#pink parrots old man sweep

[sprinklesharkie]

THESE TWO TEAMS ARE U KIDDING MEEEE

pink parrots old man sweep

[neverforpickles]

Hello. Here’s my 28th of October appreciation for fictional stories. I forgot it’s almost November, time flies so fast you can barely get a hold of it. It’s crazy.

hungry heart

@raspberryoatss | E | 16.1K

“So you're using me and my kitchen for a bigger paycheck?" Harry asks.

"What do I get out of it?"

"What do you-" Louis parrots in disbelief. "I get a job that doesn't make me work ten hour shifts just to barely pay my rent while you get three meals a day cooked foryou."

"So, what, you're like some glorified housewife?"

Housewife, personal chef, Louis doesn't care. Contract's signed and done; T's crossed and I's dotted. Louis will wear an apron and twirl his hair all pretty if that's what he wants. Even if the job feels more like some drawn out jail sentence, Louis hoes this isn't going to be a long summer.”

hereafter (ad infinitum)

@larryent | M | 13K

“A legacy is every life you’ve touched. And you’ve touched mine twice."On the coast of San Francisco in 2024 is when Harry falls in love all over again.Alternatively titled “ad infinitum”

OR

“This thing upon me is not deathbut it’s as real,

....this thing upon melike a flower a feast,believe meis not death and is not glory.”

— Charles Bukowski, old man, dead in a room”

moonlit sky over gentle waters

interstellerlou | E | 11.3K

“The King of the Pirates, Captain Harry Styles! The one who conquered the seven seas!" Louis boasts, sarcasm drips from his tone, mocking him, "That's all I hear every bloody day."

The bar is clean, but he still scrubs just as fervently, his brows furrows and a small pout forms on those pink lips Harry is desperate to kiss.

"What does that have to do with—"“Every lass and lad dreams of bedding a pirate like you,” Louis huffs, gazing up at him with a despondant look. Harry looks down, dubiously, at the number in his hand, silence fills the space as he mulls over his words.

He finally looks up at Louis, blinking slowly, “Do they really?”

"You're an idiot."

-Or, Harry left his hometown to sail the seven seas and returns seven years later, yearning for something — or rather, someone — that he isn't sure he can have.”

Won’t Keep You My (Dirty Little) Secret

@lovelykits | E | 16.2K

“I got asked out today,” Louis comments.“Okay,” Harry shifts.

“Did you hear me? I said I got asked out.”

"You always get asked out.”

“Yeah well this time they didn’t believe I had a boyfriend!”

Or Louis and Harry have been together since the end of last year and somehow no one knows about it.”

Stuck On You

WritewhatIwant | E | 33.9K

“Louis’ life revolves around his stickers. Harry’s life revolves around his job. The universe has decided their worlds should revolve around each other.”

be the artist to my muse

@forthetherapyy | E | 9.6K

“I think I’m in love,” Harry says, flopping back to lay on the bench again. Nick sighs and pats Harry on the head.

“There, there. You’ll forget him in a day or so.”

or

harry has been unsuccessfully pining over louis for a while now, he decides to take drastic measures to get the alluring artist to notice him.”

Heart of Sugar, Sweet Temptation of Mine

pjinkfleur | E | 25.6K

“The process of courting is seriously outdated nowadays, it's not common anymore; people don’t want to go through the hassle of a proper courtship, dating is easier.

“Louis though, he was raised in a very traditional family, every member, down to his parents, had a courting and a mating ceremony. He grew up hearing stories about how wonderful it is, how much deeper the connection gets between a courting pair can get, and he's wanted that for himself since he was a pup, always dreaming of his alpha showing up and sweeping him off of his feet.

His dreams seem to be coming true when he moves into a new building, closer to where he works, and the older alpha living in the flat in front of his own, initiates the courtship process. Everything he's ever wanted is within reach.

Or is it?”

dark doom, honey

@outropeace | E | 57.8K

“Louis lifted one shoulder, lips slightly pursed. “You are acting like an asshole.”

Harry’s mouth pressed into a thin line, eyebrows knitting together. “I wasn’t being an asshole, I was following my own rules. The ones I always follow when I’m about to start an arrangement with a new submissive. If you don’t want this or are having doubts, we should stop now. But if we do this, I do want to make something clear, I’ll never do anything you don’t want to, but you have to be aware that I’ll never be sweet, I don’t do sweet, you already saw what I do. If you want something different you can go on dates, this is not that. Are we clear?”

It was the perfect way out. Louis could simply say no and their lives would keep on going as they were. So far, nothing was changed beyond repair. But he wanted to be. At some point in his life, way before Harry and the betrayals, Louis lost a little of himself, and had never felt closer to getting it back than in Lair, with Harry.

“Crystal. ”

feeling peachy, take a bite

softloubabie | E | 25.6K

“Prompt 570: omega louis works at a cupcake shop. he makes the prettiest cupcakes and loves his job. in comes beefy alpha harry who absolutely loves to eat louis’ cake. inspired by louis being a cute baby girl handing out cupcakes. (no a/b/o necessary, but louis has to be feminine)”

practice in pencil, seal it in pen

@loubellies | E | 16.4K

“Prompt 174: AU where drunk Harry lifts Louis up after someone says “bottoms up”. Louis blushes at Harry’s antics, flustered that his best friend knew him more than he thought. Friends to lovers with a happy ending pleaseor Harry is in love with Louis but he doesn't know.”

The Boy with the Tin Chest and a Glass Heart

@louloubabys1992 | E | 17.8K

“Alpha Harry Styles, world-renowned author of fairy-tales, is being persuaded by the Beta, Liam Payne to hire a new illustrator. Since Harry’s own illustrations are too graphic for what is supposed to be children’s stories, Liam feels the need is dire. Omega Louis does not agree with Liam since he believes that Harry’s stories are fine just the way they are. Of course this has nothing to do with Louis being totally biased or totally head over heels for Harry. It certainly has nothing to do with being jealous of the mysterious omega illustrator Liam has in mind to team Harry up with.Seriously, it has nothing to do with that at all. Nothing, absolutely nothing, zilch, nada.Yeah...”

no good unless it’s real

@fackinglouis | E | 17K

“Here,” Harry says, pulling a strap off his shoulder so he can dig his phone out of his bag. “We can get each other’s numbers.”

 Louis shakes his head. “I have the practice’s number already,” he tells him. “And my number is definitely on file somewhere.”  

Harry pauses, smile quirking a bit as he stares at Louis. The sun is still in his eyes, though, with his sunglasses pushed up onto his head still, so Louis credits his funny face to that.

 “I’m trying to give you my number, Louis,” Harry explains around a breathy laugh.

 “Oh,” Louis blinks, processing that. He scratches his temple, moves a piece of longer fringe back behind his ear, and then nods. “Okay.” 

Or: Louis is a very busy farmer who’s just trying to make it to his next nap and Harry’s the new hot vet that’s determined to infiltrate every area of his life.”

sweeter still when we’re alone

orphan_account | E | 20K

“Louis is looking up at him, eyes glazed over and fucked out. His hair is a mess and Harry truly feels like he’s fallen under Louis’ spell.

“That’s right, you little witch,” he groans. He grabs the back of Louis’ hair and pulls it so that his head is tilted so far back that they’re barely centimetres apart, breathing in the same air. Harry closes his eyes and moves closer. 

Nobody ever tells you that love potions taste like cherries.”

Glow, Chryśo Mou

@amaltaas | NR | 21.7K

“The sun is the one who braves darkness the most.

The sun isn't the one who never gets tired.”

Sweet as Honey

TeamLouis | E | 21.5K

“Louis has always been shit at cooking. When he discovers Sweet as Honey on Instagram, owned by chef Harry Styles, he intends to mock him by recreating his recipes with his awful skills, posting photos on his own Instagram account, Nailed It. It's all fun until Harry asks to meet him.”

[spideyfanclub]

The Universe’s Most Pointless Game of Spin the Bottle (1/7)

Pairing(s): Okoye x Tony Stark (b/c why not?)

T’challa decides to send his strongest Dora Milaje on an intergalactic mission with Tony Stark to the planet Xandar. On the lengthy week long trip there, Tony comes up with a clever little old school game to pass the time.

Warnings: strong language (at some point,) maybe a little nsfw (also at some point)

A take on @otp-imagines-cult ‘s One Word Prompts!

DAY ONE

“He may as well have told me to put on another horrific wig, or told me I’m incompetent,” growled a fiercely offended, deep skinned woman as she stormed around her home gathering essential items for travel. “Why, my King, just tell me I’m not currently of use to you. I’d rather hear the truth than to be...be...”

Okoye threw down a pair of pants.

“Reprimanded!”

Because this had to be a reprimand. By the grace of Bast, it better had been. Otherwise Okoye was convinced the world was going mad. Her speed, her intellect, her decisiveness...there had to be SOMETHING that led King T’Challa to think it wise to choose her to assist Tony Stark.

Tony Stark. Okoye gritted her teeth. She had reservations regarding Stark and his reputation that solidified as of earlier that day when she had to meet the man. It was all too fresh in her head; the first sight that fell on her eyes as she entered the meeting room.

This short white man—so average in stature and yet oddly demanding in presence—leaned casually against King T’Challa’s grand desk.

Okoye could feel the heat in her blood flare.

“Okoye,” T’challa said warmly as she stopped at the doorway.

“My King,” Okoye crossed her arms over her chest in the Wakandan salute.

“Perfect timing as always. We have much to discuss.”

“Of course,” Okoye nodded once and took a seat in front of the desk, ignoring Tony.

“Mr. Stark, this is the head of armed forces and esteemed General Okoye,” T’Challa gestured to him. Out of the corner of her eye, Okoye watched Tony sit in the chair next to hers (with a manner slightly yet agitatingly similar to one flopping onto their household easy chair.) “Okoye, this is Mr. Tony Stark. He runs Stark Industries in the United States and plays a huge role in the SHIELD organization.”

“Yes,” replied Okoye as she finally faced him, recalling the stacks of papers T’Challa provided her on SHIELD and the group named the ‘Avengers’ in the states. “You are Iron Man. I’ve heard many glowing things about you.”

“I’m sure they’re not all that glowing,” said Tony, slightly briskly. He turned to her and she could see a glint to his large brown eyes. Almost like there was some joke she wasn’t in on. As childish as it felt, she did not like this very much. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, General Okoye.”

“Likewise Mr. Stark,” Okoye said with a kind smile.

“Right,” chimed T’Challa. “Down to business. Okoye, I trust that you have read up on the mission and what it will entail?”

“My King,” Okoye cleared her throat. “The government officials of planet Xandar wish to correspond with select parties here on Earth regarding a growing epidemic of an unearthed disease the planet has not experienced for over 500 years. With such a high population and low medical and surgical supply, they—”

Abruptly, a long whistle came from next to Okoye amidst her statement. Slowly and as calmly as she could, she faced Tony again. “Do you have any comments, Mr. Stark?” realizing the way she sounded as she asked, she quickly unclenched her teeth. “Please, do share.”

“Sorry about that, General,” Tony sighed whimsically and ran a hand through his well-conditioned chocolate colored hair. “It’s just...that memory! That articulation! I hope it’s not an insult when I say I’m impressed.” He grinned at her.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. As I was saying, with the planet Xandar so low—”

“So sorry, just one more comment,” Tony was speaking in the brisk away again that sent Okoye’s blood ablaze. “I just have to know—and I’m sure the King wants to know, too—what’s your ideas on this, General?”

Okoye blinked and looked to T’Challa. To her dismay she found a slight smile on his face, amused apparently. As soon as he saw the look in her eyes, however, he straightened up.

“To clarify, Okoye. Of course we’ve already made our decisions on how to proceed. But,” he brought his hand to his chin. “Wakanda can be considered very new in its communication and involvement in external affairs. The way we approach helping an entire planet with a crisis such as this can...set a tone for our country.”

Okoye took a deep breath and nodded. She would not allow this belligerent pale man break her stature! He was merely here to meet and provide information. And with no doubt, she would carry out her king’s word and order nothing less than flawlessly.

“I understand, my King. And I firmly believe that this is the best way to approach. With Princess Shuri’s knowledge and backup, the mission will be nothing short of success...” Okoye trailed off as she saw T’Challa blink and avert his eyes. A few seconds of silence rolled past.

“See, General Okoye,” T’Challa began carefully. “Shuri will be much needed here in the coming weeks. And since we have such an esteemed and qualified ally with us today who is willing to help—” he gestured to Tony. “I’ve decided it’s only right that Mr. Stark partners up with you for this mission.”

“Only a week!” He said quickly as Okoye opened her mouth.

“Only a week, General,” Tony parroted, another mischievous glint sparking his round eyes.

Okoye fully eyed Tony now. From his burgundy leather jacket to his bright white sneakers and back to his smug and slightly aged yet boyish face. She knew he was waiting for her to really react, to be verbal about how she really felt about him, these destructive toddler-like “Avengers” and the country he crawled from as a whole. But instead, with a tight lipped smile, she said:

“Of course my King. I will return home and gather my belongings for the mission. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Tony Stark.” And before something else could be said to cause her to blow her cool, she excused herself from her King and left the room.

The sun was setting over the trees now, blazing the sky bright with pink, orange and red. The colors made the earth and grass appear dreamlike and Okoye couldn’t help but mourn having to go. She eyed herself in the mirror, her Dora Milaje uniform (tucked securely in her bag) traded in for a comfortable yet odd looking sort of space suit. Okoye still remembered the excitedness of the messenger the King had sent alongside the garment: “it is just like Star Wars, General Okoye!” he’d beamed, his deep mahogany cheeks lifted with his grin. “You are saving a whole planet! It is amazing!”

Amazing, she scoffed at her thought, then sighed. While it seemed to be absolutely unbearable to have to deal with the likes of a man like Tony Stark...the beaming face of the young boy, the thought of the proud smile of King T’Challa when she returned successful, the thought of seeing her Dora Milaje women greet her and Shuri’s expression when she brings back a souvenir from this far off planet...made her square her shoulders, grab up her two bags, and head to her front door and into the Wakanda evening sun.

She jumped back with a slight yell when she saw a sweep of brown hair and inquisitive thick eyebrows meet her unexpectedly on her doorstep. “Took you long enough, General,” Tony said with a wink. “Thought I’d come getcha.”

[softnow]

sunday night scully

msr | s7 | teen | words: 891

so i heard it's fictober.

who do i tag for this? @fictober @today-in-fic

— — —

In seven years, he's been lucky enough to get to know quite a few Scullys. There's Special Agent Scully, of course. And Doctor Scully. There's Sleepy Scully and Cranky Scully (who are, more often than not, the same person). There's Friday Night Beer Scully and Thursday Morning Bee Pollen Scully and I'm PMSing Don't You Say A Word Rocky Road Scully.

Lately, he's been delighted to meet Bubble Bath Scully and Pancake Scully and Oh My God I Never Knew A Woman Could Come Like That Scully.

And he loves them all equally from the bottom of his heart, he really does (although that last one, man, that last one might just eke ahead a little), but there's one Scully he loves best. One Scully he feels stupidly, deliriously, unbelievably lucky to have met. One Scully he thinks about sometimes on Tuesday mornings, when Doctor Scully is at the lab, when he's particularly lonely in their little basement office, and it's this one right here, in front of him right now.

She's on his couch, and that in itself is enough to earn her a top spot. She's on his couch, and her hair is still wet from her shower, piled on top of her head and held with a big clip and a cloth headband and smelling like some kind of tropical fruit.

She's in his t-shirt (which, combined with the couch, is enough to earn her top five, easily) and it's one of his favorites, old and a little threadbare in places from years of washing. If she stretches just right, he can see the rougey rounds of her nipples (top three), and if she bends her leg up like she's doing right now, he might catch a flash of her little purple panties (top two—he's taken that scrap of cotton off with his teeth before).

But what really does it for him, what cements this particular Scully as his numero uno, light of his life, empress of his lonely Tuesday mornings, is this: her face is green and minty. And her little tongue is poking out between her teeth the same way it does when she's focusing on an autopsy.

Except the only thing she's focusing on now is her foot, tiny and perfect, propped up on the edge of his coffee table. And the little bottle of petal pink nail polish sitting on a coaster (which was, by the way, a gift from her so many years ago when she realized with horror the sheer number of water rings on his furniture. He realizes now she was grooming him. Domesticating him before he even knew what was happening. And he is totally, completely okay with that).

She paints her toenails the same way she does surgery: cleanly, precisely, never spilling a drop. He knows, because he's watched her perform a lot of surgeries (if surgeries on dead things count as surgeries). And he knows because he's watched her do this a lot now, too. He can still barely believe it. Nearly two months of Sunday nights with her, and they're always like this: shower, mask, big t-shirt, nail polish. He could set his watch by it. Has considered it, just to see. He's never loved a routine so much.

"You're staring," she says, and it's almost comical, the familiar arch of her eyebrow under so much green goo. Would be comical if he didn't love it so damn much.

"You're—" Beautiful. Ethereal. Bride of Frankenstein meets Miss America and mine mine mine. "—cute."

"Cute?" The eyebrow climbs higher, and that's familiar, that's in every Scully (even, sometimes, Fuck Me Harder Till The Neighbors Complain Scully, and that in itself is a feat).

"Yeah, you know. All—" Amazing. Unbelievable. Here. With me. Willingly. "—womanly."

She snorts. "Womanly, Mulder? Really?"

"You know what I mean."

"Hmm." She turns her attention back to her foot, gifts her pinky toe with one even stroke.

He abandons his chair—front row seat to the Little Purple Panty Show—and slides onto the couch next to her, kisses her shoulder through the worn fabric of her shirt.

"I like seeing you like this," he admits, low so she'll let him get away with it. "With all your lotions and potions and woman things."

"Woman things," she mocks, and he even likes Contrary Parrot Scully. He likes her a lot. "Just wait till I send you on a tampon run. See how much you like 'woman things' then."

"Scully." He nuzzles her neck with his nose and wonders if she's forgotten so soon, forgotten his hand between her legs in the shower two weeks ago while the water ran pink.

"What?" She caps the nail polish bottle and sets it aside, turns to face him straight on, and she looks so like herself, so Scully, with the little disbelieving screw of her lips and the shine in her eyes and her little perfect fucking pink toes that he can't help himself.

He kisses her full on the mouth, sweeps his tongue between her lips until she groans. When he pulls back, she giggles. Half of her face mask, the bottom half, is mostly wiped away.

"Scully," he says, happier than he's ever been, with green goo on his face and the woman of his dreams on his couch. "I'll love it."

[grey-skies-all-clear-blog]

This might be an unsustainable level of detail, but I wanted to take note of events in the HB films in order to get a better grip on the source material in preparation for writing serious adaption fic. So here's my notes for the first bit of The Even Chance. Warnings for mention of food and my inability to shut up about Archie Kennedy’s voice.

Starts in a storm, grey-blue, beautiful score. Grey skies. “January 1793. The British fleet lies at anchor in Spithead. Ships and men rot in idleness. Across the channel, revolution in France is sweeping away the old order.”

-have France be represented by a nearby school with some kind of french ties. french patron and heritage, maybe.

on teal seas, two ladies row HB through the rain from the dock to the ship. They’re wrapped up in dark grey cloaks. They are strong. H looks faintly ridiculous in the uniform, expression grim. Squints up against the rain [putting up a hand to shield his eyes - delicate lil hands he has], looking over the ship. H’s sea-chest, which looks nice [well-made, elegant gold letters - idk if this is standard] has “H.Hornblower” inscribed on it. H braces himself against it as the boat rocks. Hesitates.

The man on the ship [clinging with one hand and one leg to the ladder, like he knows this position well and knows he shan’t fall] shouts down “Jump! You’ll be alright!” He can yell well, clear voice, even over the storm. H does not jump gracefully, foot catching in the boat; he jostles his hat out of place as he climbs. The deck is empty, coils of rope scattered on it. It looks abandoned.

The man from the ship [it is archie i realise now] has a broad face. Strong, dependable. Neutral-to-good cheer. Smiling, he says warmly: “Welcome to purgatory.” Hornblower is still wide-eyed and looking like a stunned mullet. Opens his mouth to respond, closes it again; follows Archie.

Under the little balcony a man [Mr Eccleston, first lieutenant] in pearl-grey coat stands conversing with two officers, all of them turned away. Mr Eccleston’s face is striking, though softened as if by erosion. “Mr Eccleston, sir.” “Come aboard, sir.” “Your name?” Horatio seems to be stammering, or trying not to gag, and keeps this up through this conversation. It’s possible he’s trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Closes his eyes against anxious nerves or weak stomach. “Horatio Hornblower, sir. Midshipman.” Mr Chad, lieutenant of the watch, has a pointed chin and pointed nose. A comedian’s kind of face; the thin chap from Laurel and Hardy, maybe.

“I’ll see it sent below. You should too; get out of those wet clothes.” “Yes sir!” H gives a relieved smile. Remembers himself and adopts military seriousness. His voice is soft, a little nervous. “I mean. Aye aye sir.” Presses his lips together, nods, salutes; poor thing, doesn’t know what to do with himself, does he? Mr Chad seems amused; gives a sidelong glance to Mr Eccleston, but says nothing.

“Mr Kennedy. Take Mr Hornblower down to the midshipman’s berth.” “Aye-aye, sir.” He does have a nice voice. Lighter than Horatio’s. He’s more sure of himself. Down below decks there’s a violin playing, squawks of women laughing or scolding, men laughing along, the general clamour of a lot of people going about their business.

“Mind your step!” A leads the way around swinging hammocks and swaying people; H self-consciously ducks his head and glances about, bewildered or perhaps wary. Redcoats pass by. “Difficult to say who smells worse, the men - or the beasts in the manger for’ard! One gets used to it.” Around them people are laughing raucously; Horatio looks ‘round at them, face mostly blank, guarded. Down another flight of steps.

A pig is squealing, bring coaxed along by a man addressing it as “piggy-wiggy”. Horatio does look like a drowned rat, doesn’t he? Set rosebud lips, those pretty under-shadowed eyes. Attractive face. Still looking guarded, surveying, not sure if there’s a threat afoot. Thump. Oldroyd, pink-faced and curly-haired [ginger, maybe blonde], in loose [pale blue and white] checkered shirt, is laughing. Archie smilingly chides H: “Watch your head.”

Styles: “There goes his Majesty’s latest bargain!” A drawl. Brown curly hair, idk what the accent is but it seems broad, truly incredible acne scars. [Pizzaface.] Archie and Hrrrratio both stop and turn; “Belay that, Styles!” Severity. Composed, voice still light, a voice like he’s shoving the man briskly. God horatio looks cute with like a little curl slicked down on his forehead. “Unless you want to find yourself at the gratings.” Says it so pleasantly. [also: Styles and Oldroyd have a lady with them. Maybe 18th century chicks dig baggy check shirts.]

A beat; “Aye-aye, sir,” intonation like he doesn’t take him quite seriously. Not actually afraid. Matthews gives Styles a reproachful look, then looks away. M in thin-striped shirt [teracotta-white]. Closer fitting. Brown neckerchief. Teeny little ponytail. white curly hair. A goes on, resigned i suppose [what-can-you-do and a shrug], as they walk: “They’re not bad men for the most part, provided they’re kept busy.” His voice goes up and down as he speaks, it’s nice. Flows easily. Well-spoken. Gentle voice, oh my god, can I get over his voice. I think I can’t.

“But this endless waiting-“ edging past people moving. The violin still singing. “Most of us have been here six months already! Discipline you see. Things will be different once we transfer to a fighting vessel, I don’t doubt; but who knows when that may be?” I can’t tell if he’s phrasing things more ornamentally than one normally would during these olde times. He does have something of the entertaining monologue about him. Giving an easily-spoken speech. Opens his mouth, enunciates, leaves those pauses; not quite realistic, but good for presentating.

“Our only -“ someone clips him as they pass. “Our only hope at present is that the unpleasantness in France might come to something. You’ve heard the latest rumours of course! That Louis was captured just before Christmas!” Horatio’s just following silently, looking dubious, oh my god the cheekbones. “What do you think they’ll do with him? You can’t kill a king.” Oh-ho, a little faith in the monarchy, then? Respect for the power structures. Speaks with the ease of someone who knows it won’t hurt him. Conversational. Horatio bounces on his toes, hesitating. People around them are canoodling rather vigorously.

“But as my father explained to his [gillet?] Alright, p’haps some of these people have missed the odd meal o’two, but lopping the heads off the nobility’s not gonna fill their bellies, is it? Still, that’s Johnny [cradburg? crappo?] for you.” Not a lot of sympathy for the working classes, I’ll wager, [is there anything in canon that prompted us all to agree A comes from a well-off/slightly noble family or is it just headcanon and hearsay?] Quiet as they get to the midshipman’s berth; a small room lit by lanterns and the odd candle, where men sit at a largish table in white shirts, waistcoats and neckerchiefs. Horatio really does look like death walking.

“Oh. Allow me to introduce, the midshipmen of His Majesty’s ship-of-the-line Justinian.” ruddy-faced now, taking off his brown coat. Sweat or rain shining on his face. It feels cosy in this room. “Known elsewise to her intimates as the good ship [i don’t even fucking know. sounded like “slau of des-pot.” slough of despair? might have been said with an appalling accent.]

Someone else speaks; a man with a round face, voluminous [80’s] hair, mutton-chops. “Wh’sis, Archie?” “Another mess-mate, gentlemen.” Someone with a meaty face high forehead prominent nose and slightly posher accent asks “And whose pretty arse did you neglect kissing to find yourself among the fleet’s forgotten, eh?”

Good God, A looks lovely. His pretty face. Cheekbones. A mild face. The beefcake side of mild though, mind. Especially next to HB, who looks about halfway dead, hollow cheeks, curls ragged on his forehead, face sweaty, puffiness about the full lips, under-shadowed eyes, Kubrick stare. Is silent [swaying somewhat, trying to gather himself]. Meat-man again: “well, speak, apparition!” “My name is Hornblower.” A rich voice.

Mutton-chops: “What an infernal piece of bad luck for ya.” His accent is clipped only on certain sounds, makes me think he’s from somewhere in the country. Or maybe Northern? [Those two will be Hether and Cleveland.] Clayton looks across, with a hand gesture like he’s holding a cigarette to his lips. His face is mild in a different way, sleepy, the shape of his eyes, his resting expression. Milk-sop is putting it a bit strongly. More like the drunk and dishevelled Sad Case, the man stretched out and smiling languidly, who dreams instead of eating. I know I’ve seen him before, he looks older than he must be, his hair is lank brown and stringy-straight on his forehead. Beaky nose.

“How old are you, mister Hornblower?” “Seventeen sir,” [while blurry Archie grins in the foreground]. Looks about. “Seventeen, sir!” parrots meat-man. “Y’hear that, Cleveland?” “If you wanted to be a seaman, boy, you should’ve started at twelve.” “I doubt he even knows the difference between a head and a halliard.”

[whenimawakeandwhenimasleep]

”Hey pest, didn’t I just fucking tell you not to touch that yet?” Ronan says and gently shoves Opal away from the bowl of salad. The rat dodges it nimbly and either way steals the last strawberry. Guess they’re having salad without strawberries, then. He won’t tell Parrish and to him it’s all the same – when they’re just two of them with Opal, they very rarely eat dinner at the kitchen table. Most of the food they cook never make it that far. He can’t really blame her, though, as he is as big of a thief as his dream child is. Ronan just wishes Parrish never gets wind of how irregular their habits are without him, how lost he is with this parenting thing without him.

Ronan breaks an egg and tosses the shells to Opal, who has come to sit on the counter next to the stove. She takes the shells apart and spreads the shards idly on the green marble while looking at their dinner. He glances at her sideways. The shards don’t make up any figures, but he can feel her judgement.

”What?”

”What what?” Opal parrots back and shifts the shards close to the edge of the counter.

”Don’t you fucking dare. Or else it’s gonna be you who vacuums the floor again.” Ronan wouldn’t let her do it and they both know it. The last time he let her help with cleaning, the impossible kid did extensive research on all the materials in the house that would not disappear into the vacuum cleaner. She was able to remove the kitchen screen door of its hinges with it and bring down the living room curtains. He blew the whistle when the vacuum cleaner swallowed a kitchen towel and had to be extracted with pliers. Parrish would have laughed his ass off and days like that make it even harder for Ronan to stand their distance. Miles and miles and hundreds of moments they don’t get to share.

”You don’t like eggs.”

”Parrish likes eggs in his wok.” With a quick sweep, Opal moves the remainders of egg shell away from the edge and squints at him sternly. But it is the truth. Parrish likes shredded omelette in his wok. What a weirdo. But that’s all he is moments before his boyfriend returns from school. The things that Parrish likes. The things that Parrish thinks are important. Things that make Parrish smile.

It’s not a burden, but a warm weight that he carries with him. A pressure that gets Ronan through the days that feel too lonely to bear. And most of the time those things make him change and move forward. Parrish wants him to see his brothers more often now that he’s away, so Ronan makes a monthly trip to D.C. Parrish wants him to keep book of the transactions on the farm, so here he is, with real daybooks and all. Fucker wanted him to quit drinking and he’s been sober for a year.

He might as well carve these thoughts on his chest; they’re burning inside his ribcage and Ronan can’t wait to live the mornings and nights ahead of them.

Opal gives him a final disapproving look and makes a retching sound.

”You’re weak.”

Half an hour later, the headlights of BMW split the dusk that has settled into the kitchen and front door slams open and shut as Opal rushes outside with a violent shriek. It’s exactly how Ronan feels about the return of his boyfriend and is thankful that someone is mediating the longing. He dumps the peaches on the salad, to compensate for the lost strawberries and stomps outside.

It’s dark and the splintering beams of light make it difficult to see anything but vague forms. However, Ronan doesn’t need to see further than his feet to know what the lump in front of the car is. It’s Opal holding on to Adam, bleeding over all her wonderful days and sad days and even the shitty days, trying to convey what phone calls can’t tell. Adam is holding on to her in equal measure and Ronan’s chest is on fire.

The seconds before impact are almost numb and unreal. Months of being apart squeeze into meaningless inches and then restretch to form an ocean. He can’t wait to touch Adam, to reassure himself that he’s back, even for a few weeks. To cross the non-physical distance with something physical. Almost as if reading his mind, the lump grows in height and approaches the yellow glow of the porch.

They talk on the phone sometimes and send messages, but Ronan loathes Skype calls. There’s nothing on the screen that could make him miss the smartass less and after the first ones they unanimously decided not to have them anymore. It makes seeing Adam after months even more exhilirating; to see the changes and everything new and then arrive to a conclusion that it’s still the same person that left him with hot kisses and a promise of return. Ronan dreads the day he cannot recognise Parrish anymore or that Parrish realises that nothing ever moves here.

He extends his hand at the same times as the man in front of him steps into the light.

Parrish has cut his hair, cropping almost everything off of the sides and the back and leaving a soft crown of curls on top. The dark blue of his university sweater is a stark background for his white woolen scarf and pink cheeks. The longer hours of sleep and rowing practice have massed in his shoulders and arms. Ronan regards  all this with a slow wariness. Then Adam smiles and Ronan is pushed into action.

They crash into each other in the middle of the steps. The touch and the scent and the quiet puffs of breath demines his mind and Ronan is aware of how he’s bunching Adam’s sweater in his fists. They stand still and breath each other in, every inhalation setting the atmosphere in the Barns back into its correct arrangement. Ronan leans down to rub his cheek against Adam’s blond stubble and plants a small kiss on his mouth.

”I ate all the strawberries in your salad”, Opal states somberly and hugs Adam’s waist.

 Adam is always a bit quieter the first few days of his return. He walks around in the Barns and looks and analyses. It’s not an inspection, Ronan knows, but they give each other a wider berth all the same. Ronan can’t help but wonder whether Adam’s ever going to be 100% sure about being unconditionally welcome in the Barns. Sometimes, and this he knows for sure, Adam chases the feeling he had a few years back; he prods the house and the farm and the town to see if he feels the dreadful need to run away. So far it hasn’t resurfaced and he has told Ronan a hundred and a hundred times more that he really wants to come back.

Ronan washes the dishes as Adam measures the kitchen silently, running his long fingers along the tables and counters. Whenever their orbits come into contact, Ronan an unmoving object and Adam a shooting star, he kisses the back of Ronan’s neck and smoothes his back. Maybe he, too, is a surface that Adam needs to reacquaint himself with.

When he’s done, he wipes his hands on his shirt, just to elicit a disapproving look from Adam, and leans against the sink. Then he waits.

Adam is moving further away from him only to begin a new circle around the kitchen island. They both know where his route is heading, but Adam slows his pace and looks at him across the room. There’s a small smile that resides in the corner of Adam’s lips and Ronan can’t wait to tear into it and chase it with his own mouth. The blue of Adam’s eyes is taking a darker, hungrier shade with each leisurely step and the fire in Ronan’s chest ignites his skin and settles in his stomach and lower.

Once they meet in the eventual intersection, he grabs Adam by his scarf and drags his body against his own. Adam’s smile spreads into a filthy grin and Ronan knows he has some repenting to do next Sunday. He can feel a set of lean, strong arms settling on his waist and he digs his fingers tighter into the soft wool. There isn’t a communion wine bitter enough to wash away their mingling breaths and wet sighs nor a confessional great enough to contain the pressure of Adam’s fingers below his chest.

 ”This shit is new”, he points out while holding on to the scarf. They have excorcised the worst of the yearning eating their insides since Adam’s arrival and Ronan is sitting on the counter high chair, unable to let go of their proximity.

”This guy knitted it”, Adam says absentmindedly and lowers his hands on Ronan’s thighs that frame him.

The thing about his past distress is that Adam Parrish is still unable to splurge on things that he doesn’t necessarily need. It means that whatever clothes he buys are a newly added layer that Ronan notices compulsorily. However, this scarf is not bought but made and the thought of someone making Adam things turns the soft wool into coarse hemp beneath his fingers. Along with the ugly thought, a prickling sense of shame arises that reminds Ronan of all the things his boyfriend deserves. He shouldn’t need to possess such an exclusive right as making Adam things, but the intimacy of it smarts.

”What guy? Which one of the pretentious assholes?” Ronan wishes he could put out the inkling of jealousy in his voice, but they’ve come too far for him to hide such things.

”This guy in the engineering. A full ride. Rows in the crew.”

One two three, the things he cannot have in common with Adam and someone else can. The sharpest edge of this knife is the significant sense of not being enough.

”I think he’s pretty well built and dresses pretty okay. And is the top of his class.”

Ronan leans forward and presses his face against the softness of Adam’s neck, to hide his face and to hide his uncertainty. At the beginning of their separation, the most vicious fights they had sprung from their insecurities; monstrous things that made them understand each other better than most but that also hurt like hell in the process. He doesn’t want to be the person who rips open old scabs, but here he is, breathing his boiling inadequacy on his boyfriend’s skin.

He can feel Adam’s hand rising to cradle his head and the other pressing on the back of his neck. Warm lips ghost the shell of his ear and Ronan would give anything to be lost in those safe, familiar arms.

”That guy also misses his boyfriend and the kid they have like hell, but most of the time they’re too far away.”

The pit that opened inside him closes almost entirely and he blindly reaches any part of skin to pinch.

”You’re a little shit, you know?”

Adam hums a short, quiet laugh and leans away from him to look Ronan in the eye. It is unbearable to be so bare in front of someone else, to expose all the awful parts and have them weighed and tallied. It’s even worse, and marvellous, to have someone hold such parts gently and forgive each and every one of them.

”You want me to knit you one?”

”Hell no. Looks fucking stupid.”

Adam pulls Ronan to him and the kiss they share is like listening to the words of absolution.

 Next morning, they wake up in a mess of pitch black yarn that’s tangled between their limbs and bodies. Adam smiles like it’s already Christmas and Ronan begins to push him out of the bed, only to realise too late that they’re tied together.

”You’re so desperate for a scarf”, Adam says when they’re on the floor and reaches to laugh three kisses on his cheek. The strange, weightless yarn floats to settle on his shoulder and Ronan caresses it away. If the distance between them feels like a bottomless ocean, the closeness they share in these moments is an event horizon.

 After a long and tedious winding process, the yarn is sorted into neat balls. When the night falls, Adam sits behind him on the couch and picks up needles while Ronan starts a new game. The low click of wooden needles mixes with the tumultuous sound effects and during every loading screen he tugs at the yarn to pull their lips together.

[inmywebnow]

Birth of an Innkeeper

The mood in Bilgewater Harbor was an uneasy quiet as Luca attempted to leave the tavern at the Inn.

She crept across dusty wooden floors, stuck close to empty beige walls, circled the barren dining room with anxiety and woeful anticipation.  She ended up staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She splashed water on the dry, green skin of her face narrowly missing her feathered companion, Malé, in the process.

“Pretty Bird!” chirped the parrot in abrupt, harrowing annoyance as it flew off of Luca’s shoulder.

Mixi was in the dining room wearing a brand new Goblin baby in a linen sling across her chest.  She had been sweeping the Inn floors when her broom dropped and hit the floor with a loud “THWWAP!”

This startled the wee Goblin infant who momentarily threw her hands up by her face before settling in against Mixi’s chest and falling back into a deep baby sleep.

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” Mixi whispered to herself through a long, content sigh as she attempted to kick the broom up with her foot and catch it with her free hand.  Her arms were pressed against her sling, and her off-hand was clutching a chubby handful of tiny, milk-scented sunshine.  

As she motioned her foot in a rotating pattern, placing the toe of her shoe under the broom and kicking up - the broom went “Tik!” “Tik!” “Tik!” against the floor with each failed attempt.  

Mixi shrugged and resigned herself to leaving the broom laying in the middle of the dining room floor rather than wake her peacefully sleeping daughter by bending down and grabbing it.  

She turned and walked away, but spun around when she heard a loud “CRASH!”  The babe once again threw her little hands up in a startled gesture, but Mixi soothed her before she opened her buggy Goblin eyes.

Just then, Luca appeared before Mixi, abandoning her stealth cloak as she lay sprawled out like a crumpled and awkward mess on the tavern floor.  Luca quickly assessed the situation, side-eyeing Mixi for leaving a broom laying on the ground.

“So subtle you are!” Mixi chastised the Rogue as she offered one hand to help Luca up, keeping the other firmly pressed against her wee one.  Luca shuffled to her feet embarrassed but quickly brushed herself off as though nothing had happened.  Nothing at all.

“Luca!” Mixi laughed.

“Mixi!” Luca responded jovially as the scowl fixed on her face turned into a smile of recognition.  She leaned over and patted Mixi on the back.

“Long time, no see! How ya been?”  Mixi asked with a genuine curiosity.

“Better when I’m not getting laid out by inanimate objects.” Luca responded in her typical tone.  “Looks like you’ve been busy!” she added, gesturing toward the infant.

Mixi blushed, and just then a strong hand with four fat fingers landed on Mixi’s shoulder.  It was Grimy Greasefingers, Mixi’s partner and fellow Innkeeper.

“Isn’t she just beautiful?” he asked, gazing lovingly at the child.  “And Mixi, she’s such a great mom…”

He was cut short by Mixi’s abrupt interruption.  “Oh, Stop it! You’re making me blush.  Honey, I think that man ova’ there is ready to pay.” She gestured to the corner of the room.

“What man? I don’t see….” Grimy started to reply with a puzzled gait.

“Ova’ THERE! In the corna'! Go help him!” Mixi interrupted again, this time turning Grimy toward the corner of the room and sending him on his way, scratching his head.  

“He means well, but I need him to watch over this place and once he starts talking about our little Oobliette, here.  Well, he WON’T stop!” She whispered to Luca, giving her a look as though she could relate to her confession.  She couldn’t. But Luca just nodded and grinned her crooked smile like she often did when she didn’t have anything to add to the conversation.

“Well, you two seem very happy.” She added, awkwardly.

Mixi looked down, and changed the subject.  “Why ya’ really here, Luca?  We haven’t seen ya in months.”  She lovingly brushed a floppy ear out of Oobliette’s face.

“You know why I am here, Mixi.  I came to see Gadreel.” Luca responded.

“Oh, I thought ya might say that.” Mixi replied hesitantly. The conversation fizzled out. 
...

By dusk, Luca was standing on the concrete slab in front of Gadreel’s house.  A single gerber daisy sprung up amidst the mechanical garden of pinwheels and large pink Mazzranache crafted from aluminum and blown glass.  

Clearly, Gadreel had spent her golden year’s using her technical skills to indulge in new hobbies.  Luca smiled at the sight of the mechanical garden.  Then she plucked the daisy and began to pace.

“What would she say?” she wondered. “How could she explain not being there for her old friend?  How could she tell her what she had meant to her?”

As Luca’s clammy fingers extended toward the door, suddenly it swung open.  Towering over the Goblin was 6 feet 5 inches of mossy blue skin and bright red hair that she was surprised to recognized.

“Elsie?” she asked rhetorically, out of disbelief.  “Why are you here?”

Luca had met En’elslorath several weeks before when she passed through the tavern of the Booty Bay Inn where Luca resided.  

An odd couple, but they hit it off discussing issues of civil rights amongst their respective groups and found some common ground.  Luca hadn’t spoken to her since that night at the bar.  She had not expected this serendipitous reunion.  Luca rubbed her eyes again, and asked “Really, what are you doing here?”

“Luca, nice to see you too!” The Troll replied sarcastically.  “I am a Priest, you know.  I came to see if I could help your friend.”  Elsie was knowledgable about a varied many things and spoke eloquently, like one who had assimilated into the greater Horde society.

Before she became known as Elsie, however, En’eslorath was her given name.  

She was a vibrant, young Jungle Troll, who fancied herself a bit of a feminist idealist fascinated with the role of women in tribal societies.  Her long red hair was twisted into vines that hung down past her soft shoulders and shifted when she talked.  Luca had found it difficult to put Elsie out of her mind after their spontaneous meeting at Booty Bay, but right now her mind was elsewhere.

“Small World.” She muttered.

Then Luca snapped out of it, as she thought hard about what Elsie had just said.  “Well, could you?” she asked the Troll.

“Could I what?” Elsie replied, puzzled.

“Could you help Gadreel?”  Luca spit her words out clumsily in a froggy voice that she didn't recognize.

Elsie looked down.  “No.  I’m sorry.  I tried, but she’s not going to make it much longer.  She’s just…. too far gone.  I’m not even sure what she has, really.  No one is.  If you have some sort of pain elixir in that Alchemist’s bag of tricks - just give it to her.”

Luca stood up.  Silently walked to the side of the home, and let out a beleaguered howl.  Then she punched the corrugated panel siding. “THRASH!”  The wall shook.  She returned, cooly, to the front of the house.

“You’re invisible.” Elsie commented.

“What? Oh..” Luca hadn’t realized she had cloaked.  It was a stress response.  Luca revealed herself.

“I could see your bird.” Elsie explained without looking up.

Luca shook her head, trying to wrap her brain around the situation.  “How did you even know Gadreel?”  She asked, narrowing her eyes as she looked toward the Troll.  “How did you know she was sick?”

Elsie didn’t meet Luca’s gaze.  Instead she kept her eyes fixed on her own hands, staring at her nail beds as she talked.  The normally confident Troll seemed demure in the face of death.  

As the words spilled out, she sewed together the some of the final pieces in the tapestry of Gadreel’s story.

“I met Gadreel Mast-Gadget when I was doing research on Matriarchal societies.  I had come across a Cartel based out of Orgrimmar Slums that was run by a woman. I stayed with them for awhile to see how they functioned.  I offered my healing services in return for room and board.  

"The ‘Trade Prince’ of the Foxfire Cartel was a Goblin woman named Heszter Culpblossom.  They were a splinter faction of Steamwheedle and, from what I could tell - a rebellion. Gadreel showed up one day to offer engineering assistance that would afford the group clean water.

“I was still in the Goblin Slums of Orgrimmar, living amongst the Foxfire Cartel, when word reached me that she had fallen ill.  I came here to help as fast as I could. But I’d be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t hoping to run into you again.”

Luca had so many questions that she didn’t acknowledge Elsie’s not-so-subtle flirtation. It occurred to her that, Elsie didn't know that the BRO was also what she would refer to as a rebellion.

“Thanks for the information, Elsie.  You’ve been a good friend to me, once again.  Are you returning to Orgrimmar then?” Luca asked.

“‘Fraid not.” Elsie retorted. “I must be on my way, but perhaps you could stay for a drink at the Inn?  For olde time’s sake?  Pleeeease?” Elsie pleaded with a cute and playful whine.

The offer was tempting, but Luca could not waste anymore time while her friend lay dying, alone in her home.  

She wasn’t ready to see Gadreel yet, so she placed the daisy she had picked for her on her doorstep and she turned on her heels as she whispered “I’ll come back for you, old friend.”

[titoslondon-blog]

New Post has been published on Titos London

#Blog New Post has been published on http://www.titoslondon.in/nicole-kidman-sophie-turner-kerry-washington-best-and-worst-dressed-at-the-sag-awards-2017/

Nicole Kidman, Sophie Turner, Kerry Washington: Best and worst dressed at the SAG Awards 2017

The good, the bad and the ugly. (Source: AP Photo)

Honouring the best in both television and films, the 23rd Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards amazed viewers on Sunday. This was not only because celebrities from both the small and big screens came and conquered the night by clinching awards for their fabulous performances, but also because of the politically charged atmosphere thanks to the new American President Donald Trump.

From Ashton Kutcher and Julia Louis-Dreyfus to Mahershala Ali and David K Harbour, everyone stood up for the thousands affected due to Trump’s controversial immigration ban and several other orders, electrifying and regaling the audience with their speeches. The interesting factor was also that not only did these celebrities use the power of speech to make a point, Scandal star Kerry Washington used fashion to convey a strong message to Trump.

ALSO READ | Priyanka Chopra, Sofia Vergara, Blake Lively: Best and worst dressed celebs at the People’s Choice Awards 2017

Washington – dressed in an off-shoulder white Roberto Cavalli gown – wore a safety pin on her left arm as a symbol of defiance against Trump’s executive order on immigration. This symbolism was apparently used in support of victims of intolerance in post-Brexit Britain, and is now being used in the States as well.

Symbolism aside, Washington’s heavily embroidered sheer white floor-sweeping gown would have – and has – made her a natural entrant in our list of best-dressed celebrities at the red carpet event. Make-up artist Carola Gonzalez gave Kerry heavily-kohled eyes and a pink-nude lip shade. Kerry accented her look with multiple diamond rings on her fingers.

Kerry Washington makes a statement in an off-shoulder gown. (Source: AP Photo)

See what else is making news in lifestyle, here

Quite unexpectedly, top-notch stars like Nicole Kidman and Emily Blunt dialled the wrong number at the fashion street this time around. Among the best-dressed, Sophie Turner, Amy Adams and Emma Stone shined in their designer wear.

Here are the best and the worst dressed stars at the SAG Awards’ night:

BEST DRESSED

Brie Larson wore a beautiful white slit Jason Wu gown with an asymmetric halter neckline. The actress accented her look with silver studs and black stilettos. Her glossy curls knotted in a neat bun complemented her look perfectly.

(Source: AP Photo)

Dressed in a black floral Alexander McQueen, Emma Stone stepped in style at the SAG Awards night. The actress accented her attire with long earrings and a box clutch.

(Source: AP Photo)

Stunning onlookers, Sophie Turner turned up in fiery red Louis Vuitton slit gown. The attire had an asymmetric detail around the neckline flaunting a little cleavage and the actress wore a matching red lip shade, silver earrings and gold stilettos.

(Source: AP Photo)

Michelle Dockery rocked colourful stripes at the red carpet. Dressed in an Ellie Saab creation, the actress wore her straight hair at the back and nailed her stylish affair at the SAG Awards night.

(Source: AP Photo)

With smokey eyes, Amy Adams wowed at the red carpet in a Brandon Maxwell black gown, carrying a Tyler Ellis clutch. The actress wore a dramatic neck piece and earrings to accentuate her look.

(Source: AP Photo)

Meryl Streep looked like a fairy godmother in a white Valentino dress. The actress also wore leaf-shaped earring and a rectangular clutch with it. She made one of the memorable moments when she fixed Ryan Gosling’s bow-tie on the red carpet!

(Source: AP Photo)

Natalie Portman looked ethereal in an ivory gown with ruffled sleeves from Christian Dior’s SS17 couture collection. Though heavily pregnant, the actress pulled off the look perfectly with her hair in an up-do and accented it with diamond earrings, bracelet and rings.

(Source: AP Photo)

Dressed in a long nude gown with floral designs, Emily Blunt looked stylish. Styled by Jessica Paster, the actress wore a nude, embellished Roberto Cavalli gown.

(Source: AP Photo)

Sofia Vergara turned up in a Zuhair Murad dress at the 2017 SAG Awards. She paired her silver and black colour block outfit with black ankle-strap heels and sparkling jewellery. While she does not look bad, we expected better from the actress at the red carpet.

Sofia Vergara arrives at the 23rd annual Screen Actors Guild Awards. (Source: AP Photo)

Another one to have a hit-and-miss moment was Taraji P Henson. She wore a sheer Reem Acra gown adorned with an unwanted black bow at the top and at the waist. If we could just get rid of those knots, we’d happily place this look as one of our favourites.

(Source: AP Photo)

WORST DRESSED

Making heads turn but for the wrong reasons, Nicole Kidman showed up in a parrot green Gucci gown on the red carpet. Not just the sequinned tiers over the hips and the navel-grazing neckline, what called for most of the attention was the feathered parrot heads sewn onto each of her shoulders.

(Source: AP Photo)

Amy Landecker and Jenifer Lewis posed in matching black-and-white animal prints at the red carpet. Their exact same zebra pantsuit was a clear no-no!

(Source: AP Photo)

Modern Family star Ariel Winter wore a glittery golden sheer gown by Mikael D. With a plunging neckline, figure-hugging and fishtail cutout, we think the dress is quite an ill-fit.

(Source: AP Photo)

Mayim Baiyik wore a geometrical striped dress at the SAG awards from Miri Couture. We think the torso was way too tight and the overall look of the ensemble did nothing to flatter the actor. Styled by Adena Rohatiner, she carried her hair in waves and held an envelope-shaped clutch.

(Source: AP Photo)

The Big Bang Theory star Kaley Cuoco walked a fine fashionable line at the SAG Awards this year. The 31-year-old donned a light pink Marchesa Spring 2017 maxi dress flaunting pastel colours muddled together along with mesh, lace and feathers. With a candyfloss lace underlay and a blue-green mesh overlay, it also had a slightly off-putting fishtail effect at the bottom.

(Source: AP Photo)

Taryn Manning made a blunder in a burgundy strapless ballgown at the SAG red carpet. Her cotton candy-colored locks don’t go with her dress at all, giving her an unflattering look.

(Source: AP Photo) © The Indian Express Online Media Pvt Ltd

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