#Violet craft pattern

[beckysquiltingagain]

Found out this elephant that I quilted just got awarded first place and Grand Champion. Love seeing Ruth with the quilt she pieced, and her awards!

[poffim]

made my own pattern for a slitherwing they are so cute I love slitherwing I will work on releasing the pattern may be slow lol

[thecrochetgremlin]

From Pokemon Scarlet/Violet, I have recreated a scarf belonging to the beloved gym leader Grusha~

Proud to say this pattern was of my own creation!

[elainsgirl]

Hello. Feysand stan here. And elriels are like my younger siblings so I'm coming to the defence. Antis just don't understand writing, it's really that simple. They don't understand writing as a craft. Writing isn't vibes on paper. It's a narrative told through themes, symbolism, character arcs etc. And, most often, it's not even difficult to pick up on. Because, most often, it isn't supposed to be a mystery to unravel. You're supposed to be able to follow along. Its not a TikTok jump scare for brains whose attention spans have been fried and need constant plot twists to even keep their eyes open.

When antis say "previous books don't matter" and "anything could happen! We dont know what sjm will write!" Then all there is to say is "no". Elriels are just way too kind about this (to no one's surprise, because it's really no surprise that the fans of the most gentle characters of the series would be too reasonable for their own good). You know you have the whole narrative on your side.

Writing isn't "anything goes". Its not about what is theoretically possible. Theoretically, SJM could write acotar 6 from the POV of Andras in the afterlife. But that is an uninteresting argument. Because it's not about what's theoretically possible but about what has been set up through all the literary devices at a writer's disposal. And you actually don't even have to know a single thing about writing, and you still will pick up on it. That's how it goes. That's why little kids read Harry Potter and aren't surprised by the general direction of the story. That's why people read Fourth Wing without going all shocked pikachu face when Violet and Xaden end up together.

How insulting is it to say that sjm is so incompetent she spent a decade working on acotar and yet never was there a coherent narrative she built? All is vibes and plot twist taken from a random plot twist generator. That's what they sound like they think writing is. Just no. Its not "anything can happen". Its "what's been set up to happen will happen". And that is so obviously Elriel. And FINALLY. They've been stuck in that basement getting hot and heavy in silence for too long (that's hot though).

So, from one Feyre to all the Elains out there, the next time someone says "we don't know what sjm will write, anything could happen!" The answer should simply be "NO".

awe 💞

and I couldn’t agree more. Antis either read too depply into things missing the point or dont read deel enough, again, missing the point. They dont understand foreshadowing, build up, parallels, patterns etc. They don’t understand that with certain books especially fantasy series - things are layered. Plot, relationships and characters themselves all have multiple layers that are building up towards something. For antis it feels like all their takes are surface level and they try to come up with all these messed up, wrong, interpretations to sound clever and pretend they know what they’re talking about - but anyone with decent reading comprehension and understanding of writing as a craft can see right through their bs.

Everything about acotar is obvious. Elriel is meant to be obvious. Its right there in your face. Yes it is cliche but its meant to be. Mass has been so clear with the direction of the series - had laid it all out as clear as day it’s genuinely so shocking to see antis miss it every single time.

Im sorry, unless an author wants to be known as fickle or hasn’t foreshadowed it enough - they would never switch up 180 all of a sudden with no warning in the text. Mass has foreshadowed multiple things throughout the series and its all coming together book by book. We do know what will happen, Mass clearly states it in the books. Her foreshadowing in acowar, especially romantic pairings has been consistent for 3 books. She’s not going to throw all that away for a couple that - in comparison…has no foreshadowing to be together. Nothing tangible holding them together. Az can leave training and thats it. No more gwynriel interactions and it doesn’t disrupt the current flow of the series.

exactly, most books are predictable. You should be able to pick up on where the story is going, whose ending up together and the effect literary devices have. “Elain and Az are too obvious!” Yes they’re meant to be, you’re literally picking up the clues Mass is putting down. Obvious and predictability isnt bad writing and I wish more people understood this.

Mass has spent the past decade crafting this narrative of fate and destiny coming together. 3 sisters, each perfectly matching with 3 brothers isn’t some random coincidence Mass came up with. Its an intentional choice, its significant- it shows they where always meant to find each other and help each other fix whatever issues are present in the series. Not anything can happen. What happens in the next book has to flow and make sense with the previous book/series - as each book carries an overall plot. Very specific set of events that Mass has left clues for will happen in each book leading upto the big moment/event.

Elriel IS very obvious. Its in your face. By acosf, its no longer a subtle thing. Mass wants you to notice Elain and Azriel. She wants you to pair them together. The next couple isnt some mystery. Mass has kept elriel in the basement for so long but that just means a lot of thought went into their book and hopefully its one of the best books Mass has ever written.

so yh. When someone says “anything can happen” - its valid to disagree with them bcs no. Not anything can happen.

[smilesatdawnmain]

Big Family Au

Pick your Adventure 1

(Day with MK Part 3)

Previous

Next

—-//

After some debate, you decide on the Silken Cradle.

The Silken Cradle was a shop tucked away at the end of the market road, its entrance framed by cascading silk banners in every color imaginable. The air inside was warm and fragrant, carrying the scent of incense and freshly dyed fabric. Bolts of silk, satin, and brocade lined the walls, their patterns ranging from delicate floral motifs to bold, geometric designs.

As you got a little closer, MK seemed a tad tense, noting a very particular symbol above the door of a Spider atop a purple rose. “That’s-” he turned sharply to you, giving a toothy and rather nervous smile, “Y-You sure you want this shop??” he tossed his hands around, “I mean cause- cause uhhhh- there is an exciting shoe shop right down the road that would probably be so much more exciting, right?? Who cares about clothes-”

“Who cares about “Clothes”??” a chilling voice repeated his outrageous words.

MK nearly leapt two feet in the air, squeaking loudly and rushing to hide behind you, cowering.

The voice belonged to a tall, elegant figure who emerged from the shadows of the shop. Her long, silken hair as dark midnight, and her eyes glimmered with a mix of amusement and mild irritation.

"Xiaotian," she said, her voice smooth but laced with a teasing edge, "are you suggesting my craftsmanship is... unworthy of attention?" She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile.

MK peeked out from behind you, pale, “W-What? N-No no! Not at all Ms. C-Chyou-” he stammered.

“I thought so. Well, I must say I’m surprised little Monkey Kid. I thought for sure I wouldn’t see you near our new shop any time soon,” She chuckled lightly, gesturing with an elegant finger for you to approach, “And who is this little friend of yours?”

“This is Anon,” MK said, still half-hiding behind you, though he managed to straighten up a bit. “They’re, uh, new to the Mountain. I’m just showing them around.”

Ms. Chyou’s gaze shifted to you, her sharp eyes softening slightly as she took you in. “Ah, a visitor. How delightful.” She stepped closer, her movements fluid and graceful, like a spider weaving its web. “Welcome to the Silken Cradle. I’m Chyou, the proprietor of this humble establishment.” a single finger of hers slips below your chin, lifting it slightly to examine you closer. “Fourth Daughter of the Violet Spider Demon, Ruler of the Webbed Hollow.” she removes her hand, noting how you seemed a little puzzled

MK was quick to awkwardly fill in the blanks, “A-A new ally of Flower Fruit Mountain. She is also my Big Brother Haoyu’s-”

(Totally forgot her forehead markings- whoops)

“Yes, we are a small domain towards the South called the Webbed Hollow.” She gave MK a pointed look. “I am here to establish our first official shop within your lands and ensure it’s set up is successful-” her lips curled, “Regardless of my relation to your elder Brother.”

MK’s cheeks burn and he looked down, nodding quietly.

That rings a bell with you, the name Webbed Hollow. A small domain that didn’t have a lot of physical power, but an incredible amount of wealth for the silk it trades. Ruled by the Violet Spider, a powerful demon, and her 6 daughters. It seems they have recently established an alliance with Flower Fruit Mountain. You realize this woman herself is a Spider Demon- and someone MK seems to be quite… nervous around? He was fidgeting nonstop.

Ms. Chyou’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she stepped back, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. “Now, what brings you to my shop, little one? Are you in need of a new garment, or perhaps something more... exquisite?” she gestures back towards, “I admit, I am not as skilled as my Sisters in the craft, but I have brought many of their designs with me. Many across the realm spend quite the pretty penny even to look at such a collection.,” she tapped her chin, “hmm… Perhaps, if you were to wear it during your tours as free advertising, I could offer a free piece in this collection.” She considered that. “What do you say?”

Option A

Option B

Next part

[nanamincreampie]

Falling for You, Again

Choso Kamo x Black plus size reader

No warnings just pure fluff

The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in quiet stillness. Inside, the room was warm and cozy, lit only by the soft glow of Christmas tree lights. Choso sat beside you on the plush couch, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders as you both shared a thick, knitted blanket.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling against you. His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm, their warmth contrasting with the cool air that lingered around the edges of the room.

You smiled, resting your head against his chest. The contrast of your deep brown skin against his pale tone always made him stare a little longer, but tonight, there was something extra soft in his gaze. “I wanted to,” you said. “You deserve a Christmas where you don’t have to think about anything else just you, me, and this moment.”

His violet eyes lingered on you, taking in the way your curls framed your face, their sheen catching the multicolored lights of the Christmas tree. “You spoil me too much,” he muttered, though his lips twitched upward in a rare, faint smile.

“And you don’t let me spoil you enough,” you countered, leaning forward to reach for the small gift-wrapped box on the table. The motion shifted the blanket off your shoulders, revealing the curves of your body hugged snugly by a festive sweater. Choso’s eyes briefly dropped to take you in, a flicker of admiration in his gaze before you handed him the gift. “Speaking of which... Merry Christmas.”

Choso raised an eyebrow but accepted the gift, his long fingers carefully peeling back the wrapping. Inside was a bracelet crafted from polished black onyx beads, with one small silver charm engraved with his name.

“It’s nothing fancy,” you said quickly, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “I just thought it’d suit you.”

He ran his fingers over the charm, then glanced back up at you, his eyes softening. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “Thank you.”

Choso wasn’t a man of many words, but the way he leaned forward to kiss your cheek, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his lips against your skin, spoke volumes.

The evening unfolded in peaceful simplicity sipping on hot cocoa, teasing each other over the few marshmallows that floated in your mugs, and exchanging quiet laughter as the firelight danced on the walls.

As the fire began to burn low, Choso shifted, pulling you onto his lap with ease. His hands rested on your waist, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of your leggings. He gazed up at you, taking in every curve, every dip of your body, with unhidden appreciation.

“You’re beautiful,” he said suddenly, his voice low but steady.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you looked away shyly. “You’re just saying that because it’s Christmas.”

He caught your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. “I mean it. You’re beautiful every day, but tonight?” His eyes swept over you again, lingering on the way your full lips parted slightly under his gaze. “You take my breath away.”

You cupped his face in your hands, your fingers brushing over the faint red lines beneath his eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” you teased, your voice soft.

His lips twitched in a smirk before he leaned in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It wasn’t rushed or hurried just slow and deliberate, like he savored every second.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips, the words carrying a weight that made your heart swell.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, wrapping your arms around his neck as the kiss deepened.

Later, as you rested against his chest, his strong arms encircling you, he ran his fingers through your curls, his touch soothing.

“You’ve made this the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You smiled, your eyes growing heavy as the warmth of his embrace surrounded you. “Best one for me too,” you replied, nuzzling closer to him.

And in that peaceful moment, with the soft glow of the tree lights casting a gentle aura around you both, you knew this Christmas would be one you’d cherish forever.

[theoppositequeens]

Fandom: The Empyrean (Fourth Wing) Rated: G Relationships: Bodhi & Xaden, Bodhi & Violet, Violet/Xaden Tags on Ao3, no archive warnings apply.

Written for @empyreanevents Bodhi Week Day 6: Soft. Ridoc said Bodhi is like the soft version of Xaden. Give us some soft Bodhi! 7 Taylor Swift songs for 7 days of Bodhi Week - Song: Never Grow Up.

Read here on Ao3.

it's so quiet in the world tonight

---

Your little hand's wrapped around my finger And it's so quiet in the world tonight

---

It’s a privilege, and a tradition, for the current heir to be the first one after the parents to hold the child of a Duke of Tyrrendor.

But mostly, it’s an honor.

An honor to be trusted with any small, beginning life, let alone the one that’s been carried by his cousin-in-law. Bodhi can’t quite comprehend the sight in the bed when he steps into the room, turning around to shut the door, feeling like he absolutely should not interrupt this scene. But Brennan and Mira wait impatiently for their turn, the mender having been on hand if needed all through Violet’s labours, and Mira supporting her sister in the early stages until Violet kicked her out.

So Bodhi closes the door behind him, and faces them.

Violet is propped up against the pillows, tired and looking like she’s been through another war – which he supposes she has, childbirth is a bloody and painful affair – but she’s beaming. Xaden is at her side, tall body gracefully folded to sit next to her, his arm around her shoulders and their bodies pressed close, like they can’t bear to be apart. That’s not new.

But the small bundle in Violet’s arms is.

“Are you alright, Vi?” It’s the first question that tumbles out of his mouth, because he’s heard her screams, he’s waited outside for many long hours, anxiously pacing. It’s not just that her life is tied to Xaden’s – it’s that Bodhi has come to love her in her own right, this fierce slip of a woman he now freely calls cousin in his head. Still, he winces, shaking his head and restarting. “I– of course you aren’t alright, you just had a baby, you’re obviously in pain–”

Xaden holds up a hand to stop his nervous rambling, and Violet laughs quietly, her eyes warm as they lock on his.

“I’m as alright as I can be,” she promises, and Bodhi sighs in relief, his shoulders loosening.

Fuck, that’s a burden off his shoulders. He knows she was attended to by the best midwives Xaden could find, but childbirth isn’t safe, and he still could have lost them all in one fell swoop today: Violet, Xaden, the baby. All of his family.

Xaden glances up as that thought crosses Bodhi’s mind, his eyes dark but understanding, like he’s been battling the same terrible visions. Bodhi doesn’t care to raise his shields, too damn exhausted. Let Xaden look, if he wants to. His cousin has become nigh on full inntinnsic now, though it’s still a well kept secret outside of present company, and Bodhi doesn’t let it bother him.

He doesn’t need to keep secrets from Xaden. The only time he did, was the terrible two hours across a meeting table when Xaden returned from a morning patrol straight into an Assembly meeting. Bodhi held his shields locked all through that, twisting nervously under his cousin’s watchful gaze. Bodhi had found Violet throwing up into the bushes while Xaden was on patrol. He’d panicked and demanded she go to Brennan, only for her to tell him in no uncertain terms she knew exactly what was wrong with her.

She didn’t say the words, but she smiled, and Bodhi knew keeping that secret until she could tell Xaden himself would make his cousin the happiest man in the world, so he did.

He was right. They probably heard Xaden's shout of joy on fucking Deverelli.

Now, Xaden only gives him a steady nod, and Bodhi finally lets his gaze slip down to the child, bundled up in a white blanket crocheted by Sloane, surprisingly. Bodhi would have never pegged her for a person who likes to sit still and do crafts, but she painstakingly stitched woven patterns into Tyrrish runes for health and prosperity and happiness and all other things she wishes for the little one.

“Come here, Bodhi,” Violet says, and Xaden beckons him over. Bodhi goes on stiff legs, so nervous he might actually faint, and sits on the edge of the bed as he’s bid to.

“She’s not going to bite you,” Violet teases kindly, and looks down at the girl in her arms. Xaden bends closer, dark head leaning against Violet’s brown and silver braid, and his finger strokes infinitely softly over the baby’s cheek.

Bodhi’s never seen Xaden look so soft and enamoured for anyone but Violet, but clearly his heart has doubled in size to contain the same amount of love for his child.

“I’m not scared,” Bodhi claims, and he isn’t. Just nervous. Honored. Touched. Scared he might cry the second he holds the baby. He sends Violet a smile. “You did so well, Violet.”

She half-rolls her eyes, dismissing his praise, and Xaden hums in agreement with Bodhi.

“He’s right, love. Look what a precious little one you’ve brought into the world.” There’s so much love in Xaden’s voice Bodhi can barely handle it. He doesn’t know how his cousin does.

“Look what we made,” Violet counters impishly.

Xaden chuckles. “You deserve the credit, Violence.”

“Oh, stop it. Bodhi, would you like to hold her?”

“Do I have a choice?” Bodhi jokes warmly. He doesn’t, not really. It’s his duty as Xaden’s heir to be the first to greet his child – in this case, the first in order to pass on responsibility of being heir onto her tiny shoulders. It makes him sick to think of, but tradition is tradition. “Yes, I really want to.”

It’s scary and exciting in equal measure as Xaden lifts his child from Violet’s arms, pecking her mother on the cheek as he does. There’s not a peep from the bundle of blankets, and Xaden’s movements are at the same time oddly formal and incredibly gentle as he transfers her into Bodhi’s waiting arm.

“Here’s your uncle Bodhi, Asha,” Xaden murmurs and Bodhi blinks back tears both at the tiny weight in his arms and the name uncle. “You’re going to wrap him completely around your little fingers, but it doesn’t matter, because he’d do anything for you anyway. He’s just that type of loyal and kind person.”

And Bodhi would.

He stares down at her little face – Asha, perhaps after Asher Sorrengail – and knows in that moment that while he may never have children of his own, he would lay down his life for Xaden’s.

Her little rosebud mouth is slightly open as she breathes evenly, her face still a bit scrunchy and blotchy, but she’s the most beautiful child Bodhi’s ever seen. She’ll likely look like her parents, but she also looks like hope. Hope for a better future, one where there’s peace after this war. Time for family and raising children who’ll never have to see their parents sacrifice themselves for bigger causes.

“Hi, Asha,” he breathes, cradling her gently in one arm, his finger coming up to brush her closed fist, marveling at the tiny fingernails and soft skin. “Your dad is right. Anything you need, I’ll always help you with.”

A tear slips out, tracking down his cheek when he looks up at her parents. “She’s absolutely beautiful.”

Violet nods, and Xaden’s eyes are suspiciously wet. Bodhi’s never seen his cousin cry since they were children, and he won’t now, turning his gaze away to give them some privacy.

But Xaden reaches out, his hand gripping Bodhi’s upper arm in a strong grip, and then Xaden is hugging him, in a fierce embrace that is still careful of the baby between them.

“I’ll protect her with my life, I swear,” Bodhi murmurs, and feels Xaden nod.

“I know,” he answers. “Thank you, Bodhi.”

There’s a moment before Xaden lets go where Bodhi breathes in his cousin, and feels, not for the first time, infinitely thankful that they all survived the war.

Then he focuses down on the little girl in his arms as Xaden draws back, studying her features, the miracle she is. Precious and tiny and sleeping trustingly in his arms. He hopes she'll always trust him, never learn to be wary. He will endevour to never give her any reason to be.

Xaden and Violet are quiet, their gazes gentle on him and their child before Xaden bends to murmur something to Violet, clearly a conversation to give Bodhi some time and privacy for his next responsibility.

He rises infinitely gently, careful to keep his movements even, and heads to the window overlooking Aretia, slightly cracked open. The summer breeze is warm, and Bodhi chuckles as a wisp of shadow still tucks the blankets tighter around the infant in his arms, Xaden and Violet clearly not as invested in their quiet conversation as they would like him to believe.

He can’t blame them – he’s holding their newborn daughter and he has to force himself not to tremble under the emotional weight, the depth of their trust in him.

Aretia isn’t dark, not even at night, flames and magelights dotting the city. Little Asha’s eyes are closed in peaceful sleep, but Bodhi lifts her slightly either way, so the moonlight bathing the city can hit her face.

“This is Tyrrendor,” Bodhi tells her. “Our birthright. It was my duty, and now it’s yours.”

He strokes over her tiny fist again, and it opens reflexively, grabbing onto his finger. Bodhi draws in a sharp breath, hating the idea of handing over this heavy responsibility into hands that barely wrap around his forefinger.

“It’s a heavy duty, but you’ll have help, I promise. You won’t be alone.”

Then he breathes in deeply and says the words he wishes he didn’t have to say to an infant only hours old, but that the Assembly will demand to know have been said with Violet and Xaden as witnesses, so no-one can ever doubt the line of succession.

“I, Bodhi Durran, have carried the title of heir to my cousin, Xaden Riorson, Sixteenth Duke of Tyrrendor. This duty I now bequeath to you, Asha Riorson, firstborn of my cousin and his wife, Violet Sorrengail Riorson, Duchess of Tyrrendor.”

Asha’s titles and names will be announced in full, later. For now, Bodhi only needs to hand over the heirship and make it clear he’s not contesting it. No one will ever pitch him against Asha or any other children Xaden may have if their parents perish and succession is called into question. No, Bodhi will protect their rights ferociously.

“I, Xaden Riorson, Sixteenth Duke of Tyrrendor, hereby witness the transfer of heirship from my cousin, Bodhi Durran, to my firstborn daughter, Asha Riorson,” Xaden announces, calmly and quietly, behind him. Violet echoes her own statement right after.

Bodhi continues staring out the window for a second, and then glances at Asha’s face, peaceful in sleep, making a choice. He lifts her a bit higher, bends his head down to kiss her soft downy hair in a tradition as old as Aretia, a tradition she may one day perform for any sibling she has, welcoming her into the family.

“But just between you and me, little one,” Bodhi whispers against the crown of her head, barely even a breath, pulling up his shields tight so that Xaden can’t pluck the words from his mind. “I’ll carry the weight of being heir until you want it. Forever, if need be. They can call you that, but I’ll shoulder all the burdens, sort out all the fights in your stead. You should just grow up happy, not with responsibility weighing you down.”

It’s his oath, this quiet summer night with crickets playing outside the window, Asha’s little hand clutched tight around his finger.

And Bodhi keeps it.

[angelseraphines]

THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER FIVE

“daughter of stars.”

the city of theed gleamed as a jewel reborn.

its domes, once shrouded in smoke and shadow, now caught the light of late afternoon and held it in gold. every marble tower, every colonnade, every river-spanning bridge had been washed clean, the battle’s scars scrubbed away, not erased, but honored, woven into garlands of red and violet, the colors of renewal. the rivers, once devoid of life with the consequences of the blockade, now sparkled with movement. procession barges drifted slow and ceremonial down their winding curves, covered in silken banners that fluttered in the wind like wings.

crowds had gathered in every quarter of the capital, on balconies draped in cloth, on the terraces of towers, along the grand plaza that unfurled before the palace gates. nobility stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers, engineers beside scholars, traders alongside children perched on stone ledges. the people of naboo, once confined in fear, stood now in open celebration. from the gungan high marshes to the cities carved into the hillsides, they had all come. they filled the streets with laughter, with wide-eyed joy, with awe at what had passed, and high esteem for what it had cost.

the skies above were bright with ceremonial escort craft, small and sleek, darting in slow patterns across the blue. their engines trailed light ribbons of silver, arcing through the clouds like comets. music filled the air, not the sharp blare of wartime signals, but something melodic, sweeping. theed’s royal musicians, arrayed in polished robes, played from the palace terrace. the sound carried through the open courtyards on currents of warm winds, horns, strings, percussion, rising and falling like a tide of memory.

the gungans had marched from the forests at dawn, accompanied not by war machines, but by dancers, drummers, and sacred beasts adorned in regal armor. they moved in formation up the central promenade, their banners raised, the rhythmic cadence of their language spoken like poetry into the wind. their warriors bore polished helms and newly burnished shields, but no weapons were drawn. the shields reflected the sun like mirrors, casting light over the crowd. the great kaadu mounts plodded slowly behind, their ornamental harnesses clinking with bells and carved emblems of peace.

naboo’s royal guard had taken to their formal station along the palace walls, no longer in combat stance, but in ceremonial array. their white-and-crimson uniforms gleamed in the light, their staves held upright, their helms crested with feathers, each motion crisp, choreographed, graceful. they stood in honor now, not in defense.

flower petals drifted down from high terraces like snow, pale blue, soft lavender, and the ivory bloom of the lake islands. they floated over the crowds, over the flagstones, catching in hair, falling across shoulders, gathering in the folds of gowns and robes. a breeze stirred them, sending some upward again in spirals before they quelled into silence.

and above it all, the royal palace watched from its hilltop perch, serene and sun-warmed, its great doors open to the world, no longer sealed in isolation.

naboo had gathered not to forget, but to remember, together.

to celebrate not the end of war, but the fragile, precious return of peace.

at the head of the grand procession, upon the white marble dais beneath the clear, open sky, the queen of naboo stood in magnificence, bathed in gold.

padmé amidala, robed in ceremonial white layered with feathers as soft as mist, appeared almost otherworldly beneath the descending sunlight. her headdress, crowned with radiant silver filigree and crescent-shaped crests, rose behind her like a halo. her gown shimmered with embroidered light, each motion releasing a thousand flickers of iridescence, and her face, painted in the traditional symbols of sovereignty, was beautiful, serene, and radiant with triumph. her hands, gloved in fine sheer, were folded lightly before her, though she made no attempt to conceal the pride that lived in her bearing.

to her right stood a small girl no taller than her waist, lady avella otrikus, child of a venerated noble house, draped in deep gray and ivory furs despite the warmth of the day. the girl was regal in miniature, her dark hair parted with precision, and her wide indigo eyes twinkled with solemn fascination as she watched the procession rise up the promenade toward them. she did not speak, but her gloved hand gripped the edge of her cloak with nervous reverence, the way a child might when standing in presence of legend.

clustered behind the queen, standing with measured poise beneath the domed arch of the palace platform, were members of naboo’s most ancient bloodlines and courtly houses. lady hedna kanve of the canal province, adorned in cascading silk of smoky rose and silver, stood with a long veil trailing behind her, her gaze fixed outward with icy detachment. beside her, lady kilea marel, a young woman in pale blue and white, clutched a velvet fan in both hands, though she did not use it, too focused on the ceremony to be comforted by gesture. lady hiarmen rharrellis wore a gown of deep metallic green laced with black filigree, her dark curls swept into a jeweled coronet that glinted with sapphires as she turned her head. her stormy eyes, lined in kohl, moved with languid precision across the gathering, ever watchful, ever unimpressed. further along stood the taller, broad-shouldered lord havric tyrn, a man known more for his bluntness than pageantry, dressed uncharacteristically in formal brocade, the sleeves marked by the gold sigils of his house. his gaze, narrowed beneath thick brows, swept across the assembly not with joy, but scrutiny.

and among them, undeniable in her presence, poised akin to a celestial vision carved from a dream, stood vasharre rharrellis.

her gown was unlike any other present. it shimmered with oceanic hues, deep sapphire, violet, and blue-black silk layered in sheets of sheer gauze that rippled with every tendency of the breeze. clusters of tiny glass crystals were sewn into the bodice and shoulders, catching the sunlight in soft refracted sparks that scattered across her arms and collarbone. her hair had been arranged by ebos’s careful hand into a high, coiled crown of waves, laced through with fine silver wire and inset pearls. long earrings of mother-of-pearl and cut gemstone brushed the curve of her jaw, and the nova star pendant gleamed just above the heartline of her gown, unmistakable, unhidden.

she stood without moving, every detail of her bearing cultivated into tranquility, chin raised, dark lashes lowered, lips soft and composed. beside her, or just a step behind, stood ebos onvene in her own muted finery, her sun-tanned hands folded demurely. no words passed between them, but the handmaiden’s emerald eyes were dignified and vigilant, as ever.

on the far side of the gathering, away from the political assembly and state officials, stood master mace windu in his deep tan robes, arms folded across his chest, the lines of his face unreadable. and beside him, standing straight, dark-haired, his tunic too large at the shoulder, was kraen rharrellis.

her elder brother.

he stood in silence like his master, face turned toward the front, his purple lightsaber still clipped to his side. he was taller than she remembered, older somehow, despite being only a year older than the boy who’d flown into battle. he didn’t smile. he didn’t wave. but he was there.

behind them, to the left in the tiered viewing platform, master yoda had taken his place. seated on a hovering dias, his expression was unreadable save for the faint narrowing of his eyes. his presence was peaceful, nearly imperceptible, an ancient stone resting at the center of the storm.

the crowd’s murmur fell to mere whispers as the great gungan procession reached the steps.

at the head of the column stood boss nass, armored and dignified, his massive form crowned by an ornate headdress of shells, tusks, and colored fabric that swayed with every step. behind him came the gungan guard, flanked by warriors on decorated kaadu, their banners raised in ceremonial arcs of green and gold.

boss nass approached the queen with reverent pride. and in his thick, booming voice, one that echoed through the arches and across the open square, he proclaimed the peace between peoples.

then he reached into the folds of his cloak.

and with both hands, he held out the glowing orb, an artifact of union, of sacred accord, luminous with internal light. the sphere of peace.

padmé stepped forward.

and all of naboo watched as she extended her hands to receive it.

he stood only a short distance away, beyond the edge of the royal assembly, framed against the pale marble colonnade, his figure lit cleanly by the golden hush of the afternoon light. no longer a padawan. no longer the gilded shadow behind a towering master.

obi-wan kenobi.

his robes, though simple, had been freshly pressed, the traditional browns and creams of the jedi order unembellished. the saber at his belt now hung without uncertainty, the braid that had once marked his apprenticeship gone, severed by fire and by grief. his bearing was calm, reserved, restrained, yet altered. the sharpness of youth had been burned down into something polished, something forged. he no longer looked over his shoulder. he no longer waited for instruction.

beside him stood the chosen one. anakin skywalker.

he was dressed in formal garments suited to a padawan learner, his tunic light, his boots new, the leather of his belt unscuffed, his frame still awkward in posture. the short padawan braid had been woven carefully behind his ear, its first thread of tradition barely brushing his collar. his face shone with pride, his wide blue eyes dancing with restrained excitement as he watched the ceremony unfold. and in the midst of the stillness, vasharre saw the split second instance, a traace of warmth exchanged between the queen and the boy, a brief smile shared across the crowd, subtle but unmistakable. padmé’s lips lifted in a sweet skile, and anakin straightened beneath her gaze, beaming in return.

vasharre did not smile.

she watched them, watched him, the man in jedi robes standing in the same place her thoughts kept returning to, and for some period of time, she could not breathe.

a part of her still saw the padawan who had stood with her beneath coruscant’s towers, who had looked her way with clear, careful eyes after the rescue, who had told her without ever saying so that he would not let the darkness take her. but now… he was a jedi knight. an honored defender of the republic.

she had seen his master die.

the celebration, the peace, the mirthful joy in the air, it all began to blur at the peripheries, overexposed by guilt. she remembered qui-gon’s body atop the pyre, shrouded in flame. she remembered the heat on her skin, the scent of burning cloth and flesh, and obi-wan standing at its front, unmoving, silent, with grief locked behind his features like a sealed chamber. she remembered wanting to go to him then. to say something. but no words had come.

and now he stood again just out of reach, touched by the light, but never hers.

“qui-gon jinn was your master,” vasharre whispered under her breath, though no one heard it. “master jinn died saving me. i brought him into that fight.”

ebos heard the the young lady’s hushed words. she moved gently behind vasharre and leaned close, her voice hardly above the wind.

“do not look so long at things that cannot be held, my lady.”

vasharre blinked. her painted nails dug into the pale skin of her palms.

“obi-wan kenobi is a jedi knight now,” ebos murmured. “his path is not his own. and his vows… bind him deeper than affection ever could.”

vasharre did not respond. but she turned her gaze away. slowly.

across the square, at the far end of a smaller delegation beneath the east pavilion, stood her father, lord naem rharrellis, deep in conversation with chancellor palpatine. the two men stood close, cloaked in shadow and sable, their expressions unreadable beneath the masks of politics and poise. whatever passed between them, she could not hear. but she could see the way palpatine inclined his head when he spoke, the way naem occasionally pressed a hand to his chest in thought. they were old friends. and in this scene she observed, they looked like equals.

the atmosphere changed.

vasharre breathed in.

and tried not to look at the jedi knight again.

sheev palpatine’s posture was one of warmth, shoulders inclined, hands folded in the shape of courteous appeal. his voice, though too low to be heard from a distance, moved with the cadences of practiced persuasion.

vasharre’s eyes were fixed on them from across the courtyard.

naem rharrellis stood tall, his face composed, his manner unhurried. there was something about his composure that unsettled her, not evasiveness, but discretion. his tone was modest, controlled. he shook his head once, not in disdain, but in firm refusal. and then, after a beat, he rested one hand briefly over his heart and offered a slight bow.

palpatine inclined his own head in return. not disappointed, not surprised, only thoughtful.

vasharre furrowed her brow, the unease building behind her temples.

he had refused.

they were asking him to return, the people of the galactic republic wanted him to return, and he had turned it down. her father, the beloved senator who had guided naboo through five decades of peace, who had been mourned nearly as fiercely as the queen when they believed both lost during the invasion, who had spoken with the voice of their world across the senate floor, and he had refused.

she turned her head to her handmaiden, whispering. “why won’t my father accept the seat again?”

ebos, who had remained beside her with eyes calmly trained on the front of the assembly, gave her a scolding look.

“you shouldn’t be listening,” she said, her voice chiding but soft. “they are speaking of matters above even your rank.”

“but it’s his seat,” vasharre murmured. “and the chancellor himself is…”

“my lady.” ebos’s tone carried warning now. “this is not the place.”

vasharre looked away, chastened, but her fingers, as if responding to thought before action, rose to her pale neck.

she touched the nova star pendant that lay just beneath her throat, the original, the one she had worn for years, its star-pointed face cool against her skin. it had been present during every chapter of her short life, her naming ceremony, her first court debut, the night her mother died, and today, where naboo had achieved glory and harmony.

but today, for the first time in her young life, she wore both.

the second nova star, kept in a silken box sealed with her mother’s initials, untouched since the funeral, was hidden beneath the fold of her gown, suspended from a longer chain. it pressed gently against her ribs now, where no one could see. it had been her father’s gentle insistence that morning, his only instruction.

“bring them both,” he had said, his voice unreadable as he fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. “you don the emblem of my name, and so it becomes your duty, as heiress of house rharrellis, to guard the pendant your mother loved, until the day it may be entrusted to one deserving of its legacy.”

the nova stars had passed through blood and time, from head of the family to heir for generations unbroken. to wear both was to embody memory. to carry legacy. and yet, the heavier of the two was not the older one, it was the second. because it had once belonged to someone else.

her fingers hovered there a second longer.

then she looked up.

and saw him watching her.

obi-wan kenobi stood in the same place as before, his hands now folded neatly in front of him, his expression calm. but his eyes, so often impeded, unreadable, had found hers. and in them, there was no surprise, no warning, no distance.

only acknowledgment.

he saw her.

and he smiled.

it wasn’t wide. it wasn’t public. it wasn’t for anyone else.

but it was his, and it broke something loose in her chest.

her heart swelled, not with giddiness, not with the fragile, trembling troubles of her girlhood hopes, but with a fullness she couldn’t name. something between gratitude and longing, between loss and peace. and before ebos could take a breath, before propriety could intervene, before her mind could catch up to what her heart had already decided.

she moved.

her silk hem swept behind her as she stepped down from the assembly platform, her eyes fixed forward, her steps even and sure. her injured arm was bound in its sling, but her bearing remained regal, every line of her posture unshaken. ebos’s intake of breath was barely audible over the melodic music and the rustling wind.

“my lady…” the handmaiden started.

but she was already crossing the flagstones. already closing the space between them.

she was already going to him.

as she approached him, the noise of the square seemed to fade, not disappear, but fall elsewhere, akin to distant waves on a lake. the crowd blurred into shadow and color, the banners swaying high above faded from her notice, even the music seemed muted. all she could see was him.

obi-wan kenobi stood a few steps apart from the other jedi and dignitaries, composed as always, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably disciplined. his hands were loosely folded before him, his shoulders squared, and his expression, so often pleasant yet indistinct, was softened now by the ease of the celebration. but to vasharre, as she drew closer, it felt like approaching a star.

she had rehearsed what she would say. she had imagined this moment more times than she could count. but now, with every step, her thoughts grew more disconcerting. by the time she reached him, her hands, one on the hidden nova star pendant, the other clutching the folds of her gown, were shaking at her sides.

he noticed her immediately. he had already seen her approaching, of course. yet when she came to stand before him, no words left her at first.

obi-wan offered a polite bow of the head, respectful, composed, cordial but proper.

“my royal lady rharrellis.”

vasharre’s throat felt tight. her dark eyes lifted to his, clear, steady, as blue as ever, and then quickly lowered. she felt the wind catch the veil of her gown behind her and tried not to look as small as she felt.

“i only…” her voice faltered. she cleared her throat gently, tried again, more courteous. “i wanted to thank you again. for saving me.”

her gaze remained downcast, as if the words themselves carried too much burden to raise her eyes.

obi-wan tilted his head somewhat, a mannerly smile playing gently at the corner of his mouth. “it was my duty,” he said simply. “and one i was honored to fulfill.”

she nodded, but still did not meet his eyes. the silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but dense with something unspoken. he sensed it. he was not a child. nor was he unfamiliar with grief, or the significance of things unvoiced.

his voice lowered. “you’re troubled, my lady.”

vasharre looked up then, barely. her lashes fluttered like black moth wings against the sun. she hesitated. she could have said no. she could have deflected. but his gaze was too gentle. too honest.

“i am very sorry,” she said, her voice as light as a breath. “about master qui-gon jinn.”

obi-wan’s expression changed, scarcely. not a frown. not shock. but something more private. more inward. the way a man’s face changes when a scar is touched, even gently.

still, he said nothing at first. and she took his lack of response for confirmation.

“i know you may never say so,” she added quickly, “but i understand. master jinn died protecting me. i should not have been there. if he hadn’t had to shield me…”

“no.” his voice was soft, but forceful enough to stop her.

he met her gaze fully then. and for the first time, vasharre saw not only the discipline of a jedi knight, but the deep, calm assurance beneath it. it rooted him. made him feel older than he looked.

“master jinn died in the most honorable way a jedi can,” he said. “he died fulfilling the duties of the force. and his sacrifice… it was not in vain.”

she said nothing, but her black eyes shimmered, the anguish in her chest beginning to subside.

obi-wan continued, his voice quiet and sure. “you had no hand in his death. not in any way.”

she nodded, but slowly this time, her chin dipping low, her posture releasing something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“he believed in you,” obi-wan added, almost as an afterthought. “i know that.”

that undid her.

not in tears, not in speech, but in the way her shoulders softened, the way her hand relaxed against her side. the wind brushed a dark curl across her cheek and she did not hold up her hand to remedy it.

“thank you,” she whispered.

obi-wan’s reply was a nod. nothing more. but it held more peace than anything she had known in days.

for the first time since the catastrophic duel, she let herself breathe.

vasharre hesitated.

the period of time lingered between them, soft and suspended, the breath of a vow not yet spoken. the square behind them was alive with music and laughter, banners unfurling from the upper terraces of theed, but she heard none of it. the voices of the crowd fell away into a distant hum, blurred like vibrant color beneath water. her gaze remained on him, on the jedi knight who had walked into the mouth of darkness and emerged alone. and she knew, even now, that she would never be able to repay what he had lost.

but she could give him this.

her hand rose slowly to her collarbone, where her own pendant lay, the nova star, strung along a fine silver chain, its starburst shape catching the afternoon sun in a glint of blue fire. it was the one she had always worn, gifted to her at birth as tradition dictated, passed down from one generation of rharrellis daughters to the next.

but today, hidden beneath the folds of her ceremonial gown, she carried its twin.

her fingers trembled slightly as she reached beneath the silk layers of her dress, to the longer chain draped near her heart. the second pendant slipped free, the gesture gentle, reverent. it was identical in shape but older in polish, its gleam softened by time.

obi-wan’s eyes, already curious, followed the motion.

and they broadened in astonishment.

“you know what this is,” she said delicately, unfolding the chain between her fingers. “you must recognize it.”

he nodded once.

“the nova stars,” he said. “there are only two in existence.”

“there have always only been two,” she replied. her voice had gone soft. steady. “one kept by the daughter. the other kept… until it must be given.”

his expression altered, subtle, uncertain. his hands remained still. he said nothing.

vasharre looked down at the pendant for a breath, then up again, into his eyes.

“i haven’t worn this one since my mother died,” she said. “it’s stayed locked away in the ancestral case. but this morning, my father handed it to me. without explanation. he simply… told me to wear it today. to carry it with me.”

her breath caught, just once, but she did not falter.

“so there must be a reason.”

she reached out, slowly, and without haste, giving him time to stop her, to protest, to step back.

he didn’t.

her fingers moved with the delicacy of someone dressing a sacred statue. she passed the chain over his head with care, letting the pendant fall softly against the folds of his jedi tunic, where it fell over his chest. it looked almost out of place there, this symbol of nobility, of intimacy, of naboo, resting against the robe of a jedi knight sworn to a life of detachment.

and yet, it didn’t clash. it fit.

she withdrew her hands.

her personal nova star glinted faintly at her throat. the one he now wore gleamed beneath his collarbone. and for the first time in the in many years of rharrellis history, both pendants were worn at once.

“please,” she whispered, “keep it.”

obi-wan did not speak, his light blue eyes locked on hers.

“not for me,” she added, voice shaking, “but for what it means. for what it stood for before all this. before death and lightsabers and loss. keep it… and never forget.”

her throat closed for a instance.

then, almost inaudibly. “don’t forget naboo. and don’t forget me.”

the words echoed faintly in the silence between them.

obi-wan’s gaze dropped to the pendant for a long, hushed minute. his hand rose to touch it, so very lightly, a single brush of fingertips over metal. then he looked back at her.

and he smiled.

not the polite, distant smile of duty. not the somber mask he wore for the order. but something gentler. older. something that hadn’t surfaced in many days.

“i swear it,” he said softly. “i’ll remember naboo. and i’ll remember you, my royal lady.”

his hand closed over the pendant once more, this time thoroughly.

“for all of eternity.”

and though she said nothing in return, something within her aligned, as if a star, long wandering, had at last found its place in the endless sky. not bound by oath or tradition, but by the celestial gravity of two nova star pendants and the meaning buried in what could never be said with words.

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 6)

(gif source: sluttyhenley)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 2,902

warnings/notes:

Chapter 6: Beneath the Silk

The next morning, Violet awoke to her curtains being drawn open and the vast sunlight hitting her face. She squinted against the light, shielding her eyes enough to see the maid finishing tying back the curtains. Violet recalled that the maid’s name had been Beth.

“Good morning, Miss Everly,” she said with a cheerful smile, the brightness in her voice matching the flood of sunlight in the spacious room. “I hope you slept well.”

Violet managed a nod, although her sleep had been fitful, filled with nightmares. “Thank you. What is it?”

“Just past eight, miss.” Beth bustled about the room, straightening the bed linens. She picked up a dress that had been laid across the back of a chair. Beth held the dress up for Violet to see, and it was like gazing upon a sunrise itself. The gown was crafted from silk as smooth as a whisper, dyed in a gradient that flowed from the palest blush at the neckline down to a deep rose at the hem. Intricate patterns of climbing vines and blossoming roses were embroidered along the sleeves and bodice, each stitch done with such precision it appeared as if dewdrops might roll off the petals. Pearls, small and lustrous, were scattered amidst the floral embroidery, their iridescent sheen catching the light with every subtle movement.

“That is not mine,” Violet corrected. She had never owned anything so fancy and well made in her life.

“It is a gift, miss.” Beth smiled brightly, making her face look even younger than it already did. “Lord Butler had it brought in for you this morning. He insists you wear it today and accompany him for breakfast.”

Violet hesitated, feeling the weight of the luxurious fabric between her fingers. How could this be happening? Why was Austin being so nice to someone he had basically bought? Maybe he was trying to lure her into fake security, and then he would strike. As she let the gown fall back into Beth's hands, her mind raced with Austin’s intentions and Mr. Pembroke’s cryptic warnings.

“Very well,” she relented, really having no choice in the matter.

“Shall I help you dress?” Beth waited eagerly by the mirror.

Violet nodded silently, surrendering to the surreal reality of her new life at the manor. As Beth assisted her into the dress, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was stepping into someone else's world—a world where shadows danced just out of sight and secrets whispered in the flutter of a curtain. The silk slid against her skin like cool water, settling around her with a gentle embrace. The dress transformed her from a simple girl of modest means to a radiant figure who could easily belong in these luxurious surroundings.

“I knew this dress would make you look radiant,” Beth exclaimed, her hands fluffing out the bottom and smoothing away any creases. Violet reluctantly turned to face herself in the mirror. The gown was undoubtedly beautiful, with its intricate lace and flowing satin. However, as she looked at her reflection, she couldn't help but feel self-conscious. Her skinny frame and sharp angles didn't quite fill out the dress like she had hoped. She felt a pang of sadness over her hunger and poverty.

With a gentle tug, Beth pulled out the plush seat tucked under the vanity and patted the cushion invitingly. "Time to do your hair, miss," she said with a smile.

Reluctantly, Violet made her way over and eased herself onto the seat. It was a strange feeling, having someone else take care of her appearance. She couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of guilt for not being able to do these things for herself. But as Beth began combing through her long locks, Violet couldn't deny the sense of luxury and pampering that washed over her. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to fully relax in this small moment of indulgence.

The soft brush strokes through her hair lulled Violet into a brief respite from her tangled thoughts. Beth's skilled hands twisted and pinned her raven locks into an elegant updo, adorned with small pearls that matched those on her dress. As she worked, Beth hummed a gentle tune, the melody soothing like a lullaby from a forgotten dream.

Violet's fingers tapped rhythmically against her knee, breaking the steady hum of Beth's voice. She turned to her and spoke in a hushed tone, "Beth, can I confide in you for a moment?"

"Of course, Miss Violet," Beth replied with a gentle smile.

"I have to ask...what is your opinion of Lord Butler? Can I truly trust him?" Violet's eyes were filled with uncertainty and doubt.

A fleeting expression flickered across Beth's face, causing a ripple of uncertainty to wash over Violet. It was a mix of emotions - surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even a hint of fear. But just as quickly as it came, the look vanished, leaving no trace except for a lingering sense of mystery.

Beth paused, her hands stilling in Violet's hair. She glanced around the room as if to ensure no one else could hear. When she spoke, her voice was lower, a whisper meant only for Violet’s ears.

“Miss Everly,” Beth began cautiously, her eyes scanning Violet's reflection in the mirror. “Lord Butler is a good man... I believe. He has been nothing but kind to those who serve under his roof.” She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “But he is also a man of complex layers and hidden depths. I cannot say that whatever whispers you may have heard about him aren’t well founded.”

Violet felt a chill run down her spine at Beth’s words. The maid’s confirmation of Austin’s kindness did little to assuage the swirling doubts fueled by Mr. Pembroke’s dark intimations. “Has he ever hurt anyone?” Violet dared to ask, her voice barely a murmur.

The corners of Beth's lips twitched, a subtle sign of strain as she deftly secured the last pin in place in Violet's carefully coiffed hair. "You should be heading down for breakfast," she commented with a hint of urgency, clearly avoiding Violet’s line of questioning, "I'm sure Lord Butler is already waiting."

Violet nodded, a polite smile plastered on her face as she fought off the storm of doubts swirling within her. She rose gracefully from the vanity chair, her reflection in the ornate mirror now a blend of elegance and unease. The shimmering gown hugged her figure, but instead of feeling like a princess, she felt like an impostor hiding behind layers of silk and lace. It was as if she were masquerading as someone else, someone she could never truly be.

With Beth's confident strides leading the way, Violet descended the grand staircase, each step resounding with a soft, melodic chime against the polished marble. The morning sun burst through large windows, casting dazzling patterns of light and shadow that danced in silent harmony across the walls of the opulent manor. As they neared the entrance to the dining room, Violet's heart fluttered with anticipation and fear. She couldn't help but be drawn to Austin, yet she also harbored a deep-seated terror of what she might uncover about him during this intimate meal.

The grand dining room doors swung open with a hush, revealing Austin already seated at the head of an ornately set table. The crystal glasses sparkled in the dim lighting, and the china plates gleamed with delicate gold trim. As she entered, he rose from his seat with grace, his demeanor impeccable yet somehow charged with a tension that mirrored her own. The heavy velvet curtains hung close behind him, creating a regal backdrop for their meeting. Every detail of the room seemed to radiate a sense of importance.

"Good morning, Miss Everly," Austin greeted her, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent that suggested he was as acutely aware of their peculiar situation as she was.

Violet glided towards the table, her gown swishing and whispering against the smooth marble floor with each graceful step. Her heart raced as she approached, her conflicting emotions warring within her at the sight of Austin sitting there. With a tentative smile, she greeted him, trying to maintain a composed demeanor while her stomach fluttered with nerves. "Good morning, Lord Butler," she said, steadying her voice despite the butterflies that threatened to escape from within.

Austin gestured with an elegant sweep of his hand to the plush, high-backed chair beside him, beckoning Violet to take a seat. As she settled into the cushioned velvet, a delicate fragrance filled her senses - roses and aged paper, intertwined in a dance of nostalgia and romance. Underneath it all, a hint of musk lingered, emanating from Austin himself like a subtle yet irresistible lure.

Breakfast was served by a group of impeccably dressed footmen, their silent movements a testament to their years of practice. Each dish that graced the table looked like it belonged in an art gallery rather than a dining room. The aroma of freshly baked pastries, perfectly ripe fruits, and rich coffee wafted through the air, tickling Violet's nostrils. But despite the tantalizing spread before her, she found herself struggling to eat, her nerves and the weight of the conversation hanging heavily on her mind like a thick fog.

Austin's eyes were trained on her, his gaze unwavering and intense. "I hope you find everything to your liking," he said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. His tone was casual, but his eyes searched hers for something deeper.

“It’s more than I ever imagined,” she replied, “Honestly, it’s all a bit overwhelming.” With a small smile on her face, she tried to calm her nerves.

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of Austin's lips, causing his eyes to crinkle slightly in a charming expression. "I can imagine," he acknowledged, his voice softening. "The transition must be unsettling.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face as if trying to read her thoughts.

Violet's head shook slightly, her expression fraught with unspoken apologies. She hadn't meant to sound ungrateful, but the words had spilled out before she could stop them. "I mean no offense, my lord," she murmured, her voice tinged with a subtle hint of fear.

Austin felt a pang of guilt at the fear in her tone. He tried to keep his own voice gentle and matter-of-fact. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Violet."

Her eyes widened in surprise and skepticism. "Don't I?" Her boldness surprised even herself as she pushed the boundaries of their conversation. But she couldn't live in constant fear, tiptoeing around cracks for the rest of her life – however long that may be here in this unfamiliar place. "I don't know you, Lord Butler. And from what I've heard about you, it hasn't been very positive." She couldn't ignore the fact that he had essentially bought her, adding another layer of discomfort to their already complicated relationship.

Austin's gaze intensified, the blue of his eyes seeming to darken. “And what exactly have you heard, Miss Everly?”

The atmosphere in the room grew increasingly tense, thick with anticipation and unease. Violet's heart raced as she feared she had overstepped her bounds. But deep inside, a persistent determination urged her not to back down from his piercing gaze or the bold question that hung between them.

"I've heard whispers," she began, her voice betraying none of the anxiety bubbling inside. "Whispers of a lord who is as savage in his dealings as he is in preserving his lands. They call you 'The Devil Lord'." The words left her lips hesitantly, almost reverently, as if speaking of a dangerous deity.

Austin’s gaze didn’t waver. “And what if those whispers were true?”

His tone was not threatening, but it carried an eerie calm that sent shivers down Violet's spine. She could feel the weight of his stare, as if he were trying to gauge her very soul with his eyes.

"Then I suppose I should be very afraid," she replied, mustering a courage she did not feel. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, a small act of defiance against the rising fear. "But perhaps those whispers don't capture the whole truth.”

Austin was taken aback. In all his years, no one had ever dared to look past the facade of 'The Devil Lord', not even his servants. The power and fear he exuded were enough to keep most at bay. But here stood someone who wasn't cowed by his reputation, her audacity both thrilling and unsettling him at once.

He leaned in closer, his elbows finding rest on his knees as his unwavering gaze stayed fixed upon hers. His voice was low and steady, the sound of someone who had seen and heard much more than those around him. "Most people do not dare to peer beyond the veil of hearsay and fear. Tell me, what do you seek?" His blue eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of understanding, an invitation for her to share her deepest desires.

A lump formed in Violet's throat. This was her moment, her opportunity to unravel the mysteries of this enigmatic man who seemed both captivated and captive by his own legend. With determination in her voice, she spoke her intentions: "I seek the truth," she said firmly, "not just about you but about why I am here. Why would someone with such a fearsome reputation care to treat me with such regard?" Her words hung heavy in the air, filling the space between them like an invisible barrier. She could feel his gaze burning into her, waiting for her next move.

Austin's features softened, and he tilts his head down for a moment, as if searching for the right words. When he returned his gaze to her, it was filled with a somber kind of earnestness. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” His eyes glimmer with sincerity and wonder as he takes in her unique presence.

Violet felt a heat rush to her cheeks and her heart began to race, a rapid drumbeat that echoed through her body. She had braced herself for cruelty or indifference from Austin, but his unexpected vulnerability was like a siren's call, drawing her in with its haunting melody. It awakened a part of her that she had thought long buried, stirring memories and emotions that she had tried to forget. This danger was different, more alluring and intoxicating than anything she had experienced before.

As their intense moment hung in the air, a sharp and insistent knock rattled at the door, breaking the tension between them. Violet's heart jolted in surprise at the interruption. Austin's posture straightened, a hint of annoyance flickering across his features before he expertly masked it with a neutral expression. The sound of the knock echoed through the room, like an unwanted guest forcing their way inside.

"Enter," Austin's voice boomed, asserting its usual authority over the room. The command was firm and unwavering, echoing off the walls and filling the space.

With a creak, the heavy door swung open and Mr. Pembroke stepped into the room. His stern face was as unreadable as ever, giving nothing away. The flicker of candlelight danced across his features, casting shadows in the lines of his wrinkles. With a slight bow towards Austin, he stole a quick glance towards Violet. "My lord," Mr. Pembroke began, his deep voice echoing through the quiet room, "the dressmaker has arrived."

Austin quickly regained his composure and gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Pembroke. Please have her set up in the parlor and inform her we will be there shortly."

"Yes, my lord." The sound of Mr. Pembroke's footsteps echoed through the grand hallway as he bowed deeply and turned on his heel to carry out his orders. His polished shoes glided across the marble floor with graceful ease.

“Dress maker?” Violet inquired, her brow raised in curiosity. The intense atmosphere from moments before had dissipated into the air, leaving behind a sense of calm and curiosity.

“Yes. Evelyn Rosewood. She is an old friend of mine who happens to be a renowned modiste in town.” His eyes danced with amusement as he spoke. “I have arranged for her to supply you with an entire new wardrobe for your time here.”

“A new—” she started, her heart racing with the unspoken implications of his generosity. “Lord Butler, that is far too much. I could never repay you for such an expensive—”

Before she could protest further, he cut her off. “I don’t expect repayment. And you are not allowed to refuse this gift.” He rose from his seat and offered her his arm, a gesture both regal and intimate. She couldn't help but feel a flutter in her chest at his chivalrous behavior. “Shall we?”

Violet's hand found its place on Austin's proffered arm, her fingers curling around his strong bicep. As they stepped out of the dimly lit room, she was struck with a sense of freedom and excitement, tinged with nervous anticipation. Walking beside him, she could feel his raw power emanating from every pore—a force to be reckoned with, yet oddly comforting in its presence. His nearness enveloped her, his signature scent a heady blend of aged leather and something primal and untamed, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within her that she struggled to make sense of.

Stay tuned for part 7!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @imusicaddict

[maeskia]

Maeskia Duskwhisper

Appearance -

Gender: Female

Race: Elf

Height: 5′8″

Eye Color: Violet Void

Hair Color:  Midnight black that fades into a swirl dark purple and blue shades

Build: Voluptuous

Skin Tone: Pale

Piercings/Tattoos: Ears have several piercing, nipples, and her back has a pattern of runes down her shoulder blades to the lower back. Most seem to be protection spells

Scars & how they got them: The lady keeps herself from having scars even if she has been through hell and back.

The Facts -

Birthday: December 27

Occupation: Researcher

Sexual identification:  Heterosexual

Romantic identification: Panromantic

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Criminal History:  A few crimes have been made...

Documented: None

Undocumented: A Lady has her way of clearing her history

Relationship Status:  Single

Favorites –

Favorite food:  Stir-fried veggies

Favorite drink: Black Coffee

Favorite artist:  @vixannya

Favorite scents:  Coffee, the air before or after a storm, jasmine, dirt and coppery tones.

Favorite person:  Todd

Randoms –

Ten facts about your muse:

⚫  She is an elder sister to @laceandhalos Sylrissa was lead to believe her sister was dead for almost a decade. The two do not see eye to eye but have found some common ground. Sylrissa is currently raising Maeskia's only child along with her own daughter.

⚫   If there is a path of magic she can learn, Maeskia will. She loves to know the art of all spell craft and dabbles in weaving spells together. Shadow and arcane are her preferred. Blood is a need, light is untouched.

⚫   The Lady carries her deceased husband's name even after 15 years of his passing. She often says all he left her with was a curse, money, and a name that she actually like owning. Even if she was to remarry, chances are she would keep the Duskwhisper name.

⚫    She creates! Not the typical art, but more of finding creatures that have been abandon and remakes them. Often the void is used in the "rebirth" of her creatures. Most do not accept her experiments. Therefore she keeps them hidden safely away all over the world.

⚫  While she was raised to do ballroom dancing, she loves a loud club! At point in her life she used to snarl at anyone who invited her to a party. Now she plans to attend them as often as she can.

⚫   The lady collects art, her styles are a bit uncomfortable for most. Artwork of the passed are her favorite. She will invest money a scene with gore and blood over a flowery background any day.

⚫   There is a silent loathing in her for modern tech. She will type away on her comm to reply to messages but she prefers old fashion magic to the new-aged gadgets.

⚫   Her library is full of books, mostly "how-to" over novels. While now and then she will enjoy a good fiction story, Maeskia would rather read a guide about how to build something or a research paper first.

⚫   She owns several laboratories across Azeroth. She is known for disappearing for a week or two, most likely some sort of project has taken her full interest.

⚫   She strives to know as many people as possible, while she loves the taboo and often many would think that would cause her to be antisocial. Maeskia enjoys listening to everyone's stories.

Five Things -

Things they like (other than what’s been listed above): Fashion, swimming, portal jumping, being threaten, and a long conversation.

Things they dislike: The light, know-it-alls, judgy types, rules, and eating meat.

Good traits/habits: Creative, Intelligent, Oddly Supportive

Bad traits/habits: Quick to Anger

Personalities they gravitate toward: Troubled souls

Personality types they avoid: Cruel Snobby Passive-aggressive Overly aggressive Overly Pessimistic

Fears: Being locked up, her son hating her

[poffim]

made a shiny slitherwing :)

[oceanlipgloss]

NICE

MEPHISTOPHELES.

+ no warnings.

+ my mc is the heroine, so the pronouns are feminine.

Violet bruises, grass stains. Her pale knees, smudged with a marble-like pattern of purple and green. Expected with frequent, clumsy falls.

Nothing that grotesque. Peeking out from under dark fabric. To some, the vision may have seemed a piece of art. He sat together with her in a pillow fort. Pressed close. A stubby candle spat light over a sandwich quite small, perfectly enough for one.

The soft space was cramped. Long legs stuck out of the ‘door’ to the mellow chamber. He liked the weight of her smooth legs over his.

It was nice.

Makeshift seats, bruised knees, commoner meals. Was she gifting him the taste of pauperism and its childish experiences?

Perhaps it was inappropriate, but...his fingers traced spirals over the curious colour palette on her skin. The bone was hard as it was crafted to be, though not cold. She was warm. Stars—magnetic and sweet—seemed to flow from his silk-coated fingertips.

His hand was in hers. A pair of white gloves rolled off like buttercream. They were put aside. Wasn’t it better to feel her bare touch against his? A slow interlace.

Taking his big hand, delicate fingers filling the gaps, a man pleasantly trapped. There were flames under his skin. She had him feeling somewhat dizzy.

It was nice.

Birthdays are meaningless days. They don’t have to be made out into celebrations or parades. There is nothing particularly precious about a date on which one was born. What matters most is the person, their everyday presence at the current moment in the world.

There are times when less is more. The tiniest things may craft happiness of the purest, most unfiltered sort. There doesn’t have to be cake or confetti; they’re not necessary.

There are times when it’s better to withdraw and forget the existence of invitations. Stay alone, or stay with someone.

Happiness was glowing in his heart then—a moon dulcet in its humming and silver in its colour—not a noisy, gaudy neon.

Ketchup on his nose, licked away with her cheeky tongue. An exasperated sigh. So playful.

Makeshift seats, bruised knees, commoner meals. Pillow, candle, sandwich.

He was thinking about it all when warmth glossed his lips. It was wet and unfamiliarly familiar. A sneak peck. Not the first, not the last. She loved surprising him like that, and he loved—though almost begrudgingly so at first—when she did.

These days he unthinkingly gave in.

He had pocketed the flavour of her kiss. And he was never forgetting it now. Will she keep doing this all again for him?

It was nice.

Riches are important and money is for survival, but so are the proper emotions. Perhaps his was the heart that had been throbbing in a life bleaker than a pauper’s.

+notes: first birthday fic in years and it's for Mephi affinity bar when

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[snapmite1998]

Nightsister Great Mother: Syla, the Enchantress of the Abyss

Background:

Great Mother Syla is a venerable and powerful Nightsister who sits alongside Mother Talzin, Klothow, Lakesis, and Aktropaw. Her mastery of the dark arts and her profound connection to the mystical forces of Dathomir set her apart as a formidable leader and wise counselor within the Nightsister hierarchy. Her ancient knowledge and exceptional sorcery make her a guardian of the Nightsister clan's deepest secrets and most potent spells.

Appearance:

Syla exudes an aura of otherworldly power. She is adorned in a flowing robe of deep midnight purple, almost black, decorated with intricate patterns woven from golden threads. These patterns depict mythical creatures and ancient runes that shimmer with dark energy. Her headdress is crafted from the bones of ancient beast lizards and adorned with obsidian-colored feathers that cascade down her back, adding to her commanding presence.

Her eyes glow with an ethereal light, shifting between hues of green and violet, a testament to her deep connection with the arcane. Her skin carries the marks of ancient rites, with glowing tattoos that represent her bond with the spirits of the Abyss. Her long, dark hair is often braided with talismans and enchanted stones that amplify her powers.

Powers and Abilities:

Great Mother Syla's abilities are vast and formidable, reflecting her status as one of the foremost practitioners of Nightsister magic:

1. Abyssal Sorcery:

- Syla has explored the darkest depths of Dathomir's magic, allowing her to wield spells that can control shadows and channel the primordial forces of the Abyss. Her sorcery can create portals, summon dark entities, and envelop enemies in shadowy tendrils.

2. Ancient Rites and Rituals:

- Syla is the keeper of ancient Nightsister rites and ceremonies, ensuring that these powerful rituals are passed down through generations. She conducts dark ceremonies that can enhance the abilities of her sisters, bind spirits, and unleash catastrophic spells.

3. Spirit Conjuring:

- Syla possesses the rare ability to commune with and summon powerful spirits from the Abyss. These spirits can serve as guides, protectors, or harbingers of doom, depending on her needs. She can also channel these spirits to heal or empower her sisters.

4. Mastery of Illusions:

- Syla can create powerful illusions that deceive even the most perceptive foes. She uses this ability to conceal her clan, create false images, or terrify her enemies with nightmarish visions.

Role as Great Mother:

Syla’s role within the council of Great Mothers encompasses both leadership and mentorship. She oversees the training of young witches, passing down the darkest and most potent spells to those who show promise. Her wisdom is sought in matters of strategy, magic, and the spiritual well-being of the clan.

Great Mother Syla is often consulted in times of dire need, particularly when the Nightsisters face threats that require the most powerful and forbidden of spells. Her calm and composed demeanor belies the immense power she wields, making her a central and stabilizing force within the clan.

Legacy:

Syla is deeply committed to preserving the Nightsisters' heritage and ensuring their survival amidst the galaxy's tumult, more so after the Nightsisters' previous massacre at the hands of General Grievous and his droid army. She works tirelessly to safeguard their secrets and to empower her sisters through knowledge and magical strength. Young witches look up to her not only as a mentor but as a symbol of the depth and mystery that embody Nightsister magic.

Through her leadership and guidance, Great Mother Syla, the Enchantress of the Abyss, remains a pillar of strength and knowledge, ensuring that the Nightsisters remain a formidable and mystical force within the galaxy. Her presence within the council of Great Mothers reinforces the Nightsisters' unity and their unwavering resolve to protect their way of life.

[asgardianhammer]

Of Care & Aesthetics : Grooming Rituals of Asgardians ( Male Presenting )

Disclaimer: As always this relates to Asgard for my muse’s MC universe, solely based on headcanons.

" Upon this realm grooming is not vanity, it is discipline, heritage, and spellcraft entwined, an important part of every household. A warrior's braid speaks of his lineage, a craftsman's beard tells of his patience. And the scent left in one's wake may linger longer than the tales told of his glory." ----- Scholar Ullv Felsonn of the Archives

Ritual of Morning: Stone, Steam & Scent

Each morning begins with cleansing steam, often drawn from natural mineral pools from the outskirts of the city, scented very faintly with crushed gold-bark root and salt bloom. It cleanses and warms the muscles before armor is added to the body, or for work.

The face and beard are treated next. Most men keep either close-styled beards or deliberate, sculpted growths. Beards are not symbols of age but of identity. A younger man may wear a thin curl or moustache to mimic his father, while elder warriors weave smaal beads or runes into greying strands.

Beard oil is sacred and seasonally blended:

Spring: lavender, pine resin, rainwood

Summer: saffron, bergamot, and bitter orange

Winter: clove, smoked cedar, dark honey

Fall: apple, black myrrh, and cinnamon.

Strands of hair are often tied back with leather cords for practicality, braids are kept simple, and oft braided into patterns learned from a man's house.

Scentcraft: The Aura as the first shield

Perfumes and oils are commonly used, for most men it is the first mark of their presence. Therefore the choice and practices are strategic.

Formal Court:

Sandalwood, silver sage, iceflower.

Applied behind the ears and wrists.

Meant to give clarity of mind and discipline.

Romantic Pursuits

Warm amber, ripe fig, dragonroot.

Dabbed lightly at the neck, when breath moves over it "wakes" the oil. ( * )

Sometimes mixed with a drop of blood from loved ones.

War & Hunt

Ironbark, wolfsbane leaf, fire-pine resin.

Rubbed into the chest and forearms.

Masks fear, sharpens the intake of breath.

Feasting & Victory

Crushed violet, apple smoke, golden musk.

Often layered with the oil of one's house crest plant.

Applied to the throat, crown of the head and belt line .( ** )

Bathing Halls & Chambers

Every training ground and barrack quarters hold bathing halls and chambers, at times even a series of chambers lit by bioluminescent moss and firestone. Men enter not only to wash, but to speak truths they cannot carry into the mead-hall. Each of them carries:

Scrubstone trays of ground pearl, salts and black sand.

Pitchers of infused oils hung above heated rocks.

Woven beard cloths from Alfheim silk or linnen.

To wash away blood is a ritual that can be heavy on the heart and mind alike, to wash away grief, shame or fear requires silence, heat, and a comrade who will offer silence and presence.

Ritual Grooming: High Days & Rites.

On merry occasions, or occasions of great significance, grooming is an art in and of itself, often aided by family members or sworn brothers.

Before a duel: the face is shaved clean, except for the house braid if one carries such. Weapons are blessed with reserved stormwater.

Before marriage: A full body oiling with moonmint and pearlrose, a scent that lasts three days. A symbolic shedding of solitude as both flowers grow only entwined together.

After a child is born: Nails of the sword hand are trimmed and no perfumes are worn until the Name Day of the child, to focus on presence over power.

Final Notes:

It is said that Odin himself wore a custom oil of crushed frost orchid and star-lichen, distilled by Seers of Vanaheim, only once every hunderd years, crafted on days of oaths.

It is said that Thor was rumored to favor a simple combination of oak bark and burnt honey.

Footnotes:

( * ) Oils are in general used a lot in rituals and grooming practices, and Seidr infused oils are quite common. It is not unusual for houses to make their own blends for various purposes. The most intricate oils are those used within the home, and for romantic/intimate occasions. Variants that soothe, entice, calm, but also excite, are quite common.

( ** ) Beltline application is often extended to the V-line when expecting intimate activities.

[ausantana]

Whimsical Goth

Written by au, also known as @ausantana on tumblr

beginner's guide to this distinctive and singular ‘aesthetic’

click below to read more! ↓

Introduction! ⭐️

Whimsical goth, whimsicore or also known as whimsigoth is a combination of eclectic maximalism, vintage love and floral romance that is usually more representative and relatable to us as teenagers, mixed with a fashion trend towards dark, moody and saturated spaces, the key to the whimsigoth style is not to go completely gothic.

Movies where this aesthetic is represented 🎞️

There are millions of films that encompass this aesthetic known to many, however I will be talking about some films that I especially adore in terms of scenery.

1- The Craft (1996)

Moodboard! 🕯️

2- The Love Witch (2016)

Moodboard! 🐈‍⬛

3- Practical Magic (1998)

Moodboard! 🔮

4- Tim Burton's cinematic universe

Moodboard! 🃏

As you can see, electric blue, purple, pumpkin orange, ochre and lime green are the most repeated colors in this type of aesthetic, creating a color harmony full of nostalgia and melancholy, which is what is mainly sought in Whimsigoth.

Artists with this type of vibe and aesthetic 🦇

Robert Smith - The Cure

Stevie Nicks - Fleetwood Mac

Hope Sandoval - Mazzy Star

Kate Bush

Moodboard! 🌙

You can see how these artists use this vibe and aesthetic in their clothing and their way of acting in front of the public, forming a mystical aura full of melancholy, they use the same color harmony that is usually used in this aesthetic: electric blue, violet and purple colors, even fuchsia and pumpkin orange tones.

Even their music based on alternative and in some cases like Stevie's, based on Anglo-American pop rock with country tendencies, give us the perfect vibe that represents whimsigoth.

beginnings 🕰️

Whimsigothic is a fusion of light and dark aesthetics, resulting in the ultimate style inspiration for those who identify with magic and mysticism. It brings out gothic opulence with thick velvet and lace textures, combined with bohemian crystals.

The term whimsigothic was created from the late 1980s to the mid-1990s, created from a contemporary base with the peak of popularity of gothic-inspired pop rock music.

Guide for your wardrobe! 🧵

Whimsigoth fashion is mostly inspired by traditional witch clothing and dark, saturated colors, mainly violet, emerald green and maroon. Layers and sheer fabrics are considered key elements. Patterned fabrics are also prominent.

Tops

- Bell sleeve tops

- Velvet camisoles

- Mesh tops

- Wrap shirts tied in front

- knitted cardigans

Bottoms

- Maxi skirts

- Wide leg trousers

- Velvet skirts

- Corduroy pants

- Bell bottoms

Accessories

- "Kitschy" jewelry

- Tote bags

- Gold jewelry

- Shawls & capes

This is the end of my second post about a topic that I have been very fond of for years, not only for the aesthetics itself but for its music, so I encourage you to try it out this fall!

xoxo, Au.

[i-willstealyourtoes]

tf2 matchup pleas pleas pleas??? (bats big eyelashes) ^^ I'm 20, a cis woman, i go by she/her pronouns, pisces, i'm on the chubbier side, I weigh around 80(?) kg. I'm unlabeled when it comes to my sexuality. I am from Australia, and I'm mixed with Italian/croatian, as well as North/South Indian. I do have the Australian accent though! But I live near the city. I have honey, warm toned skin, with dark dark brown hair (almost black!), which is just below my chest, and I have curtain bangs and layers. I have a wave pattern, and brown eyes. I have light to medium acne/acne scars, lips on the fuller side, and a round face. I have a little, singular freckle on the tip of my nose, and one beneath my lip. I dress in multiple different styles, and can never choose just one. But my main styles are Boho, whimsy twee. I have two sets of glasses. One black pair, one clearish-violet pair. I'm a pretty insecure person, but i'm willing to make an effort in a relationship. I have Autism and ADHD, and I can be pretty loud sometimes when speaking (unknowingly). My love languages are...idk, all of them?? I'm not super experienced with relationships (my last boyfriend was HORRIFIC), but I love making my partner feel worthy of love, and generally good about themselves. I need to often feel reassured, and I overthink frequently. I linger on arguments on accident, and I have a hard time talking about it. I FREAKING LOVE MOVIES!! My favorites are V/H/S 94, Splice, and American Psycho! I love to draw and scrapbook, as well as going to the nature reserve near my house. I listen to a few different genres of music, but I have a few favorites such as: Dazey and the Scout Destroy Boys Weezer The Bloodhound Gang Fiona Apple Creed Amyl and the Sniffers Reel Big Fish ------------------ Into abserdism. I believe our reason to be on this earth is to experience its wonders, and prioritize your own joy. Big ol introvert. I hate public spaces. I get extremely overstimulated, resulting in me becoming a little irritated with others around me as i'm overwhelmed by everything. Not the best relationship with my dad, great relationship with my mum. ------------------- I play video games such as; Postal Series Minecraft Splatoon Multiple pokemon games TF2 Sims 4 ( ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ ) thank you!!

You did technically send this when I had my inbox closed, but no worries; the penalty is just a shorter piece lol X') I hope you still like it though !!

Matchup for Movie!Anon

Sniper

You both like nature and both are just a little insecure about things (me too tbh)

Oh also you're both Australian by nationality! When you two first meet, he's immediately put at ease upon hearing your accent :)

He would love to do little movie dates, where the two of you just sit on some bean bags or something and cuddle up at night :)

Sniper's not used to all those big dates and so on, so he's much more comfortable with you in his arms in private

He would absolutely learn how to braid your hair if you want.

Although, don't tease him about it (or do), because he will get all pink in the face X)

"Just.. just turn around and let me do it, alright...?!"

I'm not sure what exactly Sniper listens to, but I think he'd enjoy indie rock so you're in good company when on road trips !

He would definitely take you on trips where the two of you can be alone and just explore nature together

He's not exactly an arts and crafts person, but he thinks it's so cool that you do scrapbooking and draw

He will totally watch you as you sketch or glue things on with hearts in his eyes :)

If you want, he'll bring back things from nature or bring you to certain places to draw/scrapbook !

If you draw him, he will absolutely get all flustered about it, maybe even trying to cover his face with his hat

"..You really did this for me..? Love.."

Also believes in absurdism; life is what you make it, and he's happy where he is (with you), so he doesn't really care about a higher purpose as long as you're with him :)

Demo

He will absolutely chill with you on the couch (with a couple beers) and watch movies till you both pass out

It's his favourite kind of date, where the two of you can just commentate on some random stupid plot or character and laugh about whatever together

Also he loves the freckle on your nose !! He will constantly be booping it and kissing it :)

"I can't help myself, really! It's like an 'x marks the spot,' love."

He likes the colours in your outfit !! He likes your hair too, although he might not be good at braiding it like Sniper...

He isn't exactly big on nature but he'll totally get you some wildflowers in hopes you'll like them (he's trying)

Demo will totally play Splatoon with you. He likes the chaos.

Although don't expect him to go easy on you; he is competitive and you are not safe

"HAH! Take THAT ya wee- Oh, sorry love. Love you...!"

He will try scrapbooking with you. Emphasis on try

He just really wants to see you smile, and if you ever feel anxious about things, he will kiss you repeatedly until you feel better :)

He also doesn't really care that you're chubby; to him it just means better hugs :,)

He is also quite loud, so he doesn't mind at all about your lack of volume control ! He will probably swear at someone endlessly if they insult you about it X)

He's your personal hype man, what more can I say?