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harryandmolly · 6 years ago

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Ten Years - Part Two

summary: ten years after 2007 Warped Tour, Shawn and Val come face to face in London

warnings: Language, NSFW, everything you’ve ever wanted

WC: 5.9k

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Shawn rolls over heavily onto his stomach, expecting more soft, lightly scented sheets and mattress to meet him. Instead, he rolls onto something warm and harder than a mattress. It yelps and kicks at him.

Shawn’s eyes pop open. He shuffles back to his side of the bed and blinks, reorienting.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, voice thick and rusty with sleep, “Sorry.”

He can’t stop the stupid grin that spreads his dry lips when he realizes the thing he rolled on top of was Val. She’s also staring up at him with a slow-growing smile and tugging at his arm to drape it over her middle.

“You squashed me,” she jabs playfully, lifting one bare leg out from beneath the duvet to rest beside his, running a hand through her hair.

Shawn helps tuck a strand behind her ear, scooting closer and settling back into her gray pillows. He drops his arm where she directs it, unwilling to let her go. He’d like to spend a few hours just looking at her. He knows he got to yesterday, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like waking up in her bed in sheets that smell like her, admiring the freckles and light laugh lines that she’s achieved since they last spent time like this together. This is different.

“I haven’t slept in a bed with anyone in a while,” he admits, mentally counting the months, “I guess I’m out of practice.”

“Used to try to lie on top of me in my bunk, too,” she points out, the corner of her soft mouth lifting, “I think you’re just clingy in your sleep.”

Shawn gets a dangerous glint in his eye and rolls again until he’s lying overtop her, his knees barely holding the bulk of his weight to keep from crushing her. She giggles in delight and pushes his hair out of his eyes, silently thinking how much she likes this length on him.

“Time is it?” she murmurs, glancing toward the night table.

“��S early,” Shawn confesses, resting back against her side, “Almost 6.”

Val nods sleepily, her eyes falling shut, “Baby’ll be up soon.”

Shawn presses his lips to her forehead and leaves them there, breathing softly, reveling in the curious skimming of her hands over the firm planes of his body. Maybe she’s re-memorizing him, too.

“I’m sorry about attacking you last night,” Val whispers.

Shawn lifts his head to look down at her. She doesn’t look sheepish or anxious, just tired.

“Oh, I mean, you didn’t--”

“I don’t want it to be like that either,” she continues, keeping her fingers steadily twisting through his frizzy morning curls, “I don’t know what this is yet, you seemingly dropping in out of nowhere. And I don’t know where you are. I think that’s stuff we have to figure out first before we fall into bed together.”

He knows she means having sex. She didn’t at all mind falling into bed with him last night as she stripped down to a camisole and panties, snuggling into him gratefully as she mumbled about always being able to sleep so well with him next to her.

Shawn nods gamely, pulling her hand down from his hair to kiss her fingertips assuredly. He figured this conversation was coming. He kind of hoped there would be coffee first, but this is fine, too.

Because really, he still can’t fucking believe he’s lying in bed with Val again. What dumb fucking luck.

“The thing is, I have a baby.”

Shawn grins. “I noticed.”

Val swats at his chest and presses on, “Meaning this isn’t just my life I’m messing around with. That little girl in the next room? She’s my family. She’s my life. She’s my priority. I owe it to her to take all the relationships in my life very seriously because every second of energy I give to someone else takes it away from her. I’m not totally unwilling to do that, but it has to be for something worth it. Something real. Something hopefully long term.”

Shawn massages her fingers gently and nods at her to continue.

She looks up at him warmly, if a little sad. “I don’t expect you to know if you can handle this. You can’t, not really, not until you live with it for a while. But… Shawn, I don’t think I want you to try if you don’t really, really want to. I know… I mean, I know this is a lot so fast. I just ran into you yesterday and now I sound like I’m trying to lock you down for good. But I need you to know exactly where my head is. For me and for you.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. He wets his lips and opens his mouth, but a squawking cry from the next room interrupts him. Val sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before wriggling out from beneath him.

Shawn sits up, straightening his t-shirt and clocking his jeans on the ground by the bed. He likes seeing them there. He already feels at home here and doesn’t even have to try.

In another minute, Val reappears in the doorway, bouncing Alice in a cream fleece onesie that has tiny feet and a hood with little lamb ears on it. Shawn’s sure his heart bursts open and drains out all over the bed. He beams.

“Good morning, Alice!” he coos, waving at her. She squeals, kicking against Val’s stomach, reaching for him.

Val scoffs. “Excuse me, I’m the mummy. You’re supposed to be happy to see me.”

“Yeah, but I’m the shiny new toy you brought home for her,” Shawn replies dryly without taking his eyes off Alice, reaching for the squirming infant. Val hands her over reluctantly, trying to ignore the biologically predetermined warmth that spreads through her at seeing Alice held by a big strong handsome man.

“Used to be my shiny new toy,” Val grunts under her breath, toeing at the carpet.

“Hmm?” Shawn hums distractedly, bouncing the baby on his knee.

“Nothing,” Val sighs, perching beside them. She leans in, pressing her nose to Alice’s soft patch of dark hair. She closes her eyes and inhales.

“The thing is, you guys are already perfect,” Shawn whispers.

Val looks up to see him watching them.

“I know you don’t need me. Neither of you do.”

Something tucked away long ago, buried deep in Val’s gut protests. It startles her into blinking quickly.

“And the thing is, you might not even want me. I mean… I know what we’re both feeling right now. It feels like a second chance at something… fucking great. But the truth is, we don’t really know each other anymore. Ten years changes everything. I know it did for me. So we need to get there first. And I want to. Fuck, baby, I want to so much. I know this isn’t an easy thing to jump into. You’re scared. I’m scared. But last time I was scared, I ran. I don’t want to run. I want to work.”

Val’s heart is going to beat out of her chest and flop into his lap. He sits there, holding her world in his hands, offering her his. She can’t say no. She doesn’t want to.

Val leans in, cupping a hand around the back of his head to kiss him softly. Her lips linger, breathing him in, soaking in this feeling. It’s a new twist on a feeling she gets everyday when she greets her daughter.

It’s possibility.

She has to shoo him away sooner than she’d like. But it’s Monday and she and Alice are due at the museum. He helps occupy Alice while Val gets ready, not above a boyish blush when she comes striding into the kitchen in a bra and well tailored trousers to show Shawn that she’s not holding Alice’s bottle correctly.

He walks them to the tube station and Val isn’t quite ready to let him go yet, opting to take the long way on the Circle Line with him until his stop at Embankment.

“Can I see you again before you leave?” he whispers, eyeing the train doors as he tempts time.

Val chuckles at his boldness and the way he’s poised to hop up out of his seat and bolt before the doors can shut him in.

“Tonight. Meet me at Notting Hill Gate station at 5:30. We’ll go Christmas shopping in Portobello Market.”

Shawn exhales in relief and presses his lips to hers, a quick peck to tide him over. He leaps off the train just before the doors shut. Val and Alice wave to him on the platform until he’s out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas… let your heart be light…

Shawn is parked on a bench outside the tube station, his hands in his pockets, his heel bouncing against the cold stone under his feet as he waits, somewhat impatiently, for his dates for the evening.

Even with the extra time he spent getting ready -- nice close shave, extra time on the hair, picking out the right shirt -- he got to Notting Hill Gate almost 25 minutes early. He couldn’t help it. He’s been going out of his skin with excitement all day.

The sun has just set. The surrounding street lamps have come on. The market is alive with vendors and shoppers. BBC Radio 1’s Christmas music sets the mood. Shawn’s desperately trying not to think about the fact that after tonight, he won’t see them again until after New Years. It feels like a dream he refuses to wake up from. But he can’t let it taint their night. It’s all he’s thought about all day.

The tube lift spits out chilly looking Londoners with shopping bags and a lot of holiday spirit. Last out of the back of the lift are the two people he’s been waiting for.

He stands, grinning, and springs forward to help Val maneuver the pram out of the lift before it can shut on her. They pause under a streetlamp to kiss. It’s supposed to be quick and chaste but he’s so warm and smells so nice and Val’s been thinking about him all goddamn day so she slips him a little tongue to get her blood moving. He returns the favor with a quiet whimper into her mouth.

Alice is very happy to see her big tall friend again. Val lifts her out of the pram to hold while Shawn steers down toward the market.

They catch up on their days. Val has much more to offer than Shawn does. She tells him all about a painting she’s been looking to acquire for a secret exhibit they’re designing for the spring. He doesn’t have much context, not being a seasoned art fan like Val, but he enjoys hearing the passion in her voice.

“So what do you think this next album’s going to look like?” she hums, handing Alice off to Shawn so she can thumb through some cute needlepoints at an outdoor stall that her mom might like.

Shawn adjusts Alice in his arms and lets her suck one of his fingers into her mouth as she teethes. He shrugs.

“Not sure yet, exactly. The last few have been so planned out. It’s nice not knowing every note, every lyric that’s going into it. I dunno, I mean, we played Joy Ride in full this summer. We’ve never gotten to do that. Hearing it all again like that, playing it for the kids, it was… really special. I’ve been thinking about that sound since the show. I think we might get back there see how it feels.”

Val tries to temper her goofy grin. Shawn catches it and laughs.

“You like that idea?”

“I love that idea,” she replies, handing some pound coins to the vendor as they shuffle off to peruse the next stall, “I’ve always loved Joy Ride. From the first time I heard it. I listen to the vinyl sometimes. I like it like that -- all the way through from start to finish, the way that story’s told.”

“Yeah!” Shawn agrees emphatically, his eyes lighting up as Alice pinches at his earlobe, “I’ve been thinking about that, too. We haven’t done that since. I miss that kind of storytelling.”

Val nods thoughtfully, tugging at the flaps around Alice’s little hat to keep her warm. Shawn watches her, a smile on his lips.

“You always were so good at that.”

“Hmm?”

“Songwriting. I know the rest of it didn’t stick with you -- tour life, performing. But you still write sometimes, eh?”

She bobs her head, heading to the next stall where a little old lady is selling homemade candy. “Sometimes. Just with Raf and Alex. And Hayley, when she asks.”

Shawn chews on the inside of his lip for a full two more stalls before he speaks.

“Would you ever consider writing with me?”

Val looks up. Her cheeks flush prettily. Her nose twitches. “Yes, I’d consider it.”

Shawn grins so wide she has to kiss him again. Alice gets a little squashed between them but she doesn’t seem to mind.

At dinner at a little pie shop in the center of the market strip, with twinkle lights around their booth and more Frank Sinatra Christmas music crooning above them, they take out the heavy catch up artillery -- they discuss their love lives.

On this subject, Shawn has more to report than Val. He tells her how he’s been in and out of relationships, never single for very long before this last year. He reports that none of them were serious, no one was ever the right fit. He tells her all of this easily, spilling his guts over a pint and a pie, reaching over to tickle Alice’s belly every few minutes, giggling when she does.

Val aches.

She tells him about the small handful of guys she’s seen over the years -- fewer, with more time between than he took. She similarly reports feeling like nothing was ever quite right, not until Alice. Alice filled voids she didn’t know she had.

But, she thinks to herself as Shawn pays the tab and jingles the bell on the mistletoe hanging over Alice’s head to make her squeal again, Alice can’t give her everything Val really needs.

Val tucks the baby back into the pram after dinner. Shawn pushes with one hand and holds Val around her shoulders with the other. She stays tucked into his side, made convenient from the cold night, and hums along to “Jingle Bell Rock” as they wander.

“Wish it wasn’t Christmas right now,” Shawn suddenly grunts, looking forlorn. Val’s brow wrinkles as she looks up at him.

“Because we just… I mean this just… fuck, we just found this… thing again. And now we’re both leaving.”

Val squeezes the arm around his waist, charmed by the pouty note in his voice. “Only for two weeks. That’s nothing compared to ten years.”

Shawn sighs, dissatisfied. He stops, dropping his arm to tug her beside him, holding her smaller hand in his.

“I know. I just-- do you get this feeling, too? Like it’s too good? This can’t be real. I’m… Val, I’m fucking pinching myself whenever you’re not looking just being around you again. After all this time. A second chance at this, at us? I only dreamed this. This… this is--”

Val pops up on her toes and tucks an arm around his neck.

“Hey, listen,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his, nudging his nose with hers, “I know. I feel it, too. But you know what? I’ve felt it less tonight. Because this, here, feels so, so real to me. You, me, her. God, Shawn, if you only knew how often I wondered and wished and thought about it and then felt guilty thinking about it because it felt like I had never really moved on… I want this to work. And honestly? I think this time apart is good. We both get to go home to the people that know us and love us best. We regroup. We pop this sweet little bubble and see what’s really real. We can decide for certain if this is actually what we want.”

Shawn lets her words sink in. He tilts his head, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth. She smiles and kisses him properly -- hands in his hair, murmuring in his mouth, only pulling apart when they’re gasping for breath and Alice has started to cry.

Val sighs, lifting the baby from the pram and hugging her close. “Come here, my little cockblock.”

Shawn barks a laugh and steers on.

Before too long, Val mentions quietly it’s probably time to be getting the baby home, plus they fly to Miami tomorrow and she still has some of Alice’s packing to do. Shawn helps maneuver them into a black cab with more kisses and promises of phone calls and texts.

“I hope your mum likes the sweater,” Val whispers, kissing his earlobe as they attempt to pry themselves away.

“I hope your dad likes the vinyl,” he sighs, finally pulling back as the cabbie honks again.

“Merry Christmas, Shawn.”

“Merry Christmas, Val.”

December 23rd, 2017

Val: how did meeting aaliyah’s new boyfriend go

Shawn: I didn’t hit him. So that’s something.

Val: v proud of you

Shawn: how are Alice and Maria getting along?

Val: like cousins do. Stealing toys, hugging for the camera

Shawn: send me pics

Val: I will <3

December 25th, 2017

Val tips the phone between her ear and shoulder, needing both hands to pop open the jar of baby food. Alice bounces hungrily in her seat. Val giggles. Just the sound makes Shawn smile, hundreds of miles away.

“Funny how Christmas seems to go faster every year,” he says sleepily, closing his eyes.

“Mmm, I know. I just can’t wait for Alice to get a little older so she can be excited about it.”

Shawn quirks a grin. “Little kids are the best at Christmas. They make everything a little more magical.”

Val smiles, spooning a bite of mashed carrot and swede between Alice’s pouty lips. “Alice makes everything more magical.”

Shawn yawns, agreeing with a sleepy grunt.

December 28th, 2017

Shawn shifts, holding his phone up while he scooches down into his pillows, eyeing her apologetically.

“I know… I know it had to happen that way. I know we wouldn’t be who we are now if we stayed together. Who knows. Maybe we would’ve broken up if we had tried. I just-- you’ll never know how sorry I am, how ashamed I am of the way I left.”

Val is quiet, watching his lazy eye get lazier as he speaks over FaceTime. She wants to reach out, cup his cheeks and whisper in his ear, comfort him. Her chest aches.

Just a few more days.

“It did have to happen,” she assures him, “I knew, deep down, even if I didn’t want to, I knew the things we were promising in the moment couldn’t happen. I didn’t truly expect you to keep those promises. It didn’t make me stop loving you.”

Shawn sniffs, nodding, picking at his comforter.

“Nothing made me stop loving you,” he murmurs. His voice is rough. She wonders if he has tears in his pretty brown eyes.

Her lower lip shakes. “How many more days?”

Shawn sighs, scrunches up his face while he thinks, “Nine.”

Val thumbs at the sheets on her childhood bed. “That’s too many.”

“I totally agree.”

Val and Alice fly home to London on New Years Eve morning. It’s cold and rainy in England, a welcome change from the sticky Miami heat, even in December. It makes Val wants to walk around the flat barefoot and dance with Alice to Norah Jones. She puts “Wintertime” on the stereo system she splurged on when she first let the flat.

She dresses Alice up in the Iron Man costume Raf got her for Christmas and twirls with her until Alice passes out on her chest. She changes her and tucks her into bed, her fat rhinoceros toy tucked up under her little arm just like she likes. She pours herself a glass of wine, turning on the TV when the Chinese food delivery guy comes around 10pm. In an oversized cardigan, lace bralette and panties, she doesn’t feel so much like a mum as she usually does. She even lights a few candles and imagines Shawn is there to snuggle with while they watch the midnight countdowns all over the world.

He’s not, of course. He’s still home in Toronto, celebrating with his friends before he flies back on the 6th. And that’s fine. The time is good.

She keeps telling herself that.

Plus, it’s not like last time. She can call him. She can text him. She can request stupid selfies just to see his pretty face. The last time he was gone, he was just… gone.

She doesn’t relish thinking about it.

She’s into her second glass of wine with her feet up on a sturdy pillow beside her, TV muted, fingers drumming along to Norah’s beat as she sings “It Was You” a little quieter than this afternoon so as not to upset cranky Mrs. Roberts down the hall.

There’s a knock at the door. Val frowns. She wouldn’t be shocked to see Drunk Emily from upstairs, who leaves her spare key with Val for when she’s Peak Drunk Emily, but it’s not yet midnight and there’s no way Emily has gotten back so early.

She can’t be bothered to dress before opening the door, she just leans her head around it, eyes wide and curious.

She flings it open. Shawn, fresh from Heathrow, is holding a backpack and a suitcase and looking bright eyed despite the travel circumstances.

“Oh my--!” she squeals, slinging her arms around his neck and jumping so her legs clasp around his slender waist, tucking her face into his hair.

Shawn holds her weight easily, steering his luggage into the flat, kicking the door shut as quietly as he can so as not to wake sleeping Alice. He closes his eyes, breathes in her clean scent of citrus and warm laundry.

“Good surprise?” he murmurs, running a hand up her back to sink into her thick wave of curls.

Val can’t breathe. Her eyes are snapped shut. She’s clinging to him like he’s been gone for months. It might be overkill, but it’s New Years Eve and it always makes her reflective and emotional.

Finally, she nods, pulling her face away to look at him as he walks them into her bedroom.

“Great surprise,” she chokes, smoothing the curls off his forehead to kiss him as he lays her down on the mattress with one knee up beneath her.

“I’ve been thinking,” he breathes, tracing the tip of his nose over her face, feeling her release her hold on his hips as he kicks off his boots and climbs over her, “About this. About us.”

Val’s heart gives a quick pulse and then throbs double time. She nods, reminding herself he wouldn’t be holding her like this if this were bad news.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be a father figure. I don’t know what it’s like to feel responsible for someone other than myself. I don’t know what it’s like to love someone that much. I think-- I think the closest I’ve ever come is loving you.”

Val stops breathing and stares up at him in wonder. He pulls away, lifting his nose from her jaw to wet his lips and look her in the eye.

“And I never stopped loving you. It was inconvenient, it was scary, it was fucking hard. But I never stopped, Vally. Not for a second in ten years. I-- fuck, you’re it, baby. This is it for me.”

A set of tears drip from the outer corners of Val’s eyes. She nods, sliding her hands up and down his sides as he lowers himself closer to her.

“I want it, Shawn. I want all of you. I want this for real this time.”

Shawn barely has enough time to grin like an idiot before she’s fisting a hand in his hair to pull him into a kiss. It’s so perfectly Val, Shawn thinks to himself with a sigh of relief into her mouth, manhandling him without even flinching over it. He’s surprised he’s even still on top after twenty seconds of kissing so feverishly.

She hooks a leg around him and uses it to toss him onto his back beside her so she can climb up to kiss him harder. He smiles into her warm, wet mouth.

“What?” she pants, spreading her kisses down his neck as his pulse races under her mouth.

“You. You’re still-- god, you haven’t changed.”

Val lifts her head, smirking down at him like her job in life is to make his stomach flip.

“You wouldn’t want me to, papi.”

Shawn’s head falls back, his eyes fall shut. He releases a totally unself-conscious moan, rocking his hips up into hers.

Val coos, lighting a fire behind her eyes. She slips a hand down his chest to rest over his heart, reminding her how profoundly he cannot hide from her.

“You like that,” she notes, “You miss that, baby?”

Shawn nods fervently. “So much. God, you’re so sexy.”

Valentina rears up on her knees, shrugging out of her cardigan to toss it away. She feels a piece of her long missing return, snapping into place where motherhood chipped it away.

“You wanna be good for me again, papi?”

Shawn nods before she even gets out the words. She smiles, dropping her lips to his for a hot, hard kiss that has him scooping his hands up the backs of her thighs to meet her ass. He squeezes, kneading her soft flesh, reveling in the feel of her against him once again.

Val carefully pulls her lips away long enough to lick them and sit back in his lap. She tilts her head, studying him as she pants, tracing her finger around his face -- over his brows, around his cheekbones, down his jaw, against his wet, swelling lips. He presses them into her fingertip, closing his eyes.

“Take my clothes off.”

Her voice is quiet and a little ragged, but firm and authoritarian.

Shawn sits up, holding her in his lap. He reaches behind her slowly, hungry hands dragging over her ribs on the way, to the clasp of her bralette at her back. He closes his eyes, leaning in to mouth at her sternum as he releases the hooks and pulls the straps down her slender arms.

Shawn pulls away to look. His eyes bulge. His jaw drops.

“You still have them?”

Val laughs, cupping the back of his head gently. “Would you even recognize them if I didn’t?”

Shawn smiles, sweeping his thumb over the underside of her breast, admiring. “I assumed… you know, with the baby--”

“Never took them out. Didn’t need to.”

Shawn brings the thumb up over the familiar jewelry, shaking his head. “Missed these.”

His head tilts back courtesy of a tug from her fingers. She licks her lips, brushing the tips of her fingers over his mouth.

“Show me.”

Shawn groans, eyes falling shut. He lifts her off his lap, settling her against her mass of pillows.

He starts slow, just the way she taught him so many years ago. He kisses concentric circles around her nipples, leading outward, snagging his teeth occasionally on soft brown skin to feel her arch and gasp. His hand keeps her other nipple busy, thumbing the barbell in the same rhythm as his kisses.

He has her out of breath immediately. She’s out of practice, surely. The outpour of emotion was also taxing. But fuck, he’s also definitely gotten better at this. He knows just when to pull back, how much is too much, knows, somehow, like he’s been dreaming about ways to get her wet in the last decade, how to suck her nipple into his mouth and tongue at the jewelry at the same time.

She looks down at him, watching him play with her, switching between her breasts, lavishing her pronounced postnatal stretch marks with kisses until Val is so wet she can’t stand it.

“Papi,” she gasps, “Take my panties off.”

Shawn groans in agreement, nodding and releasing her nipple with a wet, filthy pop. His lips are swollen. She intends to continue putting them to work.

Shawn slinks down the bed, kissing as he goes, getting stuck around another crosshatching of stretch marks around her tummy and inner thighs that has him pleasantly distracted. It’s too sweet for her to force him to stop. Instead, she lies there, her arms above her head, rocking her hips slowly, waiting.

He lifts her hips, hooking her lace panties around his fingers and tugging, dragging her long, muscular legs up in the air to free them. They fall forgotten off the bed as Shawn refocuses, kissing down the inside of one of the legs he loves so much.

Val smirks. “Remember that day in Texas when our bus broke down?”

Shawn’s head lifts around her inner knee. He grins.

“When I made you come so hard on my face that you screamed?”

Val’s hips buck. She growls, nodding, “Do that again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He plants his enormous hands on her inner thighs, spreading her open for him. He stares at her, pink and glistening and already so fucking wet for him. He’s overwhelmed, but he can’t let it paralyze him. He whimpers, loud and short, and drops his lips to where she needs them.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Val hisses, tilting her hips as best she can, being pinned beneath his strong grasp.

He’s buried his face in her, spoiling her pussy with short, soft licks, reminding her what it’s like to be the one taken care of. She rakes her fingers through his curls, holding them off his forehead, steering him between her clit and her entrance as his strokes become broader, but not any firmer. She sighs in frustration, lifting her head to look down at him.

“Do you just want to get me wet or do you want to make me come?”

“Both, baby. Always both,” he assures her with a quirk of his eyebrow before diving back in.

Val groans, tempering it to keep from waking Alice in the next room. He sucks at her inner lips, flirting with her clit by skimming it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He seems to want to take his time, given the distance they forced upon themselves. She’s about to complain again when he sucks her clit between his lips.

“Yes!” she cries, coming up on one hand as she rocks against his face.

It’s been so long. Val doesn’t have the strength, mentally or physically, to hold off her orgasm for too long. He alternates sucking and lapping at her, his eyes flashing as he waits for her peak.

Val lets it crash into them, falling back into the pillows with a soft thump as she rolls her hips steadily against his willing mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair, holding him where he is, though he has no intention of moving. Even after she’s come down, regained some breath and remembered her fucking name, he’s still tonguing at her.

She gazes down at him hotly, wondering if he wants what she thinks he wants.

“Come again for me, baby. Please.”

Shawn holds her gaze as he slips two fingers inside her, hooking immediately to press into her g-spot like he knew exactly where it was. He rubs quickly, staring up at her for a reaction.

“Jesus Christ,” Val squeaks, grinding down into his hand, her walls still squeezing hard around his fingers, sucking the breath from his lungs.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. I’m all yours.”

Val’s head falls back with a loud gasp. He strokes harder and faster through her second orgasm, milking it from her as she struggles for breath between choked hisses of his name. When it finally lets her go, Shawn eases back to suck on his fingers.

Val’s legs fall weakly against the bed. He reaches out to massage a scar on her shin he’s always been fond of. She lifts her opposite foot and nudges at his ribs.

“C’mere, honey.”

He goes when she beckons. He settles beside her, unable to keep to himself, nudging little kisses all over her bare shoulders and upper arm until she turns over and rolls on top of him, looking smug.

“How much did you miss that?” she purrs, eyes heavy lidded and taunting.

“So fuckin’ much,” he answers quickly, unashamed, “Baby, you know that was always my favorite.”

Self-satisfied and flushed, Val hauls herself onto her knees. “I know. I remember.”

Shawn’s eyes drift shut as Val undresses him. He’s helpful only to lift his hips so she can pull his jeans and boxers down and wriggle out of his tight fitting henley to toss it over his head. She descends, cupping a hand around his cock and humming pleasantly against his chest as she sucks open-mouthed kisses across the surface.

Shawn has a moment of total existential content so strong, it almost brings tears to his eyes. His breathing quickens, he looks down at the top of her head as she spoils him with kisses that, if you asked him three weeks ago, he’d have said he never thought he’d see again.

“Vally,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly, getting her attention. She lifts her head, concerned.

He manages a shaky smile, shaking his head. “Can… can you believe how lucky we are?”

It centers them. Val beams, snuggling into him, tucking a leg over his. “Still pinching yourself, Mendes?”

He chuckles. “Absolutely. I’m so stupid happy.”

She blinks slowly like a sleepy house cat. She catches a glimpse of the nightstand clock over his shoulder.

“Hey,” she prompts, tucking an arm around his middle, brushing her nose over his, “Happy New Year.”

Shawn smiles, wide and toothy, rubbing back gently, “Happy New Year, Valentina.”

The next kiss is long and slow. They don’t need to rush. They have all the time now they never did before. Even so, the kiss becomes several kisses, getting shorter and hotter as their bodies rock, eager to pick up where they left off.

Shawn holds her leg still perched overtop his and watches her face as he angles his cock to slide into her as they rest on their sides. To his surprise, Val grins again, cheeks stretched wide as he fills her.

“What?” he pants, the corner of his mouth pulling up. Her smile was always contagious.

“You feel un-fucking-believable,” she whimpers, scooping her arm up under his to grip at his shoulder, beginning to rock them gently.

“You feel even better than I remember,” he admits, stroking his fingers up and down the knobs of her spine.

Their hips fall into a comfortable, easy rhythm. Neither of them is sprinting toward the finish line tonight. They’re enjoying each other, the way their bodies fit, the smoothness of their rocking motion.

They whisper quiet love words, little secrets, desires, moments one thought about the other during their long time apart. Neither of them has ever made love like this, where the aim was not necessarily the orgasm, but the closeness that gets them there.

Eventually, though, Shawn shifts his hips at an angle that has Val’s pelvis pressing up against his with each firmer stroke. He pulses into her clit so overwhelmingly that she comes, shuddering and quiet against his chest. He follows shortly behind her, gathered up in her arms, licking into her mouth as they both smile again for the millionth time that year, and it’s only January 1st.

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Part three will be our last. Hoping to have it out next weekend! Thank you for your support my friends, if you’re interested, the link to buy me a Ko-fi is on my main page!

Taglist: @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @embracehappy @peacedolantwins2 @kitykatnumber

#shawn mendes #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes drabble #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes au #shawn peter raul mendes #punk!shawn #warped tour shawn #dad!shawn

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ganrachi · 7 years ago

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Summer swishy trousers - I’d be imagining a pair of trousers like this for work wear, to wear with cotton lawn tanks and breezy shirts in hot weather, but it took me a while to get round to working out how to make exactly what I wanted. I would have bought some but being pear-shaped I find trousers from shops never ever fit me well and nothing I saw was just right. I wondered about using the megan nielsen flint pants pattern but in the end went for Nina Lee London portobello trousers but hacked them to look like the Flint pants from the front!! Megan Nielsen has a great tutorial on her website on how to hack the flints to have a flat front instead of release tucks, so I figured the same must be possible with the portobello trousers! I simply folded the pleats on the paper pattern piece and smoothed the paper flat. I then measured the pattern pieces across the waist (taking off the seam allowances and missing out the darts on the back) and compared to my waist size, and decided I wanted a bit more room and unfolded half of one pleat to allow for this. I also lowered the waist line by an inch as I find a super high waist isn’t my jam and I added slant pockets using the pocket pieces from the Capri pants in the Gertie sews vintage casual book. Overall they worked out pretty well - having the zipper next to the pockets isn’t ideal but manageable. I think if I made them again I’d draft a curved waist band to get a better fit at the waist, but I still love them and have been wanting to wear them every day!!

#sewist #portobello trousers #Nina lee London #tencel #sewing #handmadefashion #sewcialists

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womenpantstoza · 5 years ago

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^^@^^ $670 RAG & BONE Jean Hyde Portobello Black Leather Trousers Pants. Size 26. https://ift.tt/2tJJ5La

#Pants #womenpants

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scotianostra · 6 years ago

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On 26 February 1950 the entertainer and songwriter, Sir Harry Lauder, died.

Born in Portobello in Edinburgh, Lauder was a music-hall comedian who excited enthusiasm throughout the English-speaking world as singer and composer of simple hearted Scottish songs.

While a child half-timer in a flax mill he won singing competitions but worked in a coal mine for 10 years before joining a concert party that took him to Belfast, Birkenhead, and other places that claim to have seen his professional debut.

The first songs that he wrote and sang were Irish or English, but when he went to London, to Gatti’s music hall in May 1900, he was wearing the kilt. Later he wore trousers for his character studies only, such as “Saftest of the Family” and “It’s Nice To Get Up in the Morning.” During his week’s engagement at Gatti’s a gap occurred in the program at the Tivoli, and Lauder stepped into it with “Lass o’ Killiekrankie,” an immediate success. Until then his songs had all been comic. With “I Love a Lassie” he struck the homely poetic note that gave charm to “When I Get Back Again to Bonnie Scotland” and “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’.” His range extended from the bibulous “A Wee Deoch an’ Doris” to the hortatory “End of the Road.” With a large repertory of his own songs (some verses partly by other persons) he toured America, South Africa, and Australia, and during World War I he sang to troops in France. He gave many concerts for war charities and was knighted in 1919. He wrote four books of reminiscences and acted in several films. He made 22 American tours and entertained troops again in World War II.

On February 26th 1950 he passed away at his Strathaven home, aged 79. His funeral was held at Cadzow church in Hamilton on 2 March It was widely reported,[notably by Pathé newsreels. One of the chief mourners was the Duke of Hamilton, a close family friend, who led the funeral procession through Hamilton, and read The Lesson. Lauder was interred with his brother George and their mother in the family plot at Bent Cemetery in Hamilton.

You can find a full biography on Harry Lauder here https://www.arts.gla.ac.uk/STE…/STARN/crit/WAGGLE/lauder.htm

Pics are Lauder in 1909, second pic is with Danny Kaye, with Laurel and Hardy, my fave, with Charlie Chaplin, the last two are of crowds in Hamilton and his funeral cortege in 1950.

#Scotland #scottish #actor #singer songwrtier #entertainer

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lothiriel84 · 8 years ago

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Of love, bears, and icicles

Or that one time I went to London to see The Mighty Fin January Christmas show.

Hello there, my hypothetical reader. I’m taking a short break from writing Sherlock (and Time Spanner) fanfic in order to give you the account of my latest (but hopefully not last ever) trip to the UK. You know the account no one asked for? Yeah, that one.

First things first, I’m ever so grateful that this year’s - well, last year’s, theoretically - Mighty Fin show was in January rather than December. There was no way I would have been able to attend in December, but the one upside of being currently unemployed is that I don’t have to stress about my supervisors forbidding me from taking time off when I most need it (read: when there’s a show I desperately want to attend in the UK).

Anyways. January is probably not the best time of the year when it comes to travelling. I was aware of that, of course, but I still wanted to try - both because of the Mighty Fin show, and the fact that I’m not so sure how free to travel I’m going to be once I actually go ahead and ask for unemployment benefits. (Also, Brexit. But whatevers.)

As it turned out, England was for once a tiny bit warmer than Italy. (And by warmer, I mean slightly-less-freezing, obviously.) The rain definitely didn’t help, but as the less unastute of you might have divined (yeah, this is in fact a Cabin Pressure reference, no need to get offended) it was after all January, and seriously, I think I’ve been exceedingly lucky on all my previous trips to the UK as far as the weather is concerned. (Well, to be fair I’ve been lucky about too many things too count when it comes to each and every one of my trips, but I do believe I have already dwelt on many of those aspects in my previous posts.)

I’ve been to London so many times I’m kind of running out of ideas about what to do on a rainy day. My first day in town was spent between wandering a bit around the Gherkin, then seeking refuge into the Museum of London (which I had already visited, in point of fact). In the end I was only too glad when I could finally check in to my hotel room and happily pay for the wifi in order to watch episode 2 of Sherlock. (Which I believe I watched two more times in the following days. Yeah, I know.)

The next day I very cleverly accidentally decided to go to Dorset. (I blame this entirely on John Finnemore posting a picture of somewhere in Dorset on Twitter, and I’m most glad that he did because that was an excellent idea even for a day trip.) So I took a train to Wool, and then spent quite some time trying to figure out how to reach Durdle Door; I had googled pictures of the beautiful limestone arch on the coast there, and I was really looking forward to see it.

Bless the bus driver, he sounded a bit concerned when he repeatedly asked me if I was aware that there wasn’t going to be a bus for the return journey; but I had kind of figured out I would somehow find a way to get back to Wool, so I happily walked the distance from the bus stop to the coast, then scrambled my way down not one, but two distinct flights of muddy, slippery steps in order to get a better view of both sides of the arch. (And quite miraculously I didn’t fall or slip, not even once, though I definitely got mud on my shoes and trousers.)

You know, there is quite something about standing on a pebble beach listening to the waves gently lapping at the shore. And that particular corner of the Jurassic Coast is quite stunning, as you can see for yourself.

In the end I had to walk for over an hour along a narrow country road at nightfall in order to reach the nearest village where I dearly hoped I could get a bus back to Wool. Luckily I somehow managed to do that in spite of the fact that my phone ran out of battery when I was nearly there, and I had neither a map nor a torch with me.

(I actually had my old phone with me as well, but as it turns out it’s not good for much except maybe listening to the radio - though it took me approximately three quarters of an hour to finally tune in to Radio 4 on the train back to London, so once more thank goodness for the BBC iPlayer.)

On Wednesday I had a bit of a wander in Hampstead Heath, though it was quite muddy and windy, especially on Parliament Hill. In the evening I went to the dress rehearsal for A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which I immediately loved - I had never been to a Mighty Fin show before, though I’ve listened to the songs from a few of them, and I’m now the proud owner of three (soon to be - whatever the total number is, hopefully). Greg and Maddi were there too, and I kind of followed them when they went to say hi to John after the show; but I was quite tired and completely out of ideas as to what I could actually say to John, so I’m not even sure I managed to greet him back when he finally spotted me as I was hiding behind someone else. I’m really sorry Mr Finnemore - I’m not rude, just very awkward, I promise.

I had half a mind to go to Hastings the following day, but I had to put that off given how the weather forecast promised a snowstorm for the day (though in the end it mainly just rained in London). I would have liked to visit the London Aquarium for Sherlock-related reasons, but tickets were far too expensive for my tastes; so I took a bit of a walk along the Thames in the rain, stood for a while on the Vauxhall Bridge for reasons (though if I have to be honest I was far more impressed with the MI6 building that stands nearby), and then sought refuge in the Museum of London Docklands mainly because I deemed I had got enough rain on my coat and shoes for the day. (That, and the DLR. Don’t tell the Train Driver though.)

On Friday I decided that the weather was good enough for a trip to Hastings, and so it was in spite of a little snow we encountered on the train journey. (And by ‘we’ I mean us people on the train, which I somehow find funny now that I’ve listened to the St Ives sketch from JFSP - which I had actually had the privilege to see at one of the tryouts last Autumn, but there you go.)

It was a bit windy in Hastings, and most definitely cold - someone might have spotted me wandering along the shore in my winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves - but otherwise a lovely day, and apparently I have a soft spot for pebble beaches anyway. Sadly the gate to the castle was locked; but there was quite a lovely view from up there, and the old part of the town is nice too.

On Saturday I took a bit of a wander around Notting Hill (mainly Portobello Market) and then Little Venice, which I had quite liked on a previous visit. In the evening I had tickets for my second viewing of A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which was brilliant for more than one reason, and I will now explain if you bear with me. (You see, John played a bear in the musical, so I simply had to make a joke about that. Arthur Shappey would definitely - and very much enthusiastically - approve of this, so you definitely have to bear with me even if you don’t want to.)

What was I saying? Ah, The Mighty Fin, yes. I loved the show just as much as I had done the first time around; it’s a beautiful retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, centred on the theme of the different kinds of love and how you most definitely shouldn’t try and force someone to love you, Fairy King or not.

(’Trapped by a man / That’s my tragedy / Or was my tragedy / It ends today’, that’s how a line from one of the many brilliant songs went - bless Robbie Hudson and Susannah Pearse who created such a thing of beauty.)

All the actors were really good, and this time around John’s part was a bit longer than it had been in the dress rehearsal, and had an even more distinct Since You Ask Me feel to it. (When I went to ask him after the show John confirmed he had in fact written his own part, and the reason why it was shorter at the dress rehearsal was that he hadn’t finished writing it back then. Bless him.)

Oh, and one more brilliant thing, though strictly speaking it’s not entirely about the show. Simon was among the audience this time around, and I think I have already mentioned how much better that makes anything you might be watching. (I swear the man has the best laugh ever. You can’t possibly hear it and not feel like laughing yourself.)

I had actually spotted him before the show, and I was most definitely hoping I would maybe get to talk to him at the end of the play. Well, as it turned out he kind of recognised me as someone who had probably bothered him before, for he was the one who said hi to me as he walked past where I was standing during the interval, offered me a hug, and then had to listen as I rambled on about how much I loved the pilot for Time Spanner. He said they will probably try crowdfunding if the sitcom doesn’t get commissioned (seriously though, I hope the BBC knows better than that), so I now know what I should save my money for.

(And, um, I should have probably refrained from walking back in when I was already halfway through the door after the show, and awkwardly waving Simon goodbye. But I’m not even sure if and when I’ll be able to go back to the UK, and - oh well, never mind. I’m not going to dwell on Ms Mayhem in this post, thank you very much.)

Sunday was my last day in London, and given that the weather was not very much on my side, I spent some time in Greenwich Market, had some amazing fish and chips for lunch, and a bit of a stroll through Greenwich Park at dusk. As it turned out, by complete coincidence (I know, I know, Mycroft, no need to expand on that) my trip actually included the day when the Sherlock series 4 finale aired, so in the end I made up my mind and booked a ticket so that I could go and watch it on the big screen.

(To be honest I was really confused - and more than a little worse for the wear from an emotional point of view - when the final credits rolled on to the screen. I watched it all over again on my phone once I was back to my hotel room, but I think I only decided I actually quite liked it after watching it a third time back at home.)

And, yes, I guess we’ve come to the end of the road. I don’t know how or when, but I promise I will try and go back there at some point, no matter what. Dear UK, you might not return the feeling, but it’s my choice whether or not to keep doing what I love. Or trying to, at the very least.

#London #and so much more #January 9th to 16th #2017 #The Mighty Fin #A Midwinter Night's Dream #Dorset #Durdle Door #Hastings #I feel so blessed #but also a little bit sad #London I miss you already

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mastcomm · 5 years ago

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What Do You Wear to the End of Days?

LONDON — In 1139 Archbishop Malachy of Armagh supposedly had a vision of the future that became known as the “prophesy of popes.” In it, the Irish saint predicted the names of 112 pontiffs who would rule until the end of days. Though it was later shown to be a 16th-century forgery, the second to last pope on the list was Benedict, which has suggested to some in the Roman Catholic world that the final pope could be the current pope, and the apocalypse is nigh.

Actually, not just the Catholic world but, apparently, the fashion world, too.

Over the weekend, Simone Rocha put the idea front and center on a dress. It was lovely — royal purple splashed with a gold scripted rendering of the saint’s name, draped in swathes of black satin — and it was sandwiched between piles of baptismal lace and tulle; watery fisherman knits and oyster satin slithers; elaborately embroidered cross-topped sacred hearts: the semiology of prayer, loss and rebirth. And it was not happenstance.

Brexit has finally been approved. Storm Dennis, officially classified as a “weather bomb,” was lashing Britain as the shows began, flooding roads and wreaking havoc. A designer here could be forgiven for thinking it’s the end of days. It’s definitely the end of something. The issue for everyone is what comes next.

“Of course I’m worried,” said Molly Goddard after her show of tulle extravaganzas mixed with chunky Fair Isle knits and nerdy-cool tailoring that was an ode to her youth in the late 1990s around London’s Portobello Market. “I’m worried about the people in my factories, most of whom aren’t English, even though the factories are nearby.”

That’s to be expected. As was the existential questioning of identity that was an underlying current in so many of the clothes here: What does it mean to be British? What content do these symbols we put on our backs contain any more?

What was less predictable was where such thinking led some designers: not to the depths of despair, but somewhere else entirely. To a world after doomsday. To renewal, and reinvention.

Could cynicism be out of fashion? What an idea.

Identity and Its Discontents

But first, there was a lot of black. A lot of big, swaddling volumes. A lot of covert messaging and a lot of wrestling — some good, some weighed down with angst — with the past. For some: a lot of royal sleevage. For others: argyle, houndstooth, tweed.

Victoria Beckham belted her curving black sheaths and neatly tailored culotte-suits with hands-across-the-hips silver and cut diamond-shaped holes into her sweater vests like a remembrance of things lost. Emilia Wickstead offered big puffed sleeves and even bigger skirts; Roksanda, a safe space of billowing, shimmering drapes of many colors and chunky, patchwork-nation knits.

At Burberry, the chief creative officer, Riccardo Tisci, named his collection “Memories:” of the brand itself, but also of London, when he was a fashion student, living in the Bethnal Green neighborhood, and of his trips to India, where he started his own label; of the melting pot of the capital and the designer mind. That meant — checks! And trench coats! Lots of them with feathers and faux furs, deconstructed into parts and twisted into sari-like assemblages; mixed and matched and also madras for men and women; leopard and contrasting linings thrown in.

Also the occasional big star plastered on the front of a shirt, and a festival’s worth of rugby stripes in cinnamon and turmeric, as if for a game of Quidditch in Mumbai. Also some go-go silver fringe, for evening. Also a lot of green (afterward Burberry announced the show had been certified carbon neutral and that it was creating what it called “a regeneration fund” to support carbon insetting in its supply chain).

If that sounds like it is skating across the surface — not the environmental initiatives, which are laudable, but the fashion interpretations of the national totems — that’s also how it looked: polished, easy to wear, but lacking depth and soul. Which is odd, because Mr. Tisci is nothing if not an emotional designer, and it often takes an outsider (he’s Italian) to really grapple with a country’s imagery. It’s as if he is deliberately denaturing himself to appeal to as many people as possible; going not with his gut, but with his market research.

Of Risk and Reward

In any case, it still made more sense than Tommy Hilfiger’s #TommyNow celebration of Americana, inclusivity and his celebrity connections in stars, stripes, anchors aweigh, neon and slogans — “Just Rise;” “Still Human;” “Loyalty” — via collaborations with the singer H.E.R. and the Formula One star Lewis Hamilton. The effect was of a semi-party in a place that isn’t really in the mood to party any more (and that has increasingly mixed feelings about the “special relationship” between itself and its former colony anyway). The message was meaningful, but the medium confused.

Mr. Hilfiger has never been a thinking person’s designer. That is absolutely fine; not all clothes need a philosophical grounding (that would be exhausting). But a little sensitivity to context and timing is no bad thing.

British fashion — London fashion — has always had an identity more rooted in risk-taking creativity than in page-view calculation and hashtags.

In the willingness, for example, of Hussein Chalayan to not just double down on the idea of a suit and turn a pair of trousers into a cardigan for his Chalayan show, so the legs wrap the shoulders and the hips shadow the back, but to dare to write and sing his own songs, live, as an accompaniment (that’s putting yourself out there). In the explosive romance of Richard Quinn’s Buckingham Palace-size florals and empire drapes; the pointed extravagance of his nod to Pearly Kings and Queens, the cockney performers with mother-of-pearl studded costumes. In a sense of history, and the gumption to turn it on its head.

Historical Revisionism

Which is why it was so striking to see the connections between the 1920s and the 2020s being drawn at Erdem, with his Cecil Beaton-inspired checkerboards and bias frills; his Erté feathers and lamé Wedgewood-print puffers; his flapper dresses dripping loops of pearls. At Christopher Kane, where things took a turn for the sexually subversive (he called his show “Naturotica’) in more Art Deco geometries. Meant, apparently, to reference the love triangle of Adam, Eve and the serpent, and followed by lacy lingerie slips, strait-laced shirt dresses with sheer mesh tops and chain mail apple-red skirts slit to mid-hip on either side.

And at JW Anderson, where in a terrific collection Jonathan Anderson reached across the century to mix the classic with the couture with the sci-fi to create something viscerally, elegantly modern.

“I was thinking about that moment in the ’20s when everything resurged and rebounded,” he said backstage after the show, which he dubbed “nouveau chic.”

So he took heritage swing coats in camel and wool and blew them up to “optimistic volumes,” adding giant swaddling leather collars; crushed fantasy beer-can-print lamé into shift dresses; crafted sleeveless metallic bubble gowns out of fringed metallic knits to mimic a very glamorous Snuffleupagus; and topped the shoulders of flowing flannel capes, curvaceous tweed coats and silver screen siren gowns with fronds of pearly cellophane that wafted gently in the wind.

It is possible, of course, to question whether the 1920s — the years between the wars — is actually the best harbinger for fashion to embrace. They may have represented a great creative flowering, a burst of energy and social revolution, but they did not exactly end well. On the other hand, you can’t argue with the fact that if, indeed, the four horsemen are coming, at least this way we can greet them with aplomb.

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/life-style/what-do-you-wear-to-the-end-of-days-2/

#Life style

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dulwichdiverter · 6 years ago

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Sustainable style

We-Resonate is described as a sustainable alternative to commercial fashion. Founder Lizzie Clark tells us more

By Katie Allen; Photo by Alexander McBride Wilson

Finding that one-of-a-kind outfit just got a lot easier thanks to Lizzie Clark. The East Dulwich resident is founder of We-Resonate, a new ethical clothing brand that creates unique dresses and tops from vintage silk scarves.

Beautiful as these garments are – Lizzie describes them as “affordable luxury” – she is keen to emphasise that they are wearable for any occasion, from the office to evening events to weddings. Each dress is based upon the same fluid slip style and is flattering to every figure.

A former print designer for Alexander McQueen’s McQ diffusion line, Lizzie says the shape is “really easy” to wear. “It’s meant to be inserted quite easily into a woman’s wardrobe – you can style it with T-shirts, with shirts, blouses, over trousers,” she explains.

A couture seamstress based in Dulwich makes up each garment from Lizzie’s eye-catching original “composition” of vintage silk pieces.

“She’s an amazing seamstress, she’s been working in couture for 10 to 15 years, and it takes her four hours to make a long dress. That sounds quite time-consuming, but it’s because she’s working with silk. It’s such a difficult fabric to work with, and she does it meticulously.”

The key to these covetable, zero-waste garments is Lizzie’s eye for vintage prints and materials. “I start by sourcing the scarves,” she says. “I’ve learned the silks I can use, which aren’t too see-through, will wear well and are the right colours.

“I kind of go with my instinct – I think that’s what I’ve learned throughout my career. I pick them out, get them home, lay them out and group them into colours or just stories.

“I have to engineer the pattern shape around the fabrics, where they’ve worn – like if there are little holes or where the hem’s frayed a little bit. But [using the scarves] salvages a print that might otherwise be lost.”

Lizzie sources the scarves from all around London, at spots including Little Sister in Peckham’s Holdron’s Arcade, Portobello Market, Spitalfields and Hackney, in addition to the famous vintage shops of Paris.

Taking inspiration from vintage scarves has been a key part of her career. She was brought up in Hertfordshire, then “grew up on a beach” on the south coast where her family moved when she was 11.

“I’ve always been artistic,” she says. “I went into art foundation and then university at Winchester School of Art, doing print design. I did an internship with McQueen in my second year.

“My dream was always to work for Alexander McQueen. You read all these books that say if you have a mission in life and you project it, you’ll make it happen. I turned up at McQueen’s doorstep on my first day and I was like, ‘Oh my God, I’ve made it. I can’t believe it!’ [His] aesthetic always resonated with me.”

After her degree she worked as a freelancer “from her “parents’ dining room”, hand-painting silk designs to sell to the industry. After a year, she had the opportunity to move to New York as a scarf designer. She jokes that at the time, she wondered, “‘Who wears silk scarves?’ I’d be working for hours on this beautiful print for someone to tie it around their neck, so you couldn’t see it.”

Love and family brought her back to UK, where she continued to freelance, and then she got the job as print designer, later senior print designer, at McQ. The label was set up by Alexander McQueen as a punky, avant-garde sister brand to his couture collections.

It was not long after the great designer’s death and she worked under Sarah Burton, who famously designed the Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress.

Then Lizzie had her baby Elsie and while on maternity leave, she came up with the idea of using the vintage collections that McQ used for inspiration to create a mini collection of unique garments. The idea proved too difficult to produce commercially, but a seed was sown. “We didn’t go ahead, and I thought, ‘Let’s do this myself.’”

Lizzie didn’t return to McQ after her maternity leave, and developed We-Resonate out of that original idea.

The name she says was chosen because “clothing and everything we buy and have in our lives should resonate with us. It should make us feel that sense of memory, joy or just an enjoyable emotion linked with an experience. We-Resonate has such a story behind it: a depth that when you find out more about a particular dress, it will resonate with you.”

Ethics are the cornerstone of the brand. She had watched a number of documentaries about the environmental damage and human exploitation caused by the fashion industry; including 2015 film The True Cost.

“That’s what made this happen,” she says. “As a mother, your emotions are quite highly tuned anyway, and after I watched that film, I was like, ‘I’ve got to do something about this.’

“People always say, ‘Are there enough scarves, is it scalable?’ There are tonnes! Do you know how much stuff has been produced over the past 50 years? It’ll keep us going forever.

“That’s the point of me using no new materials. I need to answer the sustainability problem. I’m a fashion designer [but] I just can’t bear to make anything new. I just can’t do it.”

Her typical customer, she believes, is “the woman who is very time-poor but thought-rich”. She adds: “She doesn’t have time to do her own research. She wants really great style, really easily, but she’s also started to look for fashion that’s more authentic, has more integrity.

“There are a lot of women who appreciate [vintage], but find it hard to buy. They can’t find the right size, they want more of a contemporary feel. I feel like I’m exactly that. We-Resonate is vintage fabrics but in a really contemporary new shape. It’s meant to be really easy to wear, really relaxed, a bit nonchalant – that vibe.”

She laughs, but her mission to combat over-consumption is serious. “We’ve got to change the way that that people shop. Do you remember when you were younger, you would say, ‘Let’s go shopping for my birthday’? Shopping shouldn’t be a hobby, an interest. Going surfing, or painting – that’s a hobby.”

She believes that the only way to really spread the message of sustainable dressing – in the same way the general public is beginning to embrace ideas such as checking the source of their food or avoiding plastic waste – is through “one-to-one talking”.

“It’s having those conversations with people. Angry, hard-hitting [messaging] is not the way. There’s a great website called What’s Your Legacy, which makes [sustainable living] really cool and beautiful. That’s the way: we’ve got to make it the irresistible choice.”

She has founded a collective, We-R, as part of the We-Resonate brand to spread the word further. It currently exists as a series of interviews with different women on her website and “how they’re not necessarily knowingly living more sustainably, [it’s just about] different ways women live and love fashion and have style.

“The whole point of this business was to make sustainability more accessible and to promote it and make it cooler. And the only way to do that is one-on-one – influencing your friends and influencing the people you meet.”

Her five-year plan for the business is to become “more like a lifestyle brand” and to “have more of a community hub”. She is considering the idea of renting the dresses out as part of a swap-shop.

“It’s funny, since I’ve started selling [I’ve discovered that] making new products isn’t just the answer. Replacing a commercial product with an ethical product – that isn’t the end goal here. The idea is that our lives become more considered and conscious.”

Living in East Dulwich, where she has been based for four years, is key to her business and creativity in general. “I originally lived in Greenwich,” she says. “I lived above Starbucks next to the Cutty Sark.

“It was so busy at the weekends, I really wanted a community, somewhere that was less touristy, somewhere more residential. I wanted to live somewhere where I could hear the birds sing, not people yelling.”

The local area and people have contributed more directly to We-Resonate too. She shot the look-book with a group of friends and fellow mums in Watson’s General Telegraph on Forest Hill Road. “The photographer was a mum, the model was a mum, all local, and we had the best day.”

She loves East Dulwich for its relaxed feel. “When we first came to East Dulwich, it had that sense that you’re not actually in London, but at the same time you’re right next to Peckham, which is so vibrant in its culture.

“It seemed like the perfect balance of somewhere to live and a place where I would be very happy to bring up children, but where I could also satisfy my inner creative spirit.”

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taylor87kelly-blog · 7 years ago

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worldhotelvideo · 7 years ago

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vdbstore-blog · 7 years ago

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New Post has been published on Vintage Designer Handbags Online | Vintage Preowned Chanel Luxury Designer Brands Bags & Accessories

New Post has been published on http://vintagedesignerhandbagsonline.com/couples-who-dress-alike-it-looks-like-were-from-the-same-cult-fashion/

Couples who dress alike: 'It looks like we’re from the same cult' | Fashion

Jimi Phgura, 38, performing artist, and Simran Dhiman-Phgura, 38, freelance stylist, Hertfordshire

Jimi I’ve always worn classic clothes – I love the fabrics and weight that old clothes have. Growing up, I was introduced to them by my older brother, whom I perform with as the Twilight Players – we dance to music from ska to Prince to Stevie Wonder, and we always wear original clothes: the two-tone brogues, the baggies. I’ve had my quiff since I was 13; Jimi the Quiff is what they call me.

When I was growing up, I used to get a lot of hassle for being into vintage stuff. As I’ve got older I’ve thought, no, it’s good to be different. And being with Simran has given me more confidence to dress that way. It makes it more exciting to have both of us wearing it, as opposed to her wearing tracksuit bottoms or something.

I’ve been aware of us dressing similarly since we got together in 2005. When we went out, people would say, “Oh, you guys look amazing.” But it wasn’t until last year, when we decided to start selling a lot of our stuff to fund a trip to Thailand and did Portobello market, only then did I think, oh, people really dig our style. People would see us together and take photos.

I don’t really see it as couples dressing; it’s not as if we sit together and think about what we’re going to wear. Nine times out of 10, we just end up wearing something that matches or complements each other. And now that we’ve got a baby on the way, we’ve started noticing baby vintage stuff; I didn’t know that existed before.

Simran I’m a secondhand queen, I like to shop on eBay and all the apps, from Depop to Vinted. The 50s and 60s are my favourite eras, but at the moment, because I’m pregnant, I’m doing flowy 70s style to accommodate my growing bump.

We influence each other. Jimi has a great eye and I’ve got a great eye, so we do ask each other for advice. If I’m going to a wedding or something, I’ll plan my outfit. We’re of Indian descent and if I’m wearing a vintage sari, he’ll try to complement it with a vintage suit in similar colours. But we never intentionally match. It’s cute sometimes. It just depends on the mood I’m in – sometimes you don’t want to look like your husband.

The baby won’t necessarily look matching; but if I’m dressed in a classic outfit, I might dress the baby in one, too.

Malcolm Mackenzie (in blue top), 43, editor of We Love Pop magazine, and Matthew Wilkinson, 35, architect, London

‘It looks like we’re from the same cult or boy band.’ Photograph: Harriet Turney for the Guardian

Malcolm Matt and I have been going out for 13 years, but we probably only started to dress more similarly when we moved in together eight years ago. I was more subtle before.

We’ve grown to like the same things. I like 80s-inspired stuff, from Duran Duran to Miami Vice, Buffalo. Harrison Ford as Deckard in Blade Runner is a key look, as is Kurt Russell in Overboard and Richard Gere in anything. I like clothes that evoke memories, of a holiday, for instance. We’ve got racks of amazing shirts that conjure up the Mediterranean or the Riviera, but through the prism of the 80s. It’s a fun wardrobe.

We’re not matchy-matchy – if I’m wearing a sweater with a cat and he’s wearing one with a dog, it’s a bit much

We’re not matchy-matchy – if I’m wearing a sweater with a cat on, and he’s wearing a sweater with a dog, then it’s a bit much. I don’t want us to go out looking like overgrown twins or a Little Britain sketch. Sometimes I say, “We can’t both go out wearing a denim shirt”, like Britney and Justin. And I don’t want people to think, because I’m a few years older than Matt, that it’s a Henry Higgins/Eliza Doolittle thing, or Liberace and his chauffeur. I think it looks like we’re from the same cult or boy band: we’re not dressed identically but we do make sure that we look OK together.

We can share clothes only from the waist up – I have legs like spaghetti, he comes from a family of rugby players. We don’t share underwear for the same reason.

Matthew In the 80s, Peter York wrote a book about different tribes: one of them was Babytime, or people who like childish things. We might like a sweatshirt with Bambi on it, or primary colours. To say that we both like cute things is a bit simplistic, but we are quite silly. We’re both happy to be slightly ridiculous.

Colour-blocking is the core thing that describes how I dress. In terms of what I wear, it’s actually pretty classic. I’m not stirring up fashion madness with culottes or anything like that – it’s more about the colours and the textures.

Malcolm is probably a bit wilder than I am, more daring. He has quite a lot of zeitgeisty culture statement T-shirts. He’s got a Golden Girls one that I would never wear – not that he would ever let me. When I was a kid, I would always get my mum to buy me things – orange trousers or stupid rainbow jumpers – and then I would be too scared to wear them. Malcolm has given me the confidence to wear what I want.

Ben Langlands, 62, and Nikki Bell, 58, both Turner-nominated artists, London and Kent

‘I wouldn’t go back and change if we were too matching.’ Photograph: Harriet Turney for the Guardian

Ben We have been collaborating for 40 years, so I do talk about what we wear as a “we”. We’re artists, so we’re free to choose whatever we want to wear; we don’t have to meet other people’s expectations.

Work is our main priority, so we dress to be practical and comfortable. We generally wear jeans and white shirts, occasionally suits, or a jacket with jeans. We’ll wear a single-coloured shirt, like pink or blue, with jeans. Neither of us ever wears dresses – it’s always shirts and trousers.

I don’t think there’s really anything I would wear that she wouldn’t, or vice versa

I remember once, when I first got to know Nikki, we visited the parents of a childhood friend of hers and they showed us a Super 8 film of their daughter’s 12th birthday party. There were about 30 little girls in frocks and one little girl in pink flared trousers. That was Nikki.

We never attempt to match, it just happens naturally. But we’re not terribly self-conscious about it. I don’t think there’s really anything I would wear that she wouldn’t, or vice versa. It’s all quite androgynous.

Nikki My clothes are very simple to wear, wash, pack, maintain. I’ve always been a trousers person.

We met at art school in 1977 and started collaborating in 1978. When we first got together, I don’t think I was conscious of the similarities in the way we dressed. We came together through our work – a piece called The Kitchen, in two halves. I made the old kitchen and Ben the new; they were mirror images of each other.

I wouldn’t try not to match – it’s an individual decision and I wouldn’t go back and change if we were too matching. If that’s what we both wanted to wear, then that’s what we’re wearing.

Langlands & Bell’s Internet Giants: Masters of the Universe opens at the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham in March 2018.

Brittany Bathgate, 27, blogger, and Dean Khalil, 32, builder/artist, Norwich

‘She’s a bit too small for us to share, but I have worn women’s clothes in the past.’ Photograph: Harriet Turney for the Guardian

Brittany We were really different when we first met. Dean was into DIY clothes – he’d dye his own T-shirts, cut them up, write on them. I was massively into Alexa Chung, so my style used to be quite indie It girl – lots of blazers, brogues, peacoats with miniskirts. It was a little bit 60s – sometimes I would wear my hair in a tiny beehive.

In 2013, we went travelling and spent a year in Australia. Before we went away, we didn’t dress similarly, but something switched: after a few months of living near the beach, you give up on wearing anything nice and just live in shorts and a vest out of necessity. So by the time we came home, we had a blank slate, clothes-wise, and got to start building our wardrobes back from scratch.

Dean’s a bit more rough around the edges. His skateboard style is too dirty for me. I iron everything

We’re quite aware of our couples dressing – we do often have to ask what the other is wearing so we’re not too similar. Sometimes if we’re going out, I’ll have got dressed and Dean will be like, “Oh, I was going to wear my blue jacket.”

My style is quite clean and classic. I find it fun to play around with pairings of classic pieces with, say, some crazy, wide-legged trousers. Dean’s a bit more rough around the edges. His skateboard style is too dirty for me. I iron everything and am quite particular.

We both have a lot of stripy tops, navy jackets, the same Levi’s. I’ve always been inspired by men’s clothes, but look for a women’s version – because I’m so small I can’t really wear them.

Dean I like a lot of classic British style – labels like Fred Perry and that sort of 60s look that’s fitted but not fitted. This Is England is a good style reference.

Nine years ago, when we first met, we were both at art school and I was a bit more flamboyant. In the early days of our relationship, I used to wear these black jeggings with bleach on them. I had some big builder’s boots. Our tastes have changed, but in the same direction – we’ve grown together. Sometimes we will literally have the same outfit on.

Brittany’s a bit too small for us to share clothes, but I have worn women’s clothes in the past. I used to wear girls’ jeans – when I was younger I couldn’t get jeans tight enough.

But I also have a lot of clothes that Brittany wouldn’t wear. I have Converse that are about eight years old; once white and now brown. I love them, but Brittany won’t wear shoes once they’ve got a mark on them. Every day when the shoes come off, they are stuffed and go back in the box on the shelf. Everything gets ironed.

Joel Bird, 42, carpenter/author of The Book Of Shed, and Sara Chew, 37, graphic designer/illustrator, London

‘We drifted together, but not consciously – I can’t remember ever thinking, I’d like to dress like Sara.’ Photograph: Harriet Turney for the Guardian

Joel I class my style as 30s/40s. My family thinks that I dress a bit like Indiana Jones. I didn’t set out to dress like this, but I wanted functional clothes for carpentry, and the high-waisted trousers with braces are comfortable. Plus I am interested in that era – I like jazz, and dance swing and balboa.

Even at school I dressed quite unusually – I’ve always been interested in craft. As a lad in Liverpool, I always had a sewing machine, and now I do make some of my clothes. I buy dungarees from eBay or secondhand sites like Rokit and cut the tops off to make them into high-waisted jeans. I often buy old army braces because they’re stronger than fashion braces.

Sara and I have been together for 11 years and living together for nine. I think until about five years ago, Sara dressed more vintage than I did, then we kind of drifted together, but not consciously. I almost don’t like the idea of dressing the same as my partner – it’s my paranoia at the lack of independence. But it’s inevitable – you take influences from each other.

We do sometimes share clothes. Sara steals my stuff, and if I’m desperate I can wear her trousers; but it’d have to be a bad wash day.

Sara I think Joel and I have come to dress the same because we both like things that are practical and well made.

I’m different from Joel in that I’m totally happy for us to dress the same; I’m a graphic designer and illustrator, and I like things to look right. If we go out and we look similar, to me that’s good, because we’re not clashing. I wouldn’t make us go out in matching shellsuits, though.

I’ve been wearing vintage stuff my whole life. For me it’s about the way they fit – because of the type of body I’ve got, I don’t suit a lot of modern clothes. It’s about the cut, the fabric – and the fact that they last better.

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