It disguised your actual luggage, a single brown bag that could carry your mother's hair pins, a fan with her lost ship's logo, the lone dagger you had managed to smuggle, and a few small coins. Things that you could explain as being sentimental keepsakes you wanted to stay close to. 

The Mother Superior was much shrewder than she let on and had expected the worst of you from the moment you had met. So you packed your second bag light, exclusively taking what you could carry under your habit, in pockets, or tucked away.

There was trouble finding appropriate clothes, and you had to end up purposely spilling on your dress, something you knew would earn you laundry duty. Only then could you find a suitable ensemble through the donation box full of ancient clothes, a simple shirt, vest, and pants. And last, a common hat that many local islanders preferred.

And while missing your last chance at a free meal to scrub toilets (with the tiniest brush possible) you thought about the man in all black with the giant sword. 

And even when your stomach rolled, twisting with hunger pains, those bright, golden eyes seemed never to leave your memory. 

Hawk eyes, you thought. You had never seen anything like them, eyes so bright, not just thanks to color, but the undeniable trace of intelligence within. Like a perfect bird of prey, he seemed to see everything around him with that perfect clarity only the strong had. 

It had made you writhe under his gaze, to be dissected, measured, and judged. 

It made you want to fight.

And as you rolled in your uncomfortable bed, squirming at the memory of the virile male, until your roommate threw her scriptures at your head in frustration upon being woken so late. It was a good thing that you both promised not to say a word about each other’s rule-breaking. 

But beyond the general secret-keeping, you had never been close, and she certainly wasn’t going to listen to you express a single word about how there were… other things about the man that made you feel ticklish and warm. 

You weren’t unaware of the fact you had somehow, during a single conversation, developed a total crush on the man. It was just the mechanics of it that had never been experienced and now you finally understood all those contraband romance novels traded within the hallowed halls. Some that you had also read previously, with little understanding. But now you were a bit dizzy and fully aware that the whole euphoria aspect could make it challenging to keep your head on straight. There was nothing like a huge dose of heady girl-lust that would make you trip over yourself.

But could you blame a girl or judge her for combing her hair till it shone, even if it was going to be under a bandana? There was a swordsman out there she had to impress. Whether through wine or with violence, you would be getting on Dracule’s ship, or another’s.

Once you had stuffed your bed to seem like you were under your blanket, you snuck through the convent, slipping past the memorized sentinels and sisters there. The father was long asleep, and gently opening the door and sneaking into his room was simple. 

He was laid out on his bed, and you were sure you couldn’t tap-danced and not woken him, by the smell of things. But as it was, his loud snoring covered your movements, creeping to the corner of his room where several casks of wine were stored. 

He had drunk himself to sleep, and so you made off with the wine casks, strapping them under your habit. It wasn’t a great disguise, but it would have to do. Since most sisters were still at evening mass, you ran into none of them, slipping into the gardens with practiced ease.

By some miracle, the half-broken gate hidden by the orange grove hadn’t been discovered. 

It was then you shed the nun’s habit, already dressed in the pilfered overalls, and letting the casks drop. You moved the habit behind the corner, pulling leaves and fallen oranges over it as quickly as you could, listening for bells to mark the end of mass.

After, you take handfuls of dirt and smear it upon your face, your clothes, and the casks. You smear mud on the barrel logo stating the wine’s quality, ensuring that you look much like the cabin boy you have always wanted to be.

Finishing, you grabbed the casks, head lifting towards the sunset.

You shifted, letting your bag hang over your shoulder, checking for any passing wanderers. With no person spotted, you proceeded to push the gate open, wincing at its rusty creaking. 

With a small nudge, you slipped the wine through, then followed. 

You don’t look back, don’t think, just take off down the road. 

Your bare feet catch dirt swiftly, concealing your pampered, wealthy skin. It’s far more believable that an urchin wouldn’t have proper shoes, and makes blending with others much smoother. Your hat stays down, and soon enough, people are passing you. 

By the time the Monastery Bells are tolling, you have reached the middle of the city, and are fully confident in your disguise. 

You would not return, no matter the cost.

Dressed with your pilfered overly-large hat, no one was wiser that the young figure with two large wine casks was the convent girl due to be married the next day and not an errand-running ship boy.

Isla Palma was alive in the evenings, and this night was no different. 

Most ships preferred to leave in the bright mornings when the view was better. People milled in the streets, the sour smell of gin and vomit not hidden by the other smells of an oceanside city. The city center had never been your favorite place, a maze-like setting of depraved men with insufficient coins for the nicer inn higher on the hill.

But there were many dark nooks and allies that you could slip into to make it back to the docks. And so you did, making good headway. And no one even glanced your way.

Well, almost no one.

“Ello, Miss Gabriella.”

The casks dropped.

–X–

The docks were salt-encrusted pillars of wood, smelling of fish and sweaty fishermen, a swell of sour-smelling sailors returning after a booze-filled evening. 

Mihawk didn’t have much use for the common sailor. They entirely bored him, or much like an exterminator, he rid them from the seas because they annoyed him. He’s not sure why he is still on this pitiful little island, besides that small spark of amusement he gained from battling wits against you. It may be that any of his suffering was caused due to his enormous success but regardless, it had been getting unbearable. 

He sighs, rolling his eyes as if disappointed in himself.

He must be truly bored, to humor a monastery girl.

He doesn’t need to look behind him at the sunset to notice time is running short for the said child. That was worth another sigh, as it was becoming clear that he had overestimated yet another person, however minuscule it had been.

And as the sun went down, he resigned himself to setting sail by himself.

Until his Haki caught onto the beginning of a scuffle and the familiar sound of a fight about to go down. With a quirk blooming his brow, he uncrossed his legs and pushed from the dock pillar he had been resting on.

And in the midst of it, a familiar voice.

He turned, noting that there was still a sliver of red light over the dark ocean. He supposed he had told her to be at the dock. Which, from the sound of things, was near enough to the docks to pass muster.

“Very well monastery girl,” He turns towards the city of Isla Palma. “You’ve piqued my interest.”

–X–

“Surely you’ve got more than that.” 

You held up the pole again, fingers weighing and testing it for your next hit. It looked like someone had snapped the beam off a metal fence, the blunted tip rusting, but it did the job.

A job well done, she said with a snarl, hitting the next man who ran at her as she sidestepped him.

Of course, it started with Heffery.

Of all the dirty rotten luck. He had been the one who found her, and unfortunately, he was less sloshed this time around. 

“Hey, sweet-cheeks,” Heffery said, “Well isn’t this nice? I thought I was gonna have to break into that place to kidnap you.” 

You had dropped the barrels, and some other man with terrible breath had your hands behind your back. You aren’t paying attention to him, but rather the metal glint near his feet.

You grit your teeth, glancing at the hat that had fallen. Thankfully, your hair stayed in its braids. Hefferey dared to pat your cheek, annoyed you weren’t paying him attention.

“Hey! We’ve been donating money to your Nunnery for years, thinking it might win one of us your favor. It seems only fair that you give us a little taste before that snobby rich boy comes.” He guffed, tone taking an unsavory turn.  

Heffery's gaze wandered down to the low dip of your dress, following how your breasts pushed at the bindings, even under the cotton shirt. 

“Let me go.” You threatened, much to the men’s amusement. 

“Let it go, sugar, you’ll get your pretty gloves dirty!” Heffery drawled, rolling up his sleeves.

You steadily glared. At least they were arrogant enough not to have tied you up with a rope. 

Five against one were not good odds when you were rusty, but what choice did you have? These sorts of fights were known for being ignored by the Marines.

You only had yourself.

Heffery, tired of talk, moved to lower your shirt.

And that’s when you struck.

Stamping on the foot of the man behind you gave you back your hands, and a hit from your elbow downed him. That same turn allowed your foot to catch Hefferey’s face, felling him to the ground.

After that you turned, grabbing the metal pole on the ground, and raising it in a stance that caused a rich wave of nostalgia to fall over you.

“Oh, looks like kitty does have some claws.” A man mocked her, taking out a rusted blade.

Hefferey and his lackey who were dropped to the ground were groaning in pain. But there were three more, and so she once again danced. 

And then one of the men swung towards her, trying to catch her by surprise. You danced to the side, footwork a little rough but evading the man still. Turning the pole she crashed it on another head. She wasn’t fond of the ensuing crack, but she didn’t yield or flinch, quickly moving back into a position where she could see the last standing man.

He ran.

Just out of spite, you take the gold ring on Hefferey’s finger.

You raised your pole.

“So much for Marine training.” You quipped, lowering the pole to reach for the wine casks again.

And then, a fear fills you. 

It’s a bone-deep dread of knowing that something fearsome is coming.

With more dexterity than you realized you possessed, you swung the pole, hitting the offending away from your face, clanging too near to your chin.

It’s a dagger. 

A familiar, absurdly small, cross-shaped dagger.

“To be fair, Marine dropouts aren’t considered the cream of the crop.” A familiar voice drawls. You flinch, jaw clenching at the power behind the dagger. 

“Swordsman.” You say, chin set. “I’ve made it then.”

“Hardly.” One of his magnificent brows raises at your over-confident words. “Me stumbling over a drunken alley brawl is no credit to you.” He says hat pulled low over his golden eyes, the white feather ruffling in the evening breeze. “Though you may as well get used to it. You’re late, and our deal is forfeit.”

And the swordsman has such an air of authority that you almost agree, but blink to snap yourself out of such a ridiculous notion. You were not going to be bullied by the swordsman on a technicality.

The sky is black, and the only light is from the windows and lanterns from the streets, but you refuse to be cowed by what must be the devil in disguise, the specter in all black with ripped abs and an aura was was downright dangerous. 

“Is this not considered meeting you at dark?” You say angrily, raising your pole. “Would you have so little honor?” 

“Are you challenging my honor?” He says flatly, and though the corners of his mouth don’t turn up you swear there is something in his eyes that is amused. “Surely you can feel the difference in our experience.”

“If that’s what you call your arbitrary word.” You contest, hand tightening on the metal in your palm.

You don’t flinch as he moves forward, faces close enough to kiss as your pole hits his dagger in a dull metallic clang that sends shivers into the earth beneath you. Power throbs from him, no matter how casual he seems, and you know that you have found a true bird of prey.

“I won’t be cowed by you.” You say, almost to yourself, reminding yourself that there is nothing to return to, even if he cuts you down. “I won’t apologize.”

His eyes are fearsome so close, so very like his nickname, and the sweet smell of a decent vintage escapes his breath this close as he leans into you.

“What of death?” He queries, voice digging as hard as his strike. 

“Better death than a life lived in fear of my own potential.” You aren’t sure what shifts in the swordsman's face, but in that moment, you see something. It’s almost like he is reassessing your dedication to your dreams, deconstructing and rebuilding the idea. 

Testing it for its purity.

Testing you for your worth.

He tuts, his perpetual frown creasing, his facial hair sharpening his disapproval.

“Such resolve won’t change my decision, monastery girl.” For a moment your heart drops, but there’s something about his words that taunts you.

He seems to believe you are too far beneath him to care one way or another. Even locked in combat he refuses to budge. And you’re no fool, you know he’s an experienced swordsman, much more powerful than you are.

But you’ve always been a hard-headed fool with a big mouth.

“Then would defeating you give you enough humility to take back your words?” You say, doubling your stance to lean into him more, causing him to shift his foot.

You’re close enough to the smell of the sea on him, and whatever expensive cologne and aftershave he uses.  Perhaps sandalwood and cinnamon, but also something deep, like a rainforest. Close enough to see through where his sleeves lace to his jacket, and the veins in his hands and throat. Close enough to appreciate the dark hair curling from under his hat and the mole under his eye.

So close one of you could lean forward and kiss the other. 

He doesn’t flinch.

“If you can give me even a scrape,” He says, flatly, “I’ll honor every last desire in that black heart of yours.” He says, raising his free hand. You mirror him but are surprised as he holds it behind his back.

“I’ll even give you a handicap.”

You flinch at the insult.

And despite defeating him being your very goal, you immediately know that you should not, under any circumstance, actually fight him. You know, just by the way he straightens, tilting his body and pivoting his feet he isn’t embellishing his prowess. He is going to hurt you if you give him the opening.

But you don’t.

You both step back, releasing the deadlock, and giving you a moment to nurse your sore arm. But not for long, as you adjust yourself to move defensively, feet dancing prettily into place as he holds his position. 

“Done.”

And you don’t want to fail. 

You can’t fail.

He doesn’t respond using words.

Your pole clashes against his dagger as you clash again, and again, each strike becoming harder. Sweat pools on your head as he comes out of you, more like you are in a ballroom, and he is a suitor smoothly guiding you in a waltz. 

Good swordplay always felt like that. 

You know you are outmatched, your footwork unpracticed and shoddy from lack of use and finesse. But it is there, and though the swordsman doesn’t seem to smile, you can almost see pleasure at the chance to perhaps take on an opponent who knew some steps to whatever dance he was waltzing.

You would be extremely fortunate to ever near such perfection in form and precision, and you could only hope to delay him as long as possible because you needed to keep dancing with someone so proficient. You may never get the chance again.

You step towards and away from one another in the perfect sink, circling one another in a perfectly intoxicating waltz of swords.

Pivoting the silver blade flashes past you, and you dodge neatly, moving to roll under him. 

Dracule isn’t fooled by the feign, instead looping an arm around your elbow, causing the spin to be cut off. Your pole hits the ground in two pieces.

That damned little dagger pierces your throat as he holds your head in a deadlock, off-balance and unable to straighten.

 “Boldness is a fool’s game for the weak,” He says against your throat, causing a dastardly shiver to escape you as he curls into you, not a drop of sweat on his perfect body, compared to the heat and wetness dripping off you.

“I am not weak.” You say, teeth clenched as you turn towards him, jaw hitting his own as he mutters into your ears. 

“Oh?” He says, that amused tone heightening as he pushes you into the brick wall, squishing you between a rock and a hard place.

The words that escape your mouth as you struggle against the unmoveable swordsman are of legend, but the man sighs. No matter how your fingers attempt to claw him, there is no release.

“Such a disappointment, convent girl.” He drawls, his free hand brushing along the wild tangle of your hair to land on your chin to turn it towards him. “Surely you can do better.”

You kick off the wall, twisting.

But even the wild kick doesn’t land as he pulls you forward into enough of a crouch that your legs can’t reach his crouch.

“Now now,” He chides, fingers digging into your throat as hot breath envelops your neck, making your entire body seize in alarm. “None of that, darling. Be a good little girl and accept your fate. Return to the monastery. Surely that’s better than finding yourself in this position again and with a less courteous benefactor.” 

Hot anger licks your insides. 

You were nothing but good in your life, and now look where it has brought you. Being sold off into an abusive marriage, only to have a golden chance of escape flash by you. You want to lash out, you want to scream, you want to do something-

You glance down at the hand clenching your chin, turning you to look at the hill where hell itself is. By using only one arm, the man had sacrificed his ability to entirely restrain your body. You can’t get him with a weapon. But what he isn’t expecting, is your own quick thinking.

A smirk touches your face.

“Swordsman.” You say sharply, causing the man to angle his head towards you.

“Are you finally giving in?” He says, tired sounding as ever.

Pain stabs through the swordsman’s hand and though he doesn’t let go, he does turn you to give you the full glare you’ve earned with the extent of your actions. 

“Are you a dog?” He drawls, unimpressed by the way your sharp teeth dig into his hand, your pretty lips curled in a grin.

Quick as lightning you had turned, dislodging a single finger of his, biting down hard enough to draw blood. 

Iron fills your mouth, bitter, but tasting of victory.

“I win.” You say, letting go. “You said to scrape you. Your words.”

He releases you, and you have to brace yourself on the brick wall as he examines his hand, looking as unmoving as usual.

You wouldn’t know till much later how much the man admired the blood on your lips as you gazed ferociously at him.

“Very well,” He finally admits, turning away from you. “I am a man of my word.”

You huff in indignation, turning away yourself to let out an unsteady breath. 

Finally.

You turn back to triumphantly follow him to his boat, only to realize…

That bastard!

He’s entirely gone. Not only had he negged on his word, he had taken all the wine!

#romance #mihawk #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #one piece #OPLA #fanfic #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader

[15-lizards]

Hi, I am writing an HoD story and I was wondering if you have any ideas of a good combination of velaryon and targaryen mixed style? I want the strong boys to have a good mixture.

Hmmmm I don’t think there’s a giant difference in the clothes they wear since they’re so geographically close, similarly wealthy and powerful, and have been intermarrying for years. However!

There could be a mix of motifs done through embroidery, beading, and darning. Rocky shores and waves combined with a dragon flying overhead. Quartered sigils on the breast, of both dragon and seahorse. This is an easy way to combine representative elements. Since most men will wear similar styles of breeches, doublet, and jerkin, these richly embroidered designs will help establish the strong boys as both targ and Velaryon

Also shoutout to whoever told me about shot silk bc it works in this scenario. Establishing the wealth and finery of both houses, and when red and blue (representative house colors are mixed) you get a pretty shade of purple, which is perfect for the child of a targ and a Velaryon (legally).

Differing colors on the boys doublets and other clothing can also work. Jace might normally wear red and black when he attends council meetings with Rhaenyra, while Luke will wear gold and blue clothing with flowing, wave like designs and accessories (gifted by Corlys ofc) to establish him as heir to driftmark

#asoiaf #asoiaf hair and clothing #strong boys dripped tf out in my head #Luke would kinda eat Loras up with his fits not sorry ab it

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Three Women to a Market

Trans femme Merlin perhaps? – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: gender dysphoria

Pairings: none

Word Count: 4149

Morgana and Gwen have...noticed some strange things about Merlin, which isn't saying much, considering that he's quite a strange man. Still, there are things that seem a little out of the ordinary, even for Merlin. Or, five times Merlin had to hide her true self, and one time she didn't.

 

Morgana truly doesn’t think much of it when she catches Merlin in her wardrobe, fussing with her dresses.

“I don’t think that one’s quite your color,” she says, hiding a smile when he jumps and turns around so quickly he almost stumbles into the side.

“I was just—um—there was a moth—“

“A moth?” She raises her eyebrows, still grinning, and Merlin doubles down.

“Yes! A moth. Huge, the size of—of—“ he holds his hands up— “it was this big. Eat right through any of these—these dresses, M’Lady, I had to make sure it hadn’t gotten in.”

Morgana narrows her eyes playfully at him before she sighs and turns to go to her vanity. “If it’s that big of a moth, perhaps we should call the knights. Get them to shoo it right out.”

She watches him in the mirror as he fumbles for something to say. “I, uh, I think I go it out.”

“Oh, you did? How wonderful, thank you, Merlin. Whatever would we do without you?”

Arthur’s right, she thinks giddily as Merlin turns back to meekly shut the wardrobe, his ears do turn red when he’s all flustered.

“M’Lady,” he mumbles as he turns to go.

Morgana waits until the door has closed and the footsteps clattered away before she sighs, resting her chin on her hands. She turns back to the wardrobe and takes out the dress Merlin had been ‘examining.’

It’s one of her more colorful ones, the rich green one with the purple trim and the stones fastening in the back. She runs her fingers over it, checking to see that there weren’t any moth holes and for what Merlin was actually doing with it. As she looks, she can’t find anything obviously wrong with it, nor can she find evidence of any less than savory endeavors that she would expect from some other men who snuck into her clothes. Try as she might, though, she can’t imagine Merlin doing anything of the sort. Sure, he was awkward at times, and he could be bumbling in his attempts at talking to women of any sort, but he wasn’t like that.

She hangs the dress back up, frowning as she walks back over to her vanity. She takes a seat and begins to under the intricate hairstyle Gwen had done this morning. No, she thinks to herself, it wasn’t like he was looking at them because they were mine, per se.

Rather, he’d just been looking at the dress.

She glances at the wardrobe in the mirror. As ward of Uther Pendragon, he had spared no expense to see her clothed in whatever fineries were available. They were fine works of art in their own right. She supposes she can’t fault Merlin for appreciating the craftsmanship—so few men ever did. Idly, she finds herself picturing one of her shopping days with Gwen, the two of them going stall to stall, inspecting the various wares, and Merlin behind them, helping to carry things, offering his own slightly bumbling opinions, and smiling bashfully when they took his advice.

Morgana stops. Shakes herself. Gives herself a look in the mirror.

What is she thinking? Shopping day was her day to spend with Gwen and Gwen alone. They’d never allowed so much as a guard to accompany them, and here she was fantasizing about including Merlin?

She must be more tired than she thought. She gives herself another shake and goes back to fixing her hair.

Still, she can’t help but smile to herself, it really wasn’t his color.

***

2.

Gwen has long ago come to the understanding that Merlin is one of the most peculiar people she’s ever met and no, she doesn’t mind even the slightest bit.

From their first meeting, him in the stocks, covered with rotting tomatoes, shaking her hand as though they were meeting under perfectly normal circumstances, to this past week where he offered to help her carry the massive laundry baskets and somehow tangled a sheet around a running thief and caught him with a child’s brooch in his pockets, she can never be quite sure what’s going to happen when the two of them spend time together.

She’s not complaining, though. Merlin is by far one of the better options for companionship.

still, she hesitates before asking him for a favor where the two of them have a moment to breathe in between their duties to the Pendragons.

“I know it’s a strange ask,” Gwen says quietly, tucked away in the side hall, “and I understand if you say no—“

“No, Gwen, I’d…I’d be happy to help.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I, er, don’t know how much help I’ll be, I’m not—you know, I’m not you—“

“But you’ll be there, and you’ll be another pair of eyes, and that’s all I need.” Gwen reaches out and clasps his hands, smiling widely. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Merlin, I would ask Morgana, but she’s…terribly wealthy.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

Gwen sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She’d suggest I use some fabric or thread that’s from three kingdoms over and when I say that I can’t afford that, she just offers to get it for me, and I…”

Merlin nods with a slight grimace. “Yes, I had to explain to Arthur that he didn’t need to get new boots just because the toe had been scuffed slightly more than usual.”

Gwen shakes her head, grinning. “Thank you so much, Merlin, I really appreciate it.”

“Of course. I’ll see you—“

“At twilight, yes.”

They meet up near Gwen’s father’s house, Merlin tricking his hands politely behind his back as she leads him off to her friend’s house. She takes a key from inside the pail and unlocks the door, letting Merlin inside to see the rows of fabric spread out along the table.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” she says, tucking the key into her apron, “and I’ve got some ideas already.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

Gwen hadn’t been lying; she has most of these patterns planned out already, she just needs to…say them out loud and make sure they sound just as sensible outside of her head as they did inside. Merlin listens carefully, asking clarifying questions here and there when Gwen uses a bit of technical language he doesn’t understand. But it’s…honestly, it’s like talking to any of the other women she works with on these. Once or twice, she even holds up the fabric to see how it goes with Merlin’s complexion and he nearly glows each time she does.

”I know this is boring,” she says near the end, “but you’ve been really helpful.”

“No, I’m—this is kind of fun,” Merlin admits, scratching the back of his head, “I…I’m glad I could help.”

Gwen pauses, her hands on the next bolt of fabric, She looks at him for a moment. “If…if you’d be willing, I think I’m going to need some more help next month?”

Merlin beams. “I’d love to.”

Strange man, yes, but Gwen adores him.

***

3.

At some point, Camelot will admit to itself that it hosts the tournaments and festivals as often as it does for the sheer enjoyment of it, not because of any old traditions or long-term alliances that must be maintained, or whatever the old steward was on about whenever Morgana asked. It’s an excuse for celebration, and there should be no shame in saying as much.

There’s another one this week; knights and champions have been arriving all morn and the royal retinue of Camelot has been in court to welcome those of noble heritage. It’s not so bad, truth be told, most of the things she must do is allow her hand to be kissed by those who have the courage to approach her, and smile politely at those who do not while having whispered conversations with Gwen as they speak to Uther and Arthur. As far as hours-long court proceedings go, there are far worse ones to be trapped in.

At least until Gwen murmurs that she has to step away and attend to t he rest of her duties.

Morgana nods, because Gwen is right, of course, but she cannot help the slight slump of her shoulders as she watches Gwen curtsy and leave the grand hall. With her conversation partner no more, she finds herself growing bored quickly. She has no interest in recounting ceiling tiles, so she lets her eyes drift over to where Arthur and Merlin are standing.

Arthur greets every knight with a firm handshake and they exchange a few challenges, fighting words, whatever they want to call their puffing themselves up like proud peacocks. Merlin stands there much the same way she is, a polite indifference on his face that only breaks when one of the knights deigns to look at him.

“Are you eager for another bout, then?” Arthur laughs as he shakes the hand of a knight from Cenred’s kingdom. “Or are you still recovering from that fall you had last time we met?”

“You got lucky, young prince,” the knight says with a laugh, “I assure you it will not happen again.”

“Right, I’m sure this time you’ll blame the horse.”

The knight laughs again and glances at Merlin. “Is this your squire? Another man to back up your words?”

“Merlin? Oh, god no, he’s my manservant.” Arthur claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Not one for the ring.”

“Perhaps you should let him have his fun this time around,” the knight suggests, “it’s every man’s right to feel the rush.”

Something flickers across Merlin’s face so quickly Morgana is half convinced she imagined it.

“Oh, trying to beat my manservant instead of me? Are you that afraid?”

They exchange one or two more jabs before the knight moves on.

After that, well, every time one of the knights or Arthur says something about the tournament being ‘a man’s greatest glory’ or ‘a man’s desire for combat or victory’ or ‘it’s a man’s right to fight for his honor,’ some such masculine nonsense, she sees that flicker across Merlin’s face again. One of them says something about Merlin being a coward and she half expects Arthur to do the same, only for Arthur to put his arm firmly around Merlin’s shoulders and say that the measure of a man is not in battlefield prowess alone, and that Merlin is just as much a man as any of them.

Which would be…oddly sweet for Arthur, and honestly a vast improvement, had Merlin not immediately looked like he was about to be sick.

She’s moving before she realizes it.

“Uther,” she calls, watching the man’s head instantly snap around to look at her, “I find myself growing weary, would it be alright if I…?”

He’s nodding before she even finishes her sentence. “Yes, of course. Please, you’ve done enough for today, there’s only a few of them left.”

She curtsies. “I’m going to go for a walk in the gardens. Merlin, would you accompany me?”

Arthur gives her a strange look, but Merlin has already nodded and made to step away.

“Merlin!”

“It’s alright,” Merlin says to Arthur, leaning in a little, “you know how particular Morgana is about things like this.”

Ah, they must be remembering the guards that were found with their britches stuffed with bread rolls and cakes shoved into their mouths after they tried to ‘escort’ her. She smiles fondly at the memory.

Merlin steps easily to her side, offering her his arm as they depart the hall. With her hand nestled in the crook of his elbow, she can feel the way his shoulders slump as soon as the doors thud shut behind them.

As they make their way outside, the cool breeze blowing through the flowers, Merlin bows his head and mumbles something under his breath.

“Thank you.”

Morgana gives his arm a squeeze. “I should be thanking you for giving me the perfect excuse to get out of there.”

Merlin chuckles and their laughter floats through the garden paths.

***

4.

It seems like every other day in Camelot, something is going wrong, or someone needs to know this obscure bit of information, or some long-long grudge held by a noble that Uther won’t speak about needs to be revealed so that the kingdom doesn’t descend into war.

Regardless of the reason, Gwen has memorized how to get to Gaius’s quarters from nearly everywhere in the castle.

Today is no exception; some visiting noble has caught a terrible cold and seems to believe she is on the verge of death. Despite multiple repeated attempts to placate her, nothing but the promise to fetch the King’s physician would do anything to stop the hysterical cries. So, here Gwen is, going down to Gaius’s chambers late at night to try and get him to come and soothe this poor woman.

When she reaches the corridor, she’s surprised to see the door is partly open. She frowns, touching it lightly, and it swings open to reveal a mostly darkened room. Gaius is nowhere to be found and so she turns to look somewhere else when she catches sight of light coming from Merlin’s room at the very back. With no small amount of concern, she walks carefully into the room and peers up the stairs.

Through the thin crack in the door, she glimpses Merlin holding a massive black blanket. It’s a shaggy and shedding thing with bits of fiber falling off as he moves back and forth. She frowns, creeping a bit closer. What on earth could Merlin be doing with such a thing? The weather hadn’t turned that cold yet, and even if it had, a blanket like that wouldn’t provide any sort of decent insulation on its own. Does Merlin need more blankets? She’s sure if they asked Arthur, maybe he would—

Her line of thinking comes to an abrupt halt when she sees him disappear behind the blanket and reappear with it wrapped around his neck. And his arms. And his chest. And—

Oh, Gwen realizes silently as Merlin shakes out the fabric, it’s a dress.

A baggy, shapeless, shedding and sweltering dress, but a dress nonetheless. Merlin adjusts it once more and looks at the wall—there must be a mirror there. Something in his expression changes, smoothing out, and he takes the skirt in his hands, moving it about. He turns this way and that, looking at his reflection.

In a flash, something cold and shameful crawls over Gwen’s skin.

I’m not supposed to see this.

This is clearly a private moment for Merlin. It means a lot to him. She shouldn’t be here, stealing it. Gaius isn’t here anyway, she’s here to find Gaius, not intrude and spy on Merlin.

As quickly and quietly as she can, she makes her way out and closes the door to Gaius’s rooms. With any luck, someone else has found him already and the noblewoman’s fears have been calmed.

Still, as much as she tries to banish it from her mind, she can’t stop thinking about how happy Merlin looked as he put on the dress.

***

5.

Ripples distort the reflection of the moon across the surface of the lake as a cool breeze blows into the forest. Crickets sing as the horse makes its way carefully through the underbrush, snuffling at bushes and three branches of interest. When it reaches the tree line around the lake, it comes to a stop to allow its rider to dismount and walk towards the water’s edge.

The figure sets a basket down near to a broad, flat rock and lays a folded-up cloak next to it. The moonlight captures a hand reaching for a bottle tucked into the tip of the basket. The horse snuffles and nibbles on some grass as the figure drinks the bottle’s contents and reaches for the folded-up cloak. Clouds cover the moon as the magic begins to take effect.

When the sky clears, an old woman sits on the rock, a small bundle of yarn in her lap. She clumsily picks up the knitting needles, fumbling to hold them correctly in her hands, before she continues to knit the scarf that pools beneath her elbows. The stitches are not the neatest, some are a little tighter than the others, and every so often she drops one and has to go back and fix it. The fibers on her dress catch in her work every so often and the yarn tangles from its sloppily-coiled ball as she tries to draw more out.

And yet there is a contented smile on her face as she knits in the moonlight.

The smile does not leave her face as she lets her mind wander, but it does change. It grows wistful as she imagines herself walking through the market, looking at everything and talking with the merchants. It grows melancholy when she realizes that the moon will begin to fade soon and she won’t be able to come here for a while. It grows bittersweet as she realizes her scarf is nearly finished, and she’ll have to find some new yarn soon.

It grows terribly sad as she thinks about how here, and only here, does she truly feel Ike herself.

Her horse, as if sensing her thoughts, ambles over and noses at her shoulder. She lifts one hand from her knitting to pat its face, smile turning happier as the horse snuffles against her hair. She sighs, promising to herself that she will think happier thoughts now, when she hears a twig behind her snap.

She turns, peering into the darkness. After a moment, the horse calls out and two answering nickers sound from the trees.

”I know you’re there,” she calls, “you may as well come out!”

A pause, during which the breeze sends ripples across the lake, and then two more figures emerge from the darkness of the tree line. One clad in a rich green cloak, the other in more modest blue one. They lower their hoods to look at the old woman, sat on the rick with her knitting in her lap.

‘We’re looking for a friend,” the taller one says, her voice as clear and cool as the moon, “we thought he might have passed this way.”

The old woman shuffles. “Awfully late for a friend to be passing through.”

“Which is why we’re quite eager to find him. We don’t know where he’s gone and we’d like to ensure he’s safe. Have you seen anyone around?”

The old woman turns back to the lake. ‘None have passed by this lake except me and this old one.”

Her horse nickers.

The other figure, who holds the reins of the other two horses, furrows her brow. She looks between the horses and at the old woman’s dress, Something flickers across her expression and she swallows heavily.

“Well, if you do see our friend, could you pass on a message?”

The other figure’s head turns and she hisses: “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” the second hisses back, before speaking normally again. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

The old woman turns back slightly. “What message would you send?”

“There’s a market that opens up in Camelot tomorrow,” she says, “we were wondering if our friend would like to come with us.”

The old woman pauses. “That is a very nice message to pass to a friend.”

“The market is lovely this time of year,” she continues, “if…if you can come, I think you’d have a wonderful time.”

The moon glimmers across the surface of the water as the old woman takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “…yes. Perhaps I would. It has been…some time since I have been to a market.”

“You should come,” she says, “I would love to see you there.”

The first woman, who had been looking between the two of them, perplexed, seems to turn her trust to her companion and nods. “It would be nice to have someone else to walk about with.”

The old woman is quiet for a moment. “If I see your friend, I will tell him this. And perhaps…perhaps I will see you too?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

The old woman nods once more. “You two should go back to your houses. As you have said, it is very late and not good to be out of doors like this.”

The two women exchange another look, before bidding their farewells and riding back off into the darkness of the forest. The old woman remains there for a moment longer, looking at the water, then down at herself.

“A market day,” she muses, her smile returning, “perhaps…perhaps this would be a good idea.”

***

+1.

“Are you sure about this, Gwen?”

“Positive,” Gwen says, eyes scanning the crowd. Next to her, Morgana sighs and folds her arms.

“I still don’t know what you hope to gain by inviting that old woman to the market. And what of Merlin? That was his horse she had with her, and if she had it then—“

“Morgana,” Gwen says, turning and clasping her hands, “please, trust me. Merlin is alright, and the old woman—well, you’ll see when she gets here.”

Morgana narrows her eyes at her for a moment before sighting. “Alright. But if you’re wrong about this—“

“Then you can have all of the sugar pastries they made.”

“Just to be sure you remember,” Morgana smiles, both of them knowing full well she‘s going to insist that Gwen have at least one.

“There!”

Gwen points through the crowd. Sure enough, the old woman shuffles slowly towards them, looking about and pulling the cloak a bit closer around her head. Her black dress catches on the loose cobbles as she goes, her hands knitting together nervously as she moves about. Gwen waves, gesturing her over to the small patch of stillness they’d found for themselves amidst the hustle and bustle.

“Look at her eyes,” Gwen murmurs to Morgana as the old woman nears, “really look at her.”

Morgana opens her mouth to ask what exactly that could mean, but quickly changes to smile when the old woman draws near. “Hello, I’m so glad you could make it.”

The old woman looks about. “I’ve…never been to this market before,” she says nervously, “and I…did not see your friend.”

”That’s alright,” Gwen says, stepping forward and linking her arm through hers, “I’m sure he’ll find his way here eventually.”

Morgana, who had been watching the old woman closely, tilts her head as Gwen looks at her expectantly. The old woman’s eyes flick over her cloak.

“I love the markets,” Gwen says, still looking at Morgana, “they’re such a good place to find new things, aren’t they?”

She motions to the old woman’s dress.

“I’m sure we could find something you might like too, don’t you?”

“Oh, well—I’m not sure I’m meant for all the fineries,” the old woman says with a small laugh, “though they look lovely on you both.”

”Oh, come on, everyone needs a little something now and then.” Gwen says, “isn’t that right, Morgana?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What about some fabric for a new cloak?” Gwen gestures between them. “Something like this, maybe?”

“Oh, no, dearie,” the old woman says hesitantly, “I don’t…think that’s really my color.”

Morgana’s eyes go wide and she looks at the old woman with something almost like wonder. The old woman shuffles and shrinks a little under the scrutiny and she quickly takes off her cloak and drapes it over one of the woman’s shoulders.

“I think it looks wonderful,” she says softly, watching the old woman’s eyes light up, “and I’m sure the moths won’t get at it.”

The old woman holds her breath. Morgana and Gwen move a little closer and she lets out a shuddering breath.

“You…you wouldn’t mind if I…accompanied you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“It would be our pleasure.”

“You wouldn’t find it…in bad taste?”

Gwen grins. ‘Not even a little. I think you look beautiful.”

“It’s been a while since Gwen and I have had another woman to shop with,” Morgana says, lacing her arm through the woman’s other side, “it would be a pleasure to have you join us as often as you want.”

“Really?”

“Of course!” Morgana tilts her head, considering something, before she leans closer. “And perhaps you could help us pick up a few things for our friend too?”

The old woman’s face splits into a lovely little grin. “I would like that very much.”

“Come on, then,” Gwen says, “the market’s waiting!”

Many a merchant that day would be happy to tell you of the three women who visited their stall, smiling all the way.

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merlin #fic #dragonbabbles

[jonquilandlace]

So anyway I was bored and this was fully out of my typical fandom but I found this forest fairy maker by @elequinoa on my old favorite dress up game website from when I was a kid, Doll Divine, and proceeded to brainrot and say hey what if I made all the Disney Fairies in this, except creepy and weird and more my idea of fey? So anyway here's all of the fairies and the goofy redesigns (under the cut because I feel horrible for people who were never in this fandom having to scroll past seven sets of fairies lol)

Tumblr crop is bad so I apologize in advance. (Also disclaimer for minor photoshop on Rosetta and Periwinkle to make their body colors more unearthly, as my intent was None Of These Fairies Should Look Human, and to make Periwinkle's mask an arctic fox instead of a fox; I attempted to look at TOU and it seemed like this should be alright, but if not, I apologize for overstepping!) (Also minor edit for less pixelated banner image)

Fawn - She was the first one I did and wound up more muted in color scheme, but I really like how she turned out. She was meant to look somewhat like a moth or bark, with some faun-ish inspiration, as well.

Iridessa - As a fairy focused on light, there were two ways I could see taking her (the alternate being distinctly holographic), but in the end liked the double entendre of "light" when leaning towards "biblically accurate angel," so there's bird motifs and just general cherub vibes.

Vidia - The opposite of Iridessa, really; the goal here was to lean into lightning motifs and dark or gothic elements to emphasize the opposite elements in comparison to Iridessa's classical elements. Dragonfly wings for speed, of course.

Rosetta - As in her original, meant to resemble a flower, just amped up a bit to where she resembles a rococo/art deco fusion when viewed naturally, but could literally flip upside down and pretend to be a flower if she wanted to.

Silvermist - Yes this picture isn't from the first movie I couldn't find a good one lmao. Anyway, her wings reminded me of that specific type of dragonfly that skims over my uncle's lake, so I riffed on that alongside the almost pseudo-waves of the petal shirt. She is more directly meant to be an embodiment of water, but more lake or even bog-ish water, where she could peek out of the water at the top and an onlooker would only register her as perhaps a frog, as emphasized in the monochrome eyes, or a ripple in the waves.

Periwinkle - Where options did really start to limit what I could do, lol. I decided to lean into the mysterious and crystalline vibes of the winter, with her visage taking on the arctic fox and even reindeer-ish antler look of something moving in the snowy woods, but yet draped in a finery like freshly fallen snow. She's also the only one with "normal" fairy wings, but I could see it for her, with them perhaps being made of frost.

And finally, Tinkerbell - One that I definitely took some more risks with in design, she is nevertheless the most openly friendly-looking of the fey batch, despite her green hue, which is really in character for a fairy best known for hanging out with Peter Pan and being fascinated by humans. For clothing, I leaned heavily into artificer and witch vibes, mirroring a bit more of the human world, with a touch of goblin to temper it. I did shift away from her typical dress in favor of more adventurous wear, more suited for pretending to be a mushroom or even mouse in the corner of someone's eye.

Overall, idk, I just really had fun with this mini-project. I don't intend to do anything with it, ofc; it was just for fun, but I had a fun time with it!

#elequinoa #doll divine #doll maker #fairy #fey #fae #tinkerbell #disney fairies #iridessa #silvermist #fawn #vidia #rosetta #pixie hollow #periwinkle #elemental #magical creatures #fantasy art #dress up #i suppose? #overall an immensely fun game!!! stopped my art block

[nymphiria]

𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐃♡𝐋𝐋!

[ ❤︎ ] - 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄

ଓ ◠ 𝐂𝐖: basically sugar daddy!pantalone, spoiling, ripping clothes, dollification, dumbification, thigh-riding, slight degradation, implication of punishment

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈!

PANTALONE’s favorite pastime is daydreaming of all the different articles of clothing he would have you model for him. when those stationed at the northland bank came to him with their concerns, most likely he had tuned them out to think about which pair of stockings he would be bringing you home. there were few things in his mind that even came close to how important you were to him. hell, they couldn’t even cast a shadow on you.

days spent confined in your lavish quarters were usually more of the same — reading books, grooming your hair, sewing. the only hint of excitement would come when he arrived home to present you with the gifts he picked up. wrapped boxes contained fineries that you had never envisioned yourself wearing not once in your lifetime. several beautiful dresses with intricate patterns adorned the spacious closet of your bedroom. shoes neatly lined its bottom with varying colors and heel heights. your vanity held a large amount jewelry whose worth could’ve bought an entire village three times over — and don’t get started on the lingerie. in your opinion, you thought that it much too grandiose.

but PANTALONE? even too much was never enough. he needed you adorned in the most beautiful clothes that would make outsiders think you were royalty. it made him happy to see you bundled up in his gifts as you shivered in the snezhnayan cold even under four layers. when alone, however, it’s a completely different story.

of course he loves dressing you up even when you’re alone together; though, how he reacts changes completely. usually when you’re dolled up for him, he loves to give sweet and innocent natured compliments about how adorable you look. if you’re not going anywhere, though, he’s giving you predatory looks poorly masked by a smile as you spin around for him. once he coaxes you to sit on his lap, you’re fucked.

the pretty fabrics that were once in tact were scattered on the floor leaving you only in your stockings and diamond necklace. as your bare cunt rubbed against his clothed thigh, PANTALONE was laughing at how desperate you were to cum for him. “my, my, does my sweet girl need something from me?,” he goaded, tapping your hip with his gloved finger. the jewels on your necklace jingled as you increased your pace, tits bouncing along with the pretty silver.

despite how hard his cock was, he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the stunning sight in front of him. seeing you hump his leg like a bitch in heat was so much more enticing than getting his dick wet. it was adorable when you forgot your decorum and shyness in exchange for lechery — no better than a whore in a brothel just for him.

with PANTALONE, humiliation and praise go hand in hand. in the day, he’s showing you and treating you like a princess. but in the dark, you’re nothing more than a cocksleeve for him to play with to his heart’s content. either way, you’re still his angel — spoiled and fucked dumb.

“oh dear, you’ve made me ruin your dress. you shouldn’t have teased me in it, darling, so now i guess i’ll have to punish you.”

#[ ᜊ ᭡ ] writings #♡ - pantalone #» genshin impact #pantalone x reader #pantalone thirst #pantalone smut #pantalone #genshin impact smut #genshin thirst #genshin impact thirsts #genshin smut #regrator thirst #regrator x reader #regrator smut #regrator #fatui harbingers #fatui #genshin x reader

[sshireens]

everyone and their mother likes a tudor silhouette for the lannisters and i understand why! BUT I DISAGREE! i see your sleeves (which are BEAUTIFUL i will never argue that) and your skirts and i raise you:

insane elizabethan gaudiness. skirts that force the riff raff to Keep Their Distance! ruffs god the RUFFS! embroidered and beaded until moving becomes a workout. stiff busks and small waists (looking even smaller next to that TENT of a skirt). ribbons and pearls and lace and rubies (RUBIES! DID SOMEONE SAY RUBIES? CERSEI I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU!) are these dresses not Dripping in luxury and finery? the silhouette is just slightly absurd enough to Stand Out okay you KNOW what era this, therefore the people of westeros KNOWWWWWWW who these people are the second they see that right angle waist. plus added benefit: those bodices are probably stiff enough to stop a blade. not that i dont literally gain years on my life every time i see cersei’s cunty chest plate.

i mean (yes these are closer to costume than recreation BUT YOU GET IT OKAY YOU UNDERSTAND) its theatric its dramatic it has me looking at paintings going What is the point?????? and then i remember the point is to stop the show and draw attention and really leave a mark and is that not the lannister way? now i am known to also be a pre-tudor Plantagenet era slim silhouette yards of fabric Typical Medieval Dress fan for cersei BUT CERSEI TRANSCENDS FASHION OKAY. this is her at casterly rock. this is THE WESTERLANDS. this is who she REALLY IS. i can see it in my mind like this is a vision i KNOW it to be true

i mean come on. guys its too easy. i can see her plotting scheming in a giant skirt and a beautiful ruff. she’s analyzing the minuscule beadwork of other court dresses trying to figure out what message she’s being sent (she is not being sent one). she orders EVERY detail of her own gowns to make sure she’s communicating properly back. ladies in waiting carry their own secret messages in beads and lace and decoration and cersei feels SOOO smart because they dont even know it. she wears gold and jewels in a pattern to mimic a maesters chain because at this point she deserves one. think also how easy it is to hide poison in this shit. so many stones that could be hollow. so many layers and folds. and listen when they’re kids and she and jaime trade clothes to pretend to be each other its EVEN EASIER cause nobody knows what you actually look like in this anyway

the wedding look went crazy okay. ruffs and the fucking. peacock head thing i can’t remember the name of. embroidered lions shimmering with ruby eyes and gold thread, dress tinkling with every move because its dripping in pearls and gold and emeralds. alright this fabric is Stiff with beading and stitching and Layers. you can’t look at cersei directly because the torchlight gleams off of her like some demented early stage psychosis medieval disco ball. golden haired golden dressed golden skinned Gold Gold Gold she exudes richness and beauty and fashion. this is fucking crazy to a baratheon court. she upstages the new king. she upstages the memory of rhaella. everyone sees now that she should have been a targaryen queen. DO YOU SEE IT. like i am such a zealot for this like this is SERIOUS TO ME. red and yellow and black and red and red and yellow and GOLD and in her insane mind these are snide allusions to rhaegar and elia and robert to everyone who can see her. and to jaime. this is a lannister woman marrying in lannister colors and she fucked her twin brother That Morning. okay that is also a silly little reference she’s making. THIS WOMAN IS CRAZY SHE DESERVES THE GAUDIEST FASHION HISTORICAL RECREATIONS CAN PROVIDE!

also if it were real (it is real. im grrm.) the allusion to elizabeth i the virgin queen sole female ruler… that just makes me giggle in and of itself.

i rest my case!

#asoiaf #asoiaf fashion #got #cersei lannister #queen cersei #house lannister #cersei baratheon #jaime lannister #robert baratheon #elizabethan fashion #elizabethan #AND COME ON #joffrey would ROCK a ruff #are you telling me he wouldnt? #because youd be wrong #joffrey lannister #joffrey baratheon #clothes #costumes

[quitealotofsodapop]

I love how all macaques are just cats also the separate thing of them all wearing exclusively dark colors and then there’s smash. That must have been a fun surprise for everyone lol.

It's like when there's a group of ravens and crows, and a bluejay shows up. The group is still a murder; just one is wearing brighter colors. Also do we forget that Meihouwang!Mihou be wearing almost only pink?

LMK Macaque: Sunset oranges (+red accents), blacks, and purples almost exclusively. He either dresses like Velma from Scooby Doo, or he's busting out the historical-inspired finery.

HeroIsBorn LEM: Royal purple and gray all the time. it's his fave colours. Started wearing royal purple to mock an emperor who limited it's use to royalty, and got way too attached to the shade. Default clothing is a loose purple chiton-style (almost similar to Mihou) dress. Will wear baggy robes/shenyi-style hanfus for the cold/comfort.

Reborn LEM: Mostly dark grays with small breaks of orchid-like pinks and purples. Doesn't even notice that they naturally dress like a goth. Only wears the same kind of gray long-sleeved hanfu - comfort item.

NewGods!Macaque: Old greaser/punk style of all shiny black jackets and jeans with metal accessories. Very rarely has a saturated color on - often something "borrowed" (shirt, hat, tie etc) from his husband.

Netflix!LEM: Dresses like a graveyard. Lots of ash gray and black. Only saturated color is blood red. Either in armor, underwear, or naked, barely any inbetween. Modesty is a human thing after all.

2000sCartoon LEM: Copies whatever his Wukong is wearing. Slowly beginning a goth transformation the more he becomes defined from the shadows. Enjoys leggings and loose t-shirts.

Meihouwang Mihou: Pink! Pink tunics and dresses galore. Maybe the occasional light yellow flowers. No dark tones on this lad.

Smash Legends LEM: Lots of different loud colours in the blue-purple range with black accompaniments + the opposite end in pink and white. Depending on their mood they could be wearing all neon purple and black goth/scene wear, or wearing an unapologetic lilac regency gown while drinking bubble tea. The other Macaques wonder how big their wardrobe is.

NewGods!Macaque: "Going any place fancy?" Smash!LEM: "Nah, just wanted to feel a little Pride and Prejudice today." LMK!Mac: *nods in understanding*

Group of goths with two almost-goths and one brightly-dressed lad. They will steal any free/unused clothing from Smash LEM's wardrobe if given permission.

#wukongverse #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #lego monkie kid #lmk #monkey king hero is back #monkey king reborn #new gods nezha reborn #meihouwang #the monkey king netflix #smash legends #journey to the west: legends of the monkey king

[super-ion]

Such Lovely Fur

[Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3]

Chapter 4

I go on alone.

The passage through the mountain winds and branches, confirming my suspicions of a labyrinth. The light from the entrance persists for a time, longer than it would before my eyes were changed, but soon I am enveloped in pitch darkness. I am guided only by the faint sounds of the space, the subtle smells and whispers of breeze.

I make my way ever forward and ever higher until I discover the faintest light once more. The walls become carved in sharper lines and I begin to pass sconces bearing torches with a strange blue fire that gives off no heat. Eventually the stone walls give way to ice. As I proceed, the temperature drops. The chill of this place penetrates even my thick fur coat and my breath comes out in great clouds.

The further I go, the smoother and more ornate the walls become until I find myself wandering a grand palatial space. It is unnervingly empty, the study paws of my feet barely make a sound, but my footsteps still echo ominously.

That is until I hear the music. The music is somehow worse. It means someone is here. This horrible frozen palace is someone's home.

It is true that I have spent the past few days cavorting with a demon, but Rook was a physical presence, something I could relate to. This place is saturated in some primal elemental power that I cannot fathom.

The music grows ever louder as I make my way higher, drawing me ever closer to my goal. I know that when I find the source of the music, I will find my betrothed.

I finally reach a grand hall, grander than any I have passed yet. Every surface of the ice is carved in exquisitely fine details. The music emanates from a pair of mighty doors at the end of the hall.

As I walk, I suddenly spy a figure out of the corner of my eye. I am so on edge that I leap back in animal fright, laying my ears back and fluffing the fur on my tail. My reflection responded in kind.

What I mistook for another parallel hallway is actually a mirror… or at least a sheet of ice polished mirror smooth.

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I have been frightened by my own reflection, but in my defense, I have not seen myself since my transformation.

I stare at the thing that I have become.

I had at least some idea of the fur and the paws and the tail, but Rook's final gift comes as a shock. My face is still generally my own, but the leopard features are unmistakable. My eyes are the color of polished gold, with the irises covering most of the visible surface. My nose has flattened and the tip has darkened. Feline ears poke out from snarled hair that has become the same silver grey color as the rest of my. I bare my teeth and find that my canines are larger than I initially thought.

I have become a beast, more animal than human.

Resolute, I walk to the doors and through the translucent ice, I can make out dim figures moving in time with it.

I take a breath and push them open to reveal a grand ballroom. The space is impossibly cavernous, larger and more extravagant than any room in the manors of any of the merchant princes in my home country. The space is filled with hundreds of dancers garbed in finery from every conceivable culture, from far distant lands and ages long forgotten. Each one of them is more beautiful than the last. The court of the Lady of Winter. Her collection.

All of them have a strange bluish cast to their skin and frost rims the edges of their clothes. Upon my entrance, the nearest dancers fall impossibly still to stare unblinking at me with impassive expressions. The stillness spreads out from me like a ripple in water and the music fades away.

The room is absolutely silent, I am distressed to discover that the only sound is my own heartbeat. Terror siezes me as some mysterious animal instinct tells me that these people do not smell alive. Nor do they smell quite dead. They are frozen, kept animated and eternally beautiful by the everpresent unfathomable power of this place.

I hear another sound, a slow heartbeat at the far end of the chamber.

I take a step forward and the crowd parts. They all stare at me. They stare at my torn and filthy clothes. They stare at my fur and my tail and my ears and my eyes.

I want to run. I want to flee this horrible place.

I take another step forward and another and another until I finally reach a raised dais.

A woman sits on a grand throne of ice that gleams iridescently behind her. Her skin is impossibly pale and perfectly smooth as if she were carved of ice herself. Her hair is white as snow and her eyes are the color of the pale blue ice around us. A crown sits atop her head, gleaming silver and studded with diamonds. Her dress is some sort of silvery silk, shining impossibly like a mirror made into fabric.

I have heard tales of her. All children have. Be good or the Lady of Winter will come for you in the night. In some versions of the tales she is a witch who gained the secret of immorality. In others she is a spirit made flesh, a physical manifestation of winter itself. She is a collector of souls, stealing people away from their homes and bringing them here.

I am so terrified by her presence that I only belatedly notice the figure seated at her side.

My betrothed is clothed in the very same regalia he wore on the celebration on the eve of what was meant to be our wedding. His heart beats so slowly in his chest and his eyes are glazed over, surely in the process of being frozen like the rest of the people here.

He blinks and some of the fog lifts from his eyes. He stares at me for a long while before recognition finally sets in.

“Astra?” he gasps. “What happened to you?”

I should be relieved that he recognizes me, but terror and doubt and uncertainty eat away at me.

“I came to rescue you,” I confess. “Along the way I met a demon. In exchange for her freedom she granted me gifts to not only help me survive but to reach you.”

His eyes widen in horror.

“You did this to yourself?” he asks. “You made yourself into a monster?”

A monster?

My doubts and fears crystalize in my belly. A wave of despair floods through me, but to my surprise it is followed by a wave of hot anger. Rook has given me incredible gifts, they are unorthodox certainly, but they are beautiful.

“Is that how you see me?” I snarl. “A monster? I did this to save you!”

He recoils at the heat in my voice. He opens his mouth, but the Lady of Winter silences him with a raised finger.

“It seems you have a choice, my pet,” she says, her voice resonating unnaturally from the very walls. “Remain here, unchanged and beautiful for eternity, or return home with your fiancee and the knowledge of what she has done to herself.”

He casts her a wild desperate look.

“You would simply let me go?” he asks.

“There are powers in this world great enough to challenge mine,” she replies. “This one has shown great devotion in making the treacherous journey here. If it is indeed true love that drives her, I dare not go against it.”

He looks back to me.

“Astra,” he pleads. “Tell me there is a way to break your curse. We can return home, we can have the life we were meant to have.”

A curse?

“This… this is not a curse,” I gasp. “It is a gift.”

“Astra,” he pleads. “A demon has addled your mind. You have dabbled in magic. If we return and you stay as you are, there will be no place for you in civilized society.”

His words hit me like a hammer

He truly cannot see the gift that has been given to me, can he?

He asks me to change for him?

What is it that your heart desires?

Rook's gifts, the changes I have wrought upon myself, they were not for him. They were never for him.

They were for me. Rook has granted me freedom. She saw through to the heart of me. She saw the truth in me that I could never acknowledge.

I have been a fool.

“No,” I say.

“No?” he replies, aghast.

“No,” I repeat. “I will not change myself for you. Not any more. I do not care if you leave this place or not, but I will not marry you. I have seen too much, experienced too much. I will not go back. I cannot go back.”

I turn to the Lady of Winter and bob a quick curtsey. I do not know how far her hospitality and tolerance for my presence in her court will last. I turn and walk away from them. It takes all my willpower to not break into a run until I am well and truly away from the ballroom.

But once I do start running, I cannot stop. I run and I sprint and I fall to all fours and lope easily down the twisting paths. I need to be out of here. I need to be away. I need… I need…

I retrace my steps through the maze of frozen stone until finally I step into the sunlight and breathe in the cold mountain air.

The world is alive. I am alive.

I survey the landscape beyond the cliff. Somewhere out in that rough craggy terrain is Rook. I need to find her. I cannot rest until-

“Forget something?”

The voice behind me makes me jump, which in turn produces a familiar snicker. There, lounging on an outcropping above the passage is Rook.

“I can't help but notice that you're alone, little cat,” she says.

“He didn't want me, not like this.”

“His loss,” she scoffs.

I do not fully know why, but the words make my heart flutter.

“It is probably for the best,” I admit. “I cannot go back to my old life… and there is something else.”

She sits upright and cocks her head at me curiously.

“A demon stole my heart,” I confess.

She stiffens and very real jealousy plays across her face. Her reaction is enough to summon forth a mirthful giggle from within me. She hisses and hurls a clod of snow at me before hopping off her perch and standing before me.

“It's me, right?” she demands. “Because if I need to go murder somebody-”

“It is you,” I laugh.

Before she can respond, I grab her shoulders and pull her to my level. The kiss is wild and frantic and not at all proper for a lady of my station.

But I am no longer a lady, am I? I have become something else entirely. I do not know what I am yet, but I intend to find out.

She makes a soft self satisfied moan against my lips and her sharp teeth nip at me. She pulls me close and spins us around, pressing my back into the stone of the cliff. I gasp in surprise, which only goads her more. I melt into her attentions and forget myself

I only pull away reluctantly. Her eyes open and she gazes hungrily at my lips. She wants more. She wants so much more.

I want so much more.

“Please,” I gasp. “I want this… just not… here.”

She glances upwards towards the peak of the mountain.

“That's fair,” she admits. “Where would you like to go, little cat?”

“Anywhere,” I respond. “Everywhere.”

#my writing #writers on tumblr #lesbian #transgender #writeblr #fantasy #fantasy lesbians #nonbinary #lgbtq fantasy #lgbtq fairy tail #transgender fairy tale #fairy tale #monster x human #transformation #animal transformation

[wri0thesley]

Okay, see, kimono are my thing so- Ayato has his family crest on every single kimono he gifts you. If it's not there, he won't allow you to wear it. Each piece is one of a kind with embroidery stitching a beautiful pattern that will never be recreated- just the way he feels about you. Your size is irrelevant; he has tailors who take your measurements to ensure everything fits to your shape in the most flattering way. Yet for all of the beauty and glamor he showers over you, each layer of kimono weighs you down, the tight strings holding the fabric up at your breastbone tight, restrictive, not quite uncomfortable, but present in a faint way, as if his hand rests on your back with each breath you take. In such a beautiful garnent every step you take must be measured. He notices if your feet disrupt the curtain of cloth hiding your legs from view, reminds you sweetly to mind your manners, but the possession raging in his eyes speaks differently. Your sleeves do not drape to the floor but they cover your hands, chest is hidden up to the neck, ankles and feet covered, even your ears hide away under the traditional style painstakingly crafted in the early morning. Only the nape of your neck shows, his favorite place to rest his hand, and you learn the clothes may be ancient, revered, and precious, but the kimono speaks for you, over your own voice, much louder, bolder, and distinguished. One look at you in the streets and others step aside, careful to keep their mouths shut as you pass by. Yes, you are draped in finery and riches, glorious colors and hand-spun silk, but you are not your own. Ayato never lifts a finger and you are alone, suppressed by the weight of it all, his affection and his possession, the hand on the back of your neck pushing you to kneel. And how can you resist, bound and chained as you are?

ah anon, you are so right. and perhaps even double so if you are not of inazuman origin, and the kimono is unfamiliar to you - that is another step that ayato has taken towards ensuring that your only loyalty is to him. you're used to the free-flowing sumeran robes? the occasionally scandalous necklines and hemlines of mondstadt? those are what you'd be more comfortable, more familiar with?

silly little thing. ayato has a reputation to uphold; you are a representative of the kamisato clan now, not merely a pretty accessory to wear whatever you want. your choice is . . . secondary. the kimono is a shield, ayato tells you, reminding everyone of who you are and how dangerous it would be if someone were to act untoward in your vicinity. it's a way to deter kidnappers or those who would use your position at the hand (at the feet) of the yashiro commissioner for evils.

your wardrobe slowly narrows to nothing of your own life. you eat inazuman food that thoma prepares, you wear inazuman clothes, you follow inazuman custom - you give up your surname, to take 'kamisato', the way that ayato wants you to. the clothes are just the beginning - but . . . they are some of the first things about you people see. they may seem inconsequential, but oh, ayato knows they are not.

with only fabric, ayato has made sure that everyone knows who you belong to.

including you.

#nat.txt #yandere for ts #genshin impact posting