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#silver sou
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Happy late Valentines~ (click for better quality)
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Lilia is filming this in the background with Malleus, of course XD
Bonus!
Lilia: Khee hee~ Still shy even after two years of marriage, Yuuri?
Yuuri: It’s… The fact that I didn’t initiate it… My suave gentleman personality is being crushed~~~ Not that I mind that much…
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(The idea for Silver having long hair in the future mainly came from @/cozymochi~!! Check out her art immediately, it’s stunning~)
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savebatsfromscratch · 10 months
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BOYS! Pokespe Edit
I love them lol. 
Characters in order: Tierno, Emerald, Sun, Blake, Red, Pearl, Sou, X, Diamond, Archie, Blue Oak, Silver, Black, Gold, Ruby, Kellyn, Lunick, Lance, Hop, Wally��
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Song: BOYS by LIZZO 
Program used: Capcut 
Characters and art: Pokemon Adventures / Pokemon Special / Pokespe
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(If anyone wants the thumbnail, it’s below the cut.)
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kimbapisnotsushi · 11 months
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early to mid 2000s subtextually homoerotic scifi/fantasy manga is such an insane and specific subgenre what the fuck were all those authors on
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one-half-guy · 7 months
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The actual reason why Silver can't perform spindash is that it would make him even more OP and broken.
Imagine: Silver is lucky enough to catch Metal Sonic with his PK, what helps a lot because he's surrounded by a lot of minor badnicks, so he analyzes the situation, guess that Metal is made of a more reinforced alloy than average badnicks and just starts to spin amid air, Metal spinning around him and crushing his lil' siblings like a hammer.
And it keeps going as he actually dashes towards an exit.
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lonelymoonbeam · 1 year
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can we see the other ones then
Sure
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Have fun and a great day to you anon
And in case you're the same anon who requested the animation I'm halfway done have a great day once more
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mixamorphosis · 2 months
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This one is a bit different and a little interactive. You'll need to check out the blog post [HERE]
Tracklist
01. Dizzy Gillespie & The Oscar Peterson Big Four - Chicken Wings (Pablo Today) 02. Smokey Robinson - Quiet Storm (Tamla) 03. Bob James - Nautilus (Evosound) 04. Stan Getz & Luiz Bonfá - Saudade Vem Correndo (Verve Records) 05. Herbie Hancock - Watermelon Man (Columbia) 06. Brick - Fun (Bang Records) 07. Otis Redding - Let Me Come On Home (Atlantic) 08. Average White Band - School Boy Crush (Atlantic) 09. Silver Convention - Fly, Robin, Fly (Polydor) 10. Jame Brown - The Boss (Polydor) 11. Koko Taylor - Wang Dang Doodle (Chess) 12. Galt MacDermot - Space (Kilmarnock) 13. Bill Withers - Make A Smile For Me (Sussex) 14. The Flamingos - I Only Have Eyes For You (End) 15. Ronnie Foster - Mystic Brew (Blue Note) 16. Gary Burton - Las Vegas Tango (Atlantic)
Download availble via [Hearthis]
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katresilver · 1 year
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Excited to share the latest addition to my #etsy shop: Black Obsidian Ring, Black and White Ring, Designs Unique Ring, Victorian Steam Punk, Snowflake Obsidian Men Ring, Rings for Men, #women #oval #artdeco #no #yes #silver #black #obsidian #sou https://etsy.me/3U43osI https://www.instagram.com/p/ClcM2jULbB9/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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SILVER OAK UNIVERSITY | It is a premier private university in India
Silver Oak University(SOU) is the best premier private university in Gujarat, India carrying forward the legacy of the Silver Oak Group of Institutes.
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frantic-fiction · 3 months
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Reoccurring Nightmares
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(Gif: margonite-seer)
Astarion x GN!Reader / Astarion x Good!Durge
Summary: A night reveals that maybe the past is not left behind, and maybe old urges have begun again. As people always say healing is never linear.
Triggers/Tags: Implied mentions of self harm. Violent topics. Angst Hurt/comfort.
Minor spoilers for Durges plot line nothing very specific but you have been warned.
Word Count: 2.2k
(Quick note I gave reader Tav's name so hope y'all don't mind)
Cold damp earth thunders under your feet as you run, each step echoes in the silent woods. Your chest heaves, each breath a meager attempt to fill lungs that can't seem to feel satisfied. 
Why are you out here? 
The forest is a maze, and you navigate it with urgency, propelled forward by the rhythmic pounding of your heart. It threatens to break free, like a wild creature desperate to escape its cage. You don’t stop, fueled by the momentum and the all-consuming fear clawing at your throat.
Why were you running?
This isn’t the first time your memory has betrayed you, leaving you disoriented in the unknown.
Ducking beneath a fallen tree, the rough bark scratches against your skin. You turn sharply and press on, the underbrush snapping beneath your hurried steps. The surroundings are a blur, darkness shrouding any discernible features. The moon, a mere sliver in the night sky, casts an eerie glow through the dense canopy.
A plan forms in the chaos of your thoughts. The distant sound of water becomes a lifeline; a river might offer refuge from a pursuer. You move toward the sou-
 Your foot snags a root, and you collide with a rock. Blood fills your mouth, the metallic taste jarring, familiar. In the darkness, your hand tightens around a shard of glass. The moonlight reflects off its jagged edges, casting faint ethereal patterns on the forest floor.
Frogs and crickets harmonize in the night, their symphony a stark contrast to the turmoil within. The beauty of the scene clashes with the disarray of your mind. A brief moment of clarity emerges, allowing you to catch your breath. 
What happened? 
You examine the shard of glass, uncurling your fingers for a better look. A deeper wound reveals itself, and the blood flows unabated. The taste and sight is both revolting and comforting, a paradoxical sensation that grounds you in the reality of pain.
Where did the glass come from? Memories fracture, and images of a shared life flood your mind. The house on the outskirts, memories of love and healing. Someone's absence looms, silver curls and sharp teeth; Astarion, a question unanswered. 
Knees pulled to your chest, you notice the blood-soaked clothes. Panic sets in; that part of you, the monster believed buried, threatens to resurface. Did his blood taint you again? Did you harm Astarion?
Jerking to the side, you vomit, the weight of imagined horrors overwhelming you. The riverbed offers a cold sanctuary, and you scrub the blood away. The water numbs your body, but you persist until your fingers ache. The raw emptiness grows, time stops, and the world holds its breath in shared grief. You can’t face your friends; the word "friend" is tainted by your actions. Astarion’s absence is a void you can’t bear.
Wasn’t this the fear? The fear that kept you awake, haunted by the possibility of losing control. The dark whispers that the urges would resurface. 
Your reflection in the river, blood-soaked and tormented, triggers waves of self-loathing. The glass shard gleams, a macabre symbol of your descent into the abyss.
Fingers graze the cold surface, and a distant voice interrupts your thoughts. 
“Tav!” The sound pierces through the chaos, freezing your movements. 
“TAV!” Astarion’s voice, a lifeline in the disarray. 
Frantically searching, he emerges from the trees, disheveled and relieved. He is by your side in a moment joining you halfway into the river. He cups your cheek, his touch offers a brief respite, a moment of grounding in the maelstrom. 
Words are cement in your mouth. You're mystified by the reality that is facing you. Astarion is here, in front of you. And, in fact, very much alive. You reach up with a shaky hand to barely caress his cheek, as if a more stern touch would shatter the fragile moment. He grabs your wrist and kisses your cold palm softly.
“You’re alive,” you choke, collapsing into his chest sobs rolls through your body.
He momentarily freezes in confusion at your words before refocusing at the current urgency of your state. Pressing you tighter against him, Astarion strokes your hair and gives you a gentle kiss to your hairline. Maybe he had just fed before finding you, or maybe it's a testament to how long you have suffered the freezing night, but he’s warm. You bury yourself deeper in his embrace, hiding your tear-streaked face in his neck.
“Of course, my love,” He softly says and holds you a moment longer, allowing you to feel the truth of something he’s not quite understanding but knows is important just the same. But little by little, he begins to pry you from his body.
“No,” you make a pathetic whine in protest, desperately trying to stay attached. Too afraid that once you let go, he’ll disappear and the truth of what you did will be brought back into the moonlight.
“Hush now, my sweet,” Astarion stands up suddenly and removes the heavy jacket you had given him. Kneeling back down, he drapes it over your shoulders.
“You have been in the middle of the woods in freezing weather for gods know how long. And you've had a bit of a swim.” His thumb brushes the line of your cheekbone. “Let’s get you home so I can warm you up, and if you are feeling okay tonight, we could discuss what my darling was doing alone out here.”
He doesn’t leave room to argue, and you have none to give. So he takes you in his arms and begins to walk. You’re too tired to speak, so you simply curl closer into him and resume your position, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His scent invades your nostrils, and finally, since waking up in the woods earlier this evening, you breathe a sigh of relief.
***
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you awake on the plush sofa in your living room. Astarion must have moved it because it is now as close to the fireplace as safety would allow. The only thing standing in its way was the intricately sculpted metal table Dammon had gifted you for a housewarming gift. 
What seemed to be the entire house's stock of blankets was now piled on top of you, effectively cocooning you in cotton and silks. You try to sit up, but find that no strength is left in your bones.
“Stari?” You croak, your voice hoarse from your sobs.
There is not an immediate response, just the crackling fire and the rustling of dinnerware from the kitchen. You don’t bother to call out again; you know he’ll be in to check on you soon. When it comes to you, Astarion’s mother hen tendencies rear their head with great urgency.
 While you wait, you stare transfixed into the fire, mesmerized by the crackling wood and swirling ash. The chaos of fire has always been interesting to you. In small quantities, fire can bring warmth to a home and light to darkness. But uncontrolled fire burns, burns everything in its path. No mercy, no complexities, just fire and fuel; anything in between is insignificant in the grand scheme. It's familiar, too familiar.
Maybe this topic was best left untouched; maybe you hated fire. After all, fire is made to burn.
“Oh good, I was just about to wake you,” Astarion sets a tray on the coffee table. “I made tea,”
He starts to unearth your body from your blanket tomb and helps you into a more seated position before moving to the armchair. You catch his wrist; his crimson eyes meet yours. You're not entirely sure what you want; you just can’t bear him being so far. Not after thinking he was lost to you forever.
“Hold me?” The words are barely above a whisper, hesitant as if Astarion has ever denied you anything. “Please,” you tack on for good measure, though you're not sure why.
“Of course, my sweet,”
Handing you your tea, Astarion motions you to lean forward so that he can slip in behind you. Sandwiched between his legs, he wraps an arm around your middle and eases you against his solid torso. 
He’s warm; you must have been right. During your trek in the woods, he must have stepped out to feed. Now that the winter is approaching, he’s been hunting larger game; he likes to be warm, says it’s not always fair when you're the only one bringing heat into the relationship. 
He silently urges you to drink your tea, and you do. It’s quiet; neither of you speaks; you simply drink your tea and Astarion comforts. Hands gently trail up and down your arms, in between peppering tender kisses on your neck and shoulders.
You know what he’s doing. You’ve done the same tactics on him plenty of times in the past. He’s waiting. Waiting for you to speak first. To share with him why you were in those woods. What horrors brought you there. It’s an unspoken rule between two very broken people. You offer each other comfort, the safety each has lacked in the past and wait. If or when the person wishes to speak, the other listens.
But how do you even begin to describe the night that has occurred? The terror, the guilt, the hatred. It all just boils in your chest like wet tar. You can’t even really explain what happened to yourself. Once the tea is finished, you pass the cup to Astarion, who in turn returns it to the tray.
With a deep breath, you say simply, “I thought it happened again,” he knows immediately what you're saying and holds you just a bit tighter. 
“I-I-I don’t know what happened, b-but I was just running. I was… Gods, Astarion, I was so scared.”
Pushing the blankets further away from you, you turn in his arms and wrap around his neck. His eyes reflect the same sadness and fear you are feeling. “I was covered in blood, and then…then all I could think about was you,”
Tears begin to roll one by one down your cheeks; he collect them with his thumbs. Tears of his begin to follow a similar path. “I thought it finally happened,” you're crying harder now, hiccuping between words. 
“I thought he finally made me kill you,” words began to fail you from there. You pathetically tried to say more but the only sounds that escape are choked hiccups and wet sobs. When you know you have no hope of continuing you simply hide your face in your hands, no longer wanting to face the world.
“We’re okay, little love. Everythings okay.” Astarion is rubbing soft circles into your back, repeating calming phrases until they stick. “I’m here, nothing can change that. You’re okay darling.” 
It takes a lot of lovely words and small touches before your breathing calms down and you seem to have run out of your tear supply for that night. But even then Astarion doesn’t let go. You two stay interlocked, warmed by the slowly dwindling fire. He clears up your scattered thoughts. 
Astarion's voice, tinged with concern and a hint of reassurance, breaks through the remnants of your panic. "It was probably just one of your nightmares," he offers, a familiar acknowledgment that nightmares are woven into the fabric of your existence. In the quiet aftermath of your ordeal, the weight of his words settles in the still air. 
As he gently extracts one of your hands from your tear-streaked face, the dim light catches the glint of a heavy bandage wrapped around your trembling fingers. The glass shard, a cruel messenger, the night will leave its mark. With a tender touch, Astarion guides your gaze to the bandage, and then, with a careful motion, he lifts the fabric of your pants to expose a larger wound on your thigh, neatly covered in thick gauze.
The size of the injury is alarming, and the realization dawns that stitches would have been a necessity. Astarion's eyes reflect a regret that mirrors your own. "I should have been there, I'm so very sorry, my love," he whispers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken vow to protect you from the horrors that lurk within your own mind.
As you open your mouth to argue or perhaps offer words of comfort, Astarion anticipates your protest. "Regardless of what you are going to say," he interrupts, his words cutting through the heavy air, "from now on, I will be feeding exclusively when you are awake." The admission reveals a vulnerability in his eyes—a fear that lingers from the night when the scent of your blood permeated the air, and you were nowhere to be found.
"There was nothing more frightening than coming home to the smell of your blood and you gone." His hand begin to play with a strand of your hair. "Not to mention the absolute nightmare of a talk I’m to receive once I call for Shadowheart come morning, because I’m still not convinced you didn’t contract hypothermia during your midnight swim.” 
A small smile plays on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the impending lecture from Shadowheart, whose disapproval you can almost taste. Astarion seems to relish in your smile, and he cups your jaw, pressing his forehead to yours in an intimate gesture that transcends words.
"That is all behind us," he declares, a note of determination in his voice. "Our wounds are still fresh, but we are here, and we are healing. We'll get through this, we always have." His smirk carries a promise of resilience, and you nod in agreement, surrendering to the irresistible urge to find solace in the warmth of his lips pressed against yours.
Author's notes: Oh boy I haven't posted any of my writings since 2018 but damn BG3 has sparked something in me. Astarion is something special and I love him. If anyone has some ideas they would like to throw my way I would loved to see them.
Feedback is welcome, hate is not! Have a nice day, cheers.
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nvirskies · 2 months
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sand - c. la rue
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idea taken from one of @star-girl69 's asks about married clarisse and immediately went to think about how the vast majority of greek demigods didn't get to live past their 20's or even teen years... and the survivor's guilt that would come with being one of the few lucky enough to live longer.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, traumatic nightmare flashbacks, descriptions of violence, descriptions of blood + war, spoilers for TLO, set after both reader and clarisse leave CHB about 6-8 years into the future, google translated Greek term of endearment, crying, survivor's guilt, platonic RueGard, ooc Clarisse, she's matured more over time and more articulate with her feelings and words
summary: clarisse wakes up from a particularly bad nightmare in the middle of the night, reader comforts her through a breakdown
wife!fem!demigod!reader x wife!clarisse la rue
word count: 2.2k
καρδιά μου (kardiá mou) - my heart
Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου (I kardiá mou eínai i kardiá sou) - my heart is your heart
"but you have more pieces of me than than desert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand" sand, alchemical: vol. 1, dove cameron
taglist: @lvrue @star-girl69 @azrielsdiary @petitegavotte @b0ok-lover
men, nsfw, non-sapphic, 16-/19+ dni
Greek demigods fell in love hard and fast with an unmatched intensity. They normally didn’t live long enough to even envision themselves in their adult lives, and why would they? Every day was a struggle to stay alive with monsters coming in from all angles and quests most didn’t come back from.
And that was why, as soon as the two of you graduated high school, Clarisse got down on a knee and proposed with the knowledge that you were the one she would want to spend the rest of her life, however long or short, with.
When you two had graduated college, the next thing in the books was to make it official in the courthouse, and that was what you had done. No extravagant party or ceremony, just a quiet day in the courthouse and a night in to celebrate.
But no matter how far the two of you ran from Camp Half-Blood, the nightmares never went away, never got better. As the years passed, more of the people you had considered friends died. One after the other, falling like cursed dominos, helplessly standing by as they all tumbled down.
Soon, the nightmares became more about the people that were lost than the monsters themselves. Nightly plagues of searingly painful memories from watching the life drain from so many demigods’ eyes burned themselves in both of your psyches.
All you could do was hope Charon would be kind enough to ferry them across the Styx without his payment of a silver coin.
And tonight certainly hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary with the two of you and your limbs interlaced in a protective embrace while sleep claimed your minds, as if the both of you could protect each other from the monsters both in and outside.
Your head, nestled into her chest. Her deep, rhythmic breathing made your hair flutter ever so slightly as she exhaled. Her arms, wrapped loosely around your waist, hands not-so-sneakily under the baggy shirt of hers you had stolen to wear as pajamas for the night. It was all perfect. Too perfect.
You would be damned fools to think that peace would last for so long. Demigods didn’t get peace, they didn’t get tranquility, and they especially didn’t get uninterrupted domestic bliss.
Unbeknownst to you, Clarisse’s face contorted into one of distress. Her arms pulled you in closer subconsciously as the all too familiar face of Morpheus greeted her with a sly smirk on his face in her dreams.
In moments, she was transported back to the Battle of Manhattan.
She was seventeen again.
Blood was everywhere. Abandoned weapons lay on the floor, the hands that once gripped them tightly, now loose and limp. Shrill screams echoed throughout the air, all cut short by gut-wrenching sounds of fatal injury. Metal cut through flesh. Acid burnt through metal. Flames licked and greedily consumed anything and everything as fuel.
Her feet felt heavy, her hands numb. She could do nothing but stand and watch it all unfold before her own eyes, forced to relive the carnage and devastation that had ripped through Manhattan on that fateful day.
Morpheus’ voice whispered in her right ear, the sound of it sending an uneasy chill down her spine. “Daughter of Ares. A fitting dream, no? Your father must have been proud of you for the way you fought after… well, I’ll let you relive that, too.” Before she could blink, she was transported to the moment right after Silena had been sprayed by the Lydian Drakon.
Clarisse was too late. She had always been too late.
She was back on her knees, choking and weeping bitterly as Silena lay in her arms, watching as life slowly left her once-lively eyes.
What kind of a warrior even was she? So weak that she couldn’t even protect her friend? Too weak to protect the girl who had adorned her armor and led her siblings into battle?
Just as Clarisse reached out to touch Silena’s face to wipe away the one mark of smudged eyeliner that the Aphrodite girl normally would never have even allowed to happen in the past, she was jerked back to consciousness, eyes flying open and arms almost crushing your sleeping form momentarily as she came to.
No longer was she in Manhattan, instead sheltered in the familiarly adorned walls of your shared bedroom. Upon the walls hung framed pictures of joyous times past and her sword collection, among other things.
Familiar faces stared back at her, some faces that would never age again. Immortalized memories of times that would never happen again. Everyone was dead or scattered across the globe.
A particular picture caught Clarisse’s eye. It was a portrait of Silena that she had commissioned one of the Apollo kids to draw for the daughter of Aphrodite’s seventeenth birthday.
She never lived to see that day.
Her eyes locked with Silena’s in the drawing for a moment, and that moment was one too much as hot tears began to prick in the corners of her eyes.
She had inadvertently woken you up with the way her arms tightened around your waist in a near vice grip, slowly coming to your senses. No longer were her breaths slow and rhythmic, their steadfast pattern replaced by one that was erratic and shallow. The once-steady thumping cadence of her heart as it beat in her chest was now quickened, all of which you could hear with your head having been nestled into her chest.
Craning your head to look up at her, you were greeted with the sight of Clarisse desperately trying to silently blink back tears and control her own breathing.
Hurriedly, you pushed yourself up off her chest and tugged the blankets off the two of you before sitting down on her lap. You took note of the way her hands had never left your waist, holding onto you as if she were drowning and you were the last life ring thrown out.
It wasn’t anything you and Clarisse hadn’t dealt with before. The nightmares had been a part of your lives as far back as you could remember, it just came with the territory of being a demigod. But they never got any easier as time went on.
She watched silently with eyes brimming with unshed tears, pleading wordlessly with you to do something, anything to make it all go away.
“Let’s switch, yeah? You can lay on me and completely cover me if you want, love,” you offered up, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Wordlessly, she nodded and you slipped off her lap, laying back where she had just been moments ago.
Gently patting your chest, you motioned for her to rest her head on it, knowing that the rest of her body would soon follow, completely engulfing your form with hers. After she had positioned herself, her arms snaked around your waist again as she simply held you for a few moments, her face pressed into your chest as tears slowly soaked into your shirt.
One hand reached out to gently run along the length of her back, the motion meant to soothe. A few beats passed in silence before you spoke in a hushed whisper, the bedroom devoid of sound beyond the two of you breathing in tandem with each other.
“You hear that, love? That’s my heart,” you murmured softly, craning your neck to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “It’s beating, beating for you. Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου.”
She didn’t respond beyond releasing another shaky sob into your chest and tightening her grip around your body, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t need her to talk just yet.
“You’re also η καρδιά μου, you know that, right? My heart, my wife, my love, my everything. And I’m yours. Entirely yours, and I”m not going anywhere.” You craned your neck again to press another kiss against the crown of her head, hand never stopping its path of running gently along the length of her back.
“I would go down to the depths of Tartarus for you. I would challenge Hades himself to a fight if it meant I had even a glimmer of a chance in getting you back.”
Never once did you try to rush her into talking or shushing her tears. You knew her better than you knew yourself, and giving her time to let everything out was the best thing you could do for her at the moment.
You were her safe space, the one woman that she could let her walls down around. She wasn’t Ares’ star daughter in your arms, she was just Clarisse. No expectations dangling over her head, just open arms and understanding.
After another few quiet moments, she finally spoke up in between half-choked sobs, whispering so quietly that her voice was nearly inaudible, “Silena… Manhattan… should have been able to save her,” before letting her face fall back down onto your chest, releasing another pained cry.
“She’s gone- a-and everyone else too- why me?”
Her question left you speechless, mouth partly opened in an attempt to come up with a reassuring response, but nothing seemed to come to mind immediately. It was rare for this to happen, as you normally had just the right words at the top of your tongue, weaving them as Arachne once wove tapestries on her loom.
“They’re all gone and- and- ”
“Shh, love…” you cut her off, gently pulling her head up to look her in the eyes, your other hand leaving her back to wipe the tears that were still streaming down her cheeks with the pad of your thumb. “Please, don’t go back into that self-sacrificial spiral. Talk to me, tell me what the dream was about?”
She only shook her head in response, unwilling to divulge details of the memory that had shattered your night of otherwise perfect proportions.
Deflating back on top of you, she whispered, “They’re all gone, and we’re one of the only ones remaining. It was like every time another one of them died, that small part of myself that I gave to them died as well.”
Her arms that were wrapped around your waist tightened for a moment before going limp along with the rest of her body as she lay atop you, her head pressed against your chest.
“Love…” you began softly as one of your hands found its way to her head and carded gently through her curls. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. None of it was your fault. We didn’t ask to be born, to be thrown into this mess of a world and tossed around like pawns in the gods’ game of chess with our lives.”
“We didn’t ask for this life, and we were so young at the time. For fuck’s sake, we were only seventeen- we hadn’t even made out yet. We hadn’t graduated high school yet, there were so many things we couldn’t control.
“None of it was your fault, I promise you. You were so brave, and you did everything you could.” She stayed silent as you spoke, the only sounds coming from her were the soft, shaky breaths as she sniffled and burrowed her face further into your shirt.
“I can’t explain to you why so many things had to happen, that’s up to the Fates. I can’t give you the pieces of yourself back that you lost when we kept losing everyone,” you murmured whilst your hands kept on with their idle motions.
It shattered your heart to give her such an incomplete answer when you knew it was tearing her apart inside to live with it all, but there was nothing you could do beyond offer solace and comfort. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But the one thing I can do is keep the piece you’ve granted me to keep, safe and sound.”
She only nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak in fear of her own vulnerability. Her tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn’t care. All that was important was that Clarisse was here, in your arms, and slowly calming down.
Clarisse knew just as well as you did that everyone had done the best they could with the circumstances given, and that the loss affected you just as deeply. But she didn’t dig into that, it would be a can of worms to open for another time, another sleepless night where your own troubles caught up with you after running from them for so long.
And so, the rest of the night stretched on into early morning, the two of you half-awake, seeking silent solace in each other until sunlight crept into the bedroom through the cracks of the curtains the next day.
The two of you might have been running from your trauma like runners to a marathon, but at least you were running hand-in-hand with matching strides.
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rayroseu · 5 months
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Saved by Diasomnia!!
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I really love how the game always makes sure we get a rescue moment with Diasomnia characters in every event if they are on it lol
It supports my agenda that Ramshackle and Diasomnia are connected to each other in lore (like both these dorms have heavy relation with History and Death)🙌🏻🙌🏻. They are always on the lookout for their Young Master's friend... 🥺💖💕
(Also yeah... Why did I just realize now that Malleus is the one who indirectly introduced us to other Diaso members.....😭😭 I find that so cute bcs usually the others are *supposed* to be the one looking for a friend for him but Malleus just mentioned us and Lilia was hyped about it and it all domino effect from there lol)
Also, surprise yeee‼️‼️🤺🤺 I drew some of my mutuals OC's 🥰✨✨ Yuuri Atsuisamui with Silver from @souslesetoilesavectoi and Hana Asteria with Lilia from @hanafubukki ✨🫶🏻✨🫶🏻✨ (i hope i did justice for your lovely oc's, sous and hana!!😭) And, Malleus is just with my yume oc, Citrine🥰💛,,, also i need to interact to more sebek yumes... i only had the default prefect for him🥹
Honestly there are other Diashackle moments that I want to include as well!! But these four are my most precious💖💖
Like that time in Sunset Savanna event, where Lilia pressured Leona to let us go to Sunset Savanna too or else he's not going lol (thank you peepaw💗💞💗✨✨) and that vignette with Sebek helping us carry the chairs and him protecting us when the chairs fell ‼️🥹💚
On the main story, Silver is the only one who asks us if we're fine from time to time and the fact he rescued us after Mickey's dream collapsed--- and ofc Malleus indirectly helping us on Book 3 bcs of the Gargoyle Analogy lol--- I LOVE IT 🥹🫶🏻✨💗💞💗💖💘
Even the events mentions how precious Ramshackle is to Diasomnia so 🤗🤗🤗 thank you for being the backbone of many Yuu&Grim spotlight, Diasomnia-- Best dorm frfr✨✨💞💞💗💞💗
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souslesetoilesavectoi · 10 months
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Rendering doodles I suppose
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Oh so lightly based off of certain characters HAHA—
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hellishjoel · 10 days
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he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes
883 words / drabble main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi
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summary: you've fallen in love with the man with the dark curls who makes your coastal life with him idyllic warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food consumption, reader is has no physical description, brief smut, frankie fluff
a/n: I have no idea what this writing style is, but it was fun! banners by @cafekitsune <3
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frankie has always been a man who 'doesn't need much' he tells you this every birthday, every christmas, every anniversary he's happy with what's in front of him that includes his cottage on the water, his big dogs, and, of course, you there's nothing more he needs than waking up with your warm body curled into his side your features softened with sleep, your arm outstretched along his tan torso wedding ring wrapped around your pretty finger
he'll lean over and kiss the crown of your head before blindly reaching to his side table where dirty coffee mugs and half-read books pile up your portrait eyes meet his own honeyed amber once the dogs join the fray, jumping onto the bed and loving licking your sleepy faces, you're both as awake as you'll ever be if it's not raining and not too cold, you'll both sit on the bench at the end of the pier, wrapped up in a slate gray wool blanket as you drink a coffee in a spirited mood, frankie will fish the moody water ripples upon the hook plopping into the cobalt water frankie tugs the bait along until he feels a subtle drag before you know it, you're fondly smiling as he reacts to catching a fish as if it's his first time leashed up and wiggling with excitement, you walk the dogs along the water their noses are glued to the ground, snorting and sniffing with curiosity your boots dig into the ground and slosh with each step the dirt is still loose and wet from the recent rain that's come through you make small talk and capture pictures of your life to send back to your family and friends leaving home was difficult at first, but your coastal life has been such a dream and with frankie, you've come to realize you've never needed much else for dinner, frankie cooks the fish he caught earlier in the day you're his sous chef, working in your quaint kitchen with fuzzy slippers on, candles lit and glowing the somber home to an orange, flickering haze the dogs lay tiredly on the rug, and watch with sleep-happy eyes the cast iron skillet sizzles upon frankie flipping the fish while you work on the sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus your kisses grow lazy and sweet by the end of the night the silver moon dances across the midnight water, lighting your bedroom in a pale pearly film frankie kicks the bedroom door closed with his boot blindly, his pretty mouth smirking he always touches you like a delicate petal at first, anyway he likes to feel your skin, his palm attaching to your hip under your shirt as he walks you backward toward bed you let out a silken moan as frankie's lips work their way down to the column of your throat his teeth graze the soft skin that grows goosebumps in his wake his stubble scratches and it's just yet another reminder of how perfect he feels without trying your body has become his home being his home has become your sanctuary his hips bracket between your pretty thighs he thrusts languidly in rhythm with your heartbeat the drag of his thick cock causes your back to arch he traps you with his thick arms, your hand clutching to his bicep blinded by pleasure, frankie moans sweet nothings in your ear he whispers how much he loves you how perfect you are how amazing you feel how dedicated he is to you how happy you make him how much he loves you, again your fingers weave into his nest of dark curls, loosening the hat hair from earlier in the day his actions cause sweat to glimmer across your skin bodies glittering like the waves under a full moon the coil in your stomach is close to snapping your pleas and moans for him to finish inside of you sweetly echo in his ears he groans, feeling so lucky to have someone to spill into someone to make his own and paint in his name you reach the edge of the universe together shaking, clenching, squeezing, crying, kissing
frankie brings you back with gentle kisses, breath lost in your lungs, now retrieved you can't help but smile as he presses his forehead against your own, pulling the bedsheets up to your chest he coasts his fingers along your body mindlessly memorizing the curves, slopes, and dips like a beautiful map to his favorite place lips meet, hands hold, noses nuzzle, I love you's exchanged more than once it's a sweet mantra at this point to tell someone you love them this much, yet the meaning only grows stronger despite sharing the same three words and eight letters over, over, and over again it only heightens the sentiment frankie is reminded that he doesn't need much what else could he ask for when this is his life? how much more perfect could this get? there was no waiting to win the lottery waiting for a big, well-deserved raise waiting for his life to feel complete 
because at the end of it all when summers burn and the days are long he feels grateful to spend them with you he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes 
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carolmunson · 9 months
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we better make a start (older!modern!eddie)
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continuation of orange colored skyorange colored sky setlist
inspired by the fact that i fall in love with someone new every time i go to trader joe's and @loveshotzz new older!steve series. tw: outside of an age gap, not much. super fluffy it borders on gross. eddie is in his late 30s/early 40s, reader is late-late 20s/early 30s. music inspo: everywhere - fleetwood mac
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Wednesdays at two… You wished you’d met this guy in the fall when you still felt cute getting off the train. It was like being in a sous vide every time you got on and off, walking back out into the hot sun of the city. Would your hair frizz? Was your makeup melting? You were at least smart enough to wear bike shorts under your skirt to avoid the rubbing of your thighs – hopefully he wouldn’t notice. Your feet hurt in your 90s looking wicker sandals but at a passing glance in a store window you figure you don’t look half bad. You look infinitely better than when he first saw you in your ‘errands ugly’ clothes. Maybe he’d even think you look cute. Y’know – if he’s even there. Why’re you meeting up with some random stranger anyway? A sick flare of nervous embarrassment slides through your chest like a snake – this is stupid. He probably forgot about it. Whatever, you wanted to pick up a couple things anyway – it’s totally fine – this isn’t weird at all – and if he’s not there? It doesn’t matter. Who cares? You’ll be fine. You’ll go home and sift through a never ending collection of left swipes and ‘haha not much, just chillin naked. wbu?’ messages on whatever dating app you feel like opening that day. 
A block and an escalator later, you’re in the depths of the shopping center where Trader’s is. You swallow the sick creeping up in your belly — this is so stupid — but it doesn’t take long for you to spot him at a small table near the coffee stand across from the store. His hair sits in a low bun this time, most of his wavy curls spilling over and framing his face. He looks nice, black tee shirt that he might’ve pressed, smarter looking black chinos with a belt he likely got at a vintage store. The silver buckle looks pretty and polished, shining like the rings on his fingers and the rim of the wire glasses he had perched on his nose. He’s typing away on a laptop, black iced coffee melting next to it that he occasionally reaches to sip.
“Um…You’re Eddie, right?” you stammer out as you walk toward the table. He looks up from his laptop, the glow of this screen reflecting back in his glasses. He stops to look you over, straw still in his mouth. 
“Yeah, that’s me,” he grins, a breath of relief puffing out of his nose, “Didn’t actually think you were gonna show up — was sort of a shot in the dark.” He stands up, hand outstretched for yours to shake, “I never caught your name.” 
You take it, his handshake is firm and you can make out some of the tattoos on his fingers and hands. You introduce yourself and he mumbles a ‘nice to meet you’, your name sounds nice coming out of his mouth. “This feels like a business meeting,” you laugh, “Like I’m here for an interview.” He laughs back, “I did just come here from a meeting so I might still be in work mode, sorry.” He takes off his glasses, hanging them off the collar of his shirt. He packs up his bag, a well worn Jansport backpack covered in patches like the vest he had on the last time you saw him. You could tell it was old since there was a patch right at the center that read ‘METALLICA 1997 - Poor Touring Me’. A few other concert patches with ranging dates, 2003, 2009, 1998 littered the black canvas, you smile at it. 
“1997?” you ask, “Metallica concert at what – nine? Your parents were cool with that?” 
He looks down at it and his cheeks go pink, letting a breath puff out of his lips that makes them push out and motorboat, “What year were you born?” “‘92,” you answer, “Why?” 
“Jesus,” he mumbles, rubbing his face with a tight smile, “You’re a young thing, aren’t you?” 
“How old were you in ‘97?” you ask while you both make it through the double doors of the grocery store. He grabs a basket and raises his brows with another big breath. “Seventeen,” he says, “Got this backpack two days before that show actually.” “You still have it?” you ask, trying to do the math in your head of how old he is and how long he’s had it. “Jansport has a lifetime warranty,” Eddie smirks, “I’ve been putting it to good use.” “So why’re you back here,” you ask, following him to the back aisle where the bread is, “You just went food shopping a few days ago.” “I went for my neighbor,” he explains, grabbing two baguettes, “He fractured his foot and hasn’t been able to get up and down the stairs. Been running errands for ‘im in the meantime.” “Oh,” you smile, “That’s nice of you.” “Thanks,” he says, “You like bruschetta?” 
“Why do you ask?” 
“Well,” he starts, “I didn’t really think that Trader Joe’s was an ideal date so I thought I could ask you out here and also get some stuff for it ahead of time.” “Oh,” you repeat, heat creeping up on your cheeks, “What did you have in mind?” 
“Well if you’re free tomorrow afternoon…” he begins, but gets sidetracked. He sneaks behind you to grab some yogurt covered pretzels, “I saw you grab these the other day and got some too, they’re fuckin’ delicious.” 
The spicy suede scent he had last time is replaced with a bright citrusy cedar, it matches his overall disposition. Your mouth waters when you inhale. 
“Anyway, as I was saying,” he starts again, “If you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to treat you to a little something cute in the park. It’s supposed to be not so swampy.” “Like a picnic?” you ask with a hint of a tease. “Yeah,” he says, a glow of pink perking up on his ears hidden by his hair, “Something like that. If you’re into that – like – if you even want to go on a date with me.” “I showed up here. I feel like that’s answer enough, right?” “Right, right.” The conversation quiets while he tosses a few more things in his basket. “So what was your meeting for?” you ask, watching him look over the cold cuts and cured meats in the open refrigerated section. He was one of those, a ‘stand-and-starer’ instead of just knowing what to get. You try not to grind your teeth. “Oh, new client meeting,” he says, like you know exactly what he’s referencing. 
“For what? If you don’t mind me asking.” He reaches for a package of salami and prosciutto before turning to you, “Do you eat meat?” You nod while he continues to pick up and compare products, “New client for my side gig.” “Which,” he says, tossing his selections in the basket, “If you can believe it, pays a shit ton more than my main gig.” “What’s your big money side gig?” you laugh, following him to the next aisle. “I’m a web developer,” he says, squatting down to look at granola. He hopes you don’t hear the way his knees crack, the way his face winces at the slight tightness in his joints. In Eddie’s defense, he didn’t get a chance to stretch this morning – normally he’s much more limber – he promises. “Like making websites and stuff?” you squat next to him, your own knees cracking. You hope he doesn’t hear it. “Just like that,” he says. He reaches in front of you, grabbing your arm to steady you as you wobble to move out of his way. His grip is gentle but firm, the spots beneath his fingertips buzzing with electricity, “Careful there, sugar.” A smile spreads deep across your face while your eyes make friends with the floor under you, both of you rising back to your feet. His keys jingle on the same carabiner from before, clinking against a silver chain that you’re pretty sure connects to a wallet in his back pocket. He has Nike Killshots on today, the white with a black check instead of the navy. Everyone and their father has the white and navy. “Do you like it?” you ask, holding in a giggle while he grunts getting up. “Writing code and doing graphic design? Sure,” he shrugs, “Got into it really ahead of the game. You were probably still in grade school.” You roll your eyes and he snickers, “But mostly, I make websites for trust fund kids who use daddy’s money to start new businesses. So it’s sort of like my side gig is uh…” “Exploiting the rich?” you grin, he grins too, “Super punk.” He shakes his head while you both walk out into the produce section, “No, no, super metal.”
“What’s your main gig?” “Oh, come on – don’t break my heart,” Eddie’s dramatic flare shines through when he leans up against the flat edge of the pillar holding up the bananas. He holds his free hand to his chest, looking at you with a faux forlorn face that makes his brown eyes shine. Now that you’re really taking stock, you see the thin silver hoop hugging his right nostril – something about it makes your heart thump harder in your chest. “The tattoos don’t give it away, huh?” he asks, passing the basket to the other arm, both biceps flexing against the well tailored t-shirt’s sleeves. 
“A tattoo artist?” you wager a guess with a grimace and half shrug. “No,” he says, the word covered in a soft laugh, “But I’ve been in my artist's shop enough that I might as well get paid to be there.” “I can see that,” you nod, pulling a bunch of bananas from behind him and cradling them in your arm, “So what is it then?” “C’mon, it’s obvious,” he smiles, “I’m a rockstar.” 
“Are you?” you ask, your laugh bubbles out of you and it makes the back of his neck get hot. You’re too pretty to be flirting with him in Trader Joe’s but he can’t stop trying to make you laugh and smile. 
“Well,” he shrugs, kicking off the wall, “Sort of.” “Sort of a rockstar?” your brow lifts while you scan some of the fruits, hand reaching down to a display in front of you, “If you’re doing food food, how about I do dessert?” 
“Peaches, huh?” he asks with a smirk, wrinkling his nose, “A little messy, don’tcha think?” 
“They’re nectarines,” you correct, putting a few in one of the produce bags, “They’re not the same.” 
“Hm,” he shrugs, letting his finger trail over the smooth waxy skin of one of the nectarines in the display, “Whatever you say, Peach.” “Pfft,” you shake your head the same way he did to you, tying off the bag while you try to ignore how the butterflies in your stomach multiply at him calling you Peach. “So if you’re doing dessert that means you’re free tomorrow, then?” he raises his brows, waiting for your answer while you both walk to the checkout line, “You never said if you were.” “Yes I did,” you protest. His tattooed hand reaches out for the nectarines and bunch of bananas you’re holding. You look down at them and then back up at him, Eddie gives you a look, encouraging you to hand them over.
“No, you said you’d go on a date with me – gimme these, I got ‘em–” he beckons you with his hand to take them until you relent, putting them both in his basket, “And trust me, I’m glad you’re down to go on a date with me. But I just wanna make sure you’re around tomorrow so I know to turn on my charm in the morning.” 
“Oh, it’s not on right now?” you flirt. Eddie’s smile gets boyish and shy, tucking a loose salt and pepper collection of strands behind his ear. He’s too blushy to respond, thankful that the Trader Joe’s worker directs you both for the next cashier. He hands you your bananas and nectarines and you plop them into your canvas bag while he finishes up, walking together out of the double doors. 
“Um, could I - uh – damn why am I so nervous to ask you this? What am I, sixteen?” he thinks out loud to himself, furrowing his brow at his own ridiculousness, “Fuck, could I um – get your number?” 
“You already asked me on a date and you’re nervous to get my number?” you tease, “For real?” 
“Long story, I’ll tell you one day,” he says, handing you his phone. He tucks in his lips while you take it, watching eagerly while you put in your information. You save it under ‘Peach 🍑’ with your real name in the second line. 
“Oh what, did it happen all the way back in the 70s or something? Hard to remember?” Your mean girl tone of voice has a hold on him that thrums in his chest. 
“So you’re one of those girls, huh?” he releases his lips, tip of his tongue pressing against one of his canines, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He takes his phone back when you offer it to him, taking a quick second to shoot you a text that just says ‘eddie m.’ Your phone dings in your hand, going to save his number while he watches. 
“M’gonna put it in as ‘Sort of Rockstar’,” you giggle to yourself. “Please don’t.” “Too late.” 
You drop your phone into your canvas bag, giving him a final once over. He does the same and his stare almost makes you nervous with the way his brown eyes soften when they find your face. Not one for awkward silence you reach your hand out like he did when you met outside of the store. “Pleasure doing business with you, Eddie,” you say, a lightness to your voice that has him swooning. His hand takes yours, big and slightly rough, calloused fingertips slightly brushing your wrist. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, giving you a firm shake, “Same time tomorrow? At the park?” 
“Sounds good.” 
“I’ll um, I’ll text you. I’ll drop a pin,” he offers. 
You’re both quiet for a moment, anxious with anticipation for tomorrow – for a real date. You say your goodbyes, your ‘see you tomorrows’. Only to both start walking the same direction towards Target. 
“Oh,” you laugh, “Are you going to Target, too?” 
He laughs back, slightly hoarse and rough, smokey sounding, “I am. Should I wait a little? Don’t wanna cramp your style or anything. I know we just said goodbye.” 
“No, no, we can go together,” you smile, big and bright, “We can both decide on what I’m making for dessert.” 
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amphibious-thing · 5 months
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Pink is for Boys
"Pink or Blue? Which is intended for boys and which for girls? This question comes from one of our readers this month, and the discussion may be of interest to others. There has been a great diversity of opinion on this subject, but the generally accepted rule is pink for the boy and blue for the girl. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl." ~ The Infants' Department, June 1918
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[Left: The Blue Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1770, by Thomas Gainsborough.
Right: The Pink Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1782, by Thomas Gainsborough.]
Pink is for girls and blue is for boys. But it hasn't always been this way. Colour coding infants as a way of denoting gender was popular in 20th century America. The problem? Pink and blue? Which is for boys and which is for girls?
In 1927 TIME Magazine asked ten of the "leading stores that sell baby equipment" which colour was for which gender. Four stores responded pink for girls and blue for boys; Macy's (Manhattan), Franklin Simon (Manhattan), Wanamaker's (Philadelphia) and Bullock's (Los Angeles). Five stores responded pink for boys and blue for girls; Best's (Manhattan), Marshall Field's (Chicago), Filene's (Boston), Maison Blanche (New Orleans) and The White House (San Francisco). Curiously Halle's (Cleveland) responded that pink was for both boys and girls.
This debate would continue and it wasn't until mid-20th century that pink for girls and blue for boys became firmly cemented in western culture.
However the idea of colour coding infants dates back to the 19th century. According to La cour de Hollande sous le règne de Louis Bonaparte in 1808 in Holland pink was used to announce the birth of a girl and blue a boy. In March 1856 Peterson's Magazine (Philadelphia, USA) advises that the ribbon on a christening cap should be blue for a boy and pink for a girl. On the 23rd of July 1893 the New York Times writes that for baby clothes it's "pink for a boy and blue for a girl!"
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[The Oddie Children, oil on canvas, c. 1789, by William Beechey, via North Carolina Museum of Art.]
During the latter half of the 18th century one of the most popular outfits for young children, regardless of gender, was a white dress with a coloured sash tied around the waist. Pink and blue being the most popular colours, although other colours were worn as well. It would be tempting to assume that the colour of the sash indicated gender but there isn't clear evidence that this was the case. The Oddie Children (above) depicts Sarah, Henry, Catherine, and Jane Oddie. The three girls are all wearing white dresses; two with a blue sash one with a pink sash. We also see Henry Russell (bellow left) wearing a blue sash and Prince William (bellow right) wearing a pink sash.
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[Left: Anne Barbara Russell née Whitworth with her son Sir Henry Russell, oil on canvas, c. 1786, by George Romney, via Woolley & Wallis.
Right: Prince William, oil on canvas, c. 1767, by Allan Ramsay, via the Royal Collection Trust.]
Pink was just one of the many colours popular in 18th century English womenswear and seems to have stayed popular throughout the century. On the 3rd of January 1712 The Spectator published an article in which a man recalls seeing "a little Cluster of Women sitting together in the prettiest coloured Hoods that I ever saw. One of them was Blew, another Yellow, and another Philomot; the fourth was of a Pink Colour, and the fifth of a pale Green". On the 1st of May 1736 the Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer reports that the ladies attending the royal wedding wore gowns of "Gold stuffs, or rich Silks with Gold or Silver Flowers, or Pink or White Silks, with either Gold or Silver Netts or Trimmings;" shoes either "Pink, White or Green Silk, with Gold or Silver Lace and braid all over." On the 24th of May 1785 Charles Storer writes to Abigail Adams advising that fashionable colours in English court dress are "pink, lilac, and blue" such "as is worn at Versailles".
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[Left: Frances, Daughter of Evelyn Pierpont, 1st Duke of Kingston, oil on canvas, c. 1700-23, by Godfrey Kneller, via Art UK.
Middle: Mrs. Abington as Miss Prue in "Love for Love" by William Congreve, oil on canvas, c. 1771, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, via Yale Center for British Art.
Right: Mary Little, later Lady Carr, oil on canvas, c. 1765, by Thomas Gainsborough, via Yale Center for British Art.]
In particular pink was popular amongst young women as the colour was associated with youth. Older women who wore pink were mocked as vain for dressing in a way that was seen as improper for their age. On the 31st of January 1754 Lady Jane Coke writes to Mrs. Eyre criticising old women who wear pink:
As for fashions in dress, which you sometimes inquire after, they are too various to describe. One thing is new, which is, there is not such a thing as a decent old woman left, everybody curls their hair, shews their neck, and wears pink, but your humble servant. People who have covered their heads for forty years now leave off their caps and think it becomes them, in short we try to out-do our patterns, the French, in every ridiculous vanity.
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[Folly Embellishing Old Age With the Adornments of Youth, oil on canvas, c. 1743, by Charles-Antoine Coypel, via Master Art.]
For Englishmen acceptable clothing way much more limited. In A Foreign View of England in the Reigns of George I & George II Monsieur César de Saussure writes that Englishmen "do not trouble themselves about dress, but leave that to their womenfolk". He explains:
Englishmen are usually very plainly dressed, they scarcely ever wear gold on their clothes; they wear little coats called "frocks," without facings and without pleats, with a short cape above. Almost all wear small, round wigs, plain hats, and carry canes in their hands, but no swords. Their cloth and linen are of the best and finest. You will see rich merchants and gentlemen thus dressed, and sometimes even noblemen of high rank, especially in the morning, walking through the filthy and muddy streets.
César de Saussure warns that "a well-dressed person in the streets, especially if he is wearing a braided coat, a plume in his hat, or his hair tied in a bow, he will, without doubt, be called "French dog" twenty times perhaps before he reaches his destination" and is not only at risk of "being jeered at" but also "being bespattered with mud, but as likely as not dead dogs and cats will be thrown at him."
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[Reverend Charles Everard Booth, Captain Griffith Booth, and an Unidentified Man playing Billiards, oil on canvas, c. 1775-9, by John Hamilton Mortimer, via the Royal Collection Trust.]
For Englishmen dressing "plainly" mostly meant wearing blacks and browns. In his book on macaroni, Pretty Gentleman, Peter McNeil found that in contrast most English menswear that he describes as generally consisting of "monochrome broadcloth" macaroni wore a variety of colours including green, orange, yellow, violet, red, white, blue, gold, silver and of course pink.
But it's not just the macaroni of the 1770s & 1780s that wore pink. We see pink in descriptions of feminine men's dress (both real and fictional) throughout the 18th century.
On the 2nd of June 1722 Sarah Osborn writes to Robert Byng:
I believe the gentlemen will wear petticoats very soon, for many of their coats were like our mantuas. Lord Essex had a silver tissue coat, and pink color lutestring waistcoat, and several had pink color and pale blue paduasoy coats, which looked prodigiously effeminate.
On the 18th of October 1729 the Universal Spectator and Weekly Journal published a story where an "effeminate" man's clothes were described as follows:
He had a flower'd pink-colour Silk Coat, with a Green-Sattin Waistcoat lac'd with Silver. Velvet Breeches, Clock'd Stockings the Colour of his Coat, Red-heel'd Pumps, a Blue Ribbon at the Collar of his Shirt, and his Sword-Hilt he embrac'd under the Elbow of his Left Arm,
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[Sir Miles Stapylton, 4th Bt of Myton, oil on canvas, c. 1730-35, via Art UK.]
In The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) the effeminate (and queer coded) Captain Whiffle is described as follows:
our new commander came on board in a ten-oared barge, overshadowed with a vast umbrella, and appeared in everything the reverse of Oakum, being a tall, thin young man, dressed in this manner: a white hat, garnished with a red feather, adorned his head, from whence his hair flowed upon his shoulders, in ringlets tied behind with a ribbon. His coat, consisting of pink-coloured silk, lined with white, by the elegance of the cut retired backward, as it were, to discover a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, unbuttoned at the upper part to display a brooch set with garnets, that glittered in the breast of his shirt, which was of the finest cambric, edged with right Mechlin: the knees of his crimson velvet breeches scarce descended so low as to meet his silk stockings, which rose without spot or wrinkle on his meagre legs, from shoes of blue Meroquin, studded with diamond buckles that flamed forth rivals to the sun! A steel-hilted sword, inlaid with gold, and decked with a knot of ribbon which fell down in a rich tassel, equipped his side; and an amber-headed cane hung dangling from his wrist. But the most remarkable parts of his furniture were, a mask on his face, and white gloves on his hands, which did not seem to be put on with an intention to be pulled off occasionally, but were fixed with a curious ring on the little finger of each hand.
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[Henry Ingram, 7th Viscount Irwin and His Wife Anne, oil on canvas, c. 1745, by Philippe Mercier, via Art UK.]
On the 28th of July 1780 the London Courant reports:
A few days ago, a Macaroni made his appearance in the Assembly-room at Whitehaven, in the Following dress: a mixed silk coat, pink sattin waistcoat and breeches, covered with an elegant silver nett, white silk stockings with pink clocks, pink sattin shoes and large pearl buckles, a mushroom coloured stock, covered with a fine point lace; his hair dressed remarkably high, and stuck full of pearl pins.
On the 6th of August 1792 The Weekly Entertainer published Sketches and Portraits form the Life by Simon Tueopnrastus which included the following description:
Mercator was a youth of some genius and expectation, but by a strange perverseness of disposition, notwithstanding the extreme natural stiffness of his limbs, he had acquired an early attachment to the most finical and effeminate finery; so that, while yet a boy, he would exhaust every expedient of a fertile invention to procure a laced waistcoat, or the most foppish toy; would dangle a watch-string, with brass seals, from each fob, at a time when the frugal care of his parents would not permit him to wear a watch in either; and would strut in a fine pair of second-hand pink silk breeches, and a light blue coat, with all the formal dignity of—a soldier upon the parade.
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[Left: Thomas King in "The Clandestine Marriage", oil on canvas, c. 1792, by Samuel De Wilde, via Yale Center for British Art.
Right: Edward Payne, oil on canvas, by Arthur Devis, via Art UK.]
While pink is mentioned in these descriptions of feminine men's dress it's not singled out as the girl colour the way pink would become in the 20th century. I would argue pink is seen as effeminate not because pink is a uniquely feminine colour but because it was used in fashionable dress. In 18th century England being interested in fashion was seen as an frivolous female trait. Men who showed too much interest in fashion were mocked and ridiculed for their gender nonconformity. "A Man must sink below the Dignity of his Nature, before he can suffer his Thoughts to be taken up on so trivial an Affair, as the Chosing, Suiting, and Adjusting the Adornments of his Person," complains a letter published on the 8th of May 1731 in Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer:
Decency of Garb ought inviolably to be preserved; nor can there be possibly an Excuse for Dressing like a Merry-Andrew: Rich and coloured Silks are in themselves effeminate, and unbecoming a Man; as are, in short, all Things that discover Dress to have been his Study 'Tis in vain for a Fop of Quality, to think his Title will protect him.
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[Left: Madame de Pompadour (detail), oil on canvas, c. 1756, by François Boucher, via Alte Pinakothek.
Right: Elizabeth Wrottesley, later Duchess of Grafton, oil on canvas, c. 1764-5, by Thomas Gainsborough, via National Gallery of Victoria.]
English fashion was highly influenced by French fashion. A popular colour scheme in French fashion was green and pink. A famous example of this colour pairing can be seen in François Boucher's portrait of Madame de Pompadour (above left), she is depicted in a green gown with pink bows and flowers. You can see and example of how this style inspired English fashion in Thomas Gainsborough's portrait of Elizabeth Wrottesley (above right), who is depicted in a green gown with a floral pattern adorned with pink, white and green striped bows.
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[Left: Sir Harry Fetherstonhaugh, oil on canvas, c. 1776, by Pompeo Batoni, via Wikimedia.
Right: Francis Lind, oil on canvas, c. 1775, by George Romney, via Mackinnon Fine Art.]
Fashionable Englishmen were also inspired by these French designs. Horace Walpole refers to the popularity of the colour combination writing to Lady Ossory on the 19th of February 1774 "If I went to Almack's and decked out my wrinkles in pink and green like Lord Harrington, I might still be in vogue". Almack's is referring to Almack's Assembly Rooms on Pall Mall which is believed to be the inspiration for the Macaroni Club. (see Pretty Gentleman by Petter McNeil p52-55) In a letter to Lord Harcourt on the 27th of July 1773 Walpole writes of "Macaronis lolling out of windows at Almack's like carpets to be dusted."
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[Left: Detail of Stephen Fox from The Hervey Conversation Piece, oil on canvas, c. 1738-40, by William Hogarth, via Fairfax House.
Middle: Sir William Jones, oil on canvas, c. 1769, by Francis Cotes, via Art UK.
Right: Portrait of a Gentleman, oil on canvas, by George Romney.]
Men who wore green seem to have been just as much, if not more, at risk of being ridiculed, or even assaulted, for the colour of their clothes as those who wore pink. In Pierre Jean Grosley's A Tour to London (originally published 1772) he recalls traveling with a young English surgeon who was harassed by Londoners due to his green French frock coat:
At the first visit which he paid me in London, he informed me, that, a few days after his arrival, happening to take a walk thro' the fields on the Surry side of the Thames, dressed in a little green frock, which he had brought from Paris, he was attacked by three of those gentlemen of the mobility, who, taking him for a Frenchman, not only abused him with the foulest language, but gave him two or three slaps on the face: "Luckily, added he in French, I did not return their ill language; for, if I had, they would certainly have thrown me into the Thames, as they assured me they would, as soon as they perceived I was an Englishman, if I ever happened to come in their way again, in my Paris dress."
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mytheoristavenue · 4 months
Text
Day 8-
OP Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader - Winter Proposal
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Summary: While walking through a snowy farmer's market, Sanji asks you an important question.
Warning: pure fluff, very short/rushed
You smiled to yourself, inhaling the aroma coming off of the disposable cup of hot chocolate in your hands. The foam dish warmed your fingertips as you took a sip, waiting for Sanji to finish up at a fish stand. Just then, he glanced back up to see you waiting, and cut his interaction with the fisherman short, before tucking what he'd ought into a wicker basket.
"Sorry, I just had to," he said sheepishly. "I haven't seen this kinda stuff since I left the East Blue. It was one our signature dishes on the Baratie, you're gonna love it-" You could hardly keep track of him when he got like this, rambling on about food and ingredients and the different was they can be used.
"I'm sure I will," you giggled. "I love anything you make."
Sanji suddenly fell nearly silent as his stare fell downcast. "I know you do..." he muttered under his breath. The truth was, you weren't a very picky eater, he could serve you rotten salad with wilted lettuce and you'd eat it. You were never wasteful or gluttonous like other people he knew. If he ever made something experimental that nobody liked, he could always count on you to give him a five star rating.
"What's the matter?" you asked, tilting your head and stepping in front of him, forcing your face into his line of sight.
"Oh, nothing." he dismissed with a melancholic smile.
"Come on, Sanji," you pressed. "Obviously something's bothering you! You're all quiet now."
"I guess I just have something on my mind is all..." he trailed, brushing passed you to continue on the path again.
"Well, out with it!" you pouted, pulling on his sleeve, making him stop again.
"It's not the right time." he insisted, pulling you along.
"The right time for what?" you whined, beginning to become impatient with him.
"You're not going to let it go, are you?" he finally asked, giving you a glimmer of hope. You shook your head persistently, prompting him to sigh and dig into his pocket. "Just remember, if this isn't perfect, you forced it out of me." he teased, sinking to his left knee. Gazing up at you with that sweet, charming smile of his, he offered you a ring. It was a simple silver band, speckled with tiny diamonds and a teardrop-shaped sapphire as the centerpiece.
Tears immediately began rolling down your cheeks as you slapped your palm to your lips in disbelief. "S-Sanji..."
"You've always been my biggest fan, (Y/N). My taste tester when I'm unsure, my sous chef when I need help, and when nobody else likes my food, I know you do. You're my biggest support and I want you by my side forever."
"S-Sanji..." you sniffled, cheeks blushed and snowflakes catching on your hair. "I don't know what to say..."
"Say yes..." he beamed, tears pricking his eyes as he grabbed your left hand and slid the ring onto your finger. "Please bel amour?"
Finally catching up with the world around you, you quickly nodded your head, sobbing as you fell to your knees with him. "Yes, a million times, yes!" you cried into his chest. "I'd love to!"
"Thank you mon tresor," Sanji sighed, pulling you closer, not caring about the market goers passing you by. "C'mon, let's finish the shopping and get back tot he ship. I'm gonna make you somehting extra special."
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