#single breasted wool coat

[pucksandpower]

Meet Me at the Met

Lewis Hamilton x up-and-coming singer!Reader

Summary: in which you go head over heels (quite literally) during the most important event of the year and end up right at the feet of none other than Sir Lewis Hamilton himself

Warnings: minor injury

The roar of the crowd hits you like a tidal wave as you step onto the iconic themed carpet of the Met Gala. Flashing bulbs from countless cameras nearly blind you as you blink rapidly, trying to adjust. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it thrumming in your throat.

“Over here, honey!” A photographer calls out, gesturing for you to turn towards him. You pivot gracefully, the layers of shimmering tulle from your Maison Margiela gown swirling around you.

“Work it! Look this way, sweetheart!” Another shouts, snapping shot after shot.

You take a steadying breath, channeling every ounce of confidence you can muster. This is your first Met Gala, the biggest night of your fledgling music career so far. One misstep could be disastrous.

Your publicist Samantha appears at your side, perfectly put together as always in a sleek sheath dress. “You’re doing great,” she murmurs with an encouraging smile. “Just keep smiling and be yourself.”

Nodding, you continue gliding down the iconic path, pausing at the designated spots to pose for the ravenous paparazzi. An elegant string of Bulgari emeralds adorns your neck, glittering mesmerizingly under the bright lights.

“Miss! To your left please!”

You turn obediently, the intricate beadwork on your deep blue-green gown catching the flashes. Despite the oppressive late spring humidity, you refuse to let a single drop of sweat show. This night is too important.

After what feels like an eternity, a security guard appears to usher you up the final flight of stairs and into the main event. With a brilliant smile plastered on your face, you make your way carefully up the steps, lifting the delicate train of your dress to keep from tripping.

Suddenly, one sparkly heel catches on the fabric and you’re thrown off balance. Unable to catch yourself, you tumble head over heels back down the stairs, gasping in shock and pain as you land hard on the ground.

There’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd as you blink up at the bright lights, thoroughly stunned. Your vision is blurred and there’s a sharp throbbing in your head. When you try to push yourself up, bolts of agony shoot through your right wrist.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” A deep, accented voice sounds from beside you.

You turn your head and your breath catches in your throat. Crouched beside you in an exquisitely tailored double breasted suit and wool coat is arguably the most handsome man on the planet. His beautiful coffee-colored eyes are filled with concern as he reaches out to gently brush a loose strand of hair from your face.

“I … I think so,” you manage to stammer out, though your pounding head begs to differ. “Just clumsy, I guess.”

Despite the sheepish grin you attempt, a wince of pain crosses your features as you shift positions. Lewis’ brow furrows and he places one large hand on your bare shoulder to keep you still.

“Easy there, love. Don’t try to move just yet,” he soothes in that rich baritone that has melted millions of hearts. “You took quite a nasty fall.”

You nod mutely, unable to tear your widened eyes away from his handsome face. This couldn’t be happening … could it? Did you really just faceplant in front of the entire world and, perhaps more importantly, your celebrity crush?

“S-Sorry,” you whisper, utterly mortified. “I’m usually much more graceful than this, I swear.”

Lewis chuckles warmly and you feel your cheeks flush. “No need to apologize, darling. These things happen to the best of us.”

Nearby, Samantha is frantically trying to wave over security and a medic, her expression pinched with worry. You groan quietly as another stab of pain lances through your skull. Definitely a concussion, if your swimming vision is any indication.

“Let’s get you looked at, yeah?” Lewis murmurs, rising fluidly to his feet.

Before you can protest, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, cradling you gently against his firm chest. You suck in a shocked breath at the sudden movement, instinctively reaching up to grab onto his shoulders for stability. His Burberry suit is buttery soft under your fingers.

“Whoa … y-you really don’t have to carry me,” you stammer out as he easily lifts your frame.

Those rich brown eyes meet yours with an amused glint. “I insist. Can’t have one of the brightest new voices in music getting any more hurt, can we?”

You bite your lip shyly, unable to hold back a small smile of wonderment. Is this really happening right now?

“I’ll be fine, honestly,” you try again as Lewis maneuvers around the gathered crowd, heading for a discreet exit with Samantha close behind. “Just a little banged up.”

“Your wrist is already swelling, love,” he points out with a frown. “Best to get it checked properly, yes?”

“I … yeah, okay,” you acquiesce quietly, not having the energy or brainpower to argue with him further.

The two of you disappear through a door and down a mercifully empty hallway, leaving the stunned crowd and flashing cameras behind. Samantha is rapidly conversing with security to locate the nearest medic station.

“Thank you,” you murmur, letting your head rest wearily against Lewis’ shoulder. Up close, he smells incredible — like crisp bergamot and just a hint of expensive cologne. “For helping me, I mean. I’m sure you had better things to do tonight than playing knight in shining armor.”

Lewis smiles down at you, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart flutter unexpectedly. “What a coincidence, I just so happen to be a knight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, suddenly feeling shy under his warm gaze. “Lucky for me then, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” he agrees with a wink. “Though I can’t take all the credit. That dress is clearly too stunning for us mere mortals to handle.”

A watery giggle slips past your lips before you can stop it. Even slightly concussed and in quite a bit of pain, you can’t deny that foreign flutters are dancing in your stomach just from being in Lewis’ presence. He’s even more charming in person than you ever could have dreamed.

“You’re too kind, Sir Hamilton,” you tease lightly. “But I’ll be sure to leave the couture gowns at home next time.”

Lewis opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by Samantha hurrying over with a young medic in tow, his kit already open. The worried expression on her face deepens when she sees your obviously injured wrist cradled against your chest.

“Thank god you have her,” she exhales in relief, nodding towards Lewis. “What do we know so far?”

“Took a pretty hard fall down those stairs,” Lewis explains calmly as the medic kneels down to begin his assessment. “She was unconscious for a moment and seems to have injured her wrist as well.”

You wince as the medic gently prods along your forearm. “Definitely a sprain at the very least,” he confirms. “And with the way her pupils are reacting ...”

He shines a small light into both your eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’d say mild concussion too. We should get her to the infirmary for further evaluation, just in case.”

Hearing his words, a small wave of panic crashes over you. Missing any part of tonight because of this would be devastating. You force yourself to sit up straighter, ignoring the way the room spins sickeningly.

“No, no I’ll be fi-”

“You’re not going anywhere but to get checked out properly,” Lewis cuts you off firmly, placing a staying hand on your shoulder. His expression brooks no argument. “Head injuries are nothing to mess around with, love.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but Samantha quickly interjects. “He’s absolutely right. We’re not taking any chances with your health.”

As much as you hate to admit it, they do have a point. If your condition really is as serious as the medic suggests, it could be dangerous to simply brush it off. You let out a resigned sigh, wilting back against Lewis’ sturdy chest.

“I suppose you’re ri-”

Before you can finish your sentence, a sudden dizzy spell washes over you. Bile rises in your throat as the room tilts crazily. Your voice trails off into an anguished groan as you squeeze your eyes shut, fighting off waves of nausea.

“Alright, that’s it. We’re getting you looked at immediately,” Lewis declares. He shifts you effortlessly in his arms and strides down the hallway, the medic and Samantha hurrying to keep up.

The rest of the journey to the infirmary is a blur. You’re vaguely aware of being transferred to a gurney and giving the doctor on staff your information. Lewis’ worried face keeps appearing in your line of vision, his voice a soothing balm against the incessant pounding in your skull.

Finally, the doctor confirms that while your concussion isn’t serious, you definitely need to be monitored overnight. A brace is fitted around your sprained wrist and you’re given strict instructions on managing the symptoms over the next few days. Throughout it all, Lewis remains stubbornly by your side, declining offer after offer to return to the main event.

Thoroughly drugged and exhausted by this point, you can barely keep your eyes open as a wheelchair is brought over to transport you out to the car waiting area. Lewis helps you into it carefully, crouching down in front of you with a tender expression.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble miserably, gesturing vaguely to your bandaged wrist and slightly dazed state. “I’ve completely ruined your whole night … your entrance, your photo ops … everything.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head adamantly. “Don’t be ridiculous, love. I’d take meeting someone as wonderful as you over all of that any day.”

You blink up at him in surprise, an embarrassed blush staining your cheeks. Did he really just say that? Lewis Hamilton, world famous athlete and heartthrob, thinks you’re wonderful?

“Still,” you protest weakly. “This is supposed to be your night to shine. And now you’re stuck playing nurse for a clumsy fool.”

Lewis arches an eyebrow sternly. “I think you’ve bumped your head around a bit too much, darling. That’s no way to speak about yourself.”

He reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingertips grazing your flushed cheek with unexpected tenderness. Your breath catches in your throat at the gentle gesture.

“Missing out on some silly party is more than worth it to me if I got to meet someone as lovely as you,” Lewis continues honestly. His eyes are filled with sincerity. “The only thing I’m upset about is that you were the one who got hurt.”

You’re rendered speechless for a long moment, completely disarmed by his words. Never in a million years could you have imagined this kind of scenario playing out tonight. Is this all really happening?

Finally, you manage a weak smile, blushing furiously under his warm regard. “You’re too kind, Sir Hamilton.”

“Please, call me Lewis,” he insists with a wink. “And let me know where you’re staying, yeah? I’ll come by tomorrow to check on how you’re doing myself.”

Your eyes widen in surprise and you quickly scramble to recall the name of your hotel. “U-Um, the Lotte New York Palace,” you stammer out shyly. “But you really don’t have to do that ...”

Lewis waves off your protest easily, rising to his feet with a soothing grin. “Nonsense, it’s no trouble at all. I’ll be by with some breakfast to make sure my favorite new artist is being properly taken care of.”

With a final wink and dazzling smile, he steps aside to allow an assistant to wheel you towards the exit. Your head is still swimming, though you can’t blame it entirely on the concussion this time.

Did Lewis Hamilton, actual living legend, really just say he was coming to check on you tomorrow?

You allow yourself a tiny, bewildered smile as the night breeze washes over your heated cheeks. Somehow, despite all the mishaps, this crazy night had turned into something straight out of the kind of romantic comedy you secretly loved.

Perhaps falling on your face in front of the entire world wasn’t so disastrous after all.

[beansprean]

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Some of my fav Vampire Guillermo outfits from my ongoing paper doll insanity! May or may not be canon for My Familiar's Ghost ;). 30+ more of these over on Patreon lol

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Full body of vampire Guillermo posing with his right hand in a peace sign and his left hand holding up his phone in selfie mode. He is wearing round glasses with gold frames and has his lips pursed as he looks at his phone screen. He is wearing brown dress shoes with a gold flame pattern, brown chinos, and a dark red ribbed sweater vest over a blue and pink floral button down. His collar is popped and he has on several gold rings, a gold hoop in his left ear, and a gold dangle on his right.

2. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing brown dress shoes with a lighter toe cap, dark blueish gray wool pants with a checker pattern, a lighter gray sweater vest over a pink button down with white stripes, and a black four tailed peacoat with a red rose pattern and lighter red lapels and liner. He has on several gold rings and gold studs with a curved loop back.

3. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing brown dress shoes with a lighter heart shaped toe cap, red chinos, and a sheer black button up with a red heart pattern over a black tank top. He has a single silver ring with a heart shape on his left ring finger and teardrop red jewels dangling from his ears.

4. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing rosy brown dress shoes with lighter wing tips, light pink cuords held up by suspenders, and a light pink and peach floral button up under an open knee length rosy brown cardigan with vertical stripes. There is a gold stud in his left ear and a dangling peach feather in his right.

5. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing leopard print loafers with no socks, black highwater pants, a black sweater with a knit chest pattern over a white button down, and an open front beige poncho with a diamond pattern along the trim. His shirt is untucked beneath the sweater, and he has on a pearl necklace along with several gold chains and matching pearl earrings.

6. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing brown wingtip shoes, black pinstripe high waisted pants, and a pale pink silk button up unbuttoned to his sternum under a knee length rosy brown fur coat. He has a white gold chain with a fang around his neck as well as matching rings topped with fangs on his middle two fingers and small hoops in his ears.

7. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing chocolate brown loafers, equally rich brown trousers, and a lace patterned sage green button up under a dark red cardigan with a diamond pattern. He has a knee length dark blue peacoat with a pink and green flower pattern on the lining and lapels as well as red teardrop earrings and a large blue stone on his left middle finger.

8. Repeat. Guilermo is wearing black dress shoes, black pants with a lighter bluish plaid pattern, and a black sweater over a white shirt with a red heart in the knit pattern over the breast. Fishnet pokes out from beneath the sleeves and he has on several silver rings, as well as a thin vertebrae necklace and ear studs with a silver triangle dangling from the left.

9. Repeat. Guillermo is wearing periwinkle loafers, dark purple-black pinstripe pants, and a translucent lace button down decorated with silver stars under a waistcoat colored like the night sky, with a purple nebula at the bottom and black with stars at the top. He has thin chain earrings and several silver rings shaped like stars and moons. /end ID

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: My Fall Wardrobe Essentials

Pima cotton long-sleeve tees (I like the Supima ones from Everlane for every day)

Contour body suits (I like the Express Bodycon Compression line and Spanx bodysuits in vegan leather/silk)

Silk button downs

Structured cotton button-down

Cashmere sweaters (crewneck, turtleneck, polo neck, etc. – Everlane, Nadaam, and Cuyana are great affordable options)

Zippered knitwear (I like options from Pixie Market, Naadam, COS, Ganni, Helmut Lang, Nanushka, and more)

Black high-waisted tailored trousers (bootcut, flared, and straight leg)

Black high-waisted jeans (straight and bootcut for me!)

Elevated stretch pants (I like the Norma Kamali Boot Pant and Spanx Perfect Pant for this)

Cashmere trouser

Cashmere hoodie

Thick, well-structured black sweatshirt

High-waisted straight-leg leather pants

Long-sleeve black sweater dress

Maxi-length black satin slip dress

Leather/quilted/tweed mini skirt

Long knit skirt (love a co-ord top for this, too)

Perfectly-tailored longline, single-breasted black blazer

Tailored hourglass blazer

Leather blazer

Classic leather moto jacket

Cropped patent leather jacket

Lightweight wool/satin duster coat

Black cotton trench/leather trench coat

Black tweed jacket with elevated hardware

Structured black wool coat

Leather puff jacket

Minimalist white sneakers

Black block-heeled, sleek square-toed/pointy-toe boots

Modern black loafers

Croc-embossed black boot

Black moto/lace-up boot or minimalist platform boot

Stiletto heel, pointy toe black boot (one short and one knee high length to dress up any outfit)

Western-inspired boot

Sleek and sexy black pumps

Structured black tote/shoulder bag

Structured crossbody bag

Small shoulder bag

Novelty/fun top handle bag (beaded, croc-embossed, crystal-embellishments, etc.)

Seamless bras/underwear

Control-top black tights (sheer and opaque)

Comfortable white and black ankle/crew socks

A cashmere, silk, or faux fur everyday scarf

Fingerless gloves

Chunky chain necklaces/bracelets

Delicate gold and silver chains (necklaces and bracelets)

Mixed-metal rings

Diamond-encrusted & cocktail rings

Ear cuffs and threader earrings

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Cashmere or silk loungewear/pajamas

A lace teddy

Cozy slippers

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 15 - La Vie En Rose

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, romantic vaginal sex, a brief reference to oral sex. Also features time jumps and the war coming to England.

Word Count: 2.4k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is the last chapter, and our pair finally have their idyllic home together in Wiltshire. There will also be an epilogue for this story that will be posted shortly after this chapter. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Wiltshire, UK, December 1939 - December 1940

The early December chill creeping under the hem of your wool coat instantly evaporates as your husband carries you over the threshold into your new home, warmth radiating from the roaring fires that blaze in each room.

“Welcome home, Mrs Bridgerton,” Benedict smiles, placing you gently onto your feet in the hallway, even as you do not relinquish the loop of your hands around his neck.

“Kiss me, Mr Bridgerton,” you appeal, pushing up onto your tiptoes and capturing his lips with yours.

Living in Aubrey Hall for the autumn was lovely, but a challenge to find privacy. Yes, time well spent as you were able to triage your friendship with Eloise, but tempered by a yearning to be with Benedict alone in your own home, impatient for the purchase to go through. It is three weeks before Christmas when you are finally able to take the last drive down to Wiltshire—this time for good rather than just a fleeting visit.

“I can't believe we are finally home,” you breathe happily over his lips, both of you breaking into matching grins.

“We are indeed,” he assures, withdrawing from your embrace to shuck his coat and help you out of yours. 

“Are we alone?” you whisper as he hangs both in the hallway cupboard.

“I told the two staff we have here to take the night off once we arrived, to return in the morning. They are in the little cottage down the lane, so yes, we are indeed alone, darling wife. What on earth do you have in mind?” He teases, sauntering back to you, that beguiling crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I would like to christen our house,” you declare, raising an eyebrow suggestively as you slide your hands up his biceps and hook them around his shoulders, pushing your body into his, your intent more than obvious.

“Which room, my love?” his voice is like velvet.

“All of them, husband,” you declare, loving the way his pupils dilate and his breath hitches. “Absolutely every single one…”

—

Refracted flames dance across his glassy pupils as he moves over you, taking you with him, dewy skin from the heat of the fireplace you lay next to. The rug is a slight burn under your shoulder blades, not that you would ever ask him to stop, wanting marks on your body from this magical night, so long overdue.

“What are you thinking of, my darling?” 

His voice resonant as your nails scratch lightly along his spine, your toes running down his calf muscles, squeezing him between your thighs as he gently thrusts into your body.

“I am thinking…. I am thinking how free I feel,” you confess breathily, pushing your breasts into his broad chest, undulating your hips to meet his, wanting him so deep inside you are altered in some way. “I can scream your name like I have wanted to for months…”

He groans loudly, capturing your lips in an artless, open-mouthed, desperate kiss, his hands hooked around your shoulders, using his forearms as leverage to pull you into his rhythm. “Please do, my love, please do…. I have longed to hear you let go completely….” he admits stutteringly.

“I cannot believe I had to sneak around for weeks with the man I was married to,” you giggle, recalling those heady weeks in summer when all was a secret.

He huffs a laugh into your throat, kissing there. “And I cannot believe my wife had to sleep in a separate bed from me for so long…” After his proposal, admittedly, you had moved to sharing his bedroom, but seeing as it was right next to Eloise’s, it has been many months of quiet intimacy. The autumn night being too cold to spend in the unheated summer house by the lake. 

Your hands grab his shapely bottom and encourage his movements, harsher now, chasing that moment of bliss for you both.

“Never again….” you counter emphatically, twining yourself around him like a vine, never wanting to be separated from his naked body, for him to be inside you always, always….

“Never indeed….” he concurs, his voice gravelly and cracked with emotion as he spears deeper and makes you cry his name, the sound echoing up your living room walls.

—

As the winter months slip by, The Cottage, as you have both taken to calling it, is your constant refuge. And thanks to its smallholding farm, Anthony is able to pull strings and secure Benedict's status as exempt from military conscription, a relief you are thankful for every day.

Your home is a welcoming embrace when you step in from a rewarding but chilly day working in the drafty local village library—your insistence on wanting a job something Benedict never disputed. And his artistic career blossoms, too, each piece he completes becoming a hotly contested item at auction in London. A small conservatory attached to the back of the house transforms into his art studio, where he works most days crafting beautiful, lyrical landscapes that steal your breath with their scope and beauty.

And as much as your home is a place of peace, tranquillity and creativity, it is also filled with passion; many hours are spent in joyous lovemaking in any and every room of the house, the novelty still not wearing off for either of you, even months later. 

Indeed, your staff, a benevolent, older married couple who become more akin to family, soon learn to turn a blind eye to any amorous activities they may unintentionally encounter. Including one unseasonably mild and memorable evening when they returned from dinner to find you upon the lawn, screaming at the dome of stars above—your nails scraping across Benedict’s scalp as he feasted between your legs.

—

It is a cold February morning when you blink awake to the melodic trill of a robin outside the dining room window. Benedict is fast asleep as you lay cocooned in his embrace under a blanket, embers glowing ashy white in the fireplace beside you. You must have fallen asleep here after a rather vigorous late-night session on your sturdy dining table—a nightcap becoming so much more, two drained whiskey tumblers still sitting upon the gleaming mahogany.

You smile at the memory, then turn your attention to the man wrapped around you, following your compulsion to map the raised veins on the back of his hand in front of your face. Your tongue trails those contours to the constellation of freckles on his forearm that you kiss. He is so fast asleep that he does not even seem to stir…

“Maam, a telegram has just come for you,” a tentative voice calls from the doorway as you startle.

You look up to see Mrs Crabtree, sweetly averting her eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs Crabtree,” you breeze, trying to conceal your slight embarrassment at having been caught red-handed kissing your slumbering husband’s arm rather covetously first thing in the morning.

She politely bustles over and drops the envelope next to you before making herself scarce. You peel open the message, then emit a wracking sigh as a warm pair of lips slide across your shoulder.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Benedict queries, voice rough from sleep.

Wordlessly, you hand him the telegram, his eyes scrunching slightly, attempting to read it without his glasses. 

In it, your parents tersely remind you of the money outstanding to the vendors for your cancelled nuptials to Stanley and request you to send additional funds as soon as possible.

“You have been sending them money?” Benedict looks appalled.

“Yes,” you sigh, sheepish to confess to the one thing you have been keeping from him for a while now. “I have been using my income to wire back money in instalments.” 

“Darling, they should not be asking you to do such a thing!” he argues, getting slightly agitated. “They were plenty rich enough to pay for their daughter to travel to Paris a few months ago! This feels rather too close to extortion…”

“I do not wish to be beholden to them, Benedict,” you answer fiercely, “for anything.”

He sees the fire in your eyes, and his face softens, nodding in understanding, always your greatest advocate. “May I at least pay them instead?” he offers. “I am the reason you are not marrying that man after all,” he reminds you with a dry chuckle, nuzzling your cheek before twisting to discard the telegram into the fireplace.

“I knew I was not marrying that man the moment I dropped that damn shoe,” a light-hearted giggle bubbling up as you push onto your hands to hover over Benedict, recalling with perfect clarity the moment you first clapped eyes on the man lying beneath you now.

“You did?” he lilts, a demure smile claiming his handsome features, a hand landing warm on the curve of your bottom under the blanket, encouraging you to settle on top of him.

“Even if nothing had ever happened between us, I suddenly knew what desire truly was,” you concede, a nostalgic pang to return to Paris with him, to experience its beauty mirrored in his hazy eyes again.

He chuckles warmly, looking up at you with gentle, hooded eyes as you feel something swelling between your bodies. “It was love at first sight for me,” he confesses tenderly. 

“It was?” you gasp softly, smiling broadly, staring down at the man you cannot imagine your life without, touching his cheek reverentially. 

“As I said when I proposed, I would marry you a hundred times over,” he enunciates slowly, assuredly, every cell of his being radiating his sincerity and desire. 

“And I would to you, Mr Bridgerton,” you grin, leaning down to capture his lips and claim him for yourself, his breath a shocked staccato as he slides into your body for the first time without protection, so much heat and skin.

“Mrs Bridgerton,” he moans, his voice a symphony of wrecked and potent desire.

“Call me your wife,” you say breathlessly, pushing up to sit upon him, the blanket falling away from your back, your naked bodies glowing in the early morning light as you begin to move.

“Wife,” he calls, hands clamping firmly around your hips as you rise and sink upon him.

“Husband…” you call back and pull his left hand up to your face, sucking his wedding ring finger into his mouth as you stare down at him challengingly, knowing how aroused he gets when you use that word, the metal clinking against the ivory of your teeth as you shudder lightly around his stretching invasion.

This. This is all I want.

—

The following spring, May 1940, Paris is invaded. 

You manage to reach Solène and are grateful to hear she is well, the occupation for the most part peaceful, if not odd and jarring. Life for you in rural Wiltshire, on the other hand, is idyllic, spring bringing life to your gardens, a riot of flowers, herbs and vegetables growing, beehives buzzing with life—a wondrous time that is indelible in your mind, even in your later years.

But, as with all things that are perhaps a shade too good, that temporary peace is shattered a couple of months later, an air and sea blockade beginning in July, followed shortly after by the Luftwaffe bombing military targets on the mainland. A resolute but stoic fear gripping the nation as summer drew on, knowing civilian targets would inevitably be next.

At the end of August, Anthony commands the rest of his family to evacuate Aubrey Hall, the location far too close to the French coast for his liking, knowing as an insider that matters could escalate within a matter of days rather than weeks. You receive word that the family are moving to stay with Daphne and Simon further north in Yorkshire. Well, all except one key person. Eloise. 

Ever the rebel, she telegrams to tell you she has eloped with Phillip to Gretna Green, much to Anthony and Colin's (and now Benedict’s) chagrin, moving in with him defiantly, his home not far from Aubrey Hall. Instantly becoming a stepmother, too.

“Eloise, are you certain?” you implore into the telephone, September 4th, sitting in the office of the village library.

“About Phillip? Of course I am, you idiot!”

“Not that,” you wave an unseen dismissive hand. “I knew from that first night in Portsmouth you were as gone for him as I was for your brother…” you argue, her sneer at that evident even down the phone. “I meant remaining in Kent. It seems dangerous. Why don't you and Phillip come here to Wiltshire? At least for now? We have spare rooms, and you are most welcome to stay…” you appeal, chewing your cuticle nervously. 

Last night, you and Benedict had agreed she would more likely take up an invitation extended by you than him.

“I’ll talk to Phillip,” she sniffs, which is the closest you will get to a thank you for the offer.

Two days later, Eloise, Phillip and his twins are at your doorstep, and not a moment too soon as the period, latterly known as The Blitz, begins the following night. Their home in Kent is spared, but the village school suffers some damage the following week and even without her saying a word, you can see the gratitude on her face as she watches the twins play safely in your back garden.

—

“Here you go, Amanda,” you smile down at the little girl, handing her a shiny metal star to hang on the Christmas tree.

Her toothy grin is adorable as she places it on a branch, giving herself a round of applause before running off to crawl into Eloise’s lap, who is busy making festive paper chains.

It is early December 1940, and the Cranes have been living with you for four months now; you imploring them to stay as the Blitz drags on. There has been bombing all over the country, primarily larger cities, but rural Wiltshire feels as safe of a bet as anywhere, not under the Nazi flight path to London in the same way that Kent is. 

Strong, warm arms wrap around your waist from behind, and you smile to yourself as Benedict crowds into you, admiring your handiwork on the tree.

“It looks beautiful, y/n,” he opines sweetly, bussing a kiss onto your temple. 

“Thank you, my love,” you reply, swaying gently in his arms, watching the children giggle as they throw strands of paper in the air; Eloise’s appeal to them not to do so falling on deaf ears, her expression one of fond exasperation.

“I never thought I would see the day…. Eloise Bridgerton, a mother,” you chuckle quietly as he joins in.

“Believe me, as her brother, I feel sorry for those children every day,” he jests. “But even I have to admit she has taken to it better than any of my other siblings, to be honest,” pausing before pulling you tighter into his embrace. “And what say you to children, Mrs Bridgerton?” he queries, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice suddenly silky, that tone that has a frisson running down your spine.

“I say maybe, Mr Bridgerton, just maybe…” you respond breezily over the strain of carol singers from the wireless Phillips flips on, feeling the lightness of hope in your being - that one day, just one day, this war will be over, and the world will be free again.

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[world-of-wales]

Catherine’s Royal Closet (70/∞) ♚

↬ Bespoke Ivory Tailored Wool Midi Coat Crafted by Saville Row's Chris Kerr, this ivory single-breasted piece features a front adorned with three covered buttons and notch lapels & bodice dart . It also has coat also has flap pockets and cuffs embellished with four covered buttons. Catherine wore the coat on : ・ 28.03.2023 - South Wales Visit ・ 30.01.2025 - Cardiff Visit

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 19 - "Blood Trail"

I do not celebrate my Aldish heritage. Ere my father bedded my mother, no form came to me by post polling me on the country in which I would prefer she push me out. Men who make over that accident have little else to make over, I have found. They would march for their aorta or their opposable thumb, if either were assigned a flag. Offer a plaque and a slap on the ass for the act of filling a commode, and they would demand both.

I cannot deny my Aldish boyhood left me with thick blood and hot lungs, however. Like the woolly snakes and the unnros, I can bear the cold.

Knowing this, you cannot dismiss me when I stress to you, reader, that Anchert island causes even this son of Alderode to shiver. Surrounded by icebergs, this frozen slice of risen Hell lurks at the far northeast of the world, cut off from the khert and overrun by savage Mmatont. The only way to tell it is land and not another berg is the darkness of its spruce-covered single mountain, and the few specks of firelight that burn therein.

There is only one way to reach the detestable place: a small craft on a moonless midnight, under the care of a pilot that knows the patrol patterns of the local police skiffs. I have never liked giving up coin - nor control - to these green-stinking hoods. There is no alternative. The khert-lines do not extend past the Tainish shore of the mainland. I cannot offset there.

I had never visited Anchert with Rahm, and he'd never been at all. As our boat docked inconspicuously on the great island's least populated shore, I watched him closely. I had chosen a smart, double-breasted wool coat, warm pymaric boots with a three week charge, blood red swineletskin gloves, a cosy muffler of feathers and fur.

Rahm was wholly quilted. Like a bedspread. I think Iori had dressed him.

"Man should not be here," he muttered, rasping his hands together and stomping his feet, "We were not designed to be here. The makers set aside the north for white bears and fat waterbitches; and Alderode stole it from them."

"Watch yourself," I whispered, crushing close to confer a bit of warmth, "They do not like the A-word here. The Mmatont would have every Ald out of Tain, had they their way."

"Well, I can see how they've so far managed it with this island. No sane person would want to live here. Is that why Alderode has let them be?"

I suppose that could be the case. The Mmatont - that is, the modern Tains who occupy Anchert - have long foolishly demanded that Alderode return their ancestral valley to them, and in fact, all of pymary. I will spare you the uninteresting history of it all, but they only agreed to meet Rahm and myself tonight because he is Crescian and I am a stateless fiend and we both are Black Tongues. Alderode happily hates the two of us as much as they hate the Mmatont, and the Mmatont hate them.

It was a few hours tedium disembarking. We hired servants to haul our trunks to our arranged lodgings inside of the mountain, and paid the stinking pilot a criminal amount of money. He promised to be back the next evening. Soon enough but not as soon as I'd have liked, Rahm and I were following a swarthy towhead deep underground.

The pissmop was dressed all in natty furs, and carried an open flame torch like some manner of primitive. What a hoot! What a safari. Rahm raised an eyebrow, pulled a pymaric light from his pocket. I shook my head. These freaks thought pymary should have remained with their ancestors. If he or I were going to cast or use any of our modern devices, it might raise the curtain on inconvenient drama.

"I suppose I can understand why the formulas have remained hidden here," whispered Rahm in Continental. Why was he whispering? I doubt the pissmop could understand. "It's wholly counterintuitive that something so helpful to burgeoning technology might be found in this backwards mountain."

Rahm tucked the little pymaric away, looking about at the living stone walls and the evidence of the painstakingly slow and primitive pymary that had formed them thousands of years ago. It must have been all State change and Heat siphoning to create the Contour, then Mass displacement to crack the block from the root; finally a reversal to haul each slab outside. I could still see the corrugations in sections of the wall; time had worn the floor smooth as a mill pond.

"They weren't always backwards," I pointed out.

"Even when Tainish civilisation was at its high peak, they knew nothing of Sounding. How-"

"The Tains didn't write these formulas, Raptor. The agib did."

My Crescian friend shook his head ruefully. "Do they even know what they have? They wouldn't need to live like this if they'd sell some of their secrets."

"Nationalism," I explained at his temple, and my breath made his wee feather earring dance, "Too many fools live and die unable to see beyond the colour of the dirt their mother shit them into. Oh, to beat your chest in the mud."

"But they're letting us in. Surely the fools understand we won't be keeping this to ourselves."

I nodded. "They do, but small men are weak to that other great psychological bugbear: you see, their god has TOLD them they must-"

The toe of my boot caught on an uneven seam in the floor, and only grasping Rahm's elbow kept me upright. I looked down.

"Rahm!" I called reflexively, "Rahm. Blood."

He clawed the clasp of his quilted coat open, then hiked up its long skirts to keep them from the gore. It was still red and tacky - sticky - and ran in a trail ahead of us down the black corridor.

"Just where are you leading us!" he demanded of the pissmop.

Our guide seemed confused at first, then saw the shock on our faces, saw the blood, and laughed. "You're not in danger, Black Tongues." His features were sharp in the firelight. His teeth too white, too sharp. I did not care for the effect at all.

"I know we're not," answered Rahm haughtily, seguing smoothly to only slightly accented Tainish, "But you are. If you plan to ambush us, do it now. Here. There's already a mess to be cleaned, and I can end your life with a minimum of additional blood spilled. I'd hate to put out our hosts any more than we have."

Very sexy, Raptor.

The pissmop smirked. He raised a mollifying hand and said again: "You are not in danger, Black Tongues. If you want your poxy numbers, follow me."

"Bastion," Rahm breathed, "Going any further seems stupid even for you."

"I know," I sighed in return, "But I want the poxy numbers."

In the end, Rahm had promised me. And I knew there was something here that he wanted too. With the trail of blood between us, we hurried to catch up with the Soud.

((Second part here))

[khorazir]

So ... I want Edwin’s brown overcoat for cosplay purposes.

I looked online and in shops trying to find a second-hand version that comes close, but without success. Either the cut doesn’t match, or the colour, or the fabric, or all of that. So I thought I might try and make it myself. I have some experience in the sewing department, having sewn things like BBC Sherlock’s coat, a British naval captain’s undress uniform from Napoleonic times, and some mediaeval reenactment stuff.

Still, making a tailored garment like this with stiffened lapels and shoulder parts that might need some construction – and that actually fits my weird shape – isn’t easy. Also, since I haven’t got a sewing machine, I do all sewing by hand. I found a pattern for a single-breasted coat online that comes close to the one Edwin wears. It needs to be modified when it comes to the shape and placements of the pockets and pocket-flaps, though. I drew a rough sketch with my measurements, to then create a template from an old bedsheet (one of my grandma’s, incidentally monographed with her initials, which happen to be EP ... what a coincidence, eh?).

I have got some brown felted wool fabric which I bought ages ago because it was cheap, but which unfortunately isn’t the right colour, so I ordered some samples, hoping to get the right shade of light brown (Cognac colour), in the right weight, and with the right finish (ideally a medium-weight pure-wool loden) that is affordable. I’ve still got a fancy striped fabric for lining, which isn’t what Edwin’s coat is lined with, but which I think he would like.

More progress shots soon.

Oh, and here’s the pattern I found online. Might be helpful to others. The site is in German, though.

[greenerteacups]

Hello! 14 for thee Draco Malfoy please

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

Draco is a posh old-money brat, and he dresses like it. Depending on where you put him, his fashion is almost entirely dictated by what's Classy and The Thing To Wear in his set, and since he's not really one to follow trends, his fashion will remain relatively constant year by year — probably doesn't buy from mass-market labels, but some obscure little Italian fashion house that's been catering to his family for generations, and has like, a ledger with fourteen generations of Malfoy patriarch inseam lengths sitting in a vault. That means single-breasted wool pea coats, silk shirts, neckties, tailored slacks (everything tailored, actually) in neutral and dark colors, maybe the occasional tartan scarf in the winter. He owns about 15 different pure cashmere sweaters in that ritzy polo style, you know the one, and when he grows into them, he has a different custom suit for every occasion. Plus, of course, all the details that differentiate rich from fuck-off rich: embroidered handkerchiefs, real silver cufflinks, maybe one (1) nice piece of jewelry a.k.a. a ring, custom everything, Very Nice Wristwatches, clean polished oxfords, hair cut like you know the barber charges three figures. As he grows up I think he gets a little rakish with it — leaving the buttons undone on his shirt, looser tie, sleeves rolled up, lets his hair grow out a little, etc. But the template is always going to here pretty close to some version of the dressed-down suit look.

[harveyguilleniconodelamoda]

The View - January 29, 2025

Harvey filmed as a guest on The View tonight in this Men's Exploded Blue Lily Jacquard Sweater in Black/blue from Alexander McQueen - $2,190, available up to size XL (44-inch chest measurement).

He paired the eye-catching sweater with black slacks and black patent leather brogues. While out and about in the cold weather, he added a bright red Manteco wool oversized coat from Zara - $199, out of stock.

The red wool coat is a statement in itself, and is another callback to Harvey's December San Sebastián photoshoot with Christian Trippe. In that shoot, the coat was the sole pop of bright color against a backdrop of varying neutrals. In this case, it is one of two colorful statement pieces in a single outfit.

Pairing two statement garments can be a risky move, but it's one Harvey carried off beautifully by choosing a statement color for his coat that tied into the sweater's accent color.

And with or without the coat, this outfit immediately draws the eye and makes Harvey appear extra vibrant on screen:

This is another great look from stylist Melvin Sanders, according to Harvey's Instagram. Excited to see Harvey potentially work with him more, I love his use of color and layering! I also enjoy how he continues Harvey's tradition of pairing high end and luxury/designer pieces with more affordable retail items. We love a high-low fashion moment!

Affordable Options

Agnes Orinda Women's Plus Size Winter Single Breasted Utility Belted Overcoat in red - On sale for $91.99 at Target. Sizes up to U.S. Women's 4X (59.1-inch chest circumference).

Wool-Blend Classic A-Line Coat in Classic Red - On sale for $99.99 from Woman Within. Sizes up to U.S. Women's 38W (65-inch chest circumference).

Super oversized boxy fit brushed knit crew neck with floral pattern in black - $52.99 from ASOS. Sizes up to XL (44-inch chest measurement).

Floral Jacquard Sweater in Colorway 1- $98.50 from Ann Taylor. Sizes up to XXL (44.5-imch chest circumference).

[lamaisongaga]

FASHION CREDITS: "FAT JUICY & WET" M/V

Bruno Mars and Sexyy Red team up with Lady Gaga and Rosé for their newest music video "Fat Juicy & Wet" where the quartet is seen popping champagne bottles. The music video was shot on December 18, 2024 in Los Angeles.

Gaga's styling was done by HARDSTYLE.

For her cameo, Lady Gaga commissioned emerging designer Luis de Javier to create an one-off creation based on his signature silhouette fur coats — a floor-length deep crimson faux fur coat with oversized, square-shaped shoulders, large lapels and a silk charmeuse lining.

Gaga, Bruno, Sexyy Red and Rosé all wore matching suits from Alexander McQueen's Resort 2025 collection. They went for the single-breasted jacket ($2,690) and straight trousers ($1,360) in black and burgundy pinstriped wool.

Shop:

Alexander McQueen Pinstripe Blazer ($2,690.00)

Alexander McQueen Pinstripe Pants ($1,360.00)

Berlin-based avant-garde eyewear label Kuboraum confirmed to me that Gaga is wearing a pair of their yet-to-be-released piercings-embellished Mask E21 Crossover sunglasses from their "Eyecouture and Precious Materials" collection!

ln terms of jewelry, LG styled her look with an iconic Dior by��John Galliano Spring/Summer 1999 black beaded Masai choker with long strands.

Two of Gaga's interestingly coiled sterling silver rings were created by Freya Douglas Ferguson for emerging designer Christina Seewald's Spring/Summer 2023 collection!

Her other ring is her previously-appreciated DOSIS G6C The Host white-gold and diamond ring ($4,668).

Shop:

DOSIS G6C “The Host” Ring ($4,668.00)

Gaga is seen wearing two pair of shoes in the video. The first and most obvious choice are these black vinyl platform thong sandals with striking red sole. They're by an exotic footwear label titled VIP and were once sold via Etsy.

The other pair, she wears while strutting, is a pair of Le Silla's trending Colette pointed-toe leather booties with corset-inspired lace-up front ($1,315).

Shop:

Le Silla "Colette" Boots ($1,315.00)

[chic-a-gigot]

Beaux-arts des modes, no. 4, juillet 1935 (New York, Paris, London, Milano, Wien, Bruxelles). Bibliothèque nationale de France

1162 Promenade dress of crêpe Rocana, pale satin collar and flowers, one-sided jabot, puffed halfsleeves. Bell skirt. — 1162a Single breasted coat of wool romain, fur collar with onesided material reves, puff sleeves.

[deadboyfriendd]

Cochise l: Nellie

Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it. 

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.4k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!

Find the series masterlist here!

When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it. 

And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach. 

1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime. 

Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you. 

The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death. 

He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows. 

The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low. 

He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle. 

It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies. 

There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior. 

He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco. 

“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it. 

He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar. 

“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.

“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it. 

Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.” 

“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him. 

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing. 

“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”

Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband. 

“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes,  “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.” 

“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face. 

“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?” 

“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.” 

The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone. 

“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead. 

“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held. 

“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly. 

“Yes’m” 

The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered. 

The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west. 

You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top. 

You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”

“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”

He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence. 

“Ms.” You corrected. 

He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head. 

 “Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips. 

“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.” 

You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.” 

He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.” 

You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful. 

“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto. 

He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”  

“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh. 

He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”

The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.

You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”

“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s. 

He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.” 

“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely. 

“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment. 

“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”

“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.” 

+

The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow. 

Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”

Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”

Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”

“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.” 

Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said. 

“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell. 

“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement. 

He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”

“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin. 

“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”

The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls. 

This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over. 

The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light. 

He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be. 

This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too. 

There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing. 

He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.” 

He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp. 

“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words. 

Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks. 

They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how. 

“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.” 

He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”

Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch. 

“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes. 

“I’d reckon not.”

He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers. 

This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?

“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom. 

He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend. 

The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them. 

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air. 

The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it. 

The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you. 

This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up. 

The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling. 

He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion. 

And there you were. 

He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.

In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo. 

Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue. 

His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness. 

“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch. 

He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him. 

“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again. 

Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.

“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.” 

His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit. 

Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself. 

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue October 1, 1957

Sunny Harnett wears a single-breasted French tweed coat with a deep box pleat for ease in the back. Street accessories here: the contoured cloche in garnet velvet, by Sally Victor; brown gloves; a muff in dark ranch mink. Coat by Monte-Sano & Pruzan, in red and black Lesur wool. Muff by Ritter Bros. Pumps by Liparé. Stockings by Bur-Mil Cameo, a reddish brown. Beauty note: Orlane's new pressed powder, Royal Laelia.

Sunny Harnett porte un manteau en tweed français, à simple boutonnage, avec un pli creux profond donnant de l'aisance dans le dos. Accessoires de ville ici : la cloche profilée en velours grenat, par Sally Victor ; gants marron ; un manchon en vison de ranch foncé. Manteau de Monte-Sano & Pruzan, en laine Lesur rouge et noire. Manchon de Ritter Bros. Escarpins de Liparé. Bas Bur-Mil Cameo, un brun rougeâtre. Note beauté : la nouvelle poudre compacte d'Orlane, Royal Laelia.

Photo Karen Radkai vogue archive

[handeaux]

For A Century Cincinnati’s Fashionistas Fawned Over A Shade Called ‘Invisible Green’

As the local haberdasheries and modistes swell with shoppers clamoring for appropriate gifts for their kith and kin, what colors do they promote? It seems a silly question these days when, as the old song once claimed, “anything goes,” and the entire spectrum is accessible for plundering in the name of habilimentation. Is there any color particularly fashionable this year?

More than a century ago, that was quite a pertinent inquiry. The wrong shade of your dress might ostracize you from society. Reading antique articles about bygone fashion trends is always entertaining, but there are occasions in which it appears that stylish Cincinnatians were engaged in sorcery. Were there premonitions of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak? Here is the Cincinnati Enquirer from 3 February 1889:

“A pretty house dress is here shown. It is of invisible green soft wool goods with tracings of fawn color, and trimmed with bands of fawn and brighter green.”

And here the Cincinnati Gazette from 8 August 1877:

“The dry goods stores are announcing their last selling off arrangements to close the season, and in a little while fall fashions and dress goods will hold full sway. Respecting the coming season, we are told that the color for street wear will be sage green in its darkest shades, rechristened Marjolaine, or else a very dark, almost an invisible green.”

What in the world is invisible green? Was this something like the recent fad for camouflage patterns in sportswear? Were Cincinnatians attempting to glide down Fourth Street with no one catching a glimpse of them, perhaps skulking toward a discreet rendezvous?

As it turns out, “Invisible Green” as a fashionable color originated not among the ateliers of Paris, but in the gardens of Regency England. As a color, it has, perhaps, more to do with Jane Austen than with later couturières.

Invisible Green was a favorite color of Humphrey Repton, a legendary landscape designer during Jane Austen’s lifetime. Invisible Green was a very dark green oil paint compounded by mixing yellow ochre and black pigments with white lead. The resulting hue proved to be ideal for slathering on wooden and ironwork gates and rails in parks, pleasure grounds, and gardens to render them almost invisible at a distance because of the manner in which this particular hue approximated the natural color of vegetation.

T.H. Vanherman, the premier London “colourman” of his day, described Invisible Green in this manner in 1829:

“The Invisible Green is one of the most pleasant colours for fences, and all work connected with buildings, gardens, or pleasure grounds, as it displays a richness and solidity, and also harmonizes with every object, and is a back-ground and foil to the foliage of fields, trees, and plants, as also to flowers.”

Soon enough, Invisible Green was adopted by the fashionistas, and fabrics in that particular shade were being unloaded at the Cincinnati wharfs as early as 1838. The fashion pages of Cincinnati’s newspapers regularly announced Invisible Green as either the primary color or a trim color for men’s and women’s fashions for the next 60 years.

Yes, men were just as enamored with Invisible Green as were the womenfolk. Here is the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune [4 January 1890]:

“It is stated by fashion authorities that the fashionable color in men’s clothing for spring will be green, and already orders have been given by fashionable tailors for solid invisible green in diagonals and worsteds.”

And here is the Enquirer [21 April 1882], laying down the law on men’s vests for the spring season:

“Vests are all single-breasted, no-collar, closed high with seven or eight buttons, four patch pockets, short in the waist and cut straight across the front. There is no demand for collars on the vest, even dress suits being without them. The finish of the edge corresponds with the coat and the material with the trousers. Fancy vestings are gaining in popularity. Invisible greens, reds or blues form a background for dots, broken designs, checks and bars placed at right angles, touched up with streaks of color.”

Even transportation adopted Invisible Green. The Enquirer [5 May 1882] described the “finest drag in America,” a “drag” being a type of stagecoach pulled by four horses:

“The springs and axles are regular mail-coach make, and have been thoroughly tested and given the highest grading. The wheel hubs are furnished with dust excluders of the best pattern. The body of the drag stands so high that the front wheels can be turned right under it, so that it can be wheeled around in its own length. The seats and facings are of the finest invisible green French cloth.”

We forget, in these kaleidoscopic days of extreme coloration, that the 1800s were not a drab, monochromatic time. Our forebears reveled in color and eye-popping fashion. They were continually putting one another down for violating what we would consider arcane peccadillos in dress. Perhaps the worst insult a woman could land on a social rival was to observe that she was wearing last year’s color.

To read the old fashion pages is to find oneself immersed in a palette of almost psychedelic possibilities. We hear about cadet, mastic, ecru, canary, tobacco, seal, sea water, vine, fawn, wheat, pansy, dahlia, pearl, lilac, claret, gendarme, mulberry chartreuse, absinthe, capucine, nasturtium and moss. So, why not Invisible Green?

So common was this color that a Cincinnati journalist even adopted the pen name of “Invisible Green, Esq.” (More on that fellow at a later date.)

Eventually, after a century of not actually being invisible, the time-hallowed shade of Invisible Green fell out of fashion. The death knell sounded in the form of a joke. It was published in the Cincinnati Post [31 October 1904] and it went like this:

“Servant: The butcher won’t leave no more meat, sir, he says, until he sees the color of your money. “Mr. Hardup: Why – er – tell him it’s invisible green.”

[fashionofemmawatson]

Emma wore a Prada Single-Breasted Belted Wool Coat to the Prada show in Milan (credit).

Prada Single-Breasted Belted Wool Coat - £3,150.00

Worn with: Prada Brushed Leather Slingback Pumps With Logo

[wardog-of-whimsy]

Jeff Satur Black Tie Fashion Breakdown

I can do all things through spite, which sustains me.

I love the fashion in Black Tie. Jeff's really living his best Valentino life, and I wanted to break down what I could determine. Granted, his coats almost all seem to be custom, and while I worked in the industry it was not with Valentino, so I would hesitate to guess. (I mean, I will if you want, my DMs are open). But everything else I could more or less find on the website and I thought, why not? My besty already got slapped with it, why should you guys escape?

Let's Do This.

Opening Look

Coat: Full Length Likely Custom (Ostrich)

Top: HEAVY COTTON POPLIN LONG SLEEVE SHIRT $ 950.00

Tie: WOOL AND SILK VALENTIE TIE WITH METAL V APPLIQUÉ $ 520.00 (*See Author's Note)

Slacks: LANA STRETCH PANTS $ 1,250.00

Shoes: M-WAY ROCKSTUD ANKLE BOOT IN CALFSKIN LEATHER $ 1,550.00

Earrings: VLOGO SIGNATURE METAL AND GLASS BEAD EARRINGS $ 850.00

Secondary Look:

Coat: Half Length (Assumed Custom) Jeff Satur Chevron Feather

Nose Stud: ROCKSTUD METAL NOSE RING $ 190.00

Lip Wrap: VLOGO SIGNATURE METAL LIP RING $ 190.00

Tie: WOOL AND SILK VALENTIE TIE WITH METAL V APPLIQUÉ $ 520.00 (*See Author's Note)

Top: Unknown

Shoes: ROCKSTUD M-WAY SINGLE MONK STRAP SHOE IN CALFSKIN AND MATCHING STUDS 50MM $ 1,150.00

Tertiary Look

Coat: DOUBLE-BREASTED WOOL AND CASHMERE COAT WITH EX CHESS ALL-OVER INTARSIA PATTERN $ 8,850.00

Tie: WOOL AND SILK VALENTIE TIE WITH METAL V APPLIQUÉ $ 520.00

Top (assumed): HEAVY COTTON POPLIN LONG SLEEVE SHIRT $ 950.00

Slacks: LANA STRETCH PANTS $ 1,250.00

Shoes: M-WAY ROCKSTUD ANKLE BOOT IN CALFSKIN LEATHER $ 1,550.00

Earrings: VLOGO SIGNATURE METAL EARRINGS $ 1,370.00

Final Look:

Coat: Full Length (Assumed Custom) Jeff Satur Red

Nose Stud: ROCKSTUD METAL NOSE RING $ 190.00

Top: Existence Cannot Be Confirmed

Shorts: LANA STRETCH BERMUDA SHORTS $ 1,250.00

Shoes: ROCKSTUD M-WAY COMBAT BOOT IN CALFSKIN WITH FEATHERS 50MM $ 2,850.00

Author's Notes: (Image from Jeff's Instagram)

The finale red look seems to have at least 2 iterations, the heavier solid piece that may involve a tie (social media) and the lighter almost-chiffon that Jeff got rained on in the MV.

Author's Note: At least one of the Valentie ties in the opening/secondary look appears to have been customized (embroidery) per social media images (Jeff's Insta) rendering it priceless. (He does wear alternate Valentie Ties in appearances that do NOT appear to be embroidered with JS).

Not to be all The Devil Wears Prada about it but:

"Are you wearing the-?"

"The Valentino Feather Boots? Yes, I am."

p.s. hi @markmybirds. love you marmar.