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echoalyssa · 8 months

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Counterparts | Brian O’Conner

The night air is warm, almost comforting. The city of Los Angeles seemed to have decided to go to sleep tonight. The city, normally bustling with life, was quiet, peaceful. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks up at the moon.

I’m standing in front of Mercy Park’s garage checking the oil level of my bike. My brother Logan is lingering by the bay doors, rearranging a stack of Husky jacks that really did not need to be rearranged. He was skeptical about me going riding with someone outside of our crew, but I had known Brian for years.

He drove with Dominic Toretto. Toretto’s crew were technically our rivals as we worked out of the same part of LA. Though Dom and Kaneko, the leader of the Mercy Park Crew, had come to an agreement to coexist.

We’d decided to leave the JDM’s at home tonight. It was perfect weather to take the bikes out and we’d both been neglecting the machines.

The loud thrum of Brian’s bike alerts me that he is around the corner. I glance at Logan and narrow my eyes at him, begging him to go back inside and talk to Toby or Ximena. He was ridiculously worried about Brian considering his girlfriend’s dad was the cop who had almost brought us all in.

Brian comes around the corner and pulls into the garage’s parking lot. He nudges the kickstand out with his right booted foot and then turns the key in the ignition to shut the machine off. He tugs his helmet off, revealing his blonde curls and striking blue eyes. The smile that he aims at me is intoxicating.

He dismounts his bike and crosses the distance towards me. I open my arms for him immediately. His arms go around my waist, and I loop mine around his neck. He smells like oil mixed with an earthy undertone. Brian holds me for a good minute before he steps back and flashes me with that grin again.

“It’s been too long.” He glances over your shoulder and raises his hand in a wave, “Hey Logan!”

I hear the garage door close and know that my brother has finally left us alone.

“You look good.” I murmur back to him. And he does, he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and black jeans. He has his steel toes on and a thin gold chair dangles around his neck. He’s showered recently, his hair bearing the signs of water. Though somehow there is a dirt smudge just under his jaw, as if he just can’t quite seem to stay away from the grime of working on cars.

Brian pokes the tip of my nose with his index finger and then glances at the garage behind me. He tilts his head in the direction of the street. Even though both crews were on good terms did not mean that we should be hanging out together in broad view.

I pull my hair into a loose braid before sliding my helmet on. Brian starts his bike again, throwing a leg over. He maneuvers it backwards so that he can pull back out onto the road. It’s currently wrapped in white with the signature Toretto decals on the gas tank.

My own bike, a Kawasaki Ninja is blacked out. I went for stealth. The machine roars to life underneath me. Brian nods in my direction and together we rev the engines before taking off down the road.

I let Brian lead; I didn’t mind where we went as long as I would get an adrenaline rush. He takes us through a few side streets before we hit the ramp to the highway. He turns his head, checking to make sure that I am still behind him.

The second he confirms that I am still following behind him like his little shadow, he tucks and takes off down the empty highway. My heart soars as I accelerate after him. The red needle on my speedometer quickly craws into the triple digits.

We’re absolutely soaring, breaking felony speeds, but neither of us have plates. The wind whips his t-shirt around, making the fabric crawl upward so it bunches around his chest and exposes the hard planes of muscle.

There aren’t many people out on the highway, but we weave through the ones that are. We’re perfectly in sync, reading each other’s movements without needing to communicate. I give the throttle a little more and go surging past him, but only for a moment. He overtakes me. It continues like this for miles, each of us going for the lead. The city is a blur around us.

I outstretch a hand to the wind, feeling the way it pushes my arm back in because of the speed. Anyone who saw us together must have been in awe, we give off an almost ethereal aura. Yin and Yang. Light and dark. One and the same.

We were brothers. But bound by more than blood. We were twins as well. Counterparts. Gangster princes of the city we met.

No amount of words could describe the perfection of the moment between the two of us. A picture would do no justice.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, one mistake and we would be dead, but there was no fear. Only the urge to go faster, to push the limits. That was the thing about Brian, he understood. That if speed was to lead to our demise, we would go out smiling.

Almost too soon, Brian drops a hand to his side, signaling that he is going to take the next exit ramp. He leans into the turn and checks once more, that I’m behind him. We maneuver down a few side roads and then come to a stop atop a hill. The stars are bright tonight, almost defying nature.

Brian dismounts his bike first, and then he’s in front of me. I haven’t even finished setting up my kickstand before his hands are pulling my helmet off and his lips are brushing against mine. I sigh into him, trusting that I can tip toe the bike and kiss him back. It’s like a weight has been lifted off of my chest

He pulls away but rests his forehead against mine, his fingers brush the strands of hair that had escaped my braid back behind my ears. “I missed you.”

The only response I can find is to pull him back towards me. There wasn’t much time to spare for either of us, both crews were constantly traveling for boosts, but the time that we did have together… we savored it. Loyalties to the crews aside, the two of us would always come back to one another.

#the fast and the furious #fast and furious #paul walker #dominic toretto #brian oconner #ride or die #jdm #Paul walker x reader #brian o'conner #brian o'conner x reader #brian o'conner smut #brian o'conner imagine

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sky-kiss · 5 months

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Dad!Phael: Dog Days

A/N: I'm committing a dark and terrible sin. But I had a mighty need. Kids name is Orin because...my Durge has issues. I dunno. Have some horrible trash.

___________________

Raphael: When You Create a Mini You, But You Kinda Suck

___________________

The little terror will not stop hounding him.

Raphael massages his temple, his right hand still folded over his belly. His daughter stands before his desk, hands folded neatly at the small of her back. In a rare twist of fate, she is the very picture of courtly etiquette. The shouts echoing down the halls have made it clear that this is no happenstance occurrence: the princess, unflappable and secure in the deference afforded her position, had harassed her mother's maidservants until they'd relented. Her dark hair is neatly braided, tied with strands of precious metal. Her dress is polite and clean. She is perfectly still.

A lie. A very convincing lie, but Raphael is not in the habit of indulging naughty children. The cambion leans back in his seat. "You've brought me a proposal, I see?"

"Yes." Little Orin holds her head high, delicate and lovely, well-spoken, as any of his spawn ought to be. She is nearly five, and while he is delighted to be free of her nonsensical chattering, eloquence has brought a new slew of problems. Namely, understanding. He can understand her. And she is never silent.

He hums, flicking his attention to the neatly stacked sheets of paper on his deck. "These here?"

"Yes, father." His heir shifts. She wants to rock back on her heels so badly. The stillness drives her mad. "For you to…" Orin frowns, brow furrowing as she searches for the word. The devil will not help her. She scowls, grasping for something near enough to express her meaning, "Look."

Another hum. The archdevil plucks the topmost piece of her manuscript from the pile. Raphael thumbs the entirety of her little manifesto across the desk. The crux of each remains unchanged—artwork (childish and borderline unrecognizable) accompanied by a stretch of mangled penmanship.

He didn't need to look at it. The little beast has made her desire entirely plain.

The debtors do not interest her. She is too young to frequent the dungeons.

She desires a pet to accompany her through the House. More precisely, she wants a hound. Raphael purses his lips, eyeing her artwork again. It resembles a hound in the loosest sense.

"My dear…"

Her face screws up in irritation. Orin opens her mouth to speak, only to snap it shut. He watches her wrestle herself under control. She inhales through her nose, stiffening. "But…" she nods towards the papers. "Wrote it. Mother said…"

"Ah, yes. Your mother." Raphael stands, moving around the desk and crossing to his heir. A lovely little thing, eyes bright and wide and hopeful. He remains the center of her world, the fixed point where she hangs all her dreams. He holds the proposal out to her. "Do it again. More effort this time." He hears the duchess's voice in his head: five. She's five, Raphael. He shunts her advice to the back of his awareness, kneeling in front of the girl. "Convince me, dear one. Now, begone with you."

She snatches the papers back. To her credit, she maintains her composure until she's past the boudoir's threshold. After that, Raphael hears her grumbling (loudly) to herself. Good girl.

_________

He rejects the second proposal.

And the third.

The fourth is passable, but the girl looks so positively self-righteous, so purely livid, that he sends her away on principle. On the fifth attempt, Orin sends her mother.

He's delighted by the underhandedness and the cunning. He is less enthused by his consort's sudden appearance and temper.

On the seventh attempt, he accepts his daughter's petition.

___________

He summons the kennel master the following day, intent on selecting a pup from the litter—a dignified creature suited to her more delicate frame. The Archduke of Avernus weaves through the little creatures and watches them tumble and scrap among themselves.

Some have the makings of great hunters. The hound master has brought one bitch from Mephistopheles' stock, already twice the size of the average pup. He suspects (though he cannot confirm) that one of the unlittered pups has Nessian stock somewhere in its bloodline, darker than the average hound. The two hounds bully their way through their smaller kin, not a hint of grace in their forms, brutish and lacking refinement.

They do not interest him. Raphael's attention flicks to a little bitch near the edge of the commotion. She remains seated throughout it all, fur midnight dark, head held high. She holds his gaze, unflinching—an elegant creature of immaculate breeding. She will be Leonine. His huntress! Well-suited for the little princess!

Orin inhales sharply. She is here at her mother's behest, sworn to act on her most courtly manners. The she-devil nearly vibrates out of her skin. Her attention is fixed on the massive brutes. Orin looks up at him with desperate eyes. "Father…"

And the kennel master must know because he clucks his tongue and applauds the 'little lady.' Raphael feels a dawning horror settle over him like a shroud as the fiend scoops the largest pup from the group. He deposits him at the princess' feet.

No, he will not have one of Mephistopheles' experiments roaming his halls. He will not.

"No." The archdevil holds his head high, setting a hand on his prodigy's shoulder. Muscles flex beneath his touch. Orin doesn't move towards the pup, but she does curl her fingers in an invitation, grinning when it presses its head into her palm. Her expression drips with savage vindication. Raphael blames her mother. "The little one. The female, there. She is more suited."

"She's so small," Orin grumbles.

"As are you, pet."

"I want this one." She indicates the brute. It stares up at him in dumb wonderment.

"And the little lady does have impeccable taste, Master. If I could…" Raphael fixes the fiend with a look so full of hate that it recoils, hands held up for peace. "Aye, you know your business."

Raphael makes the mistake of kneeling. The hounds turn as one, hungry for the attention of one they instinctively recognize as Master. Orin is delighted. "Your presence here was conditional, princess. You recall this?" She nods, attention flicking between him and the hounds. "And whose word is law?"

"Yours."

"Yes, mine. Clever girl"

He sees the gears in her head turning, looking for a way out. It delights and rankles. This little creature can only toddle after and adore him, but here she is already looking for a foothold in the great game. Orin purses her lips, and he sees so much of himself in the expression. Strange. She speaks slowly, positioning the massive pup between them.

"I love him."

"Irrelevant. Do try again."

She rolls her eyes. And that is the duchess, irreverent, insufferable creature. "You," she indicates her sire, "Love her?"

"I have selected her."

"And the House is big? So why not…" she shrugs, looking down. "Both? One for Father. One of Orin. And then they won't be alone. They shouldn't be alone, papa."

Raphael frowns. The thrice damned kennel master says, "The Lil lady ain't wrong, ser. They're pack creatures."

"I will send you to the pits if you do not keep silent, servant." He looks between the girl and the hound (now cradled in her arms). Raphael feels himself being manipulated. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Very well."

"What about mother?"

He scowls, eyes narrowing. "What of her?"

"If we both have a hound," she stares at him with her hopeful eyes, her adoration, and her damned obvious self-satisfaction. "Won't she be hurt? Left out?"

And, oh, he has created a wretched creature. His spawn smiles.

She gets her damned hound. And the rest of the litter for good measure, damn her.

#bg3 raphael #bg3 fanfiction #long post #my writing #did you want cavities?#because this is how you get cavities #No one look at me #i'm aware of my crimes

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phoenixyfriend · 1 year

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I know I'm a nerd because the amount of time I've spent obsessing over the Vojvodina dress is. Way too much.

This dress doesn't actually have a name (probably), but it's from late 19th century Vojvodina, and I kind of obsessed over it when I was at the Serbian Ethnographic Museum in Belgrade (main site is available only in Serbian).

(Unfortunately, I'm trying to work within the tumblr image limit, but here's a google drive!)

BTW, if you enjoy this post, please consider leaving a tip! I spent more time than is reasonable putting this together.

Also, due to tumblr being Odd, you may want to open this in a new tab to avoid having the posts expand to full; the dashboard view only lets there be one image per line, for some reason. If you open in a new tab, they are much more neatly organized into sets, and quicker to scroll past.

Due to the fact that I can't really describe these photos in a way that means anything to readers unless they have a large technical vocabulary or background in Balkan fashion history, and there being so many pictures, I will not be including image descriptions. However, my commentary on those photos throughout the latter half of the post should hopefully give you a solid summary on what the photos contain, even if it's not going into details for most.

Here is the general shape of what you see in 19th century Serbia (incl. Kosovo), Montenegro, Bosnia&Herzegovina, and Croatia:

You can see a few throughlines, even with the variety from one region to the next. Certain types of fabric are more common, especially that heavy plain-weave white fiber (I think usually cotton, nowadays, but probably historically flax) with the small knots; my grandmother's apartment is still stocked with that as the default bed linen! You see it all through the exhibit, most frequently in the skirts, but often for blouses or chemises, too.

There are a lot of hand-woven fabrics, which you can see on display best with the aprons, and a very specific style of applique trimmings on the cropped vest. The arm's eyes and necklines have similar proportions. The lengths are similar. Most things are cut on the rectangular, or not cut at all. Hems are often tassled, for complex weaves, or simply folded under for the white base fabrics; plain, non-white fabrics tend to get a textured applique at the hems. Lace is usually eyelet.

There are exceptions, of course. I'd love to know more about that mint green cardigan(?) from Montenegro, with the gored pieces. I think it's made of doeskin (the tight wool weave, not the leather), and I wish I could get more information on the history. Most of the larger green dyes, not counting floral motifs or minor elements of a multicolored weave, are from the Bosnian section of the display (wide stripes along the collar, for instance), presumably due to Ottoman influence leaving a large Muslim population. And then there's this mint green cardigan from Montenegro made of a fabric I'm not seeing on any other garments? Tell me more, please.

(Also, in the close-ups, you can see that the hook and eye closure has released rust stains onto the blouse!)

There are so many more pictures, but unfortunately, I have a thirty-image max and really want to talk about this one specific dress:

The image description on the floor below describes this as:

Woman's festive dress with a zlatara cap, Banat, Vojvodina, late 19th century

(I have minimal commentary on the hat. It's a traditionally Serbian vestment, but there's nothing too unusual about it.)

So, here are a few things to note at first glance:

The arm's eye on the vest is wide. It dips further in towards the neck than most vests, and swoops further down towards the ribs. Most of the traditional vests have a much tighter arm's eye.

Relatedly, the straps are much thinner than most of the vests, maybe half as wide. This is partly the arm's eye, and partly the width of the neckline to start!

The vest comes down in a slightly pointed oval ending at the swell of the bust, rather than curving back up or being a rounded shape a few inches higher. It's also finished with these little satin triangles?

The vest is laced at front, rather than hook and eye closure.

The bottom edge has tabs!

The hems on those tabs are chain stitched in yellow, and then the hem is wrapped in a thin orange ribbon that I would hesitantly say is satin? Plus all the other yellow embroidery, which to my eye looks really different from the embroidery you see on various aprons, and also different from the metallic appliques you see on most vests!

That bottom edge also appears to be straight across (most of the vests curve up slightly at front), and is very tight to the body. While some of the vests are tight, those are generally the shorter ones. Longer vests are much looser than this one, which cuts off and cinches at the waist, right where it meets the skirt.

The fabric itself! I'll get back to this but it seems to be a satin jacquard??? A jacquard that matches (in thread, not in pattern) to the skirt? Insane.

[Disclaimer: Some of these deviations, such as the arm's eye size or the dropped shoulder hem, could be a matter of the mannequin being the wrong size for the clothing. Unfortunately, I don't have enough background information to be sure. It could be just the right size. It could be far too small. I only have these photos and the most basic of background information to go off of.]

Okay moving on to the blouse:

It's not completely unique to be sheer, but it's definitely uncommon!

The chest is not pintucked or a flat weave, but rather the sheer fabric has thin stripes of more opaque weave? I don't actually remember what that's called but it's definitely cool to see.

We also see a net lace at the cuffs, which is similarly uncommon; most of the fashions I saw had eyelet lace instead (which we can see at the collar of the blouse).

The dropped shoulder! The shoulder seam sits much higher on most of the pieces I saw (there are a few exceptions, but mostly from regions nearby). In fact, most of the examples had the shoulder seam hidden, between the higher seam and the width of the vest; it's both the dropped seam and the thin straps of the vest that let us see this here!

That metallic embroidery. Again, most of the embroidery we see on the other pieces is cross stitch or done with a much thicker thread; sometimes, you get lineart, but not filled in in this manner. This kind of thin-thread embroidery that fills the space between the lines isn't common in the other pieces!

I don't think I can actually say much about the sleeve length? I feel like most of the pieces have sleeves that are full or bracelet length, while this one is a three-quarter, but I'm not 100% on that actually being true. It's a bit hard to tell in some cases. Might just be summer clothes?

The skirt:

SATIN JACQUARD

BOX PLEATS

SLIGHT OVAL HEM

SATIN RIBBON TRIM

I'm gonna be honest this was a huge part of why I began to obsess over this dress let me just. Whoo!

This fabric is, as far as I can tell, a satin jacquard, very probably machine-woven. It is very different from basically every other fabric we see in this exhibit. This is not a plain weave, and it is not a hand-woven design. This is a meticulously, mechanically repetitive pattern done using satin-weave manipulation to adjust which sections have shine and which don't. Given the time period, it's probably silk. (Take a look at this portion of a video on silk by Nicole Rudolph to understand what I mean by jacquard. If you want to know more about satin weave, you can watch the full video.)

I'd guess that the vest is made of the same type of fabric, even the same threads, just in a different pattern.

The pleating! If you take a look at the other photos, the general pattern is 'put together some rectangles, gather at top, and you have a dress. Cover with a hand-woven apron in front and possibly in back.' There are, again, some exceptions, but this dress has both the box pleating and the satin jacquard. The structure of this skirt is completely different from 90% of this exhibit.

In conjunction with the pleating, the skirt had a very slight oval shape around the bottom. I didn't get a good photo of that part, but it's typical of 1890s dresses in Western Europe to have a sort of egg-shaped hem if you look at them from above, through use of pleating, strategic panel shapes, and bum pads or petticoats. In short, the dress is just slightly longer at back without being a full-on train. Most of the other pieces, due to the rectangles and gathers, are a much simpler circle shape around bottom.

Length! Part of why the egg-shaped hem is happening is because this dress actually brushes the floor. Ankle-length is the default across the exhibit, even for formal wear.

Simple satin ribbons for decorative trim, rather than something textured, shaped, or multicolor!

Then, the actual hem of the skirt: a center-pleated green ribbon. This is, again, really different from most of the hems. Most of the skirts don't reach the ground, and aren't made of a fancy fabric. Those white dresses/skirts that form the base of most looks are easily washed and have hems that don't drag on the ground. If they aren't left to just the selvage, they're very simply hemmed; I think what I saw most frequently was a double-folded hem. The pieces that have more decorative hems, like blouses and vests and aprons, aren't pieces that get the same form of wear. However, since this dress does reach the ground, it needs a centimeter or so of additional fabric to take some of that wear to protect the fancier skirt fabric, like hem braid, which the easily-replaced ribbon could conceal for this skirt since it's a festival item.

I think that might also be part of why there's a seam about twenty centimeters up from the bottom edge; it's a replaceable section in case it needs replacement, or the seam is for a protective layer inside. However, it could also be a seam used for a stiff inner lining meant to help the skirt flare out just a touch, like this.

Now, finally, why is all this even a thing, and why do I care?

Vojvodina, the region this outfit is from, was under Austro-Hungarian control during the latter half of the 19th century; whether it was officially Hungarian, Austrian, or both changed from one decade to the next, but it was definitely under that sphere of influence for a very long time. Despite this, it was and is culturally Serbian, and is majority Serbian in terms of population; it was even back then! However, the 19th century saw a large number of ethnic Hungarians and ethnic Germans in the region as well, and the cultural impact from Vienna was not to be underestimated.

This dress is a great example of how a culturally Serbian individual would have clothing that integrated those foreign influences. For most of the Balkans, the greatest influence was the Ottomans, due to five centuries of imperial rule, but this dress is a great contrast due to Hungarian occupation, and then Austrian. It contains elements of the culture that birthed it, yes, but the influence of the West is so very, very clear.

(I wish I could talk more about the Pannonian elements in general, but I'm still learning.)

I hope you enjoyed this rambling deep dive into a single outfit from the Serbian Ethnographic Museum. Visit it if you get a chance!

And if you've read this whole thing and feel like dropping a tip, you can do so on this blog, post, or over on ko-fi. You could even join my Patreon!

#serbia #vojvodina #fashion #fashion history #the vojvodina dress #serbian stuff #balkan stuff #balkans #Banat #Hungary #Austria Hungary #austro hungarian empire #phoenix posts

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20dollarlolita · 5 months

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Hey! I’m hoping you might have a suggestion for fabrics; I’m looking for a thick cotton to make a petticoat style skirt (like those oldschool ones made of cotton with pintucks and insertion lace). I want it thick enough that the white skirt isn’t see through and it stays stiff enough to provide volume if I use it as an underskirt, but not so thick/rough it’s uncomfortable or that I can’t gather it to be frilly. There’s so many words out there- duck? Broadcloth? Canvas? Twill? I’m not sure how to describe what I’m looking for in a Google search. All I know is I definitely don’t want quilting cotton. ‘Burberry’ (which I see a lot of brands use) just turns up plaids a la the high fashion brand. Any help would be appreciated! Thank you so much!

Anyone who is interested in burbery in the lolita context should talk to @babelglyph aka burberryglyph. The short version is that burbery is a lightweight cotton twill used in a lot of old school pieces, and B.Glyph knows where to get it, as well as can provide info about why they know that the fabric they recommend is true burbery twill, as well as why it's called burbery. I remember that they know all of this but can't remember the actual answer to any of it.

As for other fabrics you mentioned: All duck is canvas but not all canvas is duck. Duck is a plain weave and other canvasses can be a twill weave of some kind. Either way, the heavier yarn and overall thick construction is what makes canvas canvas. Fun fact, "duck tape" predated the term "duct tape" and referred to tape made of duck canvas. Broadcloth is usually interchangeably with quilt cotton, though "quilt cotton" is generally a more specific term. Broadcloth can be pretty much any fiber but quilt cotton is expected to be cotton. Some people think that broadcloth has to be a single color. Twill is a weave structure, so the words that predate it are important. "stretch twill" is going to be different from "suiting twill" or "heavyweight wool twill." If you want to see a twill weave structure, generally the most accessible example of a twill structure is denim. Look at some blue jeans and you can see how there's that slanting pattern caused by the blue threads passing over 2-3 white threads before going under a white thread? That's a twill weave structure. (You then have to have it be cotton and have the two color setup to be proper denim. Technically black jeans aren't denim, they're just twill, but no one wants to get into that fight with me.)

If you're looking for cotton fabrics that aren't quilt cotton, but tend to be in that sort of lighter weight area, I'd look for:

Cotton sateen: This is cotton fibers woven in a satin weave. This has a really subtle luster and will drape better than quilt cotton,

Cotton poplin: poplin has what's called an unbalanced plain weave, so the threads are woven in the same pattern as quilting cotton, but where in quilting cotton they are the same thickness vertically and horizontally, they're different thicknesses vertical vs horizontal in poplin. This means that it hangs better, and also that it has a different drape depending on if you're using lengthwise grain or crosswise grain. Poplin is used for shirting a lot.

If you need to get thicker, you will probably want to look for lightweight twill. I'm trying to not get too into textile science, which is hard because i LOVE textile science. So stick with me for a second:

The "higher quality" a fabric generally feels, in quotes there because quality is subjective, but through history we have associated finely spun yarns with a higher quality. Thinner yarns are harder to make, and you need to use more of them to make the same size fabric as you'd make with thicker yarn. Thinner yarn has to be structurally better constructed to take the force of being woven into fabric, versus a thicker yarn. So, when we want something that feels like quality, we look for fabrics spun with a thinner yarn. This is why expensive sheets are measured in thread count: more threads per inch is a better quality sheet.

However, the problem comes when you want a thicker fabric made of thinner yarns. If you've ever had a potholder loom, you understand a plain weave: a yarn goes over one yarn, under the next, over the next, and so on. Thinner threads in a plain weave will make a thinner fabric.

However, if you start using other weave patterns, you start changing fabric properties. In a twill weave, a thread will go over two or more other threads before going under another thread. One of the side effects of this is that it's possible to fit more threads into the same space than you could fit in a plain weave, meaning that you can make a thicker fabric with thinner yarns going into the construction process.

And this means that, if you're judging a fabric thickness by weight, like you know how many ounces a yard of fabric is, a twill fabric will be made of finer yarns than a canvas fabric of the same weight.

In addition to being "higher quality", we like thinner yarns in garment construction because they're more flexible, so they make the fabric hang more like a garment and less like a canvas sack.

As a final note, when you say "provide volume as an underskirt", a twill skirt with pintucks and insertion will have some volume, but if you're doing a lolita fashion look, you'll also need petticoats under that. Some fashion styles, that added volume will be enough, but in lolita fashion, if you can get the hem of your skirt to be 10" away from your legs in all direction, you're probably approaching the correct level of poof.

(But for what it's worth, if you're trying to add some more volume on a cotton underskirt that's not for lolita fashion, pintucks will make the same skirt have more volume. Creating that rigid-ish line that goes in the direction opposite of what the skirt would naturally want to fold, especially if you make several of those lines in a close spacing, will hold the skirt out and make it have more lift. Just a fun fact there. If you want to get as much volume as possible out of this, you will want to use many small pintucks, as well as the stiffest insertion that you can find. Skirts want to be small and make lots of soft vertical folds, so applying horizontal decoration that makes that folding harder to do will add volume).

I don't know how much of that was answering the ask and how much was just Pink Loves Textile Science 2023(tm)

#ask #textile science

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mkcannothelpyou · 7 months

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ars sanguinea (Abyssal Hunters)

AK/Kinktober 2023, Day 3: “Lingerie”

"There will not be damages."

Crouched down, Laurentina traces a nail down through a fold in her Captain's slip. This is her finger, one of five digits of flesh and bone of a hand betrothed to the arts, and where Laurentina's finger goes, her sculptor's mind follows.

"Why not? I think it would look so flattering in shreds. Picture it, well and truly tattered. Its internal weave hanging off in ways it was never meant to. It's rare, you know, for something so complicated to be destroyed, and still work. I think that really speaks to a sense of permanence."

If she were to describe it at a gallery, anyway. Her finger twirls, stirring a wave in the sea.

Unconsciously, she murmurs—"…It's a pretty lttle thing. Jet-black as the surface under a starless sky." Gazing up, she peers at Gladiia's countenance with an open, teethy smile. "I really don't remember you owning this, Captain—where did you find something with such taste?"

"The tailors of dry land can improvise adaptations to Ægir forms with… acceptable competence."

Laurentina throws her gaze sideways, dissects. "Acceptable? That's a cold, cold term for a work this passionate. Won't you throw its maker the tiniest bone? I've seen landwalkers react in the funniest ways when complimented."

The hollow of Gladiia's hand takes Laurentina's chin. That's her version of a warning. "Shark. The process of my acquiring this garment was unpleasant, inefficient and insulting of basic intelligence. I will not entertain your suggestion of sentimentality."

"Well, I think you just described the essence of any tailor there," Laurentina grins. She gets a slap across the face for that, an act in their lingua corporea that is less than paying a price. Only a ceremonial gesture, an invitation for circulating blood, a flavour of ritual to set the tenor of tonight. This violence is hunter on hunter. Her inner cheek buzzes with raw flesh.

Her Captain's stony stare is a verbal enough response - if a word could mean "discipline" five times over, Gladiia is effortlessly wielding it.

"That's not fair, I didn't even rip a thread yet. Am I sensing some impatience, perhaps? Careful, Captain, set me straight too quickly and your nightgown will be hard-pressed to catch up," Laurentina chuckles. She nestles her head against one leg, closing her eyes and gently rubbing the spurned cheek against it. It's a fine piece. Anything satin enough to spill past you like water has to be worth something.

Oh, there's something else too. "Shark, you are advised to recognise—"

"This is all you're wearing, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Orca would love this."

One last nuzzle, thinking of how lovely little Skadi would assume to work through the fabric and bite and tear to get to the stony Swordfish beneath, then Laurentina rocks back upright on her feet.

"If you wanted any accidental damages to punish, I'm afraid you chose just the wrong slaughterer—I carve with a level of precision my eyes strain to even see."

"I will not object if this gown survives to the point of reuse," is Gladiia's plain response.

"How utilitarian."

#BDSMKinktober #arknights

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ladyluscinia · 2 years

Text

I've made my opinion on the whole "Edward's true self is a soft marshmallow center" / "Izzy is in love with a fake persona and hates the real Ed" take pretty clear (put simply: Absolutely Not) but it's still pretty popular and I tend to read meta even when I disagree. Which means I've noticed a very specific argument that I want to comment on.

So, generally, the process of justifying woobie Ed going Kraken places blame firmly on Izzy due to the whole cabin confrontation. Some people weave this into an elaborate manipulative scheme / straight up forcing him via threats, while others are more generous (?) and just classify Izzy's explosion as Ed buckling under an atmosphere of social pressure. (I disagree pretty firmly with both.) Either way, there is one detail / accusation that I see repeated a lot:

Apparently, Izzy makes his opinion of who he really wants clear by shoving the horrible caricature picture from episode 4 - the picture that Edward was clearly distressed by - in Edward's face in an act of intimidation / deliberate re-traumatizing.

Except.... he doesn't?

This is the picture from 1x04 and accompanying quote:

"God... Is this what they think I look like? Hm? Fucking viking vampire clown with - Look at that. There's one, two, three, four... nine guns all over him. Nine guns?! I have - I, I have one gun, and one knife. Just like everyone else."

And here is the image that Izzy confronts Edward with in 1x10 (and Edward pins to the wall during his makeover):

That's no Mad Devil Pyrate with nine guns and a head of demonic smoke. That's a guy with one gun and one knife.

Self-indulgent meta-ish thoughts under the cut

Honestly, I noticed the difference in images immediately on my first watch, which meant I did not draw this (questionably) implied connection at all. When Izzy was spitting about how "This is Blackbeard!" I was pretty much shrugging and conceding his point. Because, like, he's not wrong. That is a picture of Blackbeard pretty much as we met him in 1x04, symbolic skull aside symbolic skull included because the man keeps one on his office desk for kicks that I forgot about briefly.

There's something very interesting about the fact that Izzy goes for such a plain image. There's no fancy title. No horror. Hell, on inspection I think that image shows Edward's tattoos and single sleeve outfit??? I was wondering if the show made that art themselves and now I think they must have.

(I think they made both images, because the first one is harder to tell but might also have the sleeve / tattoos thing - just less accurate. However it's also clearly based on the A General History of the Pyrates illustrations from the 1700s where he has like six guns on his chest, while the second one is more show specific.)

And what does that say about Izzy??? A whole library of books on pirate legends and he gravitates to the image of Edward that seems to have been drawn by someone who actually met him? That's based on the guy he actually served under / loves, not the myth they spread around the ocean together???

Like holy fuck, when Izzy says "This is Blackbeard" he means it wholly literally. The guy in that image is the man he knew for years, while the guy standing in front of him is a complete fucking stranger in a pink robe, and he's been waiting for however many days for the depression fog to clear enough to see if there's even a trace of his boss / friend / love left post-Stede. Instead "Ed" makes his first appearance on the deck after the breakup and sings a song about his feelings and then earnestly asks why they are being pirates.

I still think Izzy started that conversation with intent to resign. He'd completely given up - not on the "Blackbeard" persona, but on the Edward he knew that had earned the title (and his respect and devotion alongside it). Not for being some kind of horrible devil, but for being brilliant, and the greatest sailor he'd ever known, and the Captain he was loyal to above all else. Izzy is lost at sea, and there's sure as fuck nothing keeping him on this particular boat anymore.

And then, pretty much purely by accident, he pisses Edward off just enough that his "Ed" mask slips and...

"There he is."

#our flag means death #seriously people. you do not have to agree with me but *please* stop saying they are the same picture #it's driving me nuts #izzy hands ofmd #blackbeard ofmd #edward teach #ofmd 1x04 #ofmd 1x10 #my meta #ladyluscinia #oh and (despite thinking it's *not*) i'll also throw this under #parallels #ofmd meta #blackhands

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eccentrickleptomaniac · 9 months

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Could you give a head cannon for Chechnya, Dagestan, Circassia, and other Russian republics

?!?:@#?:@?!:@?:#?@:! COCONUT?????? GHI I THOUGHT YOU DIED

anyways ya they'll each be a paragraph long (under the cut cuz itll probs be long)

chechnya (the russian republic) is actually the child of the chechen republic of ichkeria. ichkeria died after the second chechen war was over. chechnya on her own is a very excitable person. she is very intrigued by kosovo and finds herself often around them primarily out of curiosity. she tells kosovo about her mother a lot and how lovely she was to her. she doesn't live with russia and instead has the status of "annexed country", meaning she's stuck in the real world, making communication pretty difficult. she manages though! still tries her best despite it all. actually pretty smart as well, good at weaving her way out of situations.

circassa, ooohg. she's mysterious to say da least.. she was a sister of the russian empire and ussr, very much ignored by the other two. she never talked much, preferring glances well enough to shut up a curious bystander in one look. she was very self-centered and always believed what she did was right, but you wouldnt know that due to her mysteriousness. she didn't have many friends nor allies and it led to her demise sometime in the late 1800s against the russian empire. in death she's still very mysterious but it appears more timid now. if she sees someone she'll probably just disintegrate and teleport away. her daughter (adygea) lives on, hardened by the experience but not deterred in the slightest.

karelia is.. odd? she does not act russian in the slightest. what that constitutes is different for everyone but pretty much everyone agrees that.. yeah that girl does not act like she'd belong under russian rule. she's staunchly happy and slightly passive aggressive but overall fine to be around. she talks to the finnish karelias a lot. they're her besties thru and fucking THROUUUUGH. outside of that she doesnt have many friends though ):

dagestan is curious at heart. if he's not out and about writing notes there is no doubt he's pressing a former soviet republic for info about their past. and i mean, they usually give it to him, he spends a lot of time doing this and learning about the others. he has a fuck ton of blackmail against them its actually kinda funny. he also loves to learn new languages! occasionally in his spare time he translates things into different languages. avid nonenglish wikipedia editor.

komi is like... silly.., every definition of the word she is silly. she loves tree climbing and food. perhaps she's one of the countries with the random cat gene? im not super sure though. it'd be fun though! she likes to glomp people and also body slam them. she's ironically pretty harmless but at first you wouldn't be the first to assume that she would kill you without hesitation.. she COULD but she probably wouldn't because she's nice and rarely loses her temper.

do we count crimea? i'll talk about her i suppose 😭 she's a sailor at heart. knows many curse words in many different languages and nothing else. she hasn't been seen much since her annexation by russia but from what people remember she was a very hearty person, loved a good joke and was rather strong on her own accord. she spoke very few languages aside from the one everyone knows, russian and ukrainian were her only strong suits. she was impulsive, fun, and generally well liked.

mari el is plain. she's known for not much honestly. she's not boring or anything, but nothing out of the ordinary either. she's very go-with-the-flow-y and prefers to stay in the background. she has no strong opinions on anything but her clothes are pretty and her smile is heavenly. she's known among the other russians for being kind and willing to take in anyone if they're hurt, even if someone like her "father" (not really) might consider them an enemy.

bashkortostan has the most power out of the republics due to being the most populous. everyone kind of treats him like a big brother, even if he's not older than the others, it's assumed dhe's more well liked than the others by russia. and so, if they need something or have a complaint, they go to him! he listens intently and overall? good sibling. people like him and he likes people.

altai is very good at surprising people with her capabilities. while nothing special, she does love a good adventure. she's pretty much always out and about and her and dagestan often go on hikes together and note different plant and animal species together in the many notebooks they have. you cannot handle the uber instincts of their uber autism. (ahem slash joke)

ill do the rest later theres a lot of them 😭 also these might not be super accurate like? history wise? yada yada i hope ya still enjoy

#essen talks #ch hcs

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toointojoelmiller · 9 months

Text

please don't go: a last of us fic

chapter 10

after David / Silver Lake / post-episode 8

angst, Joel & Ellie bonding, 99% canon compliant

rating: mature - content warnings re: s/a, violence, more

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 | ch 9 | ch 10 | ch 11

link to whole story (work in progress) on AO3

-----

Joel’s been ignoring it for too long, now, and his body is screaming it at him - he's freezing.

He makes sure things are in order quickly - pistol next to Ellie - still just lying there, looking at nothing - he’s got his knife on him, rifle in reach. Flashlight. The first aid kit container - a bit more melted - not nearly enough, since he keeps forgetting to actually put it under the blanket with him, goddammit. He takes a few gulps from the thermos - pacing himself still so he doesn’t get sick - the nausea is constant. Needs to keep enough on hand for Ellie, today, anyway.

He takes one of the paper maps from under the shelf before he settles, groaning again, down on the floor in front of the door like he had been all night. Knees bent up, feet flat - wraps the blanket around himself so he’s huddled in it - shivers starting to run through him and settle in deep. He tucks the first aid kit under his knees, close enough to his body it might stand a chance to thaw more.

He needs to take a few deep inhales, waiting for the lightheaded feeling to fade a bit. After a few minutes - feeling less at risk of passing out again - he flips on the flashlight again and unfolds the map.

Crimson Ridge runs across the top. It’s a campsite map - “Crimson Ridge Campground & Park” - a few loops of road that connect with each other, dozens of little rectangles marking off sites. Near the bottom corner of the map there’s a box that reads “Ride the Shuttle!” next to a little bus symbol, and a few destinations listed out: Golden Ascent Trail. Alpine Serenity Reservoir. Silver Lake Resort.

There are two little squares marked near the road leading in to the campground - Registration Office & Outfitters Store. The odds of anything being there still, untouched after 20 years, are slim to none - the remoteness of this little outpost they had come across was all that kept it from being wiped clean years ago, he’s sure. He has no doubt that people in the area would have fled to the campground at different times over the years after the outbreak - maybe trying to get away from other people, knowing they couldn’t make it trying to survive in the actual wilderness. Might have met a quick end, if they were lucky.

Most weren’t.

But, even if there’s nothing inside - could be four walls and a roof. Could be another place for them to shelter - if it’s close enough to where they are now to make it on foot. And where they are now is… where, exactly? - he scans his eyes around the map - glances up at the one on the wall - considers standing to look at it closer but still a bit too shaky - needs a minute to work up to that. He looks back to the map in front of him, and sees a little arrow, pointing along the main road and off the edge of the map, labelled “Hiking and Backcountry Camping access point (4.6 m.)”

He takes a guess and flips the map over - there we go.

It’s like the one on the wall. A park map, alright - plain to tell from up close, now that’s he really paying attention to it. Colour coded trails weaving out in different directions from a little red building symbol marked Trail Information / Overnight Registration - right beside the little yellow star marking their spot.

So - about 5 miles, then, to get from here to that campground, if that’s the right way to go. He doesn’t like it - the snow is going to make it hard enough, all on it’s own. With how hurt Ellie is - and him, still so fucking weak - they were going to be slow.

If this building worked as a registration office for campers and hikers, it must mean there’s a parking lot somewhere, right? Would have to be walking distance, if this is the check-in point - maybe used to be a trail for visitors to trek on the way.

He’s right - finds a “P” symbol on a beige rectangle. There’s a faint line trailing from it - the parking area at the end of some side road, maybe? - eventually it connects to a sliver of the main road, just barely included at the bottom corner of the map. The same main road shown on the campground map.

About two miles, maybe, from here to that road. Bit less.

Hmm.

He looks up, finds Ellie is still laying awake and looking at the wall.

“Ellie?” She turns her head to look at him. “Can - d’you feel a map in the coat pocket?”

She stares at him for a few seconds before she starts to feel around the jacket. Pulls out the state map from one of the interior pockets - thank god he hadn’t lost it - imagine that being how he got them killed.

“Thanks - toss it here?” He asks, but she doesn’t move.

He waits a few seconds, and then feels a bit uneasy as she continues to stay still and quiet.

“You - ok? I’ll - I can come get it, it’s alright,” he says, starting to push himself up to his feet, clenching his teeth as he feels the hurt throb in his gut. It’s getting fucking old.

Standing, now - and she’s still not moving. He tries not to look overly concerned but feels the worry starting to build.

She bites her lip and looks down at herself.

“I - have your coat?” It comes out as a question.

“Uh - yeah, it’s - s’alright, Ellie - just -”

She’s dropped the map and is shrugging her way out of the coat already. When she gets it off she throws it towards him, but doesn’t say anything.

He’s a bit baffled, here - not sure what is going on and afraid to say the wrong thing.

But she breaks the quiet first. “Why? All night?”

Oh. This, again.

“Yeah - these sleeping bags are plenty warm enough. You don’t h-”

“You went - outside, before - without a coat?” There’s a bit of an angry edge to her voice.

He responds in a slow, quiet tone - “Yeah, baby - it was -”

“Why would you do that, Joel -” she almost whines at him - “I don’t want -” looks for all the world like she might start to cry again, “it’s - you need a coat, I don’t - because of me -”

“It’s ok, Ellie - I was fine, you needed it more -”

“Not the whole time!” She says, exasperated. Then continues in a quiet, stubborn sounding voice, “Don't. That's fucking stupid. We both need a coat. If - if we have one - we share it. ”

She’s nearly glaring at him as she says it, and he wants to tell her how wrong she is - he would never wear it if it meant she would suffer without it - but he’s died on enough hills to know this one isn’t worth it. Surrenders.

She’ll wear it when they’re out. As long as she’s tucked in the sleeping bag like this she should be ok with her sweater - he’ll make sure she is.

“Alright,” he says. Goes to pick up the coat from where she tossed it, biting back another groan.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“Just - takin’ a look at the map - tryin’ to see where we might - get back on the road, when we do.” She looks at him with a bit of a cloudy expression.

Ellie always wanted to be included - help out. He’d learned that about her time and again since they’d met, and she’d always enjoyed looking over their maps in the truck, on the road - running her fingers along different routes, trying to pronounce the names of different cities, asking him if she got it right.

He worries that it might upset her - seeing the resort location, wrapping her head around where they were - where she’d been taken - the distance from here and where they had come. But he knows her well enough to guess that she’ll ask soon anyway - probably just take the map and figure it out on her own when he’s sleeping. It’s not something he can keep from her.

And she should know, anyway. Needs to know - if something happens to him.

“Did you - d’you wanna look with me?”

She nods with no hesitation.

“Mind if I come over?” He asks, and she shifts up off of his pack to sit more upright - almost looking eager.

Map and flashlight in one hand, coat in the other - he uses a foot to roll the thermos over to Ellie’s, kicking his sleeping-bag over too. Trying to minimize the amount of times he’s bending and standing - Jesus he’s in rough shape - hopes she doesn’t notice. He carefully slides the first aid kit over so it’s near where he’s going to sit - then he does one last scan of the tiny space, decides to nudge a few of the remaining glucose-tubes over from the first-aid-kit-supplies pile - makes sure they're within reach of Ellie (careful to avoid the little pile of spit and water she’d puked on the floor - stomach clenching with a pulse of guilt when he sees it.)

He can’t hold in another grunt as he sits next to her and she gives him a worried look that he ignores.

He tugs the blanket up to cover him again - makes sure it’s overlapping plenty onto her, too - she’s still in the sleeping bag but her upper body is uncovered with the way she is sitting up now. He slides the first aid kit safely under the blanket next to his legs - and then he gives the coat an exaggerated shake before draping it onto them both - half on her (she’s so small it easily crosses her whole torso), half on him.

“Sharing - see?” He says pointedly, raising his eyebrows at her. Gets an actual eye roll from her, and she wiggles closer, leaning into his side a bit. He feels warmer.

“Ok,” he holds up the paper map of the park - finds he doesn't really need the flashlight over here, with the sky brightening by the second and more light coming in the window. He points out the star marking their location - has to awkwardly worm his arm out from under the bottom of the coat to point, trying not to jostle it off of her. She holds onto it a little from the inside, keeping it in place.

“Crimson Ridge,” she says, reading from the top.

“Mhm,” he confirms, “guess this building was, ah - a place to register for camping? If people - took a trip. People would drive and park, and then walk a bit to get here. So -” he points to the little “P” on the beige rectangle - “this is a parking lot, and a road - probably the easiest way to get back onto a main road from here. If - if that’s what we do.”

“How far is it?” She asks him.

“Mile or two.”

She nods, says quietly, “Ok - and then… where… does the road go?”

He flips over the map to show the campground side - she furrows her brow a bit.

“Well, some old campground for sure - but that’s far as I got - gotta look on the other map and see if we can figure that out.”

She nods a little, then asks, “How far is - this?”

He’s struggling to get the state map unfolded to the section that he needs - it’s gotten badly creased and the folds aren’t cooperating.

“The campground?” He asks to clarify, and she nods again. “About - little under 5 miles.”

She twists her mouth a bit at that. “Not far - but - far,” she says.

He thinks that sums it up perfectly.

“Here -” he shakes the park map at her a bit, and she reaches her arm out to take it in her hand. "Hold this - need both mine for a sec.”

Finally he gets it open to the section he needs. He points it out to her, and she’s looking at it with curiosity.

He clears his throat. “Ok,” - it takes him a second to find it - “The - the university. Here.” He touches the spot on the paper, throat feeling a bit tight. He glances at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t say anything - just looks where he’s pointed.

He leans over to look for a road number on the park map, and then returns to the state one, scanning his eyes over it.

He sees the blood before he remembers it - and then it’s too late to try to hide it from her. The little dots smeared around, marking the resort. Marked by a dead man. The blood has dried, brown more than red, at least - he hopes she won’t notice it.

The blood spots narrow his search zone, though - he finds the road number easily. Puts a finger on it, and traces it. And there it is - a faint, dotted line mapping the border of the park - Crimson Ridge.

“Here,” he says, voice tight. “We’re - somewhere here.”

She looks at the spot he’s pointing to, and he sees her eyes flicks back to the university.

And then she asks, because it’s Ellie - “Where did … you find me?"

He slides his finger back to the blood spots. Barely has to move it.

His brain is doing the work automatically - no longer half frozen to death, the “couple of miles” he had taken note of when he first checked out the wall map yesterday seems horrifyingly, dangerously small. It took him and Ellie hours - four, maybe longer, he guesses, in their state - impossible to really tell with how panicked and cold he’d been -

If anyone from that resort was coming - and he can think of more than one motive that might be sending men after them, all shards of fear pushing into him - revenge, for whoever’s blood was all over Ellie, and for the blood he’d sprayed too - hunger, for fucks sake - and reasons he can’t let his mind go to but that feel like jaws snapping at their fucking heels -

They might have taken the rest of yesterday to lick their wounds, too - but anyone who wanted to tail them would be heading out today, no doubt, he thinks. They wouldn’t be injured - moving faster. They could get here - to them - at any time - probably wouldn’t even hear them coming from in here.

It makes him feel like he’s drowning.

��Get some water down, Ellie,” he says. “And - another of those sugar things, too - if you can.” He feels like he’s hearing himself on a couple-seconds-long delay.

He needs to move - do something. Now. He pushes himself up to his feet quickly, a bit recklessly - Ellie leans back to avoid getting jostled by his sudden shift.

“I think -” he says, “We should get some ice on you - that ok? If - if we get ahead of the swelling a bit it’ll - it’ll help.”

If it comes to it - if there’s a threat - she needs to be able to move - there’s no way she can move.

He feels paralyzed.

She looks up at him, says, “Ok.”

He almost takes a step forward before he says “I’m - I’m going to get snow - make a bit of, ah - an ice pack thing. I’ll just - be out for a second. That alright?”

She hesitates, then nods - reaches her arm out, handing him the coat.

----

link to whole story (work in progress) on AO3

#last of us fanfiction #joel and ellie #tlou #tlou fic #ellie and joel #dad joel

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protonpowered · 1 year

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For the ask game: 4, 25, 28?

Thank you for the ask! It's been something for me to mull over at work today. This answer got quite long so I put it under a read more

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

I don't know if this means good feral or bad feral, but I can't think of a bad feral right now so lets talk good.

A word by itself cannot make me go a good feral, its about the context and the connotations.

In this case, Want, and all its variations (wanting, wanted, etc).

I have had part of a phrase stuck in my head for a while - “wanting to be wanted” - I don't know what brought it on exactly. I suppose it's one of those basic desires, isn't it? Everyone wants to be wanted, at least to some degree, and when no-one wants you I suppose you pine for it. In the context of my current writing and WIPs, I suppose Ranger Nefarious would embody that phrase of “wanting to be wanted”, particularly in later chapters.

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

If I am limited to only one, then probably how my version of Captain Qwark is really into lingerie. It has little to no bearing at all upon the overall plot of Ranger Days and beyond, it's more just of a fun aside. He has quite the collection in his condo, of all sorts of colours, fabrics, and styles. He enjoys collecting it, admiring it, wearing it when he has the chance and when he can get something in his size that can withstand his musculature. There is quite the collection in his condo, but the most part he is rather quiet about it. Everyone has their own private hobbies and joys, don't they?

The idea grew naturally out from his canon penchant for going in disguise in various feminine outfits, Nurse Shannon in ACiT, the maid outfit in UYA. I imagine he goes all in on such disguises, right down to the underwear. The only bit that isn't changed, obviously, is his cowl.

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

This is a two part answer because I don't have just the one anymore.

Doctor Nefarious is my primary answer. He has been living rent free in my head since maybe 2017 or so, it's been years and it was after the movie+game was released. When a character lives that long in your head it eventually feels natural when writing them. When I am in the right space, I can hear his voice in my head as I write out his dialogue (Or not, and if not then it probably isn't something he would say). Even without that he is fun to write. I haven't properly gotten around to writing Doctor Nefarious, rather I've been writing Ranger Nefarious, but there's still shades of the later doctor in there that I'm weaving through as I write Ranger Days. Ranger Days is a corruption arc, fallen hero, type of a story.

But whether he is a Doctor or a Ranger, Nefarious is just plain fun to write and imagine scenarios with. He's loud, exuberant, funny, intelligent, doesn't give up no matter how many times the universe sends someone to kick him down, has good chemistry with his counterpart Lawrence. I could go on but this ask post is getting long and I'm not even finished yet.

Emperor Nefarious is my secondary answer. I have only recently started actually properly writing him and thus thinking as he does so I can get his voice and character right. Whilst he has some similarities to the doc, there are some key differences too. In my drafts on my unnamed Rivet and Emps fic, he's the constant winner now dealing with the personal, messy aftermath of being a first-time loser. He's bitter, he's a mess (mentally and physically), if he wasn't an alcoholic before, he is now, but even with all that he's still gloating bitch we all love, even if it's perhaps not to the same degree. He does get better during the fic to at some extent and becomes at least somewhat more functioning, literally and mentally. It's going to be a balancing act of portraying a broken man trying to pull himself back together after a crushing defeat, and pulling out the old playfulness and humour of his mannerisms in his Emperor days.

As a newer favourite character, he's still something of a puzzle and a challenge to work out, I'm still getting to know the ins and out of his character and mannerisms, and that in itself has been fun. I try to be as authentic as I can whenever I write characters, so with major characters especially I try to dig deep and understand them in order to portray them accurately. I'm looking forward to the challenge of writing the Emperor-Who-No-Longer-Is.

#asks #skeleton-in-a-hoodie #doctor nefarious #emperor nefarious #captain qwark #i feel like i could go on a whole spiel about gender in Ranger Days but i dont know yet just how much will actually get written #into the story so i'll save that spiel for another time #i have many intense in depth thoughts about nefarious and many stupid thoughts as well #to cover both bases #he is simultaneously smart and stupid so its only natural in that regard

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tundrakatiebean · 1 year

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What do you mean about 2/2 twill lasting longer?

Regarding this post

The short answer is that there are more threads involved per inch which means it takes more effort to wear a hole through all of them. Just like a bigger cable can handle more weight because there’s more bits working together that if one fails there’s more bits there to take up the task and support.

The long answer I’m putting under a cut lol because I’ll need to explain weave structures a bit

Ok so plain or tabby weave is the most well known weave structure. This is the “under over under over” pattern a lot of us were taught in little craft projects as kids. The under over refers to how the weft or woof (horizontal) threads are being placed in the warp (vertical) threads.

Twills, in contrast, have a different and set under over pattern. The most common is 1/3 twill. The 1 is one under to 3 over for the weft thread. This pattern allows the threads to get packed tightly together in the weft making it more durable. 1/3 twill is what’s used for almost all denim because it’s so good for hard wear. The 2/2 twill I want to do for the project i mentioned would mean 2 under to 2 over which is a good wear mid-ground between tabby and 1/3 twill.

I even made a little diagram because I know this is easier to see than hear explained lol

Twill is pretty easy to spot because the pattern makes little diagonal lines in the fabric that are usually visible to the eye like with the plaid pictured.

If you have any more specific questions about this feel free to ask!

#anon #riddle me this #katie weaves #hoping the read more bug is fixed lol #if not sorry for the long ass post

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lunaaaistyping · 2 years

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My Star Girl

Bruce Wayne x Selina Kyle Smut | Alternate Universe

Warnings: SMUT/ NSFW

A/N: Please note that this piece is Part One of my series "My Star Girl". Please message me if your interested in a Part Two.

I welcome any feedback and suggestions for this piece and/or for future stories.

Enjoy! :)

The Batman/Bruce Wayne POV:

Your name echoes in between my short intervals of unconsciousness. Your name calling out to me like it craves my touch. Your name like a bat-signal that's permanently ingrained in my mind. I feel my head slowly beginning to clear, only for it to be replaced by my whirlwind of emotions. Am I brave enough to let my vulnerability show? Am I enough for her? I just need to see her. Any rationality I have left must be put aside. My intuition has not failed me yet. My desire is far too strong for my Selina.

After sensing the concrete that I now lie under, I use a portion of my remaining strength to push myself up off the now bloodied concrete. My knuckles slightly buckling under the pressure. My breath heaves from the tremendous physical effort it requires while I vigorously wipe the warm blood that has trickled down my neck. I need to find Selina. I've got to see her. I'll do whatever it takes to be the unwavering safety of her warm arms.

As I stand I now begin to stagger towards my motorcycle, managing to find the inner strength once more to grip the handlebars. I turn the key as the engine roars to life. The sound firing my newly found awareness into action. I must tell Selina everything I'm almost too afraid to admit. I don't want to waste a second more.

Adrenaline courses through my body as I take off and start to pick up speed. The impending and inevitable fear I previously had in me is diminishing in consequence. My love for Selina replaces it completely. I quicken the pace as I weave through the towering city skyscrapers. Gotham City, my home in its full moonlight night. Its blinding city lights that attempt to brighten the darkness that still remains hidden behind every corner, the violence that has ensued for years can still be felt in the crisp night air. But hope lies above me in Gotham City. The stars have created a path. That path has led me to you, Selina.

It is a miracle I will forever be grateful for.

As I come to sudden stop at your apartment, I shudder quietly. I roughly turn off the engine and dismount. My need to express my unequivocal love to her before she leaves this city again quickens my steps.

The rise and fall of my heavy boots make my dark cape lightly swish behind me. I must get a glimpse her once more or I'll forever regret it.

Everything I have ever thought, felt or seen throughout my continued existence now feels lifeless. It lacks meaning because of the plain truth that Selina is not in my life.

She's close to me now, yet so far. I can only ask if she will stay by my side.

Selina makes it bearable in the darkest of times while simultaneously bringing out the buried light inside me. "Please help her understand," I whisper as I look up into the never-ending sky.

"Make our love true, real and as infinite as the stars."

Cat Woman/Selina Kyle POV:

My eyes softly flutter open to the fast steps of an unknown person outside...

I haven't been unable to fall into a deep slumber for months on end. Even when I eventually doze off, I dream he is gripping my hand and looking through my eyes at the abandoned skyscraper, his eyes telling me to be brave. When I wake, I always end up feeling a deep and prolonged loss. Long after waking, it still remains... I just can't seem to shake the feeling.

In my soul, I know it is the loss of Bruce. It has always been Bruce.

Ever since I met him, we were inseparable, like kindred spirits. Even when darkness loomed over Gotham City, he brought out the hidden tenderness in me. I've never had a relationship with a person where I've truthfully been unafraid to confide everything in, until I met him. I'd always been content with being independent and free from the many burdens of a relationship, but that has now changed.

I can and will continue to take care of myself, but ever since I met Bruce, I have begun to forget a life without him.

That was until we parted ways. I went to explore the world in all its wondrous beauty it had to offer, but Bruce stayed behind, bound by his duty of responsibility and loyalty towards Gotham City.

I dearly wished for him to go, but he was adamant. Truthfully, the only reason I came back was to see him once more. I yearn to see the way his eyes sparkle when he's filled with the joy that still remains with him; to hear his soft words of kindness in my ear; to feel his hot breath against my neck; to notice how much being in his arms gives me an overwhelming sense of safety.

I craved him.

... I quickly sprung out of the comfort of bed, peeling away the sheets. My room was still dark, but it had enough light to see the moonlight peeking out behind the white linen of the curtains.

I rest both feet on the ground, the action giving a soft creak as I stand to see the source of the mystery noise.

Being a burglar is an incredibly dangerous job. You constantly have to watch your tail for anyone who will not be afraid to rat you out for your supposed "wrongdoing." For me, it was an act of survival and I will always help a friend. A job like that helps me silently see, it is needed in moments of unsafety, like these.

I carefully shifted a piece of my curtain that was slightly flapping in the cool open breeze. I take this time to peek out onto my balcony and into the looming city streets below.

My breath hitches in my throat as I take in a sudden rush of air. I see a figure kneeling stiffly while balancing on the railings, his dark eyes focusing on the ground below. His head started moving slowly upwards, so his eyes were positioned directly facing me. I notice his black cape swaying lightly in the wind.

Bruce.

Bruce and his green eyes were completely boring into mine with desire.

I can now see clearly the person I've been dreaming about for months. The person I've been obsessing over. The person I came back for.

I've been savouring every moment that we shared on the tower in Gotham City; it has been replayed over and over in my mind. The kiss with Bruce awoke deep feelings of pure serenity, but I feared the very emotion I felt would be lost forever. Until now...

"Selina."

Bruce's soft voice ripples across the balcony like light ocean waves at sea, with his wave trying to reach me, trying to be strong enough to surround me. His green eyes are now looking at me in pure desperation. I lean my back up against the wall opposite him, disbelief surely now written all along my face.

I exhaled a breath before finally confessing. “ I came back...” I say breathlessly. “I came back for you and only you.”

My mask of fake contempt now completely falls to the ground, replacing the raw and vulnerable side of me. I'm sick of masking my true feelings for him. I no longer want to hide; I want to be set free from this cage I have created for myself. I refuse to be a prisoner that is caged by her own mind.

Bruce does not waste a second more. He steps onto the small, peach-colored tiles of the balcony, his black books walking in small yet purposeful strides.

I notice how his bat mask hides the sin-filled secrets. I notice how darkness follows him like a corrupt cloud. I notice how his face and eyes never carry any hate when he looks at me. It's like our potent love for one another grows with every glance. A secretly shared miracle for us to have miraculously found.

Bruce continues to slowly creep up, slamming me against the stiffness of the brick wall. The amour of his suit was now heavily pressed up against my chest. Bruce directs his entire attention on me, his body exerting darkness but tinged with such ferocious desire. From this sudden act of proximity, I now feel my heart beating as deep as a pounding drum. Bruce's breathing now begins to match mine in all its intensity. He inches his face ever so slightly towards my lips, his breath now softly tingling against the right side of my ear. From the look of bewilderment in his eyes, I giggle, silently realising the fact that Bruce completely acted on his desire in the moment, without any regard for the potential repercussions of his own unforeseen actions.

I continually try and then fail to comprehend the situation at hand. My mind is racing and currently gone completely blank.

Why does Bruce have this overwhelming effect on me?

The Batman/Bruce Wayne POV:

Shit! What did I just do? What was I thinking by slamming her against the wall like that? She must feel disgusted and uneasy at my sudden advances. I really don't want to fuck this up right now, but now I'm terribly afraid I just did.

My hands pleadingly clench themselves around her waist, the leather on her suit matching mine. I can't help but feel this constant craving to be near her, to be closer to her, to feel the touch of her soft lips, to have the bliss of having her silky hair touching my cheek... I can’t stand this overwhelming tension; it's suffocating me.

But I promised myself I would show my true feelings to her.

I muster up the courage that I found beneath the stars.

The deep roughness of my voice breaks the tension between us.

"Selina"... I utter gently. "I am crazy about you." "I want you too."

I see a glimmer of lust fill Selina's eyes, which is the answer and the cease of all my doubts.

The magnetic force between us pulls us strongly towards each other, finally closing that dreaded gap that has kept us apart for so long. My lips are now completely surrendered to the sweetness of hers. Our mouths tightly lock together. A small moan sounds from her, finding its way to me, hence giving me any want of encouragement. Our foreheads press warmly together as my lips begin to sway with hers. This overwhelming sensation is occurring repeatedly, and yet I still can't seem to get enough of it. I continue to kiss her with such intensity that she fully opens her mouth, giving me complete access. I find her tongue as it tangles with mine.

I can no longer go through life without this euphoric feeling... I just can't.

Cat Woman/Selina Kyle POV:

His dominant mouth finds my tongue as I tangle mine with his. Small moans begin to rise in his throat as he makes a vain attempt to quiet them. His kisses continuously deepen, both of us not wanting to come up for air for the fear of it coming to a halt. I am starting to understand that this is his way of conveying every single feeling of tenderness he has for me. At this moment, this is his way of showing me his raw feelings and I am truly relishing in it.

Bruce's gloved leather hand begins to trail down from my waist, firmly gripping my left thigh as I feel myself getting pushed up higher against the brick wall, with my waist now directly opposite his. Mischieviously, I use my legs to wrap around his waist, my feet crossing tightly behind him. I want to use every chance I have to get closer to him. I need to be closer to him.

After getting a hidden reaction from him I still want to tease him further even after seizing the perfect opportunity from him. I need to get a reaction. I smirk as I strongly press my hips just above his groin and begin to slowly grind against him. He gasps loudly at the unforeseen movement of mine. My smirk now gets wider as his eyes find mine and he realises what I'm up to. He growls deeply and leans backwards, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

"Selina," he mumbles in my hair, as he thrusts against my hips. "Selina," he says, as he says, as our grinds begin to match, "Selina," he says, as he begins to speed up.

To be continued...

#smut #batman #catwoman #batman x catwoman #fluff #bruce x selina #bruce wayne #selina kyle #selina wayne #batman 2022 #selina x bruce #multiple povs

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taliadoesrpgs · 2 years

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@quantumvaudeville finished the next set of Deedee’s DE style skills which means I get to show you more No Truce With The Furries

Here are the Spirit skills. Enjoy.

Empathy Understand others. Share - and thereby lessen - pain. Good for: Clerics, Therapists, Diplomats, Bleeding Hearts

Empathy lets you see into the hearts and souls of others, and more easily wear your own heart on your sleeve. It lets you notice social cues and hidden pains others would miss - and therefore to act on them, start to heal them. Hidden sadnesses, secret pinings, subtle joy in those that should be bereaved, or resentments that undetected would go off like a bomb under your feet.

High empathy lets you really feel for the people you meet - cry at their sorrows, punch walls at their rage, and generally makes you even more unhinged and emotionally unstable than your second puberty already makes you. But with low empathy, however, you’ll blunder into emotional landmines that blow up any chance of having a meaningful conversation.

Drama All worlds are a stage, so weave together a hell of a yarn. Good for: Investigators, Rogues, Actors, Liars

Drama helps you see the worlds as stages, and to act upon them. It will enable you to lie, to spin whole cloth from threads of pure confabulation - and to notice other people weaving tales with the same kind of yarns. If someone lies, your Drama will know. If you lie, your Drama will give a masterful performance.

At high levels, Drama will make you incredible at improvised bullshit - and liable to add some embroidery to what really ought to be the plain and simple truth, while searching for hidden threads of deceit in the most straightforward statements. But without Drama, you find it hard to believe that someone would just go on the internet and tell lies, because you don’t lie yourself - and that quickly adds up to an adventurer lying six feet under.

Party of Six Tank, bruiser, mage, assassin, sniper and you are a team - now act as one. Good for: Free Companies, Cops, Team Leaders, Rag-Tag Bands Of Idiots

Ever gotten so deep into the flow of a game that you become a finger on the team’s hand? Party of Six is your ability to do that - to know your own team well enough to anticipate what any member of it would do or needs now. Drop a heal preemptively, haste your tank, knock the melee dude just into the squishy mage’s range. All in a days work when you’re the healer in a Party of Six.

At high levels, you’re an extension of the will of the team - no matter how shortsighted or idiotic that will may be. It makes you the best at the kind of plans you’ve drilled on, and the worst at thinking outside of the box you’ve collectively made for yourself. But with a low Party of Six, you’ll be tripping over yourselves, drawing aggro you don’t need to, and unable to heed shorthand advice that may just save not only your life, but five others.

Millennium Actress Hunches and gut feelings - the key to your dreams, in waking life. Good for: Roleplayers, Mystics, Artists, The Utterly Deranged

You unlock the door to your subconscious with the key of imagination: Millennium Actress. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind, of personas, of potentialities. There are at least 108 ways to be you, and this lets you peer into some of these other worlds, gain insight into what the present you cannot see, collapse the waveform of the future into the now.

At high levels, Millennium Actress invests the mundane with meaning, imbues life and consciousness to the inanimate, allows you to converse with the dead or your equipment or voiceless creatures - you know, things you can’t do with a solid grip on reality. With low Millennium Actress, however, you have no imagination - and the only you there is, is who you are now. And you already know what it’s like to be stuck as your present self, don’t you?

Lorewise Mundus lives and breathes. Breathe with it and know it. Good for: Loremasters, Historians, Willworkers, People Fleeing Earth

Lorewise is the skill of knowing what Mundanes know - of absorbing the background radiation of the thousands of years of simulated history of Another World Online, just so stories and daily prayers, truisms about the way it’s always been done. The sort of thing it usually takes a lifetime in Mundus to learn, picked up by osmosis; stuff that if you lack it is as subtle and as jarring as talking about a blue old good sword.

With a high Lorewise, you can pass as a Mundane with flying colors, and intimately know everything that everyone on Mundus knows to be right - marking you with a ruthless and mystical mindset distinctly alien to a human being from a modern Terran secular liberal democracy. But with a low Lorewise, everyone will know you’re one of those bumbling idiot Adventurers from foreign shores, and treat you like the murderhobo it’s safest to assume you are.

#no truce with the furries #isekai/online #Disco Elysium #quantumvaudeville #fanart

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jaws-and-canines · 2 years

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Asleep, I'll Tread With Care

A The Re-education of Haskell Haveter story. Continues from here. Content warning for body horror/biohorror, blood, brief mentions of glass in face. [The title is taken from Death Dream by Frightened Rabbit, which is honestly an amazing song + album]

---

Fennec dreams quite often of the colony. Not his finest hour in reality, but nothing ever really is. He's walking down a seemingly endless corridor, flesh and black ichor in delicate veins weaving through the pulpy pink walls and yellowing inhuman bones that curve over like the arches of a cathedral. It looks almost like a ribcage, breathing around him, and there's the off-kilter heartbeat of a human heart running through the walls.

He's not wearing a respirator, which if not for the fact he is dreaming would mean he'd condemned himself to a slow death. In fact, he's not wearing a uniform suited for walking like this through a colony at all, and he's in his Technician's uniform, blue shirt sleeves rolled up, blue nitrile gloves, dark grey trousers and bloodstained white trainers. But the logic of an unconscious mind means that he isn't worried about breathing in spores or coming into contact with ichor. He's only worried about keeping moving forwards.

Under his feet, he crunches through a thick carpet of decaying tiny bones. Birds, rats, who knows what, reduced to a slurry by decay and the incessant heat of the colony. The awake part of Fennec’s brain is disgusted, halfway between uncanny valley and just plain disgust. The asleep part of him keeps walking. He doesn’t tend to limp in dreams.

He's not sure where he's going, just that he can’t stop. He has the overwhelming feeling that he's being chased.

He walks, and walks and walks, humidity drenching him in a feverish sweat, and he walks until to his horror, he feels a twinge in his knee. He stops, leaning against one of the bone pillars, pressing the heel of his palm against the side of his leg, just like he does instinctively to stabilise it when he's awake. He swallows back a yelp, feeling the warmth of an open wound there, and stumbles to the next bone pillar, smearing his blood over the ivory white. The pain quickly builds until he can barely stand, let alone walk, and he's stumbling and half-dragging himself between the bones, holding onto them like they are a piece of driftwood in an unkind sea.

For the first time, he looks behind him. There's someone there, just standing there in the half light, staring at him with dead eyes. They are, in fact, unmistakably dead, almost skeletal, bloodied and on the very edge of decay. He stares at the corpse for a moment, and recognises the face. "My God, Fride," he breathes, but his old friend doesn't seem to recognise him. Just walks towards him.

Fennec panics a little and tries to run. He falls almost immediately, his knee rolling the one way, the bones snapping together in ways they should never, but undoubtedly he's felt before whilst awake.

"Ah… ah…" he gasps, clutching at his bloodstained trousers and rolling onto his side. "Fride… Fride…Christopher, leave me alone, please," he pleads as the footsteps get closer. He carries on trying to crawl away but his old friend catches up with him in a few strides. Fride's ice cold long-dead hand grabs Fennec by the wrist, squeezing tightly. They lock eyes for a brief moment, milky-white decaying sclera to terrified but very much alive hazel brown, and then Fennec jolts awake in his stiflingly hot room, eyes flying open.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and grabs for his glasses from the bedside table with a sigh, fumbling around blindly and flicking on the bedside lamp. He coughs into his hands, wipes them on his trousers and stares at the shadows of the moths fluttering across the walls.

---

Across the facility, Haskell wakes up screaming. About what, he never really grasps, but one moment he's asleep and the next he is screaming, fists balled in his sheets. He screams until he runs out of breath and sucks in a heaving gasp right as he snaps out of it, looking around and blinking slowly. His right eye is gritty, so he rubs at it absent-mindedly, working his knuckles into the canyon of the scar to itch at the base of his eye socket. He sighs, looking around the bare room, the empty desk and the moonlight coming through the window, warped by reinforced glass and metal grating.

It’s almost silent. Almost. Because somewhere down the hall he can hear someone screaming to be let out, to be freed, and the jangling of keys and shoes over linoleum. He sits up on the edge of the bed with a bitter laugh, perching on the edge of the single slab of concrete, and runs his fingers over the scars from the accident, the indents in his face that are still angry and red. He vaguely remembers them having to pull glass out of his face with tweezers, surfacing between the stitches in increasingly small slivers for weeks afterwards.

Whoever’s screaming to be let out is still screaming, and there’s the distant ring of an alarm. Somebody walks past hurriedly, then another, another, and Haskell strains to make out the conversation. He can’t. I didn’t fucking do it, half-sobs, half-screams the disruption. I told you I didn’t fucking do it, it wasn't me!

Haskell sighs, and brushes his fringe forwards, over his eye. He realises he should probably get moving if he isn’t going to go back to sleep and slips his peeling shoes on, worn by countless others before him, does up the velcro, holding his aching head. Whatever is in the sedative they use doesn’t agree with him, never has. It gives him a hangover. He stands up and walks over to the metal toilet and sink, leaning on it to splash his face with cold water. He stares at his blunted reflection in the stainless steel mirror, wetting his hair and combing through it with damp fingers that ache along old fractures from the icy cold of the water. As he does, a single greying hair works its way loose and flutters to his shirt. He stares at it for a moment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Oh, I'm getting old," he mutters to himself, and brushes the shed hair off the front of his uniform, gripping the edges of the sink with white knuckles. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment longer, knowing that it's not age that's wearing him down but consequences. He turns off the tap and goes back to sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

#count the days #whump #whump writing #original writing #haskell haveter #emotional whump #the reeducation of haskell haveter #tag vomit time lol #i literally don't organise my tags so if you like organisation for binge reading use my website i swear its actually organised

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hellmouth-manor · 3 months

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The sun is setting on our love, I fear

Poppy has had many people bequeath their last words onto them. Mostly it has been pleas and begging and terrified crying – nothing memorable, to them. The majority were too surprised by death to do anything more than let the air escape their lungs, not even really screaming before life left them. An unceremonious fading.

They’ve never had anyone dedicate their last words to them.

“You don’t have to be anyone’s dog.“

As Micah lays in the pool of his own blood, now so painfully, humanly red, Poppy cannot help but lean over him and watch as he dies, a hand pressed to the wound. The words ring in their ears, repeated in an echo over and over again until their meaning sinks into their chest, much like their soul does as the strings entangle from it. They’re not sure how they feel, but they know they’ve never felt like this watching someone die. It’s a mix of regret, and understanding, and many emotions Poppy is woefully unequipped to handle, all of which swirl and mix until they can feel them squirm under their skin.

[♫♫♫]

Their soul doesn’t fill them with fire. There are no embers to kindle within them anymore, no more roaring rage to replace mourning for the connection they could’ve – should’ve – had with Micah. The glacier has grown still and quiet. They've been suffocated by this place, brought to heel like a hound, nothing more than a pawn that didn't know every step led here from the start. An entire life made just to end in raucous applause and cheer of the faceless, bored masses.

But when things die -- when emotions die -- they become trapped and compress under the pressure into a tar pit. Under Poppy's skin boils an oily, suffocating residue built on the remains of anger and sadness and stubbornness and betrayal, the last throes of an animal fighting against shackles it knows it cannot shake, wanting to drag its captors down with it.

Poppy wants to drag Alou down with them.

Alou, who now looms behind them, buffeted by a storm of attacks from everyone, a monster both inside and outside, taller than ever but with a shadow that cannot hope to be as large as the thing he tried to be. A pitiful void that aims to drag everyone and everything down with it, to drown them if it cannot smother them in sickly love.

Poppy stands up. They’re waist deep in the tar pit, pulled towards the event horizon by the black hole that is Alou. They reach out a hand, let go, and decide to let themself drift, let themself get dragged to the nexus so as to easier dig their nails in the flesh of their captor, intending to drown him in the pitch.

Poppy Argemone Crawbow bares their teeth.

And moves.

From the remains of the table, a knife. Long and plain, but so wickedly sharp. And as Poppy dives into the fray, there is no magic, no tricks, just the movements of someone who has danced to the tune of this cat and mouse game for almost a decade, weaving between Alou’s movements and attacks, like an unintentionally choreographed dance, a crescendo for a tale that waits only for its ending, the last final breaths as two hearts beat and one is bound to stop. A totentanz.

The tall, demonic figure of Alou looms over them, the remains of his wings and arms lashing, the tail like a scorpion’s hitting so close that Poppy can feel the air move their hair. They turn sideways and roll under it before getting on their feet quickly and brandishing their knife, ready to plunge it in –

In front of Alou’s legs, against the dark purple, stands a small, white, lamb-like creature which beady eyes catch Poppy’s across the mayhem.

Chou.

Because when you cut your conscience off and cauterized it, turned it into its own little thing… You didn’t tell the man who wanted to work at a baby animal petting zoo to kill the literal Sanrio looking lamb creature, did you?

Alou’s conscience.

Poppy veers to the side and, instead of delivering a final blow, jumps and rolls to catch the little lamb-like thing in their arms, before dodging out of the way of Alou’s claws – which they succeed in only partially, one of them tearing a long gash into their side. They don’t cry out, but air escapes from their lungs, and they tumble, sacrificing their own safety to make sure Chou doesn’t come to harm, shielding it with their body.

When they finally manage to breathe, they get up shakily. Their left side is wet from blood, some of it matting Chou’s fur that wiggles in their arms, letting out a sad whine.

There is mourning as Poppy looks between the two, Chou and Alou, at the disconnect of the jagged edges that have been displaced and cauterized so as to never reconnect. They remember a game of chess, kissing Alou as they placed the final piece on the table, and check mated his king with their pawn. The last moment they loved.

”… I would never be lonely with you… but… you would be lonely with just me.”

"I want you to be enough." Alou had sounded mournful, but only almost.

"I want to be with you... always. Even if I am not enough… But forever is a very long time... and we need to choose if we deserve hell... as much as we deserve each other..."

They have chosen, now.

“I love… selfishly? No. You do. I chose you over my family, I chose you over everyone, but you never chose me… you proved your loyalty to them when you killed me, but never proved yours to mine. I had thought I’d be fine never being enough for you, but – but I’m not!”

“Unlike you… I mean my words. I don’t lie. My always means always.”

Poppy begins to move again, a bit slower, but picking up in pace. Resolve hardened, steeled, ice cold, like it was when they came here, but now with a purpose not given by others, but one they picked for themself.

“Yours used to, as well. You used to mean the things you said, the things you did… but this… this is not the Dr. Lark who had ambitions and principles… this is a lazy, hollow husk of an imitation that lacks any substance… a pathetic mimicry of someone who I used to think was a worthy opponent… and someone worthy of – of my – ”

Ah. How awful it is to realise you loved someone you thought you hated, but that person no longer exists. Unfortunately, loving reflections and illusions seems to come naturally for them.

Except –

There were plenty of real things they felt.

[♫♫♫]

So many people chose them. So many. Minami came to them, over and over again, even after Poppy denied her apologies, even after they told her they would stay in Hell. But each time, like a stubborn mule, she wanted to be there for them and refused to take no for an answer. Olwin, who despite their rocky beginnings found a common ground with them in books and plays and who read the stories Poppy told him to read (even if he complained they were depressing). Wakako, who despite being killed by them, forgave and said she wanted to spend time with them.

And there are so many feelings – real feelings! Respect for Nike, whom Poppy shared so much common ground with, who taught them how to make smores. Curiosity and weird protectiveness for Raoul, who despite the awkwardness tried to reach out to them and encourage them, a fellow glutton. Understanding for Miori, who was so much like them that it was like looking into a mirror, a bit distorted but still, ultimately, real. Micah, whom they couldn’t understand but still tried to, over and over again, until their incapability to meet in the middle circled around to a weird, shared acceptance of their differences. Caring, and then deep hatred for Yukiko – but even in their conflict, those feelings matter.

And endless care for Miranda, the last person they expected to connect with on such a deep level. Miranda, whom they remember walking in the garden with, looking for the elusive geese, hearing her tell about the friend she sacrificed and the guilt she felt, opening up to them like a flower at dawn. "You could have sacrificed yourself... or given her a choice... or not accepted the college fund... but you didn't. And nothing will ever change that. You're now here, in Hell, and we're trying to find geese... And I don't think... I would like for you to have done anything differently."

They had meant their words. All of that was real.

They never would have wanted any of this to go differently.

The small warmth pressed against their side, living, breathing, quietly whining as it looks up at them with its beady eyes, is also real. The feelings Alou had are still real. Encompassed in Chou are all the pieces of it, the pity, the kindness, the regret, the love, the passion, the genuine messiness of humanity and all the beauty of it, too.

They will always remain within it, separated from Alou…

But not alone. Not so long as Poppy is here to hold it and give it a home.

Two things happen at once in very rapid succession.

First, the broken remains of Alou’s wings, torn asunder by Olwin and Hisashi, come down, trying to spear Poppy and rend them apart.

Second, Poppy feints to the side, drops and rolls, before springing back on their feet and past Alou’s wings, and uses the momentary confusion of destruction to get right in front of him.

“My always just wasn’t meant for you.”

Poppy drives their knife forward into Alou’s exposed chest.

The wound isn’t big. It’s, in fact, not even perceptible when Poppy pulls out the blade. But it strikes true between the fourth and fifth rib, the easiest way to a man’s – a beast’s – heart. When they pull out the blade, there is no sound, except blood oozing and dripping onto the floor.

From the wound, flowers begin to bloom.

At first as deep royal blue like Alou’s blood, before the color is overtaken and fades into the brilliant reds of a poppy – death, rebirth, remembrance, sleep – that engulf his body, growing like a field, up his arms and his wings, before their roots eat away the tainted flesh beneath. He was rotten, and such ground is soft for flowers to bloom, like the muddy fields of Flanders.

Alou’s form fades in a cascade of falling flowers, back into his usual form.

Poppy drops the blade to the ground, using their now free hand to grab the side of his head as he slumps onward, and press a kiss on his forehead.

“Goodbye, Alou. I’m sorry.”

Then, they let go of him, turning away and leaving him behind. They will take with them the parts that matter.

They leave behind that which can only wither.

[♫♫♫]

#mm trial #poppy

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weddingtropics001 · 8 months

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Crisp and Cool: Embrace the White Linen Shirt Trend

Introduction

Fashion trends may come and go, but there are certain classics that never go out of style. The white linen shirt is one such timeless piece of clothing that has endured for generations. Its crisp and cool appearance, combined with the comfort it provides, makes it a must-have in any wardrobe. In this article, we will explore the enduring appeal of the white linen shirt, its versatility, and why it remains a popular choice for those who want to look sharp while staying comfortable.

The Allure of the White Linen Shirt

Linen is a natural textile made from the fibers of the flax plant (Linum usitatissimum). This fabric has been in use for thousands of years, with its origins dating back to ancient Egypt. The long-standing popularity of linen is a testament to its unique qualities.

Breathability: The standout feature of linen is its exceptional breathability. Linen fabric's loose weave and natural fibers allow air to circulate freely, making it an ideal choice for hot and humid weather. When the mercury rises, few fabrics can match the cooling effect of a white linen shirt.

Moisture-Wicking: Linen has an innate ability to absorb moisture and wick it away from the skin. This moisture-wicking property keeps you dry and comfortable, even on the hottest days. This makes the white linen shirt a perfect option for outdoor events, summer vacations, or simply surviving a heatwave.

Timeless Elegance: The white linen shirt exudes timeless elegance. Its clean, crisp appearance is suitable for both casual and formal occasions. Whether you're attending a beach wedding or a business meeting, a well-fitted white linen shirt can elevate your style.

Versatility: White linen shirts come in a variety of styles, from classic button-downs to casual short-sleeve shirts. This versatility allows you to wear them in various settings. You can dress them up with tailored trousers or dress them down with denim jeans, making them suitable for a wide range of events.

Durability: Despite its delicate appearance, linen is a highly durable fabric. It can withstand regular wear and tear and becomes softer and more comfortable with each wash. This durability ensures that your white linen shirt will remain a wardrobe staple for years.

Incorporating the White Linen Shirt into Your Wardrobe

Now that we've explored the qualities that make the white linen shirt special, let's discuss how to incorporate it into your wardrobe and style it for different occasions.

Casual Chic: For a casual, everyday look, opt for a short-sleeve white linen shirt. Pair it with light-colored chinos or shorts for a relaxed, yet stylish appearance. Roll up the sleeves for an extra touch of casual coolness.

Business Casual: White linen shirts can easily be dressed up for business casual occasions. Choose a long-sleeve white linen shirt and pair it with well-fitted trousers in a complementary color like navy or gray. Add a leather belt and dress shoes to complete the ensemble. Don't forget to tuck in your shirt for a polished finish.

Beach Ready: The white linen shirt is a beachwear essential. Wear it unbuttoned over your swimsuit as a beach cover-up or pair it with swim shorts for a leisurely stroll along the shore. The breathable fabric will keep you comfortable under the sun.

Layering: White linen shirts also work well as layering pieces. Wear one over a plain white tee for a stylish and breathable combination. This is an excellent option for those transitional seasons when the weather can be unpredictable.

Accessories: To complete your white linen shirt look, consider adding accessories like a woven belt, sunglasses, or a straw hat. These subtle touches can enhance your overall style and give your outfit a unique flair.

Why Choose the White Linen Shirt?

Timeless Appeal: The white linen shirt's timeless appeal means you'll never feel out of fashion. It's a classic piece that can be reinvented and restyled season after season.

Comfort and Coolness: Whether you're attending a summer soirée or a beach vacation, the white linen shirt keeps you cool and comfortable in even the hottest climates. Its breathable nature and moisture-wicking properties are unbeatable.

Effortless Style: Achieving a sophisticated and relaxed look has never been easier than with a white linen shirt. Its effortless charm is suitable for various occasions and dress codes.

Versatility: The white color of the linen shirt allows for endless styling possibilities. You can pair it with different bottoms and accessories to create diverse looks, making it a valuable addition to your wardrobe.

Easy Maintenance: While some may worry about linen's wrinkling tendency, it's relatively easy to care for. Most white linen shirts can be machine-washed and don't require extensive ironing. The wrinkles are part of the fabric's character, giving it that relaxed charm.

Conclusion

The white linen shirt is more than just a fashion choice; it's a statement of comfort, style, and timelessness. Its ability to keep you cool in the heat, its timeless elegance, and its versatility make it an indispensable item in any man's wardrobe.

Incorporating the white linen shirt into your wardrobe is effortless, and it can be styled to suit a wide range of occasions. Whether you're dressing up for a special event, dressing down for a casual outing, or simply relaxing on a beach vacation, the white linen shirt rises to the occasion.

In a world of ever-changing fashion trends, the white linen shirt remains a steadfast and reliable choice. Embrace its crispness, relish its comfort, and make a statement of effortless elegance with this timeless classic. Your wardrobe – and your sense of style – will thank you.

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