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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 4 months ago

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The First Time (Ryan Graves Imagine)

Here's my work for @gravestrain for @wyattjohnston 's Summer Fic Exchange! I was so convinced this was due today and it’s not, so I suppose I’m early for once!

Rating: T

Pairing: Ryan Graves/Reader

Words: 2290

Warnings: none

Summary: A few of you and Ryan's "firsts".

Becoming a bespoke tailor isn’t as easy or straightforward as one might think. It’s taken years of schooling, apprenticing, and doing too much for too little pay to get where you are, but you’d do it all a hundred times over again so long as you got to have this moment at the end of it.

You’re tired, sweatier than you’d like to be. The temperature is finally starting to drop with the setting sun, the sky dyed a pink and orange ombre, cut through with warmly-tinted clouds. There’s a breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees, the rustling sound of it hidden under the thumping music from the DJ situated halfway between the indoor and outdoor portions of the venue. It’s a love song, an upbeat one that you recognize but don’t pay too much attention to.

It’s impossible to pay attention to anything other than him.

The First Time You Saw Him

You’re not sure if you still count as an apprentice, technically. You’ve been working with Max for a good four years now, and you mostly work on your own projects without supervision. When you have an extra minute, or Max is doing something unusual or interesting, he’ll let you hover nearby and watch, but those instances are becoming less frequent over time.

You usually handle the front desk duties for the shop, greeting customers as they arrive and manning the register before they leave. This time, however, you’re at the cutting table when the bell above the door rings with movement, Max greeting the customer from where he’d been passing by.

“You must be Mister Graves,” Max says, shaking the hand of the man who enters, ducking through the door to avoid hitting his head on the small frame.

“Please, call me Ryan,” the man replies easily. Max keeps talking but you don’t hear what he’s saying, because the man– Ryan– looks over Max’s head to where you’re standing, and the first sight of his hazel eyes hits you like a punch to the gut. A warm smile spreads across his angular face, and you know with devastating certainty that you’re in trouble.

The First Time You Touched Him

It makes complete and total sense that Ryan needs a lot of his clothing tailored, considering his unusual stature. What doesn’t make sense is why your heart skips a beat every time you see his smiling face coming through the door. He’s had a couple suits tailored, a few pairs of jeans, two button-down shirts. Max takes care of him each time, but he always insists on making time to talk to you when he comes in. It’s sweet, and you appreciate him not ignoring you the way some customers tend to. Your conversations are light, congenial, and you definitely don’t replay them in your head a million times for a week afterward.

“Hi Y/N,” Ryan greets as he walks in on a random Tuesday, “It’s good to see you.” You shoot him a smile, noticing the neatly folded fabric draped over his arm.

“Hey Ryan,” you return, “How are you?” He comes to a stop on the other side of the counter, murmuring a gentle good, how are you?

“I’m good, thank you,” you say, taking a breath before giving him the bad news, “I’m afraid Max is home sick today, though, so he won’t be able to help you.” Ryan looks almost confused at the statement.

“Oh, I hope he feels better soon,” he says, fiddling with the hem of the shirt in his hand, “But I mean– you’re a tailor too, right? So you could maybe help me instead?” That is, of course, the most logical solution. But most people who only work with Max, well, they only work with Max. Ryan is the first one to seem interested in your services.

“Oh, of course! I can definitely assist,” you assure him, “But it’s okay if you want Max to do it. He has your measurements, so you could drop it off and he’ll do it when he comes back. Don’t feel like I’m the only option, if you don’t want me.” This only seems to confuse him more, and the way he tilts his head slightly is unbearably cute.

“I do want you,” he says, seeming to only realize what he’s said after it’s out. His cheeks tinge pink, but he doesn’t correct himself. You swallow hard and remind yourself that you’re talking to a customer right now.

“Well, I can definitely take care of you, then,” you reply. It, you should have said you can take care of it, fuck. Ryan just smiles a little more, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can,” he says. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, because it doesn’t. You extend your hand, palm up for him to hand over the shirt. He stares at your outstretched hand for a beat, before placing his own free hand on top of it. You can feel your mouth drop open as you stare at the point of contact, his hand impossibly huge atop your own, the warmth of his skin radiating up your arm, his callouses rasping against your own. When you look back up to his face, his eyes are wide, searching for something in your own expression.

“The shirt, Ryan,” you force yourself to say. The words snap the both of you out of… whatever that was. His laugh is awkward as he snatches his hand back, replacing it with the shirt.

“My bad,” he says, clears his throat, looks anywhere except your face, “I’ll just, uh… go. It was nice to see you.” It feels mean to say he flees the shop, but he does almost run face-first into the door frame, so you think it’s the most accurate word choice.

The First Time You Said Yes

You know who Ryan Graves is, in theory: a defenseman for the New Jersey Devils. You also know who Ryan is practically: your super hot, incredibly sweet customer who sometimes brings you snacks and knick-knacks because “it made me think of you”. The fact that Ryan apparently thinks of you outside of your occasional interactions is a fact that you’ve been staunchly ignoring for the past two months. Then he’d come in and offered you his hand, and you were suddenly incapable of ignoring it any longer.

With the way he’d run away last time, part of you expects to never see him again. Sure, you have his shirt now, but he can definitely afford to give up a single standard dress shirt. Yet, he returns two days later, the bell announcing his arrival.

“Oh, hi Ryan,” you greet, trying to sound less surprised than you are. He smiles at you, but there’s something different about it this time. He approaches the counter, shoulders squared and back straight.

“I’m sorry, your shirt’s not ready yet,” you say, genuinely feeling kind of bad, “You usually pick up on Wednesdays, so I figured…” You don’t bother finishing the sentence, caught up in the determined expression on his face.

“That’s okay,” he replies, dark hair slipping from behind his ear and falling into his face, “I’m not here for the shirt.” You check his hands again, sure that you must’ve missed some new piece of clothing he’s carrying. There’s nothing. You return your gaze to his face, your chest tightening from the intensity of his stare.

“Um, what can I help you with, then?” you ask, turning your lips up the barest hint, knowing you still definitely look more confused than anything.

“I know this is your job, and you might just be being nice because of that, and I don’t want you to feel pressured, you can definitely say no, I promise I won’t be upset,” he says all in a rush, stumbles, continues, “I mean, I’ll be disappointed, but that would be my problem, not yours, I would never–” You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you.

“Ryan, what are you talking about?” you ask, stalling his racing run-on sentence. His mouth shuts so quickly his teeth surely click together inside. He clears his throat.

“Do you wanna go to dinner some time?” he asks, clearly trying so hard to appear more confident than he is. But he’s nervous. He’s nervous because of you.

“Like… as a date?” you ask, nearly struck dumb from even the implication of it.

“Yeah,” he nods, breathing deeply, “If you want.” Time stops around you, the constant thrum of the city outside fading away, and all you can see is his eyes, wide and earnest and hopeful. Everything you’ve been forcing yourself to not think of comes rushing back to mind, every conversation, every stupid joke and accompanying overly enthusiastic laugh, every shyly-offered treat. The time he’d given you a Devils beanie and told you, voice soft and reverent, that you looked good in his number.

“Yes,” you reply, finally.

“Yes?” he repeats, a huge toothy smile overtaking his face.

“Of course,” you confirm, grinning so hard your cheeks ache with it.

The First Time You Kiss Him

You aren’t in the habit of hiding things from Max, the man having earned your explicit trust long ago, but you decide it’s best to keep the four dates you and Ryan have been on to yourself. For now, at least. You’re not sure what you’re afraid of, but you don’t really want to find out if the nondescript fear is justified.

As it turns out, you don’t have to tell him.

The shop is open slightly later than usual on Fridays, so you’d asked Max on Sunday if you could leave a little early tonight. He hadn’t pushed for too many details as to why, but had turned those shrewd blue eyes on you for an eternity of a second before agreeing.

You’ve got the door halfway open on your way out, bidding Max farewell, when he says

“Have fun. Tell Ryan I said hello.”

You freeze with one foot on the sidewalk, turning your head back to gape at him. You fumble for something to say, to defend yourself, but Max just smiles, shaking his head and making a shooing motion with his hand.

“Old bastard,” you say, feeling terribly fond as you finish exiting to the sound of his laughter.

You’ve been to Devils games before, but you’re not used to… all of this. Ryan had insisted you use a ticket from him to sit with the WAGs, and you’d been too nervous to ask if that was his way of asking you to be his partner, but accepted anyway. The ladies are all so nice, immediately asking you about yourself and seeming genuinely interested in your answers. The game is great, though they don’t win, and the girls shuffle you around with them afterward, herding you to the tunnel to wait for the boys.

When the guys start filing out, your heart rate picks up a tad, breathing stuttering as you’re surrounded by even more strangers. Then Ryan emerges, his eyes finding you immediately, smiling wide as he waves, and something inside of you settles. Ryan is here, and he’s happy to see you. Ryan is here, and that means everything is going to be okay.

He introduces you to Dougie, whose hand you shake gladly. They guide you out toward the garage, Ryan insisting that he’ll give you a ride home since you’d walked from work. Dougie splits off to go to his own car, leaving you to finish walking with Ryan, swinging your entwined hands as you go.

You chat on the drive, fingers still tangled together on the gearshift between you. When the car stops in front of your building, you continue talking for a few minutes, until silence eventually descends. The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, and you can’t help but marvel at how quickly you’d gone from skipping heartbeats and strangled breaths around him to this calm certainty.

“Good night,” he says, so quiet he barely breaks the silence, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” He lifts your joined hands and lowers his head until they meet in the middle, not breaking eye contact as he brushes his lips against your knuckles. You shake your head with a grin, reaching across with your free hand to cup his jaw. You hold him in place as you dip in to press your lips together. When you pull back to rest your foreheads together, there’s a matching smile left on his mouth.

The First Time You…

There were a million other firsts from that point on. The first time he called you his partner, the first time you called him your boyfriend. The first time you spent the night, the first time you woke up in his arms. The first time you introduced him to your family, the first time you met his. The first time you fought, the first time you made up. The first time you took a leap of faith and followed him, the first time you stepped foot in the house in Pittsburgh that’s now your home.

The time he proposed. Not the first time you’d said yes to him, but possibly the most important.

And now, here, the first time you get to walk across the patio to where he stands in the suit you’d made, taking his hand and telling Dougie sorry, I need to borrow my husband for a minute.

It still seems like a dream, sometimes, the way your life has panned out. Even more unreal is the fact that it’s still going, that you have so many more years of life and opportunity and love left.

#the summer fic exchange 2k24 #ryan graves imagine #hockey imagines #ryan graves fic #nhl imagines #andis coping mechanism

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safarigirlsp · 2 years ago

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Satan Wears Burberry

Satan Wears Burberry

Modern Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Humor. Romance. Enemies to Lovers. Fur.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: For a Valentine's Day special, and as a gift for the lovely and wonderfully talented @kyloremus , here is a fun bitchy Fashion AU inspired by Cruella DeVille and The Devil Wears Prada! This is only the intro, if it is well received, I'll do more with it. There’s not even any murder or mayhem! What’s wrong with me?

Fashion is a viciously cutthroat industry where appearance and manipulation often win over sincerity and benevolence. Weapons of choice are razored nails, deadly heels, and backstabbing smiles. Everyone who is anyone and all the someones aspiring to be something in the fashion industry know there is no event more seminal than Paris Fashion Week. Statuesque models strutting runways, aggressive designers gauging their competition, and hawkish agents scouting new talent can all be found amid the crowds and press.

As the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine, your front row seat at every event was reserved. This season, Annees Folles had even surpassed Vogue in sales and influence. Before anything became fashion, it had to receive your stamp of approval and be featured in the pages of your magazine. Brands rose and fell pursuant to your approval or condemnation just like a gladiator’s life dependent upon the tilt of an emperor’s thumb. Among the other more illustrious attendees, were the heads of the most preeminent fashion lines in the world, the CEOs and moguls whose names had forged the foundation of modern fashion.

La Maison Gris, a relatively new brand from an old and noble French family, had made a meteoric rise to the very summit of the industry. Helmed by its formidable and charismatic CEO, Jacques Le Gris, La Maison Gris had firmly secured a position high among the most distinguished names in fashion. Le Gris had fast become synonymous with Chanel, Versace, Lagerfeld, Gucci, Valentino, Tom Ford, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana. Aided in his ascension by his calculating mind, his almost irresistible charm, his devilish good looks and imposing size, Jacques had steamrolled his competition like a tank over protestors.

Jacques Le Gris always dressed to the nines and was dashingly groomed and coiffed, his image immaculately maintained. From a finely tailored bespoke suit that flattered his impressive and athletic 6’4” physique, enhancing the breadth of his great shoulders and the taper of his fit waist, to a simple signet ring bearing his century’s old family crest that drew attention to his enormous hands, he used fashion to emphasize his towering size and noble bearing. He wore a neatly trimmed van dyke, and his thick black hair down to his shoulders. An intentional streak of silver shot through his glossy ebony mane like the milky way shimmering across the night sky, giving him the regal air of a melanistic lion. He was dressed now in pieces from his own line, a charcoal suit with a chic glen plaid pattern, black shirt, unbuttoned down two buttons from his throat, and a black overcoat with a subtle flair of silver Persian lamb around the collar.

Notably broader without exception than everyone in attendance and standing a head taller than most, save for the willowy models, some of whom hoovered near his airspace when in heels, Jacques cut an impressive and unmistakable figure where he stood next to the runway in the dimly lit audience. The room was filled to capacity with the crème de la crème of fashion, interspersed with the journalists and photographers who would relay their chosen highlights to the public. While he waited for the show to begin and the first model to strut down the runway, Jacques discussed his line with anyone who would listen, showcasing his renowned affability. He was cordial where others were aloof, a trait that had helped spur his rise to the top.

Jacques was confident that his spring line that was to be revealed at this show would impress all those in attendance, but still, it never hurt to grease the wheels with a few dashing smiles. He could charm almost anyone into submission, a talent that cut across many different lines of social interaction. Only one major player had remained staunchly immune from his allure, and she unfortunately wielded one of the most important opinions. In fact, it was as though the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine took pride, a morbid relish even, in eviscerating the designs of La Maison Gris. With each scathing article, La Maison Gris and its profits took a hit and took months to reclimb the ladder from several rungs below. To say Jacques was ruffled by it was an understatement, he was mad as hell. He had yet to meet the woman in person, which he assured himself was the reason he had so far been unable to exert the full magnitude of his charm and magnetism.

The lights dimmed and the music picked up tempo, indicating the show would soon be starting. Jacques was focused on the runway, and didn’t see you approach and squeeze in beside him for a place at the head of the runway. The room was packed as tightly as a nightclub, but filled with an exponentially more beautiful crowd. Jacques recognized you with a visible start, his affable manner momentarily dampened with worry, fear even, at being in the presence of the one woman with the power to unseat him from his high horse. The pen was indeed mightier than the sword when it was you who wielded it, writing the destinies of every hopeful designer in the pages of your magazine.

You were dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana dress of ebony lace that hugged and flattered your shapely curves to perfection paired with a charcoal gray double-breasted Burberry Prorsum coat with military-style epaulets and cuffs. You wore five-inch Burberry heels that, although pointed-toe stilettos, they were fitted with Burberry’s signature lug sole, adding to your combative appearance and reputation. Although it was dark in the room, you wore a pair of aviator sunglasses by Maybach, also in gradients of carbon, that concealed your infamously ferocious eyes. Your hair was elegantly styled and your bearing was as proud as any model on a runway, but your presence was of a military general standing on a battlefield.

The sight of you took Jacques’s breath away. He had never been so taken aback by a woman, so instantly devastated by beauty.

With a deep steadying breath and a visible effort, Jacques composed himself. It was absurd, he reasoned, to be so unnerved by a woman. He was a master at seduction, and what was business but a different kind of seduction? Both involved a degree of manipulation and power plays. Even if Jacques didn’t know how to deal with you as a cutthroat editor who struck fear into the hearts of men, he knew how to deal with a red-blooded woman.

“I think you’ll find the florals are luscious,” he whispered with a smokey depth to his voice. He moved closer beside you until your shoulders brushed, perfectly acceptable in the crowded room.

“Florals? For Spring?” you scoffed. “Groundbreaking.”

“Well… Florals are classics for a reason,” he stumbled at the sharp rebuff. “Spring lines always have florals. It’s what you do with them that matters, is it not?”

“Have you sustained a head injury?” you derided haughtily, turning to look at him briefly over the rims of your sunglasses. “Yes, follow like the little lemmings toward the cliff of the cliché and the mediocre. The market – that is, sellers who have already made you rich -- want to get their winter fashions off the racks. Something inventive, something charming and clean, for example, would sell regardless of the season. Are you marketing to the likes of Kohl’s or Target?” You dismissively returned your attention to the runaway. “Dolce & Gabbana is the only designer who has any business at all dabbling in seasonal florals. Perhaps, an honorable mention to Dior.” Jacques tried to retort, but you steamrolled over him. “But not La Maison Gris, I assure you, and my assurance is the only one that will ever matter.”

This silenced him as he looked away, a strange and foreign mixture of rejection and embarrassment mingling inside him with an all-too familiar anger. He then looked back at you tentatively, feeling hesitant to challenge you.

“Just last spring Vogue raged over my florals,” he stated with a confidence that for once he didn’t feel, his deep voice undercut by an undertone of fear. Because of his size and physicality, deep voice, and wealth, he often unwittingly intimidated people. He was unused to being on the other side of that scale, and he couldn’t recall being so as a grown man. It was a challenge, he realized, and he savored challenges.

“Then, they were novel. Now, they are tired and uninspired,” you sighed as if bored by his simpleness. “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative -- that’s Oscar Wilde, mind you – and I do believe he had a sense of fashion. He even went to prison for his fashion genius, among other proclivities.”

Jacques’s handsome features broadcast he was ready to retort but thought better of it, chewing his lip instead to bite back the argument that wanted to leap from his tongue. As the first model made her appearance on the runway, the audience applauded, approving of her floral dress with fox trim. He puffed his chest and looked at you as if to say he told you so. The next model wore a lynx shawl over a dress of gold floral brocade.

“Mixing fur and floral, are we? I always thought fur looked best on its original owner.” You studied each ensemble carefully with the eye of a critic. “Models should be comfortable in their own skin, not someone else’s, don’t you think?”

“This line is novel, sleek and vivacious. If you wish to stand out and feel good about yourself, my line is for you,” he huffed and retorted as another model stalked toward you wearing a beautiful lavender dress trimmed with tasteful sable fur in a complimentary dusky hue. The crowd roared in approval. “Nature has evolved to flatter animals of every shape and size. Do you argue that natural evolution shouldn’t be used when one is designing clothes to flatter women?”

You paused at the audience’s enchantment with Jacques’s line. He, too, saw it was a hit and raised one eyebrow at you. The next model wore a sleek aviator jacket with a collar of sheared beaver dyed in a subtle chevron pattern. The crowd actually clapped at that one.

No matter, people often didn’t know what they really liked until you told them.

You gestured for him to lean closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Like I said, the unimaginative masses are easily impressed. They can’t do what I can do: convince the biggest retailers in the world to market your line, and the populace to buy it.”

Jacques took a deep breath, gathered his courage, smiled mischievously, and said with a seductive tenor, “Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

“I suppose you would know,” you quipped as another lynx trimmed ensemble walked past. “Regardless, the details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

“My incompetence?” Jacques huffed. No one else in the world would dare to call him incompetent. But arguing the point with you would get him nowhere. He decided to try a different tactic. “Let us continue this tete-a-tete somewhere more private, and I’ll try to find something about myself that does interest you.”

“Bold of you to assume a ridiculous man like you could please me in any venue. Be assured, I am demanding in my personal life as well as my professional one.” You let your appraising gaze rake over his body. “I want the best. I deserve the best. And I demand the best. In all things and in all ways.”

“My fashion lines may bore you, belle comandante.” Jacques grinned and asserted boldly, “Trust me, as a man, I would make you purr.”

“I have no commitments and I find myself rather bored by Paris, but I’m sure you have a parade of floral harlots vying to charm you into letting them walk your next runway. Who would I be to deprive them of the valuable life lesson in regret they would learn from a night with you?” You eyed another fur-trimmed model skeptically. “Dear God, you’re not into furries are you?”

He said nothing more until the show was over, but a sly lupine smile played on his plush lips. When all the models had walked the runway and the din of conversation filled the room, he made you a darkly illicit offer. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can make you purr for me, then you will write a splendid review of tonight’s show.”

Removing your sunglasses, you eyed him with unveiled skepticism. “And if I find you are not up to the task of pleasing me?”

“You won’t.” He winked at you.

“Graduating from fashion to prostitution, are you?” You raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I can’t deny it’s a better fit for you.”

“Not publicly.” He grinned at you, flashing a predatory glint of white teeth. “But for you, I will make a one-night-only exception. I’m a gambling man, and what higher stakes could I play with? If I can wring a good review out of you between the sheets, you will write a nice review for my fashion line on the pages of Annees Folles. We’ll enjoy ourselves in the process, that I promise you, cherie.”

“It is an interesting thought.” You smiled. “To wonder what I will find worthy of review. The before or the after?”

“Yes, I agree,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. You had heard he was a showman and viciously sarcastic. “You know why failed designers become harping editors of fashion magazines? It’s a petty facet of human nature that we feel the need to tear apart others who have talents one does not.”

“Is that what you think?” you laughed at the absurdity, meeting his challenge and projecting your voice. “Designers are many. On the other hand, people who dictate the tides of fashion and control the very destinies of men like you are few. The truth is, no one can do what I can do.”

“It must be lonely at the top for a maneater like you,” Jacques teased, his voice low again. “Who keeps you warm at night?”

“Renew your offer at the end of the evening,” you replied coyly. “And I’ll decide who’s keeping me warm tonight.”

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

Nearly as important as the fashion show itself was the afterparty. This was where most of the schmoozing and deal-making were conducted, where connections were made and alliances were formed. Swanky upscale clubs were privately rented for these glamorous soirees. The afterparty for La Maison Gris was celebrated at L’Arc, the highly exclusive nightclub at the top of the Champs Elysees. Jacques had rented the club for the night, open only to those on his well-pruned guest list. The neon strobes of the club ordinarily played across a beautiful crowd but during Fashion Week, its lights never fell on someone who wasn’t either rich, famous, beautiful, or otherwise extraordinary.

Jacques was the man of the hour and had to make himself seen at his own party. You, of course, were on every guest list of every afterparty, but only an elite few were deserving of your attendance. After making your rounds at parties hosted by Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Dior, and Tom Ford, you decided to make an appearance at the La Maison Gris party and see if Jacques’s bet still intrigued you. Your arrival was just late enough to be aptly fashionable.

A redwood of a doorman recognized you and ushered you in ahead of a winding line of at least one-hundred hopeful partygoers, much to their displeasure. The floor of the club writhed and undulated with women in chic dresses and men in suits dancing in time with heavy driving bass. You would have been hard-pressed to squeeze up to the bar that was so tightly packed that even the attempts of waifish models were foiled by the mass of humanity.

The freshly bleached smiles of several of the biggest names in Hollywood caught your eye from various corners of the room. One perfect smile belonged to the actor who had just landed his big break in being cast in the newest reboot of the Superman franchise. Clark Kent du jour had the build of a linebacker, a square jaw to match, cerulean blue eyes, and jet back hair, complete with a Superman curl he had cultivated since landing the part. He had also been pursuing you since you had toured the set for a piece on the costumes, most of which had been crafted by Zegna. He wore a suit by La Maison Gris, complete with a dyed sable pocket square instead of the usual silk. Tragically, he had both buttons done on his jacket, a glaring faux pas that required all of your limited reserve to overlook. You could take the man off the farm, but you couldn’t dress the farm out of the man.

Aspiring models stalked through the crowd on mile-high legs like otherworldly creatures, eager to impress designers for a chance to walk down their runways. And there was Jacques Le Gris, standing in the middle of an entire harem of them. A flock of scantily and colorfully dressed models surrounded him like birds at a feeder, some batting their eyelashes, others stroking his body, others still giggling vapidly, all desperate for any crumb of attention he deigned to toss their way. Though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was gesturing magnanimously, smiling and laughing at his own infectious humor, and very much enjoying the attention.

The spectacle of the fawning models was enough to make you return Clark Kent’s smile just long enough to encourage him to make an approach. Your timing was perfect; like all the best predators, you had the gift of precision. Jacques noticed you just as the handsome actor made a beeline for you and procured a flute of champagne from the tray of an obliging waitress who flitted by on his way. The actor was only the first to approach you. Within moments, you too were encircled by a mass of noisome people, even larger than the group that surrounded Jacques. Everyone wanted your attention, your approval.

At the sight of Clark Kent sidling up to you, a dark veil passed over Jacques’s dashing features, turning them murderous for the breadth of a second. It went unnoticed by most if not all, but you saw it and you smirked. Clenching his jaw, Jacques pushed through the throng of humanity and shooed away the plumage of women, heading not toward you but to the bar.

You smiled as the actor handed you the champagne, trying not to dwell on the state of his tackily buttoned jacket. But you drew the line at champagne, telling him with your usual stridence, “Oh, you can keep that for yourself. I don’t drink champagne, but I’m sure a large country boy like you can handle mine and yours and many more after.”

The poor pretty idiot didn’t know if you were serious or teasing, but since he had no basis in experience dealing with such a direct and assertive woman, he took your harshness for humor and laughed. He would be so easy to rip to shreds, which could be a fun passing amusement. He was exceedingly lucky you were in a good mood tonight. Adding to your relative levity was the towering figure of the CEO of La Maison Gris striding purposefully toward you and fighting to keep his composure and grin through his jealous anger. He held a drink in each hand, filled with amber and ice.

“This is my party,” he said by way of greeting you, making his voice notably deeper than the actor’s. Jacques was taller, but only just, which added to your amusement when he tried to look down his charmingly hooked nose at his more classically handsome opponent. “How is it that you just waltz in here and everybody gravitates toward you like you are the sun.”

“I’ve found that Nietzsche’s herd concept applies in a variety of ways.” You smiled icily back. “The human herd often has a collective sense of who’s the most important person in the room.”

Still looking at the actor, Jacques wordlessly handed you one of the two drinks he carried. You accepted it with a raised eyebrow and lifted it to inhale its aroma. Then, you gifted him with a genuine smile. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have. Your drink of choice is an old fashioned made with Midleton Single Pot Irish Whiskey and garnished with an orange peel.” He took a sip of his own drink, the same as yours, closing his eyes briefly to savor the taste. “But I think you’ll like this better. I prefer Redbreast twenty-seven year old Irish Whiskey.”

You took a skeptical drink, your eyes not leaving Jacques’s. The old fashioned was remarkably flavorful. “It’s tolerable, I suppose.”

“I better get a nicer review than that from you after I’ve given you a taste of something else that’s full-bodied and old fashioned.” Jacques winked at you as he took another drink.

“I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, and already this is growing dull.” You pointedly looked at the Breitling watch strapped to Jacques’s thick wrist. “When are you going to make it worth my while to have come at all?”

“Finish your drink,” he challenged and downed the better part of his own. He gave the actor a dangerous glare, but the other man was too focused on you to notice, still standing beside you, hopeful and oblivious.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said to Clark Kent with unveiled sarcasm, the man was utterly clueless. “I forgot you were there. You may go now.”

“I may actually grow to like you.” Jacques grinned and took your elbow, his large hand squeezing you for emphasis.

“I would expect so,” you replied haughtily. “It is a sentiment I acquire often but return sparingly.”

“Carpe nocturne, ma jolie fille,” he growled as he pulled you through the crowd and out of L’Arc to his waiting car.

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

Enroute to a more comfortable and conducive location, you and Jacques each downed two more old fashioneds as his driver maneuvered through the labyrinthian Parisian streets, overfull with tourists for Fashion Week. With his drinks, Jacques smoked a thick cigar on the drive, billowing smoke from his nose like a regal dragon through a cracked window. It came as no surprise you were both staying at the Ritz Paris, after all, it was the finest luxury hotel in Paris and some say in the world. You discovered it had been Jacques who had sniped the Suite Imperiale, the finest suite in the opulent hotel, out from under you, leaving you to book the only slightly less decadent Suite Windsor for yourself.

Jacques strode with you proudly through the lavish hotel, past numerous celebrities and icons. His hand rested possessively on the small of your back, leaving no doubt as to the nature of your evening.

“People are staring,” you said without a trace of shyness, relishing the attention.

“Let’s make it worth their while.” Jacques took your hand and twirled you like he was dancing with you and then dipped you for a passionate kiss in full view of the bustling lobby.

People indeed stared, their captivated gazes following as he then led you to the bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, he pushed you against the wall and propped his hands on either side of your head, caging you inside his arms as he loomed over you.

“Want me to say goodnight, jolie fille?” he asked, his voice dripping with husky desire.

Biting your lip as you paused to consider his words, you looked up at him. “Not for a few more hours.”

A broad toothy smile broke across Jacques’s features as the elevator chimed and you stepped out of his arms, enroute to his suite.

Jacques walked so closely behind you as you approached the door to the Suite Imperiale that you could feel the heat radiating off his massive body. Hot breath huffed on the back of your neck, raising goosebumps and sending electric currents down your spine. At his door, he handed you his room key and let you fumble with the lock while he trailed his hands down over your hips and then back up your thighs. Hooking his fingers in the hem of your dress, he pulled it up over your ass, the cool air on your skin a stark contrast to his hot hands. His broad chest pressed into your back and his head fell to your neck. His lips teased at you tantalizingly as he dug his thick fingers into your soft hips, pulling your ass back into the massive bulge in his pants.

“I knew you had a luscious ass,” he growled into your neck. He teased you with the scratch of his beard near your ear and smiled against your skin when he dipped his hand between your thighs and felt the moist heat of your arousal. “It would be a shame to ruin your lovely clothes. We need to get you out of them before they get too wet.”

You laughed breathily as you opened the door and stumbled inside with Jacques still pressed to your back. He kicked the door shut and spun you to face him, crashing his lips to yours as you each clawed at each other’s clothing. His jacket and shirt were the first to be discarded. You wanted to see his body before revealing yours, and you were not disappointed when he peeled his shirt away. His chest was larger and more impressive than you had guessed and his arms more thickly muscled. He had the finely sculpted look of a performance horse, massive, sleek, and powerful all at once.

Backing away from him sultrily, you slowly unzipped your dress as you angled toward the bedroom. Inspired by the Chateau de Versailles, the living room of the Suite Imperiale was done in burgundy and cream, with vaulted ceilings and enormous airy windows. The burgundy and gold drapes were open, letting the lights of Paris glimmer into the otherwise darkened room.

Before you could step out of your dress that had fallen to your feet, Jacques lifted you up into his arms, all but yanking you off the ground in his fervor. He was so powerful and solid that he made you feel weightless in his arms, a feeling that heightened your anticipation as much as his expert touch.

Jacques twirled once inside the suite’s bedroom with you still in his arms, taking every advantage to show off. This room was decorated in cream and mint with a green and mint brocade canopy enshrouding the lavish bed. Jacques laid you gently down onto the plush bedding and traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back to brusquely discard the rest of his clothing. You eyed his body shamelessly, very pleased by every magnificent part of him. His aurous eyes were even hungrier than yours as they devoured the sight of you.

“I’ve never seen true beauty before tonight,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and darkness.

Jacques crawled over you, a predator over his prey, caging you beneath him with his impressive arms on either side of your body. When you put your hands on him, you could feel his heavy muscles tense and flex as he moved. The feel of him alone was a potent aphrodisiac. He could read all the signs of your body, the way you moved and sighed and responded to his touch. He knew you wanted him, and wanted him now. But Jacques wanted to savor you, to spend as long as he could possibly stand it, to sear every moment of this night into his memory like a firebrand.

Agonizingly slow, he returned his lips to your skin, kissing and teasing every part of your flesh he could cover. He knew he would have you several times tonight, and he decided he wanted to make you moan with his tongue before he made you scream with his cock. It was quick work for him once he settled between your legs and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. He had barely traced his name into you a handful of times when he felt the shuddering rush of your ecstasy.

Positioning himself above you, he captured your lips as he thrust into you, fast and fluid but gentle too. Slow at first, he followed the pace you set as your pleasure deepened. He was a consummate lover, and he shifted his hips until he knew his angle was perfect, like a marksman hitting the bullseye. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure, and he thought that he had never seen anything so lovely in the world of fashion and art as the sight of you beneath him.

Your arousal mounted as vigorously as he pistoned into you. Everything faded from your world until there was only the handsome man above you and the pleasure that flooded you until you were bursting with it. Jacques crested with you when a powerful orgasm throbbed through you and he carried you through every delicious shudder until you were both delirious with exhausted bliss. He kissed you with a slow lingering passion and when he pulled back, it was to look at you with adoration. His gaze was brief, but the emotion was unmistakable.

In the sultry minutes between your first session together and the next of the evening, you lay across Jacques’s chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat and the resonant timbre of his voice that sounded much like a contented purr beneath your ear. His hair was tangled and wild, and his chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His arms were strong around you and his hands huge and comforting on your skin. The man was an absolute fever dream.

“This is only the beginning, ma belle amour,” Jacques whispered much later that night, careful not to wake you. Even in sleep, he dreamed of you and of the bright and glamorous future you would forge together.

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

Jacques prided himself on being part of the 5am Club, but this morning he felt that he had earned some extra rest after his robust performance the night before. You told him that he was incredible, and he couldn’t disagree with you. He was an exceptional lover – he made a point of excelling in all areas of importance to him – and he knew it. He had pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted you not only pleasured but impressed; hooked, and wanting more and more. He grinned sleepily at the realization that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was just as hooked after this first time as you were sure to be.

An obnoxious beam of sunlight soldiered through a gap in the curtains to shine on Jacques’s face, forcing him to blink into consciousness. Groaning at the light, he rolled over to curl into you and pull you close to him, and maybe have you again for breakfast. But his hand fell on a vacant sheet, cool to the touch. That brought him into full alertness like a bucket of ice water dosed over his head. He propped himself up on an elbow and brushed the hair out his eyes as he looked around the room. All of your things had been collected and were gone, and no sound emanated from the open door of the adjoining bathroom.

Jacques was alone.

No woman had ever sneaked out on him before the dawn. Of course, he had done so countless times to countless women, the number of which he couldn’t have remembered or even closely estimated with a gun to his head. But no woman had ever given him the same treatment. It was unthinkable! Jacques had only ever slipped away from women he considered unimportant, disposable – which, admittedly, were most of them – but he would never have ducked out on you, not after the night the two of you had shared.

Last night was only the beginning, he told himself, knowing it must be true. Anything that felt that good, that right, had to be only the start of something great.

A bitter thought slithered into his mind, worse than the gravelly morning-after taste on his tongue. Surely, he wasn’t a disposable fling to you. He couldn’t be. He was more than a one night stand, when he wanted more, anyway. It was unfathomable to think a woman, any woman, wouldn’t want more with him. It was blasphemous, even.

No, that couldn’t be it. Jacques knew you were a busy woman, you must have had things to do and places to be. He too was in demand and could hardly begrudge you the same. Throwing the covers aside, he stood and proceeded to walk around the room naked, looking for anything you may have left behind. He was sure he would find a letter or just a brief note, but there was nothing. He even fogged the bathroom mirror in the chance you were prone to mystery and had left a message on the glass that only mist would reveal. He called your suite, received no answer, and had no better luck calling reception. When he checked his phone to see if there were any messages from you, he realized with a sinking feeling that you had not exchanged numbers.

The room was as though you had never been inside it at all. Only the smell of your perfume on his sheets and the scratches you had traced across his skin were proof that last night had not been only a fantasy.

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

Never before had Jacques felt so compelled to chase after a woman, but he restrained himself. The rules of a burgeoning relationship were new to Jacques -- not that he ever played by the rules at anything -- but he thought it only fair that since you had been the one to leave, that the burden was on you to make the first contact. He waited for days for a call or email or text, at first angry and then despondent when nothing came.

Jacques Le Gris, the CEO of La Maison Gris, would not chase after a woman. But for this woman, this one singular woman, he consented to casually saunter in her direction. And he was not pleased about having to do so.

It was Friday morning, nearly a week after your evening together, when Jacques relented. He stood restless in his luxurious office, surrounded by walnut paneling, rich colors, and oil paintings. His office had a regal ambience reminiscent of a Victorian study but with a decidedly masculine touch. Every appliance was ultra-modern and colored in sleek carbon, contrasting chicly with the otherwise vintage style. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city of Paris, offering an unobstructed view of the Champs Elysees.

Being at the tops in your respective industries made you each easy to track down, even if then making contact was exponentially more difficult. Jacques called the main branch of Annees Folles Magazine in Manhattan and was given the runaround for the better part of an hour. Christ, it was worse than dealing with an airline. He wondered if he would have to fax a copy of his ID just to speak to a living human who had any authority at all. He was near the limits of his temper, his notorious good humor completely expended, by the time he was put through to your office.

“Editor in Chief’s office.” A curt nasally male voice answered Jacques’s call with a note of disinterest. “Armitage Hux speaking.”

“I’m calling to speak to the Editor in Chief directly, please,” Jacques said in his most diplomatic tone. He added his name, which alone opened most doors for him. “This is Jacques Le Gris.”

“The Editor is not to be disturbed. Furthermore, she only takes calls from those listed on her approved call list.” Came the snide reply. “There’ s no Jack.”

“Jacques,” he enunciated more clearly, adding more force to his voice. “Jacques Le Gris.”

“There is no le Grease on the list either.” A withering sneer could almost be heard through the phone.

“Le Gris,” Jacques corrected, fighting to keep from losing his temper.

“My apologies,” Hux answered without the barest hint of contrition. “Regardless, you are not on the list, Mr. le Grease.”

A frustrated growl slipped out before Jacques could stop it. “For fuck’s sake, ask her about me!”

“There’s really no need for profanity. I’ve already told you, she is not to be disturbed,” Hux continued in a tone that was now verging on bored. “Certainly not by people who aren’t important enough to be on her approved call list, Mr. le Grease.”

“Important?” Jacques laughed at the absurdity. “Do you know who I am? I’m the CEO of La Maison Gris!”

“I’m legally required to say that my opinion does not in any way reflect the views of Annees Folles Magazine, but I have always preferred Gucci,” Hux lilted in his superior manner.

“If Le Grease doesn’t spur her memory, tell her I’m the man she spent last Saturday night with!” Now, Jacques was pissed. Comparing his distinguished line to that family of garish Italians was like slapping a glove across his cheek. “She knew my name then because she was fucking screaming it!”

“Ah, maybe you’re on that list.” Hux smiled deviously, which could be heard on his voice.

Jacques ground his teeth until he thought they would surely crack while he listened to the other man’s unhurried keystrokes as he pulled up that list. Jacques made a mental note to clear that fucking list out for you real fast.

“Barber… McHenry… — forgive me, I’m skimming here — Mills… Ren… Zimmerman…” Hux read through each name with relish. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that this list is Grease-free as well.”

“Listen, you trumped up little shit.” Jacques finally lost control of his temper. “If I have to get on a fucking plane, walk right in there, and kick the door down to her office —“

“Hold please,” Hux intoned, utterly unconcerned. Music only slightly trendier than elevator music assaulted Jacques across the line.

Jacques punched the end button with as much force as he could muster with his finger on the button that was too small for his thick digit. He caught himself just before he threw his phone across the room, and instead turned and swung a savagely powerful punch into the wall, slamming his fist straight through the plaster.

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

Bright and early the following Monday a fresh copy of the American edition of Annees Folles Magazine was delivered by courier to Jacques’s office. There was no accompanying note, but the magazine smelled of the sultry exotic perfume he remembered so well. Jacques knew with absolute certainty who it was from. It was longer than he wanted to wait for an overture from you, but at least it was something.

One of the subheadings on the cover read, A Special Editorial and Behind the Scenes Look into the New Fashion Line of La Maison Gris. Jacques seated himself behind his imposing desk, leaned back in his tufted leather chair, and propped his long legs on his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. He intended to savor your special editorial on him and his fashion line, expecting to fall even deeper and more hopelessly into the abyss of his feelings for you, into this new and uncharted territory.

Jacques rustled through the pages, eager to find your editorial. Splashed across the page was an extra treat – a startlingly high-quality photograph of his runway with a model in a floral dress with fur cuffs, and front in center silhouetted by the runway lights, the pair of you stood side-by-side in the crowd watching the show. He decided to have it framed for his office, a memento of the night your relationship began. He imagined your smile when he showed it off to you in person.

Below the photograph, the article was not what he expected. It was five-hundred words of honeyed vitriol.

La Maison Gris, with CEO Jacques Le Gris at its helm, has been the rising star in the fashion industry and with good reason. His designs mix ultra-modern chic with the classiest and the most decadent styles history has ever seen. From Victorian era draping and corsets to Regency-esque frocks and slippers to beading and sequins that would flatter the most exuberant 1920’s flapper, Le Gris’s inspiration is regal and refined and imbued with his own signature twist and flourish.

Ascensions, however, are precarious. Climbing to the top in fashion is just as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. One misstep can cost one his career.

Confident in his own grandeur, Le Gris opened his show at Paris Fashion Week with a new line featuring a daring use of fur on every piece. Icarus, too, was daring in his flight toward the blazing Sun. Just like Icarus, Le Gris has reached beyond his capacity and will soon find himself plummeting back to Earth to crash and burn with so many other has-beens whose names are not worth remembering.

Swept up in his penchant for melding modern with iconic, Le Gris does not consider the advances that we as a society have made. No longer do we need to resort to the barbarism of the fur trade to clothe ourselves. Nor do we, as Le Gris would have us believe, need to resort to fur to dress ourselves in the finest fashion and haute couture. Rest assured, dear readers, La Maison Gris is not in the upper echelon of fine fashion and haute couture.

In addition to the heinous and overdone use of fur, Le Gris has the tastelessness to cobble together a kaleidoscope of florals ranging from pastel to electric. His florid color palette can best be described as ‘A Murder of Unicorns,’ as painted by Monet. It reminds one of a cheerily painted playroom inside a children’s mental institution. A more cultured eye will gravitate to Dolce & Gabbana for florals, to Burberry for iconic; and if one is looking for fur, a vintage fox, mink, or sable from a boutique will always carry the day.

Le Gris’s approach to fashion seems to be that a lack of quality can be disguised by flair and concealed with fur. This mirrors the man’s approach to life. A boisterous grandstander, Le Gris tries to project a distinguished air. However, like a magician’s trick revealed, all his flash and charm are little more than smoke and mirrors with no real substance.

A little fur here and there can make a girl purr, but an overuse, such as the spring line of La Maison Gris, is barbarous at best and utterly gauche at worst.

One wonders if Le Gris has the capacity to bear a defeat with dignity, but the smart money will bet on the negative. Like a scavenging hound, Le Gris will likely refurbish his failed spring line for another runway this coming fall or winter. He will certainly gain no traction on any runway of repute. With his brash sensationalism and garish taste, perhaps he shall find his true calling outfitting cosplayers or larpers.

Jacques crumpled the offending magazine in his fist as if he could choke the life from its Editor in Chief through the abused pages. He viciously ripped it in half, throwing each segment across the room in different directions. He wanted to punch another hole in his wall, but his knuckles were still scabbed and bruised from his recent outburst. Not for the first time, he decided to hang a heavyweight punching bag in his office. He glared around his office, looking for something to break. Why the fuck was everything his decorators chose some one-of-a-kind antique?

Sparing his knuckles further damage, he let out a savage growl like a wounded lion. Jacques was breathing as hard as if he had run a mile, his huge chest straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. As he tried ineffectively to calm himself, his shrewd mind began to calculate and strategize. After a few moments of huffing, he decided on his course of action. If you wanted to play dirty, he could roll in the mud with the best of them. Retrieving his phone, he dialed a familiar number.

“Jacques!” Pierre D’Alencon, the Creative Director of La Maison Gris, answered with friendly ebullience. “I was just going to call you. Drinks this weekend? I happened upon a gorgeous set of twins -- redheads, no less -- and of course I’m willing to share with my closest friend.”

“Put the twins on ice for now,” Jacques grumbled gruffly. “This is business. Did you see the editorial in Annees Folles?”

“I did, indeed,” Pierre’s voice lost a hint of its buoyancy. “Hence my offer of drinks and women to lift your spirits.”

“I’ve made a decision, and it involves you. If that glorified tabloid wants to blast me for using fur in my line, I’m going to single-handedly revive the fur-in-fashion trend! We’ll see who holds more power in this little game.” Jacques grinned devilishly at his own newly formed plan of attack like a knight finding a chink in his opponent’s armor. “Which is where you come in. I want to see designs for an entire line with fur on every piece by the end of the month. Get on it, Pierre! Give me your best.”

“Do you not think it best to respond with more dignity and sweep all this unpleasantness under the rug?” Pierre asked with a heavy sigh. “This is why you have PR people.”

“Who was it that said any publicity is good publicity?” Jacques asked, unphased.

“That would be the American spectacle, P.T. Barnum,” Pierre replied with resignation.

“Smart man. I always admired his joie de vivre.” Jacques smirked as he paced across his vast office. “That’s exactly what I want. I want a spectacle. I want a public circus. I want a showdown. We’re going to revive the fur trend, you and I, and I’m going to rub it in that demoness’s face!”

“Ah, so this is all motivated by astute business acumen and professionalism, is it?” Pierre gave a laugh that was ignored.

“Use every kind of fur you can get your hands on. The crueler the fucking better! Lynx, fox, sable, Persian lamb – all the cutest and cuddliest animals. Are chinchillas still a thing? Those too. Can we still get leopard? If you can design a full-length coat made of puppies, do it! Dalmatian with a lynx collar, how about that?” Jacques ran a hand along the shimmering silver streak in his black hair, thinking. “And I don’t want faux anything in sight. I want it all real, all genuine fur.”

Pierre confirmed his understanding of his marching orders and signed off. For so long as their mission remained retaliation and war, anyway. He also decided on a side-quest of sorts, to put his second greatest talent to work while he created a runway line trimmed in fur. He would try his best at figuring out his friend and boss’s quarry, and aid him in hunting the most dangerous game of all, a powerful woman. Perhaps if Jacques could seduce her personally, there would be no need to batter her into submission professionally, and Pierre knew he was just the man for both jobs.

Jacques was still wound up after the call, but now he had a course of action, a focal point, a target at which to channel his anger and frustration. The embers of rage still alighted Jacques’s nerves and the sting of betrayal still burned in his chest. He still wanted to punch something, to find a release. It was a poor substitute, but he ranted and bellowed instead.

“That frigid bitch!” Jacques snarled, glaring out of his window over the streets of Paris. “That shrew. That succubus. Satan. That woman is fucking Satan!”

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

To be continued…

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

Tagging some fashionistas:

@in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @babbushka @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @reborn-rekall @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @bensolodyad @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @durangoninetyfive @reveluving @vedavan @fax4life27 @lumberjack00fantasies @kyloremus

#my stuff!#my writing #best #fic #valentine #jacques le gris x reader #jacques le gris x you #jacques

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edwinspaynes · 9 months ago

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fic snippet

Food had no flavor, even when Thomas could choke it down.

Movement was painful.

He heard his father and Uncle Gabriel crying together on the other side of his bathroom wall.

Eugenia brought him tea cakes. Told him to be strong. Forced him to eat.

He ate mechanically, like clockwork winding down.

The world had no color in it, and he missed Alastair.

He missed Alastair, and he did not want to wait until Friday.

But he did. And when Friday finally came, he found that he was able to stand.

To select an well-tailored black shirt and put it on, to pair it with white suspenders and a matching bowtie.

To pick up his legs one by one, to take step after step toward Kensington Gardens.

And he sat, and he waited.

He waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and waited.

And finally, Alastair appeared.

At first glance, there was something odd about him, though Thomas could not tell what. He wore a crimson waistcoat with golden stitching and a bronze ascot that matched the buttons of his black jacket. He was holding a dark blue basket in one hand and making his way slowly over to Thomas, a wide smirk on his face that bespoke genuine joy.

Alastair sat before him, and then he realized:

He was in screaming color.

And the rest of the world lit up as he spoke. “Hello, Tom.”

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neattequila · 2 years ago

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HARRY’S STYLE EVOLUTION PART 2 (HS1 Era) by an actual stylist

First off, thanks for the love on part 1! It was truly, so fun to write. I have such a good time looking into Harry's style because it's something I've always kept my eye on throughout his and my own career. If you haven't read part 1, I definitely recommend it, as I'll be referencing some things from it. (Link to that is here.)

This is part 2, which is solo Harry, particularly during the making and tour of HS1 (2017-2018.) I just have TOO much to say about his style for it to be concise I'm so sorry lol.

Without further ado, let's get into it!

2017!

Harry's first official appearance after 1D is on October 6th, 2016, a dinner hosted to celebrate his trio of Another Man covers with Alister Mackie and Kris Van Assche. He wears a suit by Dior Homme.

To debut his single "Sing of the Times" on the Radio 1 Breakfast Show with Nick Grimshaw, he wears Gucci tartan trousers (left). He has a real Gucci tartan moment here. Also wearing a Gucci tartan suit to perform on Saturday Night Live (right.)

At this time, his personal style is still reminiscent of his late 1D style. He's still wearing black skinny jeans and the infamous YSL suede boots. He falls into a real short sleeve button-up/Hawaiian shirt kick here. Wearing it during Snl Promo (left) on Carpool Karaoke (middle) and a black open version at a New York Rangers game (right.)

On the day his solo album is released, he wears a tartan Vivien Westwood suit with Gucci loafers (left), and on the Today Show, he wears the GORGEOUS bespoke Edward Sexton bubblegum pink suit (right.)

At this point, Harry's worn a suit to basically every public appearance he's had since 1D broke up. This makes a lot of sense. He's starting his solo career and wants to be taken seriously. What's more serious than a suit? They're often brilliantly patterned or in bright colors. Showing his fans and the world that he's still the flamboyant, bright, charming person they knew in 1D but evolved. Older now, no longer in a boyband but a Man Band, as he himself puts it.

Harry wears these Gucci wide-leg trousers with dragon detailing on the leg several times. I personally love this look. He wears a pink version (left) at his first solo show at the Garage, a brown version (right,) to perform at a Sirius XM event, he also wears a similar one to perform on the Graham Norton Show. Middle, he wears a Gucci suit with Roker boots on the James Cordon show.

Also, on James Corden's show (sorry lol) he wears the same Roker boots and this dark emerald green VELVET suit by Saint Laurent that I'm absolutely obsessed with and feel like we did not give her her moment (left.)

He's also doing Dunkirk promo at this time and typically dresses much subtler for those appearances than he does to promote his own music. It makes sense he's not trying to command the spotlight at these press events, instead opting to seem more like an ensemble player. For the French premiere of Dunkirk, he wears a suit by Prada and Roker boots.

In another Late Late show appearance (he does so many during this time), he wears this Loverboy jumpsuit by Charles Jeffery (left), and on an Elvis Duran appearance, he wears a button down with art that mimics his tattoos by Stella McCartney, along with black skinny jeans and Calvin Klein boots (right.)

In September of 2017, his official Live on Tour starts in San Francisco, and he wears a floral printed suit by Gucci (left.) Later he will wear a similarly patterned floral Gucci suit to perform at Radio City Music Hall (right.)

At the iHeartRadio music festival, he wears a harlequin Gucci suit (left), and later in Sydney, Australia, at the Aria awards, he'll wear one of my favorite suits. An Alexander McQueen suit paired with gold Roker boots.

At this point, it's clear that Harry's love affair with Gucci has started he won't become the frontman of the Memoire d’une Odeur Gucci fragrance until 2019, but he definitely has some affiliation with the brand. I'm sure they're sending him pieces and working with him closely. It's unclear if this is spurred on by Harry Lambert or if Harry Styles and Alessandro Michele are friends yet, but regardless, he wears Gucci more than any other designer at this point, and Gucci will go on to supply a lot of the suits he wears during the tour.

At the 2017 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, Harry performs wearing two suits. First is a light blue suit (left), and later, he changes into a black suit with velvet details and a pink undershirt (right.)

2018!

Harry will wear A LOT of suits during the Live on Tour tour (those were the days, huh,) and in a bit, I'll go over some of my favorites. (If you want to see all of them, that can be found here,) but first, I want to talk about his personal style.

We see him starting to move away from skinny jeans and opting for more expressive pants. In the picture on the right, he wears the first Bode piece I believe we ever see him wear! This fits the culture of the time as we as a public begin to move farther and farther away from skinny jeans.

He's not back to adorning himself in vintage t-shirts quite yet (we'll get more into that during his Fine Line era.) But there is a noticeable difference in his style, for sure. He's much trendier than he was before, and much like how his style evolved when he was hanging out with Nick Grimshaw and co, I do think part of this style change is due to his relationship with Camille Rowe.

Harry and her were first linked in July of 2017 and have assumedly been dating for several months at this time. It makes sense that he'd be gaining some of her style from osmosis. Later he'll even admit himself, "There's a piece of you in how I dress."

We'll get more into this during his Fine Line era, as that's when he starts dressing A LOT more like her, but I do think there is a noticeable shift in 2018.

As mentioned before Harry wears A LOT of suits during this time and though I genuinely do have an opinion on every single one of them, there's just not the time. So below, I'll highlight some of my favorites.

Left Harry performs at the We Can Survive Benefit in Hollywood in a custom Stella McCartney suit. Right he wears the infamous ensemble by Harris Reed (I went to university with them and am totally not jealous at all) on tour in Amsterdam.

One of the best things about the Live on Tour suits was that there really was a sense that outfits were picked for specific places.

In Glasglow, Scotland, he wears a kilt (left) from London outfitters Highland Store. When performing in Mexico city (right) he wears a suit with embroidery and right sparkly fringe (one of my favorites he'll ever wear.)

In Bologna, he wears one of my favorite Gucci suits.

That's it for part 2! Fine Line era is next, and you better strap yourselves in for that one because I have. LITERALLY SO MUCH TO SAY!

Thank you sm for reading! <3

#harry styles #fashion #harry fashion #gucci #suits #live on tour #stylist #styling #idk what else to tag this lol

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outoutdamnspark · 2 years ago

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Emmet: WHAT HAPPENED TO COVER ‘EM UP SLUT?

Ingo getting absolutely tied up by us for devouring later because titties:….it seems my memory is failing hisui left me very disoriented

Emmet: YOU LYING BI-

SHEUFHSEHGUDZH!!!!

INGO'S JUST!!! SO CASUAL ABOUT BEING TIED UP!!!! 🤣 Pre-Huisui he would have been a blushing, stuttering mess, but after going through all that he's so much more comfortable with his own body - even the scarring (love a man with scars, I wanna kiss em! 😩) since it's a reminder of what he's survived. He's little ashamed of them right at first, but once he overcomes that anxiety and finally just goes "fuck it" to his insecurities, he's able to embrace his body in its entirety.

And then he's unstoppable.

You think Emmet knows how hot he is? Ingo's got him beat.

Emmet is loud and unapologetic about how gorgeous he is and doesn't hesitate to strut his stuff - which he absolutely should do, that man is stunning. Ingo, on the other hand, makes it look effortless. He wears muscle shirts so tight they look like they're painted on, and either those baggy sweatpants that just make you wanna pull them down with your teeth, or slacks so bespoke they should be illegal, paired with button-up shirts one deliberate size too small. Those buttons are holding on for dear life, that fabric is straining under the glory of Ingo's post-Hisui ta tas. Mind the yellow line now, passengers, don't get distracted and fail your safety checks~

In the summer, when the weather is too hot and gross to even go outside, he aaaaabsolutely has at least four pairs of booty shorts to swap between. Man has so much cake he's practically the whole damn bakery. Snack and a half.

And he walks around in his titty-licous tank tops like he has no idea he's rearranging everyone's sexuality! When in fact he smugly revels in the way people walk into lamp posts as he passes by. So much tit. So much ass.

Emmet is murderous - how dare his brother go from "cover them up slut" to "art thou nasty"?!

#(sorry for the slow reply there - I was caught up getting my heart ripped out by Trigun Stampede~)#ask box #hey nonny nonny #submas #subway master ingo #warden ingo #subway master emmet #spark chats

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cha-melodius · 6 months ago

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for the body swap-soulmates-spy au: investigate, suit, and partner.

Thanks for sending these in! I've got nothing for "investigate", but...

Suit

He looks down at his arm to find blood rapidly soaking through the fine wool of his suit, except it’s not his arm.

He’s wearing an extremely well-tailored suit—Alex would guess bespoke—and an ostentatious amount of gold jewelry.

Henry is nothing short of stunning with his wind-tousled hair and his pale gray suit, the first few buttons of his shirt left undone to show off his tempting neck and sinful fucking collarbones.

Partner

Who is his soulmate to her, anyway? A partner? A friend? A… lover?

“Come on, love,” his dream partner says. His voice is deep. Musical. Familiar. “I’m waiting.”

Send me words and I’ll give you the line of the spy soulmate AU where they appear

#my wips #spy soulmate au #body and soul(mate)

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starkraivennemad · 6 months ago

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Rock Star - Chapter 10: Radioactive

“…You choke down your tears, in order to survive Doing what you must, to get through the day But when you least expect it, your pain will revive Because buried hurts, never stay buried, No, they never go away…”

“There you have it folks, an excerpt of a teenaged Jim Moriarty reciting Buried Hurts.”

“Oh, Blake, Blake, Blake you bloody wanker ! Where did you GET that?!” An incredulous Jim hooted with laughter. “Thank goodness that was after puberty and my voice deepened. Jesus Christ, man!”

“Wait! There may be recordings out there from before that? Did you have a high pitch?” Blake teased. “Call out to all former primary school classmates of Jim! If you have a verifiable copy of little baby Jim’s high-pitched rambling, well, anything , please, please, for the love of God, PLEASE, send it to us here at ZROC radio so we can embarrass him some more!”

“Please, please, for the love of me, DON’T!” Jim countered good naturedly. “I had all but forgotten my very short stint as The Storyteller on school radio. I did enjoy telling stories. Still do. Now the stories are all in song.”

“And that is the perfect place to end this. Looking forward to seeing you at the Music Madness Benefit Festival.”

“Yeah, it’s been a few years since the band and I performed there. Looking forward to it myself, mate. And oh! Congrats to the contest winner! I’ll promise to be utterly scandalous . Bring protection.”

“Moriarty everybody!” Blake pressed a button that sounded like applause and cowbells before the switch out to commercial. He waited for a signal from their sound tech, then gave a thumbs up to Jim. “And we’re done.” Blake removed one headphone from his ear. “Thanks for stopping by, man.”

Jim waited until the light that signaled his mic was still hot went out then removed his headphones altogether and stood pulling on the knit shirt he had removed in the warm studio. “Thanks for letting me stop by. You know how I loathe these things.” He made a stay seated motion, when Blake started to rise “You know, I know the drill. You have what(?) 23 seconds now till the next commercial and maybe another 15 after before the next song? I know the way out.”

“Go on then. I’m sure that’ll make your new babysitter happy. Question: will he crack if he smiles?”

When he arrived, Moran had walked in ahead of him and silently checked the booth before Jim was allowed to enter. It was something Devlin had never done. Blake had raised a very curious brow at Jim who ignored the unasked questions there.

I am NOT about to explain about the letters.

Jim looked out of the broadcast booth. Clad in a dark navy bespoke suit, crisp white shirt, and dark navy tie, he could have been a mannequin. Nothing on the usually stoic Sebastian moved but his chest as he breathed and his eyes as he constantly scanned.

“Some days, I believe so.” Jim answered. “It’s a clause in the job description.”

Even if he is texting right now. Something he usually does not do.

Moran generally maintained his default expression of boredom and yet completely alert to all around him. He spoke to no one while on duty that was not work related. His silent, but deadly mein was apparently catnip to several of the women and a couple of the men. Jim had noticed how several people, more than accustomed to star talent on scene and were barely fazed by his presence, had found reasons to pass by the bodyguard. Jim knew Moran saw all of them.

They could have been a mote of airborne dust for all the attention he’s paying them.

Moran had ignored all but one, a brunette that dared to get his attention.

The brunette was bold. Bold enough to reach out and attempt to touch him only to find her wrist caught in a vice grip she could not pull out of. A grip that was painful. Jim saw the tiny pull on Sebastian’s lips when the grip tightened and the woman winced.

Oooh I think he liked that - thank you for the diversion darlin’, perfect!

Sebastian dealt with the woman with one hand and took out his phone with the other, a strange expression crossing that man’s face as he spoke.

He almost NEVER answers his phone - this is perfect!

“Off out.” Jim grinned and headed out the side door.

Jim was halfway down the hall in the opposite direction when he heard Sebastian bellow.

“ THAT FUCKING LITTLE SHITE! ”

Read and Comment on AO3

#mormor #jim moriarty #sebastian moran #rock star #bbc sherlock

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ifyoucantsurvivejustry · 1 year ago

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What If We Made It?

Hiya! Just a little Saturday morning activity. Pure fluff. Might grow into something more, I’m not sure yet, but let me know what you think. Thanks xx

Consistent buzzing, not unalike to bees flurrying around their hive could be heard from the famous white house that perched unrecognisably atop the cliff in Watch Hill. The arrangement of the yard not dissimilar to any party arrangement of the historic annual fourth of July parties that so many had come to know about. However, what separated it on this particular day, was the colours, not reflective of the patriotic colours of the United States. Today the yard was decked out in white with shades of pinks and lilac sprinkled along the entrance from the gate where a small number of guests from both sides were entering. The men present in their finest black suits with brightly polished oxford shoes, ladies decked out in an assortment of coloured dresses and shirts and skirts. Hair ornately done, people buzzing with excitement at the events that were scheduled to unfold in the imminent future.

In the house, there was a whole other level of excitement radiating within its walls, with the two separate parties, occupying individual wings. Laughter could be heard from the lower levels, transcending its way down the stairs, a mixture of both male and female giggles and shrieks.

One wing consisting purely of the groom’s party and the other of the bride’s. The distinct shriek of the groom’s best man could be heard, louder than the other men, as it always had been. George Daniel had always managed to have the most characterizable laugh from his other mates. No doubt the catalyst for the shriek being some inappropriate mumbling from another bandmate. However, the groom was not experiencing the same giddy giggling as his other mates. Matty, dressed in a bespoke black suit with the top two buttons of his white shirt unbuttoned was pacing up and back along the large bedroom which a fellow bandmate was occupying. They had all elected to get ready in George’s room as it was the largest of the guest bedrooms and Matty was forbidden to enter his own bedroom before the end of the day. Excitement of the day aside, this was monumental for Matty, it had been a long time coming.

A long time consisting of trials, tribulations and public scrutiny, but he was here, about to vow the rest of his life to one person. Long gone were the days of risk-taking behaviour and gallivanting around with the latest upcoming model or influencer. It wasn’t the commitment he was anxious about, but more the question of whether this was genuinely happening. He was waiting to wake up from what he was convinced was a drug induced hallucination reminding him that he would never, in a million years, be privileged enough to be able to spend the rest of his life with her. The same person he has loved from afar since that very night he dedicated a song to her in Los Angeles in 2014, some eleven years ago now.

“For fuck sake Matthew! Would you just settle down and light a fag!” The famous drummer yelled, using the grooms full name to emphasise his growing annoyance at the stomping of Matty’s feet. “You’re going to run a hole through the carpet if you keep it up for much longer”.

George, dearest George, had tied to knot to Charli in late 2024 in a small Italian Church ceremony, followed by an enormous after-party that only he and Charli would have the capability to pull off. What a night it had been, full of tracks mixed by the groom himself, slurred speech, scantily clad sweaty bodies and blisters on nearly everyone’s feet.

“Hann, can you get us a drink please.” George requested, rising from the armchair perched near the fireplace that was certainly not needed in the Rhode Island heat in August. George walked over to where Matty was pacing and was quick to reach out his two long arms towards the pacing figure a mere distance in front of him, halting Matty and spinning him around to face himself.

“I’m not havin’ a bloody drink before I walk out there, George. This is not the same vibe as your wedding, mate!” Matty yelled, raking a hand through his slicked back curls. Although as his stress levels increased, the unruly curls refused to conform to the strength of the hair product.

Before Matty or George could say another word, Adam, or affectionately known as Hann was back in the room, neither Matty nor Ross had noticed his momentary disappearance. Matty was too anxious, and Ross had just walked out from the bathroom adjoining the room after finishing his hair. Adam had managed to slink a bottle of some spirit from the bar just down the hall from their room. No glasses in tow.

“Ay, just shut it and take a swig, would you.” George said reaching out to take the unknown bottle from Adam’s hand. Extending the bottle outward to read its label before moving the neck to his own lips first. “Fuckin’ hell, really, Tequila?” George scowls at Adam. “Ay! I had like thirty seconds to grab something before I would get busted, you seen how many bloody people are swarmin’ about this joint?” Adam responded.

George gulps down a mouthful of the liquid before pulling the neck away wincing. “Alright, that’s me sorted, who’s next?” He asks, shaking his head in an effort to dispel some of the aftertaste whilst waving the bottle around his three best mates standing in a circle around him.   Ross extends his arm outward, bringing the bottle to his lips in a similar motion to George and letting the liquor burn its way down his throat. “Alright Hann, your turn. Matty’s too much of a chicken.” He says grinning and looking over at his best mate who’s big day it was. Ross earnt a scowl from Matty as he extended the bottle in Adam’s direction. Before Adam could grab the bottle, Matty gripped it and repeated the same motion before passing it onto Adam. Adam repeating the drinking motion.

“Ugh, that shit is vile, I’ll cop a bottle of Malbec over that shit any day.” Matty groaned. “Don’t know how I still feel obliged to knock around with you losers when this is the shit you make me do.” Reaching into his suit jacket for a cigarette. His waiting bride slowly learnt that he was never going to be able to give up his one vice and truth be told, she liked how the smell of cigarettes mixed into his own smell and created something that was so distinctly Matty. Leaving its traces everywhere he went.

Lighting the cigarette and extending the pack to George, Matty had appeared to have calmed down. George was surprised, thinking he was really going to need to talk some sense into him. Matty inhaled the cigarette and turned around to look outside the open balcony door at the guests gathering below. He spotted people he had become incredibly close to through his lover and people he had always been close to. They wanted a small, intimate celebration of their love and they had narrowed the guest list down to one hundred. Which was as small as it could get when you were about to marry one of the most famous pop-stars of this century. He couldn’t quite believe that they had made it through all the hardship experienced over the last two years. From being reacquainted through Jack, who he really owed a lot of this to, too testing the waters that summer of 2023, to having to publicly ‘break up’ that same summer and conceal their relationship from the world for almost a year to protect her reputation and his own sanity. He doesn’t know how he will ever be able to thank Jack enough for sharing both his and her music between one another until she plucked up the courage to text him herself.

Staring down at the people mingling and taking drinks being passed to them from the distinct waiter uniforms vastly apparent from the colours of the guests’ clothing, Matty reflects on the harrowing but also, most rewarding adventures of his life and it was only just getting started. Both artists tours had quietened down. Matty and his band finishing the tour for their sixth album some six weeks ago and Taylor had had almost eight months off now, enjoying being newly engaged and writing more music. Matty accused her of never being able to keep still. But secretly, he hoped she would never stop as he adored watching the way her brain would turn as they enjoyed watching and doing mundane things together. Like, watching the sun rise and set from the balcony of their bedroom at Taylor’s Rhode Island home when they had the tour schedule break to be able to enjoy the peace and quiet together. Or, when they were perched high up in the sky travelling from concert venue to concert venue snuggled in their seats watching the latest all-consuming television show, waiting for the episode to finish so they could break down the theatricality of it all, Taylor enraptured by the way his mind worked and the eloquent nature of his vocabulary, although sometimes she wanted to slap him in the hopes he would stop using language that made him sound obnoxious.

“Matty, love, its time”. He turned around to find his dad had entered the room and was making his way over towards where his son was standing. Shaking his body lose from the anxiety he reached out to butt out his used cigarette in the ash tray just to the other side of the door on the balcony. Not going unnoticed how many cigarette’s were littered within that ash tray, reflective of the late night and early morning that the four best friends had shared leading up to the afternoon’s events.

“Right, fuck, shit okay.” Matty said running his hands through his hair, again.

“Our boy is getting hitched for fucking Taylor Swift!” Adam yelled clapping his hands in front of his chest. This outburst not going unnoticed by the other band members looking questionably amongst themselves. An outburst of this nature not something regularly shown by the guitarist and more suited to the behaviour of George.

“What? Fuck off the lot of you ay! I’m happy for Matty.” Adam defended, reaching forward to wrestle George before the four of them would need to act their age for the ceremony, the reception however, was anyone’s game.

“Alright, knock it off the pack of you!” Tim, the father of the groom said choking back laughter as he shook his head and made beeline for the door. Before exiting the door, Tim turned and reminded the lads they had “Five minutes before you all need to be downstairs.” Looking at each man individually. It wasn’t lost on Tim that he had had the pleasure of watching each of these four boys grow to become men and get married and have babies. Adam and his wife Carly, were soon to become a family of four. One final glance at his son whilst Matty was brushing down his suit he uttered “Matty, I am beyond proud of you and I love you dearly.” With that, Tim walked out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

“So, let’s get this show on the road.” Ross stated, rising from his position at the foot of the bed.

George made eye contact with Matty as the other two men walked towards the door. He offered a nod and turned around to face the door, following the other two out. Matty, now alone in the room, walked over to the mirror and attempted to, as best he could, place some of the stubborn curls into their place. Failing, he exhaled, glanced himself over one last time and made his way out the door.

The trek to his position at the alter was one that was long given the vast expanse of his fiancés mansion. Matty thought by now he would have become accustom to the extent of wealth that Taylor acquired given he was somewhat famous himself, but he didn’t have the same financial portfolio that she did. And yet, it had never been an issue for them, never once in discussion or point of an argument. In fact, he was so incredibly proud of her he didn’t give a shit about the money, but sometimes, on a day like today, he wished the house wasn’t as big as it was so he was already at the alter waiting for his bride. He reminded himself to slow down and enjoy the anticipation as he walked down the ornate staircase aligned with photographs of Taylor as a child, family, both his and hers. Photos of the two of them together, some even from 2014. Photos of her and his bandmates together. Hoping that within the coming weeks a photo of the two of them from this day will be hung in its rightful place along this wall.

He'd made it through the throng of people seated along the isle, shaking hands and kissing those as he walked along. Each person happier and more exicted than the last he spoke to.

“Cabbage!” Jack exclaimed pulling him in for a hug.

“I can’t thank you enough Jack, I mean it.”

“Matty, stop that. You did all the hard work. I am beyond fucking excited for the two of you. Now, go get up there and take your spot. She won’t be far away.” Jack exclaimed, winking at Matty.

Turning to look up at the spot where he was about to dedicate the rest of his life to her he saw his three mates in their rightful spots by his side. He arrived beside George and turned around to face up towards the house where his bride was preparing to make her entrance. He caught his mothers eye and she winked his way.

Inhale, exhale. This was it. He felt George pat his back.

“You ready, mate?” George asked.

“Ready as I will ever be G.” Matty replied.

It’s peculiar how the notion of time, when you don’t wish for it to pass by quickly it does and then when you want it to fly by, it drags. Within moments, before Matty could even drink in the visuals surrounding him, the guests were being asked to stand for the entrance of the bride and her party.

Matty could hear his heart hammer in his ears, the same way a child does when they are about to be told off. However, this wasn’t fear, this was pure excitement. His last few moments as an unwedded man were happening.

The first bridesmaid appearing not long after Matty’s now dear friend as well, Ed approached the right hand side of the alter, clad in a suit and his acoustic guitar began to play the opening chords of Norah Jones’s Come Away With Me. A song choice left entirely up to his lover. Selena following not long after Taylor’s childhood friend, Abigail who smiled at Matty. Gigi was next, then Blake and then Andrea. A woman that Matty had become incredibly close to as he and her daughter navigated tumultuous times. Before taking her place next to Blake, yes unconventional for the mother of the bride to partake in the bridal party, but Taylor insisted, Andrea pressed a kiss to Matty’s cheek, mumbling “I love you both and wish you nothing but a lifetime of happiness.”

Within moments, all eyes were fixated on a slow moving white figure progressing towards them. George, looking over at Matty, saw his breath catch before exhaling. There she is Matty thought. Hair pinned up above her neck with tendrils floating around her ears, like they always did when her hair was up, escaping the elastic holding the remaining locks up. Matty locked eyes with Taylor, a shy smile gracing her lips. Both parties’ eyes slowly filling with moisture. She looked radiant, a not quite full length gown gracing her figure, with a neckline that exposed a small amount of cleavage. Matty thought she looked nothing short of a film star. Her dress echoing the form of a classic Hollywood style. Magnificent he thought, swallowing in an attempt to slow the tears filling his eyes.

Taylor who had spent the morning drinking champagne and celebrating her upcoming nuptials with her close friends and family, like Matty, couldn’t believe this moment was happening. Matty had never looked more handsome, freshly shaven face, top two shirt buttons unbuttoned with the smallest tip of his chest tattoo poking out, just the way she liked it.

“Hi.” She mouthed arriving at the alter.

“Hello, love”. He returned.

Before letting go of her father’s arm to turn towards her lover, she placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”  

“My pleasure. But I love you more, Taylor.”

With that Scott kissed his daughter’s cheek and made his way to his seat beside Denise and Tim.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, darling.” Matty utters, just for the two of them to hear.

“You polish up real nice too.” Taylor replies, drinking her soon to be husband in.

The marriage celebrant, who thank you to much argument between the pair given Taylor was raised Christian and Matty an atheist, they managed to land on a ceremony that was equal ground for the two, arrived under the floral arrangement overlooking the wide sea set out below the ground of the lovers Watch Hill Estate cleared his throat and began.

“Good afternoon everyone, we are gathered here…” Matty and Taylor had both tuned out, enraptured by one another’s gaze. She looked remarkable, Matty was desperate to pinch himself. It was hard enough in the moments that followed after she had said yes to his proposal in the summer of 2024 that that moment was real, let alone her standing in front of him ready to declare their love in front of their closest friends and family.

He looked incredible. The bespoke suit hung in all the right places and the unbuttoned shirt catching her eye every now and again. She could feel the smile pushing to explode from the corners of her mouth. Retrospectively, marriage was not something Taylor let herself contemplate after her ending her previous relationship, who would want a life subject to the constant scrutiny and tabloid gossip. But more than that, who would want to be known as being ‘Taylor Swift’s husband’ everywhere they went. It was easier to not let herself imagine, to shut out the thought of what her dress would be like? The colour and shape of her engagement ring? Where would she get married? Never did she think after the heartbreak of 2014 that she would end up about to spend the rest of her life with the Matty Healy. Through the years that spanned between 2014 and their reunion in the fall of 2022, she thought about him and their brief romance a lot. She was young but it still ignited something in her that she searched for in nearly all of her other partners but wound up empty handed time and time again. It wasn’t the materiality of a wedding that she forbade herself from thinking of, it was more the fact that no one wanted her because of who she was, the world’s most famous pop-star. Matty didn’t care. She could have been a cleaner in a shopping mall for all he cared, he loved her and had loved her since that very first night they shared in 2014. Eleven years, a number of different partners both hoping that the next one would be ‘the one’, never truly believing that they stood a chance together.

The bride and groom find themselves pulled back to reality when the celebrant begins. “Matthew Timothy Healy, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself in marriage? Do you promise to honour, respect and adore Taylor, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” Matty says in a beat, eyes not leaving hers. No contemplation, no stuttering, no hesitation. All in.

The celebrant turns toward Taylor. “Taylor Alison Swift, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself in marriage? Do you promise to honour, respect and adore Taylor, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” Taylor replies, eyes welling with tears. Blinking in an attempt to keep them at bay but one slipping from her right eye.

“Don’t cry, love.” Matty says reaching out to brush her tear away.

“I’m not, I promise.” She says looking him dead in the eye. He smirks, that devilish, cheeky smirk that gets her every time.

The celebrant looks over towards Carly, her son sitting on the chair next to hers. “Can we have the rings now please?” Carly motions for her and Adam’s son, Max to head toward the celebrant pulling the rings out of his pocket and placing them in the celebrants’ hands. Unbeknownst to the bride and groom, his mother had checked the rings were safely stowed in Max’s pocket five times before the ceremony had started. Max retreats from the celebrant heading over towards his dad.

“Nice work, bud. Now go back and see mummy.” Adam high fives his little one. Earning a chuckle from the crowd. Max retreats back to his mum, earning a plump kiss on his crown.

The celebrant begins, “Matthew and Taylor, your rings have been warmed with love by your families and friends, may they serve as a reminder of the feelings you have in your hearts at this very moment. Always remember that you have someone to share this life with and that never again, will you need to walk alone.”

Matty taking the plain gold wedding band from the celebrants, “Before the witnesses present, I, Matty take you, Taylor to be my lawfully wedded wife, my soul mate and my one true love. I give you this ring as a symbol of my promise to love and support you today, tomorrow and always.” Slipping the ring onto her bare ring finger. Silently hoping that it never, ever comes off. They’ve been through too much for it to.

Taylor glances down at the ring, it glistens in the August sun. Taking in its simple nature it serves as a constant reminder that although the two of them are some of the most famous people of the modern era, throughout their relationship they have managed to enjoy the simple, ordinary and mundane things together of which has built strength, much like the strength of the gold band now placed on her left hand.

Prompted to retrieve the remaining wedding band, Taylor places two fingers either side of the platinum band and reaches out for Matty’s left hand and repeats the same, “Before the witnesses present, I, Taylor take you, Matty to be my lawfully wedded wife, my soul mate and my one true love. I give you this ring as a symbol of my promise to love and support you today, tomorrow and always.” She says, choking as she attempts to get the last words out.

“Matthew, you may kiss the bride”.

He looks down at his wife. And with that, they lock lips in front of their nearest and dearest. Ready for whatever the future holds for them.

#matty healy #Taylor #taylor swift #maylor #matty and taylor

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