#Our Lady of Seattle

[everydaycatholicism]

Our Lady of Seattle.🌺

Chapel at St. James Cathedral in Seattle, Washington.

[ourladyofomega]

Kurt Cobain, Frances Bean Cobain, and a kitten.

📸 source: Pigeons And Planes

[felidthing]

why the fuck did my dad choose to make his kids homeless but let us use as much data as we needed/wanted and let my brother keep using his hand me down car and paying for his gas and let me keep using his card info to refill my orca card. i still think about it bc that whole situation was so fucked and weird and confusing. he refused to consider going halvsies on rent for an apartment and made us live in a shelter/car only for me to check myself into a psych ward and stay there for 2 and a half months and go back to the shelter again until i texted him about how bad everything was and THEN he paid for my rent for a bedroom in a house. i hate my parents and i hate relying on them financially. i literally Need them still because of Money. i lived in that house for 9 months and then i got into college with my parents paying for everything and me just signing up to pay back loans. my dad said i should go for the unlimited meal plan and pays for it. he gave me $200 every month for personal expenses. and now hes paying my rent and bills in full again for an apartment until i move back to school which he will continue paying for. why were you so fucking quick to kick me out of your house with 20 minutes notice

[zonotrichia-albicollis]

Giant personal vent time

This guy stole somewhere between 3 to 6 MILLION dollars from my grandmother by conning my great aunt into signing over her estate and medical & financial power of attorney to him literally on her death bed

I and my aunt have been working basically a whole second job the last 3 months trying to get together a legal case to go after this guy. And now my grandma wants to drop it. And no one else has standing so what the fuck can we do.

This man has absolutely done this to other ppl before, there is no doubt in my mind. I’ve seen his property records for just what’s publicly available in my county and it’s sketchy as hell. I am never going to get over this but there’s nothing I can do.

Gonna put like a million more thoughts in the tags because I’m losing my fucking mind.

[lathrine]

im reading an article about how vitriolic people visiting the national parks have gotten, and it is SO cathartic to see my exact experiences in grocery retail be restated by the customer service reps working in the parks.

like its awful, obvious. the average customer has gotten so nasty, and the employees Do Not deserve the treatment they’re receiving. but during 2020/2021, people seemed to think that those viral Nasty Customer videos were 1) not common and 2) relegated just to grocery/retail. and i cant speak for every single hospitality and customer service sector and store, but i can say that at my store that sort of vitriolic outbreak became VERY common. not constant, but common enough to bump the baseline up.

my manager and i had a conversation where she said a lot of her friends-- some of whom had been in the hospitality or customer service industry for over a decade-- were considering a career change because it was SO BAD and no one could even fathom how to move forward. none of us could imagine it ever getting better. our New Normal was people screaming at and berating us every day, blaming us for mask mandates and vaccines and supply shortages. threatening legal action and physical violence. of people intentionally trying to get us sick and terrorizing us. everything was an argument with no hope of de-escalation; it genuinely wouldve been less inciting to tell some of those customers “go fuck yourself” than it was to tell them “im so sorry, but.” and all that while we were surrounded by the extremely smothering reality that no one cared if we died and everyone considered us sub-human.

everyone i know who gave a fuck quit shortly after i did, because none of us could handle it anymore. this includes people who’d worked at that store since it opened, some of our most decorated and knowledgeable coworkers.

like. i dunno yall. its kind of like how you cant describe how things just Make Sense as you near the latter half of your 20s; i cant put into words just how horrifically awful customer service was at that time. if you didnt personally experience it, everything we say sounds like an exaggeration and hyperbole.

and i cannot stress this enough: its still that bad. i would imagine most customer service and hospitality places had the same thing happen: a mass exodus of everyone who knew what they were doing because they could not stand the abuse anymore, and a rotating door of new hires that Refuse (rightfully so!!!) to tolerate the abuse. there is a new breed of customer that genuinely Does Not Care about employees and see pleas of humanity and kindness as a challenge to see how quickly they can break the employee at the desk.

this is especially relevant now, with it being the holidays. employees are more short staffed and overworked than ever, and customers some how have even less patience. customers dont plan literally five minutes out, and then blame employees for not materializing their needs before them on a silver platter.

anyways. i dont know how this article ends, but i have a pretty good guess.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Imagine…

BAU!reader being married to Hotch but keeping her maiden name in the field to avoid assumptions and judgment. The team knows, obviously, but then a former colleague of Aaron’s from the Seattle office happens to be in town for a conference and wants to catch up over a drink. You can’t help but tease him, of course:

“Knock, knock,” you murmur, leaning against the doorway to your husband’s office. With a glance at your watch, you ask, “Y’gonna be late for your date?”

Aaron looks up at you with a frown before returning his attention to his case file and mumbling, “Not a date.”

“Mm, my apologies,” you respond with a twitch of your lips as you approach his desk. You lean your elbows on the dark wood and rest your chin in your open hands. Batting your eyelashes, you amend, “It’s a meeting betwixt old coworkers.”

Aaron rises from his chair, pressing his fists against the desk opposite you and positively towering over your smaller stature. He meets your fiery gaze with equal defiance, then leans forward to press a kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Are you our resident Reid while he’s with his mom? Who says ‘betwixt’?”

“Oh, shut up, nerd,” you taunt back between kisses of your own. “You collected coins; I played Scrabble. Now get going! Can’t leave a lady waiting for the Aaron Hotchner.”

—————

But WAIT! There’s more! Said agent gets a call while they’re out for a drink and asks Aaron and the BAU for help on a new case. Naturally, you all have to fly to Seattle together…

“Mama, you know this cabin is pressurized, right?” Derek teases with a nudge of your shoulder.

You mumble back around a sip of coffee, “Yeah, so?”

“So if you glare any harder, you’re gonna burn a hole through the jet and we’re all gonna die up here.”

Emily snorts out a laugh and you steal a Cheeto from JJ’s snack (for which you’re met with a stern, “Hey!”) to throw at her. Emily collects the offensive projectile from her lap and pops it into her mouth with a ferocious chomp in your direction, receiving an, “Oh, bite me, Prentiss,” in response.

“Just find a way to slip in that you’re married,” JJ counsels, moving the bag out of your reach to avoid further retaliation.

“Or accidentally fall into his lap. Turbulence can be nasty, you know,” Emily offers as a follow up.

“Like that?” you deadpan, jutting your chin toward the scene at the back of the jet. Aaron and Agent Brandt are over by the coffee, and she’s just steadied herself using your husband’s broad shoulder.

“Or,” Derek counteroffers, tugging at the chain around your neck that holds your wedding and engagement rings while you’re out in the field, “put this rock on and go claim your man!”

“This is dumb. I’m being dumb,” you grumble, flipping open the case file and burying your head in it. “Can we get back to talking about this sociopath and not my high school-esque jealousy?”

“What’s happening? Did I miss anything?” Garcia’s blonde curls bounce up on the monitor before your group, ready for the next installment of this evidently riveting saga.

“Nothing is happening, Pen,” you respond with a sharp look her way, “and y’all need to get out more. Watch a romcom or something if you need some angst.”

“You all completely suck,” Penelope sighs dramatically. “My cup runneth empty in my lair!”

“Then go get yourself another cappuccino, baby girl,” Derek answers smoothly with that dazzling smile of his, perched on the armrest of your seat.

You feel his presence before you hear his voice, every atom in your body suddenly on high alert and keenly aware of everything that is Aaron. “Hey.”

You look up at him with an easy smile, determined to not let your unwarranted bitterness reflect on your work. “What’s up, Hotch?”

He squats down in the aisle beside you so he’s not looming over you and brushes his knuckles across your cheek in an uncharacteristically tender touch, given your current audience. “Do you have that travel bottle of Advil? Brandt may have been overzealous with the margaritas last night.”

“Yeah, it’s… in the side pocket of my bag,” you answer, brow furrowed because he tossed it in there this morning to ward off your inevitable headaches during the coming late nights.

“You’re the best, honey,” he murmurs, standing halfway to press a kiss to your forehead before returning to his full height and going off in search of the pain killer.

“‘Overzealous with the margaritas’, huh?” Emily teases, then starts singing the viral song about just how many margaritas are needed to perform certain acts that shan’t be discussed in polite company.

From across the plane, Dave glances at Aaron who’s rummaging through the overhead luggage bin, then turns his attention to you with a knowing gaze. You avert your eyes, feeling a blush creeping across your cheeks, and settle back in your seat before flipping through the case file in front of you. “So crime scene photos would suggest we’re dealing with a disorganized killer…”

—————

But WAIT! There’s even more!

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[wlw-imagines]

Behind The Curtain - Amelia Shepherd/Reader (Grey’s Anatomy)

request: Could you do a oneshot with Amelia Shepard where they both work at the hospital and are secretly dating. One day Arizona or Meredith or somebody catches them making out and then teases them about it the rest of the day. You're writing is fantastic! Thanks for reading this :) - anon

a/n: these are from my old tumblr thefandomwritings from back in 2018 ! re-vamped and re-purposed!! hope u enjoy and forgive the 2018 me style writing

Keeping your relationship with Amelia secret had been pretty easy for the two of you.

Whilst you were rarely seen venturing further than paediatrics ward, Amelia was similarly tied down to Neuro, being a neurosurgeon, and to whatever various tasks kept her occupied elsewhere in the hospital. Therefore there was never any need to cover anything up about your long-term relationship.

It had begun as a late night fling, early on in your careers at Seattle Grace - you had both finished a shift at the same time and walked into each other as you were buying a coffee.

She smiled sleepily, her eyes bleary as she gripped the coffee cup, “Y/L/N, right?”

You nodded at the correct name, and also in recognition of the woman in front of you, “Amelia.”

“Coffee? At this late hour?” She smirked, a twinkle growing in her eyes.

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, “I could say the same for you.”

Amelia shrugged and started walking at your side, “I won’t get any sleep any time soon anway, what’s your excuse?” She raised an eyebrow as the two of your left the cafeteria.

“Same.” You shrugged, before turning back to face her and fully reigstering the look in her eyes. You took a slight risk, hoping it was the correct one, “Want to come back to mine? We can talk about how shit life is and commiserate together?”

“I’m less of a talker, more of a do-er.” She caught your expression of a raised eyebrow and shook her head, “Not like that!”

“Hey, we can do whatever you want to do.” You laughed, “I can make us more coffee at home? Stronger coffee.”

“Okay. I’d like that.”

You were fortunate really because whenever you were around one another your love was probably too obvious and your relationship was something that you felt didn't need to be known by everyone yet. So, the longer it could be kept a secret, the better. There would be no complaints of favouritism in surgery and no teasing during late night shifts, it was just straight up easier.

And while normally the distance between your areas of expertise was in your favour, sometimes, on the rare occasion, the paediatrics and brain surgery teams would collaborate. It was at time like these that it was much more difficult to keep your hands off each other.

The day had started with Arizona rushing towards you, a stressed look on her face reserved for only the worst cases. "We have a nine year old girl coming in with serious unspecified head injuries. I've paged Lady Shepherd so she is on her way up, you'll be following the case with me." She rushed out, no time to pause.

"Wait, I... Lady Sheph- Amelia is being given the case?" You asked, your heart hammering slightly once you heard the name.

"She is our in-house neurosurgeon so, yes. She is. Do you have a problem with that Y/L/N?" The woman quirked an eyebrow up at you, giving you one of her looks that you could hardly ever interpret so you just stuttered away.

"N-no, not at all. That's fine, it's great. Good for her." You stumbled through some random words that didn't even really make sense in the situation before you were interrupted by your girlfriend walking through the doors.

There was just something about her in authority and her scrubs that turned you on and that was why you were better off separated. So you found yourself relatively lucky to not be included in the team that went into surgery.

You avoided the viewing platform. But even when you were stuck outside doing paperwork you still found yourself too distracted, your mind wandering off too many times, thinking of what you would do to the woman once you were in the safety of your own apartment. 

It was going to be a long day.

You had waited until the surgery was finished until you snuck into a call room. Amelia had been walking past when you attempted to (subtly) pull her into the  room with you. You immediately closed the door and pinned her up against it, making an attempt to lock the door before Amelia flipped the tables and pushed you against the wall. The look in her eyes immediately brought back memories of how your relationship had initially begun.

"What are you smiling about?" She asked, pulling back with a confused look on her face.

Leaning forward, you kissed her nose and hummed slightly, "I love you, is all." 

The smile remained on your face as you leant slowly in. Your lips connected and the kiss only became more passionate as the pent up frustration of long, hard days and not seeing each other as much as you needed to built up. You weren't even in there to hook up like you always used to, you just need to be close and be together.(Although, shirts were beginning to be unbuttoned...)

You were vaguely aware of footsteps approaching but you were too caught up with Amelia and had just assumed they had passed. That was until you heard a small gasp coming from the doorway.

Amelia and you pulled away from each other as quickly as you could, your girlfriend stumbling back and almost falling over had it not been for you grabbing her waist and wrapping your arms around her to prevent the fall.

Once she was secure you turned your head back to whoever had interrupted with a smile that was as innocent as you could make it before clearing your throat, "Arizona... Hey."

"Well, I was not expecting this...” A small grin spread across her lips and she let out a gleeful laugh, “Actually, you know what I kind of was. Y/N's been acting strange." Arizona smiled with an evil twinkle in her eye, "I can't believe you guys haven't told me!" You quickly shushed her before pulling her into the call room and closing the door behind her. "I love you guys but at least buy me dinner first..." She joked, earning a light slap on the arm from you.

"What are you doing?" You asked, running your hand through your hair and starting to fidget.

Arizona paused, "I was going to take a nap... in the call room. Because that's what-"

Your girlfriend looked at her watch and shrugged at you, "Look at the time, I've got to go." Amelia, spoke up from the corner, sliding out the door without another word.

You went to walk after her but turned to Arizona who was still standing there with a smile on her face, "You scared my girlfriend away." You pouted.

Arizona just wrapped her arms around you and rocked you side to side, "I'm so proud of you!"

"Shut up."

"But you're both so cute."

"Shut up!" You pushed her slightly, laughing.

"And you've finally found someo-"

You gave her one last look before opening the door, "Okay, I'm leaving now!" You said, walking out.

"Love you." She yelled after your disappearing body.

"Love you too." You yelled back before adding on, "And don't you dare tell anyone!”

--------------------------------

"Y/N," You jokingly rolled your eyes when confronted with Arizona leaning on the nurse desk with a big smile on her face. You prepared yourself for the teasing that was inevitably about to come and pretended to be more interested in the paperwork in front of you. The teasing over the past week had been neverending, "Listen, I know I've been making fun of you and your girlfriend all day and I just wanted to let you know that I support you 100%. I promise that I won't let anyone know of your little secret, okay?" You visibly relaxed and looked back up at her.

You smiled, putting your hand over hers, "You know, you didn't need to tell me that. I trusted you from the beginning but thank you all the same."

She nodded and went to leave before turning back to you, "By the way, I've given your girlfriend a little gift - you may want to go up and say hi. She's in the nursery."

Confused, you frowned slightly but didn't question it as you nodded and made your way to the other side of the ward, where all the newborns are kept.

You stepped in front of the window looking into the nursery and felt your heart skip a beat to see Amelia cradling one of the babies. She caught your eye and her eyes twinkled slightly as she looked down at the baby in her arms. You sighed blissfully and stepped into the room.

"Are you terrorizing the children?" You asked, looking around at the other 3 cribs, each holding a tiny, delicate baby. You stepped closer to Amelia, putting an arm around her lower back and looking down at the baby.

"They're our kids without any home, or parents." Amelia whispered, rocking the baby slightly before shifting the pink blanket to cover her head and little waving hand that had fallen out when she was trying to reach up to your girlfriend. "I kind of thought you were just going to end the sentence at, 'they're our kids' and then you would have a lot of explaining to do."

"Surprise!" She sarcastically cheered before one last rock of the baby. Between the two of you, you managed to safely get her back into her cot and tucked up in her blanket before sneaking out the door.

You both stood in each other's embrace for a while, just soaking in each other's love and company.

"Y'know, maybe it's good that people know about us - especially Arizona." You mumble, longingly staring at the bundles left in the nursery, "if it gets us perks like getting to cuddle cute babies during work then I'm so up for coming out to everyone." You joked.

Amelia just nodded, "Me too." You looked up, slightly surprised as it hadn't really been something you had discussed yet. "Hey, you want to stay at mine and get chinese tonight?"

"Do you have the house to yourself?" You asked with surprise, since these are the only times you get to stay round and even then it is like a military mission. "No, it's a full house tonight. I'm introducing you to them."

"Babe, you realise I know your friends and they know me. We're part of the same friendship group."

"I know, but I get to introduce you as my girlfriend." She grinned and began walking back down the corridor, back to work before yelling over her shoulder, "Plus I get to show them pictures of our children!"

[idkhowupdates]

dallonweekes: Yesterday I flew from SLC to Seattle, found & returned a lady’s wallet at the airport, & had dinner w four strangers who were kind enough to let me eat with them so that I could make it back to the venue in time for our set.

The show was wonderful! But what a weird day.

One week of Gloomtown Tour left!

-📷 @andymcginnis92

[ourladyofomega]

Chris Cornell (Soundgarden) and his cat.

📷: Olaf Heine

[vee-beeee]

In The Wind

HELLO

I am back! With a Connor and Nines fic! Yahoo!

This is going to be a series, so strap in ladies and gentlemen and get excited because im actually setting up a schedule to post for this!

I will post every monday, until the end of the story :D i wanted to get more consistent and now with more free time, i can do this!

Alright, lets get into the story.

You were an artist/writer living in Detroit and working as a graphic designer. One day, out for a walk with your best pup Cosmo, you run into an android. Or two. Your life is suddenly a lot more interesting, and for some reason the androids are at the center or it.

!Disclaimer! This will be a long one, so be prepared! It will include violence (not from our good boys) and some good old loving.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, violence, hank appreciation, sumo is best boy, hurt feelings, protective androids

Enjoy the story and more parts to come!

Connor and Nines x (Fem pronouns)reader

=================>

Your life had truly changed.

In the beginning, everything was pretty simple. You stayed in your apartment, did some work, went out and got grocery's, looked in alarm at the anti-android activists pushing some poor soul to the ground, and taking Cosmo for a walk!

Very simple.

Then the revolution happened. And everything you had known went out the window.

Androids came out as a race of people, and demanded rights. There were riots in the streets. You holed up in your home, watching with bated breath as the androids protested peacefully in the streets. Eventually, the two apparent leaders kissed each other and declared their feelings to the entire world. It made you sob like a baby.

This worked to stop the war, and Androids were granted certain freedoms.

But one thing hadn't changed.

The riots.

All day every day, riots from both sides would block streets. You just wanted to go to your favorite paint store and people were demanding androids be decommissioned.

On this certain day, you were out with your golden retriever Cosmo. She was the best girl, and kept you company on your lonely rainy days. You had one human best friend, but she lived all the way in Seattle. You both would call almost religiously everyday, but this had turned you into a but homebody.

You were walking in the park of Detroit, a cloudy fall day blowing gusts of cold air into your hair, whipping it into your cheek. And getting stuck in your lipstick. Great.

You were busy brushing your hair out of your face when you heard a man yelling.

You immediately stopped and looked around your face covered in hair, trying to tell where the sound was coming from. It sounded different from usual yell of protesters, and you were in a secluded area of the park you were at, meaning there weren't to many people.

Getting scared because of being surrounding by trees and unable to see your surroundings fully, you pulled out your pepper spray and grabbed on tight to Cosmos leash.

The bushes rustled, and you jumped in the direction, holding your pepper spray out and turning and closing your eyes.

You stood for a few seconds, waiting to hear the yelp of a man or something, but got no such sound.

But you heard sniffing.

Opening your eyes and looking down in confusion, you saw a huge dog sniffing Cosmos nose. The dogs snorted in happiness, and Cosmo returned the kindness by licking his ear. You saw their tails wagging, and awed in cuteness, before also noticing the big dog had a loose leash laying on the ground. You gently kneeled down to pick it up, but the dog immediately noticed.

He then pounced.

Landing on top of you, the huge Bernard send you backwards into the grass. You tensed up, but you were met with lots of kisses from the dog. You opened your eyes and giggled, dropping the pepper spray and petting the good boy. You had Cosmos leash wrapped around your wrist, and the golden came up to start licking your arm to join the fun.

You laughed in joy, loving the attention, before hearing the yelling come closer. You stopped petting the big pup and glanced around. The dog licked your arm, continuing to give you kisses, acting unconcerned at the shouts.

"SUMO" a faint voice cried, making you realize you forgot to check the dogs collar. You huffed and shuffled around the leashes to reach under the dogs scruff to see his name tag. You read the name and message under your breath

'Sumo'

'Hey dumbass, give me my dog back'

Below it, a phone number.

You chuckled at the message, before hearing another cry of the dogs name. You realized his owner might be looking for him, and decided to help out.

"Over here!" You called, realizing you were still sitting on the ground. But alas, you remembered to late, and the bushes pushed apart, revealing the literal most handsome man you had ever seen.

Your breath stopped as you stared at the mans sharp jaw and nose, before moving down to his pink lips. Your eyes darted up to his eyes, and you gasped as you saw the honey brown circles staring into yours.

He stopped momentarily, inspecting your position before hurrying over to you and the dogs. He started rambling, grabbing the dogs leash and holding his other hand out to you.

"I'm so sorry ma'am, he didn't hurt you did he?"

You stared at the guy in shock, before taking his hand quickly and standing up. You noticed he had a nice build, standing above you at a pleasant height. You stared a little longer than you should have, before clearing your throat to answer him in a small voice. You brushed your hair out of your face to make it look presentable and said simply

"No No he didn't hurt me. He actually gave me a lot of kisses."

You chuckled and rubbed your arms, eyes going wide as you felt the dog spit all over it.

Imagine how your face looked.

The man nodded, before holding his hand out stiffly. You stared at it in confusion, before realizing he was probably trying to shake hands. You dumbly wiped your palm on your patterned flower jeans and gently shook his surprisingly cold hand.

"My name is Connor, I'm.." He stopped himself, gulping before continuing "its nice to meet you miss..?" He tilted his head, smiling softly at your flustered expression.

"Miss Y/n" You said, using your first name. Connor nodded and grinned again, before you both seemingly started staring at one another, gently holding hands.

A rustle broke out from the bushes, and you jumped, dropping Connors hand, briefly seeing a sad look overcome his features.

But you were more concerned with the identical twin of him that just emerged almost silently from the trees.

"Hello" The twin said smoothly, giving you a once over, piercing you with ocean eyes.

"I see you found the animal" He nodded to Connor, who was holding a leash and looking in surprise. You looked back and forth between the two as they silently stared at each other. It was almost like they were reading each others thoughts. Could twins do that?

You wouldn't know, being an only child and all.

"The 'animal' has a name Nines" Connor responded, before turning back to you.

What kind of name was nines you wondered? That sounds like a name and androi....

Ohhhhhh

You looked between Connor and this new guy, noticing their almost perfect complexations. Connor had a beanie on, and it had shifted, confirming your suspicions.

He had an LED.

You looked away it shock, a little frightened how you didn't notice at first. Not because they were made so well, but because of how handsome both of them were.

Glancing up you noticed Connor glaring at his twin, shooting him a dirty look.

The taller android rolled his eyes before walking up to you and holding out a hand, somehow even more stiffly than Connor had done.

"I'm Nines, the newest Rk unit." He grinned slyly, before shaking your hand. His smug expression turned into a grimace when he felt slobber on your fingers, and you stood in shock as he took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his hands.

You felt slightly offended.

You brushed it off, your hands were pretty dirty with dog spit.

"I'm Y/n, nice to meet you." You nodded, smiling. You felt a tug on the leash you were holding and you looked down, seeing Cosmo and Sumo playing with each other. You giggled and watched them, before feeling eyes on you. Peering up, you noticed both android looking at you with odd expressions.

Oh well.

Connor caught your attention and smiled "What's your dogs name?" He asked softly, making you swoon.

You tried not to get carried away. He was a perfect handsome android who probably was just being nice and had a pretty android girlfriend. You cleared your throat, before putting on your best smile and responding.

"This is Cosmo, she's 3" You laughed as Cosmo put Sumo's ear in her mouth and paw at his face. Connor looked down and chuckled softly with you, but you noticed a very unimpressed harrumph come from next to you.

You glanced at the other android, and noticed him rolling his eyes at the dogs antics. He cleared his throat and you and Connor stared at him.

"As 'cute' as this was, we should get going." he said, giving you one more onceover, before turning his heel and leaving the little clearing.

You tilted your head at where he had gone, before turning to see a depressed looking Connor. The android started after his twin, before turning and winking at you.

"I sent you my contact information!" He yelled, before jogging up to Nines, Sumo barking after him. You stood in shock, the ordeal ending so quickly.

Pulling out your phone, you looked and saw that a new contact had been made, named Connor with a smiley face. A text had been sent to you, and reading it made you smile.

"Puppy play date soon! Nice to meet you :)"

You tucked your phone away, before continuing on your walk.

Not knowing that one moment would change your entire life.

To be continued....

================<

Hope you enjoyed! This was more of a meet cute, but it will pick up in the next chapters to come.

As always, thanks for reading!

[911-country-talma]

Ladies and gentleman, I present Run With Me Talma by James Crawford Talma, this song is about the trail of tears and is now playing in the top ten here in Seattle Washington! (ReverbNation). I hope to reach the hearts of many, so our forefathers will not be forgotten.

[iamthemaestro]

would you perhaps regale us with tales of your time at sea (i am so curious what reenactment is like when youre traveling on an actual historical ship)

Ah, I *wish* I could say about the reenactment part but unfortunately the Lady Washington does not do much in terms of historical interpretation anymore—they definitely used to but they've gone through a lot of major changes in the past few years and it seems that was one of them. Frankly that would have been the only thing that could have made me more excited to be there lol.

However I appreciate the chance to infodump though since my brain is still very much in Ship Mode with nothing to do with itself... not sure if I have many *tales,* per se, but I did tons of fun stuff and tried to push myself hard in terms of trying things that scared me. On my last day I went up to furl the fore t'gallant (topmost yard on the foremast) which was probably the most physically difficult thing I did during my whole stay—while the climb up the t'gallant shrouds was fairly scary it was honestly much harder to just remain upright against the yard because the footrope was so shallow. On the topyards it's quite comfortable because you can functionally "stand" upright and lean against the yard at about stomach level while you're working, but here if you tried to stand upright the yard wouldn't even come up to your hips so you have to put all this weight into your knees, sort of crouching in order to have it in a good position to lean upon. I'd like to say I got pretty decent at furling in general but man... that one was a doozy. If I had had more time to practice it maybe it would come easier, but as it was we only set the t'gallants twice while I was there anyway. I will say I was surprised at how non-panicked I felt while I was hanging out there on the shrouds waiting for a wake to pass, not clipped into anything, held there by my own strength probably 50ish feet in the air—initially one of the hardest psychological parts of going aloft was staving off the intrusive thoughts, being a person very prone to them, but by the end I was actually quite impressed with how calm I felt up there. It's the best seat in the house, after all, second only to that of the main t'gallant: at first it feels dizzingly, unfathomably high, and when you look down you have this gut instinct of fear—I don't think humans were ever meant to be this high up, frankly—but the wind is whipping past you and your crewmates are like ants on the deck below you and all around you the shore disappears into fog on the horizon, and you're here; you swallow your fear and think, despite everything, "isn't this wonderful?"

My last day was a good one; during our transit from Port Orchard to Everett, the Seattle Krackens sent a film team out and had us set every sail we physically could along with a bunch of Kracken flags for their promotional video this season—we even rigged the main royal just for fun, despite the fact that it was too late for it to be caught on camera. Though I doubt I will ever see it, hypothetically there's some awesome footage of me loosing the bunt from the fore topsail with that fantastic WHOOMF as all that canvas drops—it looks so graceful from afar but when you're up there handling all that canvas it feels powerful more than anything else, all held up by the singular little midshipman's knot you undid with one hand, clinging to the jackstay with the other and watching the sail fall from the sky below you.

That night we also had a "shanty night" which I am very glad I got to experience, given my background as a musician, and it was a great time. Unfortunately I had no way to travel with my mandolin so I was armed only with my tinwhistle, but some crew members seemed genuinely pretty impressed with my ability to pick up tunes, which, at the risk of sounding extremely pretentious (forgive me) I am accustomed to thinking of as a rather mundane thing, but it was nice to feel appreciated. One of my crewmates, very drunk at the time, told me very earnestly that my "improsov" was very good and a "skill I should cherish," and honestly I don't think I'll ever forget that—when I picked up with the verse to Spanish Ladies everyone else had forgotten he cheered obnoxiously for me and kept up a steady stream of enthusiastic interjections where he didn't know the words, and while I am not generally fond of being the center of attention, I was fond of him for that.

Over the course of the trip I was introduced to a great number of tunes I'd never heard—which is something I value deeply—most of which I probably won't remember the names of, but of those I do I am making a point to learn. I love this sort of exchange—folk music at its most authentic—especially in a place like this, late in the evening on what, by the end of my time, I had decided was the most beautiful ship in the world, where our singing and our laughter carried across the water and into the night and my heart, though saddened by the air of finality that pervaded it all, was full.

Excuse me for getting a little prosaic—it's hard to describe the feelings you experience sailing a vessel like this one, at least to me, and it's been a dream of mine for a while. I miss it already and have full intentions on returning in coming years, but for now thanks for the opportunity to talk about it lol!

[claireelle18]

Falling for You - Vince Dunn

This was originally meant to be posted during Celly’s (@cellythefloshie ) birthday celebration last year, but ya know life decided to get in my way from this project. Anyway I hope you enjoy it!

Player: Vince Dunn

Spaces: friends to lovers, jealousy, one bed, autumn birthday, fake dating (bonus - “it’s always been you” & “I will always love you”)

It all started a couple years prior, their friendship. After the Seattle Kraken acquired him, he had been dragged out to one of the local pubs for dinner and drinks. She had been sat across the room from him, hidden in her corner, a pile of papers next to her laptop. He didn’t expect it, but he decided he was in a good mood and to pay it forward in kindness that night (that Irish car bomb he took might have helped with that), by paying her tab. She smiled, cheersing him as he left. 

Weeks later he was standing in line behind a petite lady, waiting for his coffee, when the barista informed him that his order was taken care of. He just knew it was the one before him to do so, so he caught her before she left. Staring back at him was the same girl from the pub. 

That’s how their friendship started, kept running into each other and “paying it forward.” After a few more times, the two finally switched information. Once that happened, the two would just give a location for the other to pick up a coffee or food. 

He knew for months that he was falling in love with her. Tricky part was whenever one was single, the other was in a relationship. He had just ended it with sweet Grace. She encouraged him to go tell her, but that’s when a guy a few years older than him answered her door. “Uh..I’ll just catch her later,” he chirped, turning back to his car before anything else happened. Her love life was a rollercoaster, bad dates left and right, and worse guys to choose from. But he didn’t have much of a say either, as his mirrored hers. 

Like the one time she came to his place after a creep of a guy date happened. His heart broke every time she came crying into his arms, mascara staining his shirt. Curling up on his couch, occasionally in his bed, where he used to take the couch until one night she begged him to just lay there with her and both drifted to sleep as they admitted their secrets. All except the massive one.

That didn’t change anything, except the feelings he had for her became more. Which is why when she came to his door holding his favorite takeout, rocking back and forth on her feet, he knew something was up. The two could read each other like their favorite novel and know exactly the next part. “You look guilty of something,” he quipped. 

She wrung her hands and chewed on her lip. “So there’s this bit of miscommunication between me and my sister. She thinks that we’re together and her new husband surprised her with a trip out here for a week for our birthdays.” He made a nodding motion of continue. “But the miscommunication part is they want to do a double date.” She hid behind her hands. His heart started to pick up beats. 

“Did you tell them the truth?” He questioned. 

“Well I tried, but she just said she thought we were keeping it under wraps. You don’t have to do this…I can tell her the truth. It’ll be fine Vin.” She was rambling. 

“Loves. Loves. Breathe. I’ll be your fake boyfriend while she’s here.” Wide starring eyes watched him. How he smiled then yanked on her wrist to pull her into him. How she melted into him as he stroked her hair and how her small hands worked on the little knots in his back. 

Time drew closer to that double date. Her nerves didn’t go unnoticed by him, even if it was over the phone. “I should have just told her the truth. This timing is odd and I’m making you come to dinner right after that road trip.” 

“Honey, breathe. Go take a sip of water,” he said, knowing she probably hasn’t drank anything. “Don’t end up as a parched house plant.” She laughed at their inside joke, and he knew he was right. 

Vince had been on a five day road trip and would have to join them at the restaurant. She spotted him as soon as he walked into the area where their table was located. He wore his suit from last night’s game to the dinner as he had no time from the airport to dinner. He greeted her with a kiss on the temple, then turned to introduce himself to the couple across the table. 

Dinner flowed easily, where the two couples planned for dinner and a movie at Vince’s apartment. “Oh Vince I wish you’d be able to join us on our lavender trip tomorrow. I kinda feel bad for dragging my sister along while you’re at the rink.” 

“No, don’t be. I’ll see you three for dinner.” 

The trio returned to Vince’s apartment, entering upon the scene of him pouring glasses of margaritas for each of them. Evening turned into late night, and neither couple was very energetic to the idea of retiring to their own bed. “Just crash here,” she suggested to the out of town couple. “There’s plenty of space, and the couch is quite comfy. No reason to drive or even try for an Uber at this time of night.” 

He gently pulled at her arm to lead her to the bedroom. “I can sleep in the oversized chair out in the living room.” 

He protested. “No way, we’ve shared the bed plenty of times. Nothing else to it. Besides who else do you want by your side annoying you first thing on your birthday?” Her birthday being the following day. 

“Vinny,” she softly whined. He just scooped her into his arms, tossing her onto the king size bed, sending the bedding bouncing around her. He striped of his shirt, down to his boxers while she slipped her “borrowed” shirt of his over her frame. 

Morning sunlight split through his almost (because of the split) blackout curtains, which was directly hitting her face. She tried to roll over but realized she was weighted down by Vince’s arm across her waist. After minutes of shifting and trying to push said weight off of her, he pulled her closer to him in his sleep. “Lay still,” he grumbled into her hair. She huffed. “Happy Birthday Princess,” he whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. The cheesy nickname that only came out occasionally. 

“Move your arm, you suck at pulling the curtains shut,” she huffed out. He grumbled at her but shifted enough so she could turn to face the curly haired man. 

“Better?” She nodded. The day continued on. Her sister and brother-in-law had left the apartment to explore more, and Vince had the day off. 

It wasn’t until the two went out for birthday dinner to her favorite place for tacos where he actually tried to tell her. He had thought to do it so many times during the day…like over their morning pancakes and coffee as their birthday traditions required…or when he took her to her favorite shop. Her birthday he had unlimited uninterrupted chances to tell her due to neither using their phones. 

He snapped a picture of her at the restaurant and again when they got back to his place to see a large, beautiful arrangement of flowers on the counter as she sniffed them. A soft, sweet expression on her face as she looked for him. “Vinny, you really know how to treat a lady to her birthday.” 

“All the best for you.” His heart was pounding in his ears. He stepped closer to reach in for the hug she was awaiting. Wrapped in the hug, his chin resting atop her head he whispered it out. “I love you.” 

“Did you say something?” 

He repeated, this time a bit louder. “I love you too Vin.” 

“Nooo…” he groaned out. She shifted out from under him, still being held in his arms. Her face puzzled. “I mean I love you. I realized that time when we made Christmas cookies for the first time. I was afraid I’d scare you off with that so I stuck to being friends. I have and will always love you. I understand if you only see me as a friend though.” 

Her mind raced, trying to process his proclamation as quick as she could. “It’s always been you, V.” His hands moved from around her to her face, pulling her in for a gentle kiss. “I dated others because I was afraid that I’d ruin this if I told you. It was that away game where I’d blown your phone up with messages because you disappearing off the ice and not returning for a bit scared me. I needed to know you were okay, and when you called me before anyone else I knew. And again when you didn’t hesitate to help me with this week’s ordeal…it just reminded me of how it’s always been you.” 

“You’re always my first and last thought of every day.” He pulled her in for another kiss. 

“Best birthday ever,” she whispered. 

[ludi-ling]

Maison Romy

So last summer I was hanging out with @narwhallove in Seattle, and she challenged me to write something that married my love of Romy with my love of historical fashion. She seemed to be really into it, and I was like, nah, it's not possible, but then she started throwing ideas -ahemdemandsahem - at me, and somehow something took hold and started sprouting.

This is as far as I got.

Will it ever be finished? I don't know. It's such a niche interest, I might continue writing it just for me. 😉

______________________________________________________________

               Maison Hoareau was in decline.

               For more than fifty years it had dressed queens and princesses and duchesses and debutantes, and they had done so with flair and panache. Now, in 1910, they still dressed the wealthy and the famous; but their clientele had grown as old and distinguished as they had. Very rarely did a pretty and winsome young lady cross their threshold.

         ��     Across the busy New York city street that separated them was the House of Burford. The House of Burford was only five years old, and had no distinguished lineage at all; but it was there that the pretty and winsome young ladies entered, and left with dainty parcels and smiles on their faces.

               “What do they have that we do not?” Monsieur Hoareau asked from the head of his boardroom table. “We have beauty and taste and the finest fabrics from across the world; and what’s more, we have pedigree! Three generations at the forefront of fashion! How could they possibly compete?”

               There were murmurings of assent around the table.

               Remy LeBeau, however, stood at the window, and looked silently across the street to their rival.

               A pretty young redhead was alighting from a motorcar, dressed in a startingly avantgarde concoction of furs and elegantly-arranged silk drapery. A returning customer – he had seen her before. With the exuberant stride of every fashionable young woman about to shop, she stepped past the very officious doorman and into the as-yet uncharted stronghold of the House of Burford.

               “Young women do not care for pedigree,” he muttered to himself. “They only care to look beautiful, and more beautiful than anyone else around them.”

               “What do you say, LeBeau?” Monsieur Hoareau demanded waspishly. “Speak louder, man!”

               LeBeau turned away from the window.

               “I say that if we want to appeal to young women, we must move with the times.”

               He walked back over to the table, opened his portfolio, and pulled out his latest designs.

               “If we want to expand our clientele again,” he said, handing out the drawings around the table, “we need to be bold, innovative, forward-thinking. But most of all, we need to be unique.”

               There were hmm-ings and hah-ings as they took in his designs; but Monsieur Hoareau was shaking his head, saying:

               “Monsieur LeBeau, this will not do!” He looked at one drawing, then another. “No, indeed, it will not! These are… why, they are tubes! Women do not like to wear tubes! They like tiny waists! And the drape of this one is quite ugly! Women like to show how slender they are! This coat swathes the figure, and does not show it off to advantage at all!”

               LeBeau was used to this. He merely raised an eyebrow.

               “I thought it quite fetching,” he noted. “And modern.”

               Monsieur Hoareau drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly.

               “Monsieur LeBeau,” he began testily, “can you imagine Lady Carruthers wearing such a garment? Or our dear First Lady?”

               LeBeau said nothing. Far better to say nothing, than to confess he could not.

               “Of course, our most esteemed clientele could not bear to be seen in such clothing,” M. Hoareau declared as if to put an end to the matter. “We would lose their custom, and that would be insupportable to Le Maison Hoareau! And so, Monsieur LeBeau, you will go back to the drawing board, and re-design these veritable monstrosities!”

               LeBeau did as he was told, picked up the drawings, and walked back to his studio.

               He sat at his desk, and laid out his designs. He stared at them a very long time.

               Monsieur Hoareau, you see, was a businessman, and not a fashion designer.

               Unlike his father and grandfather before him, he had no interest in the creative aspects of Maison Hoareau. He left that to LeBeau; and LeBeau had willingly and enthusiastically taken on the thankless task of being the creative lead of the world’s foremost fashion house. Thankless, as Monsieur Hoareau the Third had made it his life’s work to thwart every idea LeBeau had to turn the waning fortunes of his employer. Indeed, some of his best work had seen rejection after rejection. Today was no exception.

               With a sigh, he ripped up his designs, one by one, screwed them up into a ball, and pitched them into the nearby wastepaper basket.

               He lounged in his swing chair for a bit and stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the graceful Victorian plasterwork, intricate whorls and loops that were now thoroughly out of fashion.

               An idea was forming in his head.

               He got up and walked over to the window.

               Across the road he saw the pretty redhead leaving the House of Burford, a pile of parcels precariously positioned in the arms of her driver, a broad smile on her pink lips. This was rarely a scene one saw at the Maison Hoareau.

               What was their secret, he wondered? What was their magic? It had scarcely been a year since the House of Burford had set up shop across the way, yet the beached whale called Mr. Burford (which was what M. Hoareau insisted on calling him) had managed to exert some sort of magnetic pull on any young woman worth her salt throughout the neighbourhood. And, LeBeau thought with a lop-sided grimace, Mr. Burford was as much a businessman as his dear M. Hoareau was. There was not a creative bone in the man’s body, none at all.

               He was out on the steps now, waving off his latest customer with an avuncular officiousness.

               No – there was certainly no mysterious magic about Mr. Burford. Whatever the source of his house’s mystique, it did not lie in him.

               A little smile crossed LeBeau’s face.

               He walked back to his chair and began to grin.

               Yes.

               A little idea was forming in his head.

-oOo-

               Sometime over the past hundred years or so men’s fashion had become dull, almost utilitarian. Rich fabrics, scintillating colours, and any flamboyance of form, had died under the mighty shadow Beau Brummel had cast. Taste could no longer compel a man to wear frills or ruffles, nor any shade of pink.

               No – female dress had continued to hold the torch of glorious ostentation. Sometimes it seemed that no outrageous look was off limits – from crinolines to bustles, from panniers to the now thoroughly modish hobble skirt – women could indulge without abandon, and men like LeBeau were quite happy to do the service of indulging. Others, like M. Hoareau and his rival, Mr. Burford, were quite happy to make money out of said impulse to indulge. Women played; and men felt fortunate to referee. They could admire, but never wear.

               They were not, however, immune to the desire to look good; and Remy LeBeau was no exception. Unlike most, he had the power to design and tailor his own personal clothing to best effect, and he did not skimp on this fact. Of course, Mr. LeBeau had been known to turn a head or two in his time.

               The motorcar stopped outside Maison Hoareau; and LeBeau, dressed in his sharp grey suit and double-breasted overcoat, clattered down the front steps to meet its occupant. Out stepped a beautiful blonde wearing a vertically striped hobble skirt, and an impossibly wide-brimmed hat festooned with feathers. She, of course, did not shop at Maison Hoareau.

               “Monsieur LeBeau,” she greeted him as he greeted her – with a kiss; one planted, featherlight, on each cheek.

               “Mam’selle Boudreaux,” he replied, with a sparkle in his eye. He offered her his arm and she took it.

               “I got your call. You said you wanted my acting skills,” she said in French, as the car pulled away.

               “That I do,” he responded, also in French, “but only if you don’t mind a little improvisation.”

               Contrary to expectation, he was leading her away from the building, and towards the street. She stopped before they could cross.

               “Well, you do know how I like to hone my skills, mon cher,” she replied, “but you must at least give me something to work with.”

               “Oh, well, that is quite easy,” he smiled complacently. “You are my wife; and I am buying you a suitable gift.”

               He cast his eye at the House of Burford across the road; and, following his gaze, she instantly got an idea of what he had in mind.

               “Monsieur LeBeau, am I to be an accomplice in your corporate espionage?”

               “Ma chere,” he answered breezily, “scruples are not quite your style.”

               “No indeed!” she half-laughed. “But I thought this kind of perfidy rather below you!”

               “Mam’selle,” he said, serious now, “will you play at being my wife? You almost were once, if you remember.”

               “Good grief!” She pushed him slightly away with affectionate ire. “You only say such things because you know I hate arranged marriages as much as you do! Otherwise, your words would have severely wounded me.”

               “Ma chere, Belle,” he murmured gallantly. “You were always my friend before all else. If it doesn’t pain you to pretend at something we almost were, please would you humour me, at least for the hour?”

               She scoffed and pushed him away again – but she was fonder of him than she was bitter at the impromptu dissolution of their betrothal – and so she said:

               “Well, all right. But only for the hour!”

               It was half-past five, and far too late for any shop to be anything but closed; but Mr. Burford could hardly ignore a visit from the beautiful and freshly-feted young actress named Belladonna Boudreaux. The portly fashion designer was thrilled to have such an eminent guest enter his establishment, and took every pain to be exuberantly officious.

               “This is quite the surprise!” he greeted them in the hallway. “If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged a private viewing for you, Mademoiselle Boudreaux. Alas, all but myself and a few of my staff have already gone home for the day.”

               “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burford,” she waved him off imperiously. “I had only just heard of your glittering reputation from a friend of mine, and I was curious to see for myself what all the fuss is about. But no matter – I can come again another day.”

               LeBeau knew what working with Maison Hoareau had long taught him, and that was that a customer in your doors during inconvenient hours was better than a customer who might never come back – especially one as eminent as a newly-famous actress. It was generally advisable that a man in the business of fashion kept a lady preoccupied with silks and satins and velvets for as long as it took for their spell to be cast upon her, if at all possible.

               “Oh no, no, no,” Mr. Burford insisted firmly. “It is no trouble to give you a quick little tour of our workrooms, Mademoiselle! Your friend is quite in the right – and I would be honoured to prove it to you, if I may. Perhaps there is a bolt of fabric, a fragment of lace, a pretty button that you might fancy for your next ensemble?”

               Belle pretended to think about it a moment.

               “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. We do have an hour before we must arrive at the Goodwin’s; and it would never do to be on time anyhow!” She tugged at LeBeau’s arm. “Come, dearest, let us see whether Mercy is right!”

               For the first time Mr. Burford cast Remy a look – the kind of bemused yet comradely look only a man can pass to another man in the presence of a powerful woman. LeBeau smiled back, faintly, pleased that his former-fiancée’s force of character had bypassed any need for introduction on his part.

               He let himself be led hither and thither throughout the building’s salons, where this or that garment, or bolt of fabric, had been left out for previous clients, and were in the process of being packed away. Where Maison Hoareau’s interior decorations were staid and sedate and imminently dignified, the House of Burford’s were light and fresh and bright – and mirrors were everywhere, mirrors that women of a certain age preferred not to see.

               As for Mr. Burford – well, he was impressive, though not out of the common way for a businessman. The more LeBeau listened to him, the more he felt certain that this was not a man of great creative taste or impulses.

               He picked up a piece of finely-wrought lace from a side table and examined it for a moment or two. Fine work, indeed! Fastidious in execution, if not at all in style. He put it back where he had found it, and noticed that Belle and Mr. Burford had moved on to the next room without him, their animated conversation already trailing behind them.

               Taking this as his cue, LeBeau turned and went back into the hallway. From experience he knew exactly where the workrooms were likely to be, and that was where he went.

               The embroiderer’s workroom was quiet, empty apart from the glow of a single electric light. LeBeau stepped up between the frames, peering down now and then to see what was being worked on. There were no floral sprays or pretty little bows. Arabesque spirals and orientalist clouds unfolded across the fabric with seemingly effortless grace. Here was a little Hokusai; and here a little Greek Geometric; and there a little Alhambra.

               His innate eye for beauty could only appreciate such artistry.

               He turned when he reached the end of the row; and that was when he saw her.

               She was sitting quietly in a corner, engrossed in her embroidery; and as soon as he had become aware of her presence, it seemed that she had become aware of his; and both started and stared, one at the other.

               “Apologies, mam’selle,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were here.”

               Her eyes were green. They were greener than any woman’s he’d yet seen, than any emerald he’d had the pleasure of handling.

               “No offence taken, sir,” she replied, after a moment. Her accent was at some intersection between New York and the deep South. She dipped her head and turned back to her work.

               He’d often done this – wandered through the workrooms, watching the girls go about the business of bringing his creations to life. It was this force of routine that allowed him to walk so freely to her side, to look over her shoulder to see what she was doing.

               He was unconsciously certain this was a position she had encountered a thousand times before in her daily life; so he was a little surprised when she stiffened slightly, as if acutely aware of his proximity to her, and her to him. Defensiveness oozed from her pores.

               He stared at her a moment, then at her work. She was putting the finishing touches to a cascading border of peacock feathers, her fingers moving deftly back and forth, leaving sparkling gold flourishes in their wake. Her movements held an almost careless rhythm that belied the talent inherent in them.

               “That is very fine work,” he praised her, pitching his tone low and inoffensive, knowing instinctively that she would not tolerate anything more enthusiastic.

               “Thank you,” she said. The words were standoffish.

               She would offer nothing more; and so, he turned away.

               He stopped.

               He was standing before a dress form, on which was mounted a nearly-finished evening dress. Almost translucent white silk shimmered under the lamplight, shot through with tiny beads of teal and turquoise and gold which, by some almost magical sleight of hand, had come together to coalesce into peacock feathers. He held his breath a little at the mastery of it; and he knew this was the work of the little seamstress behind him.

               “Do you like it?” he heard her ask behind him.

               He turned and saw her swivelled in her chair to face him, her fingers now still in her lap.

               “This is all your work?” he asked her, pointing to the embroidery.

               She nodded.

               “Yes, sir.”  

               He looked back at her work, then at her.

               “It’s some of the best work I’ve ever seen.”

               It was no lie.

               The girl gave a modest though pleased little smile. She had the complexion of a redhead, with pale skin and a sprinkling of very unfashionable freckles; and of course, there were those brilliant green eyes of hers. But she was a brunette, her long, wavy locks tied up in a silk kerchief that was chicer than her simple white shirtwaist and plaid skirt implied.  A single lock of pure white hair had come free of the kerchief and had fallen to her shoulder.

               “I didn’t do it all myself,” she admitted, her smile becoming a little more genuine. She picked up the piece she had been working on, and stood. When she moved to join him at the dress form, he was surprised to see that what he had first thought she was wearing was a skirt was actually trousers.

               “This section is for the sleeves,” she explained to him. “Here.” She held up the piece of embroidery to the appropriate place. “I wanted to have it done for tomorrow – it was so close to being finished.”

               She admired her handiwork for a moment, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

               “The cut is very simple,” he noted, half to himself. The waistline was high, and the lines were almost Grecian. He was used to nipped-in waists and structured bodices, the kind of look that was Maison Hoareau’s bread and butter.

               She looked at him a moment, perhaps surprised that a man should know anything about the cut of a woman’s dress.           

               “Yes,” she said at last. “Very simple. And liberating.”

               “Such a cut promotes freedom of movement,” he agreed.

               “And no need for a corset,” she finished. She smiled a little slyly at him. “Do you generally approve of the woman’s right to free and untrammelled movement, sir?”

               There was something a little impish in the question, something that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of encountering from a woman so below his current social standing. He smiled.

               “Miss, I have a keen eye for things of beauty. If free and untrammelled movement can promote beauty, I can only approve of it.”

               She screwed up her freckled nose, half-amused, half-offended.

               “That is a thought only a man could express!” she declared in a strange blend of Southern and New York. He laughed.

               “Alas! I am but a man. But if you will permit me, Miss? This piece you have embroidered for the sleeves? I think it would also do very well here – coming up from the skirt’s hem, up towards the waist, to draw one’s attention back up the dress.”

               She looked startled at the suggestion, and he realised, stupidly, how much he had given away. He cleared his throat added.

               “But of course, Mr. Burford would not agree to having his design altered, especially not at the suggestion of a stranger whose only qualification is as a connoisseur of beauty.”

               He did not know what she would have said, for at that very moment they were interrupted by Belle and Mr. Burford stepping into the room.

               “There you are, darling,” Belle declared in that flippant way she did so well. “Mr. Burford was worried you’d gotten lost!”

               Burford looked none too pleased that one of his private workshops had been invaded. With an eagle eye he glanced over the place, as if to make certain that nothing was stolen or had been left out of place.

               “My apologies,” LeBeau said with a polite smile. “I became distracted and lost you. I found myself here somehow.” He turned a little, intending to indicate that he had been left in the capable hands of Burford’s seamstress; but she had gone back to her table, and was once again busying herself with her work as if nothing had happened.

               “I am afraid,” Burford was saying in a rather harassed tone, “that it is getting rather late Miss. Boudreaux. My staff should really be leaving. Perhaps, with all the little samples I have given you, you will be tempted to return in the coming days?”

               “But of course,” Belle was all smiles. “Perhaps at the end of the week, when I am not engaged.”

               LeBeau knew when to retreat. He let Belle do the business of thanking their host, and of taking their leave; and when he looked back at the seamstress, he saw her eyeing his beautiful companion out of the corner of her eye; though her fingers were busily working as she did so.

[tlouconfidential]

people have got to stop crying about "not treating ellie/abby like the WOMEN they are!!"- do you all realize that butches/stone butches do exist?? that stone tops exist??? that lesbians who use he/him pronouns and masculine terms like "husband" or "boyfriend" exist??? and thats perfectly okay??? and also that doesnt mean they are men??? yes its an issue when those things are projected onto people without their consent and say-so, but the keyword there is people. abby and ellie are fictional characters, therefore just about everything about them that isnt canon is up to interpretation. i literally saw a post headcanoning abby as nonbinary (i believe thats what the post said, i forgot) because of the whole "you said ladies first" interaction with manny is seattle day 1. COOL

i think we as sapphics are kindve losing the plot when it comes to gender expression and identity- letting masc sapphics not be boxed into the whole masculine image is great, because no gender expression should feel like a box- but in doing so, some of yall are inadvertently boxing presentation back in lmao. saying things like "shes a woman, so she should be called pretty! if youre calling a woman handsome, youre treating her like a man!" is not all that productive as you may think it is (not only that but it sounds a little terfy, just saying)

why? because psa: no sapphic identifying person can ever have proximity to a cis man (bc thats who you all are referring to when you say that) sapphic masculinity ≠ masculinity performed by cishet men- and that is the reason. our masculinity is not a performance we are pressured to keep up- its a sense of self, it makes us feel comfortable; if anything we are socially pressured outve it

(sidenote where is this sentiment with abby and ellie even coming from???💀 no one ever claimed them to be stone tops, theres just a lot of fics with them topping the reader cs a lotve ppl want to be topped and or dommed by them??? (hashtag relatable??) and sometimes those fics arent all that well written so the character feels flat?? that doesnt mean theyre being “treated like a man”- there are many fics where either of them are subbing or bottoming (tbh i cant rlly speak for ellie fics cs i dont dabble in them much, im an abby girl🤞) on top of that, there are many posts delving into their characters!! into their EMOTIONS (gasp ! i thought people who "treat masc women like men" didnt do that)

sorry for the yapathon but um moral of the story guys!! masculinity isnt owned by cis men, let abby and ellie be headcanoned as handsome boyfriend husbands or something cs its not like they came outve your screen and told you "save me from these FREAKS who keep calling me HANDSOME on tumblr dot com!! i want to be treated like a pretty princess"

.

[wosoimagines]

Touché - Rose Lavelle/Reader

prompt: based off an incorrect quote from @incorrectnwsl ; Find the quote here.

warnings: none

words: 455

Sorry that this took me longer to get to than I thought. My brother decided that since I graduated college that I must know how to identify parts of a sentence even though I do not and we had to use google to figure it out.

(Y/N) POV

I was laying on the couch as I watched the game on the tv. I hadn’t been too surprised when Wilma made herself at home on top of my legs. I had grinned and reached down to scratch behind her ears. 

I knew that dating Rose meant that Wilma came with her. And I can’t say that I hated it. Wilma was honestly great. Maybe even better than Rose.

The most surprising thing was that Rose had yet to join me. I thought she would have joined me for the game already, especially since Wilma had joined me.

“Hey, girl,” I said softly. Wilma lifted her head up to look up at me. “Where’s Rosie?”

Wilma only stared back at me. I shrugged and sent her a small shrug. I knew that Rose would show up eventually. I just wasn’t sure when that would be.

It was nice just hanging out with Wilma as we watched the game. 

“There you two are.”

Wilma and I both raised our heads in almost perfect sync as we looked up at Rose who was standing at the end of the couch. 

“Hey, I was wondering where you’ve been,” I said as I grinned at her. I motioned to the tv. “The game started a little while ago.”

“Sonny called. She wanted to tell me the news first.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. If there was news involving Sonny then she either did something stupid and got hurt or something good happened. There really was no telling with her.

“So, what’s up with Sonny?” I asked.

“She got traded to Seattle.”

I groaned at that. It wouldn’t bode well at all for us in Los Angeles.

“Better backline, baby.”

“That’s not fair! God, I hope Christen makes it back to the pitch soon.”

“In your dreams.”

I rolled my eyes at her as she pressed a kiss to my forehead and mumbled that she’d be right back.

Imagine my surprise when Rose finally came back with her hair pulled back, an oversized blazer on (let’s be honest, it was probably one of mine), and a hairbrush that she was holding onto as if it was a microphone.

“Ma’am,” Rose said, completely serious as she walked toward Wilma, “it has been reported you are, in fact, a good girl. Do you care to comment?”

I looked down at Wilma as she gave out a low woof.

“Riveting,” Rose said, still completely serious.

“Am I interrupting something?” Janet, Rose’s mom, asked as she came into the living room.

“Just Rose acting like a crazy lady.”

I chuckled at the slap that connected to my shoulder.

“Isn’t she always like this?”

“Well, she is your daughter.”

“And she’s your girlfriend.”

“Touché.”