#Sequin Sheath Dress

[myfashion25]

This Colors Dress -3561 features a flattering corset bodice, adorned with stunning floral sequins. The sheath style skims your curves for a sleek and elegant look. Perfect for formal occasions, this dress will make you stand out with its unique design.

[phoenixyfriend]

something something one of those those "Jango falls for Courtesan/Stripper/NightclubSinger/TrophyWife!Obi-Wan" AUs...

But instead Obi-Wan actually being a sex worker, he's undercover and still a Jedi, and either:

They split ways and run into each other a few months later with Obi-Wan in full Prude Beige Knight mode OR

The situation goes pear-shaped while they're still flirting and Obi-Wan has to break cover to grab a senator and jump out a window and suddenly this half-dressed glittery Person is batting away shots with a lightsaber and there's a bratty twelve-year-old who ALSO has a lightsaber threatening people with I Will Eat Your Liver if they keep staring at his dad's ass just because the sequined sheathe dress tore in a sexy place

[chicinsilk]

Vogue Italia November 1990

Christy Turlington in a sequined sheath dress by Enrico Coveri, Pumps, Diego Della Valle. Wig, georgie New york. Fashion editors: Anna Dello Russo and Alice Gentilucci Hair: Didier Malige Makeup: Moyra Mulholland.

Christy Turlington dans une robe fourreau à paillettes de Enrico Coveri, Escarpins, Diego Della Valle. Perruque, Georgie New York. Rédactrices mode : Anna Dello Russo et Alice Gentilucci Coiffure : Didier Malige Maquillage : Moyra Mulholland.

Photo Patrick Demarchelier archivio.vogue.it

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 8

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The stylist jabs you with another pin and you bite down on the grunt. You don't want to make this any more difficult than Lloyd already has. His planning, while exhaustive, is not entirely practical. You hear his whistling from behind you. You can't look back as the blonde twists and tugs your hair.

The compartment of the plane allows little breathing room and you feel crowded by the seats and the bodies all around you. Two make up artists working on your face as you're yanked at like a puppet. Another woman steaming the dress, a hazardous task in the air you suspect. You struggle to keep your bearings as the flurry has you dizzy.

As the women deem you suitably dolled up, the gown is presented to you. A simple white sheath that drapes across the chest with a skirt the wraps and splits from the thigh. It's not entirely your taste but it's better than leather or sequins. You let the stylists help you into it, straps to thin to keep on your thick bra, and you reluctantly let your chest loose beneath the charmeuse.

"Almost there, Mrs. Hansen," Lloyd declares as the light dings and all are drawn to the signal. Seatbelts until you touch down. You can barely believe, rather force yourself to accept, that the time has come.

You face Lloyd as he gestures you to one of the ivory seats and you restrain the surprise at his appearance. You'd been so distracted by your own primping, you hadn't noticed his own. A white wedding suit with a red vest. Tailored perfectly to his figure. Oddly refined. You could admit, at least to yourself, that he looked good.

You sit and pull the seat belt across. You'll have to wait till you're back on solid grown to force on the strappy heels. His hand settles on yours, causing you to flinch and he toys with the wring on your finger, lifting it to admire the large diamonds. He leans in to kiss your knuckle.

"This is it, doll face, the first day of the rest of our lives."

"Please, I'm nauseous enough," you grumble.

"Ah, come on, every girl dreams about her wedding day. And you get a whole second one," he taunts, "now that's just being spoiled, isn't it?"

"Sure," you utter and stiffen. You didn't exactly ask for this. He got his pre-nup, he could just shove another contract under your nose to sign.

"Don't be like that, babe, we're gonna celebrate," he leans against you, "I mean, you can't drink, but I can make up for that by fucking you silly."

"Lloyd," you lower your voice as you glance around.

"Ah, don't you wanna choke, daddy? Hmm? Like our little vacation? That was fun. Smack me around--"

"Shhh," you hush him, "I'm gonna smack you right now."

"Oh, please, mistress, mark me up good," he snickers.

You shush him again and turn away, looking out the window. This is it. The final white flag. You surrender to this man and his stupid mustache.

💎

A Vegas wedding chapel. You can't say you never saw yourself there. In fact, with Colin, your budget was so small you married in the backyard with his family to witness and disapprove of the entire affair. Worse, you didn't get a single piece of the cake. Even the slice you save in the freezer for your anniversary was ruined after the fridge burnt out.

You stand before the altar shaped like a Roman plinth with a bright red heart attached to it. You must look so stupid. Not as bad as the couple in the empty pews. They must have the next slot, you scoff to yourself.

The man in his Viva Las Vegas Tee and the woman in a pepto pink sundress. They're both older and mismatched. Likely the least odd couple in the city even so. The man, even sitting down, towers over the squat woman with her breast in a generous display, nearly three times as wide as the strawlike man.

As you look at them, the woman smiles and waves, her heavily blushed cheeks rounding. You return the smile awkwardly and return your attention to the drawl of the barely awake officiant. Lloyd clears his throat and gives you a pointed look, his hands tightening around yours.

"Do you Marion Lloyd Hansen take this woman to be your lawfully wed wife?" The droopy eyed man asks.

Your lips part. Marion? You blink as Lloyd says I do dismissively, as if to brush over his name. Your turn comes before you can think of a snappy remark, too amused as you choke on your laughter.

You barely keep your guffaws below the surface. This whole thing has to be a joke. You really just can't believe any of it is real.

"Alright, I do," you say nonchalantly.

The officiant continues, going through his script and prompts the groom to kiss the bride. You nearly evade the pucker but let Lloyd plant one on your lips. He takes you off kilter as he wraps you in his arms and bends you backward, poking his tongue between your lips shamelessly.

You finally wrestle him off you and regain your balance. You slap his chest and keep him at bay, "Jeez, calm down."

"Come on, baby, we got paperwork to do," he slings his arm over your shoulders and leads you down the aisle, "oh, and a few introductions." He stops you beside the middle pew and turns, "ma, pop–"

You wince, taken aback. Okay, he's playing a trick. This really isn't true. He's set this all up to fuck with you.

"Oh, darling," the woman bounces to her feet, "it's so nice ta finally meet ya," she nears and claps her hands on your cheeks her long acrylics poking you sharply. She plants a kiss on you as the man stands stiffly.

"Son," the tall man greets, "nice ta get a ticket down for the event."

"Dad," Lloyd shakes the man hand. As imposing as Lloyd is, he stands a head shorter than his father and a head above his mother. "Couldn't leave you out."

"Oh, I'm so happy my boy's found his lady," his mother chimes, "now, I'm Dotty and this is my lover boy, Harlan."

"Dear," the man says abashedly and nods at you with beet red cheeks, "pleasure, little lady."

"Uh, you too," you sputter, "Lloyd didn't tell me you were coming in for the wedding."

"Ah, he's a sweetheart," Dotty exclaims as he wiggles in place, "he says ma, how about I fly ya out to the casinos and I said you know that's a bad idea but then he said it was special, so… we'd do anything for our boy, don't you know?"

"Ma," Lloyd warns.

"What, pookie," she chides, "I waited so long for a daughter and oh, I can't wait to take her round the tables. They always say you got good luck on your wedding day."

"Uh, yeah, I mean, they say a lot of things," you utter.

"We gotta sign the contract," Lloyd interjects, "then we'll go to dinner like I promised."

"Oooh, I love a buffet," Dotty rubs her palms together, "and dear, you look like you can keep up."

You crook a brow and restrain a chuckle. Not exactly the Hansen stock you expected.

💎

You peel a strip of meat from the chicken wing and pop it in your mouth, a napkin tucked in the top of your dress to keep the sauce from dripping. You doubt you'll walk away unscathed. Dotty has some of the glaze in the corner of her fuschia painted lips but hardly seems bothered as she gnaws on the bone.

She drops it on her plate and wipes her fingers. She leans on her elbows as she balls the napkin in her hands.

"You know, we're so proud of Marion– Sorry, Lloyd," she corrects herself as Lloyd clinks his fork loudly, "anyway, him goin' off to Harvard and all that. But we were worried. He works too much, never got time for girls."

"Mmhmm," you take in all in, enjoying the unnerving twist. Lloyd really does know how to surprise you.

"And such a nice one," she smiles, "so," she takes a slurp of soda, "when's the baby comin'? Do we know if it's a boy or girl?"

"Baby," Lloyd chokes, "what– how–"

"I know a pregnant lady when I see one," Dotty insists, "absolutely glowing with a shade of miserable."

"Erm, well, it's early so we–"

"Lots of time, lots," she sings, "oh, let's not worry about the youngin yet. It's your wedding night and we gotta party it up."

"Ma," Lloyd tuts again.

"Promise we won't get too wild," she grins at him. You see where he gets that from, "just enough to have some fun."

"Son, your ma's grown. Same with the wife, they'll be just fine," the man's placid tone lulls you, "'sides, we got some catching up to do."

[wildshona]

So out yesterdat afternoon to do a bit of shoppin in London. I wouldn't normally shop in LOndon at the weekend but i was going to see a movie so I thought might as well. Fucking manic. Didn't buy anything. Then met up with Chris and Richard to see Shop Around the Cornet at the BFI. Brilliany. very funny. Then to the Archdukes to eat and drink and watch a table of mid 20s folk - 2 guys and 6 gilrls, Very clear which off the girls wanted sex and which didn't. there were 3 girls dressed for sex and three not.

One of the guys obviously had 2 rivals wanting him. One was a blonde dressed in a red sparkly short sheath dress. Def too tarty for me to wear - i mean sparkly sequins really. And you really ought to have tits if u r going to wear something that says look at this bod. Anyway, her rival had thick long black hair and a dress that came to her knees bur it did have plunge neckline and she DID have tits. I expect that he would win out.

The other girl dressed for sex had a lovely deep blue short off the shoulder dress that she looked really good in. I'd have eaten her up and she was after the other guy and was like to get him. The other three girls were just yjere for a good time dressed kind of normal. I think they were likely to go home after they'd eaten and the guys and the three dressed for sex woul do clubbin.

Anyway very entertaining then Chris and I went for drinks at Richard's before they both decided that I was enough for the both of them and that I had three holes worth filling. They tend to do this as a combination cos Richard is 70 so only shoots once while Chris can manage twice, So Richard got to fuck my wet cunt and Chris put a load in my mouth before lubing me up to fil my arse.

Very good O thought and I do appreciate guys wh have lube in their bedside cabinet. How many times have i had a guy who has been insistent on fucking my arse and has no lube. I mean, for fuck's sake. I don't mind, I can take it but still...

Anyway that done and me having cum five or six times we debated whether we could be bothered going home or stay at Richard's. But, I mean it is only down a lift, about thirty yards to walk and then another lift, so we went home to find that Amelia was having night jitters so we wrapped her up between us and fell asleep cuddling her.

Looking forward to Toni this afternoon. I mean, well, you would wouldn't you?

[ghoul-foolery]

Date Night | Part 1 of 3

Hancock x Nora (F! Sole Survivor)

An expansion on This Fill

Chapter Tags: MDNI, self esteem issues / self-consciousness, mentions of absurd beauty standards, (perceived) one-sided interest, sexual tension, Shaving legs with knives.

[ Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ]

//

“I’m not shaving my legs with your knife.”

“So I will.”

“You’re… actually serious about this.” She looked back toward him, arms crossing.

“You were practically lusting after that dress.” Hancock rose to his feet. “And we agreed. Dress. Dinner. Drinks. Dancing. You, me, fucking date night.” He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it down over the pillows on the bed. “C’mon. Strip.”

//

The dress was stunning.

It was a brilliant emerald green number that hadn’t yet lost its luster to time and radiation. It was covered in shining sequins, sporting an off-the-shoulder neckline and a hip hugging sheath skirt that went down to the knee. Displayed on the mannequin under flickering, dim, showroom lighting, Nora couldn’t help but decide how she would style the dress for an evening out. There was once a perfect pair of black peep toe heels that lived in the back of her closet. They had been stupidly expensive, and worn all of one time. They would be a perfect pairing. The dress was so dramatic with its glittering gem tone that Nora would do a soft, but dramatic shadowy eye look, with some nude gloss. Her hair would be up, to show off her neck, but done in a low hanging bun with fringe, and framing pieces. There was a plain black clutch that she had that–

“Heya, doll, are we ready to go?” Hancock emerged from the shopping aisle directly behind the mannequin. 

There was a lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusted the pack on his shoulders. It was bulging at the seams, but if it was heavy he didn’t show it. Her eyes flickered back to the dress. God, it really was perfect. The robotic staff had done a great job protecting the place, and keeping it clean and organized. Then Hancock and Nora came along.

“Oh, hey, before I forget. I don’t mean to sound fresh, but I mighta found you a bra. What’s yer size again? I’ll give you first dibs.” Hancock flicked ash as he skirted around the mannequin. 

Hancock was a flirty sort with his slanted smiles, and his playful winking. Bra talk was not that. After an accumulation of months traveling together, secrets and privacy were a thing in the past. His asking for her underwear sizes was old hat. It was a courtesy, if anything. It was like her giving him any matches or lighter fluid she found. It was one of those things they did to take care of each other. 

“38C?”

“38-fuckin’-C, sister!” He crowed. He put the cigarette between his lips, then hooked his fingers into the sleeve of the opposing arm. With a move that was all flourish, he pulled a bra from the sleeve of his coat as if he were performing a magic trick. It was a black, lacy thing that was more sexy than it was serviceable but she learned not to complain when she found something that fit properly. It also happened to match a pair of panties she had found.

“You knew it was my size,” Nora accused. She felt giddy. How silly to get so excited over something so simple.

“Yeah, I did,” he said as he tossed her the bra.

She caught it and double-checked the tag. 38C. “God, you’re the best. Thank you.”

Hancock gifted her one of his lazy smiles as he said, “What can I say, I aim to please.” His dark eyes moved to survey the dress. It shimmered in the flickering fluorescent lighting. He whistled low. “Goddamn, are we taking her with us?”

Shifting her pack to dangle from one shoulder, Nora unzipped the central pocket then shoved the bra inside. “What are you gonna do with a mannequin, Mister Mayor?”

“Unspeakable things, fuckin’ obviously. Look at her.” He rolled his eyes, gave her arm a playful swat with the back of his hand. “The dress, babe. The dress.”

“Oh, funny, but no.”

“Why not? It’s your size.”

Nora made a show of rolling her eyes, imitating him, as she said, “It’s absolutely not. Like I can pull that off, anyways.”

“Not only would you look fuckin’ incredible in that thing,” Hancock puffed at his cigarette, and on a smokey exhale added, “But I have 100 caps that says that dress would fit you like a glove.”

The department store had been a special sort of hell; a super condensed reminder of every single superficial flaw the human body could acquire. Things like eye bags, dark circles, laugh lines, wrinkles, cellulite, frizzy hair, body hair. Ads, and signs, and audio announcements called out every imperfection and declared there was a product to fix it — because what were you, if you weren’t perfectly beautiful? Ugly, that’s what. And there was a cream that could fix that.

It was so much worse post-war. 

Before the bombs and the two hundred years in cryo, Nora had the means to afford all of those silly products. She bought the eye cream that fixed dark circles, and the ointments for wrinkles, and the oils, shampoos, conditioners, and sprays to perfect her hair. She used products to reduce sweat, but others to give her skin a dewy glow. Then there were the clip ins to make her hair fuller, better, more voluminous, all the while she had been rubbing herself down with creams to remove the hair that was deemed unsightly and unhygienic. Now, as she looked her absolute wasteland-induced worst, none of it was available, and every single ounce of signage in the department store seemed to mock her. It made her think of how unkempt she must look. Nails chipped and dirty, hair in dire need of tending, the dirt, the new scars… 

“Oh please. Plus, when would I ever wear it? I’d get sniped from a mile out.”

Hancock held the cigarette towards her. Nora took it slowly, pinching it between her fingertips. The second his hands were free, Hancock stepped onto the low platform the mannequin was assembled on.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he drawled as he circled around to the back to access the zipper. Nora couldn’t help but notice the way he dragged his hand around the front of the mannequin's waist. It made the dress shimmer. “We are only a couple miles out from Goodneighbor. So we aren’t going back to one of yer little settlements, we are going to mine for the night.” 

The zipper was undone, and then he seemed to realize he needed to dismember the mannequin to get the dress removed. Mottled hands once again found the artificial waist. He gave it a hard twist, severing the torso from the legs. One arm was yanked from the shoulder joint, and then the other. The dress slipped free.

“We are gonna get cleaned up, you are going to put on this dress – because it’s absolutely gonna fit – and we’re gonna have a date night at the fuckin’ Rail.”

Date night was dinner. Like, actually just dinner. Date night began when Hancock very generously stepped in to fend off an unwanted suitor. ‘We still on for our date night, babe?’, paired with a lazy arm around her shoulder, had been all it took for the man to back off. Every dinner they shared together thereafter became ‘date night’.

A can of cram near the fire in the middle of nowhere? Date night. 

Overcooked Brahmin steaks in a ‘liberated’ raider encampment? Date night.

Dress up night at the Third Rail? Date night but make it more public, she supposed.

The mannequin's body was discarded, the dress in his fist as Hancock marched back over to retrieve his cigarette. Their fingers brushed. He took another puff before pinching off the glowing cherry.

“Is that an official mayoral decree?”

“Damn right it is.” He blew smoke away from her, as he always did. “And ya know what else? You’re gonna have a couple of drinks, and we’re gonna dance.”

“Well who am I to argue with that?” The General of the Minutemen, that’s who.

“Please, you love it when I take charge. It gives you a break.” Hancock drawled, then tossed his head. “Now the next decree is to get the fuck outta here.”

And so they got the fuck out of there, as he so decreed. 

Returning to Goodneighbor was a welcome reprieve. Ever since taking the title of General it felt as if Nora had an endless list of to-do’s that spanned the entirety of the Commonwealth. If she wasn’t fussing over one needy settlement, she was fussing over another. The mental load got to be too much sometimes, so when Hancock took charge and made the decisions she was happy to relinquish that control. Goodneighbor was his house, sometimes it felt like it was the one place in all of the Commonwealth that she could let her hair down and relax. 

Hancock pressed the dress into her hand as he said, “Go to the Rexford, order a bath, and go get cleaned up. I’ll pick you up in two hours.”

Nora couldn’t help but laugh, eyes dipping down to the mass of sequins. “Oh, so you’re picking me up, huh?”

“What can I say, I’m a fuckin’ gentleman.” He winked, smiled in that slanted way of his. “Two hours,” he repeated, then departed for the Old State House. 

Getting cleaned up and fancy-date-night ready was a novel experienced right up until it wasn’t. Hot water and privacy were a godsend, after weeks of rushed scrub downs with a canteen as her only clean water source. When it came time to do her hair she longed for a flat iron, something to smooth the wayward cowlicks and waves out, but she managed to make do… and then… everything kind of fell apart from there… 

One insecurity led to the next. 

Her hair wasn’t as neat as she wanted it to be. There was a fresh scar on her chin that was still new enough to be too pink. There wasn’t anything to hide her freckles, or the dark circles, or the fine lines. Her nails were a mess; some long, some chipped, some too short. There were stitches in her arm from a semi-recent gunshot wound. 

Oof, she suddenly wanted to cry. Getting away from the mirror helped, but only for so long. 

For underwear, Nora picked the lacy black bra that Hancock had found, as well as the nearly sheer set of panties she had found. When she stepped into the dress she was almost completely sure that it would be too small, but then it did indeed fit like a glove. Hancock somehow seemed to know her size better than she did. The idea warmed her, pushing her on the verge of a blush even within the privacy of her room. The dress did a great job accentuating her figure. It was made with a sexy, silky textured material that felt cool against her skin…

God she didn’t have shoes for it though. Nothing but clunky boots and long socks. She had no pantyhose to even out the tone of her legs and speaking of her legs… it was her leg hair that nearly sent her over the edge. It was something she hadn’t considered because she was always stuffed into her vault suit, or jeans, but seeing them exposed in the dress was a kick to the gut as it digged up ancient but still bitter memories. 

A touch to her leg, then an immediate withdrawal. A face pinched in disgust.  

It was nothing. Like anyone would care… no one would notice… 200 years post bombing, leg hair had to be a thing… 

Hancock came knocking at her door, after two hours on the dot. He was wearing his same old geddup, but it was noticeably cleaner, the fraying shoulder seam of John Hancock’s coat had been fixed up. As soon as the door opened he gave her a quick once over.

“Didja need some help zipping up?”

Nora, in her vault suit and her boots, replied, “Uh, nope. I’m ready to go.”

Hancock was just about to make a rebuttal when he suddenly paused to study her face. It took a split second, no time at all, for him to ask, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing.” God, sometimes she wished he didn’t know her so well. Out of nowhere he just suddenly became a Nora Expert and to be honest it was really not fair. She couldn’t hide something as simple as a bad mood from him. “Are you ready?”

Without a word of warning, Hancock pushed his way into the room. Nora shuffled back, watching as he turned and closed the door. He flipped the lock.

“You can’t tell me that dress didn’t fit,” He murmured as he turned to face her. 

Nora huffed a sigh, “Can we not do this? Let’s just go eat.”

“If something is buggin’ you, it’s buggin’ me,” Hancock rasped, and she knew he meant it. After the first few missteps of their first meeting, Hancock and Nora became thick as thieves. Hancock was her ride or die. If something was pissing him off, she’d make it her business to know about it too. When Nora didn’t immediately answer, he growled, “Did that fuckin’ vault tech asshole say something, ‘cause I’ll fucking kill him.”

She snorted inelegantly, reaching to grab his arm when it looked like he was getting ready to storm the hallway. “No. It’s just… me. I just… I can’t right now. I felt…” like a gremlin, like some kid playing dress up, like a yeti, gross, unattractive, ugly. Thanks, pre-war beauty industry.  “Unhappy with how I looked. Can we leave it at that?”

Hancock took her hand and led her to the bed. As he sat down on the bed, he pulled her down with him. They sat side-by-side. He didn’t let go. Like she would run away if he did. “What’s bothering you specifically?”

“You’re really going to drag this out of me, huh?”

“Yep.” He said easily. “We’re partners, Nor. We work through it, and we fix it. And if someone was talking shit about my girl, I mean it, I’ll kill ‘em.”

‘My girl’. He would call her that occasionally. Just another one of his endearments, right along with sweetheart, and babe.

She lifted a finger. One. “No makeup—“ 

“You’re fuckin’ stunner, and you don’t need it.”

Two. “Wrong shoes—“

“So we go ask Mags. She’s got a few pairs.”

Three. “My hair—“

“Looks great.”

Four. “My leg hair—“

He snorted, “So?”

“So?” Nora echoed, incredulous. “It’s like a foot long. If there was a field of flowers I could run through, I could probably pollinate the whole entire Commonwealth solo.”

Hancock laughed, “So we shave it.”

“Get the hell out of here.” Nora tugged her hand from his as she stood and wandered the length of the room. It was sweet of him to make an attempt to not let her live in her rampant, piteous, thoughts. With her back to him, facing the corner of the room she said, “Can we just go? We can still do dinner, and I’ll have drinks, and we’ll dance…”

“Nora, I do believe that I made an official mayoral decree. If the General of the Minutemen wants to go to war with the Mayor of Goodneighbor, I’ll throw down.” His tone was gently playful. 

If she rolled her eyes any harder they would roll right out of her skull. “Shave it with what?”

“We could probably find a straight razor somewhere, but since we’re in a pinch I gotta knife.”

“I’m not shaving my legs with your knife.”

“So I will.”

“You’re… actually serious about this.” She looked back toward him, arms crossing.

“You were practically lusting after that dress.” Hancock rose to his feet. “And we agreed. Dress. Dinner. Drinks. Dancing. You, me, fucking date night.” He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it down over the pillows on the bed. “C’mon. Strip.”

“Hancock!”

“I can try to do this through the vault suit, but–”

“ Jesus, just turn around.”

He did.

Nora groused, “You’re a menace.” but she immediately worked her way out of her boots and vault suit. Once she was down to just her lacy new underwear, she floundered for a moment. While traveling together they had seen one another in various states of undress, but this was different. This was all different uncharted territory. Nora was half-way to grabbing her bath towel when she decided to slip back into the dress. It was left unzipped for the sake of having a bit of maneuverability. The hem of the skirt could be their stopping point. Ankle to knee, and they would be done.

Nora sucked in a deep breath for the sake of steeling her nerves. She had fought deathclaws, and mirelurks, and this was nothing . “‘Kay.”

Hancock turned, and immediately whistled. 

“Shut up.”

“Fuck me, Nora. Look at you, babe.”

It didn’t sound joking. Didn’t sound fake, or forced. His eyes drifted over her figure slowly, like he was trying to memorize every detail. One of her legs slipped behind the other in a sad moment of self consciousness, trying to hide. Was it too late to back out?

Nora swallowed thickly, “Um, so… how does this work?”

“Lay down. Get comfortable.”

She did as she was told, carefully moving onto the bed. She stretched out, her head resting among the pillows — and his coat — as she settled in. Hancock moved about the room for a few moments. By the time he returned to the bedside, he was bringing soap, a small basin of her used bathwater, and a couple of old terry cloths. The sheathed knife and the cloths were tossed to the bed at her feet. The basin of water and the soap were set on an old wooden chair he dragged next to the bed.

Hancock dedicated the time to checking his knife. The pad of his thumb ran over the short edge of the knife’s blade. It was almost meticulous, the way he steadily worked down the length of it, checking for any nicks or folds in the steel. The sound was grating, metallic. If Nora didn’t know the source it would have set her on edge. Reclined on the bed she was able to watch as he worked. First he dragged his thumb one way, and then the next. When the knife was deemed safe for use, he took a seat at the foot of the bed. 

“This might take a couple tries to figure out the best position,” Hancock said, his voice grating and low. “Just try and keep still for me until I tell you it’s okay to move. This is my first time and I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“‘Kay.” Nora’s voice sounded just a little too airy. She cleared her throat and said with a little bit more sturdiness, “Okay.”

One of Hancock’s rough hands circled her ankle. He was deliberately slow with moving her into place. Her legs parted, the skirt of the dress dipped upward along her thighs. It looked as if he was about to settle her foot into the center of his chest but he decided against it. Settling into a tailor sit, he eventually lowered her leg against his thigh, her ankle near his hip. 

After testing the position’s stability, where he tried to dislodge her leg, where he stooped down low and mocked the motion of shaving her leg, he seemed to approve. He cupped her knee as he drawled, “That feel alright?”

“Sure,” Nora breathed, then peered down at him with a crooked smile. “This weird enough for you yet?”

“Not a fuckin’ chance, doll. We’re doing this.”

One of the rags was watered down in the basin, then worked with the bar of soap until there was a sudsy lather. The cloth was massaged against an area just south of her knee cap. Nora tried to ignore the feeling of wayward drips of water slipping down the length of her exposed thigh, just as well as Hancock ignored the water that wet his pants. He paid it no mind. A warm palm settled against her ankle. 

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Try to enjoy it,” he rasped, winking. Mottled fingers curled around the base of the knife; the flash of the blade caught her eye. “We’re doing this for you, remember?”

While she had been momentarily invested in closing her eyes, or staring up at the ceiling, she found that she couldn’t quite divert her attention when Hancock’s focus settled on her. This wasn’t some joke to him. He was taking this whole thing seriously. The concentration in his black eyes was steady, and unwavering. His whole posture dipped forward, haunching down as he leaned in so close she could feel him draw in air and hold it. The first pass of the knife was short. The blade scraped over her skin with a gentle metallic hiss of sound. It collected soap, and hair, leaving naked flesh in its wake. The second pass was slower, dragging in a series of shorter movements.

Hancock withdrew, sitting up as he brushed his thumb against her. It had the potential to be borderline ticklish but in her state of exposure it felt more suggestive than not.

The lazy, pleased, smile slipped into place as he said, “I think we’re in business sweetheart.”

The knife was cleaned off, the soapy cloth was worked down the side of her leg. Nora tried to ignore the way his fingers deliberately flexed against the overworked muscles. The rag was set aside, but instead of diving right back into shaving, Hancock dragged flexing fingers over the slippery expanse of her shin. 

“Fuck, Nor. Are you always so tight?”

If her eyes had been closed they would have popped open. She lifted her head from the pillows to blush aggressively at him, she supposed, because that was literally all she did. He winked, and she let her head flop back. 

“You’re a menace, John Hancock.”

“You love it,” he snickered. 

After drying his hands he was hunkering back down close to her soapy shin. The heat of his breath fanned over her, the blade angled just so… 

Hancock’s eyes flickered upward from under the ridges of his brow bones. The way their eyes met over the length of her body had her stomach doing cartwheels. It was such a brief glance, barely even discernable due to the blackness of his eyes, and yet she felt as if she wasn’t getting enough air. 

Breathe, she told herself. It’s Hancock. He’s just doing you a favor. 

An insane, weirdly intimate favor.

Hancock had killed people – shit, he’d killed people for her – with the same knife that he was using to do such meticulous, delicate work.  All the potential in the world to be cruel, and lethal, and yet he was handling her with the utmost care. He was shaving her because she had made a complaint about feeling gross.

A rhythm was established; the drag-drag-drag of the knife was followed by wiping the blade clean. During the drag-drag-drag, he would hold his breath, and once the knife was pulled away he would release a soft exhale over her shin. Before she knew it, Nora had a shaved front leg, from knee to ankle. The wet washcloth was rubbed over her, cleaning away soap residue before it could get too tacky. 

“Not bad, mister mayor,” Nora said as a joke, but her voice sounded heavy.

When the area was rinsed and pat dry, Hancock dragged the back of his knuckles over the expense of freshly shaved skin. The touch was tender, lingering, and damn if it didn’t feel good. He made an upward pass with his palm. Who needed shaved legs on clean sheets, when he was down there caressing her leg like that? He radiated so much heat his touch felt scorching. Rough, uneven textures smoothed over freshly shaved skin. She didn’t bother to contain a pleased sigh. 

“How’s it feel?”

“Really, really good.” Did you need that extra ‘really’, Nora? Come on .

“Wanna keep going?” He rasped, voice low and grating.

“Yeah, if you’re–” he was already shifting around to get positioned. It took a bit of shuffling. He moved inward on the bed to sit between her ankles, while the untouched leg was moved to prop up against his thigh. Nora tugged at the skirt, pushing it down towards her knees to maintain her decency. 

There had been plenty of instances during their time together that brought them physically close. Freak cold snaps, and sudden flurries of snow once had them sharing a sleeping bag as they huddled together to keep warm. There were too many instances to count where they had tended to each other’s wounds, and had seen each other in various states of undress. That was different. All of that had been survival. This sort of intimate closeness felt so infinitely different, and Nora’s body seemed a little too hyper aware of Hancock’s presence. It was the way he gripped her with his free hand, the way his breath would tickle her skin, the way he would take a moment to knead at tired muscles as he soaped her up.

Both of her shins were finished with relative ease. To give Hancock proper access, Nora had to pivot on her hip, offering up more unshaved leg to his blade. When she found herself stretched out on her stomach, her face pressed down into his coat, she couldn’t help but breathe him in. Hancock worked her calf muscle as Nora took in the smell of metallic burning, and rain, and a lingering haze of acrid cigarette smoke. For the first time in this strange predicament, she was unable to watch him. She resigned herself to nuzzling into the coat and closing her eyes.

When the blade kissed the underside of her knee, gracing the tender space with gentle dragging strokes, Nora became deeply aware of the way Hancock’s freehand had taken to grasping her thigh. His thumb began to glide to and fro. It was an idle caress, something that seemed more mindless than deliberate and yet her attention was anchored there.

She was too invested in the movement of his thumb, otherwise she would have perhaps registered what he was doing sooner. Hancock had finished shaving her lower legs and he was pushing the skirt of the dress all the way up to her ass. She had intended for the hem of the dress to be the stopping point and yet he was going further north. When another exhale fanned her thigh, her entire body shivered – and then she flinched to attention. 

He gave a low, decidedly yummy sounding chuckle.

Dear god what was even happening. Yummy? She wasn’t enjoying this like that — another hot breath, his rough hand gripping — yes, actually, perhaps she was. Nora’s mouth watered, she closed her eyes and buried her face in his coat as she felt the rushing heat of embarrassment. 

“Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?” Hancock’s hand suddenly came to rest against her back. She’d forgotten she had left the dress unzipped. More deliciously warm skin-to-skin contact. Why did it seem as if he was everywhere? The smell of him was surrounding her, his breath had been caressing her thigh, hands at her legs, and now at her back.

She should stop this. Hancock was her friend. Nora nuzzled into the coat, thinking to seek comfort but all it did was remind her who was making her body warm. 

“I… yeah.” Dammit, Nora. 

Fingers slipped down over her spine, only lifting away when the material of the dress got in the way. 

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was pitched so low, almost a whisper.

Yes. We should stop. I appreciate your willingness to do this for me. But  my body is responding inappropriately. You're my friend. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I were to let this continue. Maybe we should reschedule dinner. I’m really sorry.

“No,” she replied, just as soft. 

Bitch?

“Good.” His sandpaper voice took on a bit more gravel as he said, “Roll over for me.”

Hancock gave her the room to roll over to her back, then he was shifting to occupy the space between her legs. He palmed her calf, bending her leg up then pushing out to gain access to her inner thigh. It spread her open, made her skirt ride up, up— she hastened to cover herself, but found the material of the skirt was too taut to be pushed down with her leg pushed outward. Something about just throwing her hand down there and cupping herself felt indecent. 

Nora was on the brink of throwing a pillow between her legs, or maybe his coat, anything to offer a bit of coverage, when she felt his arm thread under the crook of her knee. With his guidance, she allowed his shoulder to cushion the bend. His cheek pressed against the inside of her thigh. When he exhaled, her eyes closed and her lips parted. The soapy cloth worked a lather at her bikini line, rubbing once, twice – oh god, oh god – before retreating.

Cover yourself. Cover yourself right now.  

Lifting her head, she started to yank the material of Hancock’s coat out from under her.

“Don’t move, Nora.”

She peered down at him, and her breath caught. She’d never anticipated seeing Hancock resting between her thighs, gazing at her with such a steady focus. The blade was being lowered to the crease where her thigh met her groin. Starting at the seam of her lacy panties, the knife dragged and scooped outward, his fist angling the knife, and his knuckles brushing inward…

Nora sucked in a breath, “Hancock–”

“I know, doll. I know,” he crooned. Hancock’s voice had more gravel than a quarry. It tickled her skin as he growled again, “Don’t move…”

He touched her sex; a barely there, fleeting touch. A press of rolling knuckles as the knife revisited her bikini line. Teasing in a way that it absolutely shouldn’t be, and not deliberate. Hancock was doing her a favor. He wasn’t consenting to whatever the hell was going on with her. 

“I-I think–” her voice was too airy, her breath suddenly too labored. “I think that’s good? That’s good.”

Nora’s nerves were about to have her shaking right out of her skin, while his countenance was the exact opposite. Black eyes flickered upward, cheek still resting sweetly against the inside of her knee. When the knife was pulled away, he looked lazily relaxed. Nora was suddenly so deeply self conscious of her underwear choice. Was it doing anything to hide the way her body was reacting, or was it giving him a front row seat to see how she was getting warm and slick?

Oh, god, could he see–could he feel–

“Yep, all done!” 

“You sure?” 

Sonnova bitch, did his eyes look back down there?

“Yep!” Nora chirped too quickly as she pushed herself up to her palms. Wuh, this angle was worse. Like he was– like he was going to– “I’m sorry. Thank you so much, for doing that for me, but I… you–” Jesus christ, breathe. “Um, I’ll meet you downstairs in a couple minutes?”

Hancock was withdrawing from her sitting up on his knees in bed. “Yeah, if you’re sure you’re good? I’ll go check with Mags to see if she has any shoes.” He was off of the bed, wiping down his knife as he said, “Eight and a half, right?”

Of course he would know her shoe size. God, her chest felt like it was about to start aching. For all of Hancock’s Hancock-ness, he was so effortlessly sweet sometimes. Always going out of his way to care for her. And she had let him walk right into whatever the hell that was. 

Nora shifted off the bed, finally able to get her skirt properly tugged down. Just as she was fawning over how smooth her legs looked, her unzipped dress gaped out at the chest, and she scrambled to clap the material in place. This was a mess. She was a frazzled, jittery little mess. 

Hancock was back in his coat, letting loose a quiet chuckle as he gestured for her to turn around, “Lemme zip you up, babe.”

“God, I’m so sorry.”

“Not insulting me, none. Trust me.” The dress was zipped with a whisper of sound. “What’d I say, huh? Like a goddamn glove.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she groused, crossing the room to peer in the mirror. She felt like she looked a little plain in the face, but the dress really did look good. She needed to freshen up, fix her hair, and she would be ready. Slender fingers picked at a couple of wayward bobby pins, pulling them free and putting the ends in her mouth as she started working everything back into place. Getting a little distance between all of his radiating body heat seemed to help soothe her keyed up nerves. She could breathe a little easier, and her thoughts weren’t quite so hectic. She could look at him and not want… 

“See ya down there?” Hancock asked as he opened the door to leave. 

“Give me ten,” she replied, the pins still clamped between her lips. When he started to leave, she pulled the pins from her mouth so she could call out, “Hey Hancock?”

He slowed, looking over his shoulder. 

“Thank you. I mean it. I owe you one.”

He smiled, slow and slanted as he winked. “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me when you wake up tomorrow.”

Dress. Dinner. Drinks. Date night. What was a good D-word for guilt?

The door closed, and Nora’s soul seemed to leave her body. She practically deflated into the ground, her palms pressing to her eyes.

What. A. Mess. 

//

[ Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ]

[thatbanditqueen]

Basic Training Ch 3

A response to the prompt: "You're staring." Thanks to my harem cohort @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love @be-my-ally @powerofelvis and @whositmcwhatsit

Summary: Bess heads to the dance the Morale, Welfare and Recreation Committee for the 37th armored tank division is throwing, and manages to avoid dancing with the most notorious soldier on post, who cannot seem to take his eyes off her.

Warnings: None! Wait, kissing. Swear words. This may be the slowest burn yet. Probably typos, I wrote about 1K words over the last three days and then the rest in a fever dream. So.... may not make sense. Also I am pretty sure the first phase of basic training would not have them in tanks yet, but....I am playing fast and loose with Army life in this one.

Word Count: 5. 3 K

This is my newest WIP, please like, comment, reblog and tag and let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.

You can catch up on the previous chapters here

Basic Training Chapter 3: Just Kiss Me

Saturday, April 5, 1958

7:30 p.m.

The Schwartz Residence, Killeen

Just as her shoe hit the bottom stair, Bess realized she had left her lipstick in her room and was turning back around to grab it when she saw Kay sitting in the living room, dressed in a pink cocktail dress. Her puffy crinoline skirt was gathered in a heap around her as she shifted in place, adjusting her pearl necklace.

“Um, where do you think you are going?”

Kay looked up, tucking her brown hair behind her ear as she eyed the tight, fitted sheath dress Bess was wearing. She smiled at how the white sequins and embroidered red flowers glowed iridescent in the dim light and whistled low.

“Who are you dressing up for? The guy who you snuck in last weekend?”

“What makes you think there’s a guy, Katherine, honestly. I don’t sneak men into our house.”

“Uh huh,  so you’re all gussied up in your favorite dress just for a bunch of enlisted soldiers?”

Kay grabbed her purse and followed her sister to the door.

“Why are you being weird Bess, I always come with you? You’ve been going to army dances since you were sixteen. I’m about to graduate, plus, I told Dickey I’d meet him there.”

Bess sighed, thinking of Kay’s latest boyfriend. She supposed that she should be happy because he seemed like a harmless nerd, and, according to the files she had pulled on him, was not married, inbred or bankrupt.

“I just - we - I didn’t invite you to this dance because it’s an enlisted platoon. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Wow, you must really like who ever it is, if you don’t want me to see you with him. Too bad. Dori called earlier and told me to come. She’s been trying to reach you all day, by the way.”

Bess locked the door, and they got into her car.

“Can you believe her date?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Of course, then it all made sense why you guys would be messing around with an enlisted tank unit. How did Dori even get involved with their MWR Committee.”

Bess rolled up her skirt so she could comfortably drive, and shifted into reverse, arching her eye bow at her younger sister as she did.

“How do you think? She asked to be reassigned to it two weeks ago.”

“Man oh man, she really is lucky. I wonder if we’ll all get to dance with Elvis?”

“Look, Kay, they sent out a memo to everyone, do NOT make a spectacle over Private Presley. Just act like he’s any other solider”

“Of course Bessie bushka. I’m on my best behavior.”

Bess looked Kay in the eyes as they pulled through the base gate.

“I am just going because I told Dori I would, I don’t wanna stay too late. So maybe Dickey Rooney can drive you home if you wanna swing all night?”

“Yeah, sure, ja volt. You don’t have to be ein klafte, Elisabet.”

**************************************************************

The tight cloth of her dress didn’t have much give, and Bess regretted her choice as she tried to keep up and hold on as she danced

“Look, this is tactical move that requires delicate maneuvers—”

“I’m not spiking the punch, Jim.”

Bess huffed and got into her rhythm as they kept up with the band’s rendition of “Tutti Fruity.”  If she let her self relax and swing into each step, it was almost like old times when she, Jim and Ben used to go out dancing in Austin or Killeen and she’d take turns dancing with her fiancee and his best friend all night. They had been the three musketeers. But that was last year, when she had a fiancee. And a different future peering back at her from her crystal ball.

The music brought her out of her silent reverie, and Bess looked to her where the band was performing on stage. The lead singer’s voice reverberated through the building, echoing up into the tin ceiling and back down again, making the room buzz with energy. There were six people in the all-Black Flapjacks: drums, guitar, bass, trumpet and then a male and female vocalist. The men wore matching silver dinner jackets and black bow ties, and the beautiful, Black woman had on a gorgeous silver dress with tulle flowers at the bust.

Bess took a deep breath, her attention shifted back to Jim, whose hands were always steady, but never needy. She was grateful he had agreed to come when she called last night and asked. A year ago they had spent almost all their free time together. Stalwart, an honorable prankster, Jim wasn’t shipping out to the Army Intelligence station in Heidelberg for another two months and Bess wondered if their friendship would end. If Ben’s new German wife would win him over and, like his friend before him, Jim would forget all about the last three years of shared adventures and promises of a lifelong friendship. Men mean it in the moment, Bess thought, I suppose women do to. Forever. What a meaningless word. How can we plan forever when we cannot know the future? The song ended and Jim escorted her off to the side. She looked for her sister, and found her swaying with her beau towards the back, hands clasped together between the lock-eyed look of first love.

“I forgot how good a dancer you are, Schwartz. And in that dress, whoowee! You’re a knock out tonight.”

“You can cut the flattery, Jameson, still not spiking the punch.”

“S’not flattery, how dare you insinuate that I would be disingenuous? You look good all dolled up, s'nice to see you this way. It’s almost like fun Bess is back, though a year ago she wudda helped me spike the punch.”

He took out his large, dark leather flask and handed it to her after taking a nip. Bess’ face scrunched up in distaste as the vodka burned down her throat, but she greedily held on and took another long drink.

“A year ago I didn’t work here, I was just hanging out with some of the reprobates from the German language division. Now it would be bad form for a Front Office secretary to spike the punch.”

“Look around, Bessie, this crowd needs to relax. They’re alllllll keyed up waiting for that Hound Dog.”

Jim was right, a heightened sense of anticipation pervaded the warehouse, even the strings of colorful paper lanterns seemed to sway with anxious excitement above them. Bess looked over at the big bowl of punch, next to the trays of deviled eggs, brisket sliders, the lime jello mold filled with seafood salad, pineapple upside down cake and more. She was sizing up the punch and checking her breath as they waited for the next song when she heard a wave of hushed murmurs ripple through the large room and turned to see Elvis, Dori and a few other soldiers in dress uniform enter the dance together. Bess’ eyes narrowed as Elvis’ looked at her.

Jim followed her gaze, then met Bess’ eyes.

“There he is, as handsome as he looks in the movies.”

Bess’ grimace could have cut through glass as she turned to her friend and elbowed him.

“Not you too?”

“What, art thou so high above us mere mortals that you don’t find Elvis Presley attractive, Schwartz? To gouache for a scholar like you?”

“It’s Private Presley now. And I’m not made of marble, Captain. Of course I recognize his attractive features. He just isn’t my type.”

She sniffed, and grabbed the flask from inside Jim’s uniform, the breath coming out of her nose forcefully as she drank a long draught.

“I’ve met him, actually, already. I was there.” Bess took another drink, tipping the flask back again and noticing that the liquid didn’t burn so much this time. “When he asked Dori out. I’m happy for her.”

Elvis and Dori began walking toward them, and Jim noticed how Bess’ stance changed as she crossed her arms and pursed her lips, suggesting that she what felt was the opposite of 'happy for Dori.'

“Well, I was at the press conference his first day here, at least four reporters asked if he has a girlfriend. Said he was playing the field so many times, sounded like a broken record.”

Bess straightened as she watched Elvis’ hand tighten around Dori’s waist and push under her bust while the blonde leaned into it and introduced Elvis to some of the eager MWR committee members who had stopped them.

“Yeah, that would be the alternate version of Hound Dog, it’s on the B side.”

Jim chuckled at Bess’ joke, but she didn’t notice, she was busy watching the Hound Dog himself, and caught Elvis glance over at her and give a little nod before his lips bent into a smirk. She realized she was frowning and plastered a big smile on her face. Jim watched this exchange with interest as Bess turned back when he spoke.

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Definitely not your type.”

Bess scowled and whispered for him to stop as Elvis, Dori and another soldier approached them.

“Why Captain Daniels, how nice to see ya over at this little ol’ dance for the 37th, are you Bess’ date ta night? Or sneaking in to try and meet you-know-who?”

Dori giggled and playfully tapped Elvis’ chest. In case, you know, they didn’t get whom she was referencing.

Jim nodded and shook his hand to stop Elvis and the other soldier from saluting him.

“Oh, neither, actually, I’m just here to make sure Schwartz doesn’t spike the punch.”

“Don’t believe a word the Captain here says. This is a great introduction, by the way. Captain Daniels, meet Private Presley, you know Doreen of course, and then, well, I cannot say we’re acquainted.”

The liquor had loosened Bess up and she giddily put out her hand to the other soldier, as Elvis fiddled with the blue dress uniform cap under his right arm and took charge of the conversation.

“This is Rexadus, I mean, uh, Private Mansfield, he’s in the 37th wit me, another Mephisss boy, we were inducted ta gather, actually." Now Elvis was turning his hat over and examining it, speaking with confidence, almost as if from a script he had rehearsed in his head. "He’s a solid, solid, guy. He really is. Guess I’m lucky, since he’s spending all his time stuck in a metal box with my ass - I mean stuck with my behind.”

Rex her shook their hands with tight, swift grip and a warm smile. Jim raised his eyebrows at Bess.

“And how do you find the Army, so far, Privates?”

“Well, it was easy ta find, just follow all the tanks.” Elvis  smiled and  looked down. “Nah, well, speaking’ jus for me, I mean, I was real honored when President Eisenhower sent me an invitation to this here costume party, and all the boys are real nice."

There was that scripted voice again, Bess mused. She had seen under the hood and Elvis' attitude toward being drafted had not struck her as honored and grateful.

"It’s not easy, golly, I tell you, it’s really whooping my - uh - caboose. But I never felt I earned my supper so well, that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Dori giggled like Elvis was the wittiest man in the world, but he barely noticed, his eyes were focused on Bess and she coughed, uncomfortably. It was hard not stare back. She almost forgot to breathe, and exhaled deeply as she forced herself to look over at the band.

Her eyes trailed over to the food, and she looked back at Elvis with concern, knowing he rarely actually went to the mess hall. He had been meeting her at her back stairwell every evening at 5:15, opening her car door and getting in without even asking. As if it were his own car and sliding across her seat was the most normal thing in the world. It actually did seem normal now, and had become part of her daily routine these last three days. They sat there in their own private enclave, and every time, as he laid his head between her thighs and rubbed her waist, she told him that they were just friends hanging out. Yesterday they’d talked past dinner hours and she’d ask him if he didn’t want to go to get food, prompting Elvis to share how someone had yelled out in line at him Monday, asking if he missed his teddy bears, and he hadn’t gone back since. Sergeant Norwood’s wife, apparently, was providing him with a loaf’s worth of peanut butter sandwiches every night. But that wouldn’t have happened this evening and Bess thoughtfully looked over at the food table.

“You must be hungry. All of you, I mean.” Bess stuttered, trying not to stare at Elvis, which, for some reason, backfired, because consciously trying not to made her think about him even more and she failed horribly at being able to stray from his blue eyes for very long. “Because you just got here. Of course.”

Dori smiled and took this as her cue to play hostess and lead Elvis away to the refreshments.

“Yes, of course, of course, y’all must be hungry, doing those tank exercises all day. I made the seafood dip over there in the jello mold, it’s a recipe from Ladies’ Home Journal, you simply must try it and tell me what you think.”

“Aw, darlin’, I don’t, don’t eat seafood.”

“The brisket is pretty good.” Bess chimed in.

Dori smiled even deeper.

“Hmm, well, I suppose it’s probably ok for a Yankee like ya self, Bess honey.”

She pulled her arm tighter around Elvis, leading him to to the brisket as Bess heard her say, “Personally, I find Millie’s brisket a little bland and dried out, but come on, you’re a growin’ boy, need to refresh ya energy.”

Dori’s giggle trilled back as she walked him away and Bess frowned again when Elvis turned back over his shoulder, clearly grinning deeper as he took in Bess’ eyes following him.

She made small talk with Rex, mentioning how the last time she had heard this band, The Flapjack’s, they had played all of Elvis’ big hits and there had been none tonight.

“He bribed them.”

Rex whispered, looking over at where Elvis and Dori stood, as she fed him a deviled egg and then a brisket slider, sticking her finger in his mouth to lick the barbecue sauce off. Her high laugh echoed all throughout he warehouse, prompting Bess to roll her eyes.

“Bribed them?”

“Yeah,” Rex continued. “Not to play ‘Hound Dog,’ not to play any of ‘em. And he bought cases of cigarettes for all the guys in our unit. He wants to make sure tonight is nice, smooth, and normal. As it can be for him, I suppose.”

Before she had the opportunity to inquire further Bess was distracted by the band as they started up a new song, a rendition of Johnny Mathis’ “Chances Are,” and she watched Dori squeal that she loved this song.

 Bess smiled at Rex.

“Well Private, want to cut a rug?”

He hesitated. “Uh, I think -" he looked over at Elvis, who was making his way to the corner of the dance floor. “Probably better if I don’t, gonna go check out the chow.”

“C’mon, you little Yankee, I’ll dance with you, even if you have no taste in brisket.” Jim took her hand and raised his eyebrow. “By the way, Elvis Presley is in love with you Bess.”

“Stop it, Jameson.”

“Did you see how his buddy hardly touched you?”

“How would he know? These boys don’t talk about their crushes in their bunks at night. ‘Sides,he is here with a date.”

“Oh fooey! Elvis doesn’t have to tell him anything, all Rexadus, or anyone need do, is clock how that boy looks at you and, man, that’s all she wrote. You don’t dance with another soldier’s girl, it’s the code. Dori doesn’t stand a chance, honey, he’s just too polite to turn her down. I bet his mama is just like her. Which is probably why he likes you.”

Bess gave him a stare.

“Ok, maybe not exactly like Dori. I cannot see the good Mrs. Presley making you go all the way to Dallas so she can dress shop at the boutiques. They were share croppers, right?”

Bess nodded at Jim as she swayed with him, attempting very hard not to look over at where Elvis and Dori slowly danced.

“Something like that. Very very poor. But Jim, you dance with me, and I was your friend’s girl for two years.”

“That’s different Bess, I hate most women.” Jim looked back over at Rex and his voice trailed off. "Most people, actually. You are saving me from all the eager beavers here looking to snag an officer as a husband.”

“Well, looking around, some of them would probably settle for snagging just a night with an officer.”

They laughed and Jim led her around the dance floor in perhaps the most chaste slow grip of any of any officer or gentleman that danced a slow dance that evening.

The song ended, and the band kept going with their version of Sam Cooke’s hit “You Send Me.”

Bess could not help herself, and found her eyes move to watch Dori press her cheek to Elvis’ and it made Bess’ stomach clench inadvertently. Elvis’ eyes locked on hers while he pulled Dori tighter to him, tilting his head with a smirk. Something in his eyes told Bess he could tell how much she envied her girlfriend, a fact she refused to even concede to herself as she looked away, scanning the room for her sister. To her dismay, Kay was now kissing her dweeby young lieutenant toward the back of the warehouse, not so much dancing as staggering back and forth in place.

Hitting someone’s shoulder, Bess turned to apologize until she saw Elvis had moved Dori right behind them. She stepped hard on Elvis’ foot, then apologized loudly and profusely. That didn’t get him to scout off and they remained dancing next to each other as Jim ignored Bess’s pinches at his wrists clearly signaling for him to lead her away.

“Why hello there, Moo Moo, fancy bumping into you here?”

Dori smiled big and pushed her hands further up around Elvis neck as she swayed to the rhythm.

“Moo Moo? Y’all are gonna havta tell me bout that” Dori giggled. “And look at you Bessie, honey, I just LOVE your dress.” Her eyes moved to Jim. “Y’all having fun?”

Bess stepped closer to Jim, nodding and avoiding the coy irreverence in Elvis’ dark blue eyes as she slyly tried to navigate her partner away from them. She kicked Jim’s shin to let him know that if he did not politely guide her away this very instant she would begin to kick harder.

*******************************************************

Leaning against the wall during a ballad, Bess found herself making a mental note that Elvis’ seemed to avoid dancing to the faster songs. During this one, he had gone off to get some punch and then started walking in her direction only to be assaulted by a troop of MWR committee members, offering him samples of the desserts they had baked as a pretext to come and talk to him. Bess smiled as one asked him to dance, then turned at Mabel’s voice, observing the rosy glow of the other secretary’s cheeks.

“Mhmmm, the punch is good tonight.”

Bess smiled, then leaned in to smell Mabel’s glass.

“How many of these have you had, Mabel?”

The older woman replied without missing a beat. “Five.”

“I’m cutting you off, I think it’s been spiked.”

“Of course it has. By me.” Mabel took her glass back, gulping the rest down with a wink. “Someone needed to liven up this funeral. Hold this for me, won’t you?” She asked, and Bess’ jaw dropped a bit as she watched Mabel cut in on Dori.

Bess wondered if Mabel still preferred Burt Lancaster to the movie star she currently leaned her head against, happily watching her colleague cozily nuzzle into Elvis tall frame. He was a good sport, joking and swaying with Mabel for a second dance,  then stepping to the side and chatting with another swarm of woman who tried to contain their eagerness as they brought him another tribute of dessert platters.

Bess danced to The Flapjacks performance of “Jambalaya,” but quit as the music turned toward more and more ballads while the night went on. It was late, the people on the dance floor seemed to have coupled up and the decorum had slowly fallen to the wayside as the senior personnel disappeared. The air fell thick with a heady, hazy lust provoked by the swell of sweet, slow rhythm and blues and the release dancing provided from the stress of barracks life. Jim had ducked out, and Bess wished she had given Kay her keys and gone with him. She managed to stay as far away from Elvis as she could through he evening, which wasn’t hard. If Dori was not monopolizing him, he only made it a few feet before another woman tapped on his shoulder. During this time, Dori had cornered her and begun drilling Bess for information, asking why she didn’t pick up her phone anymore, and what the deal was with Elvis.

“Moo Moo? Is that a nick name? Are you sure y’all are just friends? Honey, say the word, and I will be on my way. I do not throw myself at men.”

Thinking of their double date last week, Bess restrained herself from explaining that this seemed to be Dori’s primary hobby.

“I promise, it’s a silly nick name, Moo Moo is what he called his childhood cow named, get this, Bess. I’m telling you, Doreen, we’ve just accidentally stumbled into a very casual friendship.” She rubbed her friend’s shoulder, and looked out at Elvis laughing with his dance partner.

“He's lonely, and just jives more with women. You saw him with Mabel in the office. I’m not saying I see wedding bells in your future either. But then again, Dori, you don’t want to get romantically involved with Elvis Presley, do you? I can only imagine the havoc he is going to wreak on the girls in this town once he gets his bearing and into phase two. That boy is a fast operator, so fast you don’t even know what happened and boom, you’re asking him out.”

Dori narrowed her eyes. “Mmmhmm. Well, honestly I don’t want to marry him, Bessie Boo. I just want to experience him. He is so soft, Bess. That jaw! And those eyes. Ufffff. And when he kisses you, oh, it’s like having lightening strike your cheek. I’m fixin’ to get more before the night is over, hopefully with my mouth.”

She winked as the song ended, and strode off to get him back. Bess had to giggle at the glare Dori shot a younger girl from the switchboard office who looked like she was about to ask Elvis to dance.

Lonely, awkward, and ready to be done, Bess rolled off the wall and told Kay she was ready to leave. Her sister politely told her to get bent, promising Dickey would drive her home. So Bess subtlety slipped out of the side door next to the stage and made her way towards her car, ambling slowly in the cool evening air. Bess found it a sweet respite from the crowded, stuffy ware house stuffy. Out here, it was peaceful, and she savored the darkness as she looked up into the black sky. The stars and moon were hidden by some clouds, and Bess tried to get lost in the murky shadows as she wandered away from the sounds of the dance. She begged the wind to tamp down the anxious buzzing in her head. It was then, when she paused in the passage way between two tall buildings, that she heard the sound of footsteps following her, and turned to see a tall, dark figure striding toward her with purposeful, swift steps. His shoulders were back and his hands were out and he slowed when he heard Bess speak.

“All dressed up and marching in a hurry, huh? Loose your parade, Tupelo?”

Elvis’ gait turned into a wide swagger and Bess stumbled into the building backing away from the force of Elvis’ magnetism. It was not a smart escape strategy because he followed in step, his hands on his waist as he looked her over.

“Al - al - always, the smart ass, huh?”

“I’ve been a smart ass my whole life, Tupelo. Try to keep up.”

Elvis shook his head, chuckling low.

“You’re staring. Stop it.”

“Honey, if you didn’t want me to stare at you, shoulda worn a different dress.”

She gasped, and Elvis stepped closer, his right arm up against the wall while his left moved over her waist and he whispered into her forehead, his voice was low, teasing, almost babyish.

“Be honest, Moo Moo, did you come out here cuz you wanted me to chase you?”

Bess looked at the eaves of the building above her, she could hear the faint sound of the band back at the dance playing “The Girl Can’t Help It” and Elvis hips swayed very slowly at half time with the beat.

“Nope, I, I was leaving, actually.”

“How could you leave without dancing with me, baby. Not even once. An ya hardly even talked to me all night. Every other girl in there is ready and rearin' ta pounce on me, but you make me come chase after you?”

“I’m - I’m not like very other girl, Elvis. I’m not trying - trying to ….”

The way his thumb trailed up her arm made Bess shudder and she lost her train of thought.

“Hmmm. Not tryin’ to what, Moo, huh?”

He leaned into her ear as he spoke, and the skin on her bare shoulder prickled as his thumb rubbed over it while he whispered softly.

His voice was warm on her neck, and it reminded her of the first summer Mama drove her and Kay down to Galveston spontaneously for a week. They had stayed in a cheap motel across from the beach and enjoyed the warm Gulf water while eating fried shrimp and hush puppies and getting sunburnt. There, in the golden sun of the Texas Gulf, Bess had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to move through the world. No, standing where the sun met the surf had set her free, and she had become a wild animal dancing in the water and screaming into the waves while the sand crabs tickled her feet.

Elvis’ breath on her neck had the same effect. She felt wild, relaxed, totally at the whim of her body as she bit her bottom lip and looked up at his half-lidded eyes. She wanted to pull him close and scream into his mouth, howl at the untamed force of nature that rippled beneath his cheeks. He tightened his hand at her waist and kissed her neck, but then stepped back at her shudder.

“Ya scared not scared of me, Moo Moo, are you?”

She shook her head, but trembled as Elvis fingers feathered lightly down her arm.

“You don’t never have to be scared of me, baby, I won’t ever hurt you.”

“Elvis, I -”

He kissed her neck again, murmuring into her skin. The top of his cap rubbed into her hair. “Wanna get out of here? Go somewhere we can jus… Talk?””

Just as Bess began to answer, she felt a light sprinkle of water on her nose and looked up as it started to drizzle down on them. The rain brought her wits back to her and she gently pushed Elvis away, feeling the water increase and her hair slip down over her face. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

“You are here on a date with someone else, and I have to go home.” Squeezing him in a tight hug, she kissed his cheek one last time as he nodded, before removing her heels and sprinting off through the puddles to find her car.

**************************************************

Bess had managed to wash her face and get her dress off before she succumbed to the extreme need for a pot of hot tea. Now she stood in her kitchen, towel drying her hair and shivering as she waited for the kettle to boil. Hearing a knock at the door, she yelled out hurrying to the front of the house.

“Kay, the door is open! Or is numbnuts a catching disorder -  shit.”

There was Elvis, hat in hand, on her front doorstep.

“Numbnuts?”

She swayed to the side, watching the back of a white Studebaker whirl around the corner. A white Studebaker very much like the one Mabel owned.

“My sister’s boyfriend is not the sharpest shooter in his platoon.” She held her robe closed as she looked down at her thin, white silk night gown. The thin matching robe didn’t do much, but she felt more decorous pulling it over herself.

“Did Mabel sneak you off post?”

Elvis grinned mischievously and strode past her into the house

“Hello to you too, Bessie, whatcha cookin, good lookin'?”

Closing the door, she shoved him as he walked backwards down the hallway.

“Don’t you hello me, what are you doing here?”

Elvis unbuttoned his jacket, and draped it around her shivering body.

“Still cold honey?” He drew her in, rubbing her shoulders. “Let me see if I can warm ya up.”

His jacket was still cozy with the heat of his body as he drew Bess into him. Breathless, she let him enclose her in his embrace, folding her arms into his chest as she lifted her chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“There she is, there’s a good lil Moo Moo.”

Elvis leaned down to bundle her further into him, his hands moving inside her open robe to caress the sides of her body, his nose stroking hers as she closed her eyes and whispered into his jaw.

“Elvis, you shouldn’t be here.”

“I know honey.” He pulled her closer, kissing her cheek at the fold of her earlobe as Bess crushed into his.

Her mind was racing, racing the with knowledge that at any moment her 17 year old sister would come home and probably know how to work the door knob. Racing with the knowledge that her father and mother were flying back to Waco tomorrow and she needed to be rested and alert when she drove to pick them up. Racing with the knowledge that Elvis Presley was the absolutely worst choice for a romantic entanglement or fling, not just because he was famous, handsome, rich and probably already dating any number of women in Los Angeles, Memphis and God knows where else. And therefore, an unimaginable person to be seen with publicly or explain to her family.

But it was worse than that, she could already tell, from the way her mind bent towards him all through the day when he wasn’t around, and directed itself to him with an intense, buzzing focus when he was. For these reasons, she knew he would be the worst kind of all-consuming distraction that she could possible let herself get involved with right now.

Her mouth had other plans. Namely, how could it find his mouth?

“Elvis.” She mumbled as her lips brushed the nape of his neck and her hands wrapped around his body.

“Yes Bess?”

He looked down at her as she tried to find the words she wanted to say.

“I - I - I”

“I know honey, you don’t date soldiers.”

She smiled a lazy, goofy half smile.

“Mmmhmmm.”

He gripped her tighter, pinching the flesh at her sides.

“Honey, dating is not the word on my mind right now. I am not interested in asking you on a date.”

He kissed her forehead.

“I do not have no intention of driving up to your house in my pink Cadillac.”

He kissed her nose.

“I don’ wanna have to come meet ya mama and shake your daddy’s hand.”

He kissed her cupid’s bow.

“And I definitely ain’t about to take you out to fancy restaurant and buy you dinner.”

He kissed her lightly on the top of her mouth, his teeth grating over her lip.

“I do not want to date you, Bess.”

“Good, because I don’t want to date you either.”

“So don’t date me, baby. Jus kiss me.”

**********************************************************

Click here to read Chapter Four: Dance

@eliseinmemphis @moonchild-daniella @tacozebra051 @ab4eva @kingdomforapony @everythingelvispresley @richardslady121 @dkayfixates @artlover8992 @peskybedtime @freudianslumber @amydarcimarie @toreigh @notstefaniepresley @18lkpeters @yynneessmons @lookingforrainbows @prompted-wordsmith @ashtag2887 @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @returntopresley @girlblogger2002 @rjmartin11 @bigromansgirl-blog @literally-just-elvis-fics

Let me know if you want to be tagged. Feedback, suggestions, thoughts and questions always appreciated.

[shivaniboutique]

Party wear gowns in Western fashion can vary in style, length, and design.

Here are some popular styles you might consider for a party:

A-Line Gowns:

Flattering for most body types gown.

Fitted at the top and gradually flares out.

Suitable for various occasions, from semi-formal to formal parties.

Mermaid Gowns:

Fitted through the bodice and hips, then flares out at the knee.

Dramatic and often considered glamorous.

Ideal for formal events and evening parties.

Ball Gowns:

Characterized by a full, voluminous skirt.

Fitted bodice and a defined waistline.

Perfect for formal and upscale events.

Sheath Gowns:

Slim and form-fitting.

Straight from the neckline to the hem.

Elegant and sophisticated, suitable for cocktail parties.

High-Low Gowns:

Features a shorter front hem and a longer back hem.

Trendy and youthful.

Suitable for semi-formal and cocktail events.

Off-Shoulder or One-Shoulder Gowns:

Adds a touch of glamour and sophistication.

Draws attention to the shoulders and neckline.

Suitable for various party settings.

Lace or Sequin Gowns:

Adds texture and visual interest.

Perfect for a more luxurious and festive look.

Ideal for formal parties and evening events.

Slit Gowns:

Features a high slit on the side or front.

Adds a hint of allure and drama.

Suitable for upscale parties and events.

Strapless Gowns:

Highlights the shoulders and neckline.

Timeless and elegant.

Suitable for formal events and galas.

Backless Gowns:

Adds a touch of sensuality.

Ideal for parties with a more relaxed dress code.

Can be combined with various silhouettes.

Remember to choose a gown that complements your body shape, suits the occasion, and aligns with your personal style. Pay attention to the fabric, color, and embellishments to ensure the gown suits the overall vibe of the party.

[gods-no-longer-tread-here]

There's lots of perfectly reasonable arguments about Miss Piggy being a shitty, mean, abusive character, but the fact remains that she is a literal pig character, fat and soft and STRONG, who is also glamorous, confident, ambitious, fashionable, and genuinely kind.

Thin, neurotypical, non-campy cis people cannot understand how much it meant to me, a fat kid with bad emotional regulation who loved sequins and bright makeup and glitter, to see so much of Miss Piggy in my youth. To hear her fluting voice confidently proclaiming that she, a fat woman with a big nose, looked stunning in a tight, colorful dress. To know that, when she was angry, she yelled and hit and made it known. She didn't make herself quiet and small, she fucking made it everyone else's problem. And she wasn't punished for it or told she was weird or suffered any of the consequences a child who speaks a little to loudly and a little too quickly, for a little too long, suffers daily the modern world.

I know why I am the way I am. Because I was raised with Miss Piggy. The reason I get these bouts of self-love that make me cringe later, it's because of Miss Piggy. This love of bold eyeshadow and huge eyelashes, this deep desire to wear sheath dresses covered entirely in scarlet sequins with a matching feather boa, the random singing and funny words, it's because of my queen, my captain, my heroine, Miss Piggy.

I would kill, die, and stay alive for Miss Piggy.

[ballbellas]

Embroidery sequin design

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 46 - evening dresses in 1922

Honestly, I’m not impressed with a lot of Mary’s evening wardrobe this season. Now, she does start out in mourning and general world-hating. Let’s see what we have.

Though if I look at it from another perspective, Mary could make for an awesome 1920s goth queen in these. Dark purple with black beading that even looks a little like a spiderweb or gloomy bare twigs in the nightly forest? Mary, if you tap into your Susan Sto Helit potential, I might like you a little more.

This dress gets a repeat next season, and although I’m not a great fan of these straight chest cutoff lines under the chiffon layer (which it loses later on as Mary replaces the under layer), this is not the worst execution of the concept. These scallops of black beading that seem to drip down toward the grey of the dress and then frame these little bundles of flowers or grapes? Nice. I think the dress is better off without the velvet sash around the drop waist, but that’s just me.

Half a dress that’ll make a comeback in season 5, this completely see-through layer with the black embroidery is apparently not attached to the purple dress at all because Mary later wears it over a black one (although backward) with the necklines matching better. With the purple one and the necklines not lining up, it honestly looks a little too modern for my taste.

I’m not sure if this is red in the right light or brown. The flowy shiny satin is still nice, and I’m not opposed to this deep V wrap top style. But for the sake of getting to write something about her outfits, I’m glad when Mary comes out of her Queen Gloom phase.

And one for the apron style, light grey and dark grey get combined to this colorful, novel look with black beading because black beading is just Mary’s thing now. The flower motif looks a little isolated there; could’ve spread further. Where did Mary put all her bling?

See? She does have bling; she even has tiaras and can wear them now that she’s a Mrs. The red dress is the one she puts on for her father’s birthday, and finally I’m getting a bit of light in this darkness. For one, the lace is very pretty. And then the under layer is finally cutting off in a more charming shape than a straight line. Serving a look worth mentioning!

The way they treated this poor dress, it definitely wasn’t an original, but I still think it didn’t deserve the mess. Look at the darling flower embroidery! It’s almost enough for me to call this a favorite, despite the cut being pretty well-trodden territory. The color is lovely, and the drop waist sash even has a silver ornament to it that has the exact shape of the embroidered flowers.

Once again silver on black, although it may be easy to miss from afar that this dress is almost entirely covered in sequins. So now her vibe shifts from gloom and doom to “would probably look spectacular under a night club’s lighting”, not that I expect Mary to ever set foot in a night club. I wish I could see what’s going on with that skirt hem – is that just fluttery or is that a fringe?

Uhm. It’s purple, I guess. It has a bit of embroidery above her chest. And that’s it. I resent this dress. Mary, it’s London season; go all fancy, will you? Why isn’t she wearing a necklace to that much plain backdrop?

My taste is very fickle. This dress doesn’t do a lot different than the last one, being one long sheath of color with the embroidery restricted to the top, but this one I love. It must be the neckline; Mary’s red dress last season did this draping over the throat and it completely got me. Granted, I also think the silver embroidery and beading is a lot more charming than the last. And Mary has finally found her jewelry box.

This doesn’t seem to be quite Mary’s typical shade of red; it’s playing a little at coral. I don’t know what this black wedge embroidery is inspired by (cuneiform?), but hey, at least it’s lively and colorful and gets combined with a pretty little pendant.

Oh, I finally have a favorite again! This does so well with the golden glitter ornaments all over the salmon, pulling its weight via the fabric alone again while sticking to the very basic shape that Mary’s dresses have settled into. She keeps this for season 5, and although she doesn’t wear the beautiful tassel necklace and one of the prettiest tiaras on the whole show then, she does allow me a look at the raised hem of the uper layer and the ruffle in the front. Very lovely.

[myfashion25]

Get ready to turn heads with the Primavera Couture -4158 Paillettes Sequin Feathers Prom Sheath Dress. This stunning dress features intricate sequin and feather detailing that will make you stand out at any prom or special event. With its sleek sheath silhouette, you'll feel confident and elegant all night long.

[emotionalmotionsicknessxx]

for the kiss meme. how about 36? thank you

Sure, this seems innocuous!

36 - Write a kiss that gives up control....

They rode in silence the entire way back. 

The steering wheel, a poor surrogate for Meg’s neck, strained against his death grip as the shaking Cadillac hurtled into the night. She called it a “piece-of-shit car,” an insult he could usually ignore. Not on a night like this. 

“Erik…”

He did not respond. He could hear the leather of the passenger seat complain against her shifting body weight. 

“Erik, you can’t stay like this all night. Talk to me.”

It was a mistake, bringing her. He should have seen this coming the minute Meg Giry danced into his college office with a credit deficit and a half dozen lemon donuts - 

Idiot. 

He lived his life through a finite set of principles that kept air in his lungs, kept his pen moving, kept the lights on, and, most importantly, kept him totally and utterly alone. Long ago he learned it was better that way, simpler, more sustainable to keep a ragged heart like his beating. 

But then she came in his office begging for a letter, for admission to the senior showcase she was disastrously under-qualified for, and he found himself caught by her pleading eyes and halting way she delivered her acute condemnations of his behavior, the behavior of the university at large, and the rest of the world. 

“Erik, we can talk about it. It’s me…”

It was her, that was the problem. It was always her and her stupid visits at office hours and the way she found old records of lost recordings and brought them to him, a person who did not get presents, never got presents. It was her who was the only one who could keep up with his rapid-fire notes on her work, the only one who didn’t complain to the department that he was “overly harsh” or “better suited to directing inmates than grad students.” The only person who listened to him. 

And listened she had. The sequins of her gala dress scratched against the beige carseat. She had been right, of course, she could do the showcase, could bind them to her with her dance and her passion. She had always been technically brilliant; now the world saw her heart as well. 

He had seen it too. Seen it and needed to never be parted from it. Needed her to consume him, more than she already had. Own him, if she so desired, a dog with a bird at her feet. 

The hand that skated over his on the steering wheel (10 and 2, never wavering, no, no wavering now. Come on, Erik) electrified him further and he pulverized his back molars even more, eyes blurring on the two yellow lines rising to meet them on the old back road under headlights. He shouldn’t even know the way to her apartment, shouldn’t have offered her those late night rides, shouldn’t have done any of it. It was an exercise in control, and he had lost. He would not again. 

“Please,” he hissed. 

“Ah, so the great maestro speaks!” 

He cursed himself for saying anything at all. It only served to spurn her closer to him in the racing, sputtering car. He could smell the bergamot on her perfume, the honey of her long-since-consumed lozenge. She had gotten closer, her blonde hair tossed over one shoulder, her lips sheathed in a deep maroon so close to his own gnarled mouth beneath the mask. He had never kissed someone with lipstick on, would the makeup stain his own, cursed lips like his, marking them as her own, forever –?

“ERIK LOOK OUT!”

The little hands yanked the steering wheel from his grasp and turned, narrowly swerving from the pit of headlights careening toward them. He hit the breaks; She overcorrected, narrowly avoiding the tree line that edged the road. 

He heard her laughter first, then his own, his hands stuck on the steering wheel a moment before they were wrapped in her hair, pressing her to him. 

She tasted like honey. 

a/n forgot that this was partially inspired by this photo from Phantom Thread, the most Erik adjacent movie

[chicinsilk]

Vogue Italia December 1974

Gaby Wagner wears a burgundy chiffon dress sprinkled with sequins that create diamond patterns. The dress, long, is low-cut to the waist, then open beyond the belt on a plain sheath. Another transparency effect on the chest, the wing sleeves tightened at the wrists. Chiffon scarf with rooster feather collar. By Renato Balestra. Hair: Dina.

Gaby Wagner porte une robe enmousseline bordeaux parsemée de sequins qui créent des motifs de losanges. La robe, longue est décolletée jusqu'à la taille, puis ouverte au-delà de la ceinture sur un fourreau uni. Autre effet de transparence sur la poitrine, les manches ailes resserrées aux poignets. Écharpe en mousseline avec col en plumes de coq. Par Renato Balestra. Coiffures : Dina.

Photo Giampaolo Barbieri archivio.vogue.it

[sassykattery]

Celebrations of the Heart, Pt. 7

Getting closer...

CW: MC is afab, uses she/her pronouns. MC is a demon and poly. Barbatos calls MC "mistress"

Themes: Birthday. Romance. Sappy-make-you-feel-warm-inside stuff.

Characters: MC="you", Mammon, Barbatos

Minors and ageless blogs DNI

18+ only

Masterlist

Enjoy~

-4pm-

"Oi! It's about time!" You heard from the grouchy second born behind you. The portal had taken you to a sidewalk along some familiar storefronts.

You whirled around and rushed him, almost scaring him shitless.

"Whoa whoa whoa, watch out!" He tried to throw his hands up, but you knocked into him as you threw yourself at him. He caught you, barely on his feet still.

You two hugged for a while, and finally Mammon let go first.

"Alright! Hey! We're wastin' time! I only got two hours with ya, so we gotta make 'em count," he said. You smiled and nodded.

"What are we doing?"

"I'm taking you shopping," he said with a mischievous grin.

"I don't have my wallet," you said, smirking and folding your arms.

"No, no, I said I'm taking you shopping, MC," Mammon said, whipping out Goldie. Your jaw dropped. "C'mon, let's go!" He yelled, grabbing your hand and dragging you into Majolish.

"Alright, I got rules for ya, MC," he said, turning toward you. It was just you two in the store, and you wondered if this really wasn't a robbery and you two were about to go to town on some clothes, but you waited to hear him out.

"Number one, you have to pick out a dress. Number two, you have to pick shoes and matchin' jewelry. Number three, I have to see everythin' put together, you'll be doin' a little fashion show for me," he said with a deep smirk. You shifted to one hip, arms crossed again. "After that, you can pick anything else you want, because today, The Great Mammon is takin' care of you," he said proudly.

You couldn't help but smile, admiring him in this moment. You'd have to thank Lucifer later for letting Mammon have his credit card back.

"Alright, I agree to your terms," you said, holding out your hand. Mammon grinned, his fangs showing playfully and taking your hand. He then drug you to the designer gown section and pushed you into it.

"Get to it! I'll be waitin'!"

You perused the racks before you and ultimately found four gowns to try. With full arms, you walked back to the changing area. Mammon sat near a full-length mirror, playing on his D.D.D.

The first one you came out with was a cherry red ballgown. It had a plunging neckline and spaghetti straps made of the 3D floral appliques that lined the bodice and scattered onto the skirt.

"It's pretty, but this is your birthday, so I want it to look more like you," Mammon said.

The second one was a black, long sleeve, slim A-line ballgown with a high neck. The bodice was embedded with glittering black rhinestones, diamonds, beads, sequins, you name it. The skirt was simple, just black tule. But the pièce to résistance was the cape that came with it, that also glittered with the same embellishments, and towards the end that drug on the floor, it flared into peacock feathers.

"Better, in fact I know a certain someone would love it, but let's see what else you got," Mammon stated.

The third one was an ornate, gold number. It was a sheath fit, the base fabric being shining satin and embellished lace on a top layer all over. It had a plunged sweetheart neckline, and each shoulder had its own floor-length cape with the same satin.

Mammon fidgeted, blushing furiously. You looked like an angel in his mind, dipped in gold and flushed with elegance. He cleared his throat. "It's wonderful, but it's not quite you. My favorite so far," he choked out.

Once you were in the dressing room, you chuckled.

The final gown was a silver ballgown. The sleeves were long and off shoulder with a slight plunge to the neckline. What made this dress special was the embellishing done on it: it looked as though millions of mirrors were sewn onto the fabric, twinkling as you walked, reflecting and refracting with any miniscule movement. Shining silver threads sewn into filigree shapes lined the skirt along with the mirrors. It nearly looked like water, or ice crystals in the light. Better yet, it almost looked like shining falling stars, your body the cosmos they hurdled across.

When you came out, Mammon looked up from his device and went still. You twirled in it, and he stood. He looked you over, every inch of you under his scrutiny.

"There's my MC," he whispered, standing next to you and looking in the mirror at you. You looked at him, and it was the most emotional you'd seen the demon. Indeed, you felt most like yourself in this moment. Suddenly, you turned and hugged him, and he immediately reciprocated.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked in your ear.

"I love you too," you replied tearfully. He pulled away and tucked his hand under your chin.

"I'll always be your first, never forget. I'll always take care of you, MC, even if you are the next Demon Queen. When things get hard, 'cause they will, I want you to come to me next time," he muttered, burying his face in your neck.

"I will, Mammon," you sniffed.

After several moments, finally, you let go first. He rolled his shoulders and brought himself back to normal. "Alright, let's pick out some shoes and jewelry," he suggested. He looked over at your dressing room again. "You're getting the gold one too," he muttered, going in to drag it out to place on the counter. You chuckled and did as told. He helped you with the accessories, and finally, you were all put together.

"Alright, take it all off and I'll get it rounded up for you, go pick out anything else ya want," he ordered.

After picking out some more clothes, you showed up at the counter. Mammon smiled at your full arms and said, "'Atta girl," with pride. A sales clerk finally appeared, the first person you'd seen all day besides your friends and family, much to your surprise.

Mammon had your gown and accessories bagged separately. "You'll take these with you to the next place," he instructed. "I'll take everything else back to the House." You nodded and took the bag.

"Oh, and Happy Birthday, MC," Mammon said bashfully.

"Thanks, you're the best, Mammon," you said, walking backwards into the portal behind you.

-6pm-

You were in your suite in the Demon Lord's castle, and you set everything down.

"Mistress," Barbatos beamed. You turned and smiled.

"I do believe you've already had your turn," you retorted playfully.

"Indeed. However, you know I tend to be a greedy demon myself, so I can't help but get as much time as I can with you when I can. But I do believe you would like to get ready for the end of your day. I see your trip with Mammon was successful," he replied.

You chuckled. "Greedy indeed. Yes, I have a few things. I take it I'm to wear these?" Barbatos nodded in reply. "Will you help me get ready then?"

"Of course, mistress."

Barbatos took his time doing your hair and makeup, perfecting every curl and lash. You couldn't help but notice the looks he stole from you, smirking at each other. It was sweet to see him like this: comfortable, with you, after all this time. It was only fitting since you two would see each other more, but you felt like you found a friend within the butler.

After hair and makeup, Barbatos helped you into your gown, shoes, and jewelry, not letting you see the final product just yet.

"There will never be another as darling as you, MC," Barbatos said, looking you over as he straightened your sleeves. "Truly, the Avatar of Vanity has no comparison."

You couldn't help but blush at the praise. "Barbatos..."

"Fret not, mistress," he murmured.

"I want to tell you something," you said.

"Go on," he said, touching up your lips with gloss.

"I'm grateful for you, to be in my life. You mean more to me than words can say, and I'm glad we opened up to each other," you stated.

Barbatos stopped and stared at you, thinking on your words.

"It is I who is grateful, MC. In all my many years, there's been none like you. I find myself bewitched by you, just as everyone else has been, but I also find a kinship with you. From your politeness to clean up, making tea with me, learning to bake, it all stays with me, in my heart," he said, putting his hand over his chest. "I look forward to having you around for the rest of our days."

He embraced you this time, holding you tight but not too tight as to preserve his work. Even as a demon, your scent was sweet to him, and he was flooded with the memory of the night you became an Avatar. In all his years, no creature ever stood out to him the way you did. To be near you was to love you, enough for him. Knowing you loved him too was more than satisfactory.

"Now, I believe our time is up, and there are some demons waiting for your arrival," he muttered to the top of your head, unwilling to let you go. Begrudgingly, he eventually did. He opened one more portal, and he gestured for you to go through it.

"Enjoy yourself, MC."

---

Thank you for reading <3

Post made by sassykattery. Do not repost. Reblogs and comments appreciated.

Tags: @delphi-dreamin @itsmeninerz @leavesandflowers @obeymediasimp @frozengoldie @flemmingbamse @marvelous-maniac

[melis-writes]

Hey babes serious serious question lol what’s Ms Victoria’s fashion sense cause I was picturing her dressing in cottage core over at Sicily but in America and with being a lawyer is she the same is it bougie is it business causal … ? And would she spend coins on a fit?

She comes from wealth naturally and especially being the only girl I know sis was spoilt and obvi Michael would spend a bag on her but I really wonder like would she have been a high end Chanel, Prada, LV and Gucci girl in the 50s

Like this really has been on my mind lmao

You're definitely right about Victoria living her cottagecore life in Sicily. 😂❤️ Lots of cute and light summer dresses for the Sicilian heat at knee length and longer in bright colours or floral and polka dot patterns, especially shirtwaist dresses.

Her fabrics of choice are velvet, satin, and silk. She loves matching her colours with the seasons, so we'd see Victoria wearing brighter/vibrant coloured clothing in the spring/summer especially.

If Victoria's at the courthouse, she's only in business casual consisting of pencil skirts, blouses (lace, chiffon, etc) blazer jackets and so forth if she's in the actual courtroom for trial, preliminary, etc. In her own office doing work but not prosecuting in a courtroom, we know Miss Victoria has an amazing taste in fashion and is always dressing her best. 😌 Victoria wouldn't wear gloves at work or a casual dress like a shirtwaist dress, but definitely more towards sheath dresses. You won't see her wearing patterns at work, unless she's wearing a banker stripe pencil skirt.

We're talking circle/swing dresses (a favourite), jumper dresses, sheath dresses, hand-held purses (leather, sequin, etc), wrist length satin/silk or velvet gloves (and elbow length for special occasions). Victoria's preference for nights out are cocktail dresses (especially sleeveless ones) and she loves a draped or princess neckline.

Faux mink coats and faux mink stoles draped over Victoria's shoulders, and we know she's a diamonds over pearls kind of girl so Miss Victoria's neck, arms and earlobes are dripped out. 😂 She loves to accessorize! Of course when the outfit matches, Victoria will also wear a hat, but her preference is to have a silk scarf tied through her hair or a flower for a cute pin up look.

As for her shoes of choice, Victoria loves her simple flats, Mary-Janes, but is a heels kind of girl. Kitten heels to tall heels, stilettos, pumps, all of that. She's very used to wearing heels.

I remember mentioning in the very early chapters of Moth to Flame that I believe Victoria's engagement dress (a gorgeous, black evening gown) was designed by Gucci. 😍 So yes, she's definitely high end for Italian designer and I could see her adoring and shopping for French designer items too. ❤️ She would definitely not hesitate to drop coin for a fit.

I came across some lovely designs that I can definitely see Miss Victoria wearing! ❤️❤️❤️