#fred durst cap

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

|-|-|-[The blond under the cap]-|-|-|

Bonus: Fred's Orange Hair Moment

[55northorangeportlandmd55355]

[3dollarbillyalls]

“The fucking cap don’t fit me…”

that was smooth

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

Hii i was so in love with ur ville fic 🖤 I was wondering if you wanted to write something like ville x musician!fem! reader? Like they’re playing in a festival together and she can’t place why ville is nice to everybody but her but he’s just having a hard time expressing that he likes herrr? Tysm 🖤

You’re So Cold

Once Y/N discovers the reasons behind Ville’s cold, disattached behavior, she finds herself fascinated with this twisted game the two of them play.

Ville Valo X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, angst)

1.7k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, smoking, alcohol

An: Thank you so much for the request!! I’m really surprised how well my Ville fics are doing because I didn’t expect him to have the sort of reach my other fics might! I actually received annother request while writing this that I used to create this fic so I included the one I didn’t reply to directly but still used below! Nonetheless, I adore writing for him and would love to write more for him in the future! Anyways, thank you for the request and please keep sending more in!

Nürburg, 2001- brushing shoulders with the likes of Godsmack, Papa Roach, and Linkin Park was you, and you’d never felt more out of place. See, the issue arose with the fact that while your music was popular, it wasn’t that kind of popular, and especially not outside of Europe. Surrounded by so many musicians that you yourself loved and respected, you started to feel a little out of place after you nearly stumbled into someone backstage that you were pretty sure was Alanis Morissette. It also didn’t help that, due to traffic that morning, you were cutting it pretty close for such a large event so you had to hurry onstage just before call time. Still, you held yourself together; anyone in your position would be over the moon to be performing at the Rock Am Ring, so you took a deep breath and stepped out onto that stage, looking out at the imposing sea of people in front of you- tens of thousands of them. But it was as if all of that anxiety melted away with that first surge of adrenaline. In that moment, you were feeling pretty damn invincible.

That performance is what drew Ville to you. The passion you had for your music was palpable- he could feel it, all the way from where the rest of the bands were chilling out backstage. They were drinking and laughing, blatantly ignoring the enchanting performance that the woman on stage was putting on. What idiots. Taking a sip of his beer, Ville cocked his head a little to get a better look at you, “Who’s that?” Sitting across from him, on a riser cluttered with gear with his own drink in hand, one of the other performing artists- Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit fame- glanced over to the stage and spoke up, “You mean that chick?” With a raise of an eyebrow, he gestured towards you with a tilt of the bottle he was holding. “Oh, that’s Y/N. I ran into her earlier- seems pretty cool.” His words went in one of Ville’s ears and out the other, too enraptured with you to really pay attention, “Yeah, cool…”

Now, this isn’t something you’d easily admit, but you were a fan of Ville; I mean, if you were living in Europe in the 2000s, it was kind of hard not to be a fan of HIM. Point is, once you got offstage and was greeted by the obligatory high fives and the ‘nice job up there’s that follow a show put on well, you were pretty excited to meet him. Sitting down next to Ville, you chuckled a little to yourself as Chester Bennington- yes, that Chester Bennington handed you a beer. Being among all these real deal artists made you feel that you really made it. Using one of your rings to pop the cap off your beer, you tried not to sound like a total fangirl when you made small talk with Ville, “So, how’d your set go?” But instead of saying it went well and asking you how things went for you, he didn’t even dignify you with a response. Thinking he didn’t hear you, you decided to introduce yourself, “Hey, I’m Y/N! It's really awesome t’meet you, man.”

There was a cold, unamused look on Ville’s face as he murmured a response, “I’m aware.” However, underneath that particularly unapproachable mask he was putting on, far from anything he let bubble to the surface, there were fireworks going off in his head. God, this woman seems so relaxed, so genuine around him- usually, women become overexcited chihuahuas in his presence. And she smelled really nice too, which he had to wonder about if that was a weird thing to think about someone you only just talked to for the first time. Point is, even though he saw himself as concealing his emotions very well here, everyone who he was being all cordial with right before you showed up could see through that charade.

During the festival, you and the rest of the performers were staying in the same hotel for security reasons, and by that I mean the entire place was rented out for the weekend you were staying at- not just a couple floors, the entire hotel. Sure, the place was small but shit, presidents don’t even get this kind of treatment, so you didn’t complain. Despite the disappointing lack of typical rockstar behavior during your stay (you only saw one TV get thrown through a window the whole time), you were having a spectacular time listening to wild tour stories and sharing ideas with like minded artists. Well, except with Ville. Whenever you were hanging out in a group with him, he’d be all cool and relaxed, discussing poetry or niche literature or whatever intelligent assholes like him care about, but as soon as you tried to chime in with your input, he’d get quiet and act as if you weren't even there. Being written off so fast by a guy you respected felt like a blow to the gut, even if you pretended to shrug it off as behavior typical of a man who has women fainting when he passes by on the street.

Since attending wild ragers wasn't exactly Ville’s scene, he usually spent his evenings holed up at the hotel bar, and it was there that one of his band mates, Linde, decided to address the brooding little prince of darkness in the room, “Why don’t you just tell her you like her?” It was painfully obvious to everyone around Ville- everyone except you, and that’s where the problem lay. Despite the image of the confident, sensitive romantic that he projected to the world, he was never too good at expressing emotions because he never really had to be. But you were different. There was this air that followed you wherever you went- this mystique that had him by the neck. So, instead of running the risk of fucking things up, he kept his distance. “If only it were that simple.” Esoteric as always, Ville lit up a cigarette and thought about how lucky he is that you weren't there to hear what he was confessing.

But the funny thing is that you were. In fact, you were sitting at a table not twenty feet away from where this conversation was happening. You would’ve thought he’d realize you were there given the fact that the bar really wasn’t all that busy that night. Still, completely oblivious, Ville went on about how he was so utterly transfixed by your mere presence and that he felt like an utter fool for being unable to muster up the courage to even talk to you as if he were some clumsy teenager. Raking a hand through his hair with a sigh, his throat was tense with traces of silent worry, “I’m going to make an idiot of myself…” The irony of this whole situation captivated you: here you were, needing to force every interaction like pulling teeth under the assumption he couldn’t stand you, while in reality Ville had been quietly agonizing over you the entire time.

It was a happy, stupidly coincidental confluence of events, like a plot point in a cheesy rom-com. A smile gnawed at the corners of your lips and you decided to take things into your own hands, seeing as he couldn’t. Oh so quietly creeping over to where Ville sat at the bar the way a lynx would stalk a canary, you slipped onto the stool next to him, making your presence known. “How about you buy me a drink?” No matter how cool he tried to play, you could tell he nearly jumped out of his skin at the purr of your voice from the way Ville’s eyes flashed wide for a moment before he turned to you. The amused glint in your gaze, that confident smirk on your lips- you were making his willpower melt away like wet merengue. Ville cleared his throat, keeping his cool as well as he could, “Oh, sure. What’s your poison?”

And sure, you made some small talk with him, but that was more so an excuse for you to watch him squirm in so many subtle ways. Notice the gentle flush creeping up his neck when you mentioned that you were a fan of his, the way he subtly fiddled with the label of his beer as the sound of his suave demeanor cracking sounded like music to your ears. But when the bartender came back with your drink, you quietly palmed the short glass with ice and slipped away, leaving the man with the unshakable resolve at the bar to contemplate what the hell just happened. Surprised at your boldness, Linde summed up what Ville was thinking with one word. “Wow…”

It was only when you left to retire to your room that night that you ran into him again. Mentally occupying yourself with wondering what tomorrow may bring, what with the forced proximity between you both, you didn’t notice Ville’s presence until you saw a thin, ring-clad hand dart out to stop the closing elevator doors. “You know,” nimbly slipping into the cab, he drawled in that beautiful Finnish accent, “usually when someone buys you a drink, it’s customary to stick around a little while.” Looking Ville up and down from, leaning against the opposite wall with arms folded, a smirk crossed your face as you hit the button for your floor. The elevator buzzed to life as you conceded your teasing, “Alright, I get it. How about I buy you a drink?” Taking a few steps forward, you closed the little distance between the two of you, standing nearly chest to chest with him, “Perhaps…a nightcap in my room?” You were so close that you could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, meeting your gaze with a slight smile, “Ah…Well, it’s not like I could say no to that.”

[byroncapped]

Y2K screencaps.

Linked above is a folder with a zip file that contains screencaps of y2k (2024). This cast includes: Jaeden Martell, Rachel Zegler, Julian Dennison, Daniel Zolghadri, Lachlan Watson, Eduardo Franco, , Mason Gooding, Kyle Mooney, Alicia Silverstone, Fred Durst, and more. All of these screencaps were made by me using 1080p footage. There are about 2,400 caps. These screencaps can be used for icons, edits, promos, and anything for personal use. If you want to make/sell base icons or use any of my caps in commission work, talk to me first. 

⚠️    WARNING: these caps feature blood, violence, murdernudity, vomit, shit, domestic abuse, drug use.

💖    LIKE/REBLOG: please like/reblog this post if you download these caps.

📄    CREDIT: please like/reblog this post. since i cap films and shows with little or no resources, i ask that you also consider leaving credit somewhere on your blog/docs/carrd so that more people can find these caps.

[swordfishswritingnook]

Static Angel (Angel x reader)

Slow burn, 6/7 Chapter, Tags: Horror Elements, Stalker, Drug Use, Religious Imagery

Also on AO3!

The line snakes around the old church, its Gothic spires clawing at a sky smeared with light pollution. You’re euphoric, swaying on unsteady heels, his hand engulfing yours. At 6’10”, he towers over the crowd, a monolith in head-to-toe white. The building is a corpse repurposed—stained glass replaced with neon Jesus Saves signs, the bell tower strung with strobe lights. A bouncer in badly made El Chapo costume stamps wrists under the watchful gaze of a defaced stone angel, its eyes gouged out.

You duck into an alley to change, peeling off your thrift-store sweater and shimmying into a mini skirt so short it bites your thighs. The fabric smells like mothballs and Febreze. You smear mascara into a smoky eye using your phone’s cracked screen as a mirror, then slick on lip gloss that tastes like artificial cherries. Perfect .

He watches, leaning against the brick, blonde hair lit by the flicker of a Coca-Cola sign across the canal. His beauty is still unbearable—too symmetrical, too glossy , like a magazine ad for something lethal.

“Ready?” he asks, voice a velvet hum. You nod, though your knees feel like water.

The line creeps forward. The club’s baptismal font brims with neon vomit, a sacrilege that would’ve made your Catholic grandmother weep. You don’t care. You’re too busy drowning in him.

You dig through your bag—$22 crumpled from laundromat dryers, a half-smoked blunt, a white Bic lighter with Jenny’s 21st!!! scrawled in Sharpie. You light the blunt, inhaling deep, the smoke mingling with the canal’s stench of rust and algae. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he watches your lips, pupils swallowing the neon.

A guy in a Fred Durst cap stumbles into him, beer sloshing. “Sick costume, bro,” he slurs, eyeing the angel’s flawless porcelain skin, the way light bends around him, not on him. A few seconds later he staggers back, nose bleeding, muttering about migraines.

Your knuckles brush the feather-edged cuff of his sleeve, the touch sending a ripple of golden static through the air. He’s not for them , you think, breathless, as the crowd parts like worshippers before a saint.

Inside, the church throbs. The altar is a DJ booth blasting Yeah! vs. Get Low , the bass shaking dust from the rafters in glittering clouds. Congregational pews are shoved against walls, sticky with spilled vodka Red Bulls. You drag him to a shadowed alcove, where a cracked fresco of the Last Supper peels beneath UV lights, his wings folded into a feathered cape that glows like bioluminescent silk. People stare, whisper, snap photos with their flip phones. A girl in fishnets crosses herself.

His hands find your hips, cool but not cold, static buzzing like a hive of docile bees. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, tilting his head, sunlight-blonde hair catching the strobe lights. His voice is honey and vinyl crackle. “Are you… happy ?”

“Make me stop,” you challenge, grinning.

He kisses you like it’s a prayer—kneeling, desperate, a supplicant at the rail. His mouth is spearmint and starlight, his tongue a spark that dances but never burns. You arch into him, back hitting the wall, the fresco’s flaking paint crumbling like ancient scripture. The Virgin Mary’s face peels away, her eyes rolling back as if in ecstasy or agony—you can’t tell which. His hands slip under your shirt, static blooming where he touches—your ribs, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat—each spark a firefly’s kiss that leaves your skin tingling like you’ve been anointed.

You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from spiderwebs and moonlight. Around you, the club pulses—strobe lights slicing through the haze of sweat and smoke, bodies writhing like supplicants in the throes of revelation, a sea of fishnet halos and rosary chokers.. A girl in a sequined halter top stumbles past, vomiting neon-green Jell-O shots into a baptismal font repurposed as a punch bowl. The liquid glows under the blacklight, a sacrilegious elixir that drips down the sides like absolution. No one glances at the couple in the corner, the one that shimmers, their edges blurring as if they’re halfway to another plane.

He pulls back, thumb swiping your smeared gloss. His eyes aren’t voids anymore. They’re mirrors, reflecting your face—flushed, ruined, alive .

You light the blunt with a white Bic lighter, its flame trembling. He plucks it from your fingers, takes a drag he doesn’t need, and exhales your name in static smoke. The letters linger, glowing faintly before dissolving.

You pull him onto the dance floor, where bodies writhe like penitents seeking absolution. He follows without resistance, his hand engulfing yours, his grip firm but teasing, as if daring you to let go. The flashing lights bend around him, as if reluctant to touch something so perfectly made. He is luminous against the filth, a seraphim drowned in strobe-lit sin.

You press against him, back arching, moving in time with the pulsing beat. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with cheap perfume and the incense-thick fog rolling from machines above. He towers over you, his hands finding your hips, guiding you in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch. The crowd swallows you. Feathers molt, disintegrating into ash that swirls in the strobe lights like inverted snowfall. Around you, the club pulses—neon-green lasers cut through haze-machine incense, a boy in a cassock dances with a rattlesnake around his neck. The holy water fizzes, acidic.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you in time to the beat, which feels less like music and more like a pulse—something primal, something alive. The air smells of spilled vodka and myrrh, and the sweat on your skin glistens under the neon like holy oil.

A guy in a devil mask bumps into you, his horns catching the light as he raises a shot glass in mock toast. “Bless me, Father,” he slurs, laughing before disappearing into the crowd.

You spin to face him, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. Fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from a martyr’s shroud. “You taste like blasphemy,” he murmurs.

Flashing lights turn everything feverish. The neon green glow makes the bodies around you look sick, like saints starved for something they can’t name. Somewhere, a cross still hangs above the altar-turned-DJ booth, its golden surface reflecting the sinful, sweating mass below. You wonder if God is watching, if He turned His face away long ago.

His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer. Static crackles where he touches, sending shivers up your spine. He moves with effortless grace, with a precision that should be impossible in a place like this. Your ex never danced—not like this, not like him, not like something both worshiped and feared. You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and his lips ghost over your skin. A whisper of contact, cool like the edge of a blade.

“I could make you pure,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through you. “If you let me.”

His fingers dig into your waist, just enough to leave ghosts of pressure, not enough to hurt. His thumb skims the hem of your skirt, tracing patterns between your upper thigh and benediction. His breath is cool against your ear when he leans in. “Bathroom?,” he says.

You follow, heels sticking to the beer-slick floor, the stickiness pulling at your soles like the grip of some unseen hand. The hallway walls pulse with UV graffiti—pentagrams, crucifixes, and phrases like “Repent or Perish” scrawled beside a smiley face with X’s for eyes. You ignore it, though the air feels heavier here, as if the walls are breathing, in and out, in and out, like the ribs of some great beast. A faint hum of organ music seeps through the cracks in the plaster, though no one is playing it.

The UV graffiti on the hallway walls glows faintly, a neon halo around the smiley face with X’s for eyes—a crude mockery of divinity, a saint of the damned. You ignore it, but it feels like it’s watching you, its hollow gaze following your every step.

Inside the stall, the air is heavier, denser, as if the room itself is holding its breath. His wings, vast and iridescent, fold tightly against his back, their edges shimmering with a digital static that crackles like a broken hymn. The mirror above the sink is already fractured, a spiderweb of lines that catch the light and refract it into a kaleidoscope of colors. When he pins you against the sink, the glass groans, splintering further. Your reflection shatters into a dozen fractured selves, each one a different version of you—some wide-eyed and innocent, others hollow-cheeked and haunted. You don’t know which one is real.

Inside the stall, he folds his wings tight, their edges glitching against the low ceiling like a corrupted halo. The mirror above the sink cracks as he pins you against it, your reflection splintering into a dozen fractured selves—each one a different version of you, each one staring back with wide, unblinking eyes. His thumb smears your lip gloss, the cherry-red streak glowing under the flickering bulb like a smear of sacramental wine. The scent of myrrh and ozone clings to him, sharp and electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, and the words feel like a benediction and a curse all at once. “Little moth, chasing my flame.”

You are high—too high. The room tilts, the walls bending inward as if the stall is folding in on itself, collapsing into some sacred geometry you can’t comprehend. His grip steadies you, his fingers cool against your feverish skin. His wings flare, casting fractal shadows that crawl across the walls like spiders, their spindly legs tracing the outlines of ancient symbols you don’t recognize. A feather drifts loose, grazing your arm. It burns, branding your skin with a snowflake-shaped scar before dissolving into ash. You gasp, the pain laced with euphoria, like the sting of holy water on an open wound.

“Look,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe as his wings begin to shed feathers that dissolve into constellations, tiny points of light that hang in the air like stars. One lands on your wrist, searing into your pulse point with a glowing sigil that pulses in time with your heartbeat. “You’re holy now,” he says, and the words feel like a sacrament, like a curse, like a promise.

The door bangs open, the sound sharp and jarring, a profanity in this sacred space. “Hurry up!” someone yells, their voice rough and impatient, a reminder of the world outside this stall, this moment. He laughs, the sound a dial-up screech that grates against your ears and sends shivers down your spine. His wings envelop you both, their iridescent glow casting the stall in an otherworldly light. The mirror cracks again as your head hits it, his reflection flawless and radiant, while yours blurs and pixelates at the edges, as if you’re being erased, rewritten.

“You’re ruining me,” you choke, the words half-delirious, half-desperate. His breath is static against your ear, his voice a low hum that vibrates through your skull. “Ruin is a kind of grace,” he says, and the words feel like a revelation, like a sin. 

You kiss his jaw, and he melts into you, his wings trembling as they fold tighter around you, shielding you from the world outside.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, kissing his jaw. He melts, nuzzling into your neck.

When you stumble out, your $22 is gone. So is your lip gloss.

But he’s still there.

[shambolicrube]

Spencer as Fred Durst 🤝 Frat Boy Spencer In A Backwards Baseball Cap From That One TNTL

[eulogyepitaph]

I got body dysphoria last night for the first time and it was while I was high, my friend and I wanted to dress up like Johnathan Davis and Fred Durst, I got my baggy cargo pants a baggy shirt and the red ball cap and I looked in the mirror and just stared... and I was upset for like 30 minutes because I'll never look like Fred Durst... my friend told me I'll never be Fred and idk why in my small little mind it broke me... I'm starting to think I might be a guy

[hyena-shark-rusty]

NPT - chocolate starfish and the hot dog flavoured water - Limp Bizkit album

Names:

Fred

Freddy

Scott

Scotty/ie

Bizkit

Durst

Charlie

Ron

Sidney

Blade

Zach

Lachie

Tyler

Jett

Pronouns:

boil/boils/boilself

roll/rolls/rollself

punk/punks/punkself

choc/chocs/chocself

mutt/mutts/muttself

limp/limps/limpself

biz/bizkits/bizkitself

steal/steals/stealself

fuck/fucks/fuckself

skate/skates/skateself

lyr/lyrics/lyricself

music/musics/musicself

rock/rocks/rockself

met/metals/metalself

90/90s/90self

hate/hates/hateself

Titles:

(Prn) Who Puts Bounce in the Mosh Pit

(Prn) Who Don't Give A Fuck

The Red Cap

(Prn) Who Takes a Look Around

The Chocolate Starfish

The One Who Does It (Prnself)

Requested by anon!!

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

🦋💋Butterfly kisses for his favorite MTV-VJ💋🦋

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

WHY DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE ME CHOOSE A SONG FROM MY FAVORITE LB ALBUM?!?!?😭😭😭😭😭LIKE THIS WAS SOOOOOOOOO HARD FOR ME! THIS ALBUM IS FILLED WITH NOTHING BUT BANGER AFTER BANGER AFTER BANGER AND I LOVE EACH TRACK LIKE THEY WERE MY CHILDREN

[cleverhottubmiracle]

We independently evaluate all recommended products and services. Any products or services put forward appear in no particular order. if you click on links we provide, we may receive compensation. They say that life begins at 40, which frankly is a little bit too Benjamin Button for comfort. It’s also not true, clearly. Even if you can reasonably expect to make it to 80, up from a short and not especially sweet 25 in medieval times, your fifth decade is middle age at best; you’re summiting the hill, if not over it. The only salad days you’re going to enjoy now are if you go on the 5:2 diet. That means though that it’s all downhill from here – in a good way. You’ve established yourself and your personal style. You don’t have to follow fashion. And even though you’re at peak earning power, you don’t really need to buy anything, so you can conceivably fork out for fripperies like bespoke suits and high-end watches – especially if you’re no longer paying through the nostril for full-time childcare. Life might not begin at 40, but as far as your style is concerned, it doesn’t have to end there either. How Should A 40 Year Old Man Dress: Top Style Tips Don’t Retire Too Early “I’ve always believed that if you have confidence, you can wear whatever you want,” says Olie Arnold, style director at e-tailer Mr Porter. “But by 40 you should have a good idea of certain fits and styles that suit your body shape. If not, tailoring will always be a flattering and age-appropriate option.” And you can still have some fun: “Experiment with pleated and carrot-top trousers, or different fabrications and textures in knitwear and jackets.” Separate Yourself From The Herd Play it too safe for work and you become another drone in a ten-a-penny two-piece. “A well-fitted suit will look understatedly stylish in a sea of ill-fitting tailoring,” says Arnold. “However, unstructured separates can provide a more relaxed look, either worn together or dressed down with knitwear and a grandad-collar shirt.” Browse Italian brands like Boglioli, then lace up your John Lobbs – or throw on some sleek trainers. Build A Solid Off-Duty Foundation The danger when out of office meanwhile is that you slip into dadwear – and not the ironic, fashionable kind. “Teaming elements of tailoring such as an unstructured blazer with chinos or jeans retains a subtle edge, and you can keep it casual with a T-shirt,” says Arnold, who also advocates cargo trousers as a fresh alternative to denim: “With a suede bomber, sweatshirt and sneakers, they’ll nail a comfortable but refined weekend look.” Not DIY. Contain Middle-Aged Spread The mention of cargos – rightly maligned in their voluminous, Fred Durst-endorsed form, but totally acceptable if they’re actually the right size – is an opportune moment to reiterate that one of the chief factors in differentiating between stylish, undistinguished and downright slobbish is fit. And that goes for your physique as much as what you attempt to obscure it with. We’ve said this before but it bears repeating: staying trim helps. A lot. Worship The Detail Devil When the rest of your rig is resolutely low key, accessories really come into their own. Arnold recommends bringing in colour, pattern and a little texture in your accessories. Think knitted ties or patterned silk scarves. Other finishing touches such as leather gloves and matching luggage make a difference, but the big-ticket item is a luxury watch. “You’ve worked hard for 20 years now – you deserve it,” says Arnold who likes Piaget and IWC Schaffhausen. Be Wary Of Sportswear “I don’t believe there are any strict rules,” says Arnold of playing on in athletic-inspired kit into your fifth decade. But hoodies, backpacks and baseball caps have an undeniable juvenility that can jar with your veteran status. If you’re sporting sweats or joggers, then they should be quality, plain versions – maybe even in a fabric other than jersey; your trainers should be minimalist. Like most sporting success though, a lot depends on fitness. Grow Old Gracefully Don’t be tempted to dye your hair. Yes, it might look vaguely convincing now, but then you’re trapped in a cycle of regular, expensive maintenance until the point at which it fools nobody except yourself. Then your choice is between dying it ever greyer or pretending that you’ve suffered a terrible trauma and turned white overnight. If you’re balding, reach for the clippers. And any talk of botox or facelifts will draw a raised eyebrow from us. Key Pieces To Buy In Your 40s A Bespoke Suit Having filled out your tailoring wardrobe in your twenties and upgraded it in your thirties, you’re at the age, earning bracket and settled body shape to commission. A bespoke suit should last a good 20 years if cared for properly (brush frequently, dry clean rarely), so although it’s a chunk of change, it should hopefully see you all the way through to retirement. Neat Knits While the grandad connotations of cardigans are overstated, knitwear comes over more grown-up (and smart-casual) with jeans and a T-shirt than a sweatshirt or hoodie. And if your offspring have stopped indiscriminately vomiting and defecating by now, then you could even consider treating yo’ self to some cashmere. Swag Bags If you’ve already grasped the need for a holdall for weekday gym trips and weekend city breaks, then check the rest of your baggage is excessively nice and coordinated: a long-haul suitcase, a cabin-sized wheelie case for short trips, and maybe a carry-on tote or suit bag. Real men don’t get the earth to help carry their luggage, but wise, old ones with dodgy backs do. An Heirloom Watch Maybe you didn’t advance to mechanical in your thirties, or only made it to entry level. Either way, your forties are the time to raid your children’s university fund for wrist candy with real clout. (Hey, it’s not like the money’s earning any interest, and a Rolex or Patek might even appreciate.) Tell the kids that you’ll pass it on when they graduate – or you pass away. An Air Of Maturity Fragrances can be age (in)appropriate as much as garments. Where new releases tend to stick to a generic citrus-wood-amber template and smell more synthetic than a replicant’s hairpiece, sophisticated scents will often have a suitably retro vibe, if not an issue date that predates yours. And a hint of leatheriness to your skin is no bad thing here.  40 Year Old Men Style Icons David Beckham More suited and less booted since his retirement from football, David Beckham’s style nevertheless continues to contravene the rule about not wearing sportswear (and indeed streetwear) into your fifth decade. But the fact that the sprightly 42-year-old looks like he could still do a job on the right wing grants him extra time. Don’t bend it unless you can compete. Common Pristine, slightly preppy tailoring and a youthful approach to streetwear is what separates the hip-hop artist from most commoners his age. One of the big reasons the 45-year-old gets away with it is real attention to detail when it comes to grooming. Like Beckham, Common understands that good skin – and hair care – is a free pass to wearing styles most men in their 40s think they’ve grown out of. Pep Guardiola Schooling the philistines of the English game with his unconventional touchline attire and tactical innovations alike, “Don Perfecto” – as the Man City manager was nicknamed at Barcelona’s academy – takes as much care with his outfits as his line-ups. Although he should drop the belt when wearing a suit – especially when it’s that tight. Patrick Grant Granted, it’s perhaps easier to look perpetually dapper when you’re the owner of Savile Row tailor Norton & Sons and creative director of catwalk brand E. Tautz. But aside from his repertoire of navy and grey tailoring that would be the envy of any Kingsman, “P Greezy” is also testimony to the power of a good, regular haircut and beard trim. The man loves a wide-leg trouser, too. Ryan Reynolds Van Wilder has matured a lot since his party liaison days. Witness his range of classic pieces in a muted colour scheme, from red carpet-ready three-piece suits to an olive overshirt and khakis. Whether he’s flexing in a tux or relaxing in a tee, everything fits his gym-honed Deadpool-bod like a custom glove, so the father of two never looks like a deadbeat dad. Style Checklist: What To Cross Off By 50 Turn To The Darker Side Your skin gets paler and thinner as you age, so brights, pastels and some neutrals may wash you out. That doesn’t mean you have to wear exclusively navy and grey (too much too-dark can do the same): just warmer shades like sand or camel instead of beige or stone. Stay On Course The onset of middle age can do strange things to a man’s mind. But trying to be overly adventurous in your later years is more regrettable than Indiana Jones And The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull. That leather biker jacket is a poorly chosen false grail. As is that hog. Be A Right Old Sew And Sew If it hasn’t been adjusted then it doesn’t touch skin. You should have known your tailor for longer than you have some of your friends. And you should see your barber more often than most of them – every four weeks. A manicured coiff will take years – and pounds – off. Clean Out Your Closet The only part of your wardrobe that should resemble Eminem’s is the inside. Some things to ditch: slogan or logo T-shirts, heavily ripped or distressed jeans, hype trainers, ironic watches, skinny tailoring. Donate them to your nearest charity shop. Or your 12-year-old son. Renew Your Gym Membership Ryan Reynolds is 40. Jason Statham is 50. Both of them have appeared on the cover of Men’s Health recently. The bar for what a middle-aged man looks like, and is capable of, is being raised, for reps. You’re only as old as the Hollywood actor whose workout you do. Formerly online style and grooming editor at GQ, Jamie Millar is a contributing editor to Men’s Health and a correspondent for outlets such as Mr Porter, Amuse and The Gentleman’s Journal. (Follow him on Instagram @mrjamiemillar.) With a frankly alarming number of years’ experience under his waistband, he’s equally comfortable dispensing advice about classic style or high fashion, Swiss watches or fitness and nutrition – because he’s probably wearing (tailored) sweatpants while he does so. Source link

[norajworld]

We independently evaluate all recommended products and services. Any products or services put forward appear in no particular order. if you click on links we provide, we may receive compensation. They say that life begins at 40, which frankly is a little bit too Benjamin Button for comfort. It’s also not true, clearly. Even if you can reasonably expect to make it to 80, up from a short and not especially sweet 25 in medieval times, your fifth decade is middle age at best; you’re summiting the hill, if not over it. The only salad days you’re going to enjoy now are if you go on the 5:2 diet. That means though that it’s all downhill from here – in a good way. You’ve established yourself and your personal style. You don’t have to follow fashion. And even though you’re at peak earning power, you don’t really need to buy anything, so you can conceivably fork out for fripperies like bespoke suits and high-end watches – especially if you’re no longer paying through the nostril for full-time childcare. Life might not begin at 40, but as far as your style is concerned, it doesn’t have to end there either. How Should A 40 Year Old Man Dress: Top Style Tips Don’t Retire Too Early “I’ve always believed that if you have confidence, you can wear whatever you want,” says Olie Arnold, style director at e-tailer Mr Porter. “But by 40 you should have a good idea of certain fits and styles that suit your body shape. If not, tailoring will always be a flattering and age-appropriate option.” And you can still have some fun: “Experiment with pleated and carrot-top trousers, or different fabrications and textures in knitwear and jackets.” Separate Yourself From The Herd Play it too safe for work and you become another drone in a ten-a-penny two-piece. “A well-fitted suit will look understatedly stylish in a sea of ill-fitting tailoring,” says Arnold. “However, unstructured separates can provide a more relaxed look, either worn together or dressed down with knitwear and a grandad-collar shirt.” Browse Italian brands like Boglioli, then lace up your John Lobbs – or throw on some sleek trainers. Build A Solid Off-Duty Foundation The danger when out of office meanwhile is that you slip into dadwear – and not the ironic, fashionable kind. “Teaming elements of tailoring such as an unstructured blazer with chinos or jeans retains a subtle edge, and you can keep it casual with a T-shirt,” says Arnold, who also advocates cargo trousers as a fresh alternative to denim: “With a suede bomber, sweatshirt and sneakers, they’ll nail a comfortable but refined weekend look.” Not DIY. Contain Middle-Aged Spread The mention of cargos – rightly maligned in their voluminous, Fred Durst-endorsed form, but totally acceptable if they’re actually the right size – is an opportune moment to reiterate that one of the chief factors in differentiating between stylish, undistinguished and downright slobbish is fit. And that goes for your physique as much as what you attempt to obscure it with. We’ve said this before but it bears repeating: staying trim helps. A lot. Worship The Detail Devil When the rest of your rig is resolutely low key, accessories really come into their own. Arnold recommends bringing in colour, pattern and a little texture in your accessories. Think knitted ties or patterned silk scarves. Other finishing touches such as leather gloves and matching luggage make a difference, but the big-ticket item is a luxury watch. “You’ve worked hard for 20 years now – you deserve it,” says Arnold who likes Piaget and IWC Schaffhausen. Be Wary Of Sportswear “I don’t believe there are any strict rules,” says Arnold of playing on in athletic-inspired kit into your fifth decade. But hoodies, backpacks and baseball caps have an undeniable juvenility that can jar with your veteran status. If you’re sporting sweats or joggers, then they should be quality, plain versions – maybe even in a fabric other than jersey; your trainers should be minimalist. Like most sporting success though, a lot depends on fitness. Grow Old Gracefully Don’t be tempted to dye your hair. Yes, it might look vaguely convincing now, but then you’re trapped in a cycle of regular, expensive maintenance until the point at which it fools nobody except yourself. Then your choice is between dying it ever greyer or pretending that you’ve suffered a terrible trauma and turned white overnight. If you’re balding, reach for the clippers. And any talk of botox or facelifts will draw a raised eyebrow from us. Key Pieces To Buy In Your 40s A Bespoke Suit Having filled out your tailoring wardrobe in your twenties and upgraded it in your thirties, you’re at the age, earning bracket and settled body shape to commission. A bespoke suit should last a good 20 years if cared for properly (brush frequently, dry clean rarely), so although it’s a chunk of change, it should hopefully see you all the way through to retirement. Neat Knits While the grandad connotations of cardigans are overstated, knitwear comes over more grown-up (and smart-casual) with jeans and a T-shirt than a sweatshirt or hoodie. And if your offspring have stopped indiscriminately vomiting and defecating by now, then you could even consider treating yo’ self to some cashmere. Swag Bags If you’ve already grasped the need for a holdall for weekday gym trips and weekend city breaks, then check the rest of your baggage is excessively nice and coordinated: a long-haul suitcase, a cabin-sized wheelie case for short trips, and maybe a carry-on tote or suit bag. Real men don’t get the earth to help carry their luggage, but wise, old ones with dodgy backs do. An Heirloom Watch Maybe you didn’t advance to mechanical in your thirties, or only made it to entry level. Either way, your forties are the time to raid your children’s university fund for wrist candy with real clout. (Hey, it’s not like the money’s earning any interest, and a Rolex or Patek might even appreciate.) Tell the kids that you’ll pass it on when they graduate – or you pass away. An Air Of Maturity Fragrances can be age (in)appropriate as much as garments. Where new releases tend to stick to a generic citrus-wood-amber template and smell more synthetic than a replicant’s hairpiece, sophisticated scents will often have a suitably retro vibe, if not an issue date that predates yours. And a hint of leatheriness to your skin is no bad thing here.  40 Year Old Men Style Icons David Beckham More suited and less booted since his retirement from football, David Beckham’s style nevertheless continues to contravene the rule about not wearing sportswear (and indeed streetwear) into your fifth decade. But the fact that the sprightly 42-year-old looks like he could still do a job on the right wing grants him extra time. Don’t bend it unless you can compete. Common Pristine, slightly preppy tailoring and a youthful approach to streetwear is what separates the hip-hop artist from most commoners his age. One of the big reasons the 45-year-old gets away with it is real attention to detail when it comes to grooming. Like Beckham, Common understands that good skin – and hair care – is a free pass to wearing styles most men in their 40s think they’ve grown out of. Pep Guardiola Schooling the philistines of the English game with his unconventional touchline attire and tactical innovations alike, “Don Perfecto” – as the Man City manager was nicknamed at Barcelona’s academy – takes as much care with his outfits as his line-ups. Although he should drop the belt when wearing a suit – especially when it’s that tight. Patrick Grant Granted, it’s perhaps easier to look perpetually dapper when you’re the owner of Savile Row tailor Norton & Sons and creative director of catwalk brand E. Tautz. But aside from his repertoire of navy and grey tailoring that would be the envy of any Kingsman, “P Greezy” is also testimony to the power of a good, regular haircut and beard trim. The man loves a wide-leg trouser, too. Ryan Reynolds Van Wilder has matured a lot since his party liaison days. Witness his range of classic pieces in a muted colour scheme, from red carpet-ready three-piece suits to an olive overshirt and khakis. Whether he’s flexing in a tux or relaxing in a tee, everything fits his gym-honed Deadpool-bod like a custom glove, so the father of two never looks like a deadbeat dad. Style Checklist: What To Cross Off By 50 Turn To The Darker Side Your skin gets paler and thinner as you age, so brights, pastels and some neutrals may wash you out. That doesn’t mean you have to wear exclusively navy and grey (too much too-dark can do the same): just warmer shades like sand or camel instead of beige or stone. Stay On Course The onset of middle age can do strange things to a man’s mind. But trying to be overly adventurous in your later years is more regrettable than Indiana Jones And The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull. That leather biker jacket is a poorly chosen false grail. As is that hog. Be A Right Old Sew And Sew If it hasn’t been adjusted then it doesn’t touch skin. You should have known your tailor for longer than you have some of your friends. And you should see your barber more often than most of them – every four weeks. A manicured coiff will take years – and pounds – off. Clean Out Your Closet The only part of your wardrobe that should resemble Eminem’s is the inside. Some things to ditch: slogan or logo T-shirts, heavily ripped or distressed jeans, hype trainers, ironic watches, skinny tailoring. Donate them to your nearest charity shop. Or your 12-year-old son. Renew Your Gym Membership Ryan Reynolds is 40. Jason Statham is 50. Both of them have appeared on the cover of Men’s Health recently. The bar for what a middle-aged man looks like, and is capable of, is being raised, for reps. You’re only as old as the Hollywood actor whose workout you do. Formerly online style and grooming editor at GQ, Jamie Millar is a contributing editor to Men’s Health and a correspondent for outlets such as Mr Porter, Amuse and The Gentleman’s Journal. (Follow him on Instagram @mrjamiemillar.) With a frankly alarming number of years’ experience under his waistband, he’s equally comfortable dispensing advice about classic style or high fashion, Swiss watches or fitness and nutrition – because he’s probably wearing (tailored) sweatpants while he does so. Source link

[fandomzombie]

the only good red baseball cap is fred durst

[chilimili212]

We independently evaluate all recommended products and services. Any products or services put forward appear in no particular order. if you click on links we provide, we may receive compensation. They say that life begins at 40, which frankly is a little bit too Benjamin Button for comfort. It’s also not true, clearly. Even if you can reasonably expect to make it to 80, up from a short and not especially sweet 25 in medieval times, your fifth decade is middle age at best; you’re summiting the hill, if not over it. The only salad days you’re going to enjoy now are if you go on the 5:2 diet. That means though that it’s all downhill from here – in a good way. You’ve established yourself and your personal style. You don’t have to follow fashion. And even though you’re at peak earning power, you don’t really need to buy anything, so you can conceivably fork out for fripperies like bespoke suits and high-end watches – especially if you’re no longer paying through the nostril for full-time childcare. Life might not begin at 40, but as far as your style is concerned, it doesn’t have to end there either. How Should A 40 Year Old Man Dress: Top Style Tips Don’t Retire Too Early “I’ve always believed that if you have confidence, you can wear whatever you want,” says Olie Arnold, style director at e-tailer Mr Porter. “But by 40 you should have a good idea of certain fits and styles that suit your body shape. If not, tailoring will always be a flattering and age-appropriate option.” And you can still have some fun: “Experiment with pleated and carrot-top trousers, or different fabrications and textures in knitwear and jackets.” Separate Yourself From The Herd Play it too safe for work and you become another drone in a ten-a-penny two-piece. “A well-fitted suit will look understatedly stylish in a sea of ill-fitting tailoring,” says Arnold. “However, unstructured separates can provide a more relaxed look, either worn together or dressed down with knitwear and a grandad-collar shirt.” Browse Italian brands like Boglioli, then lace up your John Lobbs – or throw on some sleek trainers. Build A Solid Off-Duty Foundation The danger when out of office meanwhile is that you slip into dadwear – and not the ironic, fashionable kind. “Teaming elements of tailoring such as an unstructured blazer with chinos or jeans retains a subtle edge, and you can keep it casual with a T-shirt,” says Arnold, who also advocates cargo trousers as a fresh alternative to denim: “With a suede bomber, sweatshirt and sneakers, they’ll nail a comfortable but refined weekend look.” Not DIY. Contain Middle-Aged Spread The mention of cargos – rightly maligned in their voluminous, Fred Durst-endorsed form, but totally acceptable if they’re actually the right size – is an opportune moment to reiterate that one of the chief factors in differentiating between stylish, undistinguished and downright slobbish is fit. And that goes for your physique as much as what you attempt to obscure it with. We’ve said this before but it bears repeating: staying trim helps. A lot. Worship The Detail Devil When the rest of your rig is resolutely low key, accessories really come into their own. Arnold recommends bringing in colour, pattern and a little texture in your accessories. Think knitted ties or patterned silk scarves. Other finishing touches such as leather gloves and matching luggage make a difference, but the big-ticket item is a luxury watch. “You’ve worked hard for 20 years now – you deserve it,” says Arnold who likes Piaget and IWC Schaffhausen. Be Wary Of Sportswear “I don’t believe there are any strict rules,” says Arnold of playing on in athletic-inspired kit into your fifth decade. But hoodies, backpacks and baseball caps have an undeniable juvenility that can jar with your veteran status. If you’re sporting sweats or joggers, then they should be quality, plain versions – maybe even in a fabric other than jersey; your trainers should be minimalist. Like most sporting success though, a lot depends on fitness. Grow Old Gracefully Don’t be tempted to dye your hair. Yes, it might look vaguely convincing now, but then you’re trapped in a cycle of regular, expensive maintenance until the point at which it fools nobody except yourself. Then your choice is between dying it ever greyer or pretending that you’ve suffered a terrible trauma and turned white overnight. If you’re balding, reach for the clippers. And any talk of botox or facelifts will draw a raised eyebrow from us. Key Pieces To Buy In Your 40s A Bespoke Suit Having filled out your tailoring wardrobe in your twenties and upgraded it in your thirties, you’re at the age, earning bracket and settled body shape to commission. A bespoke suit should last a good 20 years if cared for properly (brush frequently, dry clean rarely), so although it’s a chunk of change, it should hopefully see you all the way through to retirement. Neat Knits While the grandad connotations of cardigans are overstated, knitwear comes over more grown-up (and smart-casual) with jeans and a T-shirt than a sweatshirt or hoodie. And if your offspring have stopped indiscriminately vomiting and defecating by now, then you could even consider treating yo’ self to some cashmere. Swag Bags If you’ve already grasped the need for a holdall for weekday gym trips and weekend city breaks, then check the rest of your baggage is excessively nice and coordinated: a long-haul suitcase, a cabin-sized wheelie case for short trips, and maybe a carry-on tote or suit bag. Real men don’t get the earth to help carry their luggage, but wise, old ones with dodgy backs do. An Heirloom Watch Maybe you didn’t advance to mechanical in your thirties, or only made it to entry level. Either way, your forties are the time to raid your children’s university fund for wrist candy with real clout. (Hey, it’s not like the money’s earning any interest, and a Rolex or Patek might even appreciate.) Tell the kids that you’ll pass it on when they graduate – or you pass away. An Air Of Maturity Fragrances can be age (in)appropriate as much as garments. Where new releases tend to stick to a generic citrus-wood-amber template and smell more synthetic than a replicant’s hairpiece, sophisticated scents will often have a suitably retro vibe, if not an issue date that predates yours. And a hint of leatheriness to your skin is no bad thing here.  40 Year Old Men Style Icons David Beckham More suited and less booted since his retirement from football, David Beckham’s style nevertheless continues to contravene the rule about not wearing sportswear (and indeed streetwear) into your fifth decade. But the fact that the sprightly 42-year-old looks like he could still do a job on the right wing grants him extra time. Don’t bend it unless you can compete. Common Pristine, slightly preppy tailoring and a youthful approach to streetwear is what separates the hip-hop artist from most commoners his age. One of the big reasons the 45-year-old gets away with it is real attention to detail when it comes to grooming. Like Beckham, Common understands that good skin – and hair care – is a free pass to wearing styles most men in their 40s think they’ve grown out of. Pep Guardiola Schooling the philistines of the English game with his unconventional touchline attire and tactical innovations alike, “Don Perfecto” – as the Man City manager was nicknamed at Barcelona’s academy – takes as much care with his outfits as his line-ups. Although he should drop the belt when wearing a suit – especially when it’s that tight. Patrick Grant Granted, it’s perhaps easier to look perpetually dapper when you’re the owner of Savile Row tailor Norton & Sons and creative director of catwalk brand E. Tautz. But aside from his repertoire of navy and grey tailoring that would be the envy of any Kingsman, “P Greezy” is also testimony to the power of a good, regular haircut and beard trim. The man loves a wide-leg trouser, too. Ryan Reynolds Van Wilder has matured a lot since his party liaison days. Witness his range of classic pieces in a muted colour scheme, from red carpet-ready three-piece suits to an olive overshirt and khakis. Whether he’s flexing in a tux or relaxing in a tee, everything fits his gym-honed Deadpool-bod like a custom glove, so the father of two never looks like a deadbeat dad. Style Checklist: What To Cross Off By 50 Turn To The Darker Side Your skin gets paler and thinner as you age, so brights, pastels and some neutrals may wash you out. That doesn’t mean you have to wear exclusively navy and grey (too much too-dark can do the same): just warmer shades like sand or camel instead of beige or stone. Stay On Course The onset of middle age can do strange things to a man’s mind. But trying to be overly adventurous in your later years is more regrettable than Indiana Jones And The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull. That leather biker jacket is a poorly chosen false grail. As is that hog. Be A Right Old Sew And Sew If it hasn’t been adjusted then it doesn’t touch skin. You should have known your tailor for longer than you have some of your friends. And you should see your barber more often than most of them – every four weeks. A manicured coiff will take years – and pounds – off. Clean Out Your Closet The only part of your wardrobe that should resemble Eminem’s is the inside. Some things to ditch: slogan or logo T-shirts, heavily ripped or distressed jeans, hype trainers, ironic watches, skinny tailoring. Donate them to your nearest charity shop. Or your 12-year-old son. Renew Your Gym Membership Ryan Reynolds is 40. Jason Statham is 50. Both of them have appeared on the cover of Men’s Health recently. The bar for what a middle-aged man looks like, and is capable of, is being raised, for reps. You’re only as old as the Hollywood actor whose workout you do. Formerly online style and grooming editor at GQ, Jamie Millar is a contributing editor to Men’s Health and a correspondent for outlets such as Mr Porter, Amuse and The Gentleman’s Journal. (Follow him on Instagram @mrjamiemillar.) With a frankly alarming number of years’ experience under his waistband, he’s equally comfortable dispensing advice about classic style or high fashion, Swiss watches or fitness and nutrition – because he’s probably wearing (tailored) sweatpants while he does so. Source link

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

🦴🐾The only thing cuter than Fred are his bulldogs🐾🦴