#toecap

[chiefblossom]

I am absolutely IN LOVE with decorating converse

I'm also in love with my lil raven I drew!!

[betweenthings2]

Everyday I have to tell myself not to buy another pair of shoes and I add something to my list of shoes I want.

[angeltism]

SCREAMINGGGGG online shop that sells more masc shoes for smaller shoe sizes and they're so pretty ?? i need them sooo much.. idk if i'd be able to find men's shoes in my size but i highly doubt it so. oh. my. GOD.

[freshthoughts2020]

[tomboy-toes]

Hello dapper dressers with smaller feet! You may have heard about Tomboy Toes, a small online trans-owned shoe company that has been in business since 2016 - but you may NOT have heard about our handsome lightweight dress boots the Traveler's Toecaps, designed for women, trans men, and non-binary folks with smaller feet!

Tomboy Toes was started by a young trans guy just longing to look dashing but struggling to find things in his size that weren't from the women's section or the children's section. We're here to make your dream of looking like a slick secret agent or dignified university professor come true - and our flagship line of dress shoes, the Downtown Dappers, is available in extra wide as well!

[bergdorfverse]

Tilly Set feat. Off-Line

Download the Tilly Tops & Skirt from Off-Line

You will get:

Wavy Hobo Bag

15 Swatches

Crossbody CAS Version

Decor Version

Toecap Slingbacks

16 Swatches

Shoes Category

Decor Version

Toecap Slingbacks with Socks

16 Swatches

Shoes Category

Toecap Slingbacks Add On

8 Swatches

Socks Category

Use it to change the socks color

Tilly Set for Blender ( Shop Only )

Original HQ textures included

Separated Materials for Extra Customization Options

Please use this for renders

All LODs // Disabled for Random // Custom Thumbnail

Conversion // Do not recolor or convert without permission // Do not re-upload

SUBSCRIBE

SHOP

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[hatsukeii]

I think I'll be singing Velvet Ring on a microphone beaded with 'ex lovers' stickers and 'longing looks' beads. I've heard that Ushijima likes my music quite a bit~

too easy. the band you’ve joined is…

exes in my phone book / timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): ex lovers to something?? something i guess?? pining, reminiscing, nostalgia fic tbh but ANGST ANGSTY ANGST WOO interpret the ending as you like because i kept it open for a reason

warning(s): slightly dysfunctional relationship dynamics kinda, lowkey suggestive at points, ushiwaka and reader were just young and stupid and in love but they couldn't seem to navigate it yknow, everything is also like somewhat/pretty ambiguous until the end but that's just how i like it

wc: ~1.7k

your first gig is… at a concert with your ex?!?!

setlist:

🎵velvet rings, big thief

🎵mayonaise, the smashing pumpkins

🎵black star, radiohead

There is a girl on a stage, who strums a pick through the strings of her acoustic guitar. A girl, whose lips hover just above the microphone that sits in a bracket, sighing into the cool metal for a final song. The people beside you have settled down, cheers and jumps reduced to swaying and mumbling.

You've been waiting for this song, haven't you?

The song strikes the ears first. The girl on stage, illuminated by a cone of light from above, sings of a night, thicker than a smoky fume. You mouth along to the lyrics, and your mind wanders to a place where your lungs are bloated, too full to carry anything more. A night beneath a buzzing streetlight, gravel that rolls and scrapes under the sweeping wind, ants that crawl onto the toecaps, under the soles, along the platforms of your unmoving shoes. A night of final breaths, and final words, and final sorrows. You're looking at the ground, your shadow muddied with the figure of another. You don't think he stares back at you. The ants keep crawling. They don't stop, even as you pivot away and leave your heart buried in the ground. The streetlight doesn't reach it again, but maybe it reaches his, still.

The faces around you hum along to a sequence, sway with the velvety strums of the girl's guitar, hold others tight against themselves. You stand alone amongst the crowd. You move when the rest of them will you to, only ever mouth to the lyrics, hold your hands close to your chest. You fear that your voice will give out if you try anything more.

"She's a beautiful performer, isn't she?"

The crowd does not shift their attention from the girl on the stage, so neither do you. She sings in gentle syllables of love, her heart pours out of her mouth. She longs for some fictitious persona, Ben, as her fingers play at the guitar like tugging the strings of a puppet. When you open your mouth, your heart is not there.

"She is. She really is." You respond to nothing but a sultry voice that finds its way into your ear canals.

The girl sings of a smoking gun, smoke that fizzles out from the barrel into night air, a bullet that falters at the end of its path to nothing in particular, a love that, for many nights before this, has begun to run dry. It's agonising, taunting, hopeful. It dies out in unanswered phone calls, drafted emails, text messages left unsent, collecting dust in a note-taking application. Words that ask a million questions.

Could we keep this going?

Is this really for the better?

Can't we try?

Why won't you just let me try?

"Why aren't you singing? It's the last song." The voice is anomalous amongst the crowd's united silence, his question stands out from those unsaid. He is too curious, yet for some selfish, twisted reason, you wish to indulge yourself. Wallow in sorrow. Take somebody else's beating heart to replace your own, that you buried beneath asphalt on a winter night of unasked questions turned two years of unspoken longing.

"For the same reason that you aren't, I'd assume." You silently hope he asks you for more.

The person huffs out a sigh, a short sigh that one lets out when they smile in defeat and surrender. He's close, his arm touching your own when he moves side to side with the crowd. His movement wills you to sway along. The girl on the stage sings of a gentle love, thick like a velvet ring. All encompassing, all powerful.

“Well, I once knew a person who loved this song.” He goes on. You stay silent, ears trained onto the words that paint golden silk and shimmering mist into the concert hall. A portrait of love that you have prayed to see once again, just out of grasp, but real enough to graze your fingers over. It sinks into your fingertips, takes you to a place where your hands could draw lines into tanned skin, hold onto a pair of strong arms, clasp together behind his broad shoulders. Beneath your feet, it travels to your ankles, wraps around your thighs, envelops you in a shroud of warmth. It comes in the form of his head laid in your lap after a long day, I love you mumbled into the flesh of your stomach in shaky sighs, calluses that roam every spot of skin on your body.

"Love really is a gentle thing, isn't it?" The lyrics are spoken out of your mouth naturally, like water running downstream in a creek. The person stays silent, you do the same. The girl's singing pierces through your ears to your throat, clawing at it as if to break it open and rescue something. He speaks before something can escape you.

"I haven't spoken to them since I left. Love is anything but gentle."

You wince, the girl's singing finally ripping through your windpipe. It doesn't stop there, to your surprise. It drills through to its final destination, and you grab the fabric of your shirt around your heart. You don't fully know the answer to your own question, but you believe in his despair. If love truly is gentle, it would have exited your chest when you screamed your throat hoarse for him to stay. It would have eased the pain, somehow. It would have sent your heart out to him even as he stood amongst giants, leagues greater than you. It would have sewn together your words, strung them into poems beautiful enough for him to say yes, I'll stay. I'll stay if you want, and I'll go if you want. Instead, you watch him on television every night, highlight reels, live volleyball matches. He left. You did not want him to.

"I haven't spoken to him since either. But I still think love is gentle. The painful kind."

The final chords of the song round off the set. The girl bows, and exits stage left. The crowd begins to loosen, yet the person's arm remains beside yours.

"Do you ever miss it?"

His number is still in your contacts. You struggle every night to hold off on pressing it. Your heart aches, and lights come on. You stare at an empty stage, and you envision yourself on it. Thousands of eyes watch you sing the song, yet you search the crowd for one pair only. You sing the words that you had once shown your love, a love that found you despite his duties, regardless of his glory, amidst his passion. You sing like you are begging for him to see you through the television, and turn around so the name Ushijima bares his face to you instead of his back. You cry out a story of a dying love, hanging onto frayed strings of memories and fear. The singing contorts into screaming at an empty crowd, as if your resolve could make Ushijima Wakatoshi find you again. You pretend to be his hands, hold yourself in your sleep. You hear his voice in your bed, on the streets, in front of you, behind you, beside you, even right here. You will never learn the lips of anyone else, not after his have taken you for himself. They feel like poison now, sinking into your veins from every part of your body that you inhibit. A poison that forces him into every corner of your life, and you are a fool enough to almost see him there.

"I want it gone, and I miss it all the same." You're crying now, and even your tears remind you of the love that taught you of its cruelty. You imagine a day when you wear another's ring on your finger, only to look up and see a blank face. There is no other.

"I think you should give him a call."

"I can't. I'd just hold him back."

"That's not true." His voice cracks, and his rebuttal is desperate, almost apologetic.

You turn to bid him farewell.

Ushijima is almost no different from how he was two years ago. But he's a little older now, a little taller too. His hair is the same olive green that used to run smooth between the webs of your hands. His voice is deep, rounder than it once was when he used to nip your earlobe and mutter professions of his love into your ear. You stare, but you don't know that he has been staring since halfway through the concert. You aren't seeing him through a television, he is no longer clad in a Schweiden Adlers jersey, his last name bears no weight here, in the space between the two of you. The days, and months, and years spent together come rushing into your head. A kiss on the forehead before separation, two pairs of feet running in wet sand that crumbles beneath their weight, sharing lunches in the silence of school rooftops, lips roaming every inch of each other on nights of longing. You, and Ushijima, and the pleads that lose their bodies when they fall back from your mouths and into your chests.

"Please, give me a call. Or a text. Or an email, I don't care. Just anything. I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Ushijima."

You turn to leave, but you pull your phone out of your pocket to stare at his name in your contacts.

Ushijima watches your shrinking figure, all of his love trailing behind you, fading into smoke.

Your finger hovers above the red button that could end it all.

He can't seem to move, rooted into the ground of the now mostly empty concert hall. You are slipping away again, and he has learned from his mistake. He questions whether he's learned it a bit too late.

You turn off your phone, and shove it back into your pocket. He receives a text.

"I just want to take you home again."

author's note:

my sister gave me this idea a while ago and i just knew i had to make it so angsty sorry LOL she wanted a fluff ending but im the one with the document open so i can do what i WANT!! no i am actually very proud of this piece though and idk if this will get ANY exposure or interactions but just know that i really really loved writing this one

i also fear i lowkey forgot about longing looks and just went straight for longing…

also! song lyric references! if you catch them i'll give you a big fat kiss i love my music so much

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @catsoupki @chuuya-brainrot @hiraethwa @fiannee @bailey-reeds @4ngelfries @akaakeis @wyrcan @kuroppiii @zzwon

interested in joining a band? come on over to the build-a-band 900 !!

[felassan]

[image source]

Neve is so stanced :D

So anyways these armors (and weapons). :> the gold, curves, triangles - they look ancient elvhen. especially check out the feet on mage and warrior Rook (tho rogue Rook has gold-toecapped boots hh), it's like DA:I Temple of Mythal Sentinel-type vibes. also the faces in various places (see: ancient elven sentinel's knees below on the left, Solas' Trespasser armor knees). the small triangles on Taash's chestpiece even look like this style of armor we first saw Solas in in a trailer a few years back.

in some there's also a golden dragon, like warrior Rook's helm and Davrin and Taash's shoulders.

I'm obsessed with the pretty designs on rogue Rook's shins here. also apparently rogues can have headpieces like full-on ninjas now, the mask thing is so cool. :D Warrior Rook's elaborate helmet is also super cool - dragon head, dragon-winged.

for the companion ones, I like how the armors maintain a few unique aspects of companions' 'default' styles. like Bellara still has all her triangular pouches with the hanging odds and ends, Lucanis' daggers, Neve's sleeves etc. it's a nice balance of being able to customize companions' armor in different styles (unlike DA2) while still maintaining their unique identities and preserving some individual elements when doing so (unlike DA:O).

these weapons are so pretty, especially the bow that curls like halla horns. I wonder if the lil blue-tealy kinda bits on these are blue lyrium? the head at the top of the mage weapon on the bottom right is interesting, it looks like an elongated skull, dragon-like maybe. the pointed top reminds me of the point of Mythal's crown or that one other Evanuris head-shape. and in the top left, for the shield, I can't see that horizontal curved shape anymore without thinking about Elgar'nan hhhh.

(also have this concept art of ancient elven weaponry for comparison. ^^)

[mimaveil]

I Know Your Dad and He Wouldn't Mind

@getlouder: 50 new messages what new depravities have you dunked your little men like Oreos into (milk glass emoji)

@vermiculated: mimaveil's getting into romantasy and she's going to make a million dollars, get a movie deal, take OD to the premiere, and he's still not going to know how to stand

Governing Concept: can't an up-and-coming actor send nudes to his onscreen dad, torrid, get dumped, and not learn his lesson post-pandemic? gosh. normie pocket dimension of ask for a key, or the comedy-of-marriage-minded sequel to sex, or a bag of rocks (i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii)

or: it's not a felony anymore, just improper

or: blue valentine with more anal

cw: future nsfw, 1k of pretentious set-up

“Do you have anything that smells like old dick?” Logan asks, loudly. “Um, mildly expired. Lost its warranty.” 

Owen shrivels into his sweatshirt. This is a nice snuff room — fish-oil lighting, scallop-pink walls, tidy shelves, imitation-Tabriz rugs on the spotty cypress. Besides him and Logan, maybe eight other pilgrims waiting for bottle service on a Monday. He digs the toecap of his sneaker into a pleasantly warped medallion of garnet, ivory, coral. 

The sales associate sighs. Slides clear-frame glasses down her nose. Probably five years older than them, although hard to tell with the bangs. Apothecary-sleaze drips, peach syrup, from the surround sound. 

“Linear or non-linear?” Briny regard, her décolletage throbs with Dancheong ink; she must have a killer sun-prevention regimen. 

Palms on the milk-vein table top, Logan makes his face genuflect. Choreographer’s trick. Grinning sidelong at Owen, “You like complicated.” Actually bowing to the sales associate, puffy-paint letters bulging against his back: “Go wild, bombastic, high-morph. It’s for a business date.”

Owen’s throat unclogs. “Proposal, a research proposal,” he says hastily. “Conceptual is fine.” 

After a few more questions, Owen squirming around his waxed satchel, the sales associate lopes off to a back room, fall of velvet on a chain. Across the table, Logan squares his shoulders and breathes heavily into his fists. Bottles everywhere, the noonish play of sound on the perfume caps: zamac, aluminum, enamel, marbled, beveled, cubist, sinuous, glossy, surly-cherubic…

“Bro, you could be doing great work in this community,” Logan says, plying a candlewick. A hexagonal serving-glass on the table mirrors his under-jaw. “Divorced pilates moms with zero-to-negative emotional needs, absolutely fiend for sad, artsy boys like you. You’re the elephant they never got to ride at the zoo.”

Scratching his lip, reedy, “I don’t think you’re supposed to ride elephants. Or, have sex with them?” A woman squeezes past, crema leggings; he catches a gulp of tangerine. 

“You know what I mean!” Cracks knuckles, blanched in good humor. They’re doing a tour of Logan’s haunts, because Logan is a low-judgment friend with a durable memory. “Yet, you’re signing up to do a full teardown reno on some guy’s personality?” 

Owen’s phone writhes in the zip pocket. Yesterday, he got an AP News alert on the topic of micro-cheating, with somber examples (“getting excited to dress up for a co-worker.” “Liking somebody’s social media posts to distraction”). Wasn’t that just a crush? 

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “It’s personal-professional.” That’s what the text had said. Come stay with me. Personal-profesh. Get you the wife experience.

Eternally “yes-and,” Logan shrugs. Scarce wonder they’ve kept in touch, even after drifting cross-industry. Owen’s not sure if Logan’s acting anymore. 

“We get you geared up, you spray this on the collar of a super-basic tee. Like, an anime tee. No, scratch: old dudes leak for a band t-shirt. Women like non-representational art, so they can Photoshop you into something else. Show up in a button-down— not plaid, we’re not in middle school — undone, airplane pants, utility sandal in, uh, lilac. They’ll be heaving into your hand.” 

The sales associate returns with a flight of testers on a raw-edge serving tray, red cedar. There’s a jaunty tin of coffee beans, as a huff cleanser. “Your aura is a lot of sparkling herbals,” she diagnoses. “Dark mosses and pepper.” Her falsies scrape her eyeglass lens. 

As Owen starts to read the description cards by each of the five bottles, Logan smacks him on the arm. Almost like they’re back on set, clowning around. 

“Remember the rules, bro,” fast-twitch smile. “Let the intensity in. Feed the metaphor. Crush on the creator. Pretend you’re a buyer — okay, that’s boring, we are buying — build another register of enjoyment. Dig for the flaw.”

First draught is a staticky wheeze; it’s supposed to mimic the dust on a lamp, spine curved around a pillow, hand under pyjamas, blocking a bedtime story. He’s not getting the immortelle. 

Second draught slopes into a mushroom hunt, loamy-medicinal, birch, balsam fir needle. The ginseng — and he likes sharp, he likes outdoors, but. Anxiety spiders his back.  

Owen’s not a frag-head like Logan, but he knows scent and memory. People have bits of their brains just hanging out their nose-holes all the time. Smells jump the counter, bypass the receptionist. 

He accidentally reads the name of the third bottle: Sydney Rock Pool. Skips it. 

Fourth is a bullying devotional, heavy on the saffron, tar, incense, tobacco. It fights him all the way, from grip to alveoli. “Myrrh and benzoin makes this, like, sexy mummified,” Logan chews into his cuticle. “Maybe a little too heavy for you.”

They break to sniff the coffee beans from the tin. Logan’s relaxed; he knows that he’s getting the d’Annam Strawberry Mochi (chewy rice, Azuki bean paste, brown sugar) for his girlfriend, who is picking them up in 20 minutes, so they can all wait in line for chocolate sourdough. 

Fifth’s a metallic strine, rust on grapefruit. The scent bleeds right off. They get a second flight with a decent rock-climbing accord of sweat, basalt, seaweed, gasoline. The friction, the ardor, and the drop. 

He gets samples in a baggie, from Logan’s actual purchase, and buys an 8-oz soy candle for his mom, maybe for her annual Christmas party. The box is lilac; it’s called “Snow on Fire.”

—

After the intensive smelling, the coffee-bean reset, actual coldbrew tastes flaccid. 

At deferred lunch, back to the casement window, Anjali talks about her rotation, Logan clearly adoring, refilling her rose tea. As hosts, outnumbering him, they’ve let themselves be rear-lit, chambray sky. Atop PharmD school, she’s a bridesmaid for three weddings this summer; “the color story is a nightmare,” she says, painting her labneh on two poached eggs. 

“Owen gets rings,” Logan affirms/outs through a shatter of Kouign Amann. Their table teeters under the full bread service. 

The knife startles, buckwheat C-section: “It’s not that dramatic.” Crepe-warm, the crushed plum-raspberry-peach hits the high note in his mouth, leaves gummy tracks. “My ex proposed to me, I said no. And my ex before that.”

Anjali smooths her hair over her ears, mindful of the teacup. “That’s so chic.” She swings her heels. “I wish my friends were pickier.” 

Over Logan’s instantly apologetic shoulder, through the glass, Owen spots a putty-tone Roblox car parking out front. 

Who was the greater coward, here? His ex-boyfriend, either one of them, smoothly not over it, inventing new reasons to pester him? 

Or Owen himself, staring at the breakwater, malaise sipping at his heels, waiting for someone to fuck a mark of connoisseurship in him? 

Ben had given him the child’s view of infinity, a place where the pool party never ends, with a perfectly warm deck, forever-curving water slide. So much soft-serve, on tap, that the air tastes like ice cream. Great rolling suitcases spitting out water shoes and swimsuits and ziplocks of crushed cereal, grippy socks, notebooks, markers, hats, stickers, grape vitamins, dramamine tablets, sunscreen sticks, tutu dresses, hair clips, waterproof jackets, quick-dry cargo shorts. A place where the bigger kids zip up the younger ones’ hoodies, and the strong readers sound out the signs for their unlettered friends, where every past child is safe and pardoned and loved. 

He excuses himself to the corridor, hip-checking a double stroller (unoccupied). 

In the single-user restroom, by the bulb of a Glade plug-in, he checks his phone. Sets a date. 

[thedreadvampy]

I do not understand subcultural politics discourse and at this point I don't know how much is differences in the national scenes and how much is that we just have very different ideas of what these scenes are.

cause like. Punk I get. Punk is not always left wing (there has always been a Nazi punk problem) but punk IS always inherently and actively political as a definitional factor. Punk is foundationally anarchist, counter-hierarchical, and centred on anger and community cohesion. If you approach punk as apolitical or centrist you are Doing It Wrong. Nazis and right libertarians have always made up a small but vocal chunk of the community, and that's a problem punk has to address in its own ways (ideally with steel toecaps). Punk is definitionally political and has a couple of extremely foundational sets of political beliefs.

Or like, hip-hop. More complicated case cause there's even more corporate cooption involved in shaping the modern genre but hip-hop has a foundational political position. Hip-hop is focused on Black pride and power, and on addressing African-American trauma and injustice, and so it's historically working-class, anti-racist and anti-cop. It means something politically as a genre.

But some stuff people say just Does Not Jam with my experience of subculture. Like people KEEP saying 'you can't be a right-wing goth, goth is radically left wing' and all I'm saying is a) we have spoken to some VERY different elder goths bc as much as I was lucky enough to grow up in the scene, going to the goth weekends, etc, my god did some of those 60 year olds vote Tory or BNP with their whole chest. and b) as far as I'm aware the main thing that goth stands for politically is countercultural provocation and a kind of nihilistic disengagement. like Siouxie Sioux habitually used swastikas and Nazi paraphernalia to demonstrate distance from her parent's generation. a lot of the foundational Goth musicians are either right-wing or prefer to keep their politics private because they consider them separate.

like most of the goths I know are left-leaning, because there are foundational philosophical beliefs attached to goth culture and a lot of those, like fluidity of expression, resistance to established power, and celebrating marginalisation, appeal to a lot of lefties. But frankly I've known a lot of goths who are reactionary right-wingers or full on Nazis because, well, other precepts of goth culture can include stuff like nihilistic individualism and glorification of death. Plus the Nazi iconography thing, plus the widespread racism in the community. and those weren't like 'i found goth on TikTok' goths, these are like 'committed to the lifestyle since 1979' goths.

Like goth is not particularly a RIGHT-WING movement, but I have never experienced it as an explicitly political musical/subcultural movement at all? Certainly not the way that punk or reggae or outlaw country or something is.

(and speaking of reggae. I was watching Anthony Fantano and FD Signifier talking about this whole idea and FD said something as a 'isn't this a silly example' about a white nationalist looking for white nationalist reggae. and they were both laughing about what a silly idea that was

and I'm sitting there like...But that's literally exactly what happened with ska in the UK? like ska is obviously an afrocaribbean genre made by and for Black communities and uhhhh by the late 60s in Britain ska was the white nationalist sound. like skinheads love ska and in particular there are a bunch of neonazi/white nationalist ska acts. not all skinheads are far right but if skinheads have a dominant political identity it is probably more far right than far left.

and that did raise the question of differences in national scenes. like I know that behind the Iron Curtain a lot of punks were using UK and American flags the way Western punks were using Soviet iconography, and Caribbean music has a very different cultural association in the UK than in the US, and British rap has a different political outlook than American rap.

and so maybe American goth is a lot more political than British goth? but I kind of think of goth as a European subculture tbh like I think goth I think England and Germany, and the European goth music and goth scenes I've been in are......not explicitly political?)

[lilas]

happy wip wednesday again y’all

It feels like it’s been forever since I last posted some for wip wednesday. I just didn’t have much I could or wanted to share. But now… :>

Tagging @lilbittymonster @roguelioness @galadae @impossible-rat-babies @coldshrugs @lavampira @hythlodaes @scionshtola @zylphiacrowley @shadowentei and YOU! IF YOU SEE THIS! Anything creative, anything at all.

Anyway, here’s a little wip about you guessed it Avi’li and Erenville, at some point between 7.0 and 7.1.

—-

The yarn slides through the smooth leather, in and out, through once then through twice in rhythmic motions. Avi’li’s deft fingers maneuver the needle around Erenville’s boot, both turning in his hands as he leverages the material surface area. It’s not the usual Turali stitch pattern, or any pattern normally seen in embroidery. Neither is it chaotic or mindless. Avi’li lays each stitch with exacting purpose. One stitch forms a right angle. The following stitch goes parallel, forming the beginning of a new shape. One shape, moving into the next. Each line contributes to the system of growing geometry stitched on the tongue of Erenville’s boot.

Erenville watches over Avi’li’s shoulder, stretched out on the rickety, threadbare bed in Iyaate’s spare room. The room is drafty and not completely free of dust (can anything in Shaaloani be?), but it beats a bedroll on the ground in a tent.

“What do the shapes mean?” Erenville asks. Avi’li’s head adjusts and the ends of his shaggy hair brush against the bed. Erenville reaches out, grasps several hairs lightly between his fingers.

“Many things.” Green eyes catch the dust mottled light as Avi’li turns his head and shoulders to look back at Erenville. “They’re all based on the same basic design principles.” He lifts the boot he‘s working on. The thick embroidery needle sits embedded in the leather, shiny and new in comparison to the scuffed steel toecaps. Avi’li points to the circle he just stitched.

[airandangels]

A stock phrase that my mind just balks at because it bears no resemblance to my experience is when a writer says a pair of too-small shoes pinch a character’s toes. What? No they don’t. The discomfort or pain caused by having to cram your toes into a tight toecap is nothing like that caused by a pinch! Squeezing, crushing, squishing or squashing, gripping maybe - but not pinching. I must speak up about this! It’s been allowed to go on for far too long!

[onesidedradiostatic]

headcanon vox's red bowtie used to be alastors

alastor hates the thing

vox is obsessed

help LMAO this implies alastor's outfit was even REDDER before. at the very least I think vox was copying alastor with the fuckass bowtie (and the pinstriped jacket. and the upturned collars. and the outlined lapels. and the coloured fingertips. and the coloured toecaps on black heels.)

[madamefeu]

I don’t think enough people talk about how every inch of Vox’s outfit screams, ‘I wish I was Alastor!’ We all know that Vox can only dream of being as powerful and as feared as Alastor, and that he wanted Alastor on his side once upon a time, but Alastor said no. Even so, it’s clear from the way Vox dresses that he idolises him. The shape and style of Vox’s overcoat is exactly the same as Alastor’s, but it’s in shades of blue instead of red. The same goes for his gloves, pants, and even shoes, which have blue toecaps instead of red toecaps like Alastor’s, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Vox’s shoes had blue hoofprints on the soles as well. Vox claims to hate Alastor, but we all know that he wants to be him deep down.

[stardustrebels]

Seasons of Life Writing Challenge Day 25- Pie

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: PG13/ T WC: 496

A/N: Day 25 of the Day 24 of the Jan 2025 writing challenge by @fanfictionoverload! Oof, I even made myself sad with this one. It’s just angst. Angst as far as the eye can see- I wanted to do something different, experiment a bit with feelings and such, and I almost discarded this and wrote something happier, but then I didn’t. Let me know what you think!

Warnings: mention of death, bereavement, canon- typical heartache,  canon-typical violence (not in detail)

Challenge Masterlist

Joel sat at the kitchen table, fist pressed against his brow. Late autumn sunshine filtered through the curtains, bathing the counters and floor in a golden glow- mocking him with its warmth. Goading his misery, causing it to seep out of his chest and fill the space like a heavy, suffocating gas. 

He hadn’t taken a full breath in days. 

He stared at the dish in the middle of the table, holding the last slice of pie, made a few days ago with crab apples you’d found, its crust slightly uneven where your hands had shaped it. A fresh ache jolted through his heart as he thought back to that afternoon.

You’d looked like something from a dream- bathed in sunlight, smile soft and effortless, humming while you worked. For a moment he’d allowed the fantasy of domesticity, forcing a frown to hide the way he watched you.  

“You could at least try to look like you’re having a nice time,” you’d teased, a glint in your eye that spoke a thousand words. 

No, he admitted with a grimace, not a thousand, just three. 

Three words that you’d never admitted to each other, and now never would. 

The patrol the next morning had gone wrong- an ambush by raiders in the woods beyond Jackson. You’d never made it back. Tommy had told him to wait, to gather a group before heading out, but Joel had refused, grabbing his rifle and leaving without hesitation. 

The woods were silent when he found you; slumped against the trunk of a willow, its leaves framing you in a halo of oranges and reds; haunting and beautiful. You’d fought hard- of course you had. Your bloodied and bruised knuckles told him that much. They’d taken your rifle and the knife he’d given you, left you with nothing but the clothes on your back. Desperate acts by desperate men. There was nothing Joel could do except hold you- his forehead pressed to yours until the sun dipped low, the shadows of the willow’s branches stretching long and thin across the ground.

Back in Jackson, Joel refused any help as he dug your grave, shovelling dirt long in to the night until his hands were raw and his back screamed in protest. He welcomed the pain, letting it seep in to his weary bones, a bitter offering to a penance that would never find absolution. 

Your funeral was well attended, the town gathered in quiet mourning, faces filled with grief. Ellie’s hand had gripped his as they laid you to rest, but Joel couldn’t bring himself to look away from the toecaps of his boots as the earth swallowed you. 

His fingers curled around his forehead and tugged at his hairline as he thought about it- about you-  elbows digging in to the hard wood of the table to try and deflect the strangling twist of pain forcing its way in to his heart, finding a home with the rest of his grief.

[cantuscorvi]

[ He still hasn’t grown out of it? ]

Trying to drag my writing back from the depths in any way possible-- Honestly I didn't write anything I was happy with for the past three months, and most of that time I didn't write anything at all. So I was happy today to finally be able to get something written that I've been intending to for a while. So, I managed to get out a small (very rough) drabble! Just a little thing I imagined to happen when Raum was very young, maybe about 6-7 years old. Maybe I'll rewrite this in the future to make myself more satisfied, but this is how it is for now.

The storybook he's supposed to read hangs limply in his hands while Raum sits on the couch and watches Friedrich wax his shoes.

Two fingers wrapped tightly with the cloth. Tap against the water bottle. Click.

Friedrich glances up.

Raum's eyes dart back to the page. But they have already been on him for a while.

“Tonight I want you to join us for dinner.” He looks down again, and Raum can resume his careful observation. His fingers press the blackened fabric to the toecap, making quick swipes up and down. He speaks patiently.

“They have a girl. Amara… Amanda. Something like that. You two can play together when they arrive. But don't make a lot of noise. It disturbs her grandmother. You're going to have to be on your best behaviour. You can do that, can't you?”

Raum nods, frowning down at his book. “… Mm. Okay.”

“Not ‘okay’. Yes.”

“Yes.”

Friedrich finishes up with the shoe and places it aside to dry with its twin. He stands up, leaving the little black tin on the side table next to him.

“Good. Go and get ready, then. I'll call Marta to help you.”

Once Friedrich leaves the room, Raum looks at the shoes over the top of his book. They’re almost reflective — when he moves his hand, he can see it mirrored on the surface. He eyes the folded cloth. The polish set atop it. Then the door. He bites his lip.

Quickly, he tosses the book onto the seat and swipes the little tin of polish, shoving it into his pocket. He smiles at Marta when she enters.

It's close to dinner time.

Raum dresses with Marta. He patiently endures how she fusses over him, how his shirt is tucked, the colour of his socks. He lets her do his hair the way she’s been told to.

Then he tells her he needs to use the bathroom.

Once the door is closed he sits on the bathtub's edge and lets his feet dangle above the tiled floor. Secretively, he fishes the little black tin out of his pocket.

He looks at it for a minute, twisting it around so the embossed letters on the surface show up in the light.

It's difficult to open for small and unpractised fingers. He pries at it several times unsuccessfully, almost giving up until the lid suddenly pops off and clatters to the floor.

Raum freezes, expecting to be caught. Moments pass without reaction before he breathes a sigh of relief. Marta must have gone downstairs. . .

It's almost disappointing to look at. A black mass of thick waxy nothingness, almost like paint; the only detail on its surface is the small dip in the centre from earlier use.

The smell is pungent and chemical, mildly unpleasant. It reminds him of the few times he was allowed to smell the liquor from the cabinet in the pantry. This feels like a very. . . grown-up object. He nods to himself. Yes. It's something that men use all the time. He likes it. He'll use it in the future, so naturally, he should figure it out now.

Two of his fingers are pressed into the wax before he realises he doesn't have any cloth, or shoes, to use it on.

He pauses for a moment of indecision before shrugging off the thought. Never mind. It's just an experiment! Just to try. He can wash it off and then. . . ask to use it properly later.

Maybe Friedrich could teach him.

The thought buoys him, making him get up with a smile. He smears the wax between two of his fingers and heads to the mirror to take a look.

There's a black stripe down the centre of his palm. He grins and rubs it around a little. Before long both of his hands are black with it, and Raum raises them both in front of the mirror.

It's silly.

How could they use this without getting it everywhere?

Maybe he should wash it off.

He lowers his hands to the sink. His reflection looks back at him. Pristine and young. Pale and blond.

He looks like a kid.

Oh, how cute! He looks just like ████.

His lips twist out of the smile. He's not a kid.

He still hasn’t grown out of it? Not like you, hm?

He raises one hand, hesitantly at first. Then too quickly, like he wouldn't be able to stomach it otherwise, he runs one of his blackened hands through the front of his hair.

“They’ll be here soon.” Friedrich's voice sounds from downstairs.

“I was sure he was ready. I'll go and check on him.”

“Please do.” The impatient tap of a cigarette against its silver case.

Quick footfalls move up the carpeted stairs. The maid enters the boy's bedroom and finds it empty. Clothes are folded neatly on the bed. She looks around and her nose wrinkles briefly, opening a window along the way.

“Raum? Your father is waiting for you.”

Finally, she knocks and opens the door to the bathroom.

Raum turns, thoroughly smeared with black shoe polish. He beams, then falters on seeing Marta, her horrified expression.

“Ah! What have you done?!”

She rushes in, grabbing a washcloth and hurriedly soaking it in water. The inside of the sink is black too. Frantically she starts rubbing at his forehead, black water drips down Raum's face.

“You're covered— Oh, why did you—!”

“Ow…!” Face scrunching he turns his head away, resisting her. “Wait! Stop, I want to show…!”

Another knock at the ajar bathroom door. Friedrich's exasperated voice.

“Marta, they're already…” His head pokes in. When he clocks the scene before him, his jaw slackens, eyes wide. Raum has never seen such a look on his father's face before, caught utterly by surprise.

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't know how he got into the—”

Friedrich's expression hardens.

“Leave it.”

Marta quails. She starts rubbing Raum's face harder with the washcloth. Raum winces.

“Oh no really, I'm sure I can get it off with soap. If you go down first—”

Friedrich steps into the room.

“I said leave it, Marta, give him here.” He takes Raum by the wrist and leads him out of the bathroom door, leaving her behind.

His voice is hushed but the tone is biting as he drags Raum down the hallway towards the stairs.

“I don't know why you decided to pull something like this, now.” He's walking too fast, Raum almost trips to keep up with his longer stride. “It's unacceptable —”

“No, Dad, I wanted to—” Raum ineffectually yanks at his grip, trying to get him to slow down.

“Quiet. Making a mess like this. And tonight. It's unbelievable. I told you earlier. I told you—”

“No, it's not!” His voice rises in volume, misunderstood, panicked. He digs his heels into the carpet as they get to the top of the stairs. He grips the rail with one of his stained hands, smearing black along the polished wood. “No! I was just—”

Abruptly Friedrich stops. He turns and smacks Raum across the cheek. It's not a hard blow, but it shocks him silent.

Friedrich stoops to be at his eye level, severe. “You will not talk back to me.”

Raum looks away from him, at some spot on the wallpaper, breathing quickly, abashed.

“You will go downstairs and show everyone what you've done. You will explain yourself. And then you will apologize to them for ruining their evening. Do you understand?”

Raum doesn't respond.

Friedrich snatches Raum's chin, forcing him to face his direction. Stubbornly Raum's gaze remains distant.

“Look at me, Liev. Now.” For a moment, Raum's lower lip quivers. Friedrich tuts at him and Raum frowns deeply, sniffling, forcing it to stop. Slowly, his irises move back in Friedrich's direction. He doesn't blink.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Raum nods.

“Speak up. Yes...?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, father.”