#finely woven material

[feralchaton]

[onegirlatelier]

April, 2024 | Shetland lace shawl

Hi there! It’s been a while. I’ve been kept busy by all my university work…and this shawl.

The shawl is knitted to celebrate the wedding of my friend (now friends, I should say). A wedding is really the perfect excuse for all the heritage crafts and heirloom projects that might seem too serious to gift in other occasions. I did ask the recipient beforehand if she would like it, though, and I was so, so honoured that I got an enthusiastic ‘yes’. I’m sure this sentiment is shared by many makers, whatever gift they are making.

Shetland fine openwork, a knitted lace, seems to have emerged with the beginning of the reign of Queen Victoria, who championed and popularised the craft. It was probably spread from the Isle of Unst to other parts of Shetland. What surprised me the most when I first read about it was that Shetland shawls and other lace pieces were largely exported as luxury items and rarely worn by islanders themselves. Women bought yarn from spinners and knitted mostly in their homes. They then took them to local merchants and exchange the finished objects for goods or (commonly after the 1880s) money to supplement the household income. The ‘supplement’ nature of this work probably means it was not compensated as much as a job outside the home would be for the same hours and skills. Besides, it was not always easy to spin an even 1-ply yarn at 1600 metres per 100 grams. For a piece of knitting with a large ‘plain’ area (i.e. only knit stitches), the unevenness was impossible to hide but could only be discovered after the area was worked. Then the maker had to either frog (unravel) the area or continue with the risk of the whole piece not being able to sell.

Whilst it is very reasonable to point out that Shetland ladies did not usually wear this type of lace (I’ve been to the Scottish Highlands once, in summer, and it was not fine lace weather), I imagine that at least for some, it wasn’t just about making money. Some sort of fulfilment must have been from the satisfaction of having a piece ‘properly done’ by continuing and adapting a traditional pattern, technique or material. I think this sort of satisfaction is also why many modern knitters are willing to spend hundreds of hours on lacework.

Intricate handknitted lace items can still be bought today (a quick search on Etsy would show many are form eastern European countries with a long and prominent craft tradition), but many are knitted for friends or family members. It always makes me so happy to see people share the gifts they have made, whether big or small, simple or complex. I joke with my online craft friends that no handmade fibre project can claim to be so unless they have a hair or two woven into it. It is the proof of existence for the maker, who tries to go against the irregular nature of handicrafts and, at the same time, accepts it. It is about wrapping up hours, weeks or months in one’s life, along with the songs they have listened to and the perfume they have worn and the memories they have made, and putting it squarely in someone else’s hands and saying: ‘All this, for you.’

A Wedding Shawl

I have not read anything about there being a standard form of ‘wedding shawl’ in the Shetland tradition. However, there is definitely a category of square shawls with similar sizes and a few construction methods. The samples I’ve seen mostly measure 1.5-2m on one side and have three parts: a central panel, four borders and a strip of edging. It is worked flat in garter lace from centre out.

Neither is there a standardised yarn weight. A widely available yarn is the Shetland Supreme Lace Weight 1-ply by Jamieson and Smith, which weighs at 400m/25g. The Queen Ring Shawl examined by Sharon Miller used a yarn at 700m/25g. From my experience, if you want the shawl to be a true ring shawl (i.e. you want to be able to pull the shawl through a ring) at the size of the Queen Ring Shawl (210cm on the side), go for 700m/25g or finer.

I chose a rectangular shawl because I had very limited time, but I did enlarge it because for me, an abundance of fabric does mean an abundance of cozy happiness.

Pattern

Shell Grid and Spider Webs Puzzle, pattern No.19 in the book Shetland Knitting Lace by Toshiyuki Shimada.

The names of the motifs are confusing. One motif (or two highly similar motifs) might just have two different names if they are produced in two different regions. Names do not mean everything, but I’ve had fun trying to match the motifs with names according to this article by Carol Christiansen at the Shetland Museum.

The double yarnovers (YO's) in the diamonds were called Cat's Eye, but perhaps the 'Spider Web' in the pattern name is referring to the three rows of double YO's in the centre panel. It has a really simple but effective edging.

Yarn

Mermaid Lace, in colourway #naturel, sold by Great British Wool in the Netherlands. This yarn is 75% merino and 25% sea algae silk. ‘Sea algae silk’ seems to be a semi-synthetic plant fibre like viscose, with algae involved as part of the raw material. (At this price point I don’t think it has anything to do with sea silk, which is fibre produced by actual shells.) The brand name for the most popular product of its type is probably Seacell.

I bought the yarn, because I had never worked with this fibre before and was curious. What I like: it was a little cheaper than a wool/silk blend and has blocked very well. The whole skein was continuous so I didn’t have to deal with a single yarn joint. What I do not like: it lacks the sheen and smoothness of real silk and doesn’t feel as strong, although it doesn’t shed. In conclusion, I’d rather use a traditional Shetland 1-ply or another natural fibre yarn.

It's also worth mentioning that whilst I prefer to support small businesses, it was disappointing to have received a 93-gram skein when I had ordered 100 grams. It was one of those days between Christmas and the New Year and I somehow did not contact the customer service, but I really should have.

Needle

2.5mm 80cm circular needles. See modification below.

Modification

This Japanese knitting book follows Japanese sizing for knitting needles. The suggested size was no. 1=2.4mm. I figured that I could use a 2.5mm since I knitted on the tighter side, and in any case it was probably okay to make the lacework a little more open by going up a needle size.

I am not going to give out the pattern, but it is probably necessary to explain the structure of this shawl. The centre is knitted first, and then an edging is knitted onto it by picking up either live stitches or the vertical edge of the centre as you go (see schematic below). The four ‘corners’ of the edging have short-row shaping to help it lay flat. I know that traditionally people can achieve this by other methods, but I haven’t tried any of those yet.

I enlarged the pattern by increasing both the width and the length. I casted on 133 stitches instead of 101 for the centre panel and knitted Part B 8.5 times instead of 5.5. The spider web pattern in Part B requires the stitch count to be (something dividable by four) plus two, so I made one central increase before the spider web to get 134 and a central decrease after it to get it back to 133. Due to the openness of the lace, the change of one stitch is not visible.

The enlargement meant I had to recalculate the edging as well, because the number of stitches available for pick-up changed. Originally, at each corner you do two repeats with four short-row shaping each. I did 1.5 repeats following the original placement of short-row shaping in order to make the total number of repeats fit the number of edge stitches on the centre panel.

The pattern says to Kitchener-stitch the last row of the edging to the provisional cast-on. It just didn’t make sense because that would be two rows too much (the Kitchener stitch row plus the provisional cast-on row). To make the number perfectly fit, I knitted only ten rows of the last repeat (there were usually twelve in each repeat). Then I Kitchener-stitched the end to the provisional cast-on, following the lace pattern. I am quite proud of this solution because it is completely invisible.

Somewhere in the pattern it said to purl (looking from the right side). It seemed strange because the rest of the lace was entirely garter. I knitted those stitches and so far I haven’t sensed a ‘mistake’.

The pattern originally calls for 45 grams of yarn. I estimated (based on the increase of stitches in the centre panel) to need about 80 grams. I ended up using 86 grams. Besides the inaccuracies in my estimation, it was probably also because I knitted much more loosely than expected as it was difficult to tension the yarn tightly at such a weight. Like I've point out in the Yarn section above, I was lucky not to have needed more than 93 grams.

The original finished size is 53*118cm. I ended up with approximately 70*170cm.

Conclusion

This shawl took about three months of my craft time i.e. one full day every week for three months and many mornings before I had to leave for university. Knitting outside my room just didn’t work because I was a) engaged in some other activities that made it difficult to steady my hands, and b) worried about putting a white shawl on any public surface.

The pattern itself is relatively straightforward. The first difficulty was, of course, to understand the instruction written in Japanese. Google translate was horrible so I had to rely on my knitting experience. Fortunately, much of the text description was also found in graphs and charts. Then I had to get my hands used to the tiny yarn. After that, it was only fiddly when I did the edging, because I had to turn about every twelve stitches, and by that time I was handling a giant cloud of stitches on my lap. It did give me a lot of time to go over my favourite documentaries and films, and the last bit of edging was surprisingly quick!

Traditionally, Shetland shawls could be sent back to the maker for maintenance. I think it only fair for me to offer that too because I don’t want a gift to become a trouble (same as how you do not use non-machine-washable yarn for baby knits).

In general, I am very pleased with this shawl. It does pass the ring test, despite not being a traditional wedding shawl size or thickness. I do have a whole lot of actual Shetland 1-ply in my stash, so I am really looking forward to taking my Queen Ring Shawl project out of hibernation in the near future.

Reference list for Introduction

Christiansen, Carol. Shetland fine lace knitting: Recreating patterns from the past. Marlborough: Crowood, 2024.

Mann, Joanna. 'Knitting the Archive: Shetland Lace and Ecologies of Skilled Practice'. Cultural Geographies 25, no. 1 (January 28, 2017): 91–106. https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474016688911.

[intergalacticfop]

Minoan Kilt

The large, structural skirt worn by Minoan women in art is instantly recognizable, and when I made my own I combined current best guesses with my own personal tastes.

My kilt shape follows the hypothesis laid out by Bernice Jones in her book Ariadne's Threads: The Construction and Significance of Clothes in the Aegean Bronze Age. She describes the shape of that of a labrys, a double-headed axe with apparent ceremonial significance in Ancient Minoan culture. This garment may be depicted in Linear-B logogram *166 + we, we-being the backwards-s-shaped squiggle in the center which identifies the piece as a garment.

See pages 336 and 341 in Marie-Louise B. Nosch, The Textile Logograms in the Linear B Tablets

Actual details on construction and materials below the cut:

Construction:

The top and bottom edges of the kilt are concave, so the sides are longer than the middle. This gives the chevron-shape seen on layered kilts in art. In addition, the curved top half makes the skirt flare out, accommodating the hips and giving more freedom of movement to the legs. My kilt measured from my waist to my anklebone at the longest point, and about 1.5 times around my waist.

I chose to make a flounced kilt, with smaller strips of fabric and trim applied to a large base piece, rather than a tiered kilt, in which multiple kilt shapes of varying length are layered one on top of the other, so you end up wrangling 3 layers of fabric around the waist. The flounced kilt saves fabric and gives you a lot more freedom with whatever trim you might want. Jones' diagram for a flounced kilt is seen below:

Unlike the version in the diagram above, I chose not to attach ties to the garment itself both because the linen I used was very heavy and I was concerned about weight, and also because folding the skirt and securing it with a separate tie worked just fine for my tastes. In total I had four flounces: 2 alternating rows each of fabric and fringe.

The vertical edges of most kilts are left plain, probably representing either the selvage or an edge otherwise finished off to prevent fraying. For my kilt, however, I ended up with a couple inches of self-fringe on either side as I adjusted the fabric to the correct width. At least three examples of kilts with fringed vertical edges are known, all three from the so-called "House of the Ladies" in Akrotiri

Photos from Wikimedia Commons. Image 1. Image 2.

The vertical edges of these kilts are reinforced with a colored band or tape, probably to keep the garment from unintentional further fraying. Accordingly, I did the same on my kilt. I also like that it gave a nice vertical diagonal to counterbalance the horizontal ones.

Materials

I tried to use mainly linen and wool, the fibers most available on Ancient Crete, but some of my trim was cotton because sometimes you just have to use what's cheap and available in the today times.

The base of my kilt is a heavy, patterned linen in what's called a diaper weave, meaning that a repeating diamond pattern is woven into the pattern itself. A lot of the Minoan textiles depicted in frescoes are characterized by repeating geometric patterns, likely woven into the fabric itself, and that was something I wanted to capture in my own piece. My linen is woven with both cream and natural colored threads. The heavy weight is important to give structure to the garment--otherwise it would be kind of limp. My linen was from Burnley & Trowbridge (shameless plug), as was the plain cotton twill tape I used to bind the top and bottom edges of the kilt, and the dark red wool twill tape I used along the vertical edges.

I bought my cotton fringe from a rug supply store. I had to search a while to find a fringe that would work for me, and I ultimately chose fringes with a woven header rather than the more common knotted one, so that it would lay flat against the kilt. I hid the woven header under a layer of cotton fringed trim from Michaels (yes, Michaels) with this really great diamond and dots pattern woven in black.

The blue layers are from a bolt of vintage wool Kimono fabric. Blue appears frequently in frescoes, likely achieved with indigo or woad dye, or even murex/mollusk dye. The fabric is printed with an imitation ikat pattern of diamonds and squares that made me think "the vibes seem right!" because quite frankly, you aren't going to get "historically accurate" Minoan textiles (which there probably isn't enough archaeological evidence to definitively describe) without, like, hand-weaving it yourself or paying someone hundreds of dollars to do it for you (and that price is if the weaver really likes you). Neither of which appealed to my desire to just make a fun, low stress project. Good enough is good enough.

The narrow trim on the bottom of the blue flounces is vintage cotton/poly woven trim. This trim, while narrow, was quite thick and stiff, which was great because it added more weight and structure to the end of my flounces since the wool fabric itself was quite thin.

The top layer is a custom tablet-woven wool trim that I commissioned from MAHTAVAhandicraft on Etsy. I imagined this as the "centerpiece" of my kilt, and I'd arrange everything to complement it.

It's a kivrim pattern, which has itself only been traced to 19th-century Anatolia, but I didn't care. The way it looks like waves reminded me of how central the sea was to life in the Ancient Aegean and Mediterranean and it captured the idea and aesthetic I was pursuing. I mean, doesn't it remind you of these dolphins?

(I like the dolphins)

The whole thing was machine sewn with the exception of hemming and adding trim to the blue flounces. If you were to look at it from the back, you'd see lots of zigzag stitches, because i wanted to be fast! and have fun! not chase some unreachable ideal of "accurate."

As for wearing it, I chose to wear it with the top part folded/rolled down over a belt, so I have a thick tube of fabric around my waist. Many images, like the frescoes above of women with fringed kilts, appear to just show the kilt being tied closed. Other images are so fragmented or stylized that it's unclear what kind of skirt closure was used. Sculptures and figurines definitely show some kind of SOMETHING around the waist, whether this is folded fabric or a kind of belt is unclear. Different art could show different things!

I think I see evidence of a continuous line from the skirt to the waist-roll on the figure on the left, found in Troas, which I think indicates some kind of skirt-folding situation. The woman on the right, found in Crete, looks more like she's wearing some kind of long coiled belt, or perhaps snakes. Who knows? I don't! For my own part, I found the combination of rolled waist + tie belt the most secure for doing things like kneeling, stomping around, and wading into rivers to rescue bees. I also liked that it gave me the bulk around the hips that gives Minoan figurines such a powerful silhouette, and proportionally gives more of an hourglass shape. If you wanted to do something more firmly grounded in the sources, stick just with the waist tie or belt, wrapped around a couple times and tied in back. If you want to be like me, just say "well we don't KNOW it didn't happen" and just do whatever you want. Have fun! Whatever happens, it should be fairly easy to move around in the kilt--this is not a restrictive garment, just a heavy one.

[spider-stark]

THE CONQUEROR'S CROWN

Aegon II Targaryen x Niece!Reader

Summary - After being captured by a member of the Kingsguard on your way to Winterfell, Aegon calls for you in the throne room.

Warnings - light smut, oral, kidnapping, blades/blood, possible hematolagnia, eludes disappointed mom!rhaenyra (absolutely no bashing tho), and obvious incest

Word Count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

His tongue traces the subtle curve of his bottom lip, his lilac eyes watching carefully as you waltz into the throne room, escorted by Ser Willis to the base of the Iron Throne. With a slight nod of his head, he dismisses Ser Willis, leaving you to stand alone as the Kingsguard takes his leave. 

You have stood in this very room more times than you could possibly count. Your childhood was spent chasing your brothers around the large stone pillars, studying the intricate weaving of the tapestries adorning the wall, and sitting upon your grandsire’s lap atop the Iron Throne.  

You were born to stand within this room, born to sit the throne standing before you now. If you focused, you almost swore that you could hear your grandsire’s voice whispering in your ear, bouncing you on his leg as he vowed—someday, my sweet little dragon, all of this will be yours.  

But, before it could become yours, it would first belong to your mother—the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.  

And before it could be hers, you would have to kill the cunt that had stolen it out from under her.  

You make a show of leaning into a melodramatic curtsy, playing up the role of his complaisant prisoner, “Your grace,” you practically snarl up at him, a silent challenge gleaming in your narrowed gaze.  

Aegon sucks in a breath before hesitantly lifting his arms, gesturing to himself, “What do you think?” It was not the voice of a king that pierced your ears, but the voice of the same scared little boy you have always known—the one you have always loved.  

A thousand jagged, twisted blades glimmer in the dim candlelight, all of them forged together to create the infamous throne that had started this godsforsaken war. Your throne, your mother’s throne—a throne that he now sat upon.  

While there was no doubt that Aegon lacked the proper cadence, it was undeniable that he looked every bit like the king he pretended to be. Dressed in his finest clothing, woven from a deep-green material so dark that it nearly appeared as black at first glance. A circlet of Valyrian steel rests at his brow, embellished with glittering rubies; the Conqueror’s crown.  

“I think,” you begin, holding your chin high, “that you are sitting in my mother’s chair.”  

The blow wasn’t unexpected, yet Aegon’s jaw still tenses at the venom that laced each and every syllable.  

He knew you would be upset with him—infuriated, actually. But expecting that anger and experiencing it were two very different things.  

He wasn’t used to you being mad at him, and he didn’t like it.  

Forcing himself to swallow back against the sea of emotions rising in his chest, Aegon pushes himself to his feet, careful not to nick himself on one of the jutting blades. He descends the steps with the same impressive swagger he’s always possessed, walking towards where you stood motionless at the base of the throne.  

Your body stiffens at his approach, your muscles tightening, shoulders pulling back, fingers curling into fists. He notices, and you briefly remind him of a cornered animal—captured and awaiting a rescue that may never come, armed with nothing but brazen defiance.  

Stopping less than a few inches from you, he realizes that this must make him the predator of your story. The big bad king, whose first act of war had been to steal away his precious little niece, unwilling to go even one more day without her by his side.  

When he stretches a hand towards you, you’re smart enough not to recoil from his touch as he glides a finger along the fine silk of your skirts. “You wore it,” he mutters softly, admiring the rich green color of your dress.  

“I wasn’t aware that I had a choice in the matter,” you retort swiftly, suddenly aware of the incessant pounding of your heart.  

You hate yourself for wearing this—a gown that wasn’t entirely unlike the ones that the dowager Queen Alicent had worn from your entire life, the ones that had been marred by a color you learned to loathe. 

But when a few handmaidens came pouring into the room in Maegor’s Holdfast where Aegon had kept you imprisoned for the last several days, you felt as though you had no say as they plunged you into a tub of steaming water, scrubbing your dirt-stained skin until it was raw, only to pull you back out and then wrap you in varying shades of emerald.  

He pulls away from the fabric, giving you his usual pouty frown when he asks, “Why would you believe that you have no choice?”  

The sheer innocence of his tone had you grinding your teeth. “Must I remind you, uncle?” He winces slightly, unused to the cruel formality with which you now speak. “Remind you of how you have stolen my mother’s birthright? Or of how you ordered your guard to steal me away, and throw me into the Holdfast? Of how you’re holding me prisoner in some desperate attempt to wound my mother-”  

“I am not holding you to wound Rhaenyra,” her name sounds like poison on his lips, the taste of it vile on his tongue as he interjects, “nor are you here to be my prisoner, niece.”  

Your brows rise alongside your voice as you shout, “Am I not? Then please, Aegon, enlighten me as to why you insist on keeping me here! Tell me why you have torn me away from my family and humiliated me!” You gesture down at your body, to the gown clinging to your curves.  

Aegon’s answer came in the form of a growl, “Because you are mine to keep.”  

His hands shoot to your wrists, tightly gripping your delicate flesh. A flicker of desire burns in his lilac gaze, a look that you are all too familiar with. It pierces through you, and you can do nothing but curse yourself as a warm feeling spreads throughout your body. “And I refused to sit idly by as your family sold my girl to whichever Lord had the biggest fucking army, auctioning you off like livestock so that they might acquire more men to fight in your mother’s war!”  

Disdain laced the word—family.  

He spoke it as if it were a plague, a curse, a weakness. But you didn’t miss the way his breath hitched, hidden emotion catching in his throat. You were his family; he had said so himself, repeating it often during your years spent together, sneaking through halls and hiding in shrouded alcoves.  

You were his plague. You were his curse. And you were his only weakness, the only thing that could be held over him. The only thing that could make him yield.  

It suddenly dawned on you how much it must have bothered him to learn that you were being escorted to Winterfell under the protection of two of your mother’s Queensguard, how infuriated he must have been to find out that your hand had been promised to Lord Cregan Stark in return for his aid. That was why he had sent Ser Willis after you—why he had him kill your mother’s men and bring you here.  

Your mouth went dry as you dug your nails into your palms, unable to will yourself to pull your wrists from his touch. “This is your war, too,” you remind him, your voice softer than you wish it to be, your stare wide but never wavering from his.  

Aegon shakes his head softly, wavy silver locks spilling over his delicate features. “No,” he tells you, releasing one wrist so that he can reach up and brush a finger along your cheekbone, “I have only ever been a pawn in this game, little love.”  

A shiver rolls down your spine as his hand moves lower, his thumb trailing along your bottom lip, tracing the delicate curve.  

“But you,” he drawls, his mouth curving into a lopsided smirk that had your pulse sputtering, “you were always meant to be a queen.”  

His declaration only stirs confusion in your mind. Your brow creases and you blink at him once, then twice. “What is it that you want, Aeg?”  

A sweet sound escapes his throat, a low hum of satisfaction at the simple pet name rolling from your tongue. Your voice was still sharp, still guarded—but all he had needed was that one subtle show of affection to know that you were listening, that you were willing to hear him out.  

His thumb tugs at your bottom lip, pulling it ever-so-slightly and revealing a gleam of white teeth. Sensible enough to recognize that Aegon was supposed to be your enemy now, and not your secret lover, you gnash your teeth at him. The display only makes his grin grow wider, a foolish sense of hunger turning his usually pale complexion to a light shade of crimson.  

“I want to make you queen,” he purrs, letting his touch fall from your face as he lets go off your other wrist, stepping to the side. He sweeps an arm out to one side, gesturing grandly towards the throne before you. “My queen.”  

You feel disoriented, like the room around you is suddenly spinning in circles. A fuzzy feeling settles in your stomach as your gaze flickers from the throne, to Aegon, then back to the throne again.  

The look on your face must be one of pure disbelief, as Aegon appears to be laughing at the shock morphing your features.  

“But…” You take a series of shallow breaths, shaking your head as you force yourself to ignore the throne, turning back to focus only on Aegon. “But my mother is the rightful queen, not me—not yet!” You object, stuttering over your words as they spill out.  

This doesn’t make sense… 

The Greens would never allow this!  

“Queen Alicent,” you sputter out, realization dawning on you, “and your grandsire, they… They don’t know that I am here, do they? They don’t know that you captured me?”  

The pieces began to fall into place in your mind, filling in the gaps of a very long and complicated story. The reason why Aegon had only sent one of the Kingsguard after you, why you had been thrown in the Holdfast rather than the dungeons, why he had waited until the hour of the wolf to finally call for you, having you brought to throne room only once he was certain that it was abandoned for the night.  

Aegon hadn’t just captured you. He had kept you hidden—hidden from Alicent and Ott0.  

He gives a single, gentle nod as he says, “You, my sweet girl, have become my best kept secret,” there’s a certain eagerness in the way he is looking at you, greedy and expectant, as if he were awaiting praise for his scheme.  

“I cannot give your mother my throne, not without risking my own head,” Aegon reaches for your hand once more, and you allow him to lace his fingers through yours, even as you scowl at the possessive language he used—his throne. “But I can give it to you.”  

You feel unsteady as you glance down at your joined hands; his grip was tight, while yours was limp—allowing the show of affection, but not returning it.  

You draw a breath, “And you plan to do this by… By making me your wife?” Nerves had your voice jumping an octave, and you curse the Warrior for not granting you enough strength to maintain an even tone.  

The shift in Aegon’s expression was tenuous, but you knew him well enough to catch even the most subtle changes. You noticed the way his lilac eyes shifted to his feet, the way his bottom lip trembled as his fear of rejection pierced through his chest like a knife.  

It was second nature to want to comfort him, to want to reach out as you used to, brushing the messy waves of silver from his face, reminding him that you wanted him in ways that you could never want another.  

You resist the urge as best you can, but you cannot stop your fingers from finally curling around his hand, squeezing before you can stop yourself. When he looked back up at you, it was with a look of foolish hope.  

“It might be an ignorant plan,” he admits, “but the realm doesn’t need a puppet for a king. It needs you—an iron-willed girl, born for an iron throne.”  

It’s not the right choice.  

And you know that if your mother were here, she would be disappointed in you for considering such a proposal. If Daemon were here, he would cut you down himself, spouting out allegations of treason over your still-cooling corpse. Jace and Luke would hardly be able to look you in the eye, you reckon, if they found out of your feelings for the uncle they both loathed so desperately.  

This wasn’t the right choice, because before the throne should belong to you, it must first belong to your mother, the rightful heir.  

And yet…  

To take the throne now, to take advantage of the opportunity Aegon has offered, would be seizing a chance to deliver the throne to the Blacks. Taking the throne did not mean that you must keep it—only that you might hold onto it until it could be passed over to your mother; only that you might offer her a clear path to it.  

And marrying Aegon…  

Marrying Aegon was the culmination of all your wildest dreams, of all of your secret wishes and most desperate desires.  

“If you wish to say no,” his voice wobbles, his eyes squeezing shut as he prepares himself for your answer; for your refusal. “Then I will allow you to leave. I refuse to deliver you to Winterfell, but I will arrange for a guard to escort you to Harrenhal. I’ve heard word that Daemon has-”  

You refuse.  

Refuse to let him finish speaking, having decided that you had heard more than enough to make your decision, unable to care if it is the right one.  

In a brief moment of reckless abandon, you tug on his hand hard enough to send him stumbling towards you, his bright eyes shooting open just in time to watch as you rise on your toes, bringing your lips to crash against his.  

His muscles went rigid, eyes remaining wide-open as he felt your other hand slip into his hair, tangling your fingers in his messy locks, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp.  

Slowly, he relaxes. Slowly, he melts into the touch that he had missed so much, the one that he had dreamt about every night for the past several months that he had been forced to spend without you.  

Muscle memory kicks in, his body abruptly remembering all of your secret encounters over the years, reminding him of all the little ways that you liked being touched, of all the ways that he could drive you wild.  

He pulls his hand loose from yours, his palm instantly collided with the outside of your thigh. His fingers knot in the silky fabric of your dress, pulling it higher and higher, until he’s finally able to press his palm flat against the warmth of your skin, sinking his nails into the plump flesh.  

“I’ve missed you,” he utters against your mouth, his voice so guttural and delicious that you nearly moan. His other hand slips beneath the fabric as well, ghosting past your abdomen to greedily paw at your chest, “And these,”  

A ragged gasp slips from your lips as he kneads your breast. You pull away from his kiss, your head tilting back and exposing your throat as you indulge yourself in the feeling of his hands roaming against your bare skin. His sweet, pouty lips instantly find their way to your neck, suckling and kissing at the sensitive skin.  

“Greedy,” you chide, the euphoria flooding your veins leaving you breathless.  

“Should I take this as a yes, then?” He croons against your flesh.  

You wish to be bold in your response, derisive, even; but as his tongue glides along the smooth column of your throat, you can’t bring yourself to sound anything other than desperate.  

“Fuck—yes,” you practically moan the affirmation, yanking his hair and making him hiss.  

“In that case,” Aegon’s lips curve into a playful arc, placing another kiss against your throat before saying, “allow me to show you to your throne, my queen.”  

The whine that escapes you when he pulls his touch from your skin is something vulgar, and you don’t miss the smug expression that settles on his face. He’s pleased with himself, and you’re not surprised. After all, he had just barely touched you and you were already writhing against him, your months apart having left you so needy that you were mere seconds from begging him to take you right here on the floor of the throne room.  

Before you can complain, his hand is swiftly slipping back into yours, tugging you up the stairs leading to the throne. When you reach the top, he motions you to sit.  

There is something different about sitting on the throne now compared to when you were a girl—a certain power that warms your veins, sending your blood rushing to your cheeks. There is no time to ponder on the feeling, however; not when Aegon is sinking down to his knees the very moment you settle against the cool steel.  

“What are you doing?” You’re practically panting when you ask the question, your pulse thrumming in your ears as you watch him, intrigued.  

He’s still wearing a smirk when he lifts a hand, plucking the steel circlet from his brow before stretching out his arm and urging you to lean down just enough for him to place it on your head.  

The Conqueror’s crown is nearly too big for you and sits askew, but neither of you seem to care about that as he immediately gets back to work, shoving the delicate fabric of your dress back up your legs.  

“Swearing fealty to my queen,” Aegon finally answers, his lips ghosting against the side of your knee. “Taking care of you,” he continues, peppering light kisses along the inside of your leg, moving at a tantalizingly slow rate until he finally reaches the top of your thigh. “And eating as though I were a starved man.”  

With no warning, he places his lips against your core, his greedy tongue already swiping against your folds. You fight the urge to throw your head back at the sensation of his warm mouth, trying to remain conscious of the jagged blades that surround you.  

You can hardly breathe.  

You can hardly think.  

You can hardly do anything other than gasp as his palms squeeze against your legs, his nails digging into your skin as he forces them apart, keeping you from squeezing them shut as he devours you.  

Shoving one of your legs over his shoulder, his right hand slips from your thigh to begin toying with your entrance, and the way you squirm against his touch only encourages him to shove two fingers inside of you. A lewd sound pours from your mouth, echoing so loudly amidst the throne room that you worry someone might hear and come find the two of you.  

As his thick fingers plunge in-and-out of you, his tongue circling your clit, you grip the arms of the Iron Throne without thinking—a yelp tears from your throat as one of the blades slice into your palm.  

“Shit!” You hiss, the pain in your voice urging Aegon to pause, his mouth shimmering with slickness as he looks up at you, watching as the blood trickles down your wrist.  

His pupils flare, darkness overtaking the lilac in his eyes.  

Reaching up, Aegon mimics your accidental movement, allowing one of the jagged blades to tear into his palm, too. “Hen lantoti ānogar,” he mutters the familiar Valyrian vows as he reaches for your hand, his pronunciation sloppy, but his voice tinged with undeniable admiration, “va sȳndroti vāedroma,”  

(translation: blood of two, joined as one)

He presses your hands together, and his fingers intertwine with yours as the still-flowing blood begins to mix, binding the two of you together in a bond that transcends all else, uniting the two of you in an oath that could never be broken—not by your family, not by war, not even by death.  

Getting lost in his eyes, feeling his blood drip down your arm, you find yourself praying to any God that might listen.  

Not for absolution, disinterested in the thought of receiving forgiveness for the betrayal you commit against your mother by even sitting in Aegon’s presence.  

But for strength.  

Enough of it so that you might be able to play the role of the Green Queen, a gift bestowed upon you by Aegon. Enough of it so that you might grant your mother the victory she desires, the one she deserves. Enough of it so that you might be able to paint the walls red with the vile blood of the Greens.  

Enough of it so that you might become their demise.

a/n - considering that I wrote this while sleep-deprived at one am, it actually turned out pretty alright lmao. still can't write smut but o well.

aegon looks pretty in the new trailer <3

[morallyinept]

Devotion - A Dieter Bravo x Curvy/Fuller body F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Whilst on vacation with your partner Dieter Bravo, you get snapped in your bikini by paparazzi, causing you to question and evaluate your body shape when others start to pick it apart scathingly. Dieter however, shows you that you're perfect just as you are.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Curvy/Fuller body F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity. Reader has a fuller, curvier body type. Dieter is a little bigger himself in this fic too, it comes with natural ageing.)

Word Count: 8.4k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & warnings: Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral F receiving/Dieter worships your body/angst/self-loathing/tiniest mention of being sick after eating food, but it's not an eating disorder/people being cruel jerks online/comparison of bodies/Dieter just Dietering/we love all types of bodies in this house and won't tolerate any body shaming of any kind.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The body type mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Nestled along the powdery white sands of Bora Bora's coastline, a sanctuary in an exquisite overwater villa perches atop stilts above the glistening lagoon, a retreat of luxury and tranquillity. 

A private deck is greeted by sweeping views of the turquoise waters that stretch as far as the eye can see. A staircase leads down to the tranquil sea below, where one can choose to swim, snorkel, or simply float in the heady bliss of the ocean.

Entering the villa through glass-panelled doors, an atmosphere of understated elegance greets the inhabitant. The interior is adorned with natural materials, from polished hardwood floors to intricately woven rattan furnishings, creating a seamless blend of modern comfort and traditional island charm.

The bedroom, with its plush queen-size bed adorned with crisp white linens, offers a haven of serenity and comfort. A canopy draped overhead adds a touch of romance, while sliding glass doors open onto a private balcony, where champagne can be sipped under the twinkling stars.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of indulgence, featuring a deep-soaking jacuzzi tub overlooking the lagoon, where one can luxuriate in a bubble bath while watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. 

And it’s here, in the giant whirlpool tub, where Dieter Bravo finds himself, biting into the skin of your shoulder as he fucks into you from behind.

His panting growls fill your ears as he fills you deep, fingers moulding into the soft curves of your hips as he pulls you back onto him with each thrust.

“Fuck, baby!” He hollers, as your cunt clenches around him, squealing as you come and gripping on the sides of the slippery tub for leverage. 

You’re pretty sure the other guests can probably hear you in their own water villas, but you don’t care. Instead you twist in the water seeking his plush mouth as his tongue slips between your lips. 

“Do that again, come on my cock.” Dieter husks, teeth biting onto your bottom lip. 

He thrusts harder, wheezing at the back of his throat as bubbles and water spill over the sides of the tub. You scream louder; his awed laughter cajoling as you come again, and he soon busts a nut of his own, hollering loudly himself as he fills you up. 

"Yeaaaah! Oh fuck, yeah!" He grunts, sweaty forehead lolling against yours and smiling with a blissed out face.

He lights a post-coital blunt and smirks at you as he stretches out naked in the giant bed; hair a damp, ruffled mess and a puffed out pot belly that he strokes absentmindedly, a half hour or so later. He's gloriously naked and completely unabashed about it.

In fact, he hasn't put any clothes on since being here with you; the both for you encased away inside your private villa where you can rusticate like Adam and Eve.

“I hate my feet. They look like weird hands.” He says slowly, as he wiggles his bare toes and eyes the chubby, little pinkies suspiciously.  

"You have cute feet." You giggle.

"No. Yours are cute. Mine are... Hobbit feet. Look."

He nods down to his feet and you laugh. "They are a little bit. Which Hobbit are you?"

"Samwise, d'uh." He says, toking deeply.

"You look more like a Pippin to me," you grin, as you flop down beside him on the bed.

Smirking, Dieter brings his large palm down on your bare ass as you lay on your front.

He groans in delight at the playful slap rippling down your shapely thighs. The damp, sticky remains of multiple orgasms on the sheets feel gluey against your skin in patches.

“Mmm,” he grunts as you lean up to kiss him, tasting herbs and smoke around his teeth. “Hey baby,” he smiles dreamily at you with pink, twinkly eyes.

"Hey yourself," you smile, as you kiss him some more.

This is the most relaxed you’ve seen him in a while, having a sixth sense for when living in La La Land gets a bit much for him.

He gets this twitchy, deer-in-headlights look about him and starts saying things like I’ve had a headache for days, I think it’s a brain tumour, or that piece of broccoli is watching me as you regard him staring at it as he moves about the room, and launching into a paranoid diatribe when he’s mixed too many substances together and doesn’t know which way is up.

That’s when you know it’s time for a time out. Whisking him away to a private sanctuary where he can detox, kinda, and eat some damn broccoli without trying to fight and chokeslam it.

Where he can indulge in some freaky sex with you, and the cute waiter who brought him a double, when he only asked for a single, and the next thing his cock is in his mouth and your fingers are in his ass as the three of you paint the room in bodily fluids.

It’s a much needed retreat for you both, adopting the mutually agreed upon rule of no phones or internet as you truly switch off and lock your devices away in the room safe, as you spend time fawning over the intimate fronds of your deepening relationship with A-lister Dieter Bravo.

Once a washed up has-been floundering in the gross LA gutter, now a three-time Emmy winner and on his way to the Oscars. Yet despite the three-sixty turn around in his career through some clever reshuffling of his publicists and agents, he still retains that firecracker ability to go off the rails on occasion, despite cleaning up his act somewhat. 

You’ve been credited as the main reason for this transformation, a positive impact; a grounding force in an otherwise chaotic timebomb. The rarely seen lover, opting out of the spotlight through your own choice, and Dieter’s support of it.

Although he’s name dropped you in a few interviews when asked about his infectious happiness, snapped numerous selfies of you both loved up and nuzzling on his Instagram, and on occasion you’ll hang off his arm at an event in a dress that costs more than your first mortgage.

But for the most part, you do your own thing, happy to let him do his, and come back to the home you’ve both been curating together.

You met just like in a trashy Hallmark romance, standing in line to get a green juice in a trendy cafe in downtown LA, and it was love at first wow, as he swooned at you over the tip of his Raybans and grinned crookedly at you, gold earring sparkling like those mischievous eyes.

You’ve been hooked on this lewd rapscallion, with a heart of gold, ever since.

You had no idea who he was or what he did, and for a while, he kept it a secret; fearing that if you knew about his fame and bawdy past shenanigans, you’d disappear in a puff of judgemental smoke.

But you didn’t, instead supporting him and drawing a line between the fame and the reality, and became an anchor when he needed one to stop him floating too far adrift.  

Dieter has never said the L word before, but when he did with you, around a mouthful of grilled cheese as you both sat in the dark watching Humphrey Bogart movies, (often Sabrina - it's his favourite) something told you this fuzzy-haired doof meant it. 

He can’t keep his hands off you, grabbing and pawing at your voluptuous curves. Burying his face in your breasts that suffocate him, and an ass that won’t quit when he fucks it and watches it ripple.

He’s always been fantastically open about how much he loves your body.

Your weight fluctuates at the best of times, growing when you’re comfy, and you’ve never felt more comfortable than with Dieter. He paints you when you’re asleep, waking to find another portrait of flesh coloured brush strokes on another canvas that’s added to the collection of worship pieces he creates.

Anyone would think he was obsessed with you, but you don’t mind the attention he lavishes, especially when he pours paint over your breasts and gets you to smoosh them into the canvas board whilst he fucks you from behind.

He’s insatiable for you, and for once you feel like you can be yourself around him, truly. Comfortable to be naked and bare with him in your skin.

You’ve spent years with your thoughts drifting inward, grappling with the complexities of your body. A regular love-hate relationship, which leans more towards the hate more often than not.

It’s no secret that you’re larger and more curvaceous than the slender figures typically celebrated by society, and the usual, skinny types that had draped off of Dieter’s arm in the past.

Your body, adorned with generous amounts of curves, dimples and soft contours, bear the marks of a life well-lived and enjoying the over-indulgence of it at times.

But sometimes, you feel a pang of insecurity flood through you; your eyes drawn to the lithe forms that grace the glossy pages of fashion magazines.

Feeling itchy inside your epidermis at the actors that flock around you both at the after parties in their tight dresses that look like a second skin, and the endless scroll of social media feeds perpetuating the allusion, that to be beautiful, you must be thin.

You feel like the “fat woman” when surrounded by slender, flat-tummied make-up artists and stylists who flood your home when Dieter has an event to prepare for. In a world that seems to worship perfection, you can't help but wonder if your own body falls short of the unattainable ideal at times.

But Dieter doesn’t see it that way.

He's continuously lavishing you with affection and love, and unable to keep his big hands off you from day one. You’ve been with him long enough now to know he’s serious about you, respectful of your choices to remain out of the spotlight and trusting that you’re not just a novelty to him.

He’s changed because of you; cleaned himself up and become a better man, and that only imbues the sense of worship he gives to you daily. 

As you gaze into Dieter's glassy eyes, you find yourself bathed in a warmth that transcends the superficial constraints of beauty standards. In his unwavering stare you see not judgement, but genuine admiration - a reflection of the love and acceptance that he has for you, curves and all.

He makes you feel invincible when he looks at you like this. But sometimes, it's hard not to let the insecurities seep in.

This vacation has been relaxing, enjoying one another in the privacy of the water villa, but Dieter’s attention span can only survive in enclosed walls for so long, and soon he’s itching to get out and explore.

He suggests the nearby market for lunch and the beach, and you agree, pulling on a suitable dress over your bikini, and rolling up his yoga mat to shove into your beach bag. 

You stroll hand-in-hand through the market, packed with tourists and locals. He stops at stalls to admire handmade crafts through his giant, dark Raybans, and purchases cheap beaded bracelets that he adds to the collection on his wrist, and rambles at you in great detail about the craftsmanship of them.

You stop for refreshing guava and pineapple smoothies from stall vendors, pose for selfies by a tropical flower bush as he picks one and places it behind your ear, and after a mouthwatering shellfish lunch, you end the afternoon lazing on the beach together. 

He gets a little handsy when he rubs sun lotion onto your skin, fingers slipping under your bikini top discreetly to tug at your puffy nipples as he sucks the oily skin on your neck.

"D..." You whine, as he pulls them in his between his fingers and whispers in your ear how fucking hot you are. You shoo him away, grinning, as he heads into the water for a swim, and you lay back to bake in the sun with your book.

You lick your lips a little while later as he emerges from the water; pale lilac swim shorts clinging to his thick thighs, unruly greying fluff slicked back. Sea water drips from his chin down his chest, that puffs out into a little swollen tummy of his own with a slot machine belly button. Dark hairs disappear into his shorts as he pulls them up, strolling out of the waves.

Dieter’s ageing in the most beautiful way possible, broad too in every sense of the word as the sun blesses him with a gorgeous bronze tan, and he catches you staring like a drooling chimp as he heads back towards you.

He flashes you those enigmatic teeth as he approaches, sand clumped around his ankles. 

“See something you like?” He grunts, as he bends down to kiss you, hooked nose all wet and dripping salt water onto your lips. 

“Maybe,” you say, his crotch almost in your face as he stands.

He's already pitching a tent in them as he smiles down at you with a razor-like grin.

“Did you know a sea cucumber ejects its intestines out in self-defense? It looks like a sea dick squirting all over the place. And there's lots of it, too.”

You laugh. “Did you see a sea cucumber in the water just now?” 

“No. I just remembered seeing it on Nat Geo. Fascinating.” 

“You’re so random, D.” You titter, dropping your book down.

"You love it." He says, wiping at his face with the towel.

"I do."

“You know-" he sits behind you on the lounger and pulls you back against his wet chest, “-there’s nothing stopping us from fucking right here. I could easily slip my cock into you right now.” 

“D, the beach is full of people.” But you groan at the thought of it.

“Yeah, but the danger, the anticipation. It’d be hot, no?” He whispers, fingers dipping into the waistband of your bikini bottoms. “Just fucking you in front of all these people and they’d never know. You'd have to be really quiet, baby...”  

“Dieter!” You hiss, bringing your legs up to stop him going any further. 

“Alright,” he chuckles in your ear, running his fuzzy chin against your face.

"Is that a sea cucumber in your shorts or are you just pleased to see me?" You remark at the hard bulge poking at your lower back.

Dieter chuckles, all waspy inside your ear. “I'm still hungry. Let’s go back to the villa and you can sit on my face for a while.”

The vacation comes to an end after another week of fucking all over the water villa, and you both find yourselves on the flight back to civilisation, somewhat more exhausted than when you'd set off.

You turn on your mobile when taxiing towards the terminal, back on American soil, and listen to the pings as your phone catches up with life. 

You scroll through emails as Dieter quietly snores beside you, mouth open and catching flies.

Smirking, you scroll through social media and stop, immediately feeling sick when you open a message from your friend titled have you seen this? 

There’s a screenshot of you on the beach in your bikini from a pap site, something that doesn't surprise you much at all - it’s bound to happen now and again when you’re spotted with Dieter, despite booking somewhere off radar.

Renegade photos of the two of you end up on the socials all the time, and you pay them no mind, choosing to abstain from looking them up. 

But what you don’t expect to see is the vitriol in the comments underneath the picture, from none other than Dieter’s fans. 

You read the words fat and beached whale and pity fuck, standing out like they’re flashing red neon at you.

Swallowing as your throat runs dry, it gets worse the further you scroll. They make fun of your body, make remarks about your face, your hair, sense of fashion, even your ankles of all things.

Who is offended by someone’s fucking ankles, for Christ’s sake?

Every part of you is pulled apart scathingly in deep conversations that go on and on, blurring out the compliments that say you’re a cute couple by the ones that say things like she carries it well.

Carries what well?

You’re pulled in, instantly scrolling to Dieter's own Instagram page and clicking on the most recent picture he took of you both as you watched the sunset on your last night in Bora Bora.

You have the flower in your hair that he picked and put behind your ear, and told you how gorgeous you were as he snapped the selfie, his lips pressing into your cheek. Under the photo he wrote the caption my heart.

Comparing how his belly in his swim shorts looks gorgeous and sexy and how complete strangers want to lick it, whereas your tummy in your bikini is branded hideous and disgusting.

It’s liked by over five million people, and you grimace when you realise there are also thousands of comments talking about your looks there too.

How your shoulders are much broader than his, your thighs the size of tree trunks. How you must crush him when you fuck.

Who's the whale next to Dieter?

They speculate that you’re pregnant. Some of them are calling you a cunt or a bitch because you’re carrying his fictitious baby.

The unjustified hate just keeps coming and coming. 

Can't believe he's with someone so fat.

She’s so gross. 

She’s disgusting.

He's fucking her for a joke.

Dude must be high AF to fuck that each night.

I've seen glory holes better looking than her face.

He deserves better. 

It’s a staged relationship. No way he’d look twice at her. 

You thought you looked pretty in your dress. You were wrong, babe. 

You feel like you’re going to throw up and nudge him awake. 

“D,” you groan.

“Mm,” he mutters. 

“Dieter! Wake up!” 

“Wha-what?” He jolts as he comes to, wiping his mouth free of drool. “Have we landed? Oh, we're here. What time is it? Fuck, my neck. I think I've dislocated my shoulder sleeping in this damn seat. Why'd you let me sleep for so long?”

His bleary eyes look around the cabin as he sits upright in his seat with wild, fuzzy hair. He turns to you and baulks. 

“Babe, what’s wrong?” He sees you crying silently into your hands. “Hey, what happened?” He reaches for your hands, but instead you toss the phone at him. 

Confused, he takes it and smiles at the selfie of you both together. “What, you don’t like it? I think you look really gor-” 

“Read the comments,” you all but choke out to him.

As he scrolls through the comments, his jaw clenches in anger; his grip on the phone tightening with each cruel word. You see his nostrils flare as he breathes in and clicks the phone screen off. 

“Babe,” he shakes his head. “Fuck that shit, man. Ignore it. Bitches be cray and all.”

“That’s easy for you to say, they fucking love you!” You shake your head and scramble up past him, heading for the door as the other passengers begin to disembark.

"I'll get the luggage then..." He huffs to himself.

Despite Dieter’s reassurances, the words have already taken root in your mind, poisoning your thoughts with doubt and reuniting you with that old, reliable friend, self-loathing. 

In the days that follow, you find yourself sinking deeper and deeper into a depressive spiral, unable to escape the relentless barrage of negativity that haunts your every waking moment.

It consumes you. Strangers, people you’ve never met and don’t know or what they look like, get into your head. You suddenly realise the power that words have.

They have jagged edges that cut into your skin and leave you bleeding, dying.

They cause your head to ache profusely and your nose to become blocked, and your eyes to itch from crying so much. You’re suddenly paranoid, of everything, everyone that looks at you. Second guessing all the time, wondering what they think when they look you over. 

You withdraw from the world, retreating into the darkness of your own mind, where the echoes of cruel words reverberate back and forth like a never-ending chorus of condemnation.

No amount of love or support from Dieter can penetrate the thick fog of despair that envelopes you, leaving you feeling utterly alone and miserable.

You cancel pre-planned events, leaving Dieter to go alone, whilst you curl up under the duvet and don’t surface for days, and you realise that ignorance really was bliss. 

You find yourself standing in front of the mirror naked when you finally brave yourself to have a shower, and are disgusted at what you see.

Highlighted before the glass, your reflection is a cruel mockery of the beauty you once believed you possessed. The soft glow of the vanity lights illuminate every curve and contour of your body, each line a stark reminder of your perceived inadequacy.

Your gaze lingers on your reflection, tracing the lumpy ridges of your hips and the soft swell of your hanging stomach, the fullness of your thighs and the rounded shape of your ass, with a mixture of disdain and disgust. 

You grab handfuls of your flesh, rolling it in your grip, shaking your head as your eyes fill with water. 

Looking away, you cover yourself up with baggy clothes that aren’t flattering. You put on Dieter's green robe over the top and belt it up and climb back into bed, sobbing. 

How can he possibly find me attractive? Is he part of it? Am I really just a pity fuck? 

The invasive thoughts begin to chip away at the solid foundations you thought you had. Crumbling them into doubt and paranoia.

Their words haunt you, spin around your eyesight for days until you're back torturing yourself and scrolling back through them all. You shut everything out except their words - you just exist in this tormented space in the bed - refusing to entertain anyone, including Dieter - with your phone doom scrolling, and nothing but self-loathing and misery. 

It lasts on a repetitive cycle for days.

You try not to eat, taking to self-punishment and abstinance, but then that only makes it worse because you inevitably get hungry and order take-out. Far too much take-out.

And then once you've eaten it all, a small comfort that is fleeting, you force yourself sick, feeling guilty and even more wretched for enjoying the food that you love. 

Until Dieter’s had enough of it all. 

He throws everyone out of the house on the eve before Oscar’s night, refusing to partake in any more fittings whilst he knows you’re upstairs hiding from him and hurting.

Forehead pulling into tight wrinkles with guilt, Dieter stares at the dress the stylist has brought over that he knows you’ll look incredible in. 

You were so excited when you first tried it on, and now he can’t help but feel as though he’s had some part in this; coaxing you to try and be someone you’re not just for the sake of the glitz and solid bronze statues plated in 24 karat gold.

But he can't help it, he wants to share this side of him with you. Wants you to be proud of him and to show you off, because you make him so equivocally happy. And for a long time, Dieter wasn't happy. Just floundering and trying to shape himself so he could fit into their moulds too.

He said he'd keep you separate from his world if that's what you wanted, and for the most part you did, and now he wonders if it's because of this - this pressure that society puts on people in the spotlight to maintain perfection.

And he can't help but wonder if he's put that pressure on you too in some ways.

It’s like cleaning out wounds with dirty fingers, festering and making it worse the longer you're hurting and allowing them to hurt you. And now, he trudges up the stairs, woolly socks making static on the carpet, with the dress dangling from the hanger over his broad shoulder. 

He misses you. Misses your smile, your smell, your warmth. Your body wrapped around his. It's not fun watching movies by himself, sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms without you.

He's given you space, but he needs you. Needs you to see how fucking beautiful you are to him. And needs you to know he's not giving up on you, not now and not ever.

“I’m not going.” You grumble with a huff. 

Knuckles rap on the bedroom door and push it open gently when you grunt at him to go away.

You watch him, with puffy eyes, as he hangs the dress bag over the closet door.

You shake your head vehemently. 

“You don't have to. But... you promised me.” Dieter says, as he kicks at the foot of the bed gently.

His zig-zag sweater is knitted and bobbly on the arms when he crosses them over his chest. Triad tattoos inked into his skin peep out at you under rolled up sleeves.

“You wanna see it?” He offers. "Might make you feel good to try it on again?"

“No. I’m not wearing it. I’m not going and that’s that.”

Dieter kneels on the bed slowly crawling up towards you. “It’s my night, baby, and I want you there by my side.”

You sigh. “I can’t,” you whimper, trying not to look at him. 

“Yes, you can. You know you can.” 

Tears fall from your eyes making warm tracks on your cheeks. 

“No, I don’t.” You say, sniffing. 

“I love you.” Dieter says, reaching your face and sitting over your thighs.

His thumbs catch the tears and he kisses your face. “I fucking love you. You’re so beautiful and sexy. God, you're so fucking sexy. You make me so hard.”  

He takes your hand and puts it over his cock that’s indeed rock solid in his shorts.

“Yes you do, see? Even when you're crying and wearing my shitty gown. You’ve always been so fucking sexy to me.”

A renegade smile tries to break free at the corner of your lips as he starts smashing down your walls with a sledgehammer. And his aim is pretty on point.

"When was the last time you washed this? It stinks," you say, looking down at the stained softness of his gown draped over you. You don't even want to know the origin of some of them.

“That’s it, there you are.” He encourages. 

“You really think I’m sexy?” You whimper. “All this?” You say, confused as you point to your stomach. 

“I love your body, babe. Every. Inch. Of. It.” He punctuates each word with a kiss over your face; on your nose, your forehead, your chin. 

“Why? You could have anyone...”

“I don’t want anyone. I want you. I've always wanted you.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell in love with you. Hook. Line. And fucking sinker.” 

“Dieter-” You choke and snivel.

He wraps you up in his arms. “Let me show you, baby.” 

He unbelts his gown that you’re wearing, leaning forward to kiss your lips gently. Your fingers tangle in his hair, silky greying fluff, as he swirls his tongue around inside your mouth.

"You taste like flaming hot Cheetos." You smirk around his lips.

"I may have eaten three king-size bags. My ass and the toilet will hate me later."

"Is that all you've eaten?"

"Well, yeah. That and microwave oven pizzas... I'm kinda floundering without you. It really is selfish of you to not come downstairs and cook for me. Baby, I'm wasting away." He pats his little belly for emphasis.

You laugh, a deep and haughty chuckle, and he smiles at that.

"You're such a doof."

"Yeah, but I'm your doof." Dieter says as he kisses you, sighing into your mouth as his shoulders sag.

He pulls away and runs his thumb over your lips.

“I love your lips,” he says, licking over them and nipping them between his teeth. “Mmm, yeah. Fuck. Love it when they wrap around my cock too,” he hums. 

You chuckle through wet eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah baby, I love how you look when you suck my cock. So fucking hot.”

“How do I look?”

“Like a fucking Goddess!” He chirps enthusiastically, and you can see that he really means it. "Better than Aphrodite, Dionysus... that-that pale chick riding in the clam-"

"Venus." You hiccup through a smile.

"Yeah. They haven't got shit on you, babe."

"Dieter," you stutter as he nuzzles into your face. He slathers wet kisses down your neck as you groan.

“I love these tits… fuck,” he groans as he squeezes them in his hands, sucking on the nipples as he pushes your t-shirt up. 

“Mmm, D…” you whine as he flicks his tongue back and forth over them, until they become hardened pebbles in his mouth making you shudder and clench. 

"Fucking perfect tits." He grunts. He kisses and licks down the deep valley of your breasts, smooching over your sternum. 

“I love this belly,” Dieter says, with more kissing, licking and stopping to blow a loud raspberry into your belly button. 

You cackle as he strokes and tickles your hips.

“Dieter!” You howl as he tickles harder. 

“See, stunning!” He laughs, watching you cackle and squirm as you try to bat him off. 

“Stop it!” You howl. "I'm gonna pee!"

“I love these little lines here,” he says, as he runs his tongue over the crinkled stretch marks around your lower tummy.

He kisses further down into the swell of your thighs, pulling your leggings down as he goes, revealing more skin for him to lavish.

"I love this freckle right here, and this one here, and this little guy over here… But this one’s my favourite, right here. Hi cutie,” he smiles as he kisses it.

You giggle like an idiot as he kisses over each freckle, mole and dimple in and around your thighs.

“And I fucking love this pussy,” Dieter groans as he runs his tongue up the slit of you over your panties.

You watch as he hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls them down, with darkening eyes smouldering up at you from between your legs. 

His tongue runs on the skin outside your pussy lips, so close to your clit. He trails a hot, wet lap around and leaves you panting, begging. “Please, please…”

"What do you want, baby? You want me to kiss it?" He smirks as you nod, head all slack and mesmerised.

He spreads your lips and licks his tongue slowly up your slit, making you shudder as he swirls it around the bump of your buzzing nub.

“Fuck,” Dieter groans, reaching down to adjust himself. “I could just fucking come from eating you out,” his voice is muffled by doing just that. 

Your head keens back into the pillows and you groan. Your fingers rummage inside his hair, twisting and pulling, as he laps you up. 

He doesn’t shy away, nestling himself between your thighs so he can lavish you with deserved attention as he kisses all over your pussy.

Running his adept and hungry tongue back and forth over your clit before sucking it into his mouth and making those thighs quake and jerk around his face. 

“D… Let me touch you.” You whine.

“There'll be plenty of time for that later, right now I’m happy just here. Right here..." He licks again, a long fat stripe up your seam, and you pant. "I want you to come all over my face, beautiful.” Dieter urges, rutting his hips into the mattress. 

As the tension mounts within, you can feel every nerve in your body standing on edge, like a tightly coiled spring ready to burst. And then, in a moment of pure abandon, it happens. A wave of pleasure crashing over you; a surge of unfurling sensations that seem to consume you whole as you tumble through them.

He rubs over your clit, tickling it with the increasing pressure and speed from the pad of his thumb as he slips his tongue inside your hole and drinks you down. He hums around you, licking and sucking as he entices your body to just bend to his mouth.

And you do.

"Dieter! Fuck!"

Like a firework exploding in the night sky, a burst of light and colour leaves you breathless and exhilarated as he continues to lick and suck you through your orgasm.

You're a writing mess, groaning as you fill his mouth with more of your slick and clenching around his tongue as he fucks your contracting hole with it. As your body convulses with the force of your release, your thighs crushing further against his head, you feel a profound sense of relief wash over you, like a swampy weight lifting from your shoulders.

Bathed in a moment of pure ecstasy amongst the dread that’s consumed you; a fleeting glimpse into the freedom from it all. 

"Fucking love this pussy," he mouths.

“Shit... I need you, D.” You gasp, your body buzzing for him. 

You pull him out of his cargo shorts, hard and swollen in your palm. Just barely stroking across his soaked frenulum as he groans like he's been choked. The slick of his own drippings covering your fingers as you jerk him desperately.

“Fuck!” Dieter muffles into your mouth as you crush him in a kiss; teeth clashing with clumsiness at your haste to have him and cupping his balls.

You can taste yourself all over his furry lips and chin as he guides his swollen, weeping head inside your gorgeous cunt.

“Dieter!” You groan as he fucks into you, large hands roaming all over your body, squeezing, massaging.

“So fucking beautiful, baby.” He pants, burying his head into the ample swell of your breasts.

Your tits bounce wildly around his face with every thrust of his pelvis against yours, and he just whines and groans inside his happy place as he sucks on your nipples with eyes that stare up at you. 

But it’s the love shining so deeply in his watery eyes that truly moves you - a love so profound, it seems to shimmer with unshed tears, reflecting the depth of his emotion.

“God, I fucking love your body, baby.” His words penetrate the barriers you’ve built around yourself, slowly chipping away at the walls of self-doubt and insecurity that has held you captive in a cage for days.

"I love you!" He gasps into your mouth.

As you look into his earnest eyes, you see no sympathy or pity, but genuine affection and admiration. You see a man that genuinely believes you’re beautiful.

A man that can’t get enough of your curves, and welted and dimpled thighs. Your stretch marks and tummy rolls. A man who’s not afraid to put his hands on you, who wants to show you off to the world and declare “she’s mine” at the top of his grizzled voice proudly. 

You see a man who also has body hang ups of his own when he stares at himself in the mirror after hours of being preened and gussied up like a peacock for the world’s cameras.

Wrinkling his aquiline nose at his slick appearance, when all he wants to do is laze about in a grubby, green gown and broken crocs, smoke a bowl and eat bags of flaming hot Cheetos with you, whilst nestled in the comfy, safe place in your arms and cleavage where he feels most like himself. 

He twists, so one of your legs is still hooked over him, his hand on your ass as he pushes into you as you lay on your sides facing each other. 

And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

It’s a revelation - the realisation that you’re deserving of love and acceptance, just as he is.

His hands run all over your body, sliding up your back and fingers gliding down your chest delicately. He guides his cock back in, holding you in his other arm tight and kissing you. 

Dieter whines into your face as he slips in, his eyes searching yours out to convey in unspoken words how good you feel squeezing around him. 

You let your hips languidly bounce as he flexes his; both of you enjoying that heady rhythm without rush or eagerness to finish in a hurry. 

“Mmm. Oh fuck, right there… oh fuck, fuck. This pussy, baby, you feel so good.” Dieter groans, eyes rolling back. “Amazing, amazing...” He babbles.

“Tell me,” you pant. “Tell me what’s amazing, D.” 

“You. You’re amazing. Fuck I want you every which way. I-I want to fuck your ass again. Wanna have you in my mouth, swallow you all up.” 

“Eat the world.” You grin.

“Yeah, eat the world.” He smiles. “My world. You’re my fucking world, baby.”

“Fuck, I love how you grip me so tight, baby.” He wheezes, fists punched into the pillow either side of your head as his hips do all the work. 

A subtle roll and he’s on top of you again. Knees knocking your thighs open wider and sinking his cock into you deeper.

He kisses you as he slides in, filling you up with his love as you whimper into his mouth in sweet relief.

“Come on, Dieter, give me your cock. Like that, fuck yeah, like that.” You pull on his broad arms, legs wrapping around his chunky waist as his stomach slaps against yours. 

Deep smacks of skin fill your ears as he fucks you harder. He wheezes as he breathes, panting into your face.

“Like this? Yeah?” He fucks you faster, drilling in quick, deep shunts; the headboard clattering against the wall loudly. "God!" He grunts deeply. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna come, baby!"

He’s weak for you. You can see it in his eyes, the vulnerability around the blown out glass of them as he comes and bites down on his lip through a laboured grunt. Spilling warm and thick inside of you, and you feel it pool and dribble out once he softens.

“Give it to me, give it to me. Give me all your come, Dieter!” You cry as you burst again - gold bokeh filling your eyes as the heat floods through your body.

Your spine twists, your back arching. Toes curling and ears ringing as you come around him.

“Baby!” He yells as he momentarily stiffens and strains before exploding inside of you. 

He stays plugged in for a while, pelting your breasts with unrelenting kisses as he rubs his nose against your nipple, tasting the salt of your sweat on his tongue. Eventually finding your lips once more as he holds your head in his giant hands.

“How do you do that, D?” You ask breathlessly, afterwards.

“Do what?” He lays beside you, pants slowly dying down and nose nuzzling against your own.

“Make me feel so good?” You peep, timidly.

“The same way you make me feel so good." He hums out as you watch his eyes close, dark, fluttery eyelashes fanning out. "I’d probably still be in the gutter if it weren’t for you loving me.” He says quietly. 

“Do you really believe that?”

He nods, his greying hair ruffling against the pillow. “Yeah. I do. You saved me, baby.” He says, with deep chocolate eyes lanced on you. “My brain scrambles when I'm with you, but in a good way.” 

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you. Then maybe you’d believe it.” His eyes soften at you, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over him. "I just want you to know how beautiful you are to me," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never want to make you feel like you're anything less than perfect, because to me, you are. And I know I'm a bit much sometimes... but I really do love you.”

You don't try to unpick the sweetly soft truth that pours out of him in sincere revelations, you just listen with a smile spreading across your lips. 

“I love you, D. You and your scrambly brain always make me feel beautiful.”

“From the first day I met you, I’ve always thought so.” He smiles, his thumb pulling on your bottom lip. "And I'm never wrong." He grins.

A wider smile escapes you as you lean in closer, your forehead resting against his, damp with sweat.

“I’m not gonna force you, baby, but please come with me tomorrow night.” He implores with soft eyes. “You’re gonna look so beautiful and I really want you there with me. We'll have a great time, you and me.”

Your response is hesitant, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on his pudgy hip as you struggle to find words. Unable to speak, like rust clogging in your throat as your mind recalls all the nasty slurs said about you online and the panic prickles again.

You want nothing more than to carry out stringent ablutions, cleanse yourself of the tarnish they’ve left inked under the layers of your skin with all the other jibes and taunts you’ve heard throughout your life.

It's hard not to let your body physically define you when physicality is so superficial in this world. There isn't anything that anyone has said that you haven't heard before, or said to yourself in your moments of dark masochism.

You've seen all the looks people give you, like you're an exhibit in a museum to be gawked at. Heard all the whispers and mean girl things that ultimately mean girls say in earshot.

You've spent years planning routes around rooms as you step in, avoiding scenarios where you'll have to squeeze yourself through tiny gaps or past people.

Accepting the fact that the dress you really like in the shop window won't be in your size. Slicking your thighs in layers of anti-chafe balm in advance when your friends want to go for a walk and you struggle to keep up.

And words cut deep.

You try to tell yourself it's jealousy. You try to tell yourself that they’re not real. Faceless drones sitting behind a screen with nothing better to do than tear you down, because you ultimately have what they want.

They want him, Dieter. But you have him.

A woman who is so far removed from themselves in terms of looks, that it's hard for them to comprehend and accept that he could genuinely want you and love you, and get turned on by you.

You breathe in slowly, trying to push down all the negative thoughts that try to worm their way back in.

And sometimes, it's hard for you to accept too.

But then he does things like this, makes you believe and accept it, because his love for you is real. It's so fucking real that it guts you. It's all you've ever wanted, someone to see you.

Will I have to suck in my belly? Will people see me doing that? Is the dress going to cling onto my stomach and thighs too much? What if my dress tears? What if I fall? What if I embarrass him?

But then you look in his eyes keening back at you, and he has this power to get inside your head and sweep them all away again into a dark corner.

“I promise you, you won't be alone. I'll be right there beside you, every step of the way." Dieter reassures. 

Your eyes soften at his words, a glimmer of hope shining through the murky uncertainty. "But what if-"

"No 'buts', candy and nuts," Dieter interjects, headbutting you gently. "You’re stunning, babe. Inside and out. And I'll spend the rest of my life reminding you of that."

“The rest of your life, huh?” You smile. 

“Yeah. If you can tolerate me for that long.” He snickers, eye creases crinkling. 

“That’s a pretty big if.” You smirk. 

“The biggest.” Dieter smiles, his big browns pleading silently and soft at you, and melting you further in the process. 

You nod, smiling. “Okay. I'll go.” 

“Amazing.” He croons with a satisfied yawn. “We got any KitKats left?” 

“In the kitchen, I think. I’ll get you one.” You smile. 

“Rockstar.” He mumbles, nuzzling further into the pillow.

You catch sight of him over your shoulder, his bare, round ass naked and furry as he adjusts and gets comfortable on the bed. 

You pad down to the kitchen, not bothering to dress, and catch sight of your reflection in the dark pane of the window.

A wobbly silhouette at first glance, but as you look closer, you can see the sheen of sweat gleaming on your skin, the warmth that coats it from the afterglow of Dieter’s touch. 

Your gaze lingers on your shapely form, but instead of scrutinising the perceived flaws, you find yourself noticing the things you’ve overlooked - the gentle curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes, the fact that you’re here, naked and comfortable to wander freely around the house again, whereas only a few hours ago you were wrapped up and hiding. 

As you regard your reflection, something is different. The harsh judgement and self-doubt that has plagued you tirelessly has been replaced by a newfound, creeping sense of acceptance and appreciation.

A small glimmer, but it's still there nonetheless.

You turn, admiring your shape with a small smile lighting you up at what you see. 

In this moment, you realise that you’re beautiful like he says - not just because of your physical appearance, but because of the love Dieter has for you that makes you see past any self-loathing.

His unwavering affection lifts you up when you sink, helping you to see yourself in a new light, as a woman worthy of love and admiration.

You come back into the bedroom and toss the KitKat on the dresser when you see Dieter snoring gently.

Your leg hooks over his puffy middle as you listen to his heartbeat. The soft thrum-thrum emanating in the pit of his chest soothes away any worries or fears. 

You feel his thick fingers twitch against your skin, a silent snuffle as he breathes laboriously, lost in sleep. 

Dieter Bravo sees you and loves you for who you are, so maybe, just maybe, you should try to love yourself, too. 

It's the last conscious thought you have before you fall asleep with him. 

“Does my pocket look okay? It looks weird, it’s doing shifty things. I don't trust it.” Dieter asks, as he looks in the mirror and fiddles with the silk handkerchief poking out the top of it. 

You can feel the nerves radiating off of him in droves. His fingers twitch, rings clacking against every surface he passes. Lips gnawed on until they’re scarlet, despite the make-up artist slicking them with balm tirelessly. 

“Your rebellious pocket looks fine.” You say, as you step fully into the room.

“Oh wow! Baby. Fuck, look at you!” Dieter turns, his whole face lighting up. “You look so good in this colour.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, smoothing down the dress that fits you like a dream.

It hides a multitude of sins in your opinion, as you turn this way and that in the mirror - you’re satisfied with how you look.  

“Yeah, your eyes really pop, wow!” He comes over to you, all perfectly coiffed curls blown out, and crushed velvet sleeves embracing you. “Fuck…” He says, eyeing you up and down. 

He makes no effort to hide it when he adjusts himself in his pants so brazenly.

“You scrub up pretty well yourself, Mr Oscar Nominee.” You smirk, eyeing how good he looks in his suit.

A crisp shirt is open at the neck revealing an abundance of golden skin you long to lick and taste. He channels Adam Ant with the eighties romance of it all; lace sleeves hanging low and unruly from his jacket cuffs, matching velour Gucci loafers on with no socks, and wearing fitted pants that finish above the ankle. 

“I’m so fucking nervous.” Dieter murmurs to you, quietly in the car on the way there. He rubs at his sternum with a large palm and keeps it there. "I need an antacid. And possibly a shit." He mumbles, belching quietly into his fist. "Fuck. I should've taken a shit before we left."

You giggle. “You'll be alright. Just breathe.” You reassure him, ghosting your nose over his. "I've got you, D."

“I’ve got you too, baby.” He promises, squeezing your hand and smiling at you. "God, you look so beautiful."

The cameras are flashing in your retinas as you walk the red carpet with him. The dress dazzles back, accentuating your curves and features, and looking at yourself once more in the mirror before you left, you were awash with awe at how good it actually made you feel.

He leans in for a kiss, but belches again in your face, and you chuckle as he laughs, embarrassed. "Sorry, sorry."

"At least your breath doesn't smell like Cheetos."

"No, but my sweat does." He chuckles, then turns to you. "Please, for the love of God, don't let me shit my pants."

You remember that feeling, coming back to you slowly as you stand tall and proud beside your silly man, who won't stop discreetly belching in the back of his throat like a toad where he's so nervous. 

Where did that other woman go? She was lost for a while, pulled into the mud, but she kept moving, getting herself out of it once again. She has strength after all. They won’t drag you under. 

Dieter is in awe of you too as you hold onto his hand, fingers interlocked with yours tightly, with his other on his chest holding in his anxiety - and nervous burps - whilst you smile beside him and support him on his big night.

You hold each other up with words unsaid. Pillars of strength when the other one needs it. With him by your side, looking at you the way he is now, you’ve never felt more beautiful and loved in your own skin.

The paps call you to look this way, gorgeous, as they snap your picture with him whilst you pose, growing more confident as Dieter holds you close, beaming at you. 

The interviewers want to know all about your dress and compliment you beside him as he talks about his film, and then forgets about it entirely and starts talking about you instead with starry eyes, when he loses his train of thought.

Interviews pop up online of Dieter just dumbstruck at you standing next to him, peppered with heart-eye emoji's and the comments flood in under the photos and reels.

Look at how he looks at her!

They make such a cute couple.

She looks so beautiful in that dress.

Aww, he really loves her!

I want them to get married and have lots of babies!!

I hope he wins tonight, he deserves it.

She's so good for him.

I wish I looked that good.

But their words, no matter how kind this time round, won't matter. Because right now, nothing anyone could say could make you feel better than he does about yourself.

Dieter leans in, his arm sliding around your curvy waist, his voice husky and pouring liquid silk in your ear. 

“Later on, I’m gonna fuck you in this dress, baby.” He promises, with a shit eating grin that’s just as gleaming as the devilish gold hoop twinkling in his ear.

“You better, it’s Valentino.” You smirk. “Gotta get your money's worth.”

Crookedly grinning at you, he places a lingering kiss on your glossy lips as the paparazzi go wild, snapping pictures of Oscar Nominee, Dieter Bravo, affectionately worshipping his Goddess for the whole world to see.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Dieter, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

[brailsthesmolgurl]

CHASTENED

The Foreseer was only tasked with one job, to be the guardian of the Creation Protocore under Astra's rule. Men of all walks of life, all kinds of statuses tried to get close to the Creatio Protocore only to deeply regret their decisions. But how about a young lass at the verge of death with a motive to steal the eminent gem takes on the impossible challenge?

Warnings: Angst, Extreme Pain, Character Death, Blood and Gore, consideration of a part two soon. Spoiler towards Zayne's lore.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter over herself, the huge bundle of animal fur still not effective against the harsh gales of the region. Her lips were severely chapped, if she were to lick them at any point, she might either end up with her tongue stuck to her lips for the remainder of the journey, or else she would have a bleeding issue. None of the options on the table present a feasible method.

The tower sprouted from below the hills, the achromatic slates of the gray towers stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the span of white snows. The sight of the towers a reminder to her that she just needs to hang on a bit longer to get to her destination. The closer she reaches the towers, the smaller she felt as compared to the towering structure.

She stood at the doors that could easily fit a snow giant and looked at the scriptures carved onto the heavy doors. '𝕿𝖔 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖔𝖗𝖘, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖆 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖞. 𝕿𝖔 𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊, 𝖙𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖆 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖞, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖋 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑.'

Pulling off layers and layers of animal fur, she revealed her uniform underneath, a chain mail clad to her small stature, with a layer of thick yet fine leather draped above a gown of woven silk. The emblem of the castle she hailed from sewn onto the front and back of her leather armour. You see, this trick of hers would cost her kingdom a great fortune as every century, the King would send his troops out to the Towers of Thorns to receive a prophecy for the next coming century.

It has been a tradition since the first formation of the kingdom. However, y/n had travelled regions beyond one's imagination, to get an answer for her cure. However, all answers lead back to the towers she is currently entering into. There was a small door which is of the size of a mundane. She pushed the door and it creaked open, heavy iron scraped against the snow covered grounds. The snow becoming a good lubricant for the cracks that grew deeper into the floors.

She managed to squeeze into the small opening and was met with a huge hall, tall ceilings held up by pillars made of solid mortar. A highly sought after material for her nation, to build their own castles and for the symbol of wealth. Mortars were shipped in by boats from lands afar but coming across it is entirely rare. Chandeliers made of soft rime hung from the high ceilings, with the purpose to capture the moonlight at night and to provide what little lighting the hall already has.

The hall would have easily been mistaken to be a ballroom hall, if it was not so dead and cold. Literally dead and cold. Y/n figured if there were a bit more decorations; such as extravagant paintings, sculptures and better lighting, this place could easily surpass all of the other ballroom halls she had ever attended. She walked towards the end of the ballroom hall, a huge and wide flight of stairs welcomed within her sight.

Up to the second floor, the floor had transitioned from tiled marble to stone made out of the hands of a very talented stonemason, given its adjacent patterns. The halls presented on both side were long and seemingly endless, with only four doors occupying on each of the sides. She will have to figure out eventually which room leads to the Foreseer.

She came to the last door, disappointment slowly etched onto her face as she have only been greeted with nothing but empty rooms. She actually wondered for a moment if she had ended up in an abandoned castle. The last door opened with a slight creak to its hinges and she saw a spiral staircase leading upwards. Off she went, feet stepping onto the steps carefully as they are quite steep.

She came across another room, a larger one this time, but not as big as the ballroom hall she had first entered. Windows aligned the room, a sight she has been missing out for a bit when she was exploring downstairs. The middle sat a man, eyes closed as if he was resting, with a large sceptre in his hand and the Creatio Protocore floating within it.

That is the Foreseer. Her mind spoke out as she slowly approached the man in slumber. She had only heard of stories of the Foreseer, but she had never known that he was this handsome? This could explain why troops that were dispatched to this tower refused to reveal the looks of Foreseer. It was clear jealousy brewed within those men, if they were to describe the Foreseer as how y/n is admiring his features, the troops would not be scoring any women anytime soon and this castle could and would be swarmed by females.

The Foreseer's skin was pale, akin to the snow that surrounds the tower, but his raven hair a contrast to his complexion. He adorned a dark blue outfit, that carries an iridescence of silver, a subtle match to his silver accessories that were embroidered onto the ends of his long coat and sleeves. His hands were hidden under a pair of gloves just as black as his hair and he was sat in his throne. Or more like chained down to it.

Eyeing the Creatio Protocore, y/n thinks it would be the best timing to grab the protocore now while he was still sound asleep. She reached her hand out to inch closer to the sceptre, but when she is close enough, the Foreseer's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at her. She clumsily fell, startled by his sudden wake. "What do you think you are doing mortal?" The Foreseer's voice was surprisingly low, no hints of grogginess despite him just waking up.

"I represent the troops from the land nearby to receive the prophecy for the next centenary. I would wish to know it so that I may bring the destiny back to my people." She lied, pushing herself off of the cold floor. The back of her gown now stained wet but she could care less.

"The tradition has been banished I see." The Foreseer slowly blinked his eyes, to wake himself up better and took in a deep breath. "You are not here for your people. But it is for your own." His eyes snapped towards her, deep forest greens darkened.

"I...I..." She hesitated, eyes darting everywhere when she tried to come up with a valid explanation for what she was trying to do earlier. "I need the Creatio Protocore, in order to cure my heart that is dying of a reason that nobody could elucidate."

The chains wrapped around the Foreseer emitted a faint glow and she watched them disappeared off of his body, except for his thorax. The chains on his torso were pointy but it rested comfortably on him, with every breath it takes, the chains expanded and contracted accordingly. "It is very assumptive of you to think I would give it to you, just because you asked nicely. What a fool you could be." He remained seated on his throne. "Many men who stepped foot in here with reasons and excuses similar to yours ends up getting deprived of their existence. Should you wish for the same ending as them?"

"No. Please no." She begged, getting onto her knees this time. "Please do not kill me. I will do anything. But please do not kill me."

"Even if I do not, your heart shall anyways." He acknowledged, beckoning her to her feet. "As punishment, you shall remain in this tower to serve me through the end of your days." His voice and facial expressions are alike, stoic. "Should you try to leave, I shall not show you any mercy as how I have dealt with the previous trespassers."

"Where are we going?" Y/n asked, speeding up her footsteps behind the raven haired man. The man had woken her up, provided her with a few pieces of rye bread and here they are, walking up a stair well that goes up in a spiral. The rye bread she had yet to finish still in her hands. She was worried she might get motion sickness and waste what had already went down her throat. The Foreseer remained silent, footsteps steady on every step. A candlestick within his grasp, illuminating the steps ahead.

A thud followed by a creak was heard and sunlight poured in. Both of them had arrived to a roof top. Not being a lover for low temperatures, the warmth of the sunlight made her sighed in enjoyment. "Come here." The Foreseer called out to her and she went towards him, towards the stone barrier. Her eyes widened when she took in the view of the snowy mountains in the far distance, the snow had came to a halt, leaving white traces over the whole span of land ahead, with occasional barren stalks of trees reminding her the consequences of the harsh winter. She never knew she could find beauty within a sea of pristine white.

"This shall be your punishment." He pointed towards a small pot on top of the stone barrier, a single bud remained unbloomed. "Bloom this plant and your punishment shall be voided and you shall regain freedom." Y/N raise her head to meet his gaze, blinking in confusion.

"The weather is so cold here, I don't think it will be able to bloom under such harsh conditions." His never-changing expressions made her gulped. "Nevertheless, I would give it my all." Her surrendering stance made him huffed in approval. "So do you come up here often?"

"Making small talk I see." He turned to face the view. "Casual notes will not lessen your punishment."

"I know for sure it would make our accompaniment more pleasant." Her bravery got commended when the man eyed her for a second. "I certainly do not wish to spend the last of my days talking to a wall or a flower when I acknowledge the existence of another person within the same confinement as me."

"I come up here whenever I want to see the view, or to be under the sun." He replied.

She pointed towards the bud in the pot. "How and where did you obtained that because it will practically be impossible for you to find that out in the cold here."

"Someone gifted this to me and this is not an ordinary flower." His gloved hand traced the clay pot that holds the bud in place. "I was told it could bloom even in the harshest of winters. So, ensuring the flower to bloom shall be your expertise."

A series of shrill chirps pierced through the silence and both of them looked up in sync. The man looked relaxed while poor y/n looked like she was about to witness god herself, although she is already in the vicinity of one. "What is that sound?" Her hands were halfway lifted up, next to her ears, getting ready to cover either her head or ears, depending on what happens next and whether it would involve her head or ears. "I have never heard of such sounds!"

The chirps are continuous, leading her to cover her ears with her small hands. A gust of wind hit her head and down came a bird-like creature, about the size of a hawk. The bird-like creature is almost-crystal like, coated in a silverish blue from head to toe, body texture a close resemblance to crystal glass on chandeliers. It's raptorial claws beats the impression of it being a fragile bird. "This is an Arcticyon, they pass by here whenever they migrate. Alas, that was eons ago." His look resembled a quaint longingness, staring at the bird.

"I suppose being in the cold, all the way out here, away from civilisation, things get pretty lonesome." His cold gaze returning and the bird rejoiced with it's flock in the skies, a moving blue cloud then proceeds towards the opposite direction it came from.

"You are not here to study my behaviour. Your curiosity almost led to your own demise." His cruel reminder made her wished she never said anything earlier on.

After a couple of days, the daily routine of caring for the bud got emblazoned into her head. She was assigned to a room which has all of the amenities she needed to keep herself alive and entertained. That includes having her own clothes, food sources and bathroom. She assumed all of which are a part of gifts from the royals who came to visit.

She got out of bed at the crack of dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon of one of the mountains in the far distance provided a normal circadian rhythm for her. Time is not a limitation here for her, she is free to explore within the towers. Visiting the Foreseer is out of the question for her. She lit up a candle and started climbing her way up to the top of the tower, speeding up her footsteps just so she could catch sight of the early sunrise. It is an unspoken competition now.

When she arrived to the top, the Foreseer had already beaten her to it. Not that he had ever been a part of this 'competition' of hers but she did not expected him to be up here this early. "Good morning---" Her right arm violently jerked and she gasped in surprise, the candle falling from her hand and onto the snowy ground, instantly getting extinguished. Hands were tightly pressed to her chest, screams muffled with her biting down harshly onto her lips. Tears welled up in her eye sockets almost instantly.

The Foreseer approached her, watching her closely as she faltered to the snowy grounds. He said nothing, but stood next to her figure within reaching distance, awaiting for her next move. Her gloved arm make it hard for him to assess where is her actual pain spot. Her twitching slowed and he took a step back, to give her some personal space till he noticed something falling from her face, wetting the grounds beneath. She is crying.

He was about to take a step closer but she pushed herself off of the floor, head remained facing downwards and muttered under her breath, fleeting misty clouds formed when she spoke. "Good morning, I will go ahead to water the bud now." She took her time to walk over towards the edge of the rooftop and there sat the pot, with the bud already at the verge of blooming. She surely have a good pair of green fingers, just like what the Foreseer had suspected.

The Foreseer could see why she needed the Creatio Protocore now. Her weakness hails from her once in a lifetime disease, Cryotasis. This disease only occurs to people whom are born to be Astra's nemesis. The God inflicting this upon the chosen one a sign of a cruel punishment, and nothing could heal them other than the Creatio Protocore. Throughout centurions, the Foreseer had witnessed only a handful of Cryotasis victims, mostly wanting to get the protocore so that they could heal themselves, but of course, the Foreseer would never succumb to the greed of a mundane. But now, she is the tainted individual, cursed with the touch of a God.

"Are you alright?" He could not stop those words from rolling off of the tip of his tongue. It was certainly very rare for him to ask someone about their condition, not that he ever thought about caring either. He is incapable of sensing emotions or resonating with them but with her, she makes him feel things that he had never felt before. It is a new sensation for him, so maybe that is why he thought it was only right for him to ask if she was okay.

"Yeah I am used to it by now." And he saw a reflection of him, a fraction of him in her. How she holds back her pain and diverts her attention to something else to suppress her mind. Whenever he felt lonely, he too, would divert himself from having to feel the loneliness creeping in. Her words of dismissal made the man leave her to her own desolation. When the Foreseer had went down the steps, she lifted her sleeve up, the blue veins stuck out like a sore thumb against her pale skintone, imprints of webbed and black snowflakes emblazoned on her skin, cold to the touch, even colder than the winter she is currently in if that makes any sense at all.

She ran her fingers over it, but it did not hurt, she only felt the scars raked across the pads of her fingers, but her affected arm did felt numb and stiff. The young maiden stood up, leaving the watering can by the side of the potted plant and she proceeded to head downstairs so she could layer on an extra coat. Upon arriving at her room, her wooden door was slightly ajar and she saw the man sat on the plush chair inside of her room, a book held up to his face and his legs crossed comfortably. "Come in."

"I never thought I would be able to see you read." She commented, slotting herself into the adequately sized room. The Foreseer paused momentarily, book lowered and his icy stare pierced through her, just like his following sentence.

"First, you asked me about being on the roof and now you are mocking me about my habits." Although she never had that intention to mock him but she could tell he does not like sharing anything about himself. He is a lone man locked in a tower afterall, the act of sharing would practically be impossible. "I may be a deity who has responsibilities, but this does not defer me from my hobbies." Tapping the hard cover of the book, she took a seat on the edge of her bed, trying to initiate more conversations and the day went by, with them both exchanging conversations. More like her asking him questions and him replying in impermanent statements.

But two weeks had passed, with her being reluctant to leave now. Be it her wounds are getting more and more severe, the cryotasis on her arms had gotten so severe that she had limited movement for her thumbs, sometimes not being able to bend it to pick things up or to hold things. The nights she had spent rolled up in bed, enduring the excruciating pain littered all over her arm. Stygian veins now a replacement of her previous symptom and she strongly believe that she is rotting from the inside out.

The knock on her door woke her up, eyes snapped open. “May I let myself in?” The voice of the only man she had been acquainted with for the past two weeks came through the other side of the wooden obstacle at the entrance.

“Yes you may.” She could not hide the weakness in her voice. The door then opened up, revealing The Foreseer in his usual outfit but without the blue coat this time around. He claimed that his coat resembles nothing more than an accessory and she remembered teasing him about accessorising himself even though he does not even have any visitors on a daily basis. His retort was witty, turning the table she had set against herself, emphasising that if it was not for him, she would have been stuck in the clothes she had originally worn and the amount of methane gas buildup on her would have made the Foreseer kicked her out of the tower.

He stood still at the entryway, lips slightly parted as his eyes traced the maiden in front of him, from top to bottom. Her cheeks flushed at the way she was being stared at. This is the very first time the deity had looked at her so tediously. “We need to get you to the hall downstairs.” His feet hurried across the floor and he scooped her up into his arms, her squeaking in response to his sudden actions. Till she realised that she no longer felt like she had a pair of legs. Her thoughts of the Foreseer wanting to make a move on her immediately got diminished. She is now in her late stages and there is nothing she could do. Nor would she want to do anything about it. She realised throughout these past weeks, she had fell for the man, the deity himself who showed her no signs of interest other than entertaining her questions with one-worded sentences.

She was pretty certain that she has a one-sided affection towards the man holding her now. His footsteps are hurried, the sound of his shoes thumping against the tiled floors echoed through the long hallways. As she was about to say something, another series of pain struck her and she arched her back involuntarily, wailing in pain. The man laid her down onto the floor instantaneously and he held her torso up to keep her from breaking her back. She did not know that this man, the deity himself reciprocates the same feeling towards her. This only took him a week to finally come to a conclusion to the ache in his heart. He ached for her belongingness, her company, her smile, her curiosity; he is in love with her.

The eyes of the deity burnished into flames of gold and the sceptre that houses the Creatio Protocore formed in mid air and landed into the hands of the Foreseer. She had regained her breathing, still panting heavily with tears slowly forming icicles on her pale stricken face. The linings of black veins now climbing upwards like vile vines towards her neckline, peeking out from the collars of her night gown. The parasitic nature of the curse now taking its full course on her. “The Creatio Protocore will heal you.” The deity looked at her and for the first time, she could notice emotions within his gaze. “For that, I shall give it to you.”

“No you can’t, you can’t do it.” She used every last bit of strength she had left in her body to push herself up, watching the deity kneeling on one of his knees, statued right in front of her. “You will lose your life.” He had explained to her the sole purpose of his being and presence within this world. He is only here, as his name suggests, as a tool of Astra, as a Foreseer of men. His duty held him back from having to step out of the premises of the towers and that he is strictly forbidden to foresee his own future. She called it an irony, but he called it his responsibility. “Don’t do this for me. You know how important you are to us, to everyone who looks up to you.”

The maiden staggered and he caught her by her waist, pulling her closer to him effortlessly. “What a fool of you to come up with that, through my own will, I shall be losing my sole purpose of living to someone of significant importance to me.” He ran his fingers through her hair, his touch warm and gentle, unlike what she had expected, including this intimate moment between the both of them. His willingness to kill himself just to save her received an immediate rejection from her but it fell upon deaf ears as the deity remained stubborn with his decision. “With this, I bequeath my Protocore to you. So you are to be set free from Astra’s curse.”

The sceptre emitted a blinding light, a high pitched screech came along with it and the both of them closed their eyes together. She hung onto his coat as blustery winds engulfed them, a pathetic attempt to try and separate the both of them. The Foreseer’s grip tightened on her waist, pulling her closer to him till her face caved into his neck. Once the gale had stopped, she pulled back from his embrace and she sat up hurriedly, eyes bearing concern as her sobs jerked her back to reality. The physical pain of hers disappeared but not applied to her faint heart as she watched his skin take on the shade of cement, grey and tough-looking. He is solidifying, a common telltale sign of deities dying before they fade into dust. “No. No. NO!” Her screams elevated with every word, hands coming up to cup his face, his eyes meeting hers directly. Orbs of hazel brown and deep green held emotions that meant the world to her at this moment. “Please no.”

The man pulled one side of his lips upwards, a crooked smile landed its way on his face and he spoke what was seemingly his last sentence. “I hope in the next life, we shall never cross paths again as I shall always pick you over anything else.” He let out a soft chuckle, already accepting the fate of him dying. “I love you.” He then leaned in, sealing their lips together for the first and last kiss before his body fully solidified and she was kissing nothing more than a statue. She did not even got a chance to tell him about how she felt.

She was caught up in an emotional turmoil, losing him after a confession was the worst ending she could hope for. But the blinding light behind her lover made her covered her eyes. Uncovering her vision, she noticed a lady had appeared from the source of light, adorned in gold that could build a whole empire, her olive skin a compliment to her outfit. She matched the description of Astra, with aura that immediately establishes tension within the whole hall and with eyes the shade of the iridescence of the sun, sometimes yellow and sometimes orange. Tutting both in disappointment and strong indignation, the deity stood in front of the couple, her height towered over the late deity whom kneeled in front of her. “Betrayal is what I caught on I suppose.” Her voice booming, reverberating through the hall. “A mere sign of affection towards a mundane cost him his life. What a blot on one’s escutcheon.” Although she was talking to herself, her statement indirectly suggested towards the maiden bawling on the floor.

“Now.” The deity continued, proceeding towards the mundane. “A tool I shall make of you. I hope you shall not be a replica of such a failure.” Snapping her finger, the maiden cried out as she too, experience the same fate of solidifying, just like the deity she had fell in love with. The both of them then sat as a centrepiece in the grand hall. One wore the expression of acceptance while another the opposite of it. Astra smirked, determined to make them suffer as the jasmine on the rooftop bloomed exuberantly, marking the memory of the man coming to an end and soon to be renewed in his next life.

Another deity series started and ofc, this shall take course just like how the Rafayel series did, so stay tuned for more angst my loves <3

[kohanakonohana]

noteからの翻訳です。日本語の方はぜひ末尾のリンクから向こうへ。

The silkworm makes a cocoon to protect itself when it becomes a pupa. The length of the thread that is ejected while swinging its head in a figure eight motion is said to be as long as 1,300 meters or more. 1,300m or even longer in some varieties.

The raw silk I usually use to weave kimonos is a thin, fine thread, and those threads I usually use to weave kimonos is made by twisting 10 strands of 7-grain yarn. In other words, it is the thickness of 70 cocoons.

When drawing raw silk, cocoons are boiled and the protein (sericin), which is like glue that holds the yarn together, is broken down and drawn out. The figure of eight(8) is the secret to prevent tangling in the middle.

So. we could find a silkworm or moss after we pull and take a long thread from inside. (They will not become adult silkworms, though, because they are boiled.

Raw silkworms can be boiled, or the amount of work required to take the thread from them is limited. Recently, we have been drying, freezing, salting (salting method), and steaming (steaming method), etc., to produce raw silk. In short, it is necessary to prevent the silkworms from leaving their cocoons as adult worms.

Because …silkworms first hatch in cocoons, but they have to make a hole in the cocoon they made themselves to get out.

For the time being, they finish their transformation into the form of a moth inside and tear the skin of their chrysalis, the silkworm then breaks through the chrysalis skin and expels an enzyme called cochonase, which is produced in the organ called the bird's crop sac.

The moth then breaks through the chrysalis skin, and exhales an enzyme called cochonase, produced in the organ called the bird's craw sac, to soften the sericin at the exit, then emerges from the chrysalis by pushing its way through the threads.

Furthermore, when it comes out, it also produces urine, or water, which is called "moth urine". and coloured and stains the inside of the cocoon. The rest is the skin of the shed pupa, which also sticks to the inside of the cocoon.

The silkworms hatch and the quality of the cocoons changes,

The quality of the cocoon changes and raw silk cannot be obtained. The enzyme does not break the thread itself, but the cocoonase is alkaline, so it does not do much damage to weakly acidic fibres.

However, cocoonase is alkaline, so there is no small amount of damage to weakly acidic fibres. Nevertheless, at least some of the silkworms have to be made into adult worms, because the silkworm eggs for the next cycle cannot be obtained.

The cocoons from which raw silk was not obtained, and the rest from disease, or the cocoons that did not produce raw silk, cocoons that were too small because of disease or poor growth, and so on.

It is Japanese culture not to waste such things. The cocoons are boiled, the sericin in the paste is broken down, and the pupal skin is removed as much as possible, and the result is cotton-like material known as "mawata".

Mawata sheets

The "tsumugi" thread is made by stretching and twisting the cotton, either by pulling it out or twisting it, or neither, or both. Then, fabrics woven using the tsumugi thread is called tsumugi weaving.

The left is raw silk and the right is tsumugi yarn spun by myself.The texture is different. Such is the case even with purchased products.

To be precise, the silkworm's thread is called "kibiso"

The silkworm's thread is made up of three parts: the beginning part, called kibiso ; the long, long raw silk part; and the end part, called "bisu".

Both kibiso and bisu have different textures from raw silk, and sometimes only these parts are collected and sold as separate yarns.

The beginning of the spit is still unstable and the end is the residue of the body, so in essence, I have heard that they are made slightly differently...In the case of the easily recognisable coloured silkworm cocoons, the hard yellow-green outer part is the kibiso,

The bis has a light yellow-green raw silk part inside, and the bis is slightly yellowish white.)

The bisu ends up looking leathery and unravelling…

Those different textures remain in the mawata, so, even if you try to stretch them out homogeneously, it is sometimes impossible to do so. That is the true nature of the knots that remain in the silk threads.

Kibiso (left) and bisu (right) of wild silkworms.(Silkworms ones do not peel so much)

In the end, what I wanted to say was that thread is a gift of life,I think it is lovely that the thread is born out of such a sense of waste.

[dresshistorynerd]

How did cotton win over linen anyway?

In short, colonialism, slavery and the industrial revolution. In length:

Cotton doesn't grow in Europe so before the Modern Era, cotton was rare and used in small quantities for specific purposes (lining doublets for example). The thing with cotton is, that's it can be printed with dye very easily. The colors are bright and they don't fade easily. With wool and silk fabrics, which were the more traditional fabrics for outer wear in Europe (silk for upper classes of course), patterns usually needed to be embroidered or woven to the cloth to last, which was very expensive. Wool is extremely hard to print to anything detailed that would stay even with modern technology. Silk can be printed easily today with screen printing, but before late 18th century the technique wasn't known in western world (it was invented in China a millenium ago) and the available methods didn't yeld good results.

So when in the late 17th century European trading companies were establishing trading posts in India, a huge producer of cotton fabrics, suddenly cotton was much more available in Europe. Indian calico cotton, which was sturdy and cheap and was painted or printed with colorful and intricate floral patters, chintz, especially caught on and became very fashionable. The popular Orientalism of the time also contributed to it becoming fasionable, chintz was seen as "exotic" and therefore appealing.

Here's a typical calico jacket from late 18th century. The ones in European markets often had white background, but red background was also fairly common.

The problem with this was that this was not great for the business of the European fabric producers, especially silk producers in France and wool producers in England, who before were dominating the European textile market and didn't like that they now had competition. So European countries imposed trade restrictions for Indian cotton, England banning cotton almost fully in 1721. Since the introduction of Indian cottons, there had been attempts to recreate it in Europe with little success. They didn't have nearly advanced enough fabric printing and cotton weaving techniques to match the level of Indian calico. Cotton trade with India didn't end though. The European trading companies would export Indian cottons to West African market to fund the trans-Atlantic slave trade that was growing quickly. European cottons were also imported to Africa. At first they didn't have great demand as they were so lacking compared to Indian cotton, but by the mid 1700s quality of English cotton had improved enough to be competitive.

Inventions in industrial textile machinery, specifically spinning jenny in 1780s and water frame in 1770s, would finally give England the advantages they needed to conquer the cotton market. These inventions allowed producing very cheap but good quality cotton and fabric printing, which would finally produce decent imitations of Indian calico in large quantities. Around the same time in mid 1700s, The East Indian Company had taken over Bengal and soon following most of the Indian sub-continent, effectively putting it under British colonial rule (but with a corporate rule dystopian twist). So when industrialized English cotton took over the market, The East India Company would suppress Indian textile industry to utilize Indian raw cotton production for English textile industry and then import cotton textiles back to India. In 1750s India's exports were mainly fine cotton and silk, but during the next century Indian export would become mostly raw materials. They effectively de-industrialized India to industrialize England further.

India, most notably Bengal area, had been an international textile hub for millennia, producing the finest cottons and silks with extremely advance techniques. Loosing cotton textile industry devastated Indian local economies and eradicated many traditional textile craft skills. Perhaps the most glaring example is that of Dhaka muslin. Named after the city in Bengal it was produced in, it was extremely fine and thin cotton requiring very complicated and time consuming spinning process, painstakingly meticulous hand-weaving process and a very specific breed of cotton. It was basically transparent as seen depicted in this Mughal painting from early 17th century.

It was used by e.g. the ancient Greeks, Mughal emperors and, while the methods and it's production was systematically being destroyed by the British to squash competition, it became super fashionable in Europe. It was extremely expensive, even more so than silk, which is probably why it became so popular among the rich. In 1780s Marie Antoinette famously and scandalously wore chemise a la reine made from multiple layers of Dhaka muslin. In 1790s, when the empire silhouette took over, it became even more popular, continuing to the very early 1800s, till Dhaka muslin production fully collapsed and the knowledge and skill to produce it were lost. But earlier this year, after years lasting research to revive the Dhaka muslin funded by Bangladeshi government, they actually recreated it after finding the right right cotton plant and gathering spinners and weavers skilled in traditional craft to train with it. (It's super cool and I'm making a whole post about it (it has been in the making for months now) so I won't extend this post more.)

Marie Antoinette in the famous painting with wearing Dhaka muslin in 1783, and empress Joséphine Bonaparte in 1801 also wearing Dhaka muslin.

While the trans-Atlantic slave trade was partly funded by the cotton trade and industrial English cotton, the slave trade would also be used to bolster the emerging English cotton industry by forcing African slaves to work in the cotton plantations of Southern US. This produced even more (and cheaper (again slave labor)) raw material, which allowed the quick upward scaling of the cotton factories in Britain. Cotton was what really kicked off the industrial revolution, and it started in England, because they colonized their biggest competitor India and therefore were able to take hold of the whole cotton market and fund rapid industrialization.

Eventually the availability of cotton, increase in ready-made clothing and the luxurious reputation of cotton lead to cotton underwear replacing linen underwear (and eventually sheets) (the far superior option for the reasons I talked about here) in early Victorian Era. Before Victorian era underwear was very practical, just simple rectangles and triangles sewn together. It was just meant to protect the outer clothing and the skin, and it wasn't seen anyway, so why put the relatively scarce resources into making it pretty? Well, by the mid 1800s England was basically fully industrialized and resource were not scarce anymore. Middle class was increasing during the Victorian Era and, after the hard won battles of the workers movement, the conditions of workers was improving a bit. That combined with decrease in prices of clothing, most people were able to partake in fashion. This of course led to the upper classes finding new ways to separate themselves from lower classes. One of these things was getting fancy underwear. Fine cotton kept the fancy reputation it had gained first as an exotic new commodity in late 17th century and then in Regency Era as the extremely expensive fabric of queens and empresses. Cotton also is softer than linen, and therefore was seen as more luxurious against skin. So cotton shifts became the fancier shifts. At the same time cotton drawers were becoming common additional underwear for women.

It wouldn't stay as an upper class thing, because as said cotton was cheap and available. Ready-made clothing also helped spread the fancier cotton underwear, as then you could buy fairly cheaply pretty underwear and you didn't even have to put extra effort into it's decoration. At the same time cotton industry was massive and powerful and very much eager to promote cotton underwear as it would make a very steady and long lasting demand for cotton.

In conclusion, cotton has a dark and bloody history and it didn't become the standard underwear fabric for very good reasons.

Here's couple of excellent sources regarding the history of cotton industry:

The European Response to Indian Cottons, Prasannan Parthasarathi

INDIAN COTTON MILLS AND THE BRITISH ECONOMIC POLICY, 1854-1894, Rajib Lochan Sahoo

[ddollfface]

There's just something about a... depraved, gross, and pathetic yandere that gets me going. It's just that they're so tragic that you can't help but coo at them. They rely on you, their mere existence is nothing without you, and it makes my heart swell.

Their eyes water and hearts pound as they watch you, unable to rip them away from your figure. You're just so precious, something to be preserved and kept clean. After all, you're their darling, no? The one person who's lightened their path, someone who's always been there for them, though you've never spoken more than five words to each other.

You don't know it yet, but you've changed their life. For better or for worse? They've got no clue, but they'd like to say for better, though if you knew the things they've done, you'd disagree. But that's fine. Though they crave your validation, you'd understand eventually that everything they've done is for you, you, you.

You are their Goddess, their one shining light that they bow down to, kissing your delicate skin as if it were silk woven from the hands of nymphs. They can't articulate how they feel, unable to fully express the pure devotion that racks through their body when they first laid their eyes upon you, recognizing the kindness and pure bliss you radiated as you interacted with others.

The way they see you is warped, perceiving your form as something more similar to a deity than a human. The ground you walk upon is meant to be worshipped and appraised.

His breath ragged, in and out, rushed sighs as he tried to keep his cool. He can’t; not when you're just there. You’re so close, just out of reach, on the edge of his fingertips. He knows it’s wrong; he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you like this, when you’re oh so vulnerable. It’s gross, it’s perverted, and it’s foul. He knows, but he can’t find the fucks to care. He grips the stained wall, his dirty nails clawing at the dry material. His mind races with thoughts; how you’re so beautiful, such an innocent, untouched angel. Oh, you’d look so sweet underneath him, letting him show you what you deserve. He watched carefully, his eyes trained on your figure, as you maneuver through your apartment. He quirked a brow, you seemed to be looking for something? Your hands rake through your wet hair, breathing softly, a last attempt to calm yourself down. You had to get ready, there was only an hour or two until he arrived... You look into your vanity mirror, your tired eyes staring back at you. Nothing make-up couldn't fix. You don't need it, he thinks. Of course, the powders and foundations all enhance your pretty face, but he doesn't believe you need it. You look so much more pretty when your face is bare, nothing hiding yourself from him. He feels like he can see you, the real you, the fake persona he's conjured in his brain.

[the-cantina]

Sweet Torture | Rex x f!Reader

Pinned post | Masterlist | The Bad Batch | Clone Squads | Delta Squad

Summary: Rex regrets all of his life choices as you make him swallow his pride in the best – worst – way.

18+ themes below the cut. Be responsible about the content you consume, if you're not of adult age in your country, do the both of us a favor and go away.

Ficlet | Mature | Word Count: 856 Contents: Cockwarming, Rex gradually losing his battle against lust

Mando'a terms Di'kut: Idiot | Ner kar'ta: my heart

Datapad in one hand, Rex watches you scroll through yet another article that caught your attention in the last twenty minutes you’ve both been sitting together in the spacious hotel’s bathtub. He sighs. Not for the first time — and hardly the last — his head rolls back, seeking some comfort in the decorative tiling of the bathtub’s edge; hoping the cold material will fight, even if minimally, the heat sweltering underneath his skin.

Looking for any distraction from the sweet torture of your nude form pressed to his front, Rex risks a peek at the device in your hands, wondering what had your attention this time.

Biting on the inside of his cheek is all he can do to keep in the moan clawing its way up his chest, when his eyes glance at the word lingerie and the picture of a lacy set in the perfect blue and white of his armor. And if there was a time Rex ever hated the tactical focus engineered into him by the long-necks, it was now.

Closing his eyes would only make his mind work overtime to turn whatever glimpses it caught and feed him all the scenarios he had no need of thinking of at the moment. At least, not if he didn’t want to embarrass himself like a shiny making out for the first time.

With another sigh, Rex can’t help but look back at his younger, unwise three hours younger self with petty contempt.

Had he not been a cocky di’kut, bragging with all the overconfidence of a cadet fresh out of their first successful training session about his “unbreakable focus”, maybe he would be in a better situation now.

Instead, he sits in the bathtub with your back flush with his chest, the soft warmth of your inner thighs bracketing his, your head resting back on his shoulder, giving him an unimpeded view of your chest. Of the way the lips of your cunt — your slick, warm, maddeningly pulsing cunt — stretches to accommodate around his cock. All things that would spell paradise, if not for the fact you are not moving a single kriffing inch on top of him, content to feel him throb inside of you, unaffected by the need tearing him from the inside out.

“Something wrong, ner kar’ta?” your voice, sweet like wild honey, breaks him from his thoughts. It takes Rex longer than acceptable for to pry his eyes open; longer yet to focus past the haze woven by the throbbing tempo drumming low in between his legs to find your gaze pinned on him.

He is mildly aware his voice rumbles in his chest, and assumes he must have mumbled you an answer. One that doesn’t reach — ever gets processed by his own ears — not with the way he’s busy drowning in your eyes. The hazy glint on them, the heaviness of your eyelids, the minute way your eyebrows tilt up when his hips curl up without his - and more importantly, your permission.

It’s enough to break whatever spell was weaving between the two of you.

Rex cursed himself as your gaze sharpened almost as much as the smirk growing on your lips as you looked pointedly at his hand. His own datapad — the one where he should fill reports in — groaned pitifully on his grasp, the edge near his thumb now sporting a small, concerning rainbow line.

And if he wasn’t so focused on not making a mess of himself, Rex might have bothered with forcing down the heat prickling from the tip of his ears to the last inch of his chest.

Gathering enough of his voice for a proper answer took every last thread of self-control ingrained from years of training, but at last, a wheezed “I’m fine, beloved.” made its way out of his lips.

“Then settle, love. I’m trying to read”, you chided in a satisfied purr that fell like the sweetest of caresses on his ears; a caress his hyper-aware senses feast in like a ravenous nexu.

Your back presses firmer against his overheated skin, and Rex squeezes his eyes until stars spark behind them, holding on the datapad and long-forgotten fruit in his hands like they were the only things threading him to sanity.

Breathe in, hold. Breathe out, repeat; C’mon Rex, you can do it. It’s just like in the old resistance training—

But then you decide to make yourself even cozier, hips shifting on his too-sensitive cock, your oh-so-warm, silky walls squeeze and rub him in all the right ways. His datapad meets the floor with a concerning crack, and the now ruined peach slice oozes sticky between his fingers.

You preen at your obvious victory, and Rex whines on the crook of your neck as the vibrations of your chuckling extend way past his chest.

And when you are finally moving, and Rex is sure he’s about to pass out. The ever winding coil in his core tightens to the point he can barely breathe. Fett preserve him. He felt he was about to die with every roll of your hips…

But karking hells, what a wonderful way to go.

★ And if you got to the bottom of this post, please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment! It helps me know you like what I share with you, and fuels me to share more ★

[iveleftitwithyou]

ruderal pt. 2 | paul lahote x reader

hi everyone! this is part two to this imagine. i stayed up extra late tonight working on this, so i hope you enjoy! i meant this to be as like a shorter imagine series but i'm not good at not going into detail so it will probably be a longer series than i anticipated.

word count: 2.82k

warnings: swearing, angst, sexually suggestive content

the reflection of light on the side of your house as you pulled into your driveway was a familiar sight. you sighed, quickly realizing you had a headlight out based on the lack of light on the left side of the wall. you made a mental note to talk to your dad about it tomorrow, not in the mood for much conversation after the events of the day. at this point, the only thing on your mind was throwing yourself on your bed and burying your head under the covers.

“hey” you called loudly to your dad as you entered the front door.

“hey, y/n” he replied, eyes glued on the football game in front of him. “how was it?”

“it was fine” you lied with a slight sigh. as much as your dad respected your former schoolteacher, he wasn’t one for socializing with the townsfolk, opting instead to stay home from the visitation. “i’m gonna head up to bed i think.”

“alright, sleep tight” he replied absentmindedly, eyes still on the tv. something good must have happened, you guessed, based on the cheers emanating from the speakers. you didn’t know much about sports.

without reply, you ascended the stairs and headed into your room. you opened the middle drawer of your dresser with intention, sighing as your eyes fell upon a black shirt in the back corner. it was an old, faded Nirvana t-shirt you had “borrowed” from Paul back when you were still together. despite not having worn it in two years, a part of you couldn’t let it go, leaving it at the back of the drawer every time you purged your clothing. your fingers brushed the thin material, tracing the slight difference in texture between the woven fibers and the printed graphic. with a deep exhale you gripped the folded shirt and pulled it out of the drawer.

glancing quickly over your shoulder to make sure your blinds were shut, you awkwardly pulled off your turtleneck, the head hole getting stuck under your chin as that style of top normally does. your bra and pants quickly met the same fate as the sweater - tossed onto a chair in the corner of the room where laundry goes to die.

you sighed again as you pulled Paul’s oversized shirt over your head. why were you sighing so much today? why were you giving Paul the power to make you so moody? why was he still so important to you? why did putting on this shirt bring back all of the memories you tried so hard to repress?

you sat quickly on the edge of your bed as the flashbacks overwhelmed you. flashbacks of smiles, of long nights talking and laughing on the phone, of ice-cream dates, of walks on La Push beach, of heated fights and your remorseful, affectionate reconciliation. 

before you knew it, your knees were to your chest and your head was in your hands as you sobbed quietly, your body shaking. it was a symptom you had picked up after the break up - tears were always accompanied by trembling. 

as much as you hated to admit it, seeing and speaking to Paul today really fucked you up. but, what else could you expect when you knew deep down you’d never truly moved on? of course seeing him again would make you spiral. 

you pondered the harsh words you’d spoken to (well, more like yelled at) him this afternoon. your mind was split - half of your brain told you that he deserved it, that he left you without warning and scarred you forever. he made you feel like you weren’t good enough for him. but, the other half felt intense guilt for being so rude to him today when it seemed like he had just wanted to make amends. that part of your brain, the one that missed him instead of hating him, worried that you may have just lost your only chance to learn the real reason behind that Wednesday night phone call. 

tears continued to flow from your eyes as you toyed with the hem of the baggy shirt. it seemed like you couldn’t stop replaying the events of the afternoon in your head. this appeased both sides of your brain in different ways but both made you miserable in their own right. there was one detail that stuck out, though - the look on Paul’s face as he made eye contact with you for the first time in two years. on the surface, it just looked like shock. it looked like he was surprised to see you there when he hadn’t laid eyes on you for so long. but past the facial expression, the intensity of his eyes as they met yours was honestly unlike anything you’d ever seen from anyone. it looked like a storm was brewing behind them, full of pain and sorrow and conflict. was it just because he had missed you? or was something more going on?

your curiosity and desire for answers overpowered your sadness, causing the tears to slow and eventually cease as you attempted to analyze the situation. your eyes were glued intently on the blank wall in front of you; if anyone walked in right now they would think you were either possessed or taking the expression, “watching paint dry” a little too seriously.

the sound of a cupboard slamming downstairs snapped you out of your trance - your dad must have gotten hungry. this welcome distraction was enough for you to remember you needed to finish getting ready to sleep. rubbing your eyes, you threw your legs off the bed, feet hitting the soft rug underneath you. you grabbed the first pair of pajama shorts you could find in your dresser, stepped into them, and headed into the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face. you couldn’t manage to put in the effort to do much more than that tonight.

when you were done in the bathroom, you dragged your feet back down the hallway, shutting your bedroom door behind you and turning off the lights as you continued to move towards your unmade bed. in one swift motion, guided by the moonlight streaming in between your blinds, you collapsed in bed and rolled over so the blankets were on top of you. before you knew it, you were drifting off to sleep, feeling a sense of calm for the first time since the funeral. this was short lived, however, as your dreams that night were filled with memories of Paul Lahote.

—— 

you woke late the next morning, your blinds dispersing the sun’s rays into a soft glow around your room. for a split second, you felt peace, before your brain caught up and Paul’s face flashed through your mind. you groaned, wishing for that second of peace back.

you went through the motions of the morning: get up, shower, get dressed, brush your teeth - all with that man’s stupid expression playing over and over again whenever you weren’t actively trying to think of something else. 

since it was a rare (relatively) warm, sunny day in Forks, and a Sunday at that, you knew exactly what you needed: a beach day. of course, you knew just the spot. sure, you had memories with Paul at La Push beach, but you’d been going there for years, and he never managed to ruin it for you. your dad was friends with Billy Black, so you were friends with some of the other boys on the rez growing up. even after your breakup, none of them were ever hostile towards you - you just kind of drifted apart - so you still felt comfortable enjoying La Push’s beautiful scenery.

you hopped back in your car after a quick bowl of cereal alone in the kitchen, reminding yourself to be back before dark so you wouldn’t risk getting pulled over for your burnt-out headlight. the engine sputtered to life and you made your way out of your driveway and onto the road. the radio hummed faintly in the background, but you were kind of enjoying the quiet as you weaved your way through meandering tree-lined streets up to the beach. you parked on the side of the road, surprised that there were no other cars parked there today with it being so beautiful outside. it definitely wasn’t warm enough to swim, or even wear shorts, but you didn’t have to wear a sweater, so that was a win in your books.

your backpack was slung over your shoulder as you hiked over the guardrail to the flat beach. a couple of minutes of walking brought you to your favorite spot; the cliff. while the rest of the beach was sloped dunes, the cliff was a rocky structure that would make anyone nervous if they got too close to the edge. however, the flat sand leading up to it made a great relaxation spot as long as you stayed back from the drop-off.

you laid out your beach towel as a barrier between you and the sand along a tree that you could rest your back against. it was perfect for your planned activity: reading all day.

you pulled out your beat-up copy of The Great Gatsby, flipping to where you’d dog-eared the corner of the page you left off on. it wasn’t your first time reading the book, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

finally settled in, you allowed yourself to get lost in the drama unfolding on the pages in front of you. this continued for an amount of time unknown to you - minutes or hours, you didn’t really know - until you saw something moving in your peripheral vision.

you eyed the moving figure cautiously, instinctively pressing your back further against the tree. as the person continued to walk closer to you, their features were more distinguishable, and your heart raced for multiple reasons once you finally realized who it was - Paul Lahote, of course. it had to be him.

you slammed your book closed, not taking your eye off Paul as he approached you.

“y/n, can we talk?” Paul spoke loudly, still a good distance away from you. most of you wanted to keep it that way.

“about what, Paul? i have nothing to say to you.” a lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

“can you at least give me a chance?” he huffed, moving a little closer to where you were seated.

“a chance to do what? hurt me again? not interested.” you hoped he would take your words and the absolute death glare you were giving him seriously and back off. but, it was Paul, and he was stubborn, so, of course, this was not the case.

“what are you reading?” he switched the subject, obviously trying to relieve some of the tension between you two. unluckily for him, you still weren’t interested in conversation, so you just tilted the cover of the book in Paul’s direction. he scanned the cover and nodded, “of course, your favorite.”

“you remember my favorite book?” you spoke before you had time to think.

“of course i do. i remember a lot of things about you.” he asserted, taking a seat next to you but still a few feet away. a large part of you wanted that space to be bigger, but there was another, smaller part of you that wanted to scoot closer to him. of course, you resisted this urge, staying planted in the position you were when he approached.

“Paul, i really don’t want to talk. i think you should go.” you sighed. you placed the book down next to your hip and leaned fully against the tree behind you, closing your eyes as your head rested on the bark.

“i’m not going anywhere. this is my land, not yours” he protested angrily. it reminded you of the fights you two used to have. Paul was very stubborn and was quick to snap. he’d never hurt you physically, but you two were definitely a match for each other verbally.

“fine, then i'll go” you stood up sharply, shoving your book into your backpack and tossing the towel over your shoulder as you began to move past Paul on the way back to your car.

“y/n, wait,” you felt a strong hand grip your forearm. “don’t leave, i- i’m sorry. that was too harsh.”

Paul was… apologizing? without prompting? this was definitely uncharacteristic behavior for the Paul you knew. had he matured over the last two years?

“yeah, it was.” you agreed, stopping in your tracks.

“please just sit back down.” his voice was soft - another abnormality for him. you were used to his pride stepping in, but there was no hint of it in his speech in that moment.

against your better judgement, you obliged. to make matters worse, you ended up right next to him, as he was still holding on to your arm. the irony of the situation was not lost on you - two years ago, you'd likely sat in the exact same position, but under completely different circumstances.

“alright, i sat. you can let me go now.” your words came out softer than you meant for them to. it was hard to use harsh words with Paul after he had been so soft.

he dropped your arm, looking somewhat flustered. you ignored it as you brought your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, staring out at the glistening water ahead. 

it took a few minutes before either of you broke the silence, but Paul eventually did. 

“i know you hate me for dumping you. i would hate me too. but there’s a lot you don’t know about,” he blurted. “i never wanted to hurt you.”

“well, you did, Paul. you left me with no explanation. was i not good enough for you? what do i not know? did you meet someone else?” as much as you didn’t want to be spilling your insecurities to your ex boyfriend right now, your need for answers overwhelmed this instinct.

“what? do you really think that i left you because you weren’t good enough? don’t you think i would have figured that out sooner than a year in?” he spat, visibly angry at the accusation. “and no, there was no one else. i haven’t been in a relationship since you.”

you were disappointed that the answers didn’t help. while it was nice to hear that it wasn’t because he lost interest in you, it still didn’t provide any clarity on the actual reason. his use of the words “in a relationship” instead of “with anyone” made you shiver as you thought about all of the girls he’s probably hooked up with in the last two years. you decided it was in your best interest to not ask him to elaborate on this point, both because his face was already red with anger and because you were disgusted at the thought.

“then why? what happened? why did you leave?” you felt tears start to well up in the corners of your eyes, this conversation feeling eerily familiar.

“i can’t tell you.” Paul deadpanned, looking pained as he spoke, like he didn’t want the words to come out of his mouth.

“bullshit, Paul! why would you come talk to me and act like you want to make things right if you can’t even explain why you ruined them in the first place?” your vision was blurry with both tears and anger as you waited for a response.

“i just… can’t take being away from you anymore,” Paul replied, looking you in the eyes with probably the softest expression you’d ever seen on his face. it didn’t outweigh the anger and hurt you felt, though.

“yeah, well, you should have thought of that two years ago. i’m not doing this with you if you won’t even answer my questions. you may not want to stay away from me, but i don’t want to be around you.” you stood up, once again collecting your belongings. you managed to dodge Paul’s attempt to grab your hand and slip past him, digging in your backpack for your car keys as you trudged through the sand.

“y/n, wait,” Paul called after you, scrambling to his feet. he followed you to your car, continuing to call your name, but didn’t make another attempt to grab you, which you were grateful for.

“Paul, like i said, i’m not doing this with you.” you repeated. the majority of you wanted to slam your car door closed, drive off, and pray you never had to see him again. but the small part of you that, for some reason, he still had a grasp on, made you look over your shoulder just before getting in the driver’s seat and give him an invitation: “call me if you decide to tell me the real reason.”

tags: @secretdreamlandmentality

[emmabirb8]

I've been an Invader Zim fan since 2011.

I was 15-16 at that time, and though I did thoroughly enjoy the show, I was not mature enough to really get it. Sure, it was funny, but I didn't pick up on the subtleties and style of humor beyond the surface level. I liked the wackiness and the characters, but I SURELY wasn't at a point of being able to deconstruct themes or analyze character motivations and narratives (like I very much enjoy doing now). I remember discovering an artist on DeviantArt who drew cute ZaGr stuff, so that was the pairing I liked too. I didn't think too deeply about much, and honestly, I don't think the majority of fans (if they were my age or younger, that is) did either. Everything was taken as dumb and silly for the most part, and that IS truthfully a major component of the show itself.

Getting back into Invader Zim within this past year though, I'm looking at it through a WILDLY different lens. I like Invader Zim for what it is and how it's intended to be perceived. I like that the show is meant to be dark, satirical, and tragic at the same time that it's silly, chaotic, and nonsensical. Almost everything that happens onscreen is written in to be funny above all else. (I've mentioned before that I've been watching Jhonen's Twitch streams for a while now, and I have a MUCH better understanding of his sense of humor bc of that. IZ makes way more sense if you can sorta see things from JV's perspective, lol.)

But at the same time, I also like Invader Zim for what it offers in terms of interpretation and what it can imply (intentionally or not). There is genuinely SO MUCH DEPTH to this dorky lil cartoon that a casual viewer wouldn't immediately pick up on. And a lot of that depth, I think, was not woven in purposely. The show itself was never meant to be taken so seriously. Nevertheless, I'm constantly fascinated by what IZ implies about good and evil, the nature of general society, and especially how it goes about demonstrating the devastating effects of social isolation and bullying. Meta for this series is always pretty damn *chef's kiss.* And what's even more interesting is how viewers manipulate canon to expand upon this world and these characters.

Given that I've come to understand Invader Zim better, I've also grown very fond of ZaDr. Now, while I wouldn't want to see this pairing happen in canon material, I love the potential it possesses in transformative contexts.

In reality, I get that these characters were intended to have a deep hatred for one another and a never-ending rivalry for the sake of comedy and not much else. It's an extraterrestrial perpetually throwing hands with a 12 year old because he's incompetent and his plans often fail. And that's funny. That's the point. But beyond that, canonically, these are two characters who are mirrors of each other; they're both treated like garbage by their respective peers, and they both crave acknowledgment, validation, and a sense of purpose. Throughout their story, they find they're only able to obtain these things from each other, so as a consequence of their similar personalities, they become utterly, unhingedly obsessed with each other (to a sometimes unhealthy degree). They are undeniably forever intertwined by design of how the show is set up.

And because of that, shipping of these characters was, frankly, inevitable in fandom spaces. I myself fell victim to their appeal too. (Sorry, Jhonen. 😅)

I'm not gonna go into any discourse surrounding this pairing because there's already PLENTY of that to go around online. Everyone has their own opinion on the subject, and that's fine. I respect that. Point is, even though I understand and appreciate what Zim and Dib are supposed to be in the context of the show, I also enjoy the idea of them as friends and romantic partners outside of and beyond the confines of canon.

And that's something that I think many fans who are biased toward ZaDr would also agree with! Actually, I'd say the majority of people who ship characters in ANY media would concur. We like the idea of seeing how specific relationships could develop over time and/or within different settings and circumstances. It's NOT always about wanting to see a relationship unfold on screen or in fan works strictly adhering to canon. It's about stretching canon, or in some cases, scratching canon entirely however you see fit! Who cares! It's fiction!

For me personally, I enjoy ZaDr because its attributes fall into so many trope categories that I've come to adore over the years (ones that I either wasn't aware of when I was younger, or that I didn't enjoy in the same intensity as I do now). Zim and Dib are, or could be, depending on context:

Codependent toxic soulmates

Human/non-human

Shared history

Classic enemies to lovers (or, as I often prefer it, enemies to friends to lovers)

Bicker couple

Battle couple, when put in the right setting for it

Violence as a love language

Smol and tol

The wild card paired with the rational one, the best part about this being that sometimes the more rational one is Dib, and sometimes it's Zim bc they're both a special flavor of insane

Make each other worse/stupider when together, tho oddly, they also kinda bring out the best in each other too

And, my personal favorites, the potential for hurt/comfort and angst with a happy ending, with the comfort and happiness aspects ultimately coming from each other

I like what these characters could be, to and for each other, apart from their roles in the show.

I would never want to explore a dynamic between Zim and Dib that goes beyond "frenemies" territory in canon (because that doesn't fit what the show is, and I do appreciate the integrity of Jhonen's vision). The subtle foundation for them is there, it's just that it can't really work unless a few key details are changed or manipulated, and, well...

I sure as hell like exploring every bit of that expanded potential in fan works because it's fun to imagine the various directions things could go if they were different!

This isn't me, like... trying to defend my (or anyone else's) enjoyment of this particular ship or trying to convince people to like it. Or the show for that matter! To each their own, truly. And I'm obv aware of the controversy ZaDr often incites and why. Everyone has valid reasons for liking OR not liking it, and I accept differing viewpoints on it. It's a touchy, nuanced subject to be sure. But this isn't about that.

I don't really know what this is, actually, aside from a very long very weird essay, lol. I just wanted to process why and how all of this works for me with my changed perspective from when I was first introduced to Invader Zim in my teens up until now.

It's strange, looking back. I didn't get ZaDr years ago. But I do now, and so much of it, at least from my perspective, has to do with taking the crumbs present in canon (that are undeniably there, whether you choose to acknowledge them or not, and whether they're intentional or not) and absolutely running with them to the ends of your own wild imagination.

[rabbitcruiser]

Mesa Verde National Park (No. 10)

With the introduction of corn to the Mesa Verde region c. 1000 BC and the trend away from nomadism toward permanent pithouse settlements, the Archaic Pueblonians transitioned into what archaeologists call the Basketmaker culture. Basketmaker II people are characterized by their combination of foraging and farming skills, use of the atlatl, and creation of finely woven baskets in the absence of earthen pottery. By 300, corn had become the preeminent staple of the Basketmaker II people's diet, which relied less and less on wild food sources and more on domesticated crops.

In addition to the fine basketry for which they were named, Basketmaker II people fashioned a variety of household items from plant and animal materials, including sandals, robes, pouches, mats, and blankets. They also made clay pipes and gaming pieces. Basketmaker men were relatively short and muscular, averaging less than 5.5 feet (1.7 m) tall. Their skeletal remains reveal signs of hard labor and extensive travel, including degenerative joint disease, healed fractures, and moderate anemia associated with iron deficiency. They buried their dead near or amongst their settlements, and often included luxury items as gifts, which might indicate differences in relative social status. Basketmaker II people are also known for their distinctive rock art, which can be found throughout Mesa Verde. They depicted animals and people, in both abstract and realistic forms, in single works and more elaborate panels. A common subject was the hunchbacked flute player that the Hopi call Kokopelli.

Source: Wikipedia

[whencyclopedia]

Silk in Antiquity

Silk is a fabric first produced in Neolithic China from the filaments of the cocoon of the silk worm. It became a staple source of income for small farmers and, as weaving techniques improved, the reputation of Chinese silk spread so that it became highly desired across the empires of the ancient world. As China's most important export for much of its history, the material gave its name to the great trading network the Silk Road, which connected East Asia to Europe, India, and Africa. Not only used to make fine clothes, silk was used for fans, wall hangings, banners, and as a popular alternative to paper for writers and artists.

Origins & Cultivation

Silk is produced by silk worms (Bombyx mori) to form the cocoon within which the larvae develop. A single specimen is capable of producing a 0.025 mm thick thread over 900 metres (3,000 ft) long. Several such filaments are then twisted together to make a thread thick enough to be used to weave material. Fabrics were created using looms, and treadle-operated versions appear in, for example, the murals in tombs of the Han dynasty (206 BCE - 220 CE). The silk could be dyed and painted using such minerals and natural materials as cinnabar, red ochre, powdered silver, powdered clam shells, and indigo and other inks extracted from vegetable matter.

Sericulture - that is the cultivation of mulberry leaves, the tending of silkworms, the gathering of threads from their cocoons and the weaving of silk - first appears in the archaeological record of ancient China c. 3600 BCE. Excavations at Hemudu in Zhejiang province have revealed Neolithic tools for weaving and silk gauze. The earliest known examples of woven silk date to c. 2700 BCE and come from the site of Qianshanyang, also in Zhejiang. Recent archaeological evidence suggests that the Indus Valley civilization in the north of the Indian subcontinent was also making silk contemporary with the Neolithic Chinese. They used the Antheraea moth to produce silk threads for weaving.

However, silk production on a large scale and involving more sophisticated weaving techniques would only appear from the Chinese Shang and Zhou dynasties in the 2nd millennium BCE. Silk then became one of the most important manufactured and traded goods in ancient China, and finds of Shang dynasty (c. 1600 - 1046 BCE) silk in an Egyptian tomb are testimony to its esteemed value and use in early international trade.

Continue reading...

[lunastrophe]

Drow Fashion 🕷️✨ About Spider Silk - Part 2

Part 1 can be found here.

In this part, you will find information about spider silk fabrics used by drow, as well as about their colours and their meanings (based on sourcebooks and novels).

🕷️ Black Silk – very popular among Lolth-sworn drow who use it in various temple and ceremonial textiles – wrappings for sacred items are traditionally sewn from high-quality black silk, as well as robes worn by adepts and priestesses of Lolth, garments and purses of noble drow, and robes of wizards. They are usually solid black or emblazoned with red or purple spidery motifs, or delicate, silver spiderweb tracery or embroidery.

Black silks, especially black mesh fabrics, are also widely used in interiors of wealthy drow houses as domestic and decorative textiles for bedclothes, curtains, draperies, tablecloths and so on.

🕷️ Special kind of black silk known as ebonsilk is a rare, lightweight and high-quality black silk cloth, and it is said to be woven from silk threads extruded by Lolth herself (A. Collins et al., Magic Item Compendium, 2007, 3.5e).

🕷️ White Silk – somewhat less popular among Lolth-sworn drow, maybe not counting intricate white fabrics that resemble spiderwebs and similar high-quality materials fitting for nobles. Lightweight white or grey silk is often used for good-quality garments, thin shifts and shirts, and for sheets and bedcovers. Some noble drow carry small handkerchiefs made of white silk, hidden inside inner pockets of their garments. Such handkerchiefs are sometimes embroidered or have lace trim.

Transparent and semi-transparent white gossamers and mesh fabrics that look like spiderwebs are often used by drow in curtains, draperies and other similar decorations, especially in temples and shrines dedicated to Lolth, and in chambers of priestesses and matron mothers.

In contrast to Lolth-sworn drow, priestesses of Eilistraee seem to favour white or silvery, shimmering silk fabrics in their clothing – especially fine, flowing, transparent silks that imitate or reflect radiance of moonlight.

🕷️ Coloured Silk – in many regions of the Underdark, including Menzoberranzan, drow typically favour plain black or dark-hued garments, but coloured silk is often used for trimmings or can be combined with black silk to create more interesting effect. The most popular colours mentioned in descriptions of drow clothes (almost exclusively nobles or wizards) are deep, saturated purple, mauve or red.

Some colours and their combinations are associated with noble drow houses. They are displayed on house banners and on outer garments of house members - for example, on piwafwi cloaks of nobles. In Menzoberranzan (and probably also in many other Lolth-sworn drow cities) falsely wearing colours of another house is punished with death.

Colours typically worn by servants of drow deities: Selvetarm – blood red; Ghaunadaur – purple or reddish purple, often with black accents; Lolth – black, often with red or purple accents; Kiaransalee – black with silver accents; Vhaeraun – black, Eilistraee - silver, white.

🕷️ Quilted Silk – quilted silk fabrics, usually with middle layer made of wool, are often used in travel clothes of wealthy drow, as well as in garments worn under heavier sets of armour. They can be also combined with other materials to produce light armour. They are soft, durable and warm, and mostly much thinner, more supple and more elegant-looking than typical quilted fabrics made by surfacers.

🕷️ Lace Fabrics – silken lace fabrics, usually black and with web-like and spidery motifs, are extremely popular among drow nobles and they are usually very expensive. The most intricate, top-quality materials of this type are used in robes of priestesses of Lolth, as well as in gowns (and nightgowns) of matron mothers of noble houses – they are often designed to be light and flowing.

Lace fabrics that resemble spiderwebs …are restricted primarily to the wealthy, and are often partly transparent – these provide little protection or modesty, but rather serve exclusively as a surface on which to hang jewels and other adornments (A. Marmell et al., Drow of the Underdark, 2007, 3.5e).

🕷️ Metallic Fabrics – spider silk is also used to produce cloth of gold, brocades and other luxury fabrics woven with metal-wrapped or spun weft of gold, silver, mithral, darksteel or other metal. Such fabrics are usually thick and heavy, and they are typically used only in the most opulent garments of noble drow and lavish robes of wizards. They do not seem to be very popular among Lolth-sworn drow who may prefer less heavy fabrics.

🕷️ Magic Threads - some spider silk fabrics are made with help of drow magic and within the reach of emanations of faerzress (magical radiation present in the Underdark). Such magic-infused fabrics may start to fall apart after being transported to the surface and exposed to sunlight.

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[atlaculture]

Hi I was wondering if you have any references for Tibetan jewelry or an archive on where to find them?

Like with Native American accessories, I would advise to be especially cautious when researching Tibetan jewelry, as many "new age"-types love slapping the "Tibetan" descriptor on their merch for a quick buck. With that said, these sites have decent archives:

Met Museum - The most reliable of the resources I've found. The Met is a well-respected museum that curates culturally significant items from around the world.

Culture-Cross - Perusing through the site, it seems that the people running it work very closely with local artisans for the benefit of the artisans' communities. They also cite location and materials used for each item as well.

Woven Souls - It cites location and materials used for each item, so it seems trustworthy enough. They also do a good job of distinguishing between the different cultures shown throughout the website.

Mahakala Fine Arts & Tribal Muse - Not going to lie, both websites give off strong new age vibes but the jewelry they're selling looks pretty similar to what the above sources showcase. Nonetheless, use discretion with these last two.