⋆ ʕ -᷅ ༝-᷄ʔ ׄ ☁️₊

Product Placement
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KIROKAZE

Kaledo Art
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wallacepolsom
trying on a metaphor
occasionally subtle

pixel skylines
styofa doing anything
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shark vs the universe

blake kathryn
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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Janaina Medeiros
almost home

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seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from Ireland

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Brazil
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seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands
seen from Switzerland

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
@bbybluebby
⋆ ʕ -᷅ ༝-᷄ʔ ׄ ☁️₊
need refs/inspo for period clothing?
here you go:
Medieval (9th-15th century):
10th century and earlier
Romance (1000-1250)
11th century
12th century
13th century
more 13th century
14th century
more 14th
15th century
and more 15th century
Gothic (1150-1550)
Renaissance (1520-1650)
16th & 17th century
16th century
more 16th
Tudors (1500-1550)
more Tudors
Elizabethan Period (1558-1603)
Jacobean Era (1603-1625)
17th century
more 17th century
and again
and even more
this won’t stop
Baroque (1600-1750)
Georgian Period (1714-1830):
18th century
more 18th century
18th century women’s fashion
18th century men’s fashion
Rococo (1720-1770)
Classicism (1770-1790)
children 18th-19th century
Regency Preiod (1811-1820)/ Empire (1800-1820s):
1790-1820s
more stuff on regency and georgian era
even more
that’s not enough regency
and more
how is there so much
early 19th century men’s wear
early 19th century women’s wear
Victorian Period (1837-1901):
Romantic Era (1820-1840s)
Civil War Era/1850-1860s
1870-1890s
more victorian
Edwardian Period (1901-1910):
1900-1910s
Belle Epoque (1880-1910s)
more edwardian/belle époque
Modern:
1910s-1920s [Fashion between the World Wars]
1920s
more roaring 20s
so much 20s
1920s hairstyles
1930s
1930-1940s
1930-1950s
1950s
more 50s
1960s
1960-1970s
1980s
lots of periods in one spot/fashion through centuries:
here, here, and here is almost everything (and properly ordered)
also here with lots of historic fashion magazines
100 years of beauty (includes lots of other cultures too!)
historic fashion
costumes of antiquity
more historical clothing
history of fashion
more history of fashion
“vintage” clothing
historic costumes
children’s historical fashion/toys
details
historic wedding dresses
historic assecoires (hats, shoes…)
hats
masks
parasols
lots of embroidery/jewlery
Short disclaimer: Most pictures show clothes of royalty, aristocracy, and burgoisie as their clothes weren’t worn as much and especially not for labour, which is the issue with farmers/workers’ clothes, which also were reused quite often, whether to sew new clothes or have rags. So please keep this in mind!!
It really is very European-centric as I am European as well, and I apologise for it if you expected more from it. I definitely lack the knowledge to determine what are accurate portrayals of other cultures, and to find content for them is really difficult as well. This is why I would encourage you to submit any resources you have or add them below! If you have any book recs or know good pages, please let me know!
Another edit/note: Pinterest has changed a lot since I made the post, so you need to be signed in now to see more than the first row of the boards, I’m really sorry about that! (Also I tested all the links and on my original post they still work, if you’re having isues with that.)
YET ANOTHER EDIT: yes I think we all know by now that you mistook it for menstruation wear. It’s ok. You’re probably the 500th person who mentions it. I get it. Fun fact: most menstruating people just wore what they always wore and just added stuff like period aprons (Abby Cox has an interesting video about it)! Karolina Żebrovska also has a video on menstuation and why it’s so hard to learn something about it!
Also yes, this is primarily women’s wear. At the time I made this post, I didn’t much care about men’s wear, I couldn’t accurately pinpoint whether the suit is 1920s or 1850s, so *on my own boards* I mostly tried to sidestep that issue aside from explicitly dated garments. That’s why. I also never claimed this to be the be-all-end-all, I was mostly enraged how everything vaguely historical was either labelled as “Medieval” or “Victorian” with little to no recognition for any other time period, so I made this post. I never expected it to blow up like this. The post-1920s also weren’t really of interest to me and I just added them out of a feeling of obligation, so they definitely don’t go as hard as they could. Same goes for the Medieval periods.
Another thing: I cannot guarantee anything for pinboards that I didn’t create. Some may have an accidental stray pin that they wanted to pin somewhere else but didn’t notice, others may have taken their boards and completely reformed them. I don’t know. Take everything with a giant pinch of salt. idk if anyone will read this last bit here but at least that’s off my mind now.
Anyway, thank you for all these lovely messages in the tags (yes I still do read them from time to time)!
Character who doesn't get to die & character who doesn't get to live. Is that anything.
The twins! There’s nerdjo 🤭and then there’s fratjo too ig, I was really excited when i saw nerdjo trending so I grabbed the opportunity to draw him hehe
Hunger | Part 1 of 2 | Satoru Gojo x Reader
I was young and sweet, and then something happened, something overwhelming, something everlasting.
Synopsis : You’re alone. The village has been eaten, and the coffers have been run dry. There is no food, there is nothing but death. You venture into the woods, your mother told you never to go alone but now you are alone no matter what. You meet a dangerous stranger in the foliage, the stranger wants to play a game. You have no choice but to oblige.
Disclaimer: MDNI. Has two parts, AU, dark!Gojo, dark themes, sexual content, plot twists, loops🔁 , werewolf!Gojo, dubious consent, blood and gore, mentions of cannibalism, horror, mind control, supernatural elements, body horror, final girl!reader.
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Lost in those long woods that seemed to go on for infinity itself, the trees whispered sweet nothings to her. Something was following her, she was sure of it.
.
.
You know to never travel into the woods at night, or during the day if it could be helped. You take your hunting rifle anyway, mud boots that go to your knees and the same worn out chemise you’ve been wearing for the past week. The village had been running dry of food, of life. Of everything. And you were hungry. Your dreams had become strange and eerie, subliminal to the point you could not tell reality from your fabrications. They said the rot takes you in two ways or none, one by slowly eroding at your sanity and the other by eating at your body —either way something was being consumed.
You stumble over your own feet on the corpses of villagers that you had once held close to you like family and they too likewise had greeted you as such. But now they lay strewn about, exhaustion leaving you incapable of giving them a proper burial. There is dirt under your nails and cold sweat rolls down your back, yet you scramble, dig your heels within the wet dirt swirling with blood and viscera.
Please God. You mumble, vision blurring with unshed tears. Vertigo hits you and you trip over yourself again. You land in the mud, it colours your face, hands grabbing at the clay like soil for support. Worms sidle between your fingers. The birds are still today. You wonder morbidly if they had all died as well.
The wolf is going to eat you too, the incessant voice in your head mocks. Eat you right up.
Your chin wobbles. Yet you know you must be brave, you had no choice in the matter. Your rifle weighs you down, you readjust it a number of times as you make your way into the foliage, the sun peaks shyly beneath the clouds decorating the bleak sky, clouds that look like they will bring more rain. More rain meant more slippery terrains, and that meant the beast would be out soon. You had to be quick.
In your daydream you imagine a knight appearing, slaying the beast and rescuing you. Maybe you two would live side by side in a cottage somewhere. But the fantasy is lost on you now. No point to any of it.
You duck to avoid rouge branches reaching out to you mockingly. The air is tepid yet the chill never leaves, it clings to your very bones. Shadows dance in the corner of your vision, but you don’t dare entertain them. The beast, you keep thinking, the beast will be out soon.
You clasp the strap of the rifle tightly, jaw masticating, eyes wearily travelling around the darkening woods, not daring to look back not even now. Your boots crush daises underneath you, and for a moment some old part of you wants to linger back and straighten their bent stems — but you don’t, that part was long gone. Against your will you think of the beast gnawing at the remains of you, your heart picks up speed. You hurry further into the woods. The deeper you go, the darker it gets. The sun is slipping and the density of the trees seems to grow tenfold. You jump over a protruding root wedged in the ground.
” Hello.” A voice breaks through the amicable silence of the woods. It takes everything in you to keep the scream ripping at your throat at bay. You whirl in the direction of the phantom voice. A tall shadow moves slightly within the trees, you squint, heart thudding rapidly against your frail ribs. Hunger has your neck tightening, and fear has your feet angled the way back home, you should run but you finds yourself paralyzed in place. The shadow moves again, branches snapping beneath the stranger’s foot. You pray it is human.
The man unveils himself from where he is shrouded in darkness cast by the leaves. You are momentarily taken aback by the stranger’s foreign beauty. Otherworldly. His light blue eyes gleam even in midday, like they had a mind of their own. Still, his eyes are off putting, beautiful but not quite right. You take a step back, one hand coming to ghost your rifle. Your face must carry your unease as the strange man puts his hands up as if in surrender.
“No need to fear.” The man drawls, a relaxed smile making way across his otherwise charming face, two dimples on each side deepen, his eyes aglow. You take in the man’s black clothes and the coat that is foreign to you. Your brows furrow, perplexed. You frown trying to place where the man must be from. Unwillingly you thinks of the darkness that will soon grip these very woods, you think of faeries, you think of wolves and all the cautionary tales the village mothers would weave to scare disobedient children. You gulp dryly, trepidation has cold sweat breaking at your back.
The man takes another step closer to you and you take another cautionary one back. Your shoulder blades hit bark. You press yourself up against the tree, whip the rifle in one movement to point at the stranger, finger ghosting over the trigger. The man merrily smiles wider. His eyes seem to be laughing at you, delighted. It makes your skin crawl, goosebumps erupting across your body like a rash.
“C’mon Y/N, you know that won’t do anything.” The stranger bares his teeth. His canines are glittering and sharp. Too sharp. Your heart stills. Then it begins thudding loudly against your skin to the point you’re afraid it will fall out before the beast in front of you has time to feast on it. Your lips thin. You do not ask the man how he knows your name. You don’t need to. You pose the rifle until it’s eye level. The man is still smiling, frighteningly still. You aim and shoot four rounds in quick succession of one another. The bullets hit the man each and every one with a wet squelch. The stranger laughs, dimples deepening, eyes delighted in their unwavering gaze.
The gun smoke clears, bullets falling from their puncture wounds. The man’s flesh begins to stitch itself up as you watch on, face draining, hope waning from your eyes that are staring right into the blue of the beast’s.
The man tuts mockingly. “What a waste.” His voice affable. You lower the rifle, holding it limply.
The wolf has the face of man, and the man rips you whole. You recounts the village head’s cryptic warning.
“Now.” The man’s eerie eyes alight, his glittering white hair like spun silver catching the rays of the setting sun from between the trees.
“Let’s play a game.”
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Beautiful Player/ Pt.1 of 4
L is for your love that you gave and took away
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo is a world champion, one of the best —if not the best —formula one racer. He has it all. But he can't sleep for the life of him, plagued by nightmare like visions that seemingly grow more and more intense with each passing day. He hates them, almost as much as he hates the pesky journalists that are out to destroy his remaining sense of peace.
You’re a recent grad, working as a tabloid journalist, and struggling to survive in a city hellbent on eating you alive. You’re looped into working as a reporter on the F1 tracks by your boss. You meet Satoru, Satoru meets you. You think he's a certified asshole. Satoru thinks all journalists should burn and die anyway. You two definitely don't like each other. Not at all.
Disclaimer: MDNI. F1 AU. Enemies to lovers, future sexual content, out of character Gojo (him if he didn’t get his reformation arc), past lives, reincarnation, casual drug use, depression, suicidal ideation, angst/hurt, casual sexism, mild descriptions of gore in later chapters in relations to dreams, dubious relationships, somewhat asshole!gojo & player!gojo. Dejected!reader, familial issues galore. Please only continue reading with all this in mind, thank u!!
1
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Satoru Gojo’s life was one long line of fine white coke, and the clear brown of rum. It was parties and vacations, it was Ibiza, it was New York. It was the flash of cameras, shining teeth freshly whitened, skin freshly tanned. It was splayed open and dissected on tabloids, on posters that girls half his age hung up on their walls, and dreamed, and dreamed – dreamed of him. Of having him, of him desiring them – as if. The thought made him want to roll his eyes and gag.
Satoru. F1 Racer. Beautiful player. King of the land. As a general consensus, he had it all. A never ending line of women desperate and deluded, enough drugs to kill a horse, and a track record of never losing a race. Satoru thought he was happy, content in the way anyone of his standing and rank could hope to be, whether it was happiness or escapism was a thought that never kept him up for long.
He had long nightmares he passed as dreams, shaking off their grasp in daylight had gotten harder and harder, but fuck as if that bothered him. He couldn’t let it bother him. Even if he had found his eyes growing hazy on the course, causing him to swerve and narrowly avoid a premature death.
So what, he thought. So fucking what. He’d gotten out of his half destroyed car, wheel still whirring around in the cockpit. Inhaling that familiar stench of exhaust. He was fine, perfectly fine — really. It sounded more and more like a lie the longer he lingered on it.
His hands had shook the entire time during the Monaco grand prix, they kept shaking when he received the trophy, plastic smile decidedly in place, cameras going off – temporarily blinding him. Yeah, he was fine. If he said it enough times, maybe he could convince himself.
His poor Ferrari SF24, completely totaled. He’d rather think of his baby AKA his car, than the fact the camera flashes unearthed long vanquished memories that were definitely not his.
That night, he lay awake in his hotel room, so close to the harbor, he could hear the waves crashing. Some brunette reporter he’d met on the tracks lay to his right. He’d stared into the dark ceiling, willing sleep to come crashing over him. Squeezing his eyes shut, imagining going full throttle into traffic, imagining the shining blue of fresh paint, fingers tapping at his chest. He imagined how many seconds he could cut back on time, he imagined winning another world championship. Then, against his will, his mind’s pulled back to the black haired boy. “Sat-oru,” the ghastly apparition whispers, eyes still concealed in the half dark of his memory, lips curving familiarly – but it wasn’t familiar, it shouldn’t be — no fucking way. He'd popped his eyes open, sleep becoming a far gone dream as his heart thudded against his ribs, like he'd taken too much powder.
He really needed to sleep, he had to meet his sponsors soon, and somehow act like he didn’t want the very room to combust whenever he was around them. As much as Satoru wishes for sleep, it successfully evades him. His blood burns hot in his ears, jaw clenched — this was getting ridiculous. He’d need to see a shrink if this got any worse. His father would never let him live it down if the Satoru Gojo was seen seeking help from one. The mere thought was embarrassing enough.
Satoru sighs, yeah he was happy. He really was.
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You were the first to graduate out of the gaggle that was your family. Even if it was in journalism and not in something pertaining medicine like your father would’ve wanted. Nonetheless, your dad was the happiest at your graduation. He wasn’t as happy when your first job – fresh faced, and oh so naive – was at a tabloid rag in some hovel in the city. Medicine wasn’t your calling, and being inspired by journalists you’d read growing up made you passionate enough to splurge on an arts degree. The debt was not something you’d signed up for - decidedly. But, at least you were doing something somewhat related to your field, even if it was completely off shot.
You’d wanted to do investigative journalism, uncovering corruption, whistleblowing, highlighting injustices, something with meaning. Not writing slop for dejected readers who hated their lives enough to indulge in all things celebrity.
Anyway, you’d moved to the city, grown out your hair, lost too much weight thanks to overpriced groceries. When you’d gone back to your small little town to visit, only questions awaited you.
“Y/N, are you sure about that job of yours?”
“Y/N, did you meet someone, did you hear about the Kato boy, got a nice job, big payche—”
You dejectedly stay away from overstaying your welcome at your parents house, after all it had taken much convincing for them to let you go all by yourself to the city in the first place. You were strong and level headed, the bedrock of your large family, you knew you were expected to sacrifice, your mother nagged you about being a lone woman in such a large city, of the dangers. Of finding a husband. That word alone made you physically recoil. Marriage wasn’t the end all be all of everything, but your family sure made it seem like it. You couldn’t stop the wisps of panic from gripping you every time the words marriage or husband were mentioned in conversation. The world should learn to leave you be. Did your family even bother to ask you if you even liked men in the first place? You guess you did, but considering your choices, it was slim pickings all around. What was a man good for anyways, you’d mused angrily in your head, dish water up to your elbows. Absolutely nothing, you had concluded, vexed.
Reminders of your piling expectations were thrown your way without warning. You’d be having a nice meal, sitting on the patio overlooking the garden, when your mother would come barging in.
“Sweetie, I went to the shaman.” she’d start, causing anxiety to seep into your bones.
Your mother would make it a whole scene, hands flailing and all.
“She saw you marrying someone within the year, a tall fellow.”
You’d wave her off, regretting stopping by in the first place.
Whatever, let bygones be bygones.
You’re doling up your newest article — ‘Top 10 celebrity wardrobe malfunctions’, your boss had you writing straight garbage this past month, it got the most engagement sadly, when your co-worker, Nanako, lets you know the boss is asking for you.
“Any good?” you ask her, rubbing your puffy under eyes.
She shrugs, taking a seat at her desk, eyes trained on her acrylics. What-ever, you think, brushing your work pants as you make your way to the clear glass panelled office, the shades were closed, obscuring anything inside from view.
You knock. Waiting, bouncing on your heels slightly.
“Come in.” The muffled voice is loud enough to make out. You pushes the door open. Kenjaku is sitting placidly at his desk, hands interlocked in front of him, his usual eerie smile in place. He was the perfect candidate to run the nation’s favorite trash column, somehow passed off as journalism. He had that slightly sociopathic way of behaving that made him an impeccable department head. You shiver, even though the heat caused by poor air conditioning had you sweating in your work chair moments earlier.
“How are you?” You hope your eyes aren’t glaring at him the way you thinks they are. You really weren’t in the mood to hear your boss bitch and moan for an hour straight, fingers already itching to reach for the door – a quick escape.
“Fine.” Kenjaku says, not bothering with manners. When you worked here long enough, nothing seemed to matter anymore, it was pure anarchy in the office on a good day.
“You look a mess.” He breathes, laughing lightly. And you look like a fucking serial killer who belongs on channel six, but you don’t let your polite smile waver.
You were so not in the mood for Kenjaku’s usual bullshit. Can’t he just buy a hamster and torture it instead?
You watch your boss shift through some papers in a red file. You move an inch closer to the mahogany table, not daring to take a seat on the loveseat lining the front.
You clears your throat, your work shirt collar suddenly too tight around your neck. “You needed to see me,”
“Sir.” You add on quickly, like throwing a dog a bone.
“Oh yeah, about that.” Kenjaku murmurs, You’re somehow able to catch onto his words.
You pacify the fury boiling up inside you before it can spill over, instead balling up your hands, knuckles whitening.
“You’re getting transferred, sports, F1.” Kenjaku says, not bothering to look up at you.
You take in a sharp inhale, you exhale. Trying to find any semblance of calm within you.
“That’s not my jurisdiction.”
“Well, no shit.” Kenjaku shoots you an incredulous look. You grit your teeth, jaw tensing.
“Miss.Lucia is on maternity leave, and we’re stretched thin as it is already.”
“As you very much know.” Kenjaku continues, eyes holding yours. He goes back to flipping through his papers, gaze dropping away from you.
“But..I’m..” you start, mind racing, trying to find the right words. I don’t know shit about formula one was probably a good place to start.
Kenjaku’s smile is anything but warm, eyes steely as his gaze is trained back on you.
“Don’t worry, Lucia left her notes, and I’m not asking for Watergate, it’s men going around in circles in cars.” Kenjaku’s voice is several notes too condescending for your liking, he’s talking like you’re a full blown dumbass – exactly how Kenjaku’s been treating you since you started the job.
“I don’t think I’m qualified, sir.” You retort.
“Believe me, I know.” Kenjaku sighs, going back to inspecting his papers. You’re going to kill him, one of these days. You contemplate strangling Kenjaku right then and there with your lanyard when the pot bellied man speaks again.
“If you don’t think you can do it Y/N-chan, resigning is always an option.” Eyes still on the papers.
“There’s plenty of desperate talent who’d do anything to get their foot in the door.” Kenjaku’s voice is controlled, but you can hear the tinge of annoyance in it.
Damn it, you think. You smile politely. “No, I’ll do it, thanks.”
“Good.” Kenjaku’s mouth splits into a grin. Eyes swimming with mirth as they meet yours.
“I knew I could count on you.”
Kick rocks fucker, you’re thinking, smile still in place.
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thank you for reading pt2 coming soon 💗
i moved into a new apartment last week and found my kitchen had a roach infestation and all i think about is ur gojo roach fic and how that is my life now
okay wait manifesting queen 😩, look on the bright side next thing you know a guy like gojo walks right into ur life
Sukuna is extremely sexy to me, because he is evil undoubtedly. there’s something hot about how irredeemable he is
it’s been so long without Gojo i’ve started settling for a guy who’s first line was where the bitches at or something
Sukuna is extremely sexy to me, because he is evil undoubtedly. there’s something hot about how irredeemable he is
repeating this to myself forever and ever
You aren't the Chosen One. The prophecy doesn't even get going for another few generations. But you aren't just going to let some upstart conqueror trample your tulip garden just because the Fates say you can't beat him.
i was made to read books, live by the ocean, walk beneath the trees, and be madly in love.
bullies