#white wool blend coat

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[vidavalor]

You can leave your hat on

So Crowley comes up for a nightcap in The Blitz, Part 2 and takes off the wool overcoat the minisode introduced but leaves his hat on.

If you then go backwards and look at what he had on and when in The Blitz, Parts 1 & 2, it gets even more amusingly Ineffable Husbands pretty quickly...

When Crowley shows up in the church in The Blitz, Part 1 in his suit with the hat on, he's the last character to arrive in the scene but the clinch of a subtle commentary happening via the costuming by way of hats. Until the early 1960s, as you probably already know, a man didn't leave the house without a hat on, but they would take them off as a sign of respect in different places indoors-- churches and theatres among them. Women were not expected to do so, largely because the style of women's hats were often the kind that were pinned into their hair and to take it off was a whole damn thing that required more extensive grooming than is possible when just entering/exiting a place. As a result, the Nazis in the church scene are following social custom-- the male Nazis have their hats off because they're inside a church but Greta is not violating anything by having her (rather fabulous, ngl) hat on. Aziraphale, of course, took his hat off and has it in his hand for the duration of the scene.

Crowley kept his on and we're bemused more than anything because we know that while this is technically impolite, Crowley is far more of a good presently-man-shaped-being than these half-witted Nazi spies, right? Which is basically the point of the commentary-- that the rebels are often more morally sound than the conformers. Also goes without saying that Crowley shouldn't have the sunglasses on in church either (and that this is all set at night and during a blackout makes the fact that he does all the funnier) but Crowley can't take the glasses off around humans so... but then, after the rest of The Blitz, Part 1, we then hop into The Bentley with Crowley & Aziraphale at the start of The Blitz, Part 2 and find that Crowley has a new wardrobe addition:

Crowley is now wearing a black wool dress overcoat over his suit. Yes, they're magical and can regulate their body temperatures without actually needing the clothes they wear but the clothes they wear are also part of blending in with the humans of their day and we're now reminded that the 1941 part of The Blitz was going on over the winter into the early spring, something we could forget about momentarily when everyone had their coats off in the church but for Aziraphale, who has just worn the same coat for awhile now. This then serves to show us that Crowley got out of The Bentley outside of the church to go rescue Aziraphale and stopped to take his winter coat off and leave it in the car before doing so, all while choosing to not leave his hat behind as well. Yeah, wearing your hat into a church as a demon could be-- or only be-- about being a demon but we're going to see pretty soon that it's not *just* about that. So, why take his coat off?

Because he wants his angel to see his suit.

Crowley wears a lot of black and he had to be careful not to be mistaken for SS, so he's added in some color. He has some angelic white in the form of a hankerchief and a shirt that's a shade of grey that makes it actually look blue-- wearing his Aziraphale colors, we see-- and a snazzy red tie. You can't see this very well if he has his overcoat on so he left the coat in the car, consciously wanting to look as dashing as possible when showing up to grand romantic gesture Aziraphale.

When they get to the Windmill Theatre, Crowley wears both the hat and coat into the theatre-- but he takes the hat off once they're inside. Churches can go pound sand but Mrs. H? Crowley wouldn't dare disrespect her or her theatre lol. Aziraphale also takes his hat off in the theatre and we see that he does in every place of reverence to him, as he also takes his hat off in the magic shop later on. Crowley then wears the hat and coat both back from the theatre to the bookshop and once he settles in there to help Aziraphale prepare for his magic show, he *settles in*, as we know, tossing his hat on an angel statue, hanging up his overcoat, and unbuttoning and opening up his suit jacket as he sits down. The jacket now open, the design on his tie is now visible for the first time. Aziraphale is amusingly invested in his magic but when he does get around to unburying his nose from his autographed Prof. Hoff magic book, he can look his full at Crowley's whole ensemble here, which Crowley has been alternately hiding and revealing in bits and pieces so far (like a certain show we know lol.)

Crowley wears all of it on their date to the magic shop but keeps his overcoat open and takes his hat off again at The Windmill when he's in the audience and on stage with Aziraphale. However, after the performance, when Furfur confronts them, Crowley has the hat back on-- while he's lounging on the couch, alone with Aziraphale in the dressing room. They weren't exactly about to leave in that moment when Furfur showed up. Aziraphale is still in costume and they're still chatting about the performance. Crowley isn't standing by the door waiting for him to get his stuff so they can go and so already has his hat on. He's sitting on the couch. But the hat's back.

After Aziraphale manages to set Furfur up in this scene, we then next see them again in the bookshop, drinking Chateauneuf-du-Pape and talking about how Aziraphale saved the photo. Crowley's overcoat is nowhere to be seen, presumably hung up on the coat rack in the front part of the shop, but he's kept the hat on and, at this point, there's no other possible reason to not have taken it off but for that Aziraphale likes the hat. A lot.

(And yes, before anyone messages me, I know that's Terry Pratchett's hat. In the context of GO, though, that's Crowley's 1941 hat.)

[inky-duchess]

Etiquette of the Edwardian Era and La Belle Époque: How to Dress

This is a new set of posts focusing on the period of time stretching from the late 19th century to the early 20th Century right up to the start of WWI.

I'll be going through different aspects of life. This series can be linked to my Great House series as well as my Season post and Debutant post.

Today will be focusing on the rules of clothes with this time period.

A Cut for Every Occasion

As you may know, the wealthy elite and their servants lived extremely regimented lives and every aspect was governed by careful rules. They would be expected to wear the right outfit at the right time, every minute of the day. Any misstep would be noticed at once and be subject to scruntiny.

In the circles of the elite, one would be expected to change for every occasion. One simply wouldn't wear the same outfit they've been lying around the house in to attend tea at somebody's house. Fashion in this era was dictated by the clock and by the event diary of the wearer.

Ladies

Women of the upperclass would be expected to change at least six times a day. When she would rise for a morning of repose around the house, she would simply wear a house gown or a simple blouse and skirt. If planning a morning stroll, she would change into a walking suit which is a combination of blouse, skirt and jacket along with her hat usually of tweed. If running errands or paying a visit to friends, she would wear another walking suit. If riding, she would wear a riding habit and a hat. If hosting tea or taking tea in her own home, she would change into a tea gown with is a lighter more airier gown more comfortable for chilling in. If attending a garden party, one wears a pastel or white formal day gown accompanied by a straw hat and gloves. For dinner, she would change into an evening gown which would be more elaborate and show off a little more skin than her day wear. After dinner and ready for bed, she would change into her nightgown.

Female servants had an easier time of it. A housekeeper and lady's maid would simply wear a solid black gown for the entire day. A cook and kitchen maids would wear a simple day dress for working with an apron. Housemaids would usually wear a print dress with an apron and cap, changing into the more formal black and white attire you would associate with a maid.

Gentlemen

The gentlemen had an easier time but they too were subject to changes throughout the day. Men were expected to wear a suit. The most popular day time suit was a sack suit. These were comprised of plain and loose fitting jackets, worn over a starched shirt with a high collar, waistcoat and straight trousers with ironed creases. These suits were exclusively wool with cheaper ones made of a wool and cotton blend. Grey, green, brown, navy were usual but sine younger men preferred louder colours such as purple which was a trend for a time in the 1910s. These suits were worn about the house or in the city accompanied by a coat. Men would change into tweed if shooting or walking. For garden parties, a gentleman would wear a light coloured suit, usually white and a straw hat. For dinner, a man had two choices: his tails or his dinner jacket. A dinner jacket was for less formal suppers say if dining at home. This was a collection of a jacket, trousers, waistcoat, a bow tie, a detachable wing-collar shirt and black shoes. Lapels of these jackets were edged with silk or satin. Tails were worn at a formal dinner party, at White Tie events. This was made up of a tailcoat, white piqué waistcoat, a starched dress shirt with a pique bib and standing wing collar with a white bow tie. Trousers were lined with trim to hide the seams.

Male servants were soared changing. Footmen would wear their livery around the clock which would resemble white tie to a certain extent or mimic court dress of palace servants. Butler's would wear a variation of a gentleman's evening suit throughout the day. When a male servant is dressed, he usually stays that way. However, a valet or a footman may be taken to pick up during shooting parties where they would wear tweed walking suits.

Jewellery

Jewellery was an important sign of status in society. Upperclass women of this time has access to untold caches of sparklers but there were rules concerning their use and meaning. Earrings were usually clip ons as women of high status would not pierce their ears. Simple, understated earrings were worn during the day with more ostentatious sets were worn in the evening time. Broaches were popular at this time, usually worn at the throat of a gown or blouse or walking suit or affixed on hats. Large stoned rings were worn over gloves while slender bands were worn under. Jewellery was intricate and understated amongst old money whole the nouveau riche went for chunkier stones and larger settings. Tiaras were only worn at White Tie events, held after six pm and almost never by unmarried girls. One would not wear a larger tiara than that most senior lady present. Men would wear tie pins, cufflinks and pocket watches to match any occasion be it for a jaunt on the town or at a formal evening party.

Hats

Hats were a staple in this period. Anybody respectable from any class wouldn't venture out of the door without a hat.

Men would wear hats when heading out but always remove them when entering a building, and never wear one without removing it for the presence of a lady. The bowler was seen as more a servant's headwear while a top hat was reserved for gentlemen. Flat caps would be only seen on gentlemen at shooting gatherings or in the country, they were popular among the common class for any informal occasion.

Women had more stricter rules concern hats. Hats for women were more a day accessory worn while out and about. A woman would not wear a hat in her own home even when entertaining and nor would any of the other female occupants if joining the gathering. A woman would not remove her hat when attending a luncheon or tea or any activity. Hats were held in place by a ribbon or sash tied under the chin or by a hat pin, which is essentially a large needle thrust through the hair. This was the period where women's hats became more ornate and rather large, leading to some critisism. Among servants, housekeepers and lady's maids would not wear a hat while indoors and working but a housemaid or cook or kitchen maid would cover their hair with a cap with housemaids changing into a more elaborate one come evening time. Male servants would not wear hats unless travelling or outdoors.

Gloves

Gloves are a staple in this period and worn only at the opportune time. Among servants, only footmen would wear gloves and usually only when serving. Butlers would never wear gloves. Female servants did not wear gloves.

Men did wear gloves, usually woollen or leather while outside or riding gloves when out on horseback.

Women wore gloves whenever outside. Day gloves were usually wrist length, with evening gloves stretching to the elbow. During dinner, evening gloves would be removed at the first course and laid across the lap, replaced at the last course when the ladies leave for tea and coffee after where the gloves are then removed again. Gloves are always worn when dancing and at the theatre or opera. If one is sitting in ones box and sampling some chocolate, one can remove their gloves for that.

Hair and Makeup

Make up was a no-no amongst the upper crust and for their servants in England and America, as it was seen as licentious but in France, the use of rouge was accepted. Perfume and cologne were acceptable but excessive use was frowned upon.

Hair was dressed by one's lady's maid. Bouffant updos were popular in this time period for married women. During the last years of this period, women began adopting the 'bob' but this was seen as radical and sometimes scandalous. Unmarried girls could wear their hair down, often with accessories like a bow to adorn their tresses. Servants would always tie up their hair and never be seen with it down or uncovered (though this depended on their job).

Men would comb their hair, slicking it back for dinner. Most men were clean shaven but if they wore beards, they were usually well groomed. Hair was kept short for grown men and teenagers but young boys may wear their hair longer whilst in the nursery.

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: Fall Wardrobe Essentials

Staple Tees:

**Purchase in Modal, Pima cotton, or a cotton-cashmere blend**

Fitted crewneck tees (long-sleeves/tees & tanks for layering)

Relaxed fit long-sleeve tees

Turtleneck long-sleeve top (fitted & relaxed fit options)

Contour bodysuits

Blouses/Shirting:

Silk button-down blouse

Cotton button-down blouse

Silk shell top/t-shirts/camis (for layering)

Sculpt knit top(s)

Self-tie wrap blouse

Shirred boatneck, mock neck, or cowlneck silk blouse(s)

Leather button-down

Knitwear:

Thin cashmere/wool crewneck sweater (fitted/relaxed fit)

Thin cashmere/wool turtleneck sweater

Chunky relaxed-fit cable knit sweater

Knit polo-neck sweater

Cashmere sweater vest (crewneck, v-neck, and/or turtleneck)

Mockneck cashmere/wool sweater

Cashmere long-sleeve sweater dress

Cashmere/knit skirt (mini, midi, or maxi - depending on your personal preferences)

Sophisticated coordinating knit set (top/pants or skirt of your choice)

Casual knit set (top/pullover and relaxed fit pants)

Cashmere cardigan

Cable knit cardigan (doubles as a light jacket)

Bottoms:

Black straight-leg jeans

Black bootcut/flared jeans

Black straight/bootcut trousers

Wide-leg trousers (I love a solid black, black pinstripe, and black with lace-up detail selection)

High-waisted leather pants

Split hem trousers

Stretch jersey/cashmere pants (straight-leg or flared)

Quilted leather/tweed mini skirt

Knit/wool mini and/pencil skirt

Leather skirt (mini or midi)

Silk midi skirt

Dresses/Jumpsuits:

Knit/sweater dress

Little black dress (shift dress/A-line cuts are great)

Blazer dress/jumpsuit

Slip dress (for layering)

Minimal black jumpsuit ("LBJ")

Leather and/or denim dress or jumpsuit

Jackets & Outerwear:

Black tailored blazer

Leather blazer

Tweed jacket

Trench coat

Leather moto/cropped/bomber jacket

Black wool coat

Raincoat ( I like Rains for high-quality options on the affordable side that are still built to last for several seasons)

Statement jacket/coat

Footwear:

Sleek flat/low-heel black boots with a pointed-toe or square-toe silhouette (I love Vagabond, Jeffrey Campbell, Vince Camuto, and Sam Edelman for more affordable, high-quality options)

Black loafers/sleek black flats

Black lace-up boots

Black heeled boots

Black pumps

White sneakers

Rain boots (I recommend the Melissa Shoes Welly/Grip/Step boots or a stylish, sustainable, and more affordable option)

Accessories:

White/black ankle & crew socks

Black control top tights

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Chunky/small chain necklaces & bracelets

Simple pendant necklace(s)

Pearl necklace

Simple diamond studs

Crystal drop earrings

Minimalist bangles

Stackable rings

A sleek, minimalist black tote (can fit a laptop for work/travel)

Black shoulder bag

Small black bag (top handle, crossbody, etc.)

Statement bag/evening bag

Cashmere scarf

Silk/decorative scarf

Fingerless/touch-screen friendly, lightweight gloves

Lingerie/Loungewear:

Seamless bra/underwear

Lace bra/underwear

Matching pullover cotton sweatshirt/sweatpants

Knit or jersey cotton top/lounge pants set

Luxurious pajama set (silk, Tencel, cashmere, etc.)

A to-die-for piece of lingerie like a lace slip/silk teddy

Silk or cozy robe

Cozy open-back slippers

[rebelliousstories]

Seasons Greetings

25 Days of Ficmas

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1,078

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: Being so far away from home at the holidays, it was not something that most people could do. But leave it to a Cajun in love with another Cajun to bring home to him.

Consider Donating: Here

“Remy, ya ‘round ‘ere somewhere?” Poking her head into another room in the mansion, the woman was on the hunt. Looking around for her lover, she was trying to locate him so that he could come have some dinner.

“Remy, where ya at?” She called again, dipping into a random study. Finally, the familiar head of hair sitting against the windowsill. Sighing in relief, she was not sure whether or not she had gotten his attention, but came over to sit next to him.

Wrapping her arms around Gambit, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Whatcha doin’ up here, mon amour?”

“Just thinkin’, chere. Dats all.” Remy grumbled, keeping his eyes outside on the snowy ground below. He pressed a kiss to her warmed hand in return.

“Gon’ need more den dat, Remy. Ya been upset for da past few days. Tell me what’s wrong,” she tried to prompt him onto speaking more.

“Well, I just… guess da Gambit is feelin’ bit homesick, or- or like, nostalgic tonight ‘s all.” Muttering into the sweater the covered her arms, he tried to almost disappeared into the soft wool.

“Oh, Remy,” she cooed, nuzzling into the side of his head. “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout dat’s got you feelin’ so down?”

He took a minute to answer, looking very hesitant to say what it was. “‘Member dem bonfires up and da road on Christmas Eve? I miss those da most.”

“Maybe we should show these Yankees what a proper Cajun Christmas looks like, yeah?” She shook the other Cajun slightly, looking deep into his eyes. There was a twinkle there that had not been there before as he got excited at the prospect.

“It’s snowin’, but dat jus’ means dat de ground no set ablaze.” Her smiled widened as Remy was getting into the spirit again.

Rushing to throw on the proper outside attire, she barely managed to get her coat on when she was being pulled out the door by her boyfriend. Giggling, they set out together to gather enough dry wood and sticks to build their little fires. It was a little difficult with the snow, but they made it work.

Once they gathered enough to make one, now the real fun began. The more wood they gathered became different shapes and creations. Remy managed to find just enough to turn into a log cabin looking thing, while she attempted to make one that looked like an alligator. All the while, they kept laughing, and smiling. Reminiscing about their childhood Christmas’s.

“What are you two doing?” A sudden voice came through as they were building a fleur-de-lis. Ororo stood there, white hair nearly blending in with the snowy background.

“Cajun Christmas, Storm.” The woman beamed, adding small twigs where she could.

“And what do you do with these wooden structures?” Noticing just how many there were around the front yard of the school, Storm was utterly confused as to what these two crazy Cajuns were going to do.

“We light ‘em up.” Remy stated.

“That checks.” Storm shrugged. “Want an extra hand?”

And just like that, now three people were working on building. Ororo was intrigued as the two southerners explained to her why they did what they did. “In Cajun country, these bonfires light the way for Christmas mass. Dey serve gumbo, and make sure people reach church before Pére Nöel reaches der houses. We must put up a hundred o’ these before Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah. And Pére Nöel to us Cajuns don’t come in a sled wit’ da reindeer. He come wit’ a pirouge pulled by gators. Dis why Cajuns da best.” She added to her boyfriend’s explanation.

The stories from their childhood around these bonfires demonstrated clearly just how much this tradition meant to them. She also noticed that Gambit was in a much better mood than he had been recently. Perhaps this is what he needed; a little taste of home.

What the three did not know was that they were slowly accumulating an audience. Students watched from the windows, or they made their way to sit on the front porch of the school. The other adults were also finding ways to watch what the three were doing. Only when they began lighting them up, did they realize what had happened. Oohs and aahs sounded off, making them look over to the front of the school.

However, one person that did not understand what was going on was Charles. As he rode through the school, he became more and more confused as he could not find a single student nor teacher. That is, until he felt the culmination of all of their thoughts out front. Wheeling closer, he panicked a bit as he saw the flames but calmed down when he actually made it outside. With a smile, the professor found a spot to sit and watch the display of beautiful flames, and enjoy the warmth they provided.

Lighting the last structure, Remy grabbed his girlfriend’s hand and pulled her up to where the students and teachers sat. He sent a smile to Xavier, who winked a him in return. Storm went over to stand with Rogue and Wolverine who watched with rapt attention.

“This makin’ ya feel bettah, Remy?” She asked, leaning her head back onto his chest while she sat in front.

“Yes, it is, chere. Merci beaucoup.” Gambit pressed a kiss to her neck, and watched as the flames danced higher and higher. The chill of Christmas was gone, and he knew it was not about the temperature outside.

The fires went out a few hours later, but they continued watching until the wooden structures had been reduced to cinders. Only then, did everyone begin making their way in.

“Gambit,” Storm called, “thank you for letting me help you both. That was a lot of fun. Perhaps we can do it tomorrow for actual Christmas and you two can make some gumbo?” She left to go back into the warmth of the school before her after that.

However, the couple was stopped by Charles before they made their way in. “That was wonderful, you two. Next time, let me know first. I almost panicked when I saw the smoke rising.”

The couple looked at each other with matching smirks. Stepping forward, she rested her hand on the professor’s chair to lead them all inside. “Tell me, Charles. You ever had proper gumbo?”

Oh yeah. Remy was definitely in love with this woman.

[steelsartcorner]

If you wouldn’t mind sharing your secrets, can you drop a quick tutorial for the hades art style? You seem to capture it very well!

Hey anon! Thanks so much, I’m flattered you think so!

To be honest there's really no secret, just a lot of trial and error. I am an amateur, but I’ll point out a few of my observations of the amazing Hades team’s work that I attempted to incorporate into this Astarion drawing, especially SuperGiant Games art director Jen Zee. Everything below is just my layman’s observation of her much, MUCH better work. You should check her out yourself!

First off, here’s a simple split out of the whole process (this will be long, more below the cut:)

POSE & PERSONALITY

Hades art is full of personality so the first challenge was to pick a pose that illustrates just one or two aspects of the character. For example, Dionysus from Hades 1 below has a languid, draping pose that reflects his chill-guy party vibes. Just looking at him you get an immediate idea of his personality.

And as much as I love the later wet-cat version of Astarion as he matures as a person, for the purposes of illustration in this style I chose a pose and expression that leaned into his early, less complex, more wily self. The dagger, wink, jaunty hips and head tilt are meant to communicate, without additional context, that he’s both trying to be appealing and is not trustworthy. 

LINEWORK & SHADING

Next is the linework and blocking! The Hades art team tends to use a combination of near-mono-thickness black lines, where exterior lines are thicker and interior lines are thinner or have no lines at all. They will often forgo an interior line to communicate form via color blocking instead. The style also makes heavy use of absolute black for the deepest shades, especially on more sinister characters or spooky aspects of a characters design. (See: Zagreus’ three dog head skulls and his red eye perpetually cast in deep shadow.)

It took some back and forth to find the right balance of black shading for Astarion. Too much and he looked too sinister and not approachable enough. Too little and he looked too innocent. 

Picking a strong light source helped with determining the direction and placement of the shadows so that just enough was obscured/revealed. It also helps in differentiating forms from each other so that, for example, the arm doesn’t disappear into the chest and become unreadable.

Using heavy black shading was a particularly useful trick in Astarion’s case, because his camp clothes color palette is fairly monochromatic between his light hair, pale skin, and white/cream shirt. That much light color can easily blend in too much and become boring: the flats I used were slight variations of white, from a warm reddish-peach to a yellowy cream to a cool light gray for the dagger.

COLOR & LIGHTING

Last is color! In Hades 1 and even more so in Hades 2, the lighting schemes are deceptively complex. There are often multiple light sources and use of bounce lighting to add a lot of visual interest. For example, check out this lighting on Polyphemus from Hades 2:

Not only does he have a cool moonlight hitting him from above, he also has a warm orange rimlight lighting him from the left, AND cool lavender bounce light bouncing off the ground and hitting him from below. All these combine and layer on top of one another to help emphasize the forms of the cyclop’s musculature and the textures of his sheep wool coat. 

I don’t think I was as successful in my own lighting scheme, because I’m an amateur, but I determined that the scene in which I was placing Astarion has a high sun and was outdoors. This means that the light hitting him from above would be a light, warm yellow and the bounce light hitting him from the left would reflect the nearby water and blue sky of the environment. 

To achieve this, I made use of different layer modes in my art program (Clip Studio Paint) to apply purple shadows (via the Multiply layer mode) and highlights (via the Soft Light layer mode) in a light sky blue and a light yellow for the primary and secondary light sources.

I ran into trouble with the blade, because it was also a light metal in an already light-color-heavy color scheme. At first, it was blending in too much and hard to read. So I decided to give it a bit of a magic teal glow to help it stand out, which meant adding a few specks of magic light reflecting back onto the face and clothes as well. 

INTEREST & DETAILS

Speaking of, Hades style art makes extensive use of adding little speckles of high-saturation color to add visual interest and cohesion. See this Zagreus portrait which is primarily made of grays, a tan bone-color, and reds: 

But sprinkled in are neon teal and magenta that don’t relate to the lighting at all. It’s just there to break up the blocks of color, bring unique colors like his green eye into the rest of the portrait, and direct the viewer’s eye. These highlights are slightly less bright in Hades 2, but still there, such as in this depiction of Apollo, who mostly glows with a warm sunlight but also has random pops of sky blue and green flecking his armor and hair.

The pops of color are often placed more centrally on the figure to keep your eye on the important parts of the portrait, like near Apollo’s face and on his armor. The color pops aren’t as frequent at the extremities; too much on the arm and your eye would be drawn away from his face.

I took a similar approach where I grabbed some of the brighter colors (like Astarion’s red eye, and the teal glow of the dagger), to add dabs of color that normally would not “make sense” from a lighting perspective, but add a little visual interest:

Also I totally studied their approach to Apollo’s curly hair to create the impression of Astarion’s curls!

Anyway, I think that's all I got for now, I hope this helps! There's more but this is already REALLY long so I'll stop here. In the end, it's really just a process of observation and replication of things you love in artwork you admire. Give it a try, it's a lot of fun :)

[warpedhound]

Ok I finally got around to doing the wolf x lamb x herding dog dynamic, but that dynamic doesn't make a ton of sense to me (I own sheep) and I made a version that makes more sense to me. Herding dogs don't generally protect their sheep from wolves. That's the job of a livestock guardian dog. Our livestock dog has gotten into a few scuffles with our herding dog, so lamb x herding dog x livestock dog makes more sense.

Austria - In both versions, he's a Brillenschaf. They are a frugal breed from the alpine region with markings around their eyes that resemble glasses (their name translates to "glasses sheep"). They're a dual purpose breed used for both meat and wool.

Prussia - In the original, he's a Eurasian wolf. In my version, he's an Altdeutsche Hütehund. This breed is used for herding both cattle and sheep in Germany.

Hungary - In the original, she's a Hungarian Mudi. They're a somewhat rare herding breed from Hungary. In my version, she's a Kuvasz. They're a livestock guardian breed from Hungary. Their white coat helps them to blend in with the sheep they are guarding and allows them to surprise wolves.

[hiddenintheveil]

oh yeah i forgot to post these

all the clay creations related to Third Life so far! I still need to make Bigb's base, so I'll be doing that soon, but i have the rest of the factions! closeups and details under the cut:

the crastle! fun to make, i had to mix up a special blend for the roofs but otherwise quite straightforward.

dead bush hill! once again, i had to mix up a specific color for the granite edges, which was a little difficult. Also had to watch Joel's third life series to make this. which i am not going to complain about, he's fun.

the flower valley! strangely enough, the most irritating to try and format into a diorama, as the houses pictured here are on opposite sides of a valley. fully 180 degrees difference.

the swamp castle! i hate it. it was made of wool. white wool. it lasted for like five minutes before being burnt. never work with white clay. NEVER, you hear me? it's malevolent. a good reference was hard to find, but i figured it out eventually :)

renchanting! yes it has another name but that's related to a franchise i do not approve of. finding a good reference for this diorama-thing meant i had to listen to so many references to that franchise which automatically makes this really annoying. also it looks shrinkwrapped because i was a FOOL and thought coating it in liquid clay could do something cool.

the sand castle! the first one i made! fun, but i think not finding my own reference for this diorama-thing makes it a little less impactful than the rest. :/

lastly, a banner of the Red Army! self-explanatory, i think.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 43, 26 octobre 1901, Paris. No. 9. — Groupe de toilettes pour dames et jeune filles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Robe de visites pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen, en bure d'Ecosse gris clair, à touffettes de poils ton sur ton. Jupe à corselet, taillée en forme; volant en forme à tête cachée sous des ganses noires et terminée par un plus petit volant en forme surmonté de quatre rangs de ganses. Sur le côté, pochette chasseur; le devant est ouvert en pointe et retenu par des barrettes. Boléro arrondi, fermé aussi par des barrettes, col rond; chemisette de velours vieil or; manche à coude légèrement élargie au bas.

(1) Visiting dress for young women or middle-aged ladies, in light gray Scottish bure, with tone-on-tone tufts of hair. Corselet skirt, cut to shape; shaped ruffle with head hidden under black braids and finished with a smaller shaped ruffle topped with four rows of braids. On the side, hunter's pocket; the front is open at a point and held in place by barrettes. Rounded bolero, also closed with barrettes, round neck; old gold velvet shirt; elbow sleeve slightly widened at the bottom.

Matériaux: 6m,50 de tissu gris; 0m,75 de velours.

—

(2) Manteau de promenade pour dame âgée, en drap noir, composé de quatre collets-châle bordés de grecques de piqûres blanches.

(2) Walking coat for an elderly lady, in black cloth, made up of four shawl collars edged with white stitching.

Matériaux: 4 mètre de drap.

Tricorne de feutre rouge, bordé de blanc et piqué d'un gros chou de taffetas blanc liséré au bord d'une chenille noire.

Tricorne of red felt, edged in white and stitched with a large white taffeta puff bordered with a black chenille.

—

(3) Dos de la figure 1.

(4) Dos de la figure 2.

(5) Robe de réception pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en lainage mélangé bleu, mauve et rose. Jupe à lés rapportés sous des galons noirs façonnés. Entre les lés, galons appliqués. Corsage blouse garni comme la jupe et décolleté en rond sur une guimpe de dentelle renaissance. Nœud de corsage et ceinture en velours chamois. Manche évasée sur un bouffant de dentelle cerclé de velours étroits.

(5) Reception dress for young woman or girl, in blue, mauve and pink wool blend. Skirt with strips under shaped black braid. Between the strips, applied braids. Blouse bodice trimmed like the skirt and round neckline on a renaissance lace wimple. Bodice bow and belt in chamois velvet. Flared sleeve on a lace bouffant surrounded by narrow velvet.

Matériaux: 6 mètres de lainage.

—

(6) Robe de visites pour jeune femme, en drap rouge "Légion d'Honneur." Jupe ornée de dents de piqûres qui rappellent sur la manche l'ornementation du boléro. Parements Augereau et bouffants de panne noire.

(6) Visiting dress for young women, in red cloth “Légion d’Honneur.” Skirt decorated with stitching teeth which recall the bolero ornamentation on the sleeve. Augereau facings and black purlin puffers.

Matériaux 5 mètres de drap, 1m,50 de panne.

(7) Dos de la figure 9.

(8) Dos de la figure 10.

(9) Robe de ville pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en homespun rainette. Jupe en forme ornée de ganses noires dessinant des losanges. Veste à basque ronde, garnie comme la jupe et entr'ouverte sur un dessous de soie vieux rose; ceinture de velours noir sur la veste. Manche à coude surmontée d'une épaulette arrondie comme le col.

(9) City dress for young women or girls, in homespun rainette. Shaped skirt decorated with black braids drawing diamonds. Round peplum jacket, trimmed like the skirt and half-open over an old pink silk underside; black velvet belt on the jacket. Elbow sleeve topped with a rounded shoulder pad like the collar.

Matériaux: 6 mètres d'homespun; 0m,50 de soie rose.

—

(10) Costume de chasse pour jeune femme ou jeune fille , en cover-coat bleu clair, Jupe plissée par groupes, montée au-dessous d'une partie plate enserrant les hanches par des repincés. Boléro ajusté, orné d'un double col en forme bordé de repincés. Le devant ouvre aux trois quarts sur un gilet de drap blanc; le bas se ferme par des brandebourgs et de petits boutons d'argent. Manche à coude.

(10) Hunting suit for a young woman or girl, in a light blue cover-coat, Skirt pleated in groups, mounted below a flat part encircling the hips with repins. Fitted bolero, decorated with a double shaped collar edged with repinqués. The front opens three-quarters to reveal a white cloth vest; the bottom closes with frogs and small silver buttons. Elbow sleeve.

Matériaux: 5m,50 de cover-coat.

Chapeau cantinière en feutre gris clair cerclé de velours noir et piqués de deux couteaux bruns.

Canteen hat in light gray felt rimmed with black velvet and stitched with two brown knives.

[bebemoon]

look for the name: RICKY

oversize belted brown wool coat

miu miu cotton shorts in brown

maria la rosa coco wool-blend crew socks

prada off-white leather trainers

cartier paris santos dumont 18kt sold gold wrist watch w/ "fuck 9 - 5" printed over the dial, c. 198o's

[the-californicationist]

Growl

You meet John Price at his house for drinks, and you didn’t realize just how quickly things would escalate.

MDNI/18+

TW: femdom, switch!Price, pegging

Check the full fic on AO3

You clutched your coat around your body a little tighter, pressing the wool lapels tightly to your neck to block out the bitter cold of the night. It was torture to pull your warm hand out of its glove, but you couldn’t press the apartment buzzer through the thick fabric.

You held down the button until you heard the door click. Pulling the handle, you reveled in the sudden warmth that washed over you from the heat of his building. Your friend, John Price, lived in a pretty swanky place for a military man. To be fair, you didn’t know him that well. He was a regular at your bar, and when he was on leave, your watering hole was his first stop. You’d spoken to him about everything from the Kardashians to the cosmos, and he made you feel like you were home when you were with him.

He kissed you for the first time just this past weekend. You had been taking out the recycling, struggling to carry the heavy glass bottles, and he spotted you in the back of the building. He tossed the glass into the bin all at once, exhibiting the most incredible brute force, and without much hesitation, he pinned you to the filthy brick wall and kissed you full on the mouth.

All the flirting and the back and forth had been torturing you, haunting you like a ghost, and apparently it had been haunting him, too. He took you out to dinner the next night - a killer sushi place - and you let him finger you on his couch while you pretended to watch the Planet Earth documentary. Your orgasm was…spectacular. So, you had booked him for tonight, hoping for an encore.

You made it to his big, black door and knocked sharply. Rustling noises, and then a click.

“Hello there, sweetheart. C’mon in.”

He was dressed comfortably, a white tee and bleached jeans, barefoot in his studio apartment. You crossed the threshold, smelling curry and cardamom, a blend of aromatic spices mixing in the air from the lamb korma that he had simmering on the stovetop.

“Hey,” you kissed him chastely, letting his beard tickle your lip and cheek, “It smells amazing in here.”

“Ah,” he smiled, taking the compliment like a punch, “It’s gotta simmer down a bit. Got a while yet. Here, have a go at this.”

He handed you a cup of something, and you trusted him, drinking it in a full, slow gulp. It was rich and beautiful with a texture of silk and honey. You groaned in satisfaction,

“Mmm! John, what is this?”

“Mead. I’ve been practicing, and I think I’ve got it almost right,” he was glowing with pride and excitement.

As a bartender, you didn’t often meet true connoisseurs, so a man like Price was a rare treat. But, for him to be making his own mead, and to this level of expertise. That was transcendent. And it turned you on beyond repair.

“Fuck,” you laughed in disbelief, “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” his tone changed into a dusky register.

He started to kiss you, folding his lips around you like an embrace, pulling your coat off your back and letting it crumple to the floor with your gloves. He worked you backwards, heading for his bed, and you let him lead you like a calf by the nose. John tasted like the mead, like cashews, and like smooth tobacco. He was forceful, just as he had been in the alley, and it lit a fire in your core.

Honestly, you were already prepared for him. The walk over had filled your head with anticipation, and every time you took a step, you felt the tell-tale softness of your wet lips as they glided over one another, swelling and tingling, awaiting his thick digits to pry them apart again.

You fell back to the bed, or were pushed, and his enormous, heavy body crushed you to the soft blankets, pressing the air out of you like a wrung out rag, dripping with eagerness and growling for more of his body to smother you.

Then, he dropped to his knees in front of you, breaking his kiss. He looked up at you with bright blue eyes, pale and longing, begging with you as he said his peace very, very slowly, as if you couldn’t understand him,

“Sweetheart, I…I need to ask you a favor. I promise, tonight is going to be all about you,” his hand rustled into your skirt and pulled your panties away to find your wetness. He trembled when he found it, and began to plead with you again, “But, I need something from you that I…God, I just…”

You took his head in your hands and kissed his forehead gently,

“It’s okay, baby. What is it? What can I do for you, hm?”

John looked a little reluctant, but he sighed and continued,

“I want you to fuck me.”

You laughed a little bit,

“Baby, yes. That’s why I’m here. I was -”

“No,” he stopped you, his face turning dark and serious, “I want you to fuck me. Please. I know it’s not typical, and I know how it sounds. I just…I can’t get it out of my mind. I’ve been tossing and turning, I can’t even think straight. Every time I look at you, I just get more and more bloody mad about it. I’m fucking chuffed you’re here, and you are so hot, but…please, love. Please fuck me.”

“John…I…I’m sorry, but I don’t exactly have the right situation to fuck you with,” you guestured to your pussy, and obvious lack of a penis.

“I have something,” Price grinned, “that we might both enjoy.”

He left you for a moment and you let the anvil that he’d just given you sink into you and through you, crushing you like he had with his body, just before this shocking confession. When he returned, your pussy announced its immediate commitment to John’s plan.

John was holding a piece of equipment with straps and a plasticine gusset, and inside of where it would lay against your cunt was a big, turgid dildo, meant to slide into your warm core. Then, on the outside was its twin, meant to slide into…John.

He was extremely vulnerable at this very moment. You could see it in his face, and you tried your best to make your reaction as neutral as possible.

“Oh!” You said. It was too high-pitched. He could smell your fear.

“You can say no, lovie. It’s okay. I know it’s probably too -”

“No,” you stopped him and he scarcely allowed himself to hope. You reached out for it and unbuckled the straps, “Let’s just try. If we have to stop, we can stop, right?”

“You mean it?” He sank to his knees again, rubbing his hands up your legs, moving your skirt away, exposing you.

You pet his head gently, putting your thumb on his bottom lip and changing your tone,

“Yes, baby. I mean it. And if you’re a very, very, good boy, I might even let you come.”

+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+

Want to read the rest? Check it out on AO3! Too spicy for tumblr 🥵

[worldofbaltzar]

THE SUMMER RAGLAN COAT

Stu­dio 73 by Cav­a­liere is known for mak­ing con­tem­po­rary tai­lored cloth­ing in their own stu­dio since 1973. Their pas­sion and ob­jec­tive are to pro­duce and de­sign qual­i­ta­tive prod­ucts through a sus­tain­able mind­set.

This is es­pe­cially true for the checked raglan coat, which de­sign has been de­vel­oped through study­ing 1950s styles, the golden era of menswear. They have taken the clas­sic raglan style and, for this sea­son, used a light­weight sum­mer cloth in a wool-​linen blend, woven in Italy by Lan­i­fi­cio di Pray.

The coat is worn to­gether with a light brown polo shirt from Mauro Ot­ta­viani, knit­ted from an extra-​fine cot­ton thread, and a pair of white pleated trousers from De Petrillo, cut from pure Irish linen. Com­pli­mented by a pair of choco brown sneak­ers from C.QP and a prac­ti­cal suede tote bag from Frank Clegg.

Browse online here

[robotlearnstolove]

2024-11-25

The Watchers in Winter

Paraé crested the hill and stopped for a few heartbeats to look up at the sky and watch the snow fall all around her. Each flake gently tumbled downward along its own unique path. She felt the brief and minuscule chill of those that landed on the skin of her face — the only part of her body she bared — before they melted into nothing. This was nothing like the storm they had suffered two days prior. For much of that day, the wind had been so strong and so cold that they’d been forced to take shelter until it died down.

Silver, who hadn’t stopped with her, was already headed down into the next valley and the there was already a twenty or thirty metre gap between them. She tightened the collar of her heavy wool coat and jogged to catch up with him, thinking fondly of Mino as she went.

Every few hours, without stopping, he would turn around and hand her some dried fruit and a short drink of water. Days ago, he’d explained that the sunlit hours were getting shorter at this time of year and they had to prioritize walking as far as they could before it got dark. They still prepared two hot meals from their rations every day but only before and after the sleeping hours. This meant that she spent most of the day feeling the pangs of an empty stomach as she waited for her body to adjust to the new meal schedule.

The forest around them was a tangle of leafless, dead-looking branches that jutted up from the snow, a stark departure from the lively greens that had surrounded them just a month before. Deer, rabbits, small birds could be seen throughout the day. Apparently, they had always been around. It was just harder for them to hide without the leaves and against the white of the snow. Also visible were the watchers.

The small, undead creatures that had blended so well with the summer foliage now stuck out as much as any of the animals in the snow. They always either crossed their path at a run or else sat perfectly still in the distance and stared at them. Paraé thought she recognized one watcher in particular from its missing left arm and she often got the impression that it was following them. Silver didn’t seem particularly perturbed by its presence although she had seen him shoot it a suspicious glare on a couple of occasions.

[fashioneditswebsite]

What colors to wear this fall according to Fashion Week

Here are the top trending autumn/winter colors, say, designers. With spring/summer runways having drawn to a close in Paris this week, the star-studded front rows were littered with a wealth of color inspiration for the fall season. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Anaïs Gallagher (@gallagher_anais) With that in mind, here are the colors you should don this season according to fall/winter runways. Burgundy and plum Plum, burgundy, aubergine, and cranberry – you've probably seen this palette popping up all over your newsfeed. These colors dominate the fall/winter wardrobes of 2024. "Burgundy was on the Gucci and Bottega Veneta runways – with some statement leather coats paired with pops of pink and red," says British fashion designer and host of the podcast Style DNA, Amanda Wakeley OBE. "A burgundy bag is great for making your outfit pop if you are wearing darker tones." View this post on Instagram A post shared by GUCCI (@gucci) "The trending color has even cultivated standalone collections, "ZARA has a special Burgundy Edit on its website, alongside the fall/winter collections from & Other Stories and MANGO," says Alina Veselaya, CMO of trend insight agency Enstyle." "Consumer interest in burgundy has increased by 2.4% over the last year, anticipating industry growth." Guests for Gucci's fall/winter 2024 fashion show wore all-burgundy ensembles in Milan (Alamy/PA) Luxury clothing expert Sophie Fellows at Lallie London advises pairing these deep wine colors with neutrals. "Pairing with a bright neutral, such as cream or white, creates a classically elegant daytime look. "When it comes to evening, you can apply burgundy accessories to a simple dress or pantsuit. Additionally, a burgundy shoe, earring, or glove can bring the look together. Mango Mini Shopper Bag With Buckle Olive green and khaki Deep and rich greens appeared in countless fall/winter fashion shows, from Burberry to Prada and Gucci. Wakeley suggests accompanying the color with pops of vibrant vermillion or deep red. "Since Burberry's fall/winter London Fashion Week in February, the most-fashion forward celebs have been spotted wearing head-to-toe green at September's Fashion Week shows," says Fellows. Head-to-toe khaki ensembles pervaded London's fashion week streets (Alamy/PA) "Olive green is resonating with many this season, likely due to its association with nature and grounding energy," says Clearpay's fashion psychologist, Shakaila Forbes-Bell. When styling green, embracing its natural element works well when pairing it with other earthy tones, such as cocoa browns or sandy taupes. "In the evening, try pairing a deep emerald green with black for an understated, timeless, quiet luxury look," says Fellows. Olive Green Cardigan -Gap Bubblegum pink Pink has returned to fashion in full force, making its biggest comeback since its heyday in the early Nineties. "Pink has been crowned the new black, reflecting a continued demand for playful yet sophisticated pops of color in our wardrobes," notes Forbes-Bell. "This trend highlights how consumers are embracing mood-enhancing colors to counterbalance the dark seasonal shift and express individuality in their style choices," says Forbes-Bell. Wool Blend Cardigan -Maje Wakeley notes that pops of pink elevate a neutral outfit: "The brighter pink colours look great with more neutral grey tones." Wool Blend Scarf -Mango Chocolate brown Another leader of the color pack is rich and earthy brown. "Deep chocolate hues have featured in most of the fall/winter collections for 2024," explains Wakeley. "Deep, dark brown is incredibly flattering to wear as it's softer and more interesting than black," says Wakeley. "It looks great with all the pale neutrals, brights and my favourite is to mix brown and navy – something the French do so well." Brown Denim Skirt Zara Open-front Knit Coat, Zara "Browns can work well in monochrome ensembles in combination with other earthy tones, like cream or beige." Pair a deep brown knit with a camel trench and cream trousers – and you have a fall look ready. Lemon yellow A surprising shade for fall is bright, sunshine yellow. "Lemon yellow, a vibrant summer hue, is popular this season, suggesting a desire for brightness in darker months." Monochromatic yellow looks have been spotted on the streets of London, Paris and Milan (Alamy/PA) Marigold-yellow was seen on the Prada, Victoria Beckham, and Jacquemus runways this year, paired with grey knits and long-line wool coats. "The Pantone color report for Fashion Week highlighted 'Misted Yellow' as a key color to watch." View this post on Instagram A post shared by Simone Ashley (@simoneashley) Yellow can pair wonderfully with inky greys, sky blues, and khaki greens. Crew-neck top - COS Read the full article

[barongsrus1]

The Barong Tagalog is not only versatile in its cultural significance but also in its adaptability to different climates and seasons. Whether you’re attending a formal event in the sweltering summer or a winter wedding, there are ways to wear and style your Barong to ensure comfort and elegance all year round. Here’s a guide to choosing the right Barong and accessories for every season.

Summer Embrace the Heat with Short Sleeves and Light Fabrics

Fabric Choices: In hot and humid climates, opt for lightweight and breathable fabrics like piña or jusi. These natural fibers allow air to circulate, keeping you cool and comfortable.

Styling Tips:

Short Sleeve Barong Tagalog: For a casual summer look, choose a short-sleeve Barong Tagalog. The Short Sleeve Barong Tagalog 1051 is perfect for this season. Its simple design ensures you stay cool while looking polished.

Pair with Shorts: For a trendy and laid-back summer look, pair your short sleeve Barong with well-fitted shorts. This combination is perfect for outdoor events and beach weddings, offering a stylish yet comfortable ensemble.

Color Choices: Lighter colors like white, cream, or pastel shades reflect sunlight and keep you cooler. A White Barong Tagalog exudes classic elegance and is ideal for daytime events.

Layering Tips:

Keep layering minimal. If you need to wear an undershirt, choose a lightweight, moisture-wicking fabric.

Avoid heavy accessories; instead, opt for a simple wristwatch and light, breathable shoes.

Fall Transition with Style

Fabric Choices: As temperatures begin to drop, consider slightly thicker fabrics like Organza fabric, linen, or cotton blends. These materials provide warmth without being too heavy.

Styling Tips:

Long Sleeve Barong Tagalog: A long-sleeve Barong offers a sophisticated look suitable for cooler evenings. 

Color Choices: Earth tones like mocha or deep green blend well with the fall foliage. A Mocha Barong Tagalog 3538 complements the season’s palette beautifully.

Layering Tips:

Pair your Barong with an inner layer, such as a lightweight sweater or thermal shirt, to stay warm.

Consider adding a stylish scarf that complements the Barong’s color for added warmth and style.

Winter Stay Warm Without Sacrificing Style

Fabric Choices: In colder climates, opt for thicker fabrics like cotton-silk blends or even wool-lined Barongs. These materials offer insulation while maintaining the Barong’s elegant drape.

Styling Tips:

Long Sleeve Barong Tagalog: A long-sleeve Barong in a darker color, such as the Black Barong Tagalog 3092, is perfect for winter events. The black color adds a formal and sophisticated touch.

Layering: Layer your Barong with a tailored blazer or coat. Choose outerwear in neutral tones that complement the Barong’s color.

Color Choices:

Darker colors like black, navy blue, or charcoal are ideal for winter. The Black Barong Tagalog 3092 offers a sleek and polished look for evening events.

Pair your Barong with dark trousers for a cohesive and elegant winter ensemble.

Layering Tips:

Wear a thermal undershirt for extra warmth without adding bulk.

Add a scarf and gloves in complementary colors for both style and warmth.

Spring Fresh and Vibrant

Fabric Choices: As the weather warms up, return to lighter fabrics like piña and jusi. These materials are breathable and comfortable for the fluctuating temperatures of spring.

Styling Tips:

Short Sleeve/Colored Barong Tagalog: A short-sleeve Barong or a colored barong adds a fresh and vibrant touch to your spring wardrobe. The light gray hue is perfect for the season’s blooms.

Color Choices: Bright and pastel colors are ideal for spring. A Short Sleeve Gray Barong Tagalog 1040 remains a classic choice, but don’t be afraid to experiment with colors like lavender or light gray.

Layering Tips:

Layer with a light cardigan or a blazer that can be easily removed if the temperature rises.

Choose accessories in spring hues to complement the vibrant colors of your Barong.

Year-Round Elegance:Tips for Any Season

Fabric Choices: For year-round wear, opt for versatile fabrics like jusi or silk blends that provide comfort in varying temperatures.

Styling Tips:

Versatile Barongs: The Monochromatic Light Gray Barong is a versatile choice that works in any season. Its neutral color pairs well with various trousers and accessories.

Adaptable Colors: Neutral colors like gray, beige, or classic white are timeless and adaptable to any season.

Layering Tips:

Adjust your layering based on the season: lighter layers in spring and summer, heavier layers in fall and winter.

Keep your accessories season-appropriate, such as lighter fabrics and colors in warmer months and richer, warmer tones in cooler months.

No matter the season, the Barong Tagalog remains a versatile and stylish option for any formal occasion. By choosing the right fabric, color, and layering techniques, you can ensure that you stay comfortable and look impeccable throughout the year. Embrace the timeless elegance of the Barong Tagalog and make a statement at any event, regardless of the weather.

[doodlefoxart]

I posted my redesigns for the schmooly and wooly king a year ago (now privated that art was old lol), so i gave them an update both looks wise and lore wise!!

- small and hardy, schmoolys are the toughest in the wooly family; capable of surviving unlivable and sweltering conditions, its been labeled as an extremophile much like the other species that roam the kelve lava caves. Schmoolys use their large tusks to break apart rocks and stones in order to get to any hidden vegetation hiding in the cracks, as well as using them for defense from attackers looking to make a meal out of them. Schmoolys, unlike the other members of its species, don’t have wool, rather they have hair that has evolved to become heat and flame resistant; as the many flame geysers or stray embers could threaten to burn it otherwise. Monster hunters utilize schmooly pelts for heat protective clothes and leather, whether its for firemen or blacksmiths its fire resistance properties are incredibly useful. Schmoolys typically herd together in groups of around 15 members, as their small size could make them an easy target for larger predators like croakitees or griffins. Schmoolys, as such, have also developed feisty personalities and are always on the defense, willing to sacrifice their very lives for the sake of the safety of their heard. It is not uncommon for travelers to assume that schmoolys have dark grey coats rather than white ones, as the soot and ash that surrounds them sticks to them; they use this to their advantage, however, using it as a form of camouflage to blend in with the similarly colored stone walls of the lava cave system.

- wooly “kings” are a natural marvel; being incomprehensibly large for a typically small species. They typically walk on all fours in order to get around and stand on their hind legs to either scan their environment or to intimidate foes. Researchers had found that things like an abundance of food, genetic mutations and age all correspond to the massive size a wooly king can gain, with some wooly kings reaching as tall as 20 ft tall on their hind legs alone. Because of their massive size regular woolys instinctively follow them and look to them for protection, hence the name wooly “kings” as they act much in the way a king would protect his people. Occasionally spats between opposing kings from different herds can break out; luckily since wooly kings in of themselves are a very rare phenomenon and most herds avoid each other to begin with fights like that are rare. However its still a terrifying sight to see and adventurers avoid those conflicts at all costs, not just because of the kings but because the members of the opposing herds could end up fighting as well, like a king leading soldiers to war.