linen lined

Sensory Snapshots

“the five senses” of simple, pleasant moments that capture each sign. 

ARIES IS // Fast legs and faster hearts just as dawn breaks. Numbness from scraped kneecaps and bloodied palms and the dizzying blur of quick sidewalks. Clattering of a chain link fence; dry laughter from desert throats – the kind that rises up from your lungs into your mouth, leaving the rusty taste of adrenaline on the tongue. Smoke lingering in your hair and on your clothes.

TAURUS IS // Standing in the dim light of a warm oven at 2am, messy hair and satin pajamas. Night air dancing in the curtains of an open window. A spoonful of peanut butter thick in your mouth – the sweet of baking cookies fills the room, mixing with the white noise of hushed radio. A gentle hand against the small of your back – an involuntary tugging at the edges of your lips.

GEMINI IS // Bright blue skies and big white clouds. Birds nests tucked in branches, and linens clipped on lines, hanging in an afternoon sun that will plant fresh freckles in ruddy cheeks. The whistle of laughter through gapped teeth. The smell of fresh cut grass from between bare toes, and the stickiness of thumbs wiping the pink and yellow of cotton candy from corners of crooked smiles.

CANCER IS // Early Sunday morning – soft eyes with heavy lids open slow to a familiar room, the walls bathed in shadows and faded lighting. The quiet patter of rain drops against the roof, and the deep rolling thunder. Being surrounded by the soothing scent of home and down feather pillows. The overwhelming comforting weight of blankets draped over tired bones, wrapped tight in the warmth of sleep and rumbling of storms.

LEO IS // Summer kissed skin, big sunglasses and floppy hats. Bright skies over dry fields laced with endless rows of sunflowers – the floral perfume mingling with thick July air. The hot breeze fluttering under a loose tank top, frayed cuffs of denim shorts with holes in the pockets, against your legs. Ripe strawberries in open mouths, the smiling voices of friends singing loud and off key.

VIRGO IS // Crisp, white sheets on a freshly made bed, the corners creased and smoothed down with precision and care. The smell of morning mist and steam rising from the brim of freshly steeped peppermint tea. Ticking analog clocks, rustling papers and the echo of hurried footsteps on wet pavement. The cool glass of a foggy window against your cheek. The quiet hum of waiting.

LIBRA IS // The pink of sunrise filtering through half-open blinds, cast over silk sheets. Opening windows and being greeted by the wafting scents of breakfast and pastries. Tucking hands into the pockets of a new sundress. Sidewalk sounds of birds and bicycle bells and cafe conversations. A thick, creamy smoothie with chunks of fruit stuck in the straw.

SCORPIO IS // The harvest moon, full and round and golden, peaking out from behind clouds that wisp around her like ghosts. The hollowed hooting of owls and sudden rustle of dry leaves. A breeze that raises goosebumps under sweater sleeves. Rich, dark chocolate on your teeth, and lungs full of crisp autumn air – the eerie peaceful of nighttime.

SAGITTARIUS IS // Speeding down an empty road, windows down, wind in your hair and squinting eyes. Crackling bonfires on a river bank, embers dancing as the sun slips behind the horizon. Marshmallows melted to the roofs of mouths – smell of fireworks, and mud on damp skin. The chirping of crickets and boisterous conversations of close friends.

CAPRICORN IS // Midnight all alone – soaking in the almost silence of fresh snowfall. Glowing street lamps illuminating crystallized puffs of breath and streets coated in sparkling, powder white. The burn of hot, black coffee on your tongue and warmth of the cup through knitted mittens on your hands. The still, winter air full of aged evergreen.

AQUARIUS IS // A little shop in your hometown you never noticed before. Dusty books in foreign letters and saturated fabrics, old typewriters and odd lamps. The unique vibration of a phonograph drifts through air that smells like ginger, and something that can’t quite be placed. It leaves spice on the tongue. Tingling of curiosity buzzing under the skin.

PISCES IS // A midday picnic on the beach. Sunshine glittering on the sea, its shore decorated by delicate shells and colored umbrellas. Toes sinking slowly into wet sand as waves wash over them, the rhythmic ebbing and flowing of tides. Distinct scents of sunscreen and sea foam – the sweetness in a juicy mouthful watermelon. The haze of a dreamy day.

Pillow Fort (M)

Summary: Date night with Taehyung takes a pleasant turn, not that you’re complaining.
Pairing: Taehyung | Reader
Genre: Fluff/Smut
Word Count: 4,439
Author’s Note: I feel like once you’ve opened the gates of knowing you’re capable of writing (trashy) smut it just… it doesn’t go away and that idea is ruining my life so I wrote this. For science. Basically you and Taehyung have (a lot of) sex in a pillow fort, because I’m single and frustrated. Enjoy.


To say you are excited would be an understatement as you take the stairs up to the dorms two at a time, your bag swinging at your side with each hop but you don’t care, even as breathing starts to become harder as your muscles start to ache after every step. Your lungs are working beyond what constitutes as a normal, everyday walk for you, but you are dashing down the hallway as soon as you reach the landing at the top of the stairs. You can feel your heartbeat in your ear, footsteps pounding against the floor, sure to disrupt all the neighbors who can hear the echo but you don’t give a fuck.

How could you possibly care, especially when your emotions have positively skyrocketed into the air with a simple phone call, that bright-eyed smile refusing to dip out from your face, your heart racing for more reasons than one as you watch the numbers of each apartment fly by.

Until finally you reach it.

You stop dead in your tracks, the wind catching up to you to ruffle hair as you stand with flushed cheeks, heaving chest, parted lips—locks in your mouth. You take in the apartment number, running the digits through your mind even though you already have the combination long memorized. You bite your lip as your heart continues to ram in your chest, fingers lifting up to curl at the hair sticking in your mouth to pull it down.

As soon as the hair is out of your mouth, you forget to straighten your clothes or your hair or wait until you’ve calmed down considerably. You’re still standing, heaving as if you’ve just ran miles and miles, fist raising up before you pound on the door.

It’s only a few seconds before the individual on the other side swings open the door, no ounce of hesitation in the gesture much like had it been with you, revealing Kim Taehyung—messy hair, bright eyes, cheeks flushed and his own chest heaving even though he’s only had to flutter from the couch to the door. But you’ve never seen a sight more beautiful, more perfect, and your heart sings from the sight of his physical presence.

Keep reading

• Woman’s Dress (Robe à la française) with Attached Stomacher.
Place of origin: France
Date: ca. 1765-1780
Medium: Light pink silk taffeta, woven with multicolored shaded stripes in dark pinks, medium greens, grey, and yellow (French); bodice and sleeves lined with coarse grayish-white plain weave linen; cuffs lined with white plain weave wool flannel; stitched in pink silk thread; two original metal eyes on stomacher panels.


A fine brilliant yellow Spitalfields brocaded silk robe à l'Anglaise, circa 1750, 

Woven with brightly coloured large scale oriental poppies, posies and swags, the ground figured with arabesques and wine silk spotted cartouches, the robe with linen lining to bodice, pleated front robings, double tiered engageants with bows, the hem lined in fine yellow silk; with matching petticoat front panel trimmed with pinked furbelows; and a stomacher trimmed with rosettes and braid


It was an endless peach orchard summer; every tree blossoming all at once.

The world was alive with color. Light shades of linen sheets and cicadas turned into endless dusks that brought myths to life. It was such a time to be alive. It was such a time for dreaming darker and deeper than we have ever imagined. 

The earth cracked beneath our bare feet, as thirsty as our lips were. Dark soil found ways to put smudges in even the whitest of cotton dresses.

Our fingertips were sticky with want, mouths quivering and hungry: pour ice cold water on your wrists, dip your fingers into the peaches cooling in the sink, forget that you are becoming ancient again.

Summer will do that to you – it will put crazy ideas in your head, but don’t listen to them.
When cicadas sing for you to come closer, just dip your toes into the swamp, it’ll be alright (the pretty white dress soaked in mud, your mother will cry) - just don’t listen to them.

Put your wrists under the tap and marvel at how blue your veins are.

Do not dream of kingdoms and swords and old things. You are young and new and there is a price on what you hold in your chest.

Take a step too far and they’ll snatch it; they’ll cut your hope right out.

The water is cold, doesn’t it feel good, hmm? Come back home in time for dinner, forget what you’ve heard. Persephone is just a girl who strayed too far from home, Artemis is just a wolf child. Wisdom erases the possibility of a happy ending.

Now run, run with your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The world is burning up, it’s red and your skin is already blistering. Your mother was right but cold water doesn’t help boiling blood, does it?

Run, you stupid child. Run for your life because winter is quiet and autumn is dying, spring is life but summer is deadly.

Someone should have already told you that.

There is a fine line between linen-and-cold-nights summer, and the one that turns very dark very early, like a rotting apple. It’s feral, it’s decomposing, it’s catching fire and it does not know when to stop burning.

Didn’t you hear birds in June?

In August, all there ever is is the silence.

So run. Run for your life, here, where this world seeps into the Other, the ancient borderline of reality and magic, the kind that is content to just exist – unless you dare it. And your feet did sound like a war drum.

No one has outrun summer yet. But you can try.

Good luck.

xoxfiles  asked:

Scully loves wearing Mulder's shirts, especially the one she never gave back in the first year of their partnership ... but now 5 years later, it's falling apart. .... Here you go, do your magic :-) xo

There is the Tarkhan dress, Egyptian linen, knife-pleated sleeves, six thousand years old. There is a woman from Jutland, strangled and heaved into the peat, her blackened body still wrapped in soft, perfect wool. There is a sage-gray cotton t-shirt from the Gap, size XL. 

Although she’s washed it countless times, she swears it still smells like him, like the libraries at Oxford, like sleepless nights in Alexandria. There’s a faint, stubborn bloodstain on the fraying collar, a remnant of cancer. A tear near the hem, courtesy of a temperamental Pomeranian. The stitching on the shoulder is unraveling, and in places, the fabric is as thin and translucent as gauze. She has taken to wearing it less and less, rationing the guilty pleasure of it like sugar in wartime.

It was Oregon, in 1993. Her first foray into fieldwork, and the most alive she’d ever felt. Fox Mulder was a wolf of a man, all wilderness and poetry, strange and mournful and gorgeous. She couldn’t pin down the colour of his eyes. 

She pretended to forget her pajamas. He tossed her one of his running shirts and a crooked grin. What she’d really wanted was his skin on hers, his hot breath, his long fingers. But there were rules. 

Tonight is one of those lonely nights where she’ll bring this shirt out, press her face into the slackening weave, and wonder how much longer it will last. How much longer she will, before this monumental thing between them comes to a head. 

She pulls it on, crawls into bed, and hits ‘1′ on her speed dial. His voice is temple linen on the line. 

I saw the Huldremose Woman in Copenhagen a few years back. Man, if ever there was a memento mori, if ever there was a humbling and beautiful face of death, a reminder of the slow and inexorable march of time, she is it.

The museum was almost empty that day. They’ve got her in a small, dark room, backlit by a two-panelled wall painted like a moody winter forest. There’s a bench beside her display case, and I sat with her for a long while, bewitched by the texture of her skin, her sweet, charcoal-coloured toes. She looked so cozy, swaddled in her scarf and cape, so small, so real. I wanted to unfurl one of her hands and hold it. 

aaliyaneal  asked:

Can you give a description of each of the Cullen's scents including Esme and Carlisle. Like personal and hygiene wise. In the book Bella smells like freesia, lavender, and strawberry. Edward wore cologne at a point.

I think Bella described Edward as lilac, honey and sun (I only remember this because I had shampoo that was honey lilac and I was like heh, my hair smells like Edward)

I think these scents are probably approximations; that is the scents are supernatural so they aren’t exactly these things but similar, or remind you of them, or whatever. 

For Carlisle I think of old books, and mint, and smoke from a candle or fire. There’s a crispness. Like the cleanliness of a hospital.

Esme I think of things that are warm but spicy, like cinnamon or ginger, and also fresh linen drying on a line outside on a sunny day. And apples. 

Rosalie brings to mind flowers for obvious reasons, roses chiefly, but also something tart like cranberry or pomegranate, and then the faint scents of rubber or oil from her mechanical work. 

Emmett is earthy, woodsy. Pine and soil and some hearty soup or stew cooking over a fire. 

Alice is maybe citrus, or peach, or other warm, light, sweet scents. Sweet tea with lemons, and the smell of one of those new agey stores or fortune tellers, the sage and patchouli and whatever other scented candles they might have. 

With Jasper I think of leather and maybe coffee or chocolate, something rich, straw, and a hazy hot summer day.