#black velvet artistry

[globalrebrand]

Fleurs par la Reine de la Nuit: Part I

Warning: None! Pure fluff.

A/N: This manlet has stolen my heart. Also posted on Ao3!

Lyney finds he must unmask a most skillful rival, yet your trade is not magic, but flowers.

Finding a good florist in Fontaine was not a matter of great difficulty. One only needed to step out into the bustling avenues of the Court of Fontaine and look several meters or so in virtually any direction to find a shop of high-quality blooms and well-styled bouquets. Nearly every district in the Court of Fontaine possessed these flower shops as given the propensity of the Fontainese for affectionate gestures, amorous gifts, and lively celebration, there was always demand for floral accompaniment. So how you managed to craft arrangements that surpassed the exceedingly high expectations of Fontaine’s florally astute populace meant your talent was nothing short of exceptional.  

The arrangements Lyney had seen were truly spectacular. He seldom found himself taking notice of flower arrangements beyond a gentle acknowledgment of pretty or lovely, but upon witnessing your work, he could only think of the sheer artistry and splendor your particular brand of blossoms possessed. Arrangements that recaptured the romanticism of old masters only to now be witnessed in the musée, yet made use of exotic blooms from across Teyvat, blending the traditional with the foreign. How you interwove padisarah’s and cecilia's with rainbow roses and lumoidouce bells as if there were grown out of the earth in each other's company was incredibly difficult to replicate. He had seen would-be copycats try, but their arrangements always seemed to look so contrived or ostentatious and sometimes downright gaudy. Your particular brand of effortless opulence and organic luxury seemed singular in a city utterly brimming with blooms. Lyney decided you must have used magic in some capacity. It seemed impossible that you could ensnare an entire city with flowers alone.  

He supposed your enigmatic methods of marketing were also particularly enchanting to a nation obsessed with mystery and mysticism. Lyney knew not your name. Your modus operandi was a well-executed and thoughtful affair. Your bouquets arrived at their destination via a determined black poodle pulling a gilded wagon or, for more elaborate orders, via masked individuals with a gilded tag that on one side read,  Fleurs par la Reine de la Nuit , and on the other a polite Merci beaucoup.  Perhaps it was not common knowledge, but Queen of the Night flowers were native to Natlan and only bloomed at night and wilted by dawn. Fittingly the only way to commission you was through a beautifully sculpted marble receptacle that sat on a prominent corner of the Quartier Narbonnais from dusk until dawn. It was utterly immovable to any passerby and firmly rooted to its spot. Paper slips for one's contact information would be accessible through a drawer in the front of the sculpture, then filled-out floral requests would be dropped into a slit on the top. He had not yet requested anything from you, but he had heard from those who used it that the next morning, a dove would arrive stating their request had been accepted and that a rather considerable payment should be remitted in a velvet coin pouch on the dove’s back. 

Lynette was utterly taken with your work, she often sighed with deep longing upon coming across your works, a small pout settling on her expression, and while Lyney was undeniably charmed, Lynette was right. There was a strange pragmatism in him that prevented him from fully being enamored, though Freminet would argue he seemed sufficiently enchanted by your enterprise. 

He encouraged Lynette to request an arrangement from you, but she stubbornly resisted saying that buying them for herself would cut the allure of your practice. So naturally, big brother Lyney had to take it upon himself to make his younger siblings happy.  

Lyney set off the marble box and grabbed a paper slip, name,address of delivery, date of delivery, budget, and colors, simple enough. However, the questions soon took a rather intriguing turn. Two columns with separate questions, If for a friend or loved one, answer the following. The other column was for events.

Alright, Lyney thought. He would play along to your silly game. 

If this person were a dish, what would they be? Ex. A chocolate souffle, understated in elegance with a rich and sweet inner composition.

What is the mood you would like for the arrangement? Ex. flirtatious, somber, wistful, effervescent, etc. 

Describe how much this person means to you. I will only accept genuine confessions of affection. The sentiments need not be profound but honest. 

Lyney couldn’t help but be thoroughly amused, but he answered each question in earnest. Lynette would probably be a plum galette, demure in appearance but sweet, simple, and endlessly comforting but with a surprising tartness. The mood of the bouquet should be whimsical and inspired but not overly gauche. The fragrance of the flowers should be subtle out of respect for Lynette’s sensitive nose and as for ‘how much does she mean to him?’... Lyney began to write:

"I would sacrifice myself for her in an instant. Her continued safety and happiness mean more to me than life itself." 

Now, Lyney could go on, but there wasn’t much room for a more extensive response. So with all the questions answered, he sealed up his slip and placed it in the box, anticipation brimming within him. 

No one knew anything about you, despite Charlotte vigorously trying to ascertain your identity in an ongoing column about your floral dealings in the Steambird. In part, he was delighted that Lynette would no doubt be pleased by the flowers, but your peculiar line of questioning had him thinking about exactly who you were and your motivations for producing floral arrangements in such a fashion. On a nearby bench, a stylish young couple eagerly filled out the form, quite obviously asking you to provide the flowers for their upcoming nuptials. 

Clearly, you were a hopeless romantic, and his magician's intuition told him that you were fond of tradition but seeking to innovate for the future and sow joy to the population through your bouquets. That and that you possessed a high degree of magical ability yourself, the regimented appearance and disappearance of your magical marble letter box that never seemed to become full despite receiving hundreds of requests per day, your letter-carrying doves, and all manner of mystery in your deliveries. As a magician, your skill almost made him envious, but he could not let the feeling distract from your allure. Lyney reasoned that you must be a delicate and shy soul and he often imagined that you and Lynette might get along. He pondered what expression you wore as you read through the requests. Were you exhausted by banal queries, or tickled by the sweet secrets of love and admiration written on your forms? The more he thought about it, the more Lyney decided he must uncover your identity. Not to the public but just for his personal fulfillment. 

Whether you were a great beauty or a simple flower, he decided he must see you, your secrets suddenly becoming a treasure he wished to take for himself.

#lyney x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #fontaine genshin #genshin lyney #genshin impact lyney #lyney

[shifting---patterns]

Wearing Time: Carpe Diem and the Artistry of Anti-Fashion (Pt. 2 / 2)

Continuing since part one of this article was simply too long.

/// Luca Laurini Luca Laurini, distinguished from his peers Cecchetto and Amadei, directs his focus exclusively on clothing within his label Under Construction, eschewing leather and accessories entirely. Established in 2003, Under Construction stands out as one of the most prominent among the four labels spearheaded by the former Carpe Diem design team. While guided by Altieri at Carpe Diem, Laurini honed his skills in knitwear, and his vision for the craft of knitwear and ready-to-wear fashion crystallized during the creation of L'Maltieri and Linea.

Unfortunately I couldn't find any picture of Laurini himself. More space for his creations!

Carpe Diem's prior emphasis on leather processing provided Laurini with the platform to express his ideas about knitwear and ready-to-wear pieces in a manner that was both disruptive and experimental. Post-Carpe Diem, Laurini founded Under Construction with the explicit intent of challenging conventional perceptions of knitwear. The label's name itself implies that Laurini's collection consists of pieces intentionally designed to appear seemingly unfinished. Employing modern technologies and adopting an architectural approach, Laurini's designs are characterized by modern tailoring and urban minimalism.

The Under Construction collection spans from unconventional white T-shirts with uneven seams to black button-down shirts featuring non-traditional stitches. It includes tapered pants with flared crotches and gathered ankles. Laurini remains true to his roots, paying homage to Carpe Diem with a long-sleeved shirt adorned with a blue and white print reminiscent of muscle fibers. These garments embody the philosophy of Label Under Construction, marked by the fusion of technology and architecture with a steadfast focus on craftsmanship.

Through his label Under Construction, Luca Laurini demonstrates that, despite the absence of leather and accessories, he has the ability to craft an impressive array of modern and urban clothing pieces. These pieces stand out for their intentional imperfections and artisanal refinement, showcasing Laurini's commitment to pushing the boundaries of conventional fashion norms.

Sara Lanzi Sara Lanzi, perhaps the lesser-known member of the Carpe Diem family, specializes in the transformative art of clothing, driven by her deep appreciation for knitwear. Serving as the steward of the Linea label at Carpe Diem from 1999 to 2003, Lanzi, a former student of contemporary art, sees the human body not merely as a reference point but as an object for "essential and transformative pieces." Her foray into the fashion world commenced with the presentation of her eponymous women's fashion collection in Paris in 2004.

Lanzi's overarching goal is to harmonize aesthetics and functionality, manifested through monochrome pieces with a strong emphasis on versatility. The Fall/Winter collection of 2006 showcased her innovative prowess, featuring garments that could be worn in various ways—a knee-length dress with a scarf serving as a sleeve or an unevenly draped ribbed tank that seamlessly transformed into a sweater with a collar. Another notable creation was Lanzi's A-line velvet dress, radiating monastic elegance from the front yet revealing a seductively transgressive deep back neckline upon closer inspection.

Sara Lanzi's current collections adhere to a similar concept, accentuating the duality of garments with a more subdued look tailored for the "natural woman." Lanzi's designs exemplify her ability to seamlessly unite aesthetics and functionality, highlighting the duality and versatility of clothing as mediums for personal style and self-expression. Despite her relatively lower recognition within the Carpe Diem family, Sara Lanzi has carved out a distinct place in avant-garde fashion through her inventive approach to knitwear and fashion, proving that her creative ingenuity transcends the boundaries of conventional recognition.

Taichi Murakami (Honorable Mention) Taichi Murakami, the former pattern maker at M.A+ and the founder of his eponymous brand, stands as a prominent figure in the realm of avant-garde fashion. In the mid-2000s, the Gothic clothing movement (here's a brief reference to my blog article "How Post-Punk Influenced Nowadays Fashion") served as a global inspiration for designers, including Rick Owens in North America, and labels such as Julius, Attachment, Devoa, and The Viridi-Anne. While many of these designers share a lineage with Carpe Diem in some way, Taichi Murakami distinguishes himself through his unique and innovative work.

During his studies in Tokyo, Murakami gained experience at Lift, a multi-brand boutique in Daikanyama known for its artisanal brands like Carol Christian Poell and M.A+. Fascinated by Maurizio Amadei's intricate patterns at M.A+, Murakami aspired to work there one day. His goal became a reality after completing his studies when he secured a scholarship to study pattern making in Milan. In 2009, he joined Amadei as a pattern maker at M.A+, where he imbibed a flexible approach to the design process, a departure from the strict Japanese mentality. Amadei's encouragement for Murakami to experiment beyond traditional limits, creating prototypes from various materials, became a formative aspect of his creative journey.

After gaining valuable experience at M.A+, Murakami felt prepared to establish his own fashion line. In 2012, he unveiled his inaugural collection in Tokyo. Murakami identifies more as a clothing developer than a conventional designer, displaying an obsessive commitment to sourcing the right materials before embarking on the design process. With local connections granting him access to adventurous fabric manufacturers, Murakami's refined patterning adapts to the behavior of each fabric, allowing him to shape each piece in unique ways—resulting in garments that are truly one-of-a-kind.

Taichi Murakami's distinctive approach resonates throughout his collections, positioning him as a fitting successor to Altieri and Amadei's design ethos. His work epitomizes a successful fusion of traditional craftsmanship, experimental design, and the freedom to challenge established norms, marking him as a trailblazer in the avant-garde fashion landscape.

///

Carpe Diem's indelible mark on artisanal fashion stands as a testament to Altieri's visionary leadership and the collective creativity of its members. Despite the surging interest in artisanal avant-garde fashion, the prospect of a Carpe Diem resurgence remains uncertain. Nevertheless, the dissolution of Carpe Diem has not dimmed the creative fervor of its members. Each, including Altieri with his "Vnapersona" project, ventures beyond the realm of fashion, infusing art into their pursuits.

Altieri, Amadei, Cecchetto, Laurini, and Lanzi have not only pioneered avant-garde fashion but have also left an enduring legacy, fostering a continued influence embraced by various labels and designers. Their artistic imprints endure, evident in contemporary collections two decades later. The Carpe Diem collective remains a pivotal milestone in the annals of artisanal fashion, its impact echoing through time. As we look to the future, the anticipation lingers for potential developments and projects from Altieri and his colleagues, underscoring their perpetual influence on the ever-evolving landscape of creative expression.

Davis Jahn

#fashion #art #avant garde #avant garde fashion #artisanal #artisanal fashion #carpe diem #maurizio altieri #ma+ #maurizio amadei #simone cecchetto #augusta #a1923 #m_moriabc #linea #layer-0 #anti fashion #writing #article #philosophy #gothic #leather #leather boots #leather garments #leather jacket #garment #taichi murakami #sara lanzi #luca laurini #labelunderconstruction

[dorothea-dorie]

𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (Regulus Black x Reader)

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 1: 𝙀𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

“Again!” The stern voice of her father insisted as Y/n breathed heavily, beads of sweat on her forehead as Abraxas Malfoy, Y/n’s father, observed her ballet performance. Y/n was chosen to be the leading role of the ballet, Giselle and Abraxas wanted his daughter to be perfect, as always.

“Father, Y/n is tired, Let her rest” Lucius spoke out looking at Y/n slightly worried. Abraxas turns his head to look at his son gripping the smooth velvet material of his armchair, Abraxas gives Lucius a cold glare “Do you want your sister to embarrass herself in front of the whole Wizarding World?!” Y/n and Lucius flinch slightly at the bombarding tone of their father, Y/n looks at Lucius giving him a small smile before shaking her head. 

“I’ll perform better, Father until I achieve perfection” She gently states looking at her father “As always, It’s my only plan” She continued, nodding her head. Abraxas scoffs but is satisfied by her answer before gesturing for her to perform her routine again. Y/n looks at the vast ballet room her father made just for her in their Manor before breathing out a sigh as she prepares to perform the ballet again. 

The room is adorned with mirrors that line the walls, reflecting her every movement, allowing her to perfect her technique and form. Soft, natural light filters through the windows, creating an ambiance of tranquility that calms her slightly despite being under the strict observance of her father and the encouraging gaze of Lucius. 

Abraxas nods at her before he takes out his wand and casts a simple spell for the recorder to start playing, Variation de Giselle. As the music starts to play, her movements become more fluid and graceful, like a painter's brush strokes on a canvas. She glides across the floor, executing pirouettes and arabesques with breathtaking precision. Each step is a testament to her years of training and the unwavering commitment to her craft.

Her reflection in the mirrors becomes her harshest critic and her most trusted ally. With every turn and grand battement, she analyzes her form, seeking perfection in every line and curve of her body. Each correction she makes brings her closer to achieving the ideal expression of her artistry.

“Again!” Abraxas states, glaring at his daughter’s mistake, Y/n nods before doing it again and again and again. Lucius stares at her as she glides through the room performing the choreography, worried for her knowing very well that she is tired. As she practices, she becomes acutely aware of the subtle nuances of her body. She learns to listen to its whispers, detecting the tiniest adjustments needed to perfect her technique. Her breath becomes a metronome, guiding her through each movement and fostering a sense of rhythm and flow.

Hours pass unnoticed as she loses herself in the dance. Sweat glistens on her brow, and her muscles ache with exertion, she wants to pass out. She feels too tired to continue but she remains determined, driven by her passion for the art form and the passion to impress her father and to not make a single mistake, to achieve perfection. When she finally concludes her practice, she takes a moment to stand at the center of the room, her heart still pounding with the exhilaration of the dance. With a sense of accomplishment, she bows to her reflection in the mirrors, acknowledging the growth and progress she has made.

Lucius and Abraxas clap as she finishes her performance, A look of satisfaction can be seen on Abraxas’s face as he smiles at his daughter, Abraxas gestures for her to approach him. Y/n walks over to her father, smiling softly despite feeling tired as Lucius places a hand on her shoulder smiling at her, quite impressed.

“Was it perfect, Father?” She gently asked, patiently waiting for his critique. Abraxas nods his head with a proud smile on his face “As always, my dear” Y/n breathes out a soft sigh of relief, Abraxas stands up from his seat on the armchair “I have work to do at the Ministry” Y/n and Lucius nods as their father leaves the room closing the door behind him.

“Some of my friends are here, I hope you don’t mind, Y/n” Lucius looks at her as he says this, She nods, not minding it one bit “Of course, They’re your friends after all” She gently states, The door opens slightly and some of Lucius’s friends enter. Y/n glances at them through the mirror before focusing on her reflection in the mirror, Her and Lucius’s back turned to them. She removes the hairpins that held her hair in a bun feeling her soft h/c hair falling from the bun.

Lucius’s friends were quite known in the Wizarding World due to their families such as the Rosiers, Blacks and others. Some of them were pompous brats but Y/n favored Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier despite their stubborn selves, She enjoyed their chaotic energy.

As tiredness gradually overtakes her, Y/n begins to experience a surreal disconnect from her surroundings. The weight of exhaustion weighs heavily upon her, and her body feels like an anchor, dragging her down into a state of lethargy. Her movements become slower and less coordinated, as if she's navigating through a thick fog.

Lucius approaches his friends unaware of his sister’s predicament, Her eyelids grow heavy, and the effort to keep them open becomes increasingly challenging. Her vision blurs, and the world around her seems to lose its sharpness and clarity. Y/n blinks slowly, trying to fight off the overwhelming urge to close her eyes, but each blink lasts longer than the last. With each passing moment, her grip on consciousness loosens. Her thoughts slow down, and it becomes harder to focus on anything in particular. Her mind drifts, and she finds herself lost in a hazy reverie, drifting between dream and reality.

Y/n’s heart rate slows, and her breathing becomes shallow and irregular. The world around her fades further into obscurity, and she starts to feel detached from her own body. It's as if she's an observer, watching herself from a distance, the world growing increasingly distant and blurry.

Evan Rosier, a friend of Lucius, notices Y/n’s distress and states “Hey, Malfoy, Is your sister alright?” All of Lucius’s friends shift their gaze at Y/n who’s back was turned to them as she walks toward the drawers on the right side of the room, her steps were heavy and she seemed tired. She felt piercing eyes look at her, she glances at them and locks eyes with Regulus Black, a member of the noble house of Black. Narcissa, Lucius’s fiancee has told her about him, Narcissa described him as a highly intelligent and ambitious young wizard and how despite his young age is deeply committed to the dark beliefs of his family, embracing the ideology of blood purity and devotion to Lord Voldemort. 

Lucius walks over to her worriedly “Y/n, Are you alright?” He asks her, concerned. As her energy wanes, she feels her body sway and tremble. The ground beneath her seems unsteady, and her legs become unresponsive. She clings to whatever support she can find, gripping the barre, trying to maintain her balance, but it's a futile effort. Her body finally gives in to the overwhelming fatigue, and she begins to sink, gently collapsing.

“Y/n!” Lucius rushes over to her just in time to catch her, Lucius brushes her hair off her face and looks worried at her pale complexion. “Luce, I don’t feel good” She chuckles softly before wincing because of the headache, Lucius frowns before he turns to Regulus who looks slightly worried “Call for a healer, Black!” Regulus nods, about to walk out the room to find a healer.

"Don't" Y/n states, groaning in pain before sitting up, grasping her head with her right hand. Lucius shakes his head and sternly says "I highly advise that you go see a healer, Y/n" Y/n scoffs and glares at him.

"There is no need for a healer, It's just a small headache" Y/n grips the barre and slowly pulls herself up, Lucius holds her back and says, deeply concerned "It's best if you rest for now" Lucius looks at his friends and says "Leave." His voice is cold and unfeeling before he guides his sister to her bedroom.

Regulus Black looks at Y/n Malfoy, his eyes holding no emotion but there was a glint of slight concern as Y/n glanced at him before exiting the room with Lucius. Regulus exits the room along with Barty and Evan. Some of Lucius's friends exit the Manor whispering about how pretty the youngest Malfoy is and how she'd look good as a wife. 

"Those idiots have no respect" Barty scoffs, glaring at some of Lucius's friends especially Rabastan Lestrange who was talking about how he would've 'tortured' the young girl in his bedroom. Evan cringes and gives Rabastan's back a look of disgust "That's just absolutely revolting. Y/n is feeling unwell yet Lestrange is here commenting about ridiculous stuff" 

"If he tries to touch her, I'll hex him to oblivion" Barty whispered to Evan, harshly also glaring at Rabastan. Evan quickly nods "I'll join you" The two nod before chuckling

"Regulus, you in?"

"Sure" Regulus answered, shrugging his shoulders, a smirk present on his face "It'd be nice to hex Lestrange into oblivion after all, Give him a taste of his own medicine" Evan and Barty laugh in amusement. Barty nods "Absolutely correct, Reggie".

Regulus rolls his eyes before keeping silent throughout the continuation of Evan and Barry's banter but deep inside. He was furious at Rabastan Lestrange and the other men who left the Manor, it's just disgusting how these men treat women like objects.

#regulus black #x reader #lucius malfoy #james potter #sirius black #marauders #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #lily evans #the maruaders #marauders era #the black brothers #james fleamont potter #foryopage #foryou #for y'all #harry potter

[skarsgazing]

Obsidian - Chapter 2

Without question, it could be said that Mia Hastings was a morning person. She liked to wake up strictly before the sun rose as it gave her a feeling of confidence, like she had the upper hand on the massive ball of plasma. So, she was up and about at around 5:30 am.

Now, to say her apartment was a shit-hole, as she liked to describe it, would be a massive overstatement, especially in a place like New York and in a neighborhood like Tribeca. 

However, when you grow up in an acre-sized property and are part of the über-rich 2% of the world population, anything aside from that would be a definite downgrade; Despite the circumstances, Mia wasn’t particularly snobby but rather not accustomed. When you have it all handed to you, and suddenly you have to fend for yourself, it can be a bit of a trainwreck.

So she gagged as the fork left her mouth, getting a good taste of the scrambled eggs she had just finished cooking minutes ago. She sighed, giving up on her cooking journey and grabbing some yogurt instead.

 "How can you mess up scrambled eggs?" she thought, letting out a big sigh.

After the punch that the small setback had made in her ego and in the confidence juice she had for the day, she decided to go somewhere where she had more reign - her closet. 

A strapless leather-like corset, a long purposely worn-out denim skirt with a side slit–obviously, long black high-heeled boots, bracelets, earrings, rings, an obnoxiously expensive diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe watch, which she never took off, and the most ridiculously small black handbag you can imagine. Her hair, always down and in contained chaos, and her makeup subtle but visible.

Beauty always came naturally to Mia, effortlessly weaving through her life much like the privileges that accompanied her affluent background. While she, like any human, had her share of awkward years during her formative phase, her journey through adolescence was marked by a transformation akin to an unfolding flower. Mia's appearance seemed to defy the usual struggles of self-discovery, as if the art of looking good was engraved into her very being.

Her features, meticulously curated and showcased, reflected a careful grooming that hinted at a certain artistry. It was not just about wearing the right clothes or applying the perfect makeup; it was an intuitive sense of what complemented her unique attributes and emotions. Mia exuded an air of confidence, born not only from her upbringing but from an innate understanding of her physical self.

Content and playfully admiring herself in the mirror, Mia's excitement bubbled over, prompting her to almost leap from her room to the living room couch. The plush, dark-green velvet-like sofa, large enough to accommodate five people, embraced her with its inviting comfort.

A plan formulated in her mind as she dialed the familiar number on her phone, watching the also familiar name on the screen. She had decided that she didn’t want to abide by all of her father's rules and was determined to find a workaround. So, she was ideating an escape plan or something that could buy her more time - or buy her anything, for that matter.

“You realize it’s fucking early, you psycho?” a groggy voice answered on the other side of the line.

“Hi Benny,” Mia replied, unconsciously smiling at her brother’s voice. 

The Hastings family tree was a bit tangled and extensive, not worth getting into at the moment. But one thing could be said: Mia loved her older brothers, Benjamin and Sebastian, twins, in that order. 

She would say she liked Ben better, as he was less prone to lecturing her and giving her a hard time, but, in truth, she loved them both equally — even if they didn’t share the same mother, as she didn’t with any of her other siblings.

 “A curse or a blessing?” She would often think.

“Hey, doll,” Benjamin said, his voice a little muted on the phone. “What’s cracking?”

“No one says that anymore,” she pointed out, rolling her eyes. “And it’s not that early, anyway.” She quickly glanced at her watch, her eyes widening as she realized it was indeed quite late, or she was about to be quite late.

“Hey, I need a favor,” Mia continued, unconsciously rolling a piece of her hair on her finger.

She heard some movement on the other side of the line, as if Benjamin was getting out of bed—or in, she couldn’t tell. Then, a big sigh.

“Mia, my hands are tied,” he finally spoke. His tone was soft, loving, and ultimately, apologetic.

“I haven’t even told you yet,” she protested, her brows furrowing.

“Dad… you know how he is. I can’t help you much,” he said. Mia held back the impulse to hang up the phone, not wanting to let her anger control her actions.

“Benjamin, you don’t know how it is. He is—he—I need some money,” Mia left out, practically whining. “Ben, I’m dead serious.”

There was a pause on the other side of the line, and she felt the now-usual frustration growing in on her.

“Listen, I’ll go visit you soon. I can’t fight dad on this; he is… really angry,” Benjamin spoke.

“I don’t want you to visit,” Mia quickly replied, and quickly regretted. She sighed out loudly. “I’m sorry, I do want you to. I just, I can’t even use the cards,” Mia continued.

“I know, it’s fucked up. Just give him time; he’ll come around. I’m sure of it,” he said, trying to give some reassurance to his sister, even if he didn’t fully believe it.

“He won’t, he’s the devil,” she said, and she heard Benjamin audibly laugh.

“Hang in there. I’ll try to talk to him, alright?” he added.

“Thank you, Ben.” Mia let out. “Could you at least send me an Uber or something? I’m late to work.”

"An Uber? Late to work?" He responded, the surprise evident in his voice. Mia could almost tell he was raising an eyebrow as he spoke.

"Yes, stupid. That's my life now. Can you?" She said, her cheeks growing hot as she grew tired of giving explanations, and it was only the start of the goddamn day.

He reluctantly agreed, unsure of how to even use the app. When he finally did, Mia got inside the small vehicle and, to the surprise of no one, arrived at the giant building thirty minutes late.

She entered with ease, took the elevator, and clicked the heels of her boots into the floor as she walked through the busy room towards her workstation. There, she was quickly greeted by none other than the handmaid of the devil, as she now liked to refer to her.

"Late again, Amelia," Mia quickly said, interrupting the older woman as she opened her mouth to speak. "I know, I got caught up with something..."

She received a glare from Miranda and a subtle eye-twitch – she resisted the urge to smile.

"You come in here early and you leave late. Is that clear? Filming starts in two weeks, and we need to sort out all of the wardrobe. Zak's waiting for you in the fitting rooms," Miranda spoke, her tone never failing to make Mia's skin crawl, as if she was purposefully wanting her to feel like a useless worm. Mia fought the urge to roll her eyes and simply crossed her arms, concentrating on keeping her big mouth shut for once.

"Fourth floor, room 3," Miranda continued, her voice now louder as she failed to get any kind of response from Mia.

Mia threw her arms in the air, turned around managing not to say anything, and started walking towards the elevator.

"And we'll talk about the dress code later," she heard Miranda say in the distance.

"Dress code?" Mia pondered as she walked into the elevator. The last thing she needed was this little piece of freedom taken away, especially for some simpleton outfit that she wouldn't like at all. She refused in her head. No dress code.

"There you are, my little polished diamond." Zak stretched his arms out toward her, and Mia felt his warm embrace around her as he affectionately wrapped her in a hug.

"Sorry I'm late," Mia replied, still in his arms.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he joked, his green eyes lighter in the daylight.

"I'm so hungover; it's sickening," Zak continued, now plunging himself into a chair and throwing his head back. "And we have so much to do today." He whined at Mia.

In a different scenario, Mia could've soaked in the experience with much more relish. While not well-versed in the intricacies of filmmaking, the world of crafting clothes was a familiar embrace for her. She found a peculiar liking for her father's brand, despite its undeniable connection to him. The designs, fabrics, and meticulous attention to detail spoke to her, creating a bond that stretched beyond mere family connections.

Yet, Mia had a knack for shelving her emotions. She swiftly redirected her thoughts, honing in on the challenges and prospects awaiting her in the day ahead. The vibrant atmosphere of the film set was becoming almost like a refuge, providing a momentary escape from the intricate web of her personal life.

Similarly, a wave of uncertainty coursed through Alexander's veins. While no stranger to the silver screen, this marked his debut as a producer. The dynamics were shifting; earning money differed from investing it, especially in a project of such magnitude. Insecurity wasn't a familiar companion for him, nor did the prospect of financial matters typically ruffled his feathers. Wealth, after all these years, was a resource he possessed abundantly.

However, this venture held a unique significance. It wasn't just about capital; it was about aspiration and the desire for a successful outcome. Alexander had poured time and effort into the pre-production phase, meticulously overseeing every detail. As he juggled also learning his lines for the role he'd play in the film, he extended the invitation to some close friends to join the project. Their presence, familiar and comforting, served as a constant morale booster.

A faint smile played on his lips as he observed Joel engrossed in studying his script. The tranquility of the moment shattered when the abrupt sound of a cup meeting the table echoed through the room.

"This jet lag is killing me. Can we go get a refill?" Joel sighed, gently placing the papers next to the table and standing up from his chair. 

The Swedish actor, also a close friend to Alexander, stood just shy of 6'2, shorter than him, yet his distinct frame seemed to occupy more space in the room. His hazel eyes fixed on his older friend.

"Alex?" he called, breaking Alexander from his thoughts. Alexander looked at him, realizing he had missed part of the conversation. Furrowing his brows, he leaned forward, attempting to concentrate on what Joel had just said.

"Coffee run?" Joel asked again.

"Definitely," Alexander replied, feeling fatigued from the lack of sleep of the previous night. 

His long strides made almost no sound against the polished concrete floors as he walked side by side with Joel towards the break room.

The room exuded a dim ambiance, adorned with golden industrial lights hanging from the ceiling. Along the back wall, a long carved wood bar was the centerpiece, complemented by recessed lighting illuminating it from the floor. An array of cups, coffee machines, and additives were enticingly on display.

Moving toward the bar, Alexander was greeted by a delightful sight. Standing at the wooden bar was Mia, accompanied by Zak, the head of the costume department. Alexander stopped just shy of her, the desire to reach out and touch almost overwhelming.

As Mia spun around, laughing at something Zak had just said, she bumped into Alexander. His large hand swiftly clutched her forearm, preventing her from spilling her drink. Her eyes traveled up his well-built chest, meeting his gaze.

"Careful there," he cautioned, his voice resonating with a delicious deep tone that momentarily left Mia speechless. Nodding in a daze, she couldn't find words. He looked incredibly good, donned in a casual black sweater and jeans, sleeves rolled up to reveal his smooth skin. Realizing his hand lingered a bit too long, Alexander pulled away.

Joel, catching Alexander's gaze fixed on Mia, raised his eyebrows at the unexpected behavior of his usually more reserved friend.

"Oh, hi," Zak greeted, giving the two of them an appreciative glance. "If this isn't my lucky day," he added with a playful smirk, earning a laugh from Joel.

"Hey, Mia. I had the chance to work my magic on this one during fittings earlier. Meet Joel," Zak introduced with a smile. "And this one, you already met yesterday. You were on your knees, if I remember correctly."

Following Joel's laughter, Alexander noticed Mia's lack of hesitation in response to Zak's comment. The image stirred a reaction in him, making him look away with a chuckle, trying to dispel the suggestive thoughts.

"Hi. Mia," she greeted the pair, deliberately avoiding exclusive eye contact with Alexander. He couldn't help but notice her soft lips curving as she spoke, and his eyes were drawn to the mesmerizing movement of her long earrings, casting subtle flashes of light. Almost unconsciously, his gaze traveled down her neck, appreciating the way her outfit sculpted her body perfectly. He fought to look away, once again. Observing Joel's subtle glance as well, Alexander frowned.

"Nice to finally meet you, Mia," he said, his eyes fixed on her, savoring the natural way her name sounded on his lips. Mia felt her heartbeat quicken, yet she stood confidently, not shying away from the attention, maintaining a composed exterior despite feeling like a total wreck inside.

"Long day ahead?" Joel asked, gesturing toward the two very-full cups of coffee Zak and Mia were holding.

"God, tell me about it," Zak replied, rolling his eyes and appearing somewhat annoyed. "You actors got it easy, I swear."

Alexander's smile widened. 

"Are you an actor as well?" Joel inquired, his eyes fixed on Mia, who couldn't help but notice how pretty his hazel eyes were.

"Oh no, I'm on wardrobe—kind of," Mia replied, shrugging and furrowing her brows a bit as she spoke.

"Kind of?" Alexander humored, now intrigued. 

He stretched his arm to grab a cup from behind her, leaning towards her and closing the distance between them. Not too close to make her uncomfortable, but near enough to catch the scent of her sweet perfume. After a moment, she stepped aside, clearing up space to let him prepare his drink, keenly observing his swift movements.

"Yeah, it's complicated," she paused. "But I guess I'm on wardrobe."

"Mhm," Alexander hummed, his eyebrows pressed together and a slight smirk on his face. Mia bit her lip, almost instinctively, her back pressed into the wooden bar, as she took a good look at the tall man standing close to her.

"Ah, we gotta get going," Zak interrupted, holding his wrist close to his eyes as a notification came in through his smart-watch. "But we'll see each other..." he paused to think. "At four? I think the meeting's at four, we'll see." He started to walk, gesturing towards Mia to follow along.

"It was nice meeting you," she softly said, and Alexander fought the urge to devour her right then and there. Her gentle voice echoed through his head. Mia offered Joel a warm smile, and then her eyes fixed on Alexander, who was already looking at her.

"It was nice meeting you too, Mia from wardrobe—kind of," Alexander spoke, grinning. She chuckled, and he thought it was magnificent. He then really struggled not to turn around as he heard her walk away with Zak.

"What the hell was that all about?" Joel inquired as soon as they were out of hearing range, poking at his friend.

"What was what about?" Alexander asked, taking a sip of his hot coffee.

"That," Joel replied, motioning towards the door where Mia passed seconds ago, a mocking smile on his face.

"Oh, shut up, totally unprofessional" Alexander rolled his eyes, brushing it off and half-smiling.

"Mhm," Joel continued. "If I didn't know you any better..."

"Uh-huh, if I didn't know you any better..." Alexander replied, and Joel shook his head, laughing, raising his left hand to show the ring he wore.

“Happily married, I’m afraid,” he said, smirking.

“Well, I’m happily single,” Alexander replied.

“I’m sure,” Joel teased. “I’m sure of it.”

“I truly am,” he replied, smiling but getting a bit defensive, having had this same conversation several times.

“What about the girl you were seeing, the one from London?” Joel inquired, also taking a sip of his coffee.

“Same old. It didn’t work out,” Alexander said, with a stoic expression.

But Joel knew better, knew him better. Alexander was probably the most centered person he had ever met, with a good family life and upbringing, and the dashing shine of fame hadn’t really affected him at all. However, if he had one flaw, it would be that he never stayed long enough to allow himself to fully experience intimacy and attachment with anyone.

There was this one girl, a long time ago, but it didn’t work out in the end, as he liked to say. Joel would often think that he really didn’t want to make it work, that maybe he hadn’t met the right person yet.

Joel raised his hands, giving up on the subject, and the pair went back to their secluded room.

Mia sighed in her workstation, once again left alone and managing order. Miranda had denied her entry to the famed meeting, despite Zak's suggestion that it would benefit her to start getting involved. Cursing Miranda a million times, Mia remained at her desk, matching polaroids to folders and organizing lookbooks for future reference.

As she held a photo closer to her eyes, the becoming familiar frame of Alexander caught her attention. He looked hot; there was no other way to describe it. Against a regular white backdrop, he sported military black pants, no shirt. Mia took her sweet time analyzing every detail of his well-built torso. Almost in auto-pilot, she carefully taped the photo to his folder, brushing her finger along his name.

From a young age, perhaps too young in her opinion, Mia had been aware of the effect she had on the male species. She noticed how they stumbled over their words, exchanged meaningful glances, and struggled to hold her gaze. Their eyes often wandered into the curves of her body. While she found it somewhat disgusting most of the time, she also enjoyed the knowledge that she held some kind of power over them. Right now, she yearned for that power over this particular man. For one of the first times in her life, she wanted to feel desired by him.

She heard the commotion of people leaving the conference room, and though she couldn't see clearly, she guessed the meeting was over when Zak approached her while talking to Sophie, co-head of set design, and Jeremy. A chuckle escaped her when Zak gave her a look, motioning towards the latter.

“Yeah, just planning and boring people talking,” Zak finally said upon reaching her. “You didn’t miss anything important.”

“This wasn’t so much fun either,” Mia replied, smiling.

“Yuck, I know,” he rolled his eyes. “Let’s go, we’ll cry about it tomorrow,” he motioned towards the exit.

“I… actually think I’ll stay a bit to finish this. Miranda will kill me if I don’t.”

Zak raised an eyebrow, hesitating for a moment.

“Look at you, being an obedient little mouse. Who knew…” he teased.

“Shut up,” Mia chuckled. “Maybe she’ll let me join the other meetings.”

“You know you’re kind of her boss, right? Since you own the company she works for,” he said.

“I don’t think I’m in a favorable position right now,” Mia replied, pressing her palms on the table, frustrated.

“Well, suit yourself, doll. But don’t stay too late, okay?” he said, a slight drop of concern in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mia brushed off as she continued with her tasks.

It was considerably late when Mia finally finished her work, even though a good chunk of the extra time was spent on her phone, a subtle act of protest, she thought. Putting her phone in her purse, she turned off the small lamp and made her way toward the elevator, impatiently pressing the button six times.

“Leaving?” a voice from behind made her jump. She turned to see Alexander.

“Sorry,” he quickly added, chuckling.

“It’s fine,” Mia replied, offering him a comforting smile. “Yeah, they totally exploit me, working hard, all of that.”

And Alexander thought of a few ways he could exploit her.

The elevator doors opened with a loud sound, and Mia stepped in, followed by the tall man. He pressed -1, and she pressed 0.

Alexander furrowed his brows, noticing she wasn’t headed to the underground parking. 

“Are you taking a cab home?” He inquired, almost unconsciously.

Mia looked at him, confused. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Mhm,” Alexander hummed. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He grinned, his eyes holding her gaze. He laughed at her confused expression.

“You can't really be walking around the city with a watch like that,” Alexander added, gesturing towards Mia’s wrist.

“Oh,” she said, realizing he was probably right. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

Alexander stretched his arm to press the button to close the doors as soon as they opened on the ground floor.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, more as a statement than as a question.

“That’s really not necessary,” Mia started, but Alexander gave her a stern look that made her snap her mouth shut instantly, an uncommon occurrence for her.

“It’s not a problem,” he added, smiling.

There was something about elevators—the noise, the limited space, God knows what—that always seemed to multiply and elevate sexual tension to the max. And God, was there tension. They stepped outside onto the parking space, and their arms brushed together as they did so, perhaps for less than a few seconds but enough to make Mia shiver. He didn’t seem to notice.

“So, why are you here so late?” Mia asked, the sound of her heels resonating in the almost empty space. “Are you having a secret affair or something?” She teased, wanting to see his reaction.

“No affairs,” he added, his lips curved into a half-smile. “I’m also a producer, so I had to stay a bit later."

“Oh, so you’re one of the big bosses,” Mia added, playfully looking at him through her lashes, testing him.

He nodded with a subtle grin on his face and started walking towards a shiny, black, Aston Martin parked up against a reserved space. He took note of how Mia didn’t even flinch when she saw the expensive car, and he started to put 2 + 2 together in his head—no reaction, the expensive watch, the way she carried herself—and it intrigued him a lot.

He unlocked it, pulling open the passenger side door for her, then grabbed her hand, easing her into the seat—taking a good and hard look at her full cleavage while she entered, before walking around to the other side, silently thanking whichever higher power for a second to breathe and clear his head.

“This girl,” he thought, shaking his head.

After she gave him her address, the car took off. Alexander didn’t need GPS, knowing the city well enough to navigate the streets with ease. He drove with one hand, palm pressed to the wheel, guiding it smoothly as they traveled through the city.

Mia nibbled on her lip, peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. Alexander’s right hand rested on his lap, violently wanting to be on hers.

“So… where are you from?” Alexander broke the ice—or the tension—taking a quick glance at her, and her bare shoulders.

“Seattle, I guess,” she replied, hesitant.

“I guess—kind of,” Alexander laughed. “You’re being very mysterious, you know that?”

Mia laughed, her eyes fixed on the way Alexander’s face changed completely as he smiled, like a beam of light illuminated him from within.

“Sorry—”

“It’s complicated,” he interrupted, teasing.

Mia hummed, and her lips curved into a smile.

“I was born there, and my family is from there, but I spent a lot of time abroad at a boarding school,” she began, surprising Alexander with her sudden honesty and openness. “And… My father got me this job, so I’m not sure of where I fit.” Mia added before giving him time to ask more questions.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, good old nepotism,” he paused, taking a moment to look at her. “My dad got me a bunch of jobs as well; he was an established actor before me.”

“Well, my case is the other way around. He got me this as a punishment of sorts,” she complained, and Alexander almost melted at the sweet way she pouted. Then he chuckled.

“How come?” he inquired.

Mia hesitated for a moment, not wanting to get into the subject. She had an objective, after all, and it had nothing to do with her personal life. She had this obscene tendency to overshare and hadn’t noticed she had been feeding him more than she wanted.

“Okay, okay, too much about me,” she said, leaning closer to him, resting one of her elbows on the center console of the car. Alexander tensed up at the sudden closeness but kept his stoic expression, making Mia fight the urge to roll her eyes. Was he being hard to get, or was he just not interested in her?

“I want to know about the famous actor in front of me,” she said intently.

Alexander tightened his grip on the steering wheel and let out a hefty sigh, a subtle smirk playing on his face.

“I’ll bore you to death,” he replied, his tone lighthearted.

“Well, then no more information about me,” she said, sitting back in her seat. Her hand brushed against Alexander’s knee as she adjusted, causing him to catch his breath.

“That’s a shame,” he responded.

Peeking at her, he noticed she was trying to suppress a smile, gazing out the window. Instantly, he felt more at ease and confident. The car glided smoothly, hugging the sidewalk in front of her building. The air felt tense with anticipation.

Mia’s mind raced, pondering what to say.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to lean on her side against the seat. “for the ride." She continued, “It was very kind of you.”

“My pleasure. Are you okay getting in?” Alexander's tone was serious, genuinely concerned for her safety.

Delving into her small purse, she pulled out her keys and jingled them in front of his face. He nodded. “Good.”

“Well, drive safe.” She smiled, leaned over, and planted a kiss on his scruffy cheek, dangerously close to his lips. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

His lips curled up at the sound of his name from her lips, and he had to physically restrain himself from reacting.

“Goodnight, Mia.”

He leaned down slightly to watch her enter her building, not looking away until she got inside safely. He would’ve walked her to her door, but he was worried it’d seem like he was trying to sleep with her. As bad as he wanted to, he thought it would be unprofessional.

As soon as her door closed, he slammed his head back into the seat and let out a groan. Pulling away from the sidewalk, he sped the whole way home.

------------------------------------------------- Notes: I'll probably go back and edit a couple of things but I wanted to post this today cause I'll be traveling this weekend and it's been long enough already lol love y'all CC: @differentcatcat

#alexander skarsgard #alexander skarsgard fanfic #alexander skarsgard smut #obsidian fanfic #skarsgard

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Five

by Losyark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon)

Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)

Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters)

PG-13 (for now)

Unbeta’d

The next week flies by in a flurry of fittings, script meetings, emergency calls from Dennis when he’d janked the ordering list, a daily visit to a stable and archery range so Hob can practice both skills, and late nights with Shami as they walked Hob though the time-consuming and careful process of scanning El’s diary and Robyn’s sketchbook. Hob drops into bed each night sometime after midnight, falling asleep to the sound of The New Inn going through its closing routine, and waking to the harsh jangle of his alarm clock just after dawn.

Either out of pity for his exhaustion or because he had duties of his own to prioritize, Morpheus doesn’t appear to Hob during his sleeping hours in this week. Hob only manages to concentrate enough to relocate himself to the castle only the one night. He finds himself alone in the throne room, and enjoys the opportunity to spend some time with his own company, after so many hours being crowded by the rest of the Historics team.

Hob has more respect for his friend than to sit on his throne, but he does walk to the top of the dias to admire the three arched stained glass windows behind it. The symbolism is lost on Hob, but each window depicts a different object. The first: a fishhook on a ring, held aloft by a rat. The second: A heart in an intricate mirror, leaning against the sleek black flank of a cat. The third: A fish with delicate flowing fins against a swirl of light. Each of the images moves slightly, the animals each turning to look at Hob as he approaches.

“Hello,” he greets them kindly, but they don’t reply, so Hob supposes that these aren’t dreams or denizens.

Hob sits behind the throne, leaning his back against the cool stone, and settles in to admire the artistry. He wishes Morpheus was here to explain it to him. Hob misses Morpheus when he’s away, and the desire to see him rings like a silver bell across his nerves and in every waking breath.

The rat, the cat, and the fish look at one another, and then resume ignoring Hob. Hob, in turn, simply watches the colors in the stained glass shift and kaleidoscope until he wakes up.

*

While television isn’t generally filmed in order, Hob’s first scene of the shooting block is his talking head introduction. The crew hasn’t finished setting up at Gadlen house yet, so Hob is being filmed in the study-cum-meeting room where he’d originally met Harriet, being prompted through questions about his field of study and awareness of his relationship to Robert Gadlen the Third.  

Harinder, the director, keeps reassuring him every time that Hob pauses before answering. He thinks that Hob is camera-shy. What he’s really doing is weighing his answers very, very carefully. Good thing they can edit out his thoughtful pauses.

The other reason Hob keeps pausing is because, while they’re shooting against the bookshelf, they’re asking him to talk and dress at the same time. The wardrobe department has recreated the outfit he wore in his solo the portrait, the heavy black velvet and scarlet number. And once again, it’s the sweltering peak of summer, and the aircon can only do so much to offset the heat of the studio lights, the extra bodies hovering close, the effort of dressing, and weight and number of layers of the clothes themselves.

It doesn’t help that the wardrobe assistant they’ve picked to help him on camera is getting a bit… liberal with their touches. It’s the glamorous one with the amber-brown eyes, the blond pompador, and a smile like they’d like to unhinge their jaw and swallow him whole.

He’s sitting on a chair with his leg up on an ottoman, trying to give Harinder everything he needs to explain why Doc Bob’s never visited Gadlen house before, while the assistant rolls his stockings up his bare calves far slower than is necessary. Hob’s wearing a swanky pair of loose modern-day boxers, but they’re lost under the billow of his shirt tails, and he knows that there’s at least one of the three cameras focussed on his nude thighs right now.

He’s not ashamed of his body, and is actually quite proud of the muscle definition the return to horseback riding has given his legs, but those hands are getting a bit frisky.

"I'm perfectly capable of tying up my own stockings,” Hob says, shooing the assistant away when then kneel beside the ottoman. “I think it’s fine if I–get your hand away from my codpiece!" Hob yelps.

Harinder clears his throat warningly, and the assistant sits back with their hands up, like ‘don’t shoot’.  

“Please don’t SA our presenter on camera.”

“What about off camera?” the assistant asks Hob, flicking a look up at him through their mascaraed eyelashes.

“I recognize and appreciate the, uh, appreciation,” Hob says softly to them. “But let’s keep this strictly professional, yeah?”

“Fie,” the assistant purrs.

Far be it for Hob to play the I have a boyfriend card, especially when the one person he’d like to attach that label to doesn’t seem to be interested in him like that. Still, he says: “I’m taken.”

“Oh, are you?” the assistant asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Is that what you’d call it?”

“Yes,” Hob replies, not entirely sure what they’re asking but certain he wants to draw a line under this whole flirting business.

“Understood,” the assistant says, and something about their whole demeanor changes, like they’ve become an entirely different person. “Why don’t you stand, and we’ll get this doublet on you.”

For the rest of the day, they’re completely professional, not a touch out of place. Hob appreciates their understanding, and the rest of the talking head interview flies by. He feels comfortable enough to focus on what he’s saying, letting the assistant move his limbs and skim in and out of frame to wrangle him into all the remaining layers and accessories.

Working around a valet while simultaneously maintaining a conversation comes back to Hob frighteningly easily, even though it’s been at least eighty years since he’s needed someone to dress him.

“Last touch,” the assistant says, holding up the replica ruff like it’s a serving platter full of champagne glasses.

“Absolutely not,” Hob says, making sure it’s loud enough for the mics to pick up. “You and I both know that that darn thing is too scratchy and too fancy for everyday wear. He would have only worn it for the portrait, or at court. I’ll take that picadil over there, instead.”

“As the Prince Consort commands,” the assistant murmurs with purring good humor, and Hob laughs as they fling the ruff out of the shot like a frisbee.

“Just a knight, if you please,” Hob says, tapping the embroidered badge over his heart. 

As they button the high, stiff band of fabric around Hob’s throat, a precursor to the starched collar and cravat of the later ages, they murmur something. Hob doesn’t quite catch it, but thinks it might have been: “Not for long.”

He doesn’t have time to ask for clarification, though, because then they’re stepping back with a ‘tah-dah’ gesture at his outfit, and Hob has to smile for the camera.

*

Costumed and filled with a hasty lunch, Hob, Glenn and Harriet are packed into the back of an anonymous van with a few other crew members, and driven to Hither Green. It takes just under an hour, and Hob uses the time to learn how to read his call sheet from Harriet, while Glenn takes a nap against the window.

Clover, the sweet-tempered mare that Hob’s been training with, is waiting for him by the front gate to the estate when Hob is kicked out by transpo. The van lingers just long enough for the driver to sign off on the delivery of talent to the first AD Celia, and Hob is grateful that it’s blocking his view of the house.

All he can see right now is the wide, well-manicured lawn of Manor House Park, a rolling brook in the distance, and the golden gravel of the drive. This part of the Park is hemmed in with a wrought-iron fence, which is definitely of a more modern style than it would have originally been, and Hob can’t recall exactly if this boundary has moved at all in the last few centuries. He feels like it’s closer to the house than it used to be, but it could just look shorter because there’s a fleet of trailers, tenths, vehicles, and great metal storage containers filled with equipment between the gate and the entryway fountains.Those are definitely newer. It used to be a lily pond.

Hob takes in the landscaping–the orchard is gone, is the apple tree he’d planted out the back still here–but his gaze skitters off the house itself. He’s not ready yet.

When he sees Gadlen House again–for the first time since he was dragged backwards, literally kicking and screaming out the kitchen door–he wants to do so deliberately, purposefully. 

Lovingly.

Forgivingly.

Clover lips at the replica ostrich plume on his flat-cap beret as the van drives away. Hob turns his face into her tawny-golden neck to give himself a moment to breathe and get his feet under him. He scratches her cheek in thanks for the help and she lays her head on his shoulder, the sweet old thing.

As soft chirrup from the nearby stone fencepost catches his attention. Over Clover’s back he can see Matthew shifting from foot to foot.

“That bird has been hanging around all day,” Celia says, following Hob’s glance, and giving Matthew the stink-eye. “It better not be a bad omen.”

“It’s a raven,” Hob says. “They’re symbols of intelligence, and new experiences. I think it’s a good sign.” Matthew tilts his head at Hob, clearly amused by this description. “So long as they don’t interrupt our takes, and don’t steal anything shiny.”

“Caw,” Matthew sneers at him.

The camerawoman, who is finalizing her shot setup, whips her head around to stare at him. “Did the bird just say ‘caw’? Like, in a human voice?”

“Corvids are excellent mimics,” Celia says. “I bet a lot of people say ‘caw’ at it.”

“Well, whyever it’s here, I appreciate the moral support,” Hob says, staring right at Matthew. “And seeing as I’m about to make a fool of myself, I’m sure it’s going to be very entertained.”

Celia’s walkie-talkie crackles, an order comes from the house, and she says: “Okay, good Sir Gadelin. Mount up. We’re ready for your first exterior shot. When I call action, ride Clover up to the front door, and get off–an extra playing a groom will lead Clover away, and you approach the door. You don’t need to open it, we’re not set up for that shot. Just walk up to it and reach for the handle. Got it?”

“What kind of speed are we looking for here?”

“Uh,” Celia says. “Not slow but not fast?”

“A trot, got it,” Hob chuckles. 

He positions beside Clover, making sure she’s aimed in the right direction without raising his eyes to the house.

“Uh, before we start, um–” he looks over at the camera. “Sorry, I never caught your–”

“Melia,” she interrupts.

“Melia,” Hob repeats. “You can call me Bob. Melia, I um, not to tell Celia how to do her job but I, um, before I start Clover going I’m going to take a second to just… look. Is that okay?”

“Why?” Celia asks.

“Well, I—I’ve never seen the house before,” Hob lies. “I’m not much of an actor and I thought, you know, I thought it might be nice for my real reaction to be–”

“Yeah, yeah!” Celia is saying, “Smart, yeah, hold on let me just let the guys on the other side know there’s going to be a delay before movement starts, yeah,” and then she’s pacing away a bit, relaying this into her walkie.

“Let me try something else then,” Melia says, repositioning the camera on the tripod to capture more of the drive, and shrugging quickly into another one mounted onto a steady-cam contraption that looks nothing so much like a baby carrier.

Coward, Hob tells himself as they scramble to set up the new shot. Matthew caws again, this time distinctly more bird-like, and Hob flashes him a watery smile.

“Alright, everyone good?”

“Good!” Melia confirms.

“Good,” Hob echoes, and gets his hands in place. Clover snorts, busses his arm ribs with her soft nose, and seems to settle into her role as well.

“And… action!”

With one last deep breath, Hob jams his boot into the stirrup, and in a smooth arc, heaves up and swings himself into the saddle. He takes a few long seconds to adjust the reigns. Then he looks up. 

The house is the same, and different at the same time.

He can’t deny that it’s been beautifully preserved. Made of red brick, it stretches three stories up, with matching octagonal turrets on either side of the front door. Each turret is fitted with a door and a stonework Juliet balcony, though they didn’t call them that then, which opens off of one of the bedrooms. His and El’s to the left, the nursery and later Robyn’s chambers to the right. There are small led-mullioned windows to either side of the turrets, four to a side. Intricate overlapping designs in the brickwork gives the frontage the illusion of being made of red lace. And the proliferation of chimneys is a direct nod to Hampton Court palace, and a physical ode to one of Hob’s favorite of humanity’s inventions. 

It’s amazing, but it’s not what he would call elegant. In later years, when glass became a real statement purchase thanks to crafty old Bess and her Hardwick Hall, Hob had added an entire room at the back of the house for El with as little brick as his architect could get away with and still create something that wouldn’t fall in on itself.

It is a braggart’s house, boorish and proud, sturdy and loud. But he knows every capstone, every sill, every smoke-tanned rafter. He knows the size and smell of every room, remembers haggling with the designer late into the night to get the details just right. He remembers how to get to each hidden back stairway, built twice as wide for the serving staff as was common, because Hob’s served table and he remembered what a nightmare it was to clank up and down dark passages with clattering platters.

Beside him, Melia pushes in tight, lens aimed right at his face, but Hob can’t spare a thought for her. He’s too busy swallowing his heart back into his chest.

The front door is a different, a metal thing the deep blue of an aegean sea. It’d been black in his day, built of sturdy oak and iron rivets. A fountain, likely added by some fanciful Victorian, stretches along the frontage, and what was once just a plain gravel dive is now a circular path curving up to the door and dotted with a riot of wildflowers and roses.

Hob’s clutching the reins to his chest, patting the too-full space over his heart, before he’s realized he’s moved.

He loves this house.

He forgives it.

“Got it,” Melia whispers, which Hob takes as permission to go.

He blinks hard, hoping the camera doesn’t pick up the moisture in his eyes, and clicks Clover into motion. Clover trots for the first few paces and then, fizzing with joy at this bizarre homecoming, Hob knees her faster. Clover picks up speed, cantering by the cameras they have set up by the drive, and his hat flies off.

Hob doesn’t care. Even if he has to redo the shot a hundred times because of it, he doesn’t care.

He’s too damn happy to be home.

A sharp kraa! catches his attention, and he glances to the side to see that Matthew has decided to join him. The raven soars along beside Hob’s head, firmly on camera. His eyes sparkle with delight, and Hob breaks into full-body laughter.

It’s going to be a hell of an opening shot.

*

It’s Tuesday, so when Hob has finished scrubbing off the makeup and smell of horse, he ambles downstairs in fresh clothes and damp hair. Dennis has staked out his usual spot on the long banquette, at the tiny two-top closest to the door that leads up to his apartment. 

“Cheers,” Hob says, when the new kid brings him a pint unasked.

He takes a long deep drink, and flops down onto the seat. Did he ever arched this much back when he was riding daily? Surely the inside of his thighs and the small of his back can’t have been this sore on a regular basis.

I mean, sure, half of the reason he hurts like this is because he and Matthew borked the first take so spectacularly. He'd had to do it about a dozen more times, all at varying speeds, and by the time they'd gotten a shot they liked, the'd lost the light for anything more than walking up to the door.

Hob hasn't even been inside the house yet.

The last time these muscles had hurt this much, he’d stumbled–dehydrated and disheveled–from an hours-long lovemaking session with one of the Ladies of the Night who’d frequented the White Horse in the 1890s. Not Lou, no, he'd helped her find stable housing, and employment in something she actually enjoyed.

No, it had been the one who liked sex work. Who'd chosen it for the freedom and control over her own life, and finances and body. She'd been what they'd call trans now, blonde with hilarious fake tits that she'd slapped him around the face with as they both giggled. She'd pegged him better than he’d ever had before (or since) happy to help him drive away the thought of his Stranger and happier still to see gold for it.

Hob frowns a little at the memory. Why on earth has he been so damned horny today?

And not just in the sexual sense, either. Everything had been enticing, and exciting, and gravitationally fascinating. The food at craft services had tasted amazing, he’d gone back for thirds when he rarely does so. He’d caught himself stroking the velvet of his doublet, marveling at how soft and fine it was. He’d run his hands over the textured wallpaper in foyer, and satiated every whim smell the roses, gazing in joy and horror at the way the generations of owners who’d come after Hob had added to the facade. He'd taken Clover on an extended gallop around the park between setups, and begged to brush her down himself before she'd been loaded back into the trailer for the sleepy trip back to her stables. 

He had wanted today, and hadn’t denied himself.

Maybe it was just the excitement of being back at the house again, miraculously and thankfully unshadowed by the grief he expected to encounter in every stone, but it did feel like getting everything he’d never known he’d longed for, all in one afternoon.

Well, not everything, Hob thinks as he catches sight of Morpheus slipping in the front door.

The Endless flows his way through the joyous gatherings between Hob and door.

All the tables gilded with happy people, and shot glasses, and laughter. Maybe Hob's not the only one feeling revved up tonight, because the air practically shimmers with whatever gold dust it is that's been simmering in his veins since he arrived at Broadcasting House.

Hob licks his lips and swears he can taste it.

And Morpheus just looks so good. There's something different about him tonight, something more self assured. He's always moved with liquid grace, completely comfortable being folded up into this corporation of his choosing in the Waking world, and offhandedly aware that the body that everyone sees, no matter how differently they see him, is an undoubtedly attractive one.

But tonight, Morpheus looks satisfied in a way that Hob's never seen before. He looks pleased with himself. Sure of something. Before he's always looked like being the Waking world is vaguely itchy. Now, he looks like he's been slathered in calming skin oil, glistening with relief and damp with…

Christ in his heaven, no daydreams!

Humanity parts before Morpheus like a heaving inhale, and then every single head swivels so people can watch him pass by, blissfully unaware that they are doing so.

And then Morpheus is folding his lanky frame into his usual seat. The heat of a bar full of bodies in summer must be getting to even him, because there are two bright spots of pink high on his cheek.

“Hello, Hob,” he says, voice even more like chocolate and sin than usual.

Get a grip, Gadling! scolds himself. Another image comes to him and he adds, Not like that, and not in public, you dirty old man.

“Hello, my friend. Where’ve you been lately?” Hob asks conversationally.  "I haven't run into you in the Dreaming."

Morpheus’ face twists in displeasure. “I regret that I was forced into negotiations with my siblings over a matter that I would rather not discuss.”

“For a whole week?” Hob clarifies, waving politely at Dennis for service. His co-owner doesn’t even bother sending over a server to ask what they want, just walks over and drops off a fresh beer and the vinosanti himself with a welcoming nod to Morpheus.

Morpheus indulges in a gulp of the sweet wine, which is a greater indicator of his lingering irritation than anything he might say. “Desire has an unfortunate tendency of hostility toward me, and where they lead, their twin would follow. It makes arbitration of this sort tense.”

“Yikes,” Hob says sympathetically. “But did everything turn out the way you wanted to?”

“Death was able to mediate a satisfactory arrangement, yes,” Morpheus says. “I got more than I gave, and I wanted what I got.”

“Don’t think that I don’t notice you’re quoting Lin-Manuel Miranda at me, Prince of Stories,” Hob laughs. “Fine, you don't have to tell me. It'd probably be over my little human head anyway. I’m just happy that you’re happy.”

“I am,” Morpheus concedes. His expression is soft, when he meets Hob’s eyes, pleased and easy.

Hob’s mouth goes dry. His own gaze sinks to land briefly on Morpheus’ parted lips, before jumping back up to more polite territory.

He clears his throat to cover the awkward pause and then says, "So did Matthew tell you what we did today?"

"He did not," Morpheus admits with a self-satisfied smile. "He knows that I prefer to hear it from you directly."

That's all the encouragement Hob needs. "Well!" he starts.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

#behind the scenes #sandman fic #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman fic #the sandman #hob x dream #dream x hob #hob gadling #dreamling fic #dreamling #dream #dream of the endless #lord morpheus #hob x morpheus #morpheus x hob #morpheus #matthew the raven #desire of the endless #losyark #Cling Fast #fanfic #fanfiction #dreamling fanfiction #dreamling fanfic #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #unbeta'd

[starqueensthings]

WIP WEDNESDAY 🎉

Thank you for tagging me @sinfulsalutations! This is a snippet from Colder Weather, a Fem!Reader x Pirate/Post-Stassis Kix that I’ve been working on 💕

Sometimes, if the urge to flee stalled on its way from brain to body, he’d roll toward you, fold his arm underneath his head, and trail a gentle fingertip along all his favourite parts of your body: the fleshy space between neck and shoulder, where he so often sought the comforting fragrance of your skin; the shallow dimples on your lower back, perched just above the swells of muscle that he could barely keep his hands off; the gaps between your fingers that so-perfectly housed his, as if they were ten adjacent pieces of a puzzle crafted by divine artistry.

Time had yet to reveal any explanation for the mystifying tenderness of his touch… it didn’t seem possible that such rough hands could trail so gently against your skin, yet his calloused fingers could have been draped in velvet for how softly they graced your most sensitive areas.

And his pillow talk? It was poetry. His honeyed voice would utter whispered stories of glorious mountain ranges on far away planets while his delicate strokes from his fingertips ghosted atop the swells of your hips. He’d speak of the freckles smattered across your cheeks, and how they almost perfectly mirrored the night sky in Wild Space where the stars were so many, that astronomy had become an obsolete science, the citizens opting to merely look upon them for their unrivalled celestial magnificence. And when he would speak of the vibrant array of wild flowers that adorned the meadows of Felucia, he’d scoop your hand into his and kiss each individual knuckle, as if the immense power to blossom such beauty dwelled inside the fingers interlaced with his.

But despite the adoration that kept him returning to your side, only once had the bliss of your union softened his guard enough to let something slip. Only once had he mentioned a brother: Jesse, a man spoken of thoughtlessly as Kix snickered his way through the recollection of a frantic speeder ride across the plains of Saleucami. But the music of his laughter utterly vanished upon voicing the name he’d never meant to speak, the silence that filled its wake so saturated with unexpressed grief, that even the hushed sounds of your breath felt inappropriate, and despite having watched the light leave his brown eyes so often in the past, you’d never seen it replaced with a darkness as deep and as sorrowful as then.

“Tell me about him,” you probed instantly, hopeful that the delicate touch of your hand on his shoulder would be enough to ground him there in the bed with you despite the torment darkening his eyes; hopeful that the soft caress of your fingers would prevent him from conceding to his anguish, tossing the sheet aside, and leaving you with nothing but the familiar sight of his retreating back and the bittersweet smell of him lingering on your pillow.

A ringing silence encompassed the room, broken only by the uninterested and occasional chirp of a cricket nestled in the long grass just outside your window. Speaking his brother’s name had rendered Kix momentarily muted and seemingly paralyzed, his eyes affixed on an image that his cruel memory had imprinted upon the ceiling above him. His breaths quickened in earnest, his shoulder rising and falling rhythmically against your palm while his nostrils flared against the same onslaught of turmoil also knitting his brows together.

“Kix?” you whispered, fingers raising to gently stroke his hair. Waves of black, peppered with the beginnings of grey, almost entirely concealed the remnants of a tattoo… letters; pieces of a phrase that he’d consistently sidestepped divulging to you. The ink, seemingly unblemished by time, looked as if it had only recently been embedded into his olive skin, yet his repeated, vague explanation of ‘I was a dumb kid’, suggested it was a choice made long ago; a decision made deep in a past that he refused to speak of.

“Tell me about Jesse, my love…” you implored to his continued silence, watching with bated breath as the muscles in his jaw contracted in near perfect time with his hammering heart.

Finally, some semblance of a reaction. He wrenched his eyes away from the ghost hovering over top of him and swallowed heavily. “My brother…” Kix muttered to the ceiling after clearing his throat of emotion, his knuckles cracking quietly atop his chest as his fingers began to fidget. “He… he died a long time ago. They all did.”

“Who did?” You didn’t dare speak in anything above a whisper, grateful that the heartache hanging in in the air had robbed your words of the curiousity that he so often shirked and dissuaded. Tension gathered in your brows as your eyes danced across his tormented features, your fingers abandoning their soothing dance along his temple to trail all the way under his chin and weave their way into his beard. “Babe?” you asked, cupping his jaw and softly turning his face toward you. “Who is ‘they’?”

“My family.”

Not sure who’s all been tagged already, forgive me if you get a double! @staycalmandhugaclone @twistedstitcher27 @anxiouspineapple99 @isthereanechoinhere96 @stardust9905 @ghostofskywalker

#starqueenswrittenworks #clone trooper kix #kix x reader #kix x you

[jemeryas]

Valentino's 'Le Salon' is a Lesson in Regressive Storytelling

I never know what to expect when it comes to Valentino and this past Haute Couture show titled ‘Le Salon’ proved why I am so critical towards the current state of fashion. The livestream premieres with flashing lights from Place Vendôme in Paris, France as notable guest like Florence Pugh, Kris and Kylie Jenner also featuring Kylie’s daughter Stormi and founding house father Valentino Clemente Ludovico Garavani decked in a burgundy velvet suit that gives off exactly what Nicki Minaj would say a lot of you people can’t spell. Couth. 

But the second the circus was over and everyone had taken their seats the real show began. Burgundy seems to be a common color scattered throughout shows recently that I am slowly becoming rather fond of. The color reminding me of the Christmas sweater that Mrs. Weasley would make every year for her son Ron Weasley in the films. It is that kind of consistent love that I am beginning to associate with this color. I am sure that nearly every Harry Potter fan will understand what I am trying to describe. Continuing on an Italian aria echos as the models continue walking down the runway. Tombstone grays paired with egg yolk yellows or neon oranges is only something PierPaolo, the current creative director of Valentino, could envision being paired together. Does that mean that all the silhouettes are terrible? Absolutely not! A dress that was worn by Florence Pugh for her Australian Vogue November issue, and that I would have the fortune of featuring on my own tiktok page, would make an appearance; proving the point in my Dior Couture review that certain pieces would look better on a fuller-sized model and Pugh perfectly captures that look. 

Yet as the show continued on there were only a few more pieces that would capture my eye. A turquoise evening gown brought a smile to my face as I watched a dark skinned model sporting a shaved head, a quicker-than-lightening attitude and a walk with so much elegance that you couldn’t help but give a small, “you better go girl,” under your breath. The gown only an added accessory to the model. This is the type of energy, I realize, is missing from the runway scene. A lack of personality. I guess we can blame Prada for that one, but that’s for another essay. 

The show continued on in tulles, sequins and unique pairings that again, some may say is a work of genius, but I would have to disagree. Now, do not mistaken my disdain for Le Salon as disdain for the creative director. The L’Ecole show still holds a special place in my heart and is shelved right in my top two alongside the Pink PP collection. However, coming off the heels of an amazing show like L’Ecole I had high hopes to see what PierPaolo would showcase and was let down in a tremendous way. In terms of music and performance, I loved the traditional Italian Opera, but when you compare that to, what can only be described as a spiritual conversion to the world of FKA Twigs, I don’t think a younger demographic would care too much for this show once they hear the music. The clothes were, at best, in-cohesive; and at worst, a dumpster fire of the worst color combos you could put together. But just as I was about to write the rest of this show off, Black silhouettes made their appearance and I paused to watch. Each look channeling something that was made specifically for the femme fatale. The Black Swan of her family. I was hooked but by that point the show was over and I was left feeling…underwhelmed. 

In terms of artistry and storytelling this was not it Valentino and PierPaolo. I know that I was a fan of the burgundy and the Blacks but the few good  pieces that were in those colors were so far in between that it just wasn’t enough to save them this time around. The ten’s are replaced with the 6’s in my book for color crimes against humanity. But again, don’t crucify me, this is just my opinion. It’s not like I am Anna Wintour…yet.

#fashion #fashion tumblr #valentino #valentino runway #fashion show #haute couture #vogue magazine #fashion photography

[fibula-rasa]

"A Date With Romance"

from Movie Classic Magazine, October 1936

Photo Caption: Lucille Ball, youthful RKO player, makes a date with romance in an oxford grey cape suit pin-striped in maroon and light grey. Feather trimming on the hat repeats the grey and maroon note.

In this section, MOVIE CLASSIC presents to its feminine readers the art of makeup and the thrill of beautiful clothes

Photo Caption: Mel Burns enhances the natural beauty of Lucille Ball with skillful make-up

First the beauty shop, where magic is wrought—

by alison alden

LUCILLE BALL has a date with romance. But will romance nod and pass her by? Not if Mel Berns, maestro of make-up at RKO Studios, has a deft hand in the matter!

Demanding to be made irresistible just for tonight, Lucille offers as her contributions to beauty a flawless skin, lustrous gold hair and large blue eyes. Mel Berns offers an artistry in make-up that has changed many a merely attractive girl into a vision of enchantment. His magic is wrought not with mirrors, in the Hollywood tradition, but with brushes.

There’s nothing like a good foundation for either romance or beauty and Lucille’s face is first treated to a layer of foundation cream (1) lightly applied.

Eyebrows take form, penciled in with a series of short light strokes (not the single shiny line with which so many err) and extended gracefully at the ends. Berns does the penciling but Lucille offers this bit of wisdom, “Never pencil the brows in a down curve at the corners. It makes the face appear to droop.”

Eyeshadow is applied with a brush (2) and blended out to nothingness near the brows with patting movements of the thumb. “A shadow always recedes that part of the face to which it is applied,” Bern explains, “therefore the lid is shaded to bring the eye forward.” [Continued on page 75]

(for ease of reading, I'll continue the transcript of this section before moving on to the next!)

A Date With Romance

The Beauty Shop

[Continued from page 46]

In the outer corner of Lucille’s eye is drawn a tiny rectangle and the black outline filled in with flesh colored paint on the point of a brush. Thus the eye look assumes a long, fascinating look. Faint lines painted next to the lashes, above and below, are blended with the fingertips into a faint shadow. “The eyes need a frame as well as the face,” says Berns. “The face is framed by the hair and the eyes should be framed by accentuating the lashes.”

MASCARA next (3) with an upward stroke of the brush. Then the lashes are coaxed to curl divinely upward and brushed to silky smoothness. A small stick, tipped with cotton, does duty in removing flecks of mascara that fly willy nilly below the eyes or on the lids. “In making up the face, start at the top and work down,” is Berns’ advice.

It’s just an old Chinese brush (4) that creates those enticing lips. Dipped in lipsalve (or a little cold cream and your favorite lipstick) the tip of the brush is used to outline the lips and broaden the bow in a luscious curve. Fill in with broader treatment—so that smiling does not reveal a line of demarcation.

To complete the make-up equipment is a brush for powder (5) to whisk it evenly over the entire face and throat and another brush for rouge to blend the color subtly far out on the cheekbones. “Rouge should be applied to the highest point on the face,” says Berns, voicing a simple formula to solve that oft-repeated question. “Never should it extend into the shadows around the eye.”

Wearing beauty like a star on her brow, Lucille mirrors a smile of appreciation for Mel Berns—too busy with the final arrangement of a rhinestone comb to notice.

See Page 60 for Alison Alden’s Recommended Beauty Aids

Photo Captions: Lucille decked out in an evening coat of whit metal brocade looks exciting enough for any romantic adventure Lucille is stunning in a black velvet evening coat lined with turquoise satin and a velvet hat trimmed with coque feathers For the formal date, Lucille Ball wears a full black chiffon gown

Then— the costumers for a ravishing selection of gowns

by sally martin

SINCE the beginning of time, romance—”a dreamy, imaginative habit of mind”—has been the ultimate, the one want in life that all women, young or old, have had in common.

That one glorious adventure makes many demands among them, with constant planning of clothes and meticulous grooming of appearance. This, of all delectable experiences, must not catch us unawares.

Lucille Ball, young RKO player, has a date with romance. Lucille is the personification of young womanhood for she has charm, personality, figure and the instinctive ability to wear clothes. As Bernard Newman, Hollywood’s ace designer says, “Lucille has the potentialities of another Lilyan Tashman.” To a girl who is clothes conscious and remembers the Tashman flare for wearing ultra-chic creations, Newman’s remark would be sufficient to place Lucille at the head of Hollywood’s smartly dressed list of screen stars.

Lucille is an average girl living on an average income. She is not a star with a fabulous salary and must therefore plan her wardrobe as carefully as you or I.

Goethe once said, “He who is of his own time, [Continued on page 75]

A Date With Romance

The Costumers

[Continued from page 47]

is of all time.” Little did he realize that he was also striking the keynote of fashions, because a good and sound style which is of its own time, is as truly of all time as the person who comprehends his own world.

This, of course, applies to fundamentals and the methods of adopting and adapting these basic laws of dress must vary with each season and each successive generation. Usually, irregardless of masculine jibes, styles reflect fundamentals which are based on the laws of sanity.

The laws themselves are founded on a few simple principles—namely, that the current fashion should express the feeling and the need of the hour and activity; that is should never be conspicuous by its eccentricity, but always obvious by its discrimination; and that above all, it should be graceful, comfortable and practical. Hollywood, rapidly becoming the world’s style center, is concentrating nowadays on fashions which emphasize romance.

#Lucille Ball #Movie Classic Magazine #1930s #1936 #magazine #film magazine #movie magazine #vintage #vintage fashion #vintage glam #vintage style #lilyan tashman #mel berns #RKO #classic film #classic movies #old hollywood

[devoiante]

writing away my ateez PCD💀

I met you on a September night in the middle of a sea of strangers, screaming my liquefied heart out into fleeting utopia written by stories in the form of faraway muses for a girl’s blooming fantasia. 

I. Fire eyes and zealous blood crashed through the glass like a wave in a storm starved of savagery, sweeping me off my feet in the inception of a new age, the age of the opal at the centre of the world. In the spotlight, the opal glimmers white and unleashes its magic within, seven more colours shining as a brazen aurora - the eye of the storm. An eye I’ve stared into long enough to be buoyantly lost at sea watching longingly like a mermaid for the ships that will pass, soaking in the colours and sounds of their boisterous parties. Sometimes one too many ships come through, and I hope the stars tell their captain that the waters are calm enough to drop the anchor and sleep at night. He looks to the stars every sunset, yet he must always go on. He’s deafening hues and glittering dreams. He’s exquisite in his ferocious grind with beauty flowing from him in tunes and melodies that ripple through the vast ocean and glisten under the twilight. The stars never disappear after sunrise. 

II. Too much stardust in the making of one person births new stars in the form of eyes which brim with uncontainable light spilling down smiling cheeks, strawberry-stained with soft, tender love. He’s the king of the stars, the light in the ship’s long nights spent sailing through quiet waters and turbulence. Every other star would fall from the sky to grant his wishes and renew to see him again, wrapped in pastel pink primroses that bloom in his glow. He holds the stars in his hands and tells them they are pretty, but doesn’t know we are more beautiful for the beauty that ebbs through his palms and his voice. 

III. When he lets words and songs fall he’s the warmth in running a hand through the fur of a golden retriever after an afternoon in the sun. Evanesced honey encapsulates his golden being, a sweet promise of falling six feet and an inch deep into eternal sunshine. He reaches to the stars and takes them with him as the ship cruises into the ever changing horizon that echoes dreams of ballads he hasn’t even sung, but already fill the air. Say his name, and he is luminous. 

IV. Existence meets artistry when body and soul is beautiful enough to rile the sea and capture the stars upon a graceful gaze, a smile ever so slight. The art he is blares across the seven seas in his quiet and he is divine, dazzling light and branded by Aphrodite’s kiss as her incarnation that walks the earth and sails the waves. A blue bird’s velvet feathers are smooth as an enchanted baritone for spellbound galaxies raining meteors for statuesque perfection come alive. The flower dances in the breeze, delicately lethal as poisoned perfume. I’m in love. 

V. The most majestic mountain commands all eyes on its unrelenting spirit: dreamer, diamond, fever dream itself, a harbour for the ship. The mountain lives in a boy sculpted by celestial hands, gorgeous in a dancing illusion of menace before a winged heart cherry-coloured with romantic fervour. His voice bounces across the water and into the reflection of the stars, like a cue to let go of the breaths they had held, and breathe. He smiles like summer sun, dimples deep as the sea below that might overflow with the stars’ zeal. He’s all bewitching and more, more, more.

VI. He’s a flame, sunset-chrome fireworks ripping through the skies and stars turn to moths when his words cascade in rolling thunders. He’s in the lingering ring in my ears, the roar of thousands of voices, the arrow to hearts that skip a beat every time he proclaims his dynasty. Wake up world, his eyes say, and don’t stop staring. Yet he is cotton clouds and a sprinkle of rain to a hot day in August. A laughing conundrum, an untitled song. 

VII. Can stars wish upon themselves? For ivory silk, black velvet, brimming heart and cherry lips. Foxy eyes that twinkle like a million fairy lights when he laughs out the answer to cloudy grey days. Torrents of love borne by one shining soul flood whole stadiums when he dances like lithe butterfly wings or morphs into a vivacious panther stealing stars with a biting gaze. He’s so achingly beautiful (he’s wonderland). All the stars would empty their light on the surface of the ocean just so he could see his reflection painted in loving reverence. 

VIII. The apple of the eye of the storm boils the ocean with spellbinding song, raising magical mist all the way to shroud the stars in lavender, violet, indigo fantasies. He sings an eternity of new galaxies to life, one mortal holding up the cosmos with the finger every star is wrapped around, and new stars are born each day. The universe is still when his music fades, each star unblinking in awaiting for the next ship his smile may grace. Waiting, waiting, shining, still here. His timeless smile tells the world he is radiant even in the silence between songs - a lover loved to the edge of each universe.

You are here in the years I walk alone, sealing the cracks in the rocky road:

The curtain call of my teenage dream, the shore of my wild unknown.

You’re a September song I’ll dance into the dusk, ever and after the silence falls. 

#ateez #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #choi san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho

[mmvalentine]

Lover Like Me pt 6 | Feysand

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 ** Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

All five of us go to Adriata together to see my paintings in Tarquin’s gallery, and I am filled with warmth to be surrounded by Rhys's friends- by my friends.

Tarquin was able to pick the works up in Velaris, since he had an appointment in the city nearby. Then it was a week before the new show opened, and I spent much of that time Instagram stalking the other artists in the exhibition. They’re wonderful.

We arrive with timing that Cassian calls “fashionably late,” despite my worries that it would be rude to Tarquin after he so kindly put my art on his walls. But if he is displeased, of course he does not show it. In fact he positively beams at us when we walk through the door, a motley crew of leather jackets and red lipstick.

Tarquin looks incredible.

He’s in full host mode, in a stunning velvet blazer, gold jewellery and patent shoes.

“My dear friends,” he greets us. “How wonderful that you could make it.”

There’s a champagne glass in his hand and with a snap of his fingers, suddenly we each have one, too.

“Tarquin, this place is amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.” Tarquin waves me off.

“Well come on, let’s go see the main attraction.”

We all trail after him until we see my paintings- only they’re not just my paintings anymore. Tarquin has put them in simple black frames with wide, white mounts. I don’t know how this makes such a difference but here, in the bright gallery lighting and in the open space of the off-white walls and pale wooden floorboards, they’re somehow elevated. The colours are brighter and the shadows deeper, and I suddenly consider that what Tarquin does is artistry, too.

The paintings are abstract but based on landscapes. Seascapes, to be more accurate. The two pictures that Tarquin had picked were ones that I had done based on a beach trip we took when I was a child. It makes sense, since the show is largely reflective of the local area. So for the new paintings I cast my mind back to our most recent trip, and being dumped in the surf, and driving home at sunset, and making new friends. The results are frothy whites, and a glowing orange, and the colour of Tarquin's blazer. And if there is speckled black curling at the edges, that might be the salt drying in Rhys's hair, but I'd never tell.

The gang fan out and murmur their appreciation, while Tarquin comments that the two he picked are still his favourite. I catch Azriel’s eye and his winks at me, and I try to hide my grin. Rhys sees it anyway, and looks quizzically between us. We still haven’t told him about our little heist, and I kind of like that we have a secret. I never used to feel like I had much in common with Azriel, but there’s no bonding activity quite like break-and-enter. I look away quickly.

“Feyre, come I want to introduce you to the other artists,” Tarquin says, and tucks my arm into his. Rhys leans back to whisper in my ear as I go.

"Don't forget us when you're famous," he says. I stick my tongue out at him and let myself be lead away.

“So what do you think?” Tarquin asks in a low voice. He says it so only I can hear, makes it sound like he’s conspiring with me, and I do feel a bit special.

“It is honestly better than I could have imagined,” I tell him. It’s the truth. He laughs, and the sound is warm and rich and easy.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I hope you can see how well your work fits in here. They look great on the wall, and they complement the other artists.”

“I had a look at some of their work before I came here,” I admit. “At first I was pretty intimidated, but now that I’m actually here, and everything’s framed I can see it. Thank you for the frames, by the way.”

“That’s awesome!” Tarquin says. “And it’s no problem. I felt so lucky that Rhys introduced us, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find a replacement artist on such short notice. I’m very picky, and I was looking for just the right energy for this show.”

“Well I’ll consider that a great compliment.”

“You should. Ah, Eris come over here. I want you to meet Feyre.”

I say hello to the artist Tarquin called Eris. He’s very tall and he’s wearing a burgundy suit, with his long red hair tied back. I immediately take a disliking to him, because he’s talking about his art with a pretentiousness that I thought was only ascribed by rich snotty collectors and critics after the fact. He’s saying things like the influence of the Enlightenment era juxtaposed with the postmodern framing and I want to gag. I refrain for Tarquin’s sake, and plaster on a smile and a nod instead. My eyes meet Rhys’s across the room, and as if he can read my mind, he smirks at me. I think for a second that he’s making his way over to us, but the next thing I know, Tarquin is dragging me to another artist, and when I look back for Rhys, I see that Cress has found and cornered him. Does he look bored, or do I just wish he does?

I am introduced to many more people over the course of the next two hours. The rest of the artists, but also a couple of dealers, collectors, and friends of Tarquin’s from the art world. Tarquin is good at making sure everyone feels included in conversation, and seems to remember little details about every person he talks to- it’s Beron, good to see you, how’s your wife recovering? and Rita, I’ll never forget that dinner you cooked when we visited, and Oh Feyre has a tattoo by Amren too, don’t you Feyre?

My cheeks start to hurt from smiling, and at one stage I almost have heart attack when Tarquin touches the elbow of a man with blonde hair and I think for one nauseating second that it’s Tamlin.

What he’d do if he saw my paintings here, instead of in his garage, I really could not imagine.

But we’re in Adriata, far out from the city, and I don’t know if Tamlin really knows what any of my paintings look like anyway.

Finally I am released, and left near a table of drinks, when Tarquin is called away by a staff member. He gives me an apologetic look and squeezes my hand before he goes, and although I am relieved, it’s not because he’s leaving. I’m not big into schmoozing, but I will never not be grateful for what Tarquin has done for me tonight.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met, I’m a super-rich megadouche.”

I turn at the voice, and find Rhys with a very serious face on and his hand out. I shake it, and I'm quickly revived by his presence.

“Mr Megadouche, so nice to meet you. You know I’ve been looking for a patron.”

“Alas,” Rhys says solemnly. “Would that I could my dear, but I am already paying young Eris over there to frolic and gambol and produce the occasional painting. His latest, on the conjunction between Enlightenment and postmodernism, is said to be quite something.”

I laugh, and then turn serious. “Well to be fair to Eris, it would indeed be a challenge to meld the enamour of reason and science with the inherent criticism of empirical truth.” Rhys’s eyebrows go up, and he looks like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or not. “It’s just a shame he can’t paint for shit,” I finish in a whisper, and Rhys’s laugh is delighted.

I laugh too, but I also cast a furtive glance around the room. Far be it for me to mock artists with years more experience than I have. But I do like making Rhys smile.

“Are you having a good time?” he asks, eyes still sparkling. He leans against the drinks table, and jostles me with his shoulder.

“I am,” I say. “I still can’t believe my paintings are in a gallery.” Rhys scoffs.

“I can’t believe you let Tarquin tell you how good they are, but when I do it, it doesn’t count.”

“I never said it doesn’t count!”

“You tried to sell me a painting for fifty dollars. And that was a custom piece.” He jabs a finger at me in accusation.

“You gave me a place to live!”

“How much are you letting Tarquin sell for?”

“I don’t see what relevance-”

“How much?”

“Twelve hundred,” I relent.

“See!”

“Rhys are you jealous of Tarquin?” I tease.

“No,” Rhys says defensively.

“Because I saw you over in the corner there with Cress.”

I’m joking, but as Rhys opens his mouth to answer he stops and gives me a strange look. A little shocked, the playfulness gone. Before I can wonder if I shouldn’t have said that, Tarquin appears behind me.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Hors d’Oeuvres emergency.”

“Hello Tarquin,” Rhys says coolly, his face now blank. I try not to giggle, because I’m pretty sure Rhys is doing it to amp up the jealousy bit.

“Hey Rhys,” Tarquin says, not noticing at all. “How are you liking the show?”

“You have exquisite taste,” Rhys says.

“Thank you, I’ve always thought so.” Tarquin grins, then turns to me. “I’ve got something to show you, Feyre.”

“Ooh exciting,” Rhys says, pushing off the table. He looks expectantly at Tarquin, who isn’t phased even though I'm not sure he was talking to the both of us, and leads us both back toward the wall where my paintings are.

“There,” he says.

“What?” I look around, but can’t see that anything’s changed since I saw them when I came in. Tarquin grabs a hold of my hand and tugs me closer. He points to one of the paintings he chose, one from Tamlin’s house.

“There.”

And then I see it.

A little round, red sticker, about the size of my thumbnail.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Is that…”

“Yep.” Tarquin is grinning as bright as the sun. “And there.” He points to the other painting he had picked. “And there.” And finally, to a third painting, that I had done for the show and had been so worried that it was too rushed and not good enough.

“Holy. Shit.”

“Feyre, you sold three paintings!”

“I sold three paintings,” I repeat in disbelief.

“You sold three mother fucking paintings!” Tarquin’s arms spread out wide with glee, and in this moment I love that he, a gallery owner who organises the sale of hundreds of paintings a year, is this excited for me. I laugh and throw my arms around him, and Tarquin squeezes me tightly before pulling back. “You know,” he says, serious now. “This is just the beginning. The people who buy from here are connected. You’re on the up and up, baby.”

He raises his hand for a high five and I slap it, not feeling cool enough to be an adult who high fives, but I know that he's not just pumping me ego. This night has been an enormous opportunity for me, and it just never would have happened without Tarquin.

“Now,” he says, and he looks at Rhys and claps him on the shoulder. “Find your friends, you are all coming to the after party at Rita’s.”

“Rita that woman I met before?”

“Yep, she owns a club not too far from here and she’s put us all on the list. I’ve gotta go talk to some people but I’ll meet you there, okay?”

And with that, he slips away.

“Congratulations,” Rhys says. I laugh again, and it feels surreal. Rhys holds his arms out and as I step into him, I realise it's so rare that we hug. He's so much taller than me I feel engulfed, especially since my nose doesn't even clear his shoulder. His arms fold around me so that his hands touch his opposite elbows, and I'm wrapped in the scent of him. I suddenly wonder where he's been all night.

“Thank you,” I say. I pull back, reluctantly, and look around for the others. “Should we round everyone up?”

Twenty minutes later, we’re back in Cassian’s car and he’s pulling up to a club which Google Maps indicates is Rita’s. He and Azriel head down, but Mor won’t let me go because she’s not satisfied with my outfit. We’re standing in the carpark and I don’t know what she expects me to do about this. Cassian just throws her the keys and keeps walking.

“Feyre, you can’t wear this to a club,” she says. “This is a nice club.”

“I didn’t bring a second outfit, Mor!” I look down at what I’m wearing and disagree. I’m wearing the nicest shirt I have, it’s oversized and pale blue satin, tucked into good jeans and platform sneakers.

“Alright alright I can fix this…” Mor swivels her head back and forth, as if she can magically find a spare wardrobe in Cassian’s truck. “Rhys, don’t you go anywhere. Okay Feyre, first lose the jeans. This shirt is long enough without it.”

“It is not,” I protest.

“Mor is this strictly necessary?” Rhys asks. He leans against the car door.

“It covers your ass, you’re fine,” Mor tells me. I groan, but start wriggling out of my jeans. To Rhys, she says, “Yes, yes it is. Feyre’s gotta make a good impression.”

“On whom?” Rhys asks, at the same time as I say “I already sold paintings you know.”

“On people,” Mor says. “Rhys, give me your belt.”

Rhys signs resignedly, as if this is not the first time Mor has co-opted his clothes for her own purposes. "Feyre," she continues, "you're single, you're talented, and you're adorable. Act like it." She holds her hand out for my jeans, ignores my eye roll, and starts looping Rhys's belt around my waist.

“Well maybe I like being single,” I tell her, as she pulls the tie from my bun.

"Really? Because as far as I can tell you're not fucking anyone, and that means you're doing single wrong." She tousles my hair and arranges the strands around my face.

"I resent that," I inform her. She pretends not to hear.

“Almost done. Swap shoes with me,” Mor says.

I look at Rhys for help but he just shrugs. “You can argue but she always gets her way.”

“It’s true,” Mor says. “Shoes.”

I sigh and hand them over, feeling like exchanging sneakers for strappy heels is not a good deal.

“Why do you get to dress down then?” I whine. But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Mor is in a short, tight red bandage-dress that even with white sneakers looks stunning.

“Alright come on, let’s go already,” Rhys complains.

“Just one more thing,” Mor says before I slide out, and then she grabs my face and presses her lips to mine.

“Mor,” Rhys chides.

“What, I didn’t bring my lipstick. We have to share.” She smudges her thumb over my lips to get the effect she wants. “Feyre you look good, you can go now.”

She throws my jeans in the backseat of the truck and then locks it, while I tug the hem of my shirt down. I would have preferred another inch or two but I guess with the belt it does feel okay. I glance at my reflection in the car window, and I have to admit, I do look better. Rhys comes up behind me.

“I’m sorry about her,” he says quietly. I smile at him.

“I kinda like it, actually.” I feign confidence, unbotheredness.

Rhys looks at me then. A sweep of his gaze from my bare legs to my stained lips, and something in his eyes as he does it makes my knees buckle, just a little. He leans in to murmur in my ear. “I do too, don't tell Mor.”

And then in we go.

***

Eek I'm sorry I missed my posting day!

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @pitrsattabhaadmeinjao @achernarlight @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @hopefulacademia @story-scribbler @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @whoever-you-choose-to-love @endlessdaydream @themoonthestarsthesuriel @rarephloxes @timesconvert @mis-lil-red @alerialumina

#my people #feysand #feysand fic #acotar #rhys x feyre #hey tumblr? #please for the love of god stop showing me that weird pikachu man and insinuating that he's part of #'my people' #i hate it

[ohmeadows]

i see u like kpop, who r ur ults and biases?

praying this does not end up outside of my circles kpop stans scare me sometimes

i'm relatively new to kpop all things considered and still getting a grip on what i like. also i'm very loose with biases but:

newjeans, no real bias in here. i think ditto and omg won me over completely and i love everything they put out (my gf is no doubt going to get tired of me humming super shy soon)

aespa, ningning. (aespa was a slow start for me but damn i love their concept and black mamba had me by my throat all winter.)

twice, dahyun, momo, nayeon and jeongyeon. (another slow starter for me it took me months but then i got moonlight sunrise stuck in my head and now i can't stop. the misamo subunit has me a little unhinged i won't lie)

mamamoo, bias changes a lot but hwasa as of late. i love all of them and their energies. one of the few groups i will watch variety for.

red velvet, seulgi. joy and irene are strong contenders though. i wish they had more combacks! i got into them via the irene and seulgi subunit and now i am obsessed with zimzalabim.

g-idle, yuqi and soyeon. (soojin in my heart forever.)

shinee, taemin and key. their solo releases? holy hell. the recent comeback? amazing. key's low part in hard lives rent-free in my head.

contrary to what this list looks like i also go very hard for smaller acts and indie acts, but here's a condensed selection:

bibi. my darling my lovely my queen i hope she takes a long vacation sometime because she's been working so hard. i love her artistry and vision and determination.

dpr live and dpr ian. IITE COOL was The Summer Release to end all other summer releases. anything they touch turns to gold.

billlie. tsuki!!!!! i love tsuki so damn much. their vibe, immaculate. the effort they put in choreo and performing is so above and beyond.

bloo. bad boy bloo is everything to me. when i smoke had me seeing stars. drama and downtown baby have inspired my writing so much.

devita. underappreciated!!! ride for me was amazing. btbt is also an amazing track for her to feature on.

i'm sure i forgot someone i have the memory of a very small bird

#ask meadows anything

[septembersghost]

Thinking about Linda writing songs for Elvis and themmm. He would be really proud of her. :')

i was reading something recently about songs inspired by him, and when you realize so many of them are iconic - walking in memphis, black velvet, crazy little thing called love, personal jesus, the list goes on - plus the modern-day artists who've leaned on references to him (ie: lana, florence) - you really realize how unbelievably palpable and alive that legacy is, that he continues to run through the very veins of musical culture. with linda, it shifts to the more personal realm of course, but when i read that i have nothing was her writing for him i teared up (especially since i LOVE that song, it made me feel insane...elvis has been flickering around me forever...). he would undoubtedly be proud of her and so moved by that. i wish i could ask him about how it makes him feel that the resonance of his music is so enfolded into other artistry, so cherished and loved. it's such a beautiful thing, thinking about the way music affects other music, the way that blossoms across time. pat boone saying after his death, "there's no way to measure the impact he had on society or the void that he leaves," but it's like every time something is created for him or experienced because of him, listened to and loved, it's throwing stardust into that void. the way he's everlasting in ways we can't even fully describe.

#i'm emotional #joons #letterbox #i was a dreamer #elvis presley

[avnnetwork]

Backdrop Chronicles: Capturing Moments in Photography's Hidden Canvas

In the vast expanse of the art world, the magic of photography lies not just in the moment captured but also in the canvas unseen – the photography backdrop. This hidden canvas plays a pivotal role in storytelling, transforming the mundane into the magnificent, and elevating a simple snapshot into a piece of art. The journey through the chronicles of backdrops reveals how these fabric or material sheets, standing silently behind our subjects, are in fact dynamic narrators of context, emotion, and atmosphere. This article delves into the essence of backdrops in photography, exploring their evolution, types, and the artistry involved in selecting the perfect scene setter for every click.

Historically, the use of backdrops can be traced back to the earliest days of portrait photography, where painters' backdrops were repurposed to add depth and interest to photographic portraits. These were often simple, painted scenes or drapes that provided a contrast to the subject being photographed. As photography evolved, so did the creativity and complexity of backdrops, with photographers experimenting with different materials, textures, and designs to enhance the visual appeal of their images.

The evolution of backdrops is a testimony to photographers' growing understanding of the power of context. A well-chosen backdrop can transport the viewer, suggest a mood, or tell a story without a single word. From the seamless paper rolls popular in fashion photography to the elaborate, themed sets used in editorial shoots, each type of backdrop serves a specific purpose. There’s a profound difference between using a stark, black velvet fabric that swallows light, creating an intimate, focused portrait, and a bright, bustling cityscape that speaks of energy and spontaneity. Visit https://www.artwas.com/

Selecting the right backdrop involves a blend of art and science. It requires an understanding of the interplay between light, color, and texture, and how these elements can complement or contrast with the subject. A photographer might choose a muted, textured backdrop to emphasize the vibrant colors of a subject’s attire, or a whimsical, patterned canvas to add a playful element to a child’s portrait. The decision is as much about the emotional tone of the photograph as it is about the visual composition.

The art of using backdrops extends beyond mere selection. It's about manipulating these canvases to achieve the desired effect. Techniques such as lighting can dramatically alter the appearance and mood of a backdrop. A single light source can cast shadows, adding depth and drama, while soft, diffused lighting can make the same backdrop appear gentle and unobtrusive. The distance between the subject and the backdrop also plays a crucial role in how the backdrop interacts with the subject. A closer proximity can result in sharp, clear details in the backdrop, while a greater distance creates a blurred effect, focusing the viewer's attention squarely on the subject.

In the digital age, the concept of backdrops has expanded even further with the advent of green screen technology and digital backdrops. These tools offer limitless possibilities, allowing photographers to place their subjects in any environment imaginable, from exotic locations to fantastical worlds. However, the principles of selecting and using backdrops remain unchanged. Whether real or digital, the backdrop must serve the story the photographer wishes to tell.

The backdrop, though often overlooked, is a silent witness to the evolution of photography. It has grown from a simple curtain to a canvas of infinite possibilities. Its role in photography transcends mere background; it is a tool for storytelling, a medium for artistic expression, and a space where imagination meets reality.

Photographers, both amateur and professional, are constantly exploring new horizons in the use of backdrops. Social media platforms and online galleries are awash with innovative backdrop ideas, from DIY creations to natural landscapes, showcasing the creativity and versatility of this art form. These platforms serve as a testament to the backdrop's enduring relevance in photography, inspiring a new generation of photographers to push the boundaries of their hidden canvas.

The chronicles of backdrops are far from complete. As long as photographers continue to capture moments, backdrops will evolve, adapting to new trends, technologies, and artistic visions. They are more than just backdrops; they are the unsung heroes of photography, setting the stage for the magic of the captured moment to unfold.

In conclusion, the journey through the chronicles of photography backdrops is a fascinating exploration of how these hidden canvases shape the art of photography. From their historical origins to their modern-day applications, backdrops have proven to be an essential element of photographic storytelling. As photographers continue to experiment and innovate, the backdrop will remain a central figure in the narrative of photography, capturing moments in its unique, silent way. The backdrop chronicles, therefore, are not just stories of fabric and design but are, in essence, the chronicles of photography itself, capturing the imagination and creativity that lie at the heart of this captivating art form.

#Scenic_Backdrops #Dance_Recitals_Background #Dance_Show_Backdrops #Backdrops #Background #Photography_Backdrop #Chromakey_Backdrops #Stage_Backdrops

[idhiylla]

Rimowa "Seit 1898"

The Rimowa Seit 1898 exhibit is a mesmerizing display of artistry and innovation that will transport you to a world of refined luxury. From the moment you enter, you'll be greeted by a symphony of gleaming suitcases, each one a testament to the brand's unwavering commitment to excellence. Prepare to be enchanted by the harmonious blend of tradition and modernity that defines Rimowa. With a rich heritage dating back to 1898, the brand has mastered the art of crafting exquisite luggage that stands the test of time. As you wander through the exhibit, you'll witness the evolution of Rimowa's iconic aluminum cases, a true symbol of sophistication and durability. But Rimowa is not just about aesthetics. It's about the thrill of exploration and the joy of discovery. Each suitcase holds within it the promise of new horizons and unforgettable experiences. From the bustling streets of Paris to the serene beaches of Bali, Rimowa has been there, accompanying travelers on their most cherished journeys.The exhibit showcases the brand's collaborations with renowned artists and designers, resulting in limited-edition pieces that are true works of art. These exclusive creations are a testament to Rimowa's commitment to redefining the boundaries of style and functionality.

On September 7, 2023, I had the pleasure of attending the debut of the Rimowa "Seit 1898" 125th anniversary exhibit. It was an incredible celebration of this iconic luxury luggage brand. For the occasion, I wore a stunning crystal-embellished ruched bodysuit with a high neckline designed by Alex Perry. To complete the look, I opted for a velvet miniskirt, sheer tights, and black platform heels from Giuseppe Zanotti. I felt so glamorous! Rimowa, which is owned by the renowned luxury conglomerate LVMH Möet Hennessy Louis Vuitton, organized this exhibition to commemorate its anniversary. The exhibition, titled "Seit 1898," started its tour in Tokyo in June and has now made its way to New York City. It will eventually conclude its journey in Cologne, Germany, the city where Rimowa originated.

The exhibition was truly captivating. It showcased the cultural and technical influences that have played a significant role in shaping Rimowa into the brand it is today. From experimental artistic partnerships to rarely seen privately owned cases, collaborations with iconic brands, special purpose pieces, and milestone advancements, the exhibition had it all. Before exploring the exhibition, I had the honor of participating in the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which marked the official opening of the event. I was accompanied by RIMOWA's CEO, Hugues Bonnet-Masimbert, and it was such a special moment. I must admit, I felt a bit nervous as I had never done anything like that before. But it was an unforgettable experience. Following my visit to the exhibition, I am thrilled to announce that I have been chosen as the newest global brand ambassador for Rimowa. It's such an incredible honor to represent this luxury luggage brand. This marks my fourth luxury brand partnership, as I am already the representative of YSL, Tiffany & Co., and Sulwhasoo. I'm beyond grateful for these amazing opportunities.

[exclusivetuxedo]

More Than Just a Suit: The Untold Story of Exclusive Tuxedo Craftsmanship

Introduction:

Welcome to a journey beyond the seams, where the elegance of exclusive designer tuxedo suit craftsmanship unfolds. This article is not merely about designer suits; it’s an exploration of charisma, history, and refined style. Join us as we delve into the untold story of what makes a tuxedo more than just a suit for men.

History Of Tuxedo Suits

The history of tuxedo suits traces back to 19th-century New York, where the garment found its origins in the exclusive Tuxedo Park Club. In 1886, affluent residents sought a departure from traditional tailcoats, desiring a more relaxed yet refined attire for formal occasions. This quest for sartorial distinction birthed the tuxedo, featuring a distinctive shorter jacket with satin lapels.

Originally confined to the privileged circles of Tuxedo Park, the Italian tuxedo swiftly transcended its exclusive origins. By the early 20th century, it had become a staple for formal events, evolving from a daring fashion statement to a symbol of sophistication. The Designer Tuxedo Suit’s entrance into mainstream fashion was propelled by Hollywood’s embrace, with iconic stars donning tailored ensembles at prestigious events. James Bond’s debonair appearances solidified the Tuxedo suit for Men’s status as a timeless style icon.

Crafting Elegance: Behind the Seams

Creating exclusive tuxedo suits is an intricate dance of skill and artistry, with master tailors weaving magic with luxurious fabrics, epitomizing the latest suit designs for men. This meticulous process begins with the careful selection of materials, ranging from sumptuous wool to the shimmer of satin for lapels. Tailors, well-versed in the art of precision, then take meticulous measurements, ensuring a flawless fit that complements the wearer’s physique and aligns with the current trends in men’s suits.

Each component, from the jacket to the trousers, undergoes a nuanced transformation, where proportion and balance are paramount. The craftsmanship extends to the minutiae that defines a tuxedo’s elegance — from the satin lapels to the strategically placed buttons and artful pleats, embodying the latest in party wear suits for men.

Whether embracing the traditional shawl collar or opting for the contemporary peak lapel, every choice is intentional, adding a personalized touch to the creation and reflecting the evolving landscape of men’s fashion.

Styles Beyond Imagination

The world of tuxedo suits unfurls as a rich tapestry of styles, offering a diverse array that caters to individual tastes and preferences. From the classic charm of the black tie affair to modern interpretations that push sartorial boundaries, the spectrum of tuxedo styles is both extensive and captivating.

Classic Black Tie: Timeless and sophisticated, the classic black tie tuxedo remains an enduring symbol of formal elegance. Characterized by a black tuxedo suit with satin lapels, matching trousers, and a crisp white shirt, this style is a go-to for traditional events, perfectly embodying the essence of a classic suit.

Modern Variations: Embracing contemporary trends, modern tuxedos come in varied hues like navy blue tuxedo suit, purple tuxedo suit, and royal blue tuxedo suit. These options, akin to designer suits for men, introduce bold and personalized touches to the traditional silhouette. Midnight blues, deep burgundies, and luxurious velvets cater to those seeking a fashion-forward statement, aligning with the concept of blazers for men.

Creative Innovations: Tuxedo styles have transcended conventions, giving rise to creative innovations and unique tuxedo suit designs. From unconventional color choices to avant-garde fabrics, these designs cater to individuals who relish making a distinctive and memorable impression.

Destination-Inspired Tuxedos: Reflecting global influences, destination-inspired tuxedos draw inspiration from various cultures and themes. Whether it’s a tropical beach wedding or a winter wonderland celebration, these styles add a touch of thematic flair to formal occasions, resonating with diverse preferences in tuxedo suit designs.

Selecting the Perfect Tuxedo

Selecting the perfect suit for men, especially when considering a tuxedo, is a nuanced art that seamlessly blends personal style, occasion specificity, and meticulous attention to detail. This process ensures a choice that not only fits impeccably but also serves as a reflection of individual elegance, perfectly aligned with the latest trends in men’s fashion.

Occasion Consideration: Choosing a suit involves understanding the event. A black tie affair calls for a timeless black tuxedo suit with tie, while modern or themed events allow creative interpretations. Aligning the choice with the event’s formality ensures a well-suited appearance, incorporating the latest suit designs for men. Consider this when you buy tuxedo suit online for versatile wardrobe options.

Attention to Details: Elevating the ensemble requires delving into intricate details. Lapel styles, ranging from the classic peak lapel to the sophisticated shawl collar, impart distinct flair. Paying attention to button details, cufflinks, and pocket squares, integral components of a tuxedo suit set, contributes to a polished finish.

Fabric Matters: The choice of fabric influences both aesthetics and comfort, especially when exploring tuxedo suit 3-piece options. Classic wool, a versatile and traditional choice, coexists with luxurious fabrics like velvet or silk, adding opulence for special occasions. Considering the climate and season ensures comfort without compromising style in the latest tuxedo suit online.

Elevating Occasions with Tuxedos

Beyond Weddings: Where Tuxedos Shine

While weddings are a natural habitat for tuxedos, these enigmatic wedding suits for men extend their influence far beyond nuptial celebrations. From high-profile award ceremonies to exclusive corporate events, a well-chosen tuxedo has the power to elevate any occasion.

Unveiling Iconic Tuxedo Moments

From Silver Screens to Real Life: Tuxedo Tales Unveiled

Tuxedo Accessories: Polishing the Look

Beyond the Jacket and Pants

An impeccably tailored tuxedo is more than just a jacket and pants; it’s a canvas for accessories that elevate the overall look. In this section, we delve into the world of tuxedo suit accessories, exploring the nuances of bow ties, cummerbunds, cufflinks, and more.

Discover how the right accessories can transform a standard tuxedo into a personalized expression of style. Whether you opt for classic sophistication or embrace bold statements, these accessories play a crucial role in polishing your look and making a lasting impression.

Samyakk: Elevate Your Style

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q: What makes a tuxedo different from a suit?

A: Tuxedos typically feature satin detailing on lapels, buttons, and side stripes, giving them a more formal look than suits. They are often reserved for evening events.

Q: Can I wear a tuxedo for a wedding?

A: Absolutely. Tuxedos are a classic choice for weddings, especially in the evening. Opt for a black or navy tuxedo for a timeless and sophisticated look.

Q: Where can I buy a tuxedo suit online?

A: You can explore a wide range of tuxedo suits online at Samyakk, offering diverse options in fabrics, colors, and styles.

Q: What occasions are suitable for wearing a tuxedo?

A: Tuxedos are suitable for formal occasions such as weddings, black-tie events, galas, and upscale parties.

Q: Does Samyakk offer worldwide shipping?

A: Yes, Samyakk provides worldwide free shipping, ensuring your chosen ensemble reaches you wherever you are.

Q: What accessories complement a tuxedo?

A: Classic accessories include a black bow tie, cummerbund, cufflinks, and patent leather shoes. Adding a pocket square or a boutonniere can enhance the overall look.

Q: How do I choose the right fit for a tuxedo?

A: Focus on a sleek silhouette, ensuring the jacket fits well on the shoulders and tapers at the waist. Trousers should sit at the natural waist for a polished appearance.

Q: Can a tuxedo be worn without a bow tie?

A: Traditionally, tuxedos are worn with bow ties for a formal look. However, modern interpretations allow for the use of long ties or even no tie, depending on the occasion and personal style.

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