#A Short Description of Historic Fashion

[uwmspeccoll]

Fashion Friday: The Mannerism of Michelangelo

The Renaissance period is often synonymous with the greats of Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and young Raphael. These master painters poised "imitation" as preeminent beauty, art as poetry—ut pictura poesis—with Michelangelo arguably harnessing the peculiarities of the human spirit most adeptly in his abstract sprawl of figures, elongating their unseen beauty.

A Renaissance essay on Michelangelo by the nineteenth century art critic Walter Horatio Pater investigates the imagination of the master, calling attention to the artist's wayward loves-at-first-sight and their contradictions with the sculptor's mantra of la dove io t'amai prima, or, where I loved you before.  Pater argues that it is precisely this paradox that comprises harmony: the delight between the sweet and the strange.  

Pater repudiated his own time of the Victorian era, acclaiming the decadence of the Renaissance period as the seizing of life, or more aptly in his own words on living:

           ...to grasp at any exquisite passion... or any stirring of the senses, strange dyes, strange colours, and curious odours, or the work of the artist's hands, or the face one's friend.

It is in his words that we can embrace the unnatural grace of the late Renaissance, the period adorned with the Mannerist style of bold outlines, objects at-play with nature, and form with fantastical animal-humans. This unique style of the Renaissance is attributed to Michelangelo's successors who desperately tried to imitate his alien elegance.

Hidden in the figures of Michelangelo are these languid features, satyrs in repose, where solemnity and "faces charged with dreams" dictate, as described by Pater. Darting poetic thoughts give us a glimpse of the bittersweet temperament of Michelangelo's genius. He wrote of his torments in the pagan frivolities of endless quarrelling and his anger at the Gods for loving him so that he reached an age of eighty-eight years.

In all of his years, Michelangelo claimed his figures to be common, austere persons, yet his hand rendered an inherent surprise and energy that future imitators would exploit in quirky forest gods and lovely monsters.

Ergo, my first fashion plate is titled "DRAGON EWER Dress," odd, but not as eccentric as the last two designs; perhaps you can trace the growth of the outlandish creature in each iteration.

Here is a listing of sources from the UWM Special Collections which I have augmented with digital color and outline to emphasize particular details of my inspiration:

1) A watercolor drawing by (or after) Wenzel Jamnitzer, circa 1575 in the Virtuoso Goldsmiths and the Triumph of Mannerism, published by Rizzoli International in 1976.

2-4) My interpretation and contemporary design of the DRAGON EWER Dress, SNAIL CUP Dress and DAVID TANKARD Dress based on Renaissance period vessels between 1540 to 1590 as published in the Virtuoso Goldsmiths and the Triumph of Mannerism, published by Rizzoli International, in 1976.

5, 6) French Renaissance plates of frieze borders in Rouen prayer books from 1508; and painted enamel work of Limoges under Italian faience between 1520 and 1540 as published in the Das polychrome Ornament: Hundert Tafeln, by P. Neff in 1880.

7) Walter Pater included an image of Michelangelo's The Holy Family, or, Doni Madonna, at the Uffizi in Florence, Italy in his aethesticism manifesto, The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry, published by the Limited Editions Club, Stamperia Valdonega in 1976.

8) Costume of the early sixteenth century often in velvets (red is common) and embellished with fewels, gold, lace, fur and feathers as illustrated by Belle Northrup in A Short Description of Historic Fashion published by the Teachers College at  in 1925.

9) An 1592 engraving by Joseph Boillot titled Et Levrs Antipatie (possible translation Antipathy Lips) as published The Renaissance in France: Illustrated Books from the Department of Printing and Graphic Arts, by the Houghton Library, Harvard University in 1995.

10) A drawing or possible woodcut of indentured lions as published in Thomas Wood Stevens' Book of Words: A Pageant of the Italian Renaissance, published by the Alderbrink Press at the Art Institute Chicago in 1909 for the Antiquarian Society.

View my other posts on historical fashion research in Special Collections.

View more Fashion posts.

—Christine Westrich, MFA Graduate Student in Intermedia Arts

[akhaste]

Lee Yoon - Song of the Bandits Sketchs/ Studies 1920's & 1890's

Bonus: 1920's, but without the 'stache

[lizzy-bonnet]

I love Jane Austen's work and I love podcasts, so naturally I follow several JA podcasts (please drop recs in the tags). I'm enjoying Live from Pemberley from Hot and Bothered, but a comment from literally the first episode of the series has been circulating in my brain since I listened to it several months ago: one of the hosts expressed surprise (and disappointment?) in the fact that when we first meet Lizzy, she is "employed in trimming a hat". This comment literally comes right after a conversation about how Austen tells us so much in the very short space of Chapter 1; without wasting any words, we know exactly who Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are (lightly toxic relationship), understand their family situation (need to marry well), meet the main driver of the first act (rich man in the neighbourhood), and understand a social dilemma (girls can't meet him if Mr. Bennet does not make the first overture). So what is Austen telling us when we meet Lizzy in the employment of trimming a hat?

We so often read a sort of modern girlboss feminism into Lizzy because she is smart and stands up for herself, but I think that's something that really gets embroidered on to the text. Lizzy trimming a bonnet is telling us several things about her:

She is frugal - new hats and bonnets are really expensive (my casual hobby is shopping for reproduction bonnets and this remains true), because the straw is braided by hand, the bonnet shape is assembled and blocked by hand, feathers have to be gathered from real (living or dead) birds, ribbons and flowers are hand-finished, the whole situation is fuck expensive. Lizzy is most likely putting new trim on a straw or wool bonnet she already owns to make it work better for this season's fashions, or a new dress, and possibly recycling trimmings from other hats. Contrast this with Lydia's spending all her pocket money on an ugly hat in Chapter 39, just so she can reduce it to parts, even though she acknowledges she'll also have to buy some extra satin too, to finish the project.

She cares about fashion - we don't get a lot of information on sartorial choices in Austen's work, and when characters are discussing fashion, it tends to be a framework for explaining something about their characters; Miss Steele's need to know how much Marianne's dresses cost (rude, crass); Mrs. Bennet's loving description of the lace on Mrs. Hurst's gown (shallow); Catherine Moreland's agonizing over what to wear to the Assembly (young, a bit flighty); Bingley wears a blue coat (has probably read The Sorrows of Young Werther, is fashionable). The fact that Lizzy is trimming a hat tells us she is fashionable, but paired with the fact that she will get a petticoat muddy in order to see her sister, and does not spend a lot of time worrying after fashion like Lydia tells us that she does not live and die on fashion.

She is creative - I've trimmed various hats and bonnets over my years of interest in historical fashion and honestly it's not easy. It's quite fiddly to get a nice ribbon edge, a ruched lining takes forever, and getting sprays of florals and feathers to be nicely shaped and all in a complementary palette is quite fussy. Getting a nice looking bonnet requires some thinking and planning. But it's also great fun! The Regency era is, in my opinion, a particularly good period for hats.

She is normal - I think Austen wants the reader to understand that Lizzy is a young woman with normal cares and concerns. She doesn't have cash for a new bonnet, she wants to look nice, she knows how to put an outfit together, she's not frivolous like her sisters, and she engages in the typical pursuits of someone who is not yet one and twenty who does not have a specific occupation.

A lot of modern readers are expecting Lizzy to be striding around the countryside unconcerned with "girly" things, or reading a clever book because we have come to think of her as proto-feminist in a way that suggests she might be a bra (corset) burner, but I think that comes from an outdated feminist lens that still wants to tell us that girly things are bad, or at least, a bit weak, and I don't see that in the text at all (I think some of this trickles over from the adaptations). Lizzy walks enthusiastically, she enjoys reading (but not to the exclusion of other employments), she dances very well and plays with mediocrity, she cares deeply about her friends and family, she has excellent manners, and dammit, she trims hats.

[ohforficsakelibrary]

You Brought Me Poison Flowers

Chapter 8: Beet - If a man and a woman eat of the same beet, they will fall in love.

prev / series masterlist / masterlist / Lennie's shop ad moodboard!

Series Summary: Joel and Ellie settle into life in Jackson, one more easily than the other, until Joel is reminded of what normal feels like. The kind of normal that he perhaps never had. A series of one-shot glimpses into a relationship (no true plot here, people.) Soft!Joel. Two touch-starved babes.

Chapter subtitles taken from Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs by Scott Cunningham. Although herbal preparations are consistent with historic uses, nothing herein is to be construed as medical advice.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Herbalist!OFC (age-appropriate age gap)

Word Count: ~6.2K (It's a hefty one, y'all)

Warnings: Discussion of past character death, descriptions of loneliness. Please read with care.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, multiple orgasms (f), creampie. Minors DNI.

A/N: Lenora breaks a bit but Joel Miller was a contractor and he's good with his hands.

This took me longer than anticipated to write, but it's a bit of a longer one and it's definitely one that moves them into new territory. Thank you all so much as always for your lovely comments and reblogs. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love these two so much and I sincerely hope that you all enjoy!

A soft knock sounds on Joel's door at 7:30pm sharp on Saturday evening. 

Lennie is on his doorstep, blue linen dress and a soft smile, canvas bag slung over her shoulder. 

Joel grins, checks both ways behind her, and yanks her through the door. He has her against the wall and she can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses her.

And Joel can feel the exact moment she melts into his hold.

“You stayin’ the night?” He quips, relieving her of  the bag on her shoulder. 

“No, Mom just said never show up empty handed.

“You wanna stay the night?”

“Feed me and we’ll see.”

“Kitchen’s through here,” he points, “leave your shoes on, you’re fine.”

“Smells, amazing. Ellie home?”

“Nah, she’s actually at a sleepover,” his eyebrows are arched as he sets her bag on the kitchen island, “for a birthday. She has friends.”

“Shame you’ve just got me.”

“Not a shame at all,” he samples the taste of her again before she reaches into her bag. 

“I brought her this though, had a copy in my collection,” she pulls 2001: A Space Odyssey from her bag, “she’s probably read it already, but on the off chance she hasn’t.”

Joel fits in behind her, pressing his chest to her back. “Ohh, that’s a classic. She’s gonna love that. Thank you, Len.”

She pulls an amber dropper bottle from her bag next, “and Tommy stopped by, said you wanted bitters?”

Joel takes the bottle from her fingers, holding it up to the light. “Tommy did some meddling then. He dropped off a batch of maple whiskey this morning.” 

“Well then, it only seems right to make an old fashioned,” and she reaches into her bag for a bottle of gin, “and you can keep that for whatever you’d like.”

“How the fuck did you make bitters?” One hand rubs at her hip as he places the dropper on the counter.

“Gentian root, ginger, lavender, cherry bark, black walnut, you want me to keep going?” 

“No,” Joel’s hips are pressed against her ass, “I want to kiss you.”

"Kiss me then." 

Joel spins her around, hoists her up onto the kitchen island and fits between her legs, fingers skating up her thighs. She fits both hands to his jaw as he presses soft lips to hers.

Slowly, tenderly at first before he slips his tongue into her mouth, drawing forth a moan from the back of her throat.

And it’s nothing short of relief, this flood of affection from a granite man.

Being left to her own devices these past few days had caused slippage. Even with the rush of him still warm through her blood.

He could still change his mind.

Lennie swallows hard when his mouth moves away, fingers still drawing light circles on her thighs with the flats of his nails.

“Anything I can do to help?” She asks, tucking a curl behind his ear.

A need to feel useful.

“You can tell me how you like your steak,” Joel grins up at her. 

“Medium rare?”

“That a question or your answer?”

“Medium rare.” She says again and he steals another kiss before turning back to the stove. 

Joel doesn’t allow her to lift a finger. 

He fixes them drinks and ushers her to the dining table. 

He dishes out a salad topped with sliced beet and goat’s cheese. 

He places a perfectly-cooked medium rare steak in front of her with mashed potato and broccoli accompaniments. 

He keeps her water and whiskey glasses full.

He offers her strawberries and hand-whipped sweet cream for dessert. 

He doesn’t let her help with the dishes.

Instead, Joel again places her on the countertop, beside the sink this time, and Lennie swings her feet and laughs at his jokes and accepts the kisses he offers while dodging soapy hands.

And Joel thinks what a privilege it is to have a smart beautiful thing here purely to keep you company and not because your back needs watchin’.

_____

“You want the tour?” Joel finally asks, crumpling a dish towel between his hands before he hangs it on the oven handle and dries the backs of his hands on his jeans. 

“Sure.”

"You sure you're sure, you didn't sound sure."

"I am."

"Alright. Thought you'd say somethin' smart," he helps her down from the countertop and places her feet back on the floor, "like 'is this a ploy to get me into your bedroom, Miller?'" He pitches his voice up a hair and mimics her northeastern accent.

"Is it?"

"Do you want it to be?"

Lennie doesn't answer.

He refills their whiskey instead and starts with the bottom floor.  

Joel's home is still sparse because he hasn’t quite filled the space yet. The house had sat vacant for years before folks borrowed trinkets to adorn their own spaces and bartering for replacements had been too low on his list of priorities. 

The pictures of someone else’s family have been taken down and relegated to a box somewhere. 

Joel has none of his own. 

Lennie hangs back as he shows her Ellie’s ‘lair’ and ‘the good bathroom’ with the bathtub, her glass of whiskey clutched in both hands, always sticking to the doorway of each room as Joel guides her through. 

She never quite sets her feet over thresholds.

And Joel notices, but he can’t figure out why.

“You have a record player,” Lennie’s eyes light up when she spots it in the corner of the living room upon their return.

“Not sure if it works, haven’t tried it. But there are a few albums left,” Joel sets his glass down on the coffee table and slumps down on the couch, suddenly aware of the dull ache in his back from being on his feet far too long. 

He notices that she wants to check but it’s like she needs permission.

“Go on, take a look,” he urges her and Lennie sits on her heels in front of the media cabinet as she flips through the small collection. 

She hums to herself, “mm, we don’t have this one,” and he notes the use of the word but doesn’t ask, because she’s holding up a Diana Krall album with light in her eyes and asking if she can put it on.  

“Only if you’ll dance with me,” he stands, ignoring the way his back muscles protest because the need to hold her again is too strong. 

“Didn’t take you for a dancing man,” she takes his hand as the soft sound of jazz fills the room. 

He fits both hands around the small of her back as she encircles his neck.

He can feel the faintest tremor thrumming through her muscles.

And the way she's too conscious of her breathing.

“Hey, Len,” and she feels it rumble through his chest where she’s held tight there, “can I ask you somethin’?”

She hums.

“What’s up? You’re like a— a vampire.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Joel.”

“It’s okay if you are. Just. Warn a man.”

Lennie doesn't laugh.

“I’m sorry.”

“And stop apologizing.” She feels him smile into her hairline. “Len, what’s going on?”

“I’ll try. You made the most beautiful dinner, and damn good old fashioneds, and you have a beautiful house. It’s been such a lovely evening.”

“You leavin’?” Joel pulls back and stares down into her eyes because those are leavin’ words.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Not even a little bit, baby,” he pulls her in close again, swaying her to the music, his tone suggesting what she’s just said is the most ridiculous thing in the world because it is. 

But she sniffs hard against his collar and he leans back again to get a look at her face.

Lennie’s eyes are swimming. 

The gold is lost. 

“Oh, Lenora. No, no, no, none of that. I ain’t kickin’ you out.”

He takes her face in his hands with all of the tenderness he’s capable of. 

Like clutching at a frantic sparrow with a broken wing.

And Joel briefly wonders if the kindest thing he can do is snap its neck.

He can’t. Its claws have already dug into his heart.

“You don’t have to leave, Len. Please don’t leave. Not yet.”

And gears gnash against each other in Joel’s brain because what he wants to say might lead to a flood.

Flood now and rebuild later. 

“I think we gotta clear the air on something though.”

She tenses in his hold even against the soothing of his hand down her spine.

“Yeah?”

“You gotta tell me what’s going on, baby,” he still soothes, keeping her head tucked under his chin.

“You closed up again tonight. M' glasses are gone.”

After a moment, “why the tears when I ask you to stay? And why don’t you ever ask for what you want, Len?”

She breaks from him to stare up into big brown eyes that are soft despite the firmness in his tone.

And the last thing Lenora wants to do is finish this evening by dropping her baggage off at his doorstep. But Joel can read in her expression that she’s about to deflect and his voice sharpens.

“Your honest answer, Len. We can’t do this if we ain’t honest. I may be out of practice, but I know that much.”

“Because I’m afraid to want things, Joel.”

Lenora answers quick because Lenora knows where all of her shit is. 

She just doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Why.” He presses again. Firmly, but far from devoid of compassion.

“Because I’m terrified they won’t want me back.”

“I think it’s pretty clear that I do, though.”

“That’s exactly it. You terrify me.” She’s out of his hold now and he thinks better of pulling her in again. “All of this is terrifying.”

“But why, Lenora.”

“Have you ever felt needed, but not wanted, Joel?” She snaps back.

And Lennie watches the consideration of it ping around his brain.

Sarah, his precious baby girl who needed him for food and shelter and comfort, wanted him for the same from the moment she could parse the two. She loved her daddy. Screamed her head off the entire first week of kindergarten because she wanted her daddy.

Sarah’s mom didn’t need or want him. She made that clear.

Tess didn’t need him. A guard dog has his uses but she could have found anyone. Tess wanted him. Even after they blew up that night. When he screamed “I can’t love you” so loudly that their mismatched glasses shook in their cabinets. Tess still held him at night. Because Tess wanted him.

And Ellie, now safe in the want from the need side of things, still seeks just him out for comfort. She’s fed all day by the folks down at Mess and Mr. Hayes at the farm, and Jess who makes those maple candies. She is safe, her Uncle Tommy sees to that. But she still curls up at his side in lamp light on chilly nights. She chooses him.

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Yeah. It’s all I’ve felt these last few years,” She’s taken a seat on the edge of the couch cushion like she’s afraid to settle in, gaze locked on the rug. Biting back tears. “Needed but not wanted. And not, feeling unwanted, just, not experiencing it—proactively. In the affirmative.”

“People here need me, but I’m a fixture.” Her voice is monotone as she continues. “Permanently cemented to the floor in my shop. They come and go, they take and they give you something material in exchange.”

“They look at me and see through me, Joel.” She gestures at her heart with her hands.

“They seek me out because they need me. But slot someone else with my knowledge behind that bar and really, there’s no difference. Occasionally someone shares a mug of tea or a glass of gin and I love that, I really do.”

She swipes the back of her hand quickly over her cheek.

“But the one person who ever wanted me died in my arms and he took it with him.”

“And I felt so empty, Joel.” Her fragile whisper cracks. “Everything just became so cold.” 

“Tommy told me what happened,” he whispers, “to Andy.”

Lennie looks up at him through tears.

“I didn’t have anyone, Joel. For years. And I forgot what that felt like.”

And in this moment, Joel realizes that he’s never actually been alone either.

He had Sarah.

He had Tommy. 

He had Tess.

He had Ellie.

You keep going for family.

She had no one.

And she kept going anyway.

He can’t say he would have been that strong. 

He wasn’t. That first night without his daughter. 

Without his heart.

“I forgot what it felt like to have someone spend hours talking to you because they want to. To have someone just to sit with in front of a fire. To share a sunset with. To make…fucking dinner with so you don’t have to do it all on your own.” She gestures weakly towards the kitchen.

“To be held and kissed and touched, Joel.” 

Her voice is so small now, rasped through the pain that crushes her from the inside out and Joel wants desperately to hold her again but he settles for clenching his fist and shoving his fingers in his pockets. 

He wants her to let it out.

"And I'm sorry that it breaks me apart like this," she swipes at her cheeks again, angrier this time. "It feels like something that shouldn't even matter, like I should be able to do this on my own."

“Andy left and touch went out of my life. Companionship. This feeling of being wanted. And I convinced myself I didn’t want it anymore. Didn’t need it.”

“And then you came out of fucking nowhere.”

Lenora holds a hand out and stares into her palm, “and to have it placed in front of you like food after famine.”

“Knowing that at any moment you could do something to have it snatched away.”

Her fist closes now. 

“And I feel like I have no right to exist in someone else’s space and I think maybe if I just don’t take up room. Maybe if I’m not too loud, or too headstrong, maybe if I don’t ask, it’ll stick around for just a little while longer. I’ll make that compromise.”

“Because it’s the only thing I want. To have someone want me.”

“And I am terrified of fucking it up, Joel,” her voice is low as she finishes, finally angling her eyes back up at him.

Cheeks wet with tears that flow too fast for her to catch.

And Joel steps around the coffee table to kneel in front of her, noticing how she stiffens with the action of it, not unlike she did when Ellie hugged her in the stables.

How she flinches when someone gets too close. 

Where she melted before, she freezes up again for fear of having said too much.

Of having been too much.

Felt too much.

Taken up too much space here in his home.

Her nerves are still terrified of affection, regardless of how badly he longs to give it.

How badly she needs to receive it.

And Joel pushes the boundary a fraction, brushing a curl that clings to his finger off of her cheek.

Running calloused knuckles as softly as he can down the salty streaks that mar her skin.

“Because it’s perfect?” He asks barely above a whisper, mouch catching on the syllables.

“Because it’s perfect, Joel,” she breathes, relaxing upon her skin’s recognition of his.

His heart jumps.

“Because it’s a taste of everything I’ve always wanted and the last time I had that, my entire world shattered and I’m afraid, Joel.”

“But for right now?” The pads of his fingers trace one tendon of her neck, as his eyes meet hers again, “it’s perfect?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, warm against his skin.

“Then let it be perfect, Lenora.”

And Joel closes the gap that opened between them with his lips. Feather-soft brushes at first before they feel the need to convince her more ardently.

He kisses her until she kisses back.

Until she winds her fingers in his hair and opens to let his tongue slip inside.

Until she lets herself feel his face in her hands and the taste of him in her mouth.

Joel only stops when she breaks for breath, chin reddened from the scrape of his beard.

“For as long as it is, Lenora” he whispers against her lips, “let it be perfect.”

And she clutches his massive face in her palms, searching his eyes.

Receiving nothing but sincerity in return.

She presses her forehead against his, “yeah.”

“Promise me, Lenora.”

“I promise.”

“You swear that’s the truth? The whole truth and nothing bu…”

“Stooop, Joel,” she chides weakly at his poor man's joke, touching the tip of her nose to his before kissing him again.

He smiles and hums from deep in his chest.

“Len?” He whispers against her lips.

“Yeah,” she sniffs, attempting to stuff it all back inside.

“What do you want?" Another kiss pressed to her mouth, "right in this moment, what do you want?”

“No thinking,” he adds, head spinning from having her this close. “What do you want?”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?” Joel breathes against her mouth.

“Everywhere.”

Joel stands, uncaring of how his knees click with the motion, and holds out a hand.

Her small palm is skittish in his hold.

Joel laces his fingers with hers.

“It’s warmer upstairs.”

"Is this a ploy to get me into your bedroom, Miller?" Lennie sniffles and Joel looks her dead in the eyes.

"Yes. Yes it is."

_____

Joel guides her to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before her again to slip her sandals from her feet, encircling her ankles gently with each hand before trailing his fingers up the backs of her calves. 

She shivers but not from the temperature.

Joel pulls off his socks before shedding his flannel and t-shirt, tossing both onto a chair in the corner.

He makes himself more vulnerable than she feels.

Her eyes track him around the room before he settles beside her on the edge of the bed, cupping her cheek and turning her face in towards him.

“Are you cold?” He presses a kiss to her lips.

“No.” Heat from the kitchen has risen, warming the whole upper floor.

“Are you sure? I can start a fire.” He nods behind him at the fireplace in his bedroom.

“I’m okay,” she reaches to run a hand down his forearm.

“Whatever you need. You tell me, okay?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth is a quick distraction before his tongue slips against hers. 

Joel's palm fits to her cheek, thumb tracing one cheekbone.

Fingers trail down the side of her neck and skate gently over the front of her throat before his hand flattens over her breastbone, tucking under the collar of her dress. 

His lips break from hers to kiss her neck and suck on her ear as he palms one shoulder.

Lennie reaches down to undo the tie of her dress before Joel asks if he can instead.

Chill bumps form on her skin when he unwraps linen, broad palm soothing warm over her stomach when it’s finally bare.

He shifts with her to help slip it from her form, mouth never far from hers before he lands the dress on the chair over his own clothes. Lennie's hands fly to his hair slipping soft strands between her fingers as she finally turns her body in towards him.

The warmth that radiates from his skin sets her head spinning.

He presses kisses to her collarbone before returning to her mouth. 

“Lie back, Len.” He whispers there.

Joel follows, fitting one knee between her legs. A palm on either side of her head, careful of her long hair.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” she hums with arms around his neck when he tips his head to run his nose over the lines of ink on her left arm, licking at the sensitive ditch of her elbow before he nips at her bicep. 

The press of his bare chest against her skin when he mouths at one breast through her bra makes Lennie moan and arch up against the solid weight of him.

He shifts lower to trail his nose over her ribs. Inhaling the cedar scent of her soap and pressing kisses to every inch of skin, pulling soft gasps from her throat.

He notes what makes her breath catch. What makes her fingers tighten in his hair and nails sink into his shoulders.

Joel worships down to her hipbones before Lennie grows too impatient to allow him to continue. 

“Joel,” she pants and he angles big brown eyes up at her, “I need you.”

He wraps one hand around the meat of her thigh, shifting on the bed to settle properly between her legs, rubbing at her hips.

He mouths at her stomach before hooking fingers in the waistband of her underwear.

“May I?”

“God, please yes,” she pants.

Joel slips fabric down her legs and off of her toes, hanging her panties off the footboard before his lips trail up her inner thighs.

Lennie trembles.

"This okay?" Joel runs his palms over the creases of her thighs as she nods, thumbs brushing at soft fluff before spreading her open with a deep, needy groan.

One thumb gently starts rubbing circles over her clit and Lennie gasps.

“Mmm,” he growls as he lowers his face and breathes the scent of her deep, exhaling with a moan before his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.

She’s already slick with anticipation.

Joel tentatively trails the flat of his tongue over her slit and Lennie moans and writhes in his hold. He continues, thumbs holding her open, tongue learning what makes her cant her hips towards his face. 

What makes her moan his name.

His tongue dips inside of her and she keens and fists the sheets, tipping her head to the side as he curls the tip of it before one hand slings a leg over his shoulder.

Joel’s lips latch to her clit and she rolls her hips but one palm holds her firm, splayed against her stomach as two fingers tease before slipping into her heat, the slide made easy by her arousal. Joel quirks them, feeling for that spot where the silk of her gives way to texture before he beckons, coaxing a soft cry from her throat.

He presses his hips into the mattress in an effort to give his aching cock some manner of relief.

“Joel…oh fuu—” she whimpers as the tip of his tongue flicks against that sensitive bundle of nerves before he soothes with the flat of it and repeats. One of Lennie's hands tangles in soft ashen brown curls, raking, caressing, tugging when his fingers become more insistent. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs against her, rubbing the high bridge of his nose where his tongue just left, fingers still building in pace.

Lennie reaches up with her other hand to clamp it over her own mouth when his tongue starts twirling soft circles around her clit before he sucks hard.

Her hips buck against him and his eyes flick up towards her face.

Cameras are a thing Joel misses.

Lennie’s head is thrown back, resting on a halo of black curls splayed against his pillows, palm doing a poor job of stifling the moans that come from her chest now. 

A chest that heaves for breath.

Breathlessness that he’s causing.

And so he stares for a moment, pressing the image into his mind like a wet flower between the pages of a book. 

One that succumbs to the weight but leaves an imprint of its own against the text.

“There’s no one here, baby,” he whispers, reaching his free hand up to soothe over her sternum, “it’s just me.” He laps at her again, “you can be as loud as you want.”

The hand over her mouth slips down to run across his, holding him holding her as her ribs heave.

“Joel?” She gasps in warning.

“Go on, beautiful,” he murmurs against her heat. “Come for me.”

And she falls apart between his fingers and his tongue with his name lodged in her lungs on an inhale.

She only breathes again when her muscles give up their grip. Joel promptly stuffs his fingers into his mouth, cleaning them with an audible pop.

Stuttering breath catches in her throat before she swallows hard. Joel makes his way up her body again until she tastes the tang of her release on his lips.

“I’m a bit out of practice, but I hope…” he starts.

“Jesus, Joel.” She laughs and rakes her fingers through his hair. “You were…that was.” A breathless whisper. “Perfect. That was perfect.”

He hums and nuzzles her jaw as she basks in the heat of him. 

Basks in his attention as plush lips suck at hers.

And as his tongue slips inside he feels it.

Feels her melting again.

“Joel,” her hand clutches the hair at the nape of his neck before he tips his face to look into her eyes.

“Hmm.”

“I need you inside me,” she whispers.

“Whatever the lady wants,” he mouths at the curve of one breast through the fabric of her bra. “the lady gets.”

She sits up as he leaves the bed for a moment to undress, propping herself up with hands behind her back, knees knocked together.

Watching as generous fingers deftly unlatch his belt. As he steps out of his jeans and hangs them over the arm of the chair, careful not to leave them lying on her dress where the weight of denim would cause linen to wrinkle.

She watches as he bends to slip off his boxer briefs, noting the hole in the hip just below the elastic band from where his thumbs have worn threads away. 

Lennie watches the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his bum and the strength of his form and the smile on his face when he turns to her again.

She tucks her chin against her shoulder, staring up at him through big, bright eyes before her gaze slips lower to where his cock stands thick and proud against the soft swell of his stomach.

This man. 

This broad, rugged, brutal, yet tender-hearted thing.

Wants her.

“Hey,” the corner of his lips quirk as he settles back onto the bed to sit beside her.

“Hey,” she echoes, tipping her face towards him. His fingers find her jaw and his mouth finds hers again. He feels her smile and it makes his lips spread into a grin, teeth accidentally clacking against hers.

“Sorry, baby.”

She just wraps a hand around the base of his strong neck and pulls him down with her against the pillows.

Joel’s palm splays across her stomach, rubbing warm circles into her skin as his tongue slips against hers, cock pressed against her thigh.

“Skin ‘s so soft, Len.” Joel presses his lips to her collarbone, shifting to kiss down her sternum.

“Mm, you’ve said that before,” she runs a hand through his hair before soothing across the span of his shoulders, briefly fascinated by the size of him.

At how much space he takes up.

“‘Cause it’s true,” he drags his nose against where the underwire of her bra bites into her flesh, “I like it. I like you, Len.”

Joel rubs his bearded cheek down her stomach and she squirms.

“Jesus, Joel that tickles—”

He hums a laugh that turns to a low growl, big brown eyes angled up towards her for permission.

She parts her legs and he settles between them, palms dipping into the curves of her waist and smoothing low over her stomach.

Joel meets her eyes as he rocks his hips, tentatively sending his cock slipping through the slick at her core.

She gasps and reaches for his wrists as he continues coating his length to ease the slide.

Massive palms hitch at the creases of her thighs, one thumb guiding his cock to notch at her entrance.

Brown eyes lock and Joel slowly presses inside of her.

Watching as her lids flutter shut while his mouth falls open. Tongue tracing the inside of his bottom teeth.

He pauses until her grip on his wrists relaxes, starting up a slow rock of his hips as her teeth catch her lip.

He takes his time with her.

Time to adjust.

Time for her to sink into the feel of him. Into how he presses and stretches and pulls and grips.

Time to build. In pace, in pressure, in urgency until finally he lets the reins out.

The way Joel fucks is devastating.

Hard, driving strokes that move her to brace one palm up against his headboard. 

The roll in surprisingly loose hips that causes his cock to catch on her g-spot with every stroke before pressing farther against the deepest parts of her.

Palms that knead the flesh of her hips. Gripping to bruising.

A pace that builds in speed before slowing again when he presses himself deeper, grinding his pubic bone against her clit

Lennie twists in his hold, hands gripping at down and cotton as she sinks her teeth into a pillow that smells of woodfire and Joel and her ponderosa soap.

"Joel," she moans, "wait, I want—"

Immediately he stills, sucking in breath through his teeth.

"Y' okay?" He murmurs, watching her chest heave.

"Yeah," she rakes curls out of her face, "'m gonna boss you around for a minute though."

Joel bites his bottom lip and gently bucks his hips against hers. "Good."

"Move for a second?"

Joel pulls out and they both whimper at the loss as he sits back on his heels.

Lennie turns to lay flat on her stomach before casting an expectant look back over her shoulder.

Joel let's out a soft "oh fuck" and she arches her back slightly, accentuating an ass that Joel just has to touch.

She hums as he palms her flesh before fitting his thumbs into the dimples at the base of her spine.

"C'mon, Joel," she moans, tucking her nose back into his pillow, "don't keep a girl waiting."

"Yes, ma'am," and he shifts to straddle her form before sheathing his cock inside of her again, moving slowly, testing the angle. His fingers dig into her hips as he alternates between hard thrusts and a slow rock that grinds the head of his cock against the mouth of her womb.

And Lennie can't keep quiet now even if she tried.

He smirks when one hand again reaches to steady herself against the headboard and takes it as license to hook a hand over her shoulder to pull her against him when his hips slam forward.

"Oh ff—" She moans from her chest.

“Still with me, Len?” he growls over the staccato of skin on skin.

"You're too far away," she pants and Joel folds to brace his palms against the mattress and press his chest against her back.

The soft swell of his stomach fits perfectly to the curve of her spine.

He envelops her in his breadth and his weight and his heat and finally the wet of his mouth where he sucks at the delicate skin just behind her ear.

"Better, baby?"

“God yes,” she moans, “don’t stop, Joel.” Lennie’s head falls back against his shoulder and he grins.

“There she is.”

And she comes white hot with his name on her lips and his nose buried in her hair.

Joel presses deep for as long as he can before he feels himself hurtle towards the inevitable brink.

The moment he moves to pull out, Lennie reaches to catch a scruffy cheek that's burning with heat.

"Joel, stay," she moans, turning her face towards his.

"'Y��� fuck — y' sure—" he grits out, panting frantically against her cheek.

"Want you inside," she gasps against his lips and it sends his hips slamming against hers as he comes with a shout, cock throbbing as he spills himself deep, weight briefly collapsing against her.

"Lenora," he whispers when his senses return.

She hums, boneless underneath him, basking in the way one palm trails down her ribs as he shifts to pull out and settle to one side of her.

Fingers skipping over the damp skin of her back before engulfing the base of her skull.

"Lenora, look at me."

She does, hazy and molten, eyes glittering with low lamp light.

"Can you stay the night?"

And her face splits with laughter before he pulls her in against his chest.

"Yeah, Joel," she nuzzles his collarbone, "I'd like that."

_____

“God she’s such a fucking bitch!” Ellie screams when she bursts through the front door just after 8 o'clock the next morning.

Lennie immediately stiffens, looking to Joel for all the world like the panicked deer that’s jumped out in front of a car. He holds up a hand in her direction and Lennie has no idea what the fuck that’s supposed to mean because she’s sitting at Joel’s kitchen table in nothing but his brown flannel shirt and her come-damp panties and by all accounts she’s not supposed to be here.

“Hey, don’t slam the door,” he calls in Ellie’s direction, her heavy footsteps getting louder as she makes her way towards the kitchen.

“She tore up my fucking book, Joel!” She’s rounded the corner now, “she tore up Will Liv—heeeyyy, Lennie.”

Fucking caught now.

“Hey, Ellie,” she tugs Joel's shirt further down over her bare thighs.

Ellie’s eyebrows are in her hairline, eyes flitting between the pair of them before she speaks after what feels like an hour.

“Good job, old man. You bagged the prettiest girl in town,” Ellie slaps Joel on the back before moving to grab a plate from the dish rack.

“Ellie…”

“Oh shit,” something connects for her as she takes a seat, “that’s where you were the other night. When you came slinking in at like four in the morning.” She locks eyes with Lennie, “your house.”

And Joel’s been struck dumb because “Ellie” with varying degrees of annoyance seems to be all he can bring himself to say as she dishes out bacon and eggs.

“Honestly, though, it’s about time he got laid.” This to Lennie, who’s wide-eyed, red in the face, and certain that she wants to die.

“And there are worse people I could be forced to sit across the breakfast table from,” she shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. “You know Martha has a crush on him right?" She throws a thumb in Joel's direction. "The school teacher? The ditzy one.”

“Okay, Ellie, room, now.” Joel grinds out.

“What, she does! Everyone in town knows that.”

“Ellie, wha…who is Martha? What are you talkin’ about?”

“Actually, everyone in town does know that,” Lennie murmurs.

“See?" Ellie gestures towards Lennie. "Thank you.”

“Hey, Joel?” Tommy calls as the front door slams behind him. “Jimmy wanted to see if we could help with the barn today and I told him—heeeyyy, Lennie.”

“I suppose this is the first and last time you’ll ever spend the night,” Joel looks over to where Lennie’s clutching the sleeves of his flannel in her hands and covering the bottom half of her face.

“It’s the first and last time I don’t leave before sunrise.”

“Alright, look,” Tommy reaches over Joel’s shoulder for two strips of bacon, “I’ll get outta here, you swing by whenever and we’ll discuss the barn, Ellie, you’re with me kid. Len?” He grins. “You enjoy your morning.”

“I’m not finished breakfast,” Ellie protests.

“Bring the plate. I don’t care. It’s across the way. I got a kitchen table too, c’mon, hustle.”

And to their surprise she grabs her plate and heads for the door. Tommy follows, throwing a wink over his shoulder before they hear the front door swing shut.

Keys jingle and the lock latches.

Lennie’s eyes are wide when she finds Joel’s stare again.

And to her surprise, he bursts out laughing.

The way it shakes his shoulders and rounds out his cheeks is contagious and she can’t help but follow suit. 

When the mirth calms he reaches out for Lennie and encourages her onto his lap. 

“‘M so sorry about that, Len.”

“It’s—" she rubs at his heart over the fabric of his t-shirt, "it’s okay.”

She means it too.

“You know," she wraps an arm around his neck, "I’m actually just fucking you to get back at Martha,” she teases, sucking languidly on Joel’s bottom lip.

And it drags another laugh from his chest.

“Is that so?” Joel nuzzles her neck before kissing a path down her skin. “Sounds like you’re puttin’ a target on your back being here.”

“Make it worth my while then, Miller.”

And he does.

He eats her out again on the kitchen table, right there between the bacon and eggs. Has her coming on his tongue with one of her hands tangled in his hair and the other clamped over her mouth lest anyone hear. 

He’s tempted to rip it away.

Let this Martha know exactly who Joel Miller is fucking.

The prettiest girl in town.

At least the door's locked.

And Lennie's safe here.

She's wanted. Right here.

Taglist: @iamskyereads @harriedandharassed @jessthebaker @anoverwhelmingdin

Old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted to Ohforficsake - follow me over there for future updates.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

[victoriansecret]

I recently described myself to a friend as being a "mostly gay mostly man". I've since shared this with some others, and everyone has agreed that it's a good description of me. It's not that I don't consider myself cis; it's partly just that a) I don't particularly care one way or the other and b) the ways I DO like to perform masculinity tend to be more historical and modern trends don't fit me.

I was just talking with the same friend about how I want to make and wear a very short chiton; partly inspired by a series of books I recently read and loved, partly because I've been increasingly interested in ancient clothing in general, but also partly because I find modern concepts of modesty and gender frustrating and increasingly stifling. This led to me making these remarks to them:

"I've realized that a lot of my gender fuckery wants to manifest in wearing clothing that is historically male but is considered unmasculine and/or scandalous today.

like sometimes I just want to wear a dress or a skirt too

but I can do that AND show that concepts of masculinity or femininity change drastically over time and the notion that they're set in stone is ludicrous"

My fashion tastes end somewhere around the 1930s, and date back to pretty much any part of human history prior to that. I've said it numerous times that one of my ultimate goals is to wear exclusively period clothing, but I only recently began to think of it as tied into an expression of gender.

And obviously this is not trying to say the past was a rosy place, 'vintage clothes not vintage values' etc., but it's not a secret that I've felt out of place since literally I was born. Sometimes I feel I was born in the wrong place, sometimes in the wrong time. Possibly I'm just autistic, but still.

I sometimes struggle with how much a complete fucking weirdo I am. And by sometimes, I mean frequently. And yet I'm at my happiest when I embrace it.

[cdragons]

Fashion Mistakes

Pairings: Ikaris x Persephone!Eternal!Reader (Sephia) and Druig x Hecate!Eternal!Reader (Kaetlyn) Words: ~2.5 k Summary: Sephia needs a wardrobe upgrade, and Sersi is as much as a menace as Kaet sometimes Warning: Probably very inaccurate descriptions of historical fashion trends, Sersi is a 10/10 shipper, Kaety is dramatic AF, Druig is an unbothered king Notes: This drabble was inspired by a scene in 27 dresses, if you know you know. Please reblog and like and comment! Shoutout to @ethereal-athalia & @valeskafics for being the most supportive people on this platform!

You loved your sisters. But there were times where the two of them could be a bit…much, especially when they worked together. This was evident by how the two Eternals razed through her closet to sort out her clothes to decide which were to be kept, and which would be discarded. Every piece of furniture or tile on the floor was covered in an array of textiles and patterns as if a hurricane ran through a fabric store.

“Is this really necessary?” you groaned out.

“Yes,” came the two voices in unison.

“Don’t I at least get a say in what I get to keep?”

“No.”

“Can you the two of you at least look at me before you throw everything away?”

“Can’t.” “In the zone.”

“Druig?” you looked over to her brother-in-law for help, hoping that he could maybe talk his wife down. “Do you think you could maybe help me out here?”

The mind-controller Eternal was watching the same scene as his distressed sister, only with a much more amused gaze. He looked extremely out of place in the sea of colors in his ensemble of handmade cotton shirt layers with dark blue linen pants. The only accessories he donned were the ebony wood beaded bracelet Kaety commissioned for him over 500 years ago, along with the golden ring he wore on a chain from their private wedding.

“Unfortunately, Sephia,” he began, “I’m afraid that you’re unable to convince my angel, I won’t be much more help. But you are more than welcome to keep trying. Perhaps in your success, you may convince her to spare me a glance. As much as I adore time spent with our daughters, I feel a bit defenseless on my own.”

It was only when Kaety heard her husband’s little quip that she broke her concentration. She pouted her lips to show her displeasure, but only for a short moment before she crossed the room to embrace the man she’s loved for her entire lifetime. The pure love and adoration that shone in the pair’s eyes made it feel like you were the one intruding on a private moment than the other three in your own room. It baffled you sometimes to witness the pair’s love. It often left you wondering if you would ever be able to have a love and bond as strong as theirs in your future. But after living for over seven millennium, you knew that the odds were not in your favor.

“Feeling lonely, my love?” she asked so sweetly. “How cruel of me to neglect you in favor of someone else.” You rolled her eyes at her best friend’s facetious pity, Kaety loved teasing her husband almost as much as Druig loved teasing her. There truly weren’t two souls more meant for one another than the other.

Sometimes the site of their tender smiles and private laughs made your heart feel a bit heavy, since it hasn’t been long since you realized your own longings for love, especially towards a certain man with silver streaks and blue eyes.

“Sephia is right though,” commented Sersi, “we’re going to need more people to help out if we’re going to sort through this mess out. Are you sure Phastos can’t come?”

“It’s not so much he can’t, but more that he won’t.” Kaety explained whilst still locked in Druig’s embrace as he laid small kisses across her face. “He’s still insisting that the last time he was here, some of the ghosts latched on to him and took residence in his house when he got back.”

“And that claim would be completely out the question, why?” you quizzically asked with one eyebrow raised.

“Because they weren’t ghosts.” Kaetlyn stated in a matter-of-factly tone. “They were hobgoblins. And it’s not like they caused any trouble anyway! Ben and Jack didn’t even notice anything.”

“I still can’t believe that you managed to convince Phastos to let you babysit Jack. How do you explain it to Jack when he sees you do magic, or whenever the twins see something that he can’t?” Sersi asked as she continued to sort through the closet to see what else needed to be discarded.

“Oh come on! You make it sound like I’m incapable of not using magic for everything! I am more than able to not use it for a couple of hours, and the twins are still at an age when they point at something, we can just say it’s their imagination at work. Isn’t that right, my beloved?”

“Of course, my angel,” replied Druig, “but in the defense of our friend, our girls picked up on your tendency to pick up scary strays. Especially the kind who happen to have sharp teeth and a taste for humans.” His aquamarine eyes gleamed in mirth at his wife’s pout.

“How can you say that?!” Kaetlyn exclaimed indignantly as she lightly shoved his shoulder. “You make them sound as if they are no different from deviants, when they are far more adorable and lovable!”

“Only those with your blood will find such creatures ‘lovable,’” remarked your husband who would soothe your piecing gaze with a graze of his lips on your cheek, “my beautiful, beautiful Kaetlyn, Mother of Witches and Monsters indeed.” His last words whispered out so softly as he leaned in to kiss his beautiful wife, a kiss she eagerly reciprocated.

“Alright you two, let’s focus on the task at hand,” Sersi interjected the lovers’ quarrel, “so Phastos is out of the question in terms of helping?”

“Probably for the best anyway,” you confirmed, “Kaety still insists that his style is too much of a homebody.”

“Anyone who owns that many cardigans and sweater vests is already mentally prepared to be placed in a home.”

“But thankfully for us,” Sersi added on with a little gleam in her eyes, “I had enough foresight to predict our issue and already invited someone here to help us.”  

“Please tell me you didn’t invite Kingo,” pleaded Druig, “I don’t think I can handle another one of those ‘tea parties’ he and Laoise and Aisling insist on putting on every time he visits.”

“No, it’s not Kingo,” placated Sersi, “but he should be here at any moment.”

She had that look in her eye that matched Kaetlyn whenever she came up with another one of her “ingenious” ideas.

“Um, he?” asked Kaety. “Whomst is this ‘he’?”

And like a stroke of magic, a knock broke them out of their conversation. And four pairs of eyes locked at the sight of a single man with a silver streak in his hair and devastatingly beautiful blue eyes that stood with so much self-importance you could choke on it five miles out.

“Judging by the look in your eyes,” he stated to break the shocked silence, “I can assume that I wasn’t expected to be here?” Whatever he was about to say next died in his throat at the sight of Sephia. The overloading smugness in his eyes softened to awestruck adoration when he took in the love of his life.

Here you stood, healthy and beaming, so different from the pale and tired figure that he had to come to terms with for the past 400 years. Here was Sephia, his Sephia, lively and standing and in good health. You weren't wearing the drab and shapeless dark blue and light gray garments that hid her sinful figure from the crowd. You instead wore a pair of dark blue wash flared jeans, along with a square neckline white floral patterned peasant blouse, paired with antique statement rings and delicate necklace. It was as if you was brought straight from an issue of Vogue in the seventies.

“Ikaris,” you whispered.

“Stars,” he thought, “even her voice no longer sounds as strained.”

Thanos ruined plenty of lives, made a mockery of the Avengers, and wasted 7000 years of hard labor in postponing Tiamut’s emergence with just a single snap of his fingers. But in Ikaris’ mind, all of that was justified if it meant he got to see his flower blooming in all of her rarity, as opposed to withering away in a dark and damp jungle. Half of the universe was gone now, but Sephia was healthy and alive and strong – and that meant even more to Ikaris than failing his mission to Arishem.

On the other side of the room, you stood in silence as she took in the sudden appearance of your friend. Partially in mortification that he was seeing the state of her room in the mess it was in. But a larger part in joy in seeing your friend who long became the man you gave her heart to since the first time he decided to wait outside the commune’s borders because you wanted to show him your garden. But all in shock that he decided to willingly come so close to Druig and Kaet in their home where their children reside far from the rest of humanity.

“Ikaris!” Sersi exclaimed with a tone that convinced no one that she didn’t plan this happening. “Thank Arishem you’re here! Luckily, we’ve already decided to keep everything up to the late 19th century, but from here on out we need to sort through the past 10 decades to make room for a more modern ensemble. In fact, you really do have great timing because I need to go somewhere right now, and so do Kaety and Druig. SO, we will just leave you two alone!”

Silence still rang through the air as one pair could only stare in longing for the other, while another pair stood next to one another in disbelief as one other person was basically shoving out the door. But silence was not for long as Kaety took matters in her own hands as she turned to her beaming friend in trademark green once all three were all out of earshot.

“Sersi, what Lovecraftian fuckery are you pulling right now?”

You stood in one of your favorite Thea Porter’s dresses, trying very hard to calm the rapid beating of her heart, all to prepare herself to once more face the man on the other side of the changing screen. You never expected to see him in your room, still as ruggedly handsome as he would always remain. You never expected to have these feelings for Ikaris- for anyone really- but they grew to the point where by the time you recognized it, you was already in the middle. Feeling your face heat and fluster, you put your hair in a simple and loose braid in attempt to cool herself. Stepping into view, you tried your best to seem calm and collected, but everything inside you felt anything but that.

“This is one of my favorite dresses,” you stated, “what do you think?”

“I think you need to take off that dress and wrap those legs around me so I can take you on every surface of this house in a tree,” was the first thing that came to Ikaris’ mind. But he couldn’t say exactly that, and so all he stated was the second thought in his mind. “You’re beautiful Sephia, you’ve always been beautiful in everything you wear.”

The sincerity swimming in his eyes made you wish you could drown in them. Blushing mad with a shy smile, you did her best to not seem like you wasn’t bursting at the seams from joy at his words. “Ikaris, the only way I’ll be able to get rid of anything is if you be honest.”

“Sephia,” Ikaris replied, “there is truly no one on this planet who could ever compare to you, in radiance and in beauty. I honestly can’t think of anything that wouldn’t look perfect on you.”

“Well, I do have something that I think may change that opinion,” you remarked with a twinkle in your eyes before dashing inside your closet to grab something and once more hiding behind the change screen. “Wait for a little bit, it takes a while to put on!”

After a few minutes of audible struggling, Ikaris was tempted to ask you if you needed any help taking off putting on your outfit, when you announced that you was done and then stepped into view, and Ikaris’ eyes grew wide with horror.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a hobble skirt!” you exclaimed, far too amused by reaction. “It was a very short-lived trend in the US from 1908 to 1914. Its popularity declined during World War I.”

“I can see why,” Ikaris remarked, “are they at all comfortable?”

“Oh, not at all. But they did serve as inspiration for the sheath skirts in the 1950s.”

“Sheath skirts?”

“Pencil skirts, I suppose. But it does look awful, doesn’t it?”

“Ugh, terrible. Is this the worst one you have?”

“Oh no, this doesn’t even come close.” You went back to your vintage treasure trove to search for a particularly dreadful ensemble, and what you pulled out could only be described as an antebellum nightmare. “This is my favorite, by far.”

“Oh my-” Ikaris’ hand covered his mouth in horror, “what the hell is that? And please tell me that you didn’t actually commission this to be made for you.”

“You’ll be happy to find out that I did not ask for this to be made for me. It was a gift from the matriarch a very sweet family I was staying with during my travels in 1850s.”

“Gift? Sephia, that’s not a ‘gift.’ That’s a punishment in the form of flouncing yellows, oversized orange flowers, and what I assume to be 15 layers of petticoats.”

“10 layers, and this is only the dress. Wait till you see the bonnet that comes with it.”

“Oh gods – there’s a bonnet?”

“And a matching parasol.”

Momentary silence echoed between them before a huge grin spread across his face. “That’s it, you need to put that on, right now.”

For the next several hours, the two went through only the very worst contents of Sephia’s closet. From the green taffeta balloon dress from the 80s to the orange ballerina dress that looked it was designed by a ballet-obsessed 8-year-old, they spent the entire day laughing and smiling more than either had in the last five centuries. The sight of it all made Sersi so happy in knowing she had been the cause of this success.

“You know what you’re doing is really creepy, right?” Druig commented, bringing his friend out of her dreams of planning her friends’ future wedding as she continued to spy at the happy almost-couple with Kaety’s magic.

“If watching Ikaris cutely interact with the love of his life through your wife’s magic shadow thingy so that I can get enough pictures for the slideshow I’m making for their future wedding, then fine I’m creepy.”

A soft babble from the babe sitting on her father’s lap prevented Druig from remarking on that “fascinating” idea as he peered down to see his four-month-old daughter point a chubby finger to her mother who was lying face-down on the floor as her sister sat on top of their Mami.

“Sorry little dove, Mummy can’t play right now. She’s in mourning.”

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics, @aphroditesmoon, @its-actually-minicika, @tess-love, @asa-do-your-thing, @sunphyre , @myfairkatiecat, @beananacake, @tesha-i-guess, @kyliesgwagon, @getawaycardotmp3, @littledoveofchaos, @she-wintersoldat, @lavenderwisteria, @jolixtreesunn, @bitchylesbian

Please let me know in the comments in you want to be tagged!

[12thperigeeball]

Psst, Hey. Hey you. You like suggesting things, right?

WELL DO WE HAVE A OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU!

As you are all aware, the last few balls we've ran had prompts that trolls could dress to match. This year, we're putting the power of the prompts in YOUR hands, and we're going to allow users to suggest their own prompts for the community to vote on!

We've opened up a google form to collect theme ideas from the community, and it's open ended with no need to log in. You will be able to see the prompts submitted after you input yours, and there's also a dud option so you can view the results without having to actually suggest anything yourself.

Previous year prompts was 'Crystallize' theme of 2021, and then 'Art of War' of 2022. Your prompts do not have to match the theme of previous years, but we do request that we not tread across old ground.

We will take suggestions from Oct 25th until Oct 30th at 7PM. We will then process the suggestions and create a poll to vote on them to be released Oct 31st, and then close the poll on Nov 3rd at 7PM.

So what are you waiting for? Go ahead and suggest your prompts!

Rules copy pasted below:

Prompt Names must be short and sweet. We're not naming things like Panic at the Disco names songs.

Obviously no offensive suggestions or suggestions referencing offensive scenarios, such as war crimes or closed cultural practices, or weirdly specific 'japanese high school' prompts. I will hunt you for sport if you start coming in with dogwhistles. This is a no fucking brainer rule.

Please include a brief description of your prompt and what it might entail, perhaps even an art style. This ideally should be a sentence long, not a paragraph. If you don't feel confident in your summarization skills but have a moodboard, we can assist in writing a brief description if you leave your prompt name and no further summary. Example: Early Spring would be Florals, plant-like, art nouveau. Art of War is fashionable armor, historical art, 'when you have to swordfight a rival general at 6 but have a ball function at 6:30.

Make your prompt clear. Inside jokes or subtle themes might be fun in theory, but they don't make for interesting, creative, or easy to interpret and bend prompts. Be mindful of the fact that not everyone will follow this prompt or may interpret it much differently than you would expect.

Similar prompts may be condensed at the end. Three different suggestions for cyberpunk will just be merged into one cyberpunk prompt to help prevent confusion or split votes

You may create a moodboard or Pinterest board for your theme to showcase. Similar prompts will be condensed into a singular moodboard or pinterest board for people to view. This is not a required step.

Have fun! Don't get too worried about making anything perfect, or winning. NOTE: We do reserve the right to reword certain prompts to create a more unique theme or theme name if we are provided vague prompts. A general 'Glamorous, Gold and Money' suggestion may be modified and narrowed down to an Art Deco Glamour prompt to make it unique and more directional

[abybweisse]

Hello! Not a kuro related ask but can i ask how can u tell if someone is a bot or not on tumblr? Also can they do any harm to your account?

⚠️ I originally expected to give a short answer, but there's actually a lot I can say about this, having become a regular target of bots. My blocked list has quite the collection! So it's kind of a long post.

How to spot bots and why they are bad

Some bots are easy to spot while others are not. And they are getting harder to spot, as whoever programs the bot generators is learning how to make them less noticeable. Or an AI that's been made is learning. 😳

Blog name patterns

You might have noticed how default blog urls here have four random words stuck together, and early bots used a similar pattern. But it has evolved. I recall seeing names that were two or three random words and a two digit number, typically from 20 to 50, presumably meant to be seen as a person's age. Like these:

Then a different pattern was used, like two or three words then a hyphen then a number. Then another, like a first name mixed in with random words, etc. Now, it's harder to see a pattern, so some bot names now look more (or less) random... more like real blogs. If you see a new follower with a random name, it doesn't mean much, but if you see more and more followers with names that seem to fit a pattern (and it's not simply the tumblr default username pattern), then chances are, they are bots created with the same or a similar program. Here's an example of getting new followers where the names seem too random to be real but you don't really notice until you get a bunch in a row, and the randomness is itself a pattern:

Profile pics that real tumblrs wouldn't choose

Often they used to have closeups of female faces. Now they still tend to have pictures of women, but not so zoomed in, and some even feature two women. Like here:

Notice that three of the above examples follow a naming pattern of what could be actual people names and a number. The fourth is like that, too, but with a hyphen tossed in.

And bots sometimes have default profile pics that may or may not be changed later, so watch out for default pfp's that later get replaced with pics of random women. Usually young and somewhat attractive. Most of the bots are geared towards attracting hetero men, hence the female pfp's of generally attractive women. The hope is we see one of these pics and think that's actually what the blogger looks like.

Truth is, Tumblrs rarely choose pfp's like that. This isn't the kind of social media platform where we typically show our faces (unless it's a personal fashion or cosplay blog, and then we are probably wearing makeup and costumes). We choose pics of plants and animals, fictional characters, historical figures, celebrities, artwork, etc. It's unusual for us to market ourselves based on personal appearance. So, when you see a blog with a pfp that looks like it's from Instagram or LinkedIn... or from a dating profile... it's probably fake. They are just random pics found online and essentially stolen from whoever originally uploaded them.

Default header images or more random women

Usually, bots have blank or default blog header images (see the examples above). I used to see a lot of bot blogs where the pic used for the header is the same as the pfp; those usually have descriptions where it's just a name and a suggestive emoji or a name and a plug for dirty pictures. Like:

More recently, they've started using images that show women who match or at least look like the women in their pfp's, but they aren't the same photos. Just like those pfp's, the header images are likely stolen from profiles elsewhere or random pics online. The ones that have header images that "work" with the pfp's also have a tendency to include links in their blog descriptions.

Sus blog descriptions or none at all

Most bot blogs lack blog descriptions entirely or just have a name or something about photos, like those examples above. But lately I've been seeing ones where there's a short description. In those cases, it's usually a link to who knows where, and it's best not to even find out. The text, whether there's a link or not, is usually an age (assume that's fake), something about the person's identity or preferences (often of a sexual nature), sometimes a reference to ranking on OnlyFans (it wants you to think any link there might take you to that sort of content), and a collection of oddly chosen emojis mixed into it.

Zero posts or sus posts and reblogs

A lot of legit blogs are created for the sole purpose of following content they want... and maybe asking questions, usually as anons. Those "don't follow me, I'm just lurking" type blogs rarely post or even reblog anything. Most bots also take this approach.

But some reblog sexually suggestive posts and some reblog more explicit content -- even links advertised as naughty games -- but the most realistic looking ones reblog a mix of sexual and innocuous, even innocent-looking content. As you scroll down through images of puppies, mysteriously inviting landscapes, and teacups next to open books... you eventually find images and even sometimes gifs of very mature content. Often with suggestive emojis and links that should be avoided at all costs. Some even just make one or two posts with links and leave the blogs untouched for years. Like this one:

This blog only has one post, and it's from 2019. Claims about some free training program that'll earn you large incomes. Notice the tags on it are kind of generic, and some don't fit, like #home #decor #gardening. But it's a link to... something.

They might try to chat, but what they say is sus

It's very rare, in my experience, but I will occasionally get a dm from a random blog that just doesn't sit right.

Sure, sometimes a new follower will contact me to let me know they found my blog and enjoy it. Even longtime, mostly silent readers/followers will occasionally decide to reach out and privately tell me they were a particular anon in an ask... or simply that they finally found the nerve to say hi. That's all fine and dandy.

But when a new follower (who doesn't seem to share interests with you or has interests that don't match your blog topic) or a random content blog that doesn't even follow you just dms with "hi" or "how are you?", I get very suspicious it's just a bot. Their blog might look default or not but lacks content. It might be full of content that simply has nothing to do with your content. And they send a random starter message, completely open to your response. You can test them by asking if they are a bot. If they ignore that and respond with something like "I'm lonely" or "what are you doing tonight?", they are definitely a bot. If they say "no I'm not a bot" (or something like that) then ask leading questions like the "what are you doing" one, they might not be a bot, but they are likely just phishing/scamming.

One of the best tests is to ask them what they think about your own blog posts. If they ignore that and act like they might be following a script? Bot. If they say something very generic, like "I like it a lot" but immediately change the subject back to personal questions or something phishy (might also be a bit scripted)? Scammer. Either way, best to report the chat as spam, which will also remove the conversation from your view.

It's often not one thing but a combination

If you get followed by a blog that looks completely default, the best thing to do is maybe dm them to ask if it's a real person/legit blog. If they don't respond within a decent timeframe, they might just be too shy, but chances are they are a bot. If they respond with something that feels too general or scripted, probably either a bot or a scammer -- some are sleepers that wait for you to contact them. But a blog just being default doesn't mean it's bad; it could be a shy lurker or it could be someone new to tumblr who hasn't chosen pics, themes, etc. yet.

However, if you see a follower pop up (either new or their blog has changed since they started following), and the blog has some combo of the traits mentioned above, chances are super high it's a bot.

What bots do

I'm not entirely certain about all the different things they can do, and some of the things are likely more harmful than others.

I've gleaned a few ideas from posts I've read about the bots, though, including a good one I saw that had been reblogged by Neil Gaiman. I reblogged it from him, though I might have moved it to @aby-off-topic.

My understanding is that the same creator (person or program) makes a whole bunch of them. And there are probably many different individual creators, each making large groupings of them. Some of the bot blogs have content, usually of a sexual nature but occasionally not, like cryptocurrency or some random-sounding business venture. Those will have links to other sites, though some might actually link to other, related blogs in the same grouping. The content blogs also tend to be full of various tags, typically reusing key tags copied from the posts they reblog. If they have "original" posts, those will probably have the same key tags. The grouped content blogs boost each other and make their suspicious content become more noticeable to users who follow certain tags. It mostly clutters those tags with useless content, annoying those tag followers. But the point of them is to lure in the occasional individual who doesn't know any better; once they click a link, they could fall victim to stuff like:

Automatic exposure to malware

Mature content that requires payment (and might steal personal and financial information at the same time)

Phishing attacks of various kinds

Cryptocurrency and/or NFT scams

Companies that sell fake products (like cheap knockoffs, items that just don't work as promised, and items that are never shipped and might not even exist in stock/inventory)

People who try to recruit for MLM (multi level marketing), pyramid schemes, and similar money pits. These days it could still include wasteful timeshare programs, but now there are AirBnB scams and all sorts of things. Something that requires a time and money commitment and promises profit or some other benefit, but it just drains your energy and funds. Someone profits, but it's not you.

The bots that have no content except links in their descriptions are just hoping someone clicks. Then the unwitting person might fall prey to the same things listed above.

Bots that just follow but have zero content? Well, that's possible but not always true. The ones that truly have zero content might want you to interact with them in messages. Other bots don't have any posts or reblogs, but they might allow you to see the posts they've ❤️'d and/or the blogs they follow. You have to check out their Likes and Follow tabs to get this information, so it makes the blogs seem kind of legit and innocent. You are snooping around their blog, after all, right? But some of the posts they "like" and some of the blogs they follow will send unsuspecting individuals down a rabbit hole that might quickly lead to content blogs with those same suspicious links and too-good-to-be-true schemes.

Harming your blog

Ultimately, their main goals are to part people from their money and steal information. But they can cause problems for your blog, too. Like:

Decreased exposure 1: By making your posts disappear in a sea of junk posts with the same tags, it might be harder for new readers to find your content that matches their interests.

Decreased exposure 2: Similarly, people who follow certain tags and typically read your content that way might stop following those tags. They might choose to follow you directly, but they might not. They might unfollow a tag and then realize they don't recall your blog name. Some will be interested enough to figure it out and others won't.

Damaging your reputation: It's not common now, and changes to the website/app might have actually helped to stop this, but some blogs used to reblog others' posts with one or more images, remove the original text, then add their own links and tags. This happened to several of my old posts, too, and the alterations made it look like I'd posted manga panels or whatever with a link to a porn site or something. I had to report the reblogs and also assure readers that my original posts didn't contain these potentially harmful links. To get this remedied, I think I had to use a special reporting method that allowed me to give the Tumblr reps specific information about what the blogs were doing to my post content. I also explained that those blogs were doing the same thing to posts from other bloggers. Were they truly bots? Idk, but possibly.

Simply put, they can decrease your exposure to readers, make the tagging feature less useful for everyone, and even cause a PR nightmare for your blog. All in the name of trying to scam the occasional person who falls into their traps.

When you decide a blog must be a bot, please report them as SPAM (more likely to get it removed) and block it.

[orphanheirs]

Intro Post!💀🦇🕸🕯

Hey there! Figured I'd finally make one of these in case anyone who stumbles on this blog wonders what it's all about.

As it says in my blog description, this is an online space where I can compile and organize imagery, info, and anything else that inspires me related to the novel I'm developing. At least that was the original motivation for making this, but I'm definitely wanting to post some original content surrounding the story and the characters in it soon! This imaginary world has been obsessing me for a few years now, and I'm honestly chomping at the bit to share it with others.

What you'll see on here:

Images related to: gothic lit, the regency period in Europe/Britain, the late 16th/early 17th century, some earlier 18th century, ancient and prehistoric cultures, paganism, the occult, witchcraft, fairies, folklore, the countryside/forests, autumn, Halloween, demons/devils, romantic fashion, screenshots and gifs from films, illustrations/other artists' art that inspires me, and any other random pic that speaks to me or that gives me an idea even vaguely related to the story.

Text posts relating to: all the same subjects above, plus quotes from poetry and literature, other stories that inspire me, and writing advice posts/memes.

Hopefully soon: posts introducing my characters and sharing concept art, ideas, research I've done, who knows what else??

***Content warning for some imagery that may be disturbing (as can be expected, I guess, from a horror aesthetic/theme).***

What the novel's about:

It's [going to be] a gothic/dark fantasy/folk horror/historical fiction novel set in regency Britain and centering around the concept of Halloween and its origins/meaning. Think Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell meets Over the Garden Wall. Kinda. Characters include a bratty aspiring sorcerer, a demonic changeling who wants to be human, a witch, a sin eater, and a handsome devil. Over the course of the plot the question of whether the spirit realm(s) and mortal world should be kept separate will be a source of conflict.

I've had some aspects of this story/characters in my head since I was 14, so it's super special to me!

About me:

I'm an artist, writer, and musician. This is my first time trying to write anything as involved as a novel. I'm having loads of fun with it, though. I love music and reading and history, particularly fashion history, and anything related to the supernatural. The title of my blog is a reference to a song by Echo & the Bunnymen (though I think it's actually an inaccurate lyric :P ).

Ficton books I've been reading lately: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke, The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles books, Edgar Allan Poe short stories

Nonfiction books I've been reading: The Devil and All His Works by Dennis Wheatley, Celtic Mythology by Philip Freeman, The Making of Victorian Values by Ben Wilson, Occult Features of Anarchism by Erica Lagalisse, Halloween by Lesley Pratt Bannatyne

Some musical artists I'm into recently: Cranes, Kate Bush, The The, The Smiths, Fiona Apple, Alex G, Caroline Polachek, Imogen Heap, Depeche Mode, Fad Gadget, Pinback, Steeleye Span, The Cleaners From Venus, Suzanne Vega, The Garden, Jessica Pratt

Visual Artists I've been thinking about lately: Edward Gorey, Aubrey Beardsley, Nicole Rodrigues, Francisco de Goya, Leonora Carrington, Brian Froud, Wendy Froud, Willam Blake, Edvard Munch, Harry Clarke

Some of my favorite films: The Witch, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, The Wicker Man (original), Meshes of the Afternoon, Days of Heaven, The Thief and the Cobbler, The Masque of the Red Death

Regardless of why you're here, I sincerely hope you enjoy browsing around, and feel free to say hi! :) I would love to link up with other writers on here and make some new pals. Also feel free to like this post and I'll give you a follow!

[amphibious-thing]

Shoelaces

[Detail of the Meagre Company, oil on canvas, c. 1633-1637, by Frans Hals, via Wikimedia.]

While shoelaces had been fairly common in the 17th century by the beginning of the 18th century they had been surpassed in popularity by buckles.

[Detail of Declaration of Independence, oil on canvas, c. 1819, by John Trumbull, via Wikimedia.]

The most common style of men's shoe in the 18th century was black leather buckled shoes, typically with a small heel (see above). Even fashionable men often wore these simple black buckled shoes, though they may accessorise them with ornate buckles rather than plain ones. Even on men's high heels we see buckles replacing ribbons at the turn of the century.

[Left: Detail of Charles II of England, oil on canvas, c. 1670-1675, by Simon Pietersz Verelst, via Wikimedia.

Right: Detail of Louis XIV of France, oil on canvas, c. 1700-1701, by Hyacinthe Rigaud, via Wikimedia.]

During the first few decades of the 18th century shoe ties remained popular alongside buckles in women's footwear. However extant examples of buckled shoes outnumber those of laced shoes, though this may in part be due to shoes being converted to accommodate the fashionable buckle.

[Left: Shoes with ribbon ties, leather & brocaded silk, c. 1730s, via V&A (accession number: T.197&A-1927).

Middle: Buckled shoes, painted kid leather & silk, c. 1760s, via V&A, (accession number: 270&A-1891).

Right: Shoes with eyelets, leather & silk, c. 1700–1720, via The Met (accession number: 2009.300.1480a, b).]

In their description for the shoes on the right the Met writes:

Most aficionados of historic fashion are well acquainted with 18th century ladies' shoes in the classic buckled latchet style, as they survive in fairly good number. The predecessor of these - latchet ties shoes - are however fairly scarce in good unaltered condition. In order to extend their life as fashionable footwear, latchet tie shoes were frequently modified to accommodate a buckle.

By the 1780s shoe strings in menswear was so unpopular in mainstream Parisian fashion they were seen of being indicative of sodomy. In his article Commissioner Foucault, Inspector Noël, and the “Pederasts” of Paris, 1780-3 Jeffrey Merrick explains how Foucault and Noël used men's clothes to identify them as suspected sodomites. These men wore “some combination of frock coat, large tie, round hat, small chignon, and bows on the shoes.” Merrick speculates that these men were using fashion to signal to each other. Understandably when questioned by police men would deny such a purpose.

In England men who wore shoe strings were seen as effeminate. In their issue of 6-9th of December 1788 the St. James's Chronicle or the British Evening Post describes the "Jessamy or Petit-Maitre" (both terms for effeminate men) as follows:

The Jessamy or Petit-Maitre are so nearly allyed that the Rules that serve for one will do for the other-These He-She Beings should always take particular Care in the Decoration of their sweet Persons-Their Clothes should be cut to the very extreme of the Mode, their Hair dressed particularly nice, even if they sit two Hours under the Hairdresser's Hands, and while under the Operation, are to take out their Pocket Glass and give the Hair Dresser Instructions form Time to Time-When they walk the Streets of London, they are to make short Steps, as was formerly the Fashions of the fine Ladies, wear Shoe-Strings-paint their Faces, and be alarmed at every little Noise they hear in the Streets. In short it will be necessary to keep up their Reputation that they assume a Behaviour more feminine than masculine-and by all Means to imitate the Behaviour and Looks of the Females in the Days of their Great Grandmothers. Such Conduct will stamp their Characters in the Eyes of their Brethren.

[Sir John Coxe Hippisley, oil on canvas, c. 1779–80, by William Pars, via Art & the Country House.]

However by the late 1780s shoe strings were already starting to have a resurgence, in part due to their cost. With shoe strings being cheaper than buckles many men started to adopt them in spite of the associations with effeminacy. On the 21st September 1786 The Times reported:

The shoe-strings are now the fashion wit all the barbers boys, hair-dressers, and waiters, in London. The charity schools have also adopted them, as they are much cheaper than buckles. A man of sense, and a real man of fashion, has never yet dishonoured his instep with such a piece of mean folly.

And on the 12th of July 1787 The Times suggests that when a "tolerably well-dressed man wears them, the general conclusion is, that his buckles are in pawn." However in spite of the comparative cheapness of shoe strings the association with effeminacy persisted.

One intriguing instance of the cultural perception of shoe strings comes from a 1789 adaptation of the Tempest that opened on Drury Lane on Tuesday the 13th of October. The play included an epilogue written by General John Burgoyne. The epilogue fear-mongers the growth of effeminacy in England writing that "we may lack men, though over-run with males." Burgoyne depicts the middle class John Bull as an effeminate "He-Miss" Milliner:

Yet John sometimes his shape and sex degrades, And stoops to rob his sisters of their trades. Six feet in height, with sinews of an ox, Shoulders to carry coals, and fists to box,- Behold-O shame!-a thing of whip and hem- A He-Miss Millener-"Your orders, Me'm?- "Rouge, lipsalve, chicken gloves, perfumery, "Hair cushions, gauzes, bustles?-HE! he! he!"-

Burgoyne then shifts to men "of higher bearing";

Still Falstaff's men, all radish and cheese-paring!- Oh! could he sketch some figures that one sees- Tied up with strings at shoes and strings at knees! So thick the neck-cloth, and the neck so thin! He'd swear they bore a poultice for the chin:- And lest the cold the adjacent ears should harm, See half a foot of cape to keep 'em warm; While the stiff edge, for better purpose made, Rubs off the whiskers it was form'd to shade. With eyes of fire that vie with snuffs in sockets, And hands distress'd for want of waistcoat pockets: The crutch of levity directs their gait; And wanghee bends beneath their wangling weight.

On the 14th The World praises the epilogue as a "pleasant satyr upon modern modes" noting in particular;

the perversion of his good parts into effeminate pursuits-the Man-Milliner-the strings at shoes, and strings at knees-the stiff stand-up cape, "chasing the whisker it was meant to hide"-the waistcoat pockets-were all perfection, in what is the Epilogue's best praise, knowledge of effect, and strong accomplishment of it.

In contrast to Burgoyne's depiction of him as a "He-Miss Millener" John Bull, a personification of England (much like Uncle Sam is to the US), was typically depicted as a plainly dressed middle class Englishman. Some satires such as James Gillray's Politeness would compare the masculine English John Bull to the effeminate French archetype. Bull is depicted sitting with his legs open, wearing blue, red and buff with short un-powdered hair and wearing boots. The Frenchman is sitting with his legs closed, wearing pink and green (colours that were considered effeminate) with white powdered hair tied back with a ribbon and wig bag. However he is wearing bucked shoes.

[Politeness, hand-coloured etching, c. 1779, copy after James Gillray, via The Met.]

Another example of a typical depiction of John Bull can be seen in The Honest Pickpocket published by William Holland which comments on the clock tax enacted by the Pitt government. The cartoon depicts Prime Minister William Pitt taking a watch out of John Bulls pocket. Pitt is saying "Don't be alarmed, Johnny, I only want to see whether it is Gold or Silver - you know there is a great deal of difference between Half a Crown and Ten Shillings."

In this anti-Pitt satire, Bull is depicted again in blue, red and buff with un-powdered hair, however this time he is wearing buckled shoes. Pitt in contrast is depicted in green with powdered hair tied back with a ribbon and wig bag. His shoes are fastened with strings.

[The Honest Pickpocket, hand-coloured etching, c. 1797, published by William Holland, via The British Museum.]

However in An Enquiry Concerning the Clock Tax Pitt is depicted in blue and red with buckled shoes. The satire is playing on a pun, the clock tax was a tax of the time keeping devices but in the 18th century stockings sometimes had decorative embroidery known as clocks. In the print a delegate "from the worthy and respectable Society of Hosiers" asks Pitt "to know whether your Honor means to extend the Tax to Clocks upon Stockings." In contrast to Pitt the hosier wears not only stockings with clocks, but also shoes with strings as well as breeches with strings at the knees. Pitt is holding a quill labeled "Tax Pen", he is halfway through writing a list of taxes which includes "Shoe Strings", "Knee Strings" and "Hair Strings".

[An Enquiry Concerning the Clock Tax, hand-coloured etching, c. 1797, after George Moutard Woodward, published by S. W. Fores, via The British Museum.]

While this satire was clearly playing on the pun, it's not too far off what some were proposing. With the popularity of shoe strings increasing during the 80s the buckle makers were starting to get concerned for their livelihood and hoped a shoe string tax would combat the price difference. On the 22nd of November 1788 The Times reported:

The buckle makers it is said intend to petition for a tax on shoe strings by an eighteen penny stamp on each pair. This, although somewhat extraordinary, yet is in agitation, and might be easily effected.

With most of the buckle manufacturing coming out of Birmingham it was reportedly a risky move to wear shoe strings there. On the 28th August 1789 the Oracle reported:

At Birmingham, the man who dares appear with ribband-ties in his shoes, is certain not to pass current. He is instantly seized, his shoes taken off and cut to pieces; and no shoe maker can dare to sell him a new pair, unless he buys a pair of buckles first!

Much of the public was on the side of the buckle makers and against the shoe strings. On the 12th August 1789 the Oracle bemoans that "thousands of His Majesty's loyal subjects are now starving, from the introduction of the effeminate fashion of shoe-strings." On the 6th of November the Oracle reported that on "being asked by a Nobleman, why he had such an objection to Shoe Strings-His Royal Highness replied in these emphatic words-"

In the first place, I dislike them, for they look effeminate, are neither genteel or becoming; but give a certain air of meanness to the foot, which should be avoided. In the next place, I do not wear them, for it shall never be said of me, that any whim of mine has been instrumental in bringing the hard labouring Mechanic to Ruin!

A letter signed "Cheapside" published on the 5th January 1789 in The World was a bit more extreme suggesting that men who wore shoe strings "ought, in plain English, and with a good sufficient English cord, to be hanged". While Cheapside was concerned that the buckle makers were being "tied up from getting their bread" the true dislike of shoe strings and the men who wore them seem to be more due the their "intimations" that were "most disgraceful to manhood."

[uwmspeccoll]

Fashion Friday:   The Power of Plumage

The dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 resulted in the creation of fifteen nation-states including Ukraine and Estonia, while 1993 saw the end of communist rule in Czechoslovakia, becoming the Czech Republic and Slovakia.  These nations are featured here in my second-to-last fashion plate post with costumes honoring easier days of traditional ethnic dress.

Leo Tolstoy could be argued as the conscience of Russian peasants by his fictional writing in the classic Anna Karenina. Tolstoy was in fact a nobleman and landowner yet he adorned himself in smocks and meager dress, fashioning humility as he wrote of earthly indulgences and subtle sermons on the wickedness of the human condition.

The dress of laborers is also honored in a 1936 Soviet Union publication on a revered textile worker in Miss USSR where a young woman's 10-hour days and record-breaking statistics on factory looms are lauded as joyful. Her uniform is a black silk blouse and skirt and her profile is documented as "slim" and "little."

Yet, as with the earliest civilizations there is a place for costume, for adornment that celebrates more than the work of our hands or size of our bodies, whether a farmer's, a writer's, or a weaver's; we yearn for the occasion allowing ornamentation that arouses our senses and inflames our imaginations.  

My first fashion plate is titled the USSR Plume Dress, perhaps interpreted by some as a peacock's egoism; the second plate may be favored by fan-followers of Egon Schiele, while the last crowns brawn and might.

Here is a listing of sources from the UWM Special Collections and the UWM American Geographical Society Library that I have augmented with digital color and outline to emphasize particular details of my inspiration:

1, 8)  Wood-engravings by Nikolas Piskariov as featured in Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina; published in the USSR in 1933 and printed by the Limited Editions Club, respectively titled Anna's Fall and Head-Piece to Part the Fifth.

2-4)  My contemporary designs of the USSR Plume Dress, Estonian Edith Dress, and Czech Crown Dress based on maps from the collection of the UWM American Geographical Society Library that show iconic costumes, respectively titled Russian Empire 1757, published in Augsburg, GE by Augustae Vindel in 1757; Folklore Map of Czechoslovakia, published in Czechoslovakia by the Ministerstvo Informaci in 1948; Parishes of Estonia 2010, published by the  AS Regio in 2010.

3)  Black and white drawing of Czechoslovakian dress by Belle Northrup in A Short Description of Historic Fashion published by Columbia University's Teachers College in 1925.

5) Photograph of Dusya Vinogradovo a 21-year old woman dubbed Miss USSR: The Story of a Girl Stakhanovite, the Soviet Union's leader in weaving production and noted to be every young person's friend as she was "free and happy"; published in New York by International Publishers in 1936.

6, 7)  Illustrations by Noel L. Nisbet from the collection of Russian Cossack Fairy Tales and Folk Tales, published in London by George G. Harrap & CO in 1916, respectively titled They Came to the Place Where He Had Left Her and His Wife Caressed and Wheedled Him.

View my other posts on historical fashion research in Special Collections.

View more Fashion Friday posts.

—Christine Westrich, MFA Graduate Student in Intermedia Arts

[theclaravoyant]

for historical ineffables…. may I humbly request 1920s feat. flapper!crowley? (any pronouns)

AN ~ you certainly may !! in fact whoops I have a huge crush on flapper!crowley 🫡 💋 (she/her for this one)

special guest appearance : trains 🚂

prompt me: historical ineffables

-

Aziraphale arrived at the requested train station with the note still crunched in his hand. The familiar curl of the handwriting was engraved behind his eyelids. Of course, he’d only looked over the words so many times to try and decipher some hidden meaning; perhaps this was a trap or a threat of some sort from his worthy adversary. It was only his duty to investigate.

(It had nothing to do with the smile he imagined playing on Crowley’s lips as he penned it; I have a surprise for you.)

More than one surprise, apparently, as when he found the demon at the bar she was using a new and different form. A variation on a theme. The long lines of Crowley’s elegant frame were accentuated by the cigarette holder she twirled between her fingers, and contrasted boldly to the short finger-waves of her flame-red hair. A black and silver Gatsby dress draped over her slender form as if she had been the very model for them… only, the hem rested lower than one would typically wear this style so as to obscure the definitely normal human feet and legs Crowley sported. Not that anyone would notice of course. Certainly not Aziraphale, who was certainly not looking.

“My eyes are up here, Angel,” Crowley said, by way of greeting. She wore a practiced, small, almost sarcastic smile, but they had been seeing a lot more of each other lately and Aziraphale knew her honest eyes by now, even behind the glasses. She was happy to see him, and for some reason that made his cheeks feel unseasonably warm.

“Happy to see you too.” Aziraphale cast an eye across the bar, whose tender only met his in passing; well practiced in deliberately not paying too much attention. He pulled out the seat beside Crowley, and belatedly realised he was still holding that blasted note. If she noticed as he tucked it away - which she definitely did - she didn’t say anything. Simply raised a hand to request the Reisling, for my friend.

“Keeping a low profile then, I see,” Aziraphale said. He meant it to be scolding, but it sounded rather more impressed. If he knew Crowley, and he rather liked to think he did, that was how she took it too.

“Low profile was never in my job description,” she pointed out. “Besides, it’s a sign of the times isn’t it? We’ll be voting next, they reckon.”

Aziraphale snorted. “You’ve never voted a day in your life.”

“It’s the thought that counts.” Crowley shrugged, and took a sip of her old fashioned. “Which brings me to my next point.”

She reached inside her - for this part, Aziraphale really wasn’t watching - and pulled out a few slips of paper. It was a brochure, and two tickets for the Orient Express. Before he could help himself his jaw dropped and he whipped open the brochure, poring over the stunning molding and scenery promised aboard the luxury vessel. It even promised a tour of the history and workings of the steam engine, for VIPs - which of course, per their tickets, they were.

“I love trains,” he breathed. “Marvellous clever things, don’t you think?”

Crowley was almost laughing, watching him, and she didn’t do that much. His cheeks felt warm again all of a sudden and his hand began to shake, realising what he was holding. The smile on his lips died a little. Crowley’s did too. She tried to face eyes-forward instead, and hoped he didn’t push the tickets back across at her.

“You- You shouldn’t have.” Aziraphale’s chest felt tight. Crushing.

“It’s nothing,” Crowley said, and shrugged. “I have business in Constantinople, and word has it you do too. I thought perhaps I might like some company. That’s all.”

He should have said I’m not ‘company’.

What he said was; “Well, if it’s business.”

He raised his glass in toast, and clinked it against Crowley’s.

[oneknightstand-if]

Been brainstorming ideas about my mc so: will Camelot have a historically accurate fashion or more of a fantasy one? A bit of both??

I'm going more for lore accuracy here (unless it's something completely whack, like I don't care what Le Morte d' Arthur says, we're not having "England" in fifth-century Britannia) which isn't terribly historically accurate, but I'm jamming in as much historical accuracy as possible. When lore accuracy directly conflicts historical accuracy... then a fae did it.

Those fairy-tale style castles (like Camelot) that won't exist for hundreds of years? A fae did it.

That horribly anachronistic full plate armor that all knights are wearing which won't be possible until the High Medieval/Renaissance period? A fae did it.

If it's historically accurate (like the swords now called 'Migration Period') than the humans made it, if it's lore accurate and horribly anachronistic (the knightly/arming swords) then the fae did it.

Regarding fashion, the upcoming Camelot flashback section will have good descriptions for both the normal wear of men and women during the time depending upon who you end up meeting on which path (although I didn't go full Wheel of Time level of description with describing every embroidery stitch).

The fashion is mostly historically accurate with me throwing in some of the lore stuff that gets popularly described (samite, hosery, surcoats, "long cloak lined with ermine").

So mostly...

Men: slit tunics with sleeves + braies (tight breeches if its going under armor)

Women: peplos gowns over long-sleeved tunics

Hooded Cloaks fastened with clasps/brooches on the shoulder

Clothes dyed in various colors/stripes/chequered

Bright colors, embroidery, fringed fabrics, jewelry, and long braided or styled hair

Bronze/silver/gold torcs of twisted metal for the nobility

Lots of brooches/clasps everywhere

Shoes: soft leather boots, slippers, sandals, raw cowhide, simple turn shoes

Soldier Boots: Made from thicker leather and studded with hobnails

Irish (not called Irish at the time): long léine tunic, short inar (ionar) jacket/tunic, broc (breeches), later trius (trews)

These sites have some nice summaries + illustrations of the fashion at the time.

Brittonic Historical | Celtic Historical

[soohaaaleemeee]

This Is Bad, Billy

Part 3 - Life Is Too Short

Description: 1961. Joanie is a dreamer. She dreams of Hollywood, fashion and handsome men. Her favorite is the actor Billy Skarsgård. When she works as a volunteer at the hospital she meets him in an unexpected way and comes closer to him than she thought was possible.

Characters: AU Bill Skarsgård, here called Billy. He's inspired by real life Bill but also the character Clark Olofsson in the Netflix series Clark.

Setting: This story is set in the 60s L.A and a smaller town close to L.A.

Warnings: 18+, historical preferences, mental health problems, mental illness, abuse, smut, sexism, mentions about racism.

Billy moved around my room and looked at my stuff. He had thrown his leather jacket on my bed but kept his leather shoes on and succeeded in imprinting a brown footstep on my light green rug. He stopped in front of my ceiling high shelf full of extravagant porcelain dolls. I had always been proud of my collection but now I felt childish when a man like Billy looked at them.

"Is it like a collection?" He asked, pointing to them with a finger while he turned around and looked at me.

"It is. Many of them are handmade, my father bought them from his trips to different countries."

Billy made a face I couldn't read and then laughed a little.

"Aren't they quite scary? Like, watching you while you're sleeping?" He said with a creepy voice, walking slowly towards me with a hunched back and wiggling fingers. I giggled at him and moved side to side in embarrassment.

"They aren't alive, stupid," I said but cringed a little when I heard my own words. Of course he knew that. Billy smirked and continued to look around. It felt like I had killed a moment but pretended to be unbothered and sat down on my bed. He looked at my photos that stood on my vanity table. There were some from birthday parties and graduations and the picture of me with my father at my high school graduation had caught his interest. He looked at the photo and then at me.

"Is this your dad?"

I just nodded and silently wondered why he asked. Billy made a face again that I couldn't read and put the photo frame down, then he smiled charmingly at me.

"I don't know, it's something about you… It feels like you have potential," he said and sat down on the bed next to me.

"What do you mean by that?" I smiled and played with a curl that had fallen down from my updo. Billy shrugged his shoulders and looked at my face, examining.

"You can do better than this. You're much more interesting than this," he said, spinning his finger in the air.

"You're not that boring girl. Not that kind of girl that lets men run the show."

It was odd hearing a man say such a thing. I've just heard it from women my own age, girls that wanted more from life than being a housewife. I smiled at Billy and looked him in the eyes.

"My daddy thinks I should be a doctor like him. But… I'm not so good at such things."

"And why should you do what he wants? Okay, he has higher thoughts about you than being a man's servant but he wants you to be in his world, follow his rules."

I nodded and dragged my fingers over the back of Billy's hand which laid on his thigh. He took my hand in his and searched my eyes again.

"You should be in L.A. I can help you, you know."

I looked at him with big eyes of fascination but also of doubt. He was a psychiatric patient.

"I will be out of the ward soon. Trust me. I have the hearing in like a week."

"The hearing? For what?" I asked confused and looked at him with furrowing brows.

"Just a bullshit thing that they locked me up for."

I nodded a little bit but after a minute I took courage to ask what it was. Billy laughed embarrassed as he dragged his hand over his face.

"You will judge me."

"No. I promise."

"It's with a girl," he said and looked at me examining. He probably believed that I couldn't handle hearing that he had been with other girls. I nodded and looked at him curiously even if I was afraid of what he would say.

"I went down on a girl at a restaurant." He looked away and rubbed his eye in discomfort.

"Went down like..?" I asked and swallowed hard. Did he mean what I thought?

"I licked her pussy."

"Oh… But.. Is that enough to get locked in at a psychiatric ward?" I was embarrassed to hear his confession but was also confused because it sounded like an awful thing but not enough to be a lunatic.

"I have a history… I've been there before."

"For what?" I don't know what gave me the confidence to ask but it all sounded strange.

"Depression. Schizophrenia. Autism. Nymphomania. Anger issues. Manic episodes. Psychosis. Delusions. Psychopathy."

He smiled at me but didn't look happy, more like he was challenging me.

"But… You're all normal?"

Billy laughed and looked at our hands that still were wrapped around each other.

"Am I? I don't know. I've heard there is something wrong with me since my teens."

"Why?"

He pulled the corner of his mouth down and shrugged.

"Because I don't fit in. Because they can't control me. Because life is too fucking short."

I didn't know what to say. I had never believed Billy was one of the disturbed people but I had never thought about what had actually made him get admitted. I wanted to believe doctors, I wanted to believe they knew more than us others but watching Billy I couldn't deny something was wrong.

I dragged my other hand up over his arm and Billy looked at it then up to my face and leaned closer.

"Life is too short," he whispered and kissed me. I continued to hear his words in my head as we kissed and let them guide me. Guide me up in his lap, pushing him back in the bed and continue to kiss him. Billy dragged his hands down my back and squeezed my bare cheeks. His hands were big and warm and made me moan into his mouth. Life was too short. I dragged off my slip so I was just dressed in my white underwear.

Billy leaned back to be able to look at my nakedness and smiled at me.

"Beautiful girl… I think you know what I want to do to you…"

I smiled but swallowed hard. My parents were at the end of the hallway. They both had taught me to be a good girl, to save myself for marriage but I knew it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted Billy to be as close as possible and live without my father's rules.

It went fast, so fast I didn't really realize what was happening but it didn't scare me, I wanted to be in that bubble Billy created. I touched the naked skin he exposed to me, dragged my hands down his muscular back and felt with my fingertips his smooth skin and the hairs around his nipples and the trail from his belly button. He was a beautiful man, tall, slender but with all the masculine tributes a girl could ask for. I wasn't embarrassed, not even unsure what to do, something else took over and I pulled my panties down so his hands could explore me even more.

Billy smiled a little and spread my legs so he could see between my legs. I was just as wet as on our first date and it made Billy bite his lip. He dragged his hand up my thigh and then made small patterns with his fingertips between my legs and over my folds. I breathed heavily and looked at him teasing me with a boyish smile. After a while he dragged his fingers up and he found a spot that made my whole body tingle and made my leg jerk.

"Oh!" I said but it wasn't unpleasant. Far from it. The feeling took over and I let him continue.

"That's it… just let it happen…" whispered Billy and at the same time he started to do fast, harder circles over the spot. The sensation became stronger and stronger and I felt it take over my body and soul. When I moaned loudly Bill put a hand on my mouth and smirked lovingly towards me.

"Don't let your parents hear us…"

I would have probably giggled if it was in another situation but I was occupied with coming down from my high. Billy pulled down his white briefs and when I opened my eyes he stood on his knees in front of me with his hard member pointing at me.

"I hope I don't scare you…" said he softly but dragged his hand erotically over his hard on. I didn't know where to look. I wanted to look at it, watch him touch himself but it felt so exposing even if he chose to take his briefs off.

"We can stop if you want to?" He said and dragged his hands over my thighs that were on each side of him.

"No… No. I want to." I said because I really did. Yes, I was nervous but I would be later too. I wanted it now so I took the chance. Billy took hold of his dick and slowly pushed into me. It hurt a bit but it was also a new kind of pleasure and with two fingers in my mouth he started to thrust in and out of me.

×××

"Was that it?" I asked him dumbfounded and looked up at the ceiling with the sheet around me.

"I'm sorry… I came too fast…" he said embarrassed and dragged his hand over his face while lying on his stomach next to me. He laid naked and I looked at his bum, his cheeks were round and smooth and he had deep dimples on his back. I smiled at the view even if I was a bit disappointed that our love making had ended so quickly.

"You don't feel… Sticky?" He suddenly said after a few minutes of silence. I knew what he meant. His semen dripped out of me slowly but I didn't know what to do about it. Maybe he would take offense if I ran to the toilet to clean myself up.

"A little," I just said and looked up at the ceiling.

"You know, you can go freshen up. I guess you might want that?" He didn't say it meanly but he sounded like it was obvious and I felt stupid and so I left my room and ran to the bathroom without answering him. The bathroom was between my room and my parents' room but at that moment I didn't even think about how they could come out and see me naked with cum on the inside of my thighs. I just thought about peeing because as soon as I stood up I realized how badly I needed it.

Billy sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed when I came back to my room. He smiled at me when he saw me naked and licked his lips.

"I wish I could stay… But I must go back before they notice I've disappeared."

I looked at him disappointedly and pulled on my slip that was laying on the floor. I really had wanted to just snuggle a bit but didn't say that to him. He looked at me where I stood with my head bent playing with my fingers and with a small smile he dragged me down in his lap.

"Thank you… For tonight. I promise the next time… Will be better." He said it jokingly but I could see the embarrassment in his face. "And maybe we can snuggle a bit then too? I will try to come earlier tomorrow. Okay?"

I giggled and hugged him around his neck. It was insane that I had Billy Skarsgård coming to my bedroom like this. It felt like something I could just dream about but here he was and we had just made love. Had sex. I was really a woman now and I just wanted Billy as my man.

"So tomorrow?” He asked sweetly and played with the edge of my slip.

"Tomorrow," I said and leaned closer to him so he could kiss my lips.

×××

He had come to me, night after night. We made love, cuddled and talked about my future. Billy had made a plan for me. After his hearing he would call his old agent that also worked with models and then they would arrange it so that all three of us could meet in my little town. Billy was sure the man could help find me a contract at an agency then he himself could help me get an apartment in L.A. I was overwhelmed over how much Billy wanted to help me and my dreams about luxury and a Hollywood handsome boyfriend felt scarily close.

We kissed deeply in bed while I fantasized about our future in L.A. Without my parents close I would become a bleached blonde. As blonde as I could become and buy sexy lingerie and wear lipstick that shifted to orange. I would be a model.

"Hi, I'm Joan Woods, model."

I tried it in my head and it sounded so good.

"I'm a model and this is my actor boyfriend Billy Skarsgård." Or even better; husband. I would get everything in life I've ever wanted.

Billy crawled down between my legs and kissed my folds like they were my lips. I looked down at him and giggled softly. He had never given me oral sex before but I didn't even get nervous. It was just so natural. He looked up at me with a hooded gaze and licked between my folds and I spread my legs more to see what he was doing. Billy smirked at me and then worked his tongue faster all the way up to that spot that made me see stars. He worked his way between that spot to my opening and licked up and down with a fast tongue. I had just started to get really worked up when he moved away and harshly thrusted into me. I moaned loudly both in pain and pleasure.

"I want you on all four," he said after just a few strokes and as the good girl I was I did as told and he thrusted into me from behind just as hard. He worked his hips hard and skilled and I couldn't stop myself from moaning louder and louder. We were so deep in our own bubble that we hadn’t noticed the door opening. I continued to moan loudly while Billy breathed loudly watching his member move in and out of me roughly. For every stroke his member became more and more shiny with our juices.

"Rupert!!" Screamed my mother at my father which caused me to look up at the door where she stood with her fluffy robe. She looked horrified and so did I when I realized what she was seeing. Just then Billy came and his cum dripped out from my pussy and down on the bed cover.

"Joan! Joan!!" Screamed my mother with a cry in her voice.

"Mom?" I said with a small voice. I felt eleven again but with a big penis inside of me and his cum dripping. Billy continued to breathe heavily but started to dress quickly when my mother once again screamed after my father. I should have stood up and put on clothes but the shock made me stay in the same position.

"Dress before your dad comes! You… Silly girl! I didn't raise you like this!" Screamed my mother who threw my robe at me. She looked at Bill zipping up his pants with a judging, angry look.

"Rupert!" She screamed even more upset and it finally seemed to wake my father up. He looked in through my door in his striped pajamas and saw me sitting on the bed in my robe while Billy, in a panic, put on his shoes by the window, ready to jump down the window again. His light green button down hung open over his white t-shirt while he had already thrown out his jacket from the window. My dad stood quietly looking at the scene, obviously he could put two and two together and his eyes darken when he looked at Billy.

"You…!" Hissed my father towards him while Billy had one leg out the window.

"Good evening Dr. Woods, time for me to go," said he cockily and gave him a salute. My father ran up to him believing he could catch Billy before he jumped out. It was impossible and I couldn't see how my dad would be able to do something more than that towards Billy. Billy was much more muscular and could probably hold my dad down with one hand.

Billy jumped out from the window, just giving me a final smirk. My dad screamed after him, ugly words I never heard him use before then he turned to me with an equally dark look.

"And you, young lady… I will lock you in here until you have stopped being such a stupid… disgusting… Whore," he hissed and put a finger against my chest like he had wanted to shoot me if he could. I swallowed my tears and looked at my mother who stood with her head bent. Even she reacted to the word he used. Whore. Whore.

×××

Everything changed after that. My parents didn't want to talk to me, not even look at me and it felt like I was just a ghost in their home. But I had changed too. Of course I could understand it must have been traumatic for my parents to see what was happening between me and an unknown man but I never believed they would shut me out in the way they did. I would have believed they would be angry at me, scream and threaten to take away money and other conveniences but instead they had talked over my head for a week and didn't seem to care if I got home from work okay or not.

I had continued to work at the psychiatric ward but I didn't see Billy anywhere. I believed for several days that he had run away and left me behind until I actually asked Nurse Larsen. At first she didn't want to answer but then sighed and told me anyway. Billy was moved to isolation because of a manic episode. Something didn't feel right with me with that explanation because I didn't see Billy have any mental illnesses at all. I also hadn't learned what the isolation was for and after almost a week of not seeing him I took courage to ask a male caretaker I'd seen Billy with. We stood at the staff's yard and he smoked a cigarette with heavy eyes. He looked around to see so no one was listening.

"He isn't in isolation," he said and looked down at the ground. It actually looked like he cared and I wondered silently if he was the one helping Billy out at night.

"They gave him electric shock treatment so his brain is just mush right now…"

I looked at the man with horror and he looked up at me with kind dark brown eyes.

"He will be okay, after a while. Just lose some memories and… rebelliousness."

"Has he gotten it before?" I asked carefully. I knew I didn't have the right to that information but it seemed like the man felt a need to talk about it too.

"I think in Sweden. When he was young. They are worse than here than it sounds. I think he ran away from this institution and in some way succeeded to take a ferry here. And then he became Billy to all of the world."

I nodded with wonder. It was a sad story but also full of hope. Maybe his story was why he was so eager to help me come to L.A.

"I want to see him," I said determined but the man just laughed a little.

"He will be locked in for a long time. And he wouldn't want you to see him like that. With empty eyes and drool on his shirt."

I swallowed hard and felt my heart beat with worry for him.

"When can I see him, you think?"

The man looked out over the yard and then at me. He took a deep drag.

"They canceled his hearing indefinitely. Because of his "episode". They’ll do everything to make him seem like the worst maniac. Don't ask me why. Maybe jealousy? White old men, you know. My people know all too much about them," he smirked bitterly but then continued.

"I'm not sure we will see him again. They will probably move him into a locked institution. Maybe he will even be isolated for the rest of his life…" he said defeated and sighed. I stood for a long time and watched him before I started to sob. The man looked at me a second but then took a deep drag again.

"He is a good man, just too colorful for this world. Like many of the patients here," he said with a low voice before stubbing out his cigarette with the toe of his scuffed shoe and left me alone on the yard.

×××

It smelled of roast chicken when I got home. Lucky for me I still received food even if my parents seemed to want to forget about my existence. It smelled heavenly. I looked into the kitchen where my mother stood making a fruit salad for dessert.

"It smells great, mom," I tried and took off my coat and went into her. She didn't answer, just continued to chop a banana.

"Mom?" I said to see if she reacted at all but it didn't seem like it. It was like I didn't even exist.

"Mom, please talk to me, please! I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry! But I love Billy! And we're going to move to L.A. and…" I said it with a high upset voice that must have upset and stressed my mom because instead of slicing the banana she cut her finger and made a pained, shocking sound before moving to the sink to hold it under running water.

"Mom!" I said again like I hadn't even seen her injury.

"Yes?!" She screamed angrily at me and turned around. I had rarely seen my mother mad so her sudden outburst scared me a bit.

"Please talk to me," I said with a small voice. She looked at me with an angry expression at first but it soon got defeated. She sighed and looked up at the ceiling to hold her tears in.

"Can't you understand? You can be pregnant and then your life will be destroyed. He is mentally ill! Insane! He can't help you with a child. Joanie, what if you're pregnant?"

She looked at me with glassy eyes while blood from her finger dotted the kitchen floor. I stood in silence and felt a lump in my stomach grow. Or was it a child? I didn't know. My mom was actually right this time, I couldn't have a baby.

"When did you have your… period?" She whispered like she was afraid my father would hear even if he wasn't home.

"...oh, now?"

My mom gave me a confused look but then relaxed and even laughed a little.

"Well then you can't be pregnant?"

She said and shook her head towards me. First it didn't connect for me, I had never really needed to think about such things then I remember the biology lessons. I smiled a bit relieved and looked at my mother again who laughed a little again and I joined her. She took a deep breath and looked at me seriously.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Joan. I understand… He is handsome. So tall! But… You must think about your future. He can talk the talk but he is mentally ill."

I looked down and saw her finger bleeding and took a napkin to help her at the same time I thought about what she said. Billy wasn't mentally ill. Or was he? I actually didn't know and his promises sounded so good but now he was locked up somewhere.

We stood close together by the sink while I held pressure on her finger.

"When your father gets home…" she said worriedly and looked at me. I nodded sadly. I knew what she wanted to say. When my father got home she had to ignore me again. I looked at her questionably. I really hoped what Billy had said was true because I really didn't want to become like my mother.

×

[tanginawrites]

Headcanon on wizard underwear that no one asked for 🩲

Okay this is a possible interpretation of Snape's Worst Memory that is possibly ridiculous, so feel free to comment/reblog and roast me.

What if everyone laughs so hard, even Lily almost-smiles, because absolutely no one would have ever expected Snape to be that naked under his robes? It's just a reaction of complete surprise.

We don't get any good descriptions of wizarding robes in the books, so we don't know what wizards typically wear underneath. But with academic robes, judicial robes, and clerical robes it's standard practice to wear street clothes. Oxford even has a prescribed set of clothes (known as subfusc) to be worn under the academic robe.

Even if it's not a full Oxford-style suit, I think wizards and witches typically wear something under their robes for support/modesty/hygiene/odor control/fashion purposes. And if they're wearing old-timey undergarments with their old-timey robes, then their underwear would typically cover a lot more than Snape's shocking y-fronts.

For historical reference, from the middle ages up until about the late 19th century, men would typically wear some kind of braies or breeches and pair it with a linen shirt. Some examples:

I think the more modern/muggle style would be to wear at least an undershirt and shorts/trousers. I can imagine Quidditch star James Potter and the marauders wearing some silly 1970s athletic wear under their robes.

The way I interpret SWM, the marauders expected Snape to be fairly covered-up underneath his robes – and then guffawed when they saw his choice to wear the tightest, smallest, dingiest muggle underwear they’d ever seen.

From Snape’s perspective, I imagine he was probably so busy/stressed with his OWLS that he hadn’t kept up with laundering, and it was so bloody hot that he just made a rash decision that morning to grab a pair of y-fronts and leave it at that. It was an exam day, he didn’t expect to be doing anything but sitting in an exam hall, and he didn’t think anyone would ever know or care.

I think this might add another layer to why Snape broke down and called Lily a slur. He’d been embarrassed and emasculated and assaulted, but he’d also been exposed as someone who didn’t conform to wizarding norms. We don’t know what his relationship was like with the pureblood Slytherins, but that could be dangerous for him. It’s possible that when he got back to his common room he was going to get attacked all over again, or at least hear: “Snivellus Snape with the muggle father – doesn’t even know that you’re supposed to wear clothes under your robes.”

[irish-dress-history]

The Image of Anti-Irish Propaganda

The Image of Irelande, with a Discoverie of Woodkarne by John Derricke published in 1581 claims to be a description of "the wilde men in Ireland" accompanied by an account of Turlough Luineach Ó Neill "submitting himselfe to the right honorable Syr Henry Sydney." The book includes 12 woodcut illustrations that are sometimes used by historical costumers as references for 16th century Irish clothing. I strongly believe that using these illustrations as a source on Irish dress history should be avoided,* so I am making a post to explain why.

John Derricke was an Englishman who was trying to make the Irish look bad (ie creating anti-Irish propaganda). In The Image of Irelande, he maligned Irish culture and praised English military victory over the Irish. He described the Irish as "as honest as the devill," and "constant like the wavering winde." He specifically called Ruaidhrí Óg Ó Mórdha (spelled Rorie Oge) "that famous archtraitor to God." (text here) Someone who was trying to defame the Irish with his text was probably doing the same with his illustrations.

Irish antiquarian William Wilde did not consider Derricke's illustrations a reliable source for Irish dress history either. Writing for the Royal Irish Academy in 1863, he commented, "The caricatures attached to Derricke’s doggerel 'Image of Ireland,' written in 1578, apparently pander to the worst tastes of the times of Sydney, Morrison, and Spenser, are not of much value as specimens of the costume of the 'Irish Wood-Kearne;' they were drawn to ridicule." (source p. 322)

Many details of Irish dress in Derricke's illustrations don't match what is shown in other 16th c sources. This is the most obvious with the long linen tunic called the léine and the short jacket called the ionar. Derricke portrayed the léine as mid-thigh length with a flaring, pleated or gathered skirt and a deep center-front opening with a wide lapel.

Other period sources show the léine as a knee-length or ankle-length garment with a voluminous body that is belted in at the waist. Some show a deep center-front opening or a small collar, but none have a front that looks like a modern bathrobe.

Derricke's purpose in making these changes may have been to shock and appall his readers with how immodest (according to English sensibilities) Irish fashion was. The exaggerated collar/lapel helps emphasize the kerns' bare chests. (Typical English menswear of the time included a long-sleeved, high-collared doublet over a shirt, paired with hose or breeches and stockings, an outfit that hid most of the wearer's skin.)

Derricke portrays the ionar as having skirts that stand out from the wear's body like an Elizabethan neck ruff.

Images by other artists show the ionar with skirts made of knife pleats that lay relatively flat to the body, like those of the extant kilcommon ionar:

In making the ionar's skirts look like a ruff, Derricke might have been attempting to make the Irish look vain and foolish. Ruffs were made by cartridge-pleating long strips of linen to a neck band. To obtain their characteristic, gravity-defying figure 8 shape, they had to be heavily starched and shaped with a tool similar to a curling iron. Ruffs were time consuming, both to make and to maintain, making the idea of wearing one around your waist while raiding a farm or fighting a battle frivolous and impractical.

Finally, the illustrations aren't even consistent with each other in their details. Derricke apparently couldn't decide whether the crest on the chieftain's hat was supposed to be fur (plate 1) or a palm frond? (plates 3 and 4):

*There are some items for which we don't have a better visual source, so I can understand people using it as a reference for things like Irish horse saddles.

Additional sources:

Arnold, Janet, Tiramani, J., & Levey, S. (2008). Patterns of Fashion 4. Macmillan, London. 

Arnold, Janet (1985). Patterns of Fashion 3. Macmillan, London.

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London. 

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

McClintock, H. F. (1953). Some Hitherto Unpublished Pictures of Sixteenth Century Irish People, and the Costumes Appearing in Them. The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 83(2), 150-155. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25510871