heavy knits

I was tagged by lovely senpai @namine-somebodies-nobody and my kawaii kohai @isabelekuran Thank you sweethearts <3

Tag nine people you want to get to know better

How old are you?: 18 :p

What’s your current job?: Student

What are you good at?: Video games, procrastinating, playing piano, singing, fangirling

What is a big goal you are working towards (or have already achieved)?: Graduating high school, which will be in a few months >.< I also really want to get a job so I can move out and start being on my own.

What is your aesthetic?: scarfs, heavy knit sweaters, gaming headsets, GameCube controllers, kanji, cherry blossom-scented bath products (bubble bath, lotion, shower gell, etc.), holding hands, cuddling 

Do you collect anything?: Manga, mainly, some regular books, and anime wall scrolls. I have almost completed my collection of Percy Jackson/Heroes of Olympus books, but I’m missing two :/

What’s a topic you always talk about?: My crush at school, Zelda games, video game or movie soundtracks, any drama in my life

What is a pet peeve of yours?: Parents being overly strict and not letting their children do what they want with their life. Kids should be able to express what they love and do that as their career, and not be forced to be a doctor or a lawyer. 

Good advice to give: I’m better at listening, but I’ll give it a shot. Do what you love, and keep doing it. You never know when you might get an amazing opportunity to show it off or maybe do it for a living.

What are three songs you’d recommend?: Mercenary by Panic! at the Disco, Take on Me (The Ninja Sex Party version), and Dinosaur Laser Fight by Ninja Sex Party

I shall tag : @the-crimson-haired-princess @sugarsakamaki @diabolikteacup @himya-chan @alysse-diabolik @bittersweet-tragedy-04 @vocals-and-violins @anime-trash-goddess @dinama

sunflowers, marigolds, buttercups and you

it’s carry on countdown day threeeee and that means pastel/punk aus !! i’m sorry this is so late but just know that i’m actually dead from all the sports i did today and i swear i can barely walk rip- anyways! here y’all are.

i hope you guys like it! in which simon&davy have a tattoo shop and baz&fiona own a flower shop, because i love role reversals as well as pastel/punk aus

baz doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing here. it’s been a part of his life for so long, he rarely stops to question it but today aunt fiona was on his back even more, ranting on and on, that it sort of just hit him again. what is he doing? why does he bother to be here? what is this thing that they’re doing and why does it matter so much to him?

the alleyway is chilly, but baz is wearing a very heavy, very knit, very pale pink scarf that just so happens to match his nails and his boots that are shiny and supple and very warm. still, he can see his breath. it’s nothing like the heat of the furnace inside the flower shop, the alley is basically the polar opposite.

it doesn’t smell like geraniums, it smells horribly like rotting garbage and possibly like dead flowers if anything. the brick on either side of him is rough and dusty, nothing like the walls of the shop which are always pristine whites and soft blues offset by all the spectrums of color flaring out from the vases sitting all around.

baz’s favorites are the marigolds, the flowers that are perhaps the most opposite to the shades he usually prefers, but for some strange reason, he can’t get past how much he adores them. small petals that come in every shade of the sun, and they make any one of his bouquets a little bit more cheerful, like he’s just added a touch of light.

today, with the orders he had to fill, he found that there were quite a few instances that he could insert the flower, which was nice, even though the brash yellows and oranges really did clash with his outfit.

his mittens also match in part his scarf, a soft-toned pink and he hates that he has to wipe his nose on them because they are by far his favorite.

would he just hurry up?

his break will definitely be ending soon, and fiona really doesn’t take tardiness lightly, besides the fact that baz already hates being late.

isn’t he always late? baz doesn’t think he can remember a day where he wasn’t the first one to their spot, so in the winter he’s always been half frozen by the time the boy arrived.

it annoys him. but then again, what can he do about it?

he already doesn’t really know what he’s doing here yet again, why he comes here almost every day to wait in the cold, hiding from fiona who’d probably be reaching the conclusion to her third rant on ‘david snow and his goddamn tattoo parlor’ by now?

‘jesus christ, can he just not?’

‘basilton, are you seeing this’

‘he’s decided to put his sign a full inch over the line between our properties, the absolute audacity of that man!’

baz finds it almost humorous, the feud and everything. how the pitch florists ended up sharing a building with ‘that menacing scumbag of a person, how dare he demand we pay more of our share of rent, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’

but he can see his aunt’s point of view, he supposes. the rivalry, the utter hatred between their families isn’t really anything new, he’s heard all the stories. how david snow came in with his million dollar smile to a deal that his aunt had practically already taken, and turned it into an all out battle over who would get the lease on 6th street, right across from ebb’s coffee shop.

it was prime property, and fiona had wanted it so bad.

baz knew that it had been her dream, and then she had been forced to come to an agreement with this ‘inked up old bastard’ (not that fiona didn’t have any tattoos, baz hadn’t tried to argue this point with her, it really wouldn’t have made a difference) to split the building in half.

now they were constantly fighting, and baz considered himself to be right in the middle of it. not that it was a real war, just practically one of sabotage.

it just was what it was, and he had to play his role. this included doing extra work at the shop, when he already carried so much of the workload, and fiona sending him on her missions, which really never amounted to much other than a lot of screaming and threats that david snow was going to sue her for being a ‘crazy hag obsessed with her geraniums’.

for another part, baz was not to be friends with anyone related to the snow family, and if he ended up being, it was merely an advantage for espionage and further attacks, nothing personal or emotionally attached about the matter.

the thought makes baz snort. the visible puff of his breath in the air reminds him just how chilly it is and he tries to pull his collar up further.

the single rose bud that he’s carrying in his pocket is burning a hole in it, and baz dislikes the feeling because he rather likes this jacket. it’s long, and soft and a shade of cream that could almost match the snow.

he’s noticing that it has started to snow now, because he can feel the flakes melting on his eyelashes and he can see them settling on the ends of his hair, white against the the faint lilac that he’s dyed it.

fiona loves it, says it makes him match the lavender, the catmint, possibly the canterbury bells.

he’s just thinking that the snow is pretty appropriate, when he hears the footsteps he’s been waiting for and he looks around quickly-

eager, he’s always so eager. he hates it.

but when he sees those eyes- it’s always the eyes that strike him first, like he’s plunged into the coldest water- he forgets about all of that. the snow is settling in the curls of simon snow’s goldy hair and looking at him, is like getting the sun in your eyes.

his shoes crunch in the snow on the pavement, and baz starts to notice everything about him, all at once.

he’s too much, everyday, it’s just too much.

how he’s wearing these destroyed sneakers like it’s not below minus ten degrees outside, with the darkest shade of coal jeans, the knees blown out, and baz’s favorite shirt, simon knows that it’s his favorite, the one the simon designed himself, a sketch in black and white of dying sunflowers that makes it look like the flowers themselves are simply dissolving into nothingness, withering into oblivion.

baz’s attention goes to the piercings next, simon’s nose, where his septum sits a dusty silver, and his ears, where the beads and metals travel in uneven intervals all the way along each.

baz’s eyes always finish with simon’s tattoos last.

he knows the placement of every one of them by heart, and they play back in his mind for hours before he can fall asleep. his hands, dotted with lines and symbols making constellations, to his arms, to his neck and behind both his ears.

at this point he’s standing across from baz, just close enough to touch and his lips are hanging open, a pink that is terribly over saturated.

you’re so much, baz wants to say, you’re too much.

instead, he lets simon blink once more after his eyes give baz a scalding once over and state the obvious.

“it’s snowing.”

“i’d hoped you’d noticed,” baz says, and he feels like his chest might explode.

“i’m sorry i’m late,” simon says, and his voice is husky. he fiddles with his earring, the rose gold ones that clash with his entire aesthetic. the ones that baz had lent him.

baz can feel his knees grow weaker.

“i’ve come to expect it.” baz had been about to say, but then he doesn’t because simon says,

“i brought you this.” and he opens up his ungloved hands to reveal a little piece of hectograph paper. baz takes it in his hands as if it were a snowflake.

the sketch on it is incredibly detailed, yet tiny, a miniature image of a violin and a bow, with a rose vine wrapped gracefully around the horsehair.

simon smiles, which also clashes terribly with his outfit, punk boys do not smile, but it’s so much that baz feels his breath catch in his throat.

he can feel something inside him completely shatter. the pleasure of it so intense it could be mistaken for pain.

this is what you do to me.

he takes his mitten off slowly, and he can feel simon’s azure eyes watch his every movement. he reaches into his pocket.

“put out your hand,” he says, and “close your eyes.”

simon just stares at him for a moment, and baz has to laugh.

“i’m serious!”

fianlly, simon’s head seems to snap out of the clouds and he laughs too. it sounds like music.

“sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “i got distracted.”

baz resits the urge to roll his eyes and then simon snow is holding out his palm, and baz is gently taking his wrist, touching the mole in between his thumb and forefinger. his hand is freezing.

simon shivers and baz can’t tell if it’s from the cold or-

then baz places the rosebud on simon’s skin and simon’s eyes fly open. he stares. baz stares at him.

for a moment, he looks a bit helpless.

and baz is pretty sure he looks the exact same way.

then they’re surging together and it’s impossible to tell whose lips met whose first because simon has his hands around baz’s waist and baz’s hand is fisted in simon’s hair.

his mouth is so hot and it tastes like rebellion, it burns baz’s tongue, at the same it’s like sugar, too sweet and too gentle and too much like baz is a fragile object which proceeds to shatters baz’s heart even further because simon snow has never had to be gentle to anything in his life.

he is hard stone, hard rock, black, and as much of a klutz than baz has even seen- it’s really quite astonishing how he manages to tattoo people so beautifully when he can’t even stand up straight.

even now, he’s pinned baz to the brick wall and he kisses like it’s the air he needs to breathe while he leans like he doesn’t have the ability to hold himself up.

their tongues clash before baz can kiss a line down the tattoos on simon’s neck, leaving simon in the perfect position to breathe low, breathless words into baz’s ear like-

“your eye shadow is like pixie dust, i can’t stop staring at you.”

and “jesus.”

and “fuck, baz, my god.”

and baz kisses the mole under simon’s left eye saying

“you know this is my favorite tattoo you have”

and simon will laugh, before baz’s hand on his thigh makes it turn into a moan. and he tries to speak, but he stumbles on the words-

“-t’s not a-a tattoo, i’ve- told you this… s’many times”

and baz just smiles against simon’s skin because he knows, of course he knows, but he likes asking as his way to remind the boy beneath his fingers that even without his piercings, his tattoos, his clothes, he’s the most beautiful boy that baz has ever seen.

all at once it is too much, but now, it’s also not enough.

and baz murmurs

“i’m going to have to leave soon.”

again, not getting far into the sentence because simon’s lips are at his jaw and the last words come out as more of a loss of breath than actual sounds.

simon’s moved down his neck and he smells like the rosebud that he’s still got clenched in his fist and baz tries to forget that he’s got to go back to work in a few minutes and push away the fact that this had ever happened.

“stay just five more minutes.” simon pleads into baz’s collarbone and baz snorts.

“fiona is going to kill me.” he says, but simon’s hands are now in his hair and it just feels so good.

simon’s quickly back at his mouth, they’re so close, and he’s kissing with such an urgency that baz fears he actually might fall over.

“fine, five minutes” he mumbles, and he can feel simon’s smile.

the snow keeps drifting around them, hands attempting desperately to relearn every part of each other in the seconds that pass so quick, and baz knows that there’s nothing that will ever feel as good as this.

simon says, “i don’t want you to leave.”

and baz kisses him deeper, because for all that he knows, this could be the last time. simon’s just moaning and sighing, like he’s all at once so beautifully happy, but all at once so devastatingly sad. his eyes look even more helpless, and baz’s heart agrees.

they break.

simon’s taking his hand and swinging it in between them, and then baz’s pulse jumps as he does something so oddly right, he kisses the back of baz’s hand.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a declarative sentence. but it sounds more like a question even though baz can tell he’s trying not to let it.

and then he’s gone. the alleyway is just an alleyway.

the drawing in baz’s pocket just turns into something a friend gave him, the footprints in the snow where simon stood become someone else’s. baz tries to wipe the happiness off of his features as he opens the door to the shop, but it’s like trying to erase permanent marker with a white board eraser.

when he’s inside, and he’s warm again, and fiona’s said ‘welcome back’ and shoved the next list of his duties at him, he takes the sketch out of his pocket.

he considers that it might be loveliest thing that anyone’s ever given him, he knows it is. and he turns it over, he hadn’t noticed that there was writing on the back-

it says,

can you sneak over sometime? i’d really like to make this permanent.


in simon snow’s horrendous handwriting, (baz is serious, he has no idea how this boy is an artist), and fiona comes back into the room, just as baz’s lips are turning up into a smile that takes over his whole face, his whole body and he can’t stop it.

she gives him a funny look.

“what’s so pleasant, basilton? has david snow decided finally to close up shop?”

he just looks at her, because he can’t speak, because simon snow is too much.

simon snow, the only one boy in the world he’s not allowed to have.

how does he ever manage to leave him everyday, how does he ever manage to let go?

simon snow.

his rosebud boy.

ilvermorny fall aesthetics

pukwudgie: pumpkin picking, baking doughnuts and pies, pulling worn, knit blankets out of the attic closet, eating candy corn, orange sunsets, woodland animals running about
wampus: hay rides, canoodling on the couch, eating apple pie, warm milk and cookies, army green jackets, making jack o’ lanterns, football, the world series, scary halloween masks
horned serpent: log fires, hot chocolate, hard cover books with worn spines, pumpkin scones, cable knit sweaters, heavy blankets, moccasins, leather boots, SATs, denim jackets
thunderbird: hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, s'mores, watching Disney halloween specials, orange and red leaves, flurries, toast and jam, mischief night

**this is my first time doing something like this don’t hate me

The reason I’ve not been knitting much this month is sitting on my dining room table as of about a week ago. My three closest friends chipped in to get me an early birthday present, and a means for me to produce absurd quantities of costume items for myself and my roommate for an upcoming Society of Creative Anachronism event in Statesboro this Saturday.

It’s a Heavy Duty Singer, a thing of little beauty and endless stamina. It goes through 6 layers of cotton like a hot knife through butter and is absolute bliss to work with. I have several years of experience sewing before, on machine and by hand, and as such have produce several items in the past of relative quality, including the lovely Wonder Woman machine cover seen in the picture above, a misshaped and unfinished quilt-top, a few ugly skirts, and a number of pillows. 

This baby took on four projects in one night and took my sewing time down to literally nothing. Where it once took me six hours to hem a skirt, it had it done in minutes. I am in love.

I shall have pictures of our costumes from the event up sometime this weekend. Then, I assume, a return to knitting for a while while I design some outfits for the local Renaissance Faire in the late spring.

“Oh, my sad sullen boy… My poor lonely son…”

I’ve been re-reading ASOIAF, and have been screaming about the One True King (Stannis) to all who will listen, and I’m still super raw about his and Cressen’s relationship, so I drew this in between commissions, and also wrote something that you’ll find under the cut.

Keep reading

Dwelling // Mitchell + ?

The state of Mitchell’s apartment was habitually spotless – a clear reflection of the state of his thoughts, everything needed to be neatly organized and in its own place. It all went back to even pillows on the couch – they all had their own place. It spoke volumes about the man that lived there – an undenounced thirst for control, the need for immaculate organization and the desperate longing for the clarity of the mind – and yet, now, the apartment where Mitchell dwelled looked nothing like it usually did. Remnants of something that resembled food once upon a time were left to their own business of deteriorating on the counters of his kitchen, piles upon piles of dirty dishes clogged the usually impeccably clean sink, and the absence of light made the whole situation look grimmer than it perhaps was. The heavy curtains were knit together in a rush, allowing a shy stray of light in enough to illuminate the mess he made; just enough light to allow him to see how far he actually came.

He lazily emerged from his room, leaving behind the warmth of his bed sent a light wave of shivers up his spine as his feet touched the cold floor. The very sensations and the fact that he was still able to deduce between cold and warm served as solid reminders that he was still sentient, there, existing and aware, more or less, instead of devoured by the vicious cycle of habits that he had fallen into – his flirtation with cocaine had prolonged over the years. Was it finally catching up on him?

The perpetual grip of lethargy after a high began to feel like something so common to him, mundane, ordinary, something that he was ready to come home to, something that he was ready to grasp and not let go for a short amount of ecstasy. Ecstasy began to be debatable too; it was not as it used to be; all the symptoms were there: elated heart rate, feeling drunk on supremacy, an immense alertness, and no appetite for anything and an enormous drive to do things, but it just felt as a vague shadow of what it used to be. Was he getting too used to it? He was beginning to spiral down, he was losing control and all of it was visible in the place he called home.


The word seemed to radiate through the man’s very skull and it interrupted his thoughtless stream of consciousness. Enough. He stopped aimlessly walking and hopping over empty bottles of alcoholic beverages that he had put in his system over the course of the previous week in his ill-lighted apartment. Enough, he heard the calling of his mind again – a familiar feeling, wasn’t it – he knew that it was one of many ups in his bumpy ride. Not a permanent one, but it made him more or less aware, finally, aware.

And just like this, he swiftly responded to the stimulations of his brain, to the sudden urge to walk out of the gloom-ridden space (he knew he’d come back to it; he knew there was no other way; and he knew he did not want to think of it now) and stormed into the closet, picking out the plainest of his corporate-white shirts, and a pair of black jeans (ordinary, normal, mundane, he needed to fit in, he needed to look just fine, peachy) and set himself on the way to the nearest bar. He headed to melt in the crowd of nameless, faceless people, to lose a little bit of his mind tonight, at least the heavy particles of it, in a meaningless discussion with an unimportant stranger. He pulled the doors of the bar apart and allowed himself to get acquainted with the atmosphere inside: it was not too rowdy (or maybe it was; he spent a vast amount of time locked away in his apartment – he was rusty with deciphering normality), the cool air welcomed his unadjusted face inside, and he remembered not to look so tense. It took him a moment or two, as he was approaching the counter, to readjust his facial expression – a statuesque frown that dwelled on his face completely deformed his face, aged him significantly, and it took an effort to pull it down in order to obtain something that looked more… relaxed. “Excuse me,” his hand lifted a little in the air in order to call the bartender; he cleared his throat immediately after uttering the words and realized that he had not heard his own voice in quite some time, “Can I have a whiskey? No ice, please.”

It’s summer — mid-July
and we drive along twisting roads 
in her Father’s old Ford Bronco.
It’s a horrible brown colour, 
the colour of antique shops and my Grandmother’s
The sun is sinking slowly — 
as it always does this time of year.
It’s golden and blinding. 
We haven’t spoken in a while,
I turn to look at her, 
her bronze hair shines brilliantly in the light.
She concentrates hard on the road — 
or at least she seems to
her heavy brows are knitted together
making small wrinkles appear on her forehead. 
I get the urge to reach out and rub them away
but I do not.
Her bony hands grip the steering wheel 
as though we are driving on ice
the only difference is she has one delicate foot
planted firmly on the accelerator.
You okay? I ask, my voice sounds small
she runs a sweaty hand through her hair
yeah, she says
I always told her she was a terrible liar,
the pain is tattooed on her face. 
The silence wasn’t so empty before
but it is now.
I go to cross my legs
& the warm, beige leather sticks to my skin.
It makes a sound like a band-aid being torn off.
I think about our conversation
earlier on the beach, our toes
painted the same deep blue,
buried beneath the hot sand. 
The tiny hairs standing up on our arms
as the cool sea breeze hit our skin.
She cried and asked me whether
the world would always feel like a 
half-finished sentence.
I told her it probably would.
How arrogant it would be to
assume that you could know 
all there is to know.
We looked out to sea
watched the foamy waves engulf
the surfers.
You’ve just got to feel as 
much as you can, I say.
I turn to her now
& feel it all with her as she squints
into the orange glow of the sunset
on the horizon.
—  Half-finished sentence, Freyja Lillie

Oh hey I’m moving. All sales within a week, price reflects the timeline and how much I care at the moment!  Okay, I moved, but pricing, I still prefer the room to the money so go for it.

PayPal, no holds or trades, us shipping $6 per costume, $3 for gamz or Hussie, international probably isn’t worth it.

1. Vampire knight night class- $25 full vest and jacket off eBay. Light staining from age, probably washable. Vest is missing a snap. Standard eBay quality. Fits around 34-28, quite roomy.

2. Hussie from mspa- $16 This thing was probably heat n bonded together in an hour before a con lbr. Needs a front snap. Unisex S shirt, slit sides, velvet paint emblem.

3. Free! Iwatobi jacket

4. Gamzee shirt only from mspa- $8 Basically what it cost to make it. Stenciled on paint, youth large (unisex small short), no grey staining yeeeea

5. Half Marco Bodt Snk- $30 half jacket with attached half button up shirt and shredded undershirt. I will include the face, shoulder, and stomach prosthetics for free on request though you’ll need to repaint them since they’ve been washed. Shitty lace-front wig can be included for $15, with costume purchase only.

6. CD Russia Hetalia

7. Heiwajima Shizuo Durarararararara!!


Fishing For Compliments

Outfit Inspiration From The High Seas

Fishermen totally had it right when it came to dressing for the cold. Heavy wools and chunky knits with a super masculine and outdoorsy feel - what’s not to love? For this outfit I drew some inspiration from the heritage fisherman aesthetic and made it work with my wardrobe. I started with a heavyweight wool turtleneck over a denim shirt and added on a plaid wool jacket for a textured and layered workwear look. Loose jeans with frayed hems and a classic fisherman style fitted beanie finish off the outfit and keep it looking relaxed and rugged. So how do you feel about adopting the fisherman look this winter?


Farah Jacket  //  Uniqlo Turtleneck  //  Zanerobe Denim Shirt  //  Armani Exchange Jeans  //  Florsheim Shoes  //  Urban Outfitters Beanie


Punky Androgynous Clothes I am giving away

Hi! I’m Nina, I’m a cisgender female from NYC and I have a lot of my old clothes many rather punk, away that are to someone in need of them! Everything here is rather androgynous. 

List of clothes I can offer:

• 3 plain button downs (white) – short sleeved – size m

• 3 plain button downs (white) – long sleeved – size m

• 2 basketball jerseys (1 white/1 navy) – size s/m

• 2 basketball shorts (1 white/1 navy) – size s/m

• 1 heavy knit V-neck pullover (navy) – size m/l

• 1 punk rock style mohair sweater (gray/green) – size m

• 1 plaid zip up sweater (red/gray) – size s/m

• 1 pair of splatter jeggings (black/white) – about a size 6/7 pants

• 1 pair of punk plaid pants w/ zippers (red) –28 inches around

• 1 pair of leopard print jeans (white/brown) – size 7

• 1 pair of heavy knit skull leggings (black/white) – size says “l” but really m

• 1 “Nirvana” t-shirt (black) – size m/l

• 1 “AC/DC” t-shirt (black) – size s/m

• 1 “Vote Vader ” t-shirt (black) – size m

• 1 “Black Sabbath” t-shirt (black) – size l

• 1 “Joy Division” t-shirt (black) – size l

• 1 pizza crewneck (white) – size m

If you’re interested Hmu and I’ll try my best to give all this away.

My URL is stay-cool-millie.tumblr.com