#romanian blouse

[drum-cu-naluci]

blouse from Siliștea-Gumești, Romania

[hiddenromania]

Vâlcea County Folk Costume, România

[officialromaniantranslatiuni]

The Japanese brand ROCHIE (Romanian for „dress”) honouring the traditional Romanian blouse (ie)

[caramelisedfruits]

ia romaneasca

[stuckinblrjail]

How do you resist the urge to blow all your money on ii? 

[alvallah]

Imagine being rich and paying for bland minimalist textiles and cold sterilized homes when you could be paying folk artists handsomely for handcrafted beauty and color —helping preserve honestly quite priceless artistic traditions and supporting the people who keep these legacies alive— instead.

[cillivnz]

MISS A SPOT, HIT THE SPOT [lord dimitrescu]

pairing. LORD DIMITRESCU x MAID!READER (dub!con turned consensual)

initial, DIMITRESCU SONS x READER (very dubious consent)

word count. 3072

warnings. AFAB!reader, cursing, misogynistic themes, animal cruelty (using gator-skin on furniture; don’t call PETA on me, i’m sorry), groping, a little bit of exhibitionism, dub!con, fingering, reader is pinned against the wall, reader’s family has been serving the Dimitrescus, large age-gap, oral sex (both receiving), throat-fucking, tongue-fucking, clit play, pyromania, dacryphilia, extreme degradation, belittling, spitting, penetrative sex (p! in v!), squirting, multiple & forced orgasms, extreme breast/nipple play, reader’s just being used by the family, reader is called maid as well as a pet name in Romanian, unprotected sex, creampie.

listening to. ‘Enslaved’ by Diva Destruction

notes. Y/L — Your Last Name, Y/F/N — Your Father’s Name, căprița mea mică — my little doe

A regular day in an abysmal castle.

Your ancestry were sworn servants of the Dimitrescu royals, and ensuing your father’s demise after leading a devoted life to the Lord, it was your turn.

You managed to avoid his acknowledge, as well as his sons’; something you thanked your stars for. You were still at a tender age; early twenties yet unexposed to the worldly works, courtesy of your conservative father. You loved the old man, despite him giving you constant reminders that your birth doomed him— how you should’ve been a son to continue his legacy, not a fragile, worthless woman. But those words only came out of his mouth like venom when he was made to overwork or worse— punished.

And like any other day you were dusting the halls. Except it wasn’t every other day you felt your skirt lift up fervently by two strong hands who also pinned you against the wall. An heir. Another, holding you down, while one tugged at your blouse. Alas, the Dimitrescu boys had found you.

“Well, well, the silhouette comes to life.” The one pining you spoke. He had a raspy voice with some baritone to it. “Sire, please leave me be—” you beseeched, but before you could even beg, you choked on your own words as your thong was pushed to the side. “She wants to leave, yet you roam about our land dressed like a whore.” This erupted demonic laughter from all three. “You thought we ought not to catch on?” The one below spoke, his face so close to your cunt, you felt heat radiate off of him with every syllable he dragged. “Your scent lingers— hauntingly— how we’ve chased after your ghost.” “But you were always too fast, little doe.”

“Always teasing us — where were you hiding this beauty? Hm?” One teased, his stone cold lips grazing your bare shoulder. “Moreover where had you been hiding this ass of yours?”

You jolted when a harsh slap landed on your ass, your not-so-subtle moan eliciting evil laughter from the men harassing you.

The one gripping your ass began to spread it, you writhed like a worm in their vice-like embrace, begging and praying for the abuse to be over; in a way it was.

The minute you felt something stroke your folds, prodding at your entrance, a demonic thunder struck. “What do you have here, boys?” They froze, as did you. This is the most cooperation you four have shown, as if unsaid, yet understood that if you hold your breath and close your eyes, the Lord can’t hurt you.

But slowly, as if puppies caught creating chaos by their master, did the boys move away from you. Bright yellow eyes ablaze in the monotonous dark of his castle. His eyes darted from your glassy eyes staring at him, the fear in them, to your rosy cheeks, blood-red lips, and straight to your skirt; your ass was out since a Dimitrescu brother hiked it up, the same heir, on realising what his father’s hungry eyes were doting upon, made a feeble attempt to fix your skirt, but before his fingers, barely tainted with your slick wetness, could touch the fabric of your skirt, let alone fix it, his father ordered. “Don’t you dare lay hands on her, more than you have already.” The Lord spoke with utmost calmness, and that’s what terrified the four of you, you especially, the most.

Reluctantly but obediently they stepped away from you. You were still clinging to the wall, frozen in place. “Come on over,” You saw his gloved hand motion towards him, “My chambers need cleaning.” An ominously mischievous tone and provocative smirk tugged at his lips.

The walk to the Lord’s chambers was awkward and fearful. He had insisted you walked in front of him, and you could feel eyes ripping through your flesh, your predator ready to pounce on you at any given moment.

You were making feeble steps towards his chambers, almost there, when he interrupted you, “Halt,” he said, causing you to stop dead in your tracks, but you dare not look back at him. “Clean my study firstly.” He ordered, and waited by the door for you to turn around.

Once you turned, you were met by calculating amber eyes that peered down at you from a head held high. He stood by the doorframe, and on seeing you make weak, yet progressive steps towards him, his thunderous strides entered the chamber. He was seated on a leather chair by the time you entered, as if he’d been there the entire time. ‘Gator skin,’ you heard a rumour the one time you cleaned the Lord’s study before. ‘He tore it apart with his bare hands, and had it skinned into a chair as a trophy.’ You hadn’t believed the chamberlain until you’d seen it yourself.

On the left of it was an ablaze fireplace, and in front, was a library; not colossal, yet extreme in number. Books of alchemy, instructional journals of God summonings, documentations on every supernatural creature that roamed the planet and how to kill them; even the Satanic Bible was on display.

“Do you fancy reading?” You almost jumped when his ravenous voice broke the eerie silence you were just growing accustomed to. “Yes, my Lord.” You seemed to pique his interest when he hummed after a short pause, surprised within yourself at the sudden confidence. It was clear, you preferred the father’s company to his sons’. Perhaps, you felt safe knowing he is the leash on his sons— the fear of your fears.

“Well, if your cleaning is satisfactory, perhaps… I’ll let you take some.” the Lord proposed, but somehow you knew this reward wasn’t for cleaning but something else he wanted to deem satisfactory.

You dare not utter another word and got to cleaning.

Dusting away, between books, underneath books; wiping away at the large mirror by the shelves. “What do they call you?” He asked with authority.

“Y/N Y/L, my Lord,” you hesitantly revealed. “Y/L!” He exclaimed, “You’re Y/F/N Y/L’s daughter,” he concluded in a wicked tone. With each wipe, he grew closer and closer and the horrid smile on his face grew wider and more sinister, forcing you to look back at him at a neck-snapping speed, only to catch him, still seated, gazing at you innocently.

“Mop the floors,” he requested, before adding “Maid.” As if asking your revelation of your identity fell on deaf ears that never demanded it. Without muttering, you dampen the mop and began cleaning.

This was just cruel.

You thought your saviour actually required your services, yet the man had you in the same position as his sons, except voluntarily, for you had to bend on all fours and stretch not to miss a spot, after all you were cleaning your master’s land, at his request. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ you sighed, only daring to think of it.

You heard fervent movement behind you, and the next thing you feel is your thong being pulled down till your ankles. It happened all too fast, you barely registered anything until his large hands spread you open to him. “They were right about you,” He spoke, intrigued, “Such exemplary beauty, căprița mea mică. Utterly pristine.”

Noticing your haltered movements, he quirked a brow. “Did I permit you to stop?” You choked a gasp, feeling his left hand trace your curves, making its way to squeeze your throat, while his right hand fiddled with your glistening folds. “No sir,” you breathed a sigh at the pleasure he was making you feel. “Fucking continue then.” He ordered and you did.

Maybe not a regular day in an abysmal castle. Your 9’6 Lord and Master, the fearsome and notorious, the head of the dreaded Dimitrescu family, Lord Dimitrescu himself, kneeling behind you while you wipe his floors, fingers stroking your lips, not yet penetrating, just— “Oh!” You moaned when a long, thick, wet something slithered about your pussy. Prodding at the places his very fingers grazed, now wiggling inside you.

You began panting, about to look back and begin your pleads when a strong hand grabbed your skull and forced it in place.

You were terrified; just a bit more coaxing and he could crack open your skull. You were less than half his size and half his age. What was more frightening to you was that it was just the tip of his tongue inside you. Your eyes rolled back and damn-near saw your brain as he began pushing more of it in.

Still, obediently, you wiped.

This pleased the Lord as he wrapped an arm over your waist to your legs and brought his thumb to your clit. The circular motions of figure-eights on your clit were frantic, causing an excruciating jolt of pleasure to run down your lower half, his anomaly of a tongue amplifying the feel.

You bit you lip, nearly drawing blood as the knot in your core grew unbearable. Feeling you clench around his tongue, Lord Dimitrescu replaced the oral attack with two of his fingers, stretching you so bittersweetly. The assault on your cunt was aching. He’d graze your g-spot oh-so-softly, slowly driving you to the edge yet deliberately prolonging the high tide. “You are making a mess, căprița mea mică,” he sighed, eyeing the slick dripping down your thighs, drenching you in all, and the wooden floor beneath you. “Allow me to help.” It was more imperative than offering, so it was but natural you grimaced in pain when he pulled out his fingers, moments before you were coming undone, only to spread your aching hole and spit into it.

You moaned; shamelessly, you let out a filthy, degraded moan, and the sound travelled straight to the Lord’s cock. “There, there,” he rubbed his spit on your folds, your swollen clit bathed in it, “All better — nice and clean.” He chuckled, causing goosebumps to arise on your spine and your breath to get caught in your throat when he shoved not two but three fingers smoothly into your weeping cunt.

You clenched at the sudden attack, bewildered at how easily you were being made to cum for your master yet again. He rose from his position to whisper in your ear, “Hits the spot, doesn’t it?” At that moment, he had you unravelling with a curl on his fingers inside you.

You screaming a string of curses, the Lord greatly amused by your sailor’s tongue.

He stood up, without a word or move. “Clean the mess you made.” He gestured down at your juices that he flowed out of your cunt. “And while you’re down there…” He unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock that sprang free, a demonic thing, it was; certainly, not pleasurable to accommodate inside, unless…

“Don’t be afraid, maid.” His baritone voice gave you absurd comfort, the tone, reassuring.

“It can’t hurt you, unless I want it to.” His pearly whites were like the fangs of a serpent, peering out, bloodthirsty for you. You wavered off the uneasiness, still eager to please your master. Grabbing his colossal cock, you began to work out the large vein on the underside of it. He hissed when you applied pressure, using both your hands in an attempt to hold it; in vain it went. You licked the tip, before slowly taking it in your mouth.

“That’s it. Show me you’re an all-rounder, maid; not just for wiping floors, show me that’s not all you can do bent over.” He chuckled, something so sinister about how his own vulgarity was so amusing to him. However, you weren’t opposed to it. After all, orders were orders; that’s one thing your father did teach you, if ordered directly, orders are orders, even if they’re fatal.

You gagged on less-than half the length, but your quick save by jacking off the inches unabsorbed by your mouth was much appreciated by the man above you. His large palm resting atop your head, slowly caressing your messed up hair into place. The gesture nearly knocked the air out of you, for when your perplexed eyes met his expectedly ravenous ones, you were shocked to see them replaced by fondness.

“You take it like it was made for you.” He cooed. You couldn’t help but put your guard down, making it unknowingly advantageous to the Lord who grabbed the same head he was caressing, as support to fuck your throat. He only chuckled at the stream of years flowing through your glassy eyes. Your flushed face tainted with tears was now red with lack of oxygen. His cock was slamming past your uvula; the bell tolls, as if he were morally obligated to.

“So young, yet you suck cock like you’ve been a whore all your life.” He chuckled to himself, before thrusting in deeply, and cumming inside your mouth. You swallowed his ichor without being told, when you stuck out your tongue to show him, he groaned, face contorted in some form of arousal, as he lifted your frame to his, kissing you with neediness. His lips were surprisingly tender, beard teasing your face while his tongue, one that swept your insides clean, forced entry into your mouth, which you hesitantly permitted.

“Dust by the fireplace, better get to it.” He said, pulling away from you. You grabbed the supplies and moved towards the said place. You hadn’t noticed when the flames became blazing, a conflagration, either way, you dipped the mop in the bucket beside you, and began wiping.

You couldn’t get much done, however, for from underneath your skirt, you felt something big prod your entrance. Rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, Lord Dimitrescu positioned himself behind you, before shoving the whole of it in. You screamed, damage was made to your vocal chords as well as your walls when the penetration quickly turned into pummelling, giving you zero time to adjust to the mammoth size of it.

Dumbfounded, cock-drunk, utterly paralysed in place, you had no choice but try to get accustomed to the relentless attack your pussy had to endure. “My…-my Lord!” You moaned, trying to form an actual sentence, “This is highly inap…-inappropriate!” You managed to muster. “Really now?” He questioned, you don’t know if it was a scoff or a laugh following his amused tone. “Who,” he paused, pushing you forward. You were now a stone’s throw away from the fire, every thrust into you pulled you back, which, despite the burn of the stretch, made you grateful for you were pulled back from the fireplace. “Do you think,” he continued, thrusting into you harder each time; the heat of the fire threatening to melt you whole, grazing your face, delicately. “You are.” He finished, slamming into you so hard, you began to cum, but before you could unravel before him, he pulled out, causing your pussy to spasm around the eerie nothingness of the room.

You were reduced to a whining mess, no words coming out of your abused mouth. “What’s the matter, maid? You want to cum?” he questioned, gripping your curvy hips. “Even when you’ve missed a spot?” One of his arms snaked on your waist, the other roamed about your spine, laying you down, before pulling your head up by your hair.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” he groaned, cock pressing against your slit, it’s new home, yet not in. He grabbed the bucket of freshwater besides you, pouring it all on the floor. “Let’s get that spot, shall we?” He said, before doing something so degrading, you felt disgusted in your own skin for enjoying.

Your hot body was used to wipe the floors of Lord Dimitrescu’s study. Ripping your blouse into shreds, he groped your breasts that had sprang free, before positioning your chest on the wet floor, and swaying you left to right.

This man, your ancestry’s master, was balls deep inside your abused pussy, fucking away the life in you, while using your tits as a mop. You moaned as your burning skin made contact with the icy puddle. “That’s how you wipe, căprița mea mică, so much better.” He grunted, the pace, the size, the girth, the sheer brutality of his sex was like a punch to the gut, nonetheless your poor cunt made feeble attempts to get accustomed to the ongoing torture. Your cunt clenched around his cock while your breasts swayed from side to side, the carpet had soupçons of water, courtesy of the fervency with which you “wiped”, which it soaked up instantly.

“My Lord, I’m going to- oh!” You yelped when he pulled out, shoving his fingers inside you and curling them. You hadn’t anticipated this, body reacting on sheer adrenaline junk that’s been coaxed out of you since the incident with this man’s sons in the halls of his castle.

Then, as fate would have it, mocking your misery, you squirted all over the floor. The juices gushing out your cunt, drowning the man that coaxed them out. He giggled, like a fucking teenager, while you fought for consciousness. Sure, you’d had sex before, he was a chef in this very place who mysteriously disappeared, but a man Lord Dimitrescu’s size? You had never held your head high around the family, avoiding their gaze like a thief, and now he’s fucking you like a stinging reminder of why you should’ve stayed in the shadows— remained a silhouette.

You were sore from the previous two orgasms, yet the man made it look easy to coax your third. The hostility your cunt displaying, clenching around the wanted, yet unmanageable penetration, was enough to unravel Lord Dimitrescu, you following with pornographic screams.

His grip on your hip and scalp was tormenting, but it soon loosened when he pumped into you one last time, pussy milked dry, filled with his overflowing load. He exhaled sharply, pulling up your panties, tapping your ass lightly. “You have been amazing — definitely considering promoting you.” He seemed very proud of his joke. Leaning down to catch your ear where you’d nearly passed out on the ground, he whispered in your ear. “Now, clean up.”

He left a moment after, stopping at the doorway to catch a glimpse of your sexy, worn out body. “My room’s next.” He said, leaving you alone with a shit load of mess to clean.

Your mess.

main masterlist. more from “resident evil: village”.

[writing-for-marvel]

Day 7: Striptease

Mob!Bucky's Kinktober Honeymoon

Mob!Bucky Barnes × Wife!Reader

Summary: Bucky gets turned on while you try on your new designer clothes.

Warnings: strictly 18+, smut, fingering, ruined orgasm, Bucky speaking Romanian & being obsessed with his wife (yes, those are warnings 👀)

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: this isn’t a typical striptease but I wasn’t sure what else to call this - it’s more of a sexy try on haul with smut. Dividers by me, please do not use. Banners by @vase-of-lilies

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Kinktober Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Library | Ko-fi

“What do you think?” You ask your husband who has perched himself at the end of the luxuriously large king bed in your rented villa.

His nose is in his phone, you suspect checking on business back home even though he promised you he wouldn’t work a single minute while on your honeymoon. But as soon as he looks up, his attention switches solely to you, forgetting all about whatever had been distracting him on the device.

One of the many wedding presents Bucky had given to you was a new closet full of custom designer clothes, including that of a swimsuit collection specifically for your European summer honeymoon.

The way Bucky’s eyes widen, desire and lust mixing like twin flames in his ocean blue eyes, makes you melt.

He’s seen you naked basically every day since you began dating, watched your face contort in pure ecstasy more times than you could possibly count, and yet, even now, more than two years into your relationship, he still looks at you like you’re the most desirable woman on the face of the earth. That there is simply no one else capable of captivating his attention in the way you do.

Bucky stands from the edge of the bed, taking slow steps towards you, his cerulean eyes never once leaving your body - not even blinking.

“Uluitoare [breathtaking].” You are still working on improving your Romanian, but by the astonished tone of his voice and the unwavering gaze settled on your body, you’re fairly sure you understand the sentiment.

“Nuh uh - no touching.” Smirking, you swat his hand away playfully when he reaches out to grasp your waist, performing a slow, alluring twirl to give him the perfect view of every angle. Once his eyes have roamed every inch of your frame, lingering at the shape of your ass and tits in your outfit, you lean forward, standing on your tiptoes, and speak lowly into his ear. “Let me put on a show for you.”

With a steady hand on his strapping chest, you press him backwards, pushing him onto the bed. His complete enthralment in your every movement makes confidence soar in your chest and gives you the courage to begin seductively stripping off your blouse button by button.

Your eyes are locked when the light material falls down your shoulders and onto the floor, a soft moan escapes his throat, his bottom lip curled behind his teeth. Even though you have no music to dance to, your hips sway to a rhythm as you unzip your skirt, making sure to provide Bucky the perfect view of your ass as that piece of clothing also drops to the ground.

In nothing but your expensive lingerie, which Bucky himself picked out, you saunter over to him and elicit a groan when you palm his rock hard cock through the material of his trousers.

“What should I try on for you first?” You ask, teasingly turning around and swaying your hips over the fabric of his pants. His growing erection becomes even more obvious as you start letting your hands wander over your own body, taunting him with the sight of your fingers dipping close to your core.

Bucky’s too caught up in the little show you’re putting on for him to even register the question you’ve asked him, but that doesn’t matter, you already know he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you in the sundress you’ve been eyeing off since the start of the season.

Leaving the confines of his warm body, you sway across the room to the rack of new clothes desperate for you to try on. You can feel Bucky’s eyes piercing through your back as you slip into the new dress, and even hear him swear under his breath when you turn around and show off the complete outfit.

“You’re the most gorgeous woman on the planet.” He comments in such an assured and sincere tone that you could never doubt he truly believes it.

Bucky pulls your body into him, so you stand between his spread legs. His fingers immediately toy with the thin material of your panties at the apex of your thighs, pulling the lingerie swiftly to the side and circles his middle finger lightly over your clit.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” The rough pads of his fingers feel delightful against your slick folds, but you ache to feel more of him, to be so full of him you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

As his fingers trace tantalisingly through your core, your own cup his strong, stubbled jaw and tilt his chin up so his piercing eyes meet yours once again. You take a beat to admire just how much adoration fills them when he gazes at you, before closing the small space and slotting your lips against his.

For as long as you live, you will never tire of the feeling of his kiss. Butterflies. Palpitations. Fireworks. Even if it’s just his lips connected with yours, your entire body responds.

“Bucky, please.” You beg into his mouth, needing more than just the teasing pad of his finger against your clit.

He suddenly thrusts two thick fingers all the way inside you, his rough palm flat against your throbbing clit as he quickly begins fucking you hard and fast, curling his fingers to drag over your g-spot.

“Fuck, just like that.” His palm smacks against your clit with each push of his hand, the pleasure so overwhelming, you’re forced to hold onto his tattooed bicep for fear that your legs will give way underneath you.

When Bucky starts sucking on your neck, sure to leave a hickey, and using his other hand to massage your breast over the dress, you know you’re done for.

Your fingers tangle in the curls of hair at the nape of his neck as you can feel your orgasm begin to ignite like a match… before all of a sudden you feel completely empty, clenching around nothing, and your incoming high dissipates like smoke into the atmosphere.

“Show me another piece.” Bucky requests before sucking your sweet arousal from his fingers with lips curling in a cocky smirk.

You’re sure Bucky can detect the disappointment on your features, but he simply squeezes your hips encouragingly, head inclining to the other garments you have yet to try on.

“How about a preview of what I’m gonna wear to dinner tonight.” You purr into his ear before taking a couple of steps back on shaky legs, trying to maintain the confidence in your demeanour that you had in your prior performance and give him a taste of his own medicine.

Your movements aren’t as smooth this time, but Bucky looks just as pleased. At this point you’re fairly sure it isn’t the fact that someone is performing for him that has him so aroused, it’s that you’re the one putting on the show.

The dress you had set aside for later is hanging in a garnet bag on the rack with all the other formal dresses Bucky paid for. Your body moves fluidly as you exchange one dress for the other, teasingly giving him only a sneak peak at your best assets, and stripping off your lingerie panties in the process.

“Wasn’t gonna wear these tonight anyway.” You place the lace in Bucky’s outstretched hand, which he takes eagerly before smelling your sweet arousal on them and stuffing them in his jacket pocket.

“We ain’t making it to the restaurant if you’re gonna be dressed like this.” Bucky’s hands travel down your sides, admiring every swell and dip of your figure in the tighter fitting dress. He’s practically drooling at this point. “Especially if you don’t wear any panties.” His fingers find your entrance again and as if he never stopped fingering you, you’re right back where you left off, teetering on the edge of pure bliss when this time he inserts three fingers.

The salacious squelch of each thrust is telling of just how wet you are. You grind down on his hand, hips bucking and twisting to find just that right angle where every single nerve is on fire.

“Be a good girl and cum for me - I know you want to.” That’s all you want, to be his good girl, his perfect wife, and give him everything he asks for, including all your orgasms.

And that’s exactly what you do.

Bucky doesn’t relent, fingering you and simultaneously stimulating your clit until your legs start quivering, you’re screaming his name, arching into his broad chest, tugging on his hair and walls fluttering around his fingers.

He looks up at you while you’re coming down from your high as if you hang the stars and the moon in the night sky - like you’re the sun his whole galaxy revolves around.

“Te iubesc [I love you].” Even though your mind is still catching up to reality, you’ve heard this Romanian saying far too often to forget what it means.

“Și eu te iubesc, James [I love you too].” You respond in an imperfect pronunciation, yet a genuinely affectionate smile blooms on Bucky’s face nonetheless. You can feel his smile grow when he places a gentle kiss against your lips.

“As sexy as you look with this dress on…” He starts, fiddling with the straps on your shoulders, trailing gentle kisses down your spine as he lets the soft material of the dress fall to a puddle at your feet. “I prefer you in nothing.”

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[henk-heijmans]

The Romanian blouse: Ioana, 2015 - by Crina Prida, Romanian

[mihai-florescu]

In tears at how beautiful these romanian folklore inspired blouses and jackets are

[valeo-sinedubio]

Ok idk why I avoid so much to start talking more about Romanian culture because I also want to show the small drawings that I do but I always go like "Nah my drawings suck" but like- I'm always going to think my drawings suck???? And also- an artist never stops learning and improving?????

So here

This is like random things I did (mainly sketches as you can tell) but I actually like them so much and I have so many ideas for stories and stuff and I want to share them aaaaaa

Anyway here is the middle picture which is like a painting I did a few weeks ago based on an old picture from pinterest of a Romanian lady. This was supposed to be like an experiment but it came out way better than expected idk idk

This lil sketch was inspired by the hairstyle of Romanian women from last century I thought it was pretty cute but perhaps back then they didn't have time nor the products to better take care of hair :/

(also idk if you noticed but her ie is the same as the top-left drawing from the collage)

(if you don't know what an "ie" is, it's a Romanian traditional blouse. The plural is ii btw :))

Also I feel like I got a lot inspired by Rada Niță but I have no complains 'cause she is amazing if I were to meet her I think I'd die

If you want to check out what she does, her ig is @rada.nita

Also I would write whole paragraphs about my Romanian OCs because we deserve some attention but like when am I supposed to so that :///// school is killing me

But just to throw it out there the girl from the sketch above with the braids and ceapsă is called Doina (I love this name idk)

And since it's the 1st of December HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROMANIA

[drum-cu-naluci]

🌹

[hiddenromania]

The Universal Day of the Romanian blouse - dedicated to the traditional blouse named ie, is celebrated today June 24.

Silvia Floarea Toth Photography

[bal-bullier]

Henri Matisse

Romanian Blouse (1937)

Source: Cincinnati art museum

[imaginarycostumemuseum]

More character design! Influences are Iranian and Romanian and contemporary fashion (and if you scroll long enough you’ll find them). The long sleeved blouse is Romanian, from Vrancea, and genuine, and we’re not quite sure WHY (fertility rituals? midwife spells to protect the baby?)

[widowsofchaos]

𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

synopsis: a trip back to the states, and old wounds are still healing.

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!poc!reader

ao3 // mom au

a/n: minor angst, and just fluff. mom wanda and mom reader. a longish drabble I wrote a while back. <3 Lumi means “light of life” in Romanian. Have some ideas for lore for this, like on who is Lumi’s biological father, or the grief and recovery Wanda is experiencing with Vision’s and the boys’ death. Perhaps, the reincarnation of the twins. Already envisioning a part for white vision and Wanda. who knows. I’m just getting my feet wet again in writing. if anyone is interested, just pop in my inbox for requests or ideas! enjoy! <3

“It’s okay, I’ll go to Target.”

A beat of silence.

Her face is so hopeful, but you can feel it; Wanda’s a little unsure. Confined to the mountains of Slovakia, to go back to the Avenger’s compound, Wanda hasn’t been sociable outside of her own self-exile.

The old, familiar woman is returning, the one you met back many years ago. Not so grungy, but refined, and healed. Her roots finally grew out, natural dark chestnut making itself home once more upon her crown.

Your fingers weave in her waves, as hers play with the hem of your blouse, Wanda’s knuckles grazing against the skin of your swelled breast.

Bare with no bra, easier access for breastfeeding, and some fun fondling.

You walk quietly to Wanda, cupping the jut of her elbows, stroking her skin. Gently nodding, whispering ‘If only you’re okay.’ Wanda’s slender fingers encase your hips, a little wider now, more thicker in the thighs since birth.

This touch—- it’s healing as motherly, as a lover.

Wanda’s fingertips trace over healed eczema scars, and thin cuts. Kissing Wanda’s button nose, making it scrunch cutely.

Warm sunshine envelops the home, crisp upstate air bellows against the kitchen’s curtains.

Three years of isolation, and dealing with the shadows of her past, Wanda can finally say she’s happy. Sometimes, the past lingers nearby, it can never be buried, but it can be held with acceptance.

“Get back home, quick.”

-

Visiting the states feels a little eerie.

A sensation of bitterness and melancholy weighs on Wanda, as if she feels being ogled by the public. Many eyes peeled back, watching her every move. The last time Wanda was even here in America —— it didn’t end well.

This little trip back to the States was your idea, to see old friends, and get them acquainted with your new life. You wanted to show the first family you’ve had to see the new one you made.

Some days Wanda thinks she should’ve said no to this trip, but it’s too late now.

The drive to the store was easy, although there was a queasy itch in her throat. She wanted to evaporate into thin air to escape, but for once, Wanda wanted to feel normal in her own skin. At home, using her powers is a natural occurrence, but to do so outside?

She’s not ready.

Three years of healing —- but she’s just not quite there yet.

Wanda hooks the sweater hoodie over her head, discreetly blending in the public. Walking through the maze of the parking lot, with bags in tow. Wanda’s eyes gaze down at the plastic boxed toy peeking from the grocery bag.

A Bratz doll she found in the toy section. One with shiny crinkled waves in its hair, bell bottom jeans, long-sleeved shirt with flowers on it.

It reminded Wanda of you in a way, always dressed so colorful. She just thought it would be a nice addition to the ever growing mountain of dolls in Lumi’s playroom.

Deep in her mind, heading to the car on auto-pilot, but there’s a peculiar sense in the back of Wanda’s mind. Before she can turn around, a sneer calls out to her.

“What are you smiling about?”

Wanda turns, her smile faltering into a confused frown, “I’m sorry, what?” Turning around over her shoulder, she sees two strangers near her car.

“We saw you in the toy section,” a white aging woman stands stiffly, face burning hot red at the cheeks, a vein straining at her neck. Middle-aged woman with a few strands of gray in her hair, a little pudgy on her body.

“Going off to torment another child?”

The man that stands beside her is a familiar face, with a mustache and short brown hair. Realization dawns on her, Wanda knows him, he was one of the many faces back at Westview.

Guilt weighs heavy on her heart, leaning on her feet side by side, her tongue clashing against the cage of her teeth, trying to find the words to ease the anxious tension.

Before Wanda can apologize, the woman cuts her off. “Witch! Have you ever been arrested for what you have done?” Stomping her foot against the concrete floor, becoming unhinged at the very second.

“Hun, c’mon, let’s just go.” The man cowers behind her, trying to keep a lengthy distance between himself and Wanda. But the spiteful woman refuses to back down.

“My husband may be afraid of you, but I’m not.” She was about to come closer but her husband pulled her back. Both of them tussle with each other, as Wanda slowly steps away, and more closer to her car.

“She works with the Avengers, she’s never going to get arrested.”

“Horseshit! The kids back home are still terrified! I’m still terrified! I can still see her nightmares!”

The wife turns back to Wanda, finally escaping out of her husband’s grip, marching towards Wanda. Pointing viciously, charging with no thought in her mind, except to attack.

“I will call the authorities, you will pay for—”

Out of instinct, Wanda’s fingers react, cautiously defending her space—- crimson mist pooling from her palms. Both gasp in terror, leaning onto each other, nearly crumbling at the sight of raw power.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” the man tugs on his wife’s forearm, pulling her to his side, trying to get her away, “She’s going to kill us.” He speaks in a hasty hush.

Wanda’s face drops, her mouth agape into a frown, muttering no no no. Her powers dissipate back into her palms, shaking her head frantically.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

“You already have!” The wife shrills, crudely pointing at Wanda, shaking and sobbing into her husband’s arms, finally leading her away, disappearing into the lot.

Wanda flinches, her nose scrunches up, trying to swallow her tears. With an awkward defeat to her step, Wanda mutely opens the door to the backseat, putting the bags down.

Just wanting to go back to the compound, and crawl into a hole.

-

The drive back home is becoming harder.

Sniffling, as hot tears escape and trail down her cheeks, pooling at her chin. Her fingers clinging onto the steering wheel, the threaded leather digging into her skin.

She couldn’t even properly swipe her key-card to enter the compound property, shakily fingers nearly punched the alarm system.

Murky thoughts intrude her mind, plaguing her logic, as if punishing herself for all she has done.

‘Why? Why should you be happy? Whenever someone else suffers because of you?’

Her breaths begin to become choppy, and short. Panic creeping slowly, her throat tightening. The cabin is closer now, just down the road.

‘My grief is no excuse.’

Wanda’s hands hastily rotate the wheel, pulling the car along a curve, into a quick park. With a harsh tug of the keys, snuffing the ignition—- the car quiets.

Her forehead meets the steering wheel, her fingers gripping the yolk till her knuckles turn hot white. Sniffling.

Wanda felt that she shouldn’t ever have the opportunity to be a mother all over again, after what happened at WestView, a surge of grief that ended up tormenting innocent children.

Her knees buckled, collapsing on the grass, still clutching the toy against her chest; dry-heaving sobs. Her bottom lip quivering, frustrated tears beaming, trying to hold the swirling crimson tendrils within.

“Mama!”

A click in her mind, snapping back into reality, breathing in a deep breath to calm down.

A little figure waddles out the house, dashing with a confused whine. Small arms wrap around Wanda’s neck, clinging tightly.

Hugging her little body against her chest, Wanda breathes in her scent of baby powder, and milk formula.

“Mama, you okay?” Her voice is soft, such a little baby, yet she seeks to protect. Wanda weakly nods, “Mama’s okay.” Kissing the slope of Lumi’s neck, earning a snuffled giggle.

Standing on edge at the doorway, worry shrouds your face, but once you see Wanda settling to a calm state, your body relaxes. Anxiously your fingertips fiddle against each other, but a swell of ease overwhelms you.

Wanda smiles, eyes closing, her face softening to a glow, with damp lashes, rocking her child back and forth.

It’s worth it, she’s worth it.