#It was just a little confusing to mirror that end square without mirroring the stitch pattern. I wasn't sure where the 1st tassel belonged.

[asjjohnson]

Look, I finished my Front-Post Single-Crochet crochet scarf. :D

...I found out that an average scarf is actually about 7 inches wide and not 14 inches wide after I was partway through. I've never owned such a narrow scarf, though, and I'd based the size on a crochet-or-knit scarf my mom gave me a few years ago.

I had thought the seam lines would look more seamless. But they actually look kinda neat this way.

...Anyone interested in a scarf? I wouldn't mind making more. Maybe with a different color or narrower width or a different stitch pattern or without the seam lines (now that I know about how much time and how many stitches are needed).

[babblydrabbly]

Trust Me Pt. 1 - (Rick Flag x Reader); (Harley Quinn x Reader (Friendship))

Pairing(s): (Rick Flag x Reader); (Harley Quinn x Reader (Friendship)

Characters: Harley Quinn, Rick Flag, Digger Harkness, mentions of Amanda Waller

Rating: General

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warning(s): Language, blood/violence, car accident. 

Summary: Imagine you’re occasionally sent on Task Force X missions to back up Flag, but he knows Waller really just sends you to report back any dirt you can find on Rick. You’re a rat (No offense to Sebastian). He keeps you at arms length most of the time, and resents any attempts to be a part of the ‘team’, despite his big speech about treating each other like brothers and sisters. Still, you bond over all the literally suicidal missions, and really do watch each others’ back during the chaos. Rick Flag is torn between you being one of Waller’s spies and how much he cares about you. Part 1/?

---

You were uncomfortable with the assignment to begin with. You’d heard about what happened at Midway before you even transferred to Belle Reve, so when Waller said you’d be assigned to the next few Task Force X missions, you immediately knew why. Amanda Waller did not trust Rick Flag.

Without needing to say it, you were going to report back any and all chatter you considered insubordination between the members of the ‘suicide squad’. You were a rat. And Flag knew it right away. You were adequate in the field, but nothing spectacular; Your real job was working in the comms room during their missions. When the plane touched down on your first tag-a-long, Flag did little to hide the resentment he felt for you. 

That was fine. You didn't need to be friends. He kept you at arms length, only speaking to you directly with orders or updates. You rarely spoke at all while out with the team. 

That was, until Harley Quinn was reinstated a few missions into your assignment. During the take down of a moving convoy and extraction of an important meta-human asset, Flag looked happy to tell you you’d be driving a hundred miles out into the desert beside the bubbly criminal. He didn’t even give you the dignity of being in charge of driving. 

You sat in the passenger seat of the hummer, as Harley blasted the radio and sang without any shame at all. You had a feeling Flag could see your silhouettes  from his own vehicle one car back where he was driving with Harkness. You had literal hours to go before your four vehicle team (plus helicopter) even reached the convoy, and Harley’s energy was relentless. 

“So, where ya from, hun?” “You got a cute outfit- I’m more prone to a pop of color myself.” “Hey, you ever try peanut butter on a cheeseburger? Hear me out-”

“—Teams report.” Flag’s voice came in through your earpiece after an hour or so. Were you imagining it, or did he seem amused? The members ahead of you check in before you grit your teeth and give a curt, “Fine. Over.”

You gasped as Harley let go of the wheel to stick her body out of the open window, her blonde pigtails whipping around. She waved enthusiastically back at Flag, and you could see in the rearview as he casually waved back from his sunroof behind you. You cursed and snatched the wheel as the hummer swerved, shouting for Harley to get her ass back in the damn car! 

You heard a few chuckles and quips over the comms that made your cheeks burn, and you made a note to definitely mark this moment down in your stupid report. Fucking Flag. It wasn’t like you volunteered to be Waller’s little snitch. But you couldn’t help the smile spreading across your face. He was getting bolder. It had been less than a year, and what was once just cold shoulders and dismissals between the two of you was slowly turning into harmless jabs like this one. You even found yourself leaving things out of your reports on occasion. What use was mentioning it if it wasn’t relevant to the task force? Lying by omission for a bunch of murderers and losers— Who were you turning into.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sudden absence of noise— Harley had stopped singing along, instead choosing to bob in her seat to the beat. She glanced at you with a wide grin. Then again. And again.

“Eyes on the road, Quinn.” You practically begged at this point. You pressed your body into your seat anxiously. The dust cloud from the incoming convoy was beginning to blow past your window. Flag’s voice crackled through the comms again to get ready.

“You’re one uptight broad, y’know that?” She said cheerfully. You didn’t know if you were meant to take offense or not. Then, “I like it! Got a real Restin’ Bitch Face.”

“Thank...you?” 

“Don’t get me wrong— When a gal’s got on a good RBF, it’s in the name. You’re a bitch. But when a broody guy like Flag’s got one he’s a ‘serious leader’ and a ‘professional’ and a ‘dreamy hunk’.” Harley went on, taking her hands off the wheel to demonstrate her air quotes literally. You gripped your seatbelt in fear as the hummer began swerving again. 

“Quinn...”

“Everyone’s always calling me a psycho bitch when I get in the zone, y’know. But then I’m just a crazy bitch when I’m tryin’a keep it fun—!”

“HARLEY!”

Your heart leapt in your throat. As Harley let the vehicle veer back and forth, your attention was suddenly taken by the flash of fire and an explosion just yards ahead of you. The hummer with two other squad members leading the line had been hit with a rocket launcher, sending their vehicle into the air in a burst of flame— and because Harley was driving like a maniac, the explosion had missed your own hummer. Harley and Flag broke the line in a single moment, dodging the car that was now overturned and engulfed in fire. 

Hell broke loose then, as it always did.

You remember Harley shouting at you to take the wheel before climbing up to the mounted gun on the roof. Chatter erupted on the comms as Waller’s team directed the helicopter above and the rest of you still converged on the target. The plan was to never stop, to keep driving and extract the asset while all teams kept up with the convoy. You remember seeing a car pull up beside Flag in your side mirror, a rifle pointing right at him through all the dust and cross fire. 

But the beauty of Task Force X was how laughably terrible these guys were at not following the plan. You catch a flash of red and blue as Harley leapt onto the enemy’s truck, abandoning her post on the hummer to go get the asset herself. Waller’s orders were meaningless in moments like this, and she knew it. They would either accomplish the mission their way, or they were dead. 

That’s what the suicide squad did— was that really you? You looked in your rearview again in time to catch Harkness collapse onto the hood of Flag’s vehicle, a splotch of red visible on his chest even from where you were. You heard Waller’s voice in your head already dismissing Boomer’s loss by the end of all this. 

But you also heard Rick, his voice concerned but steady in your ear as he ordered Harkness to hang on while he attempted to lose the car still beside them. 

You sucked in a breath, and with a sudden jerk of the wheel, you lined yourself up with the enemy car behind you— And slammed on the breaks.

---

You had to come back to Belle Reve on a separate jet with Harkness, who also needed medical care before being sent back. Harley, despite her protests to see that you were both okay, was returned to her cell without so much as a ‘good job’ from Waller. Flag locked the caged door behind her with a murmur that he’d send word about Boomer soon. 

You landed in Louisiana with a fractured arm and ten stitches along your right temple. They had to reset your shoulder too. The bruising on the right side of your face made you look worse than you felt, but you still had to keep your face still from pulling the stitches. As you shuffled down the exit stairs, dragging your duffle behind you, you were startled when you looked up to see Rick Flag on the tarmac approaching you quickly. 

His brow furrowed, he immediately greeted you with a gruff, “Hey.”

“Hey—” You said back, feeling your bag being taken from you. He peels it from your fingers, your wrists brushing. No ‘[L/N]’, no curt nod. You watched as Flag slung the duffle over his broad shoulder and gestured back to the SUV he’d driven over to receive you from the Belle Reve air field without a word. When you approach your door, you stare as Flag uncharacteristically holds it open for you, then promptly shuts it, your bag placed down in the back seat.

The drive back to the main compound was usually brief, but today it felt like an eternity. You glanced over as Flag glared at the road ahead, and you remembered what Harley said about his... What did she call it? RBF? Dreamy bitch face?

Silence.

“Am I fired?” You finally said, your voice piercing the dead quiet of the car.

Flag blinked, looking between you and the road as if pulled from his own thoughts. “No, what?”

“Am I fired?” You repeated. Then grumbled, “Feels like you’re rushing me to an exit interview.”

“You're not fired.” He replied in his drawl, still distracted. “And I’m tryin’a hustle you to your debrief with Waller so you can get home and rest.” 

He put the car in park, the silence falling over you again deafening now that the engine was off. You sneak another glance over at him to see him staring ahead, his large hands still gripping the wheel tightly. 

“Are... You okay, Flag?”

“Are you okay?” He suddenly snapped. He released the wheel, turning his chest to face you in his seat. You reeled a little, confused at the sudden anger that seemed to release like a burst dam. 

“Stitches, a broken arm. You got lucky, [L/N]. What the hell were you thinking?” He continued, voice raising. And it was like muscle memory, the way your uncertainty vanished, your body turning in your own seat to square up to Rick Flag, Colonel pain in the ass. He was chastising you now? After you just saved his fucking life?

You said as much, your face shutting down, on the defense. Typical Rick Flag. The thought was written on your face, your contempt like a flashing billboard.

Flag’s lips parted, a sharp intake of breath telling you he was about to fire back— because that’s what the two of you did— but instead  he surprised you by promptly clamping the sharp line of his jaw shut. That silence fell like a wall between the two of you once more, and Rick turned to face forward, his gaze leaving you and taking all the fire with it. You watch his Adam’s apple bob minutely, something unreadable washing over his features before he mutters,

“Waller’s waiting for you in comms. Better hustle.”

[starlightrows]

2 — The Bounty Hunter

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

← Previous - Next →

Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Brief description of injury

Summary: A change in the weather brings back a familiar face

Warm summer nights fade into crisp autumn days. You spend your days tending the garden behind your inn, working to make sure you have enough dried and canned goods for the coming winter, providing room and board for whoever happens to pass through and can pay for it, the shadow cat that likes to hang around your property has a litter of kittens. And you continue to think about Boba Fett, the supposedly fearsome bounty hunter with a kind smile.

You often find yourself wondering if he will come back. Perhaps he would come in later in the season, when the snows have fallen and clung to the trees, when a good fire in the hearth and a bowl of hot stew is all a person craves in the world. You could provide those things. You would be happy with those eyes again, glinting in the fire light while he speaks of far off places and grand adventures.

You have to snap yourself out of these thoughts, focusing your attention back on wet stone sharpening your kitchen knives. Most who pass through your door do not return. Either bounties who are caught are brought to their justice or travelers choose not to venture out so far again. Occasionally you get bounty hunters who return to catch new bounties trying to disappear into the mountains or large game hunters returning each autumn- just passing through on their way further up into the mountains where the herds of black ram and lone bears roam freely.

You do not actually expect to see Boba Fett again, and when you do it is nothing like you’d imagined in your head. A storm is brewing, not yet cold enough to bring snow, but rain, freezing rain that will flood the streets and drown out your remaining autumn plants before the first frost comes. That’s when there is a pounding on the front door in the middle of the night. No one is staying at the inn tonight… perhaps a traveler has gotten in much later than they intended… you get up and throw on a house coat… making sure to have your old hunting blaster in hand, just in case.

When you unbolt the door the howling winds try to slam it back shut, a dark figure slumps against the frame. Not a comforting sight.

“Who are you? What do you want?” you call out to the figure, trying with all your might to keep the door from whipping open all the way. The figure does not answer or perhaps they can’t hear you against the wind whistling through the trees.

Whoever they are, they’re taking too long and you’re freezing. With one hand you reach out and tug on their cloak, dragging them inside and slamming the door shut behind them. They slump back against the door, and you can hear their ragged breathing.

“There aren’t many I turn away from my inn, even when there isn’t a storm raging” I say “But if you intend to stay you’ll need to remove your hood and show some credits”

“I have credits on my ship” comes the deep rolling voice… you know that voice. Without thinking you reach out and pull back their hood. Revealing the same hard lines in his face, and those kind dark eyes. Boba Fett.

“It’s you!” You gasp “You came back”

“Wanted to see you again… and… I need your help” he grits out, wincing in pain.

“What happened?” You guide him by the arm to sit at one of the dining room tables

“Blaster bolt to the side” he groans “It’s mostly fine, just need somewhere safe to lay low for a day or two”

“Will they be coming after you?” You ask bringing him a pitcher of water

“Can’t, they’re dead” he answers, accepting the water and gulping it down thirstily. Well at least you won’t have to worry about others trying to break down the door coming after him.

“Let me take a look at that” you say indicating his wound

“Suppose someone needs to” he grunts getting up from the table. He winces when he steps, and you fall in to catch him before he lists over to the side.

“Come on, there aren’t too many stairs” you manage to get out, as you help him towards the old wooden staircase.

It’s a struggle to get him up the stairs and into the first guest room. He’s a lot weaker than he’s letting on, a good chance he’s more injured as well. You get him to lay back on the bed, and he groans.

You sit beside him and reach for the hem of his tunic and give it a gentle pull “May I?” He nods. Removing the tunic is less difficult than you imagined it would be, it’s shredded from the blaster bolt.

The wound is ugly… and you shudder just looking at it. But it’s not as bad as you were afraid it might be.

“I’m going to wash it out and wrap it with a bacta salve. A few days rest and a hot meal and you’ll be alright” You go to get up and start getting the items you’ll need together to clear out the wound, but before you can turn away he catches your wrist in a gentle hold

“Thank you” he says softly. You smile, and gently pull away.

It takes some time to actually clean out the wound, it’s painful for him and he strains to not howl with the wind as you work to clean it out. Finally you get him bandaged up, and wipe your hands on a dry cloth.

“That should do it” you say wiping your brow with the back of your hand “Please rest, and call out if you need anything”

In the morning you bring up a tray laden with tea, toast, and warm oatmeal with dried fruit and honey. To your surprise he’s up and out of bed, looking at his injury in the small mirror on the wall.

“Good morning” you say, setting the tray down on the bed… which you’re even more surprised to see is fully made. “I don’t normally do room service, but for the injured I make an exception… though you could fool me right now”

He turns to look at you “Wouldn’t even consider myself injured anymore” he says, showing you the scar left by the blaster bolt. He sits on the bed and invites you to join him. You hesitate for a moment… there’s a lot you need to get done today, and you don’t make a habit of spending time alone with your patrons. But he’s been kind thus far, and to be honest you could use the company. So you sit next to him and pour him a cup of tea.

“So tell me, what happened that you landed up on my doorstep last night?”

“I’ve been tracking down something that once belonged to me. Something that is very dear to me” he explains

“Am I allowed to ask what it is?” You smile accepting the second cup of tea he’s poured you.

“My armor” he states

“Your armor?” You’re a bit confused “How did you lose it?”

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” He sets down his cup. You shake your head.

“No offense… but you’re just another bounty hunter to pass through my door” you admit “Well, that’s not entirely true. You’re the only bounty hunter I’ve ever undressed and stitched up”

He studies your face, and sees that you are genuine… you’re confident and self assured but there is an innocence about you. He can’t help feeling drawn to you.

“About 5 years ago, I was thrown into a sarlacc pit on Tatooine and left to die” he explains carefully “I can’t explain why I am alive today. Fate let me live. But I lost my armor, and my former position”

You nod, and listen carefully… Sarlacc’s are native to Tatooine. His… position… “You worked for the Hutt’s” you say

His heart drops, he’s disappointed you. But he won’t lie. He nods “Does that scare you?”

“That depends” you say scooting back from him. Not to get away but so you can square your shoulders and look him in the eye “Do you still condone the use of slaves?”

“No” he says quickly “I never did. It was always my intention to get close to Jabba and his most trusted advisors and usurp him. End the use of slaves. Clean up his drug trafficking. And rule over the great dune sea”

He takes your hand and squeezes it. “That is still my intention” he says “but I need my armor to do it”

“I hear Bib Fortuna rules the great dune sea now” you say “a weakling and a coward… I have no doubt you will make a better leader”

“I’ll miss your little corner of the galaxy” he says “if I asked you to visit, would you consider it?”

“Maybe. I don’t own a ship. Don’t even have a speeder. Might take me a long time to get the credits to make the trip all the way out to Tatooine” you say “but then again, if you are king of Tatooine, I can hardly refuse an invitation”

He smirks at that, “I will come back for you, Princess. I want you to visit me on Tatooine”

You shake your head, if he does successfully overthrow Fortuna, he will have his hands full ruling and dismantling the institutions he already described. He will likely forget about you, and your inn at the edge of the galaxy.

“Find your armor Boba Fett, and claim your empire” you smile “Then com me someday so I can proudly say I served tea for Boba Fett before he was king”

“You have my word Princess” he chuckles

He leaves that afternoon, with a bag you prepared for him containing home baked bread and cured meat. He promises you again that he will come back for you, and while you appreciate the thought, you won’t hold it against him if you never see him again.

Tag List: @cannedsoupsucks @otterly-fey

[sylvain-writes]

Scarlet Letters (TMNT Raphael x Reader)

Chapter 2/8: Patient X

After bringing Raphael in from the cold, you treat his wounds and hypothermia.

(Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ao3)

You listen to the hitch of the stranger’s breath as you turn the key.  You expect your logic and reason to speak up, to ring warning bells about inviting strangers into your home, but as you usher your companion into the apartment, you find yourself more relieved by their company than concerned.  

They’ve accepted your help.   They’ll soon be in from the cold.  Under your care, they’ll suffer no further harm.  You stare at the characters painted on their shell as they pass and wonder why this person’s safety is so important.  You wonder why it’s so important to you. 

As they lean awkwardly against the wall, awaiting direction, you know they’re trying desperately to hide their vulnerability.  Though it goes against the desire of your compassionate heart, you stop yourself from reaching out in aid. You think a person like them, a  warrior , must draw some sense of comfort from feeling in control.  They are most at ease when they’re the strongest one in the room.  You’ll let them hold onto that belief for a little while more. But they’ve lost a lot of blood.  It’s likely they’ve been alone, braving sub-freezing temperatures, for hours. They sway where they stand.  And when their eyes meet yours - unfocused and bloodshot - your breath catches in your chest.  

You hold their gaze longer than you intended.   It’s impossible to resist the pull it has on you.  You get lost in the pain and confusion broadcasted through the green irises.  An indeterminate stretch of time passes, where the stranger seems to speak to you only through their eyes.  

Their eyes say:  Run.   They say:  You should have stayed away.    They say:  I’m not worthy of this kindness.   They say:  Please don’t leave send me back out there to die.

It’s not until you break eye contact to lock the door behind you that find the words to say.  “The kitchen’s past the living room.” You’re surprised to hear a tremor in your voice as you transfer your phone into your pants pocket.  But the itch of fear under your skin is not borne out of worry over your own safety. It’s worry over theirs. Seeing the turtle’s unsteady gait and the way they take silent inventory of the room, you think they are more frightened than you are.

It feels foolish to hang your bloodsoaked jacket on the hook by the door, instead of tossing it directly into the small washing machine next to your bedroom, but you do it anyway out of habit.  You’ll get to it later. Now, there are more important matters to which you must attend.

In the kitchen, you find the oversized turtle seated on a stool, fighting for long, even breaths.  It appears to be an attempt at meditation. You take note that their choice of stool is far from the fully-stocked butcher’s block of knives.  Perhaps their their position on the opposite side of the island counter is a deliberate show that they don’t mean you any harm. Or, perhaps they’re too weak to think through that far.

You let your entry into the kitchen be known by softly clearing your throat.  With everything you do, you try to make it apparent that you mean your guest no harm.  You know it’s dangerous to expose a person with hypothermia to direct heat, so a hot bath is out of the question - for now.  You start with an offer of tea and leave the kettle steaming on the stove to lend moisture to the air.

The turtle accepts the drink with hands that shake and eyes that radiate trust.  So much trust.  You wonder if you’ve earned it.  A fighter such as them doesn’t seem like one to trust easily, yet, even as you move behind their back, to retrieve the medical kit from the cabinet, they don’t show any concern at having you move in and out of their personal space. But they’re quiet, so you gently fill the silence.

“May I touch you?” You ask before setting the first aid box on the counter and pulling up a stool for yourself.  Your companion gives a slow nod. Now that you are positioned in front of them, their eyes never stray from your hands.  

Donning a pair of latex-free gloves, you tell them, “I’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with once I get you cleaned up.  Looks like you may need stitches.” Although this can’t be good news for the turtle, you receive a nod of understanding in reply. “This is going to hurt,” you warn, like they aren’t gritting their teeth against excruciating pain already.

The peroxide bubbles over the wounds to their soft side and then the laceration on their thigh.  Though their resolve hadn’t faltered while you cleaned the injury to their side, their response to their thigh injury is not so unreactive.  The turtle clenches one of their fists atop the counter and their green eyes disappear behind tightly closed lids. Your patient releases a low hiss through their teeth.  

To ease the peroxide’s sting, you blow on the cut along the adductor muscles.  Under different circumstances, bringing your mouth so close to the inside of a person’s thigh could be considered fun, foreplay even. But as your hands frame the wound, catching excess antiseptic and wiping away blood, the intimacy is anything but sexy.  

The lesion isn’t deep, but every move and flex of the muscle opens the wound.  A good bandage will suffice. Same with the injuries to the side of your patient’s body.  The only area that looks in need of stitches so far is a split lip.

You dab analgesic on the cuts to their face and mirror the turtle’s frown.  It takes a moment for you to realize that your companion’s attention has shifted from your hands to the needles and string you’ve laid on the counter.  

“I can be quick,” you say to ease their concern.  Stitches aren’t part of your job description, but thanks to a rise in gang-related crime, the clinic has been overbooked and overrun with emergency walk-ins often enough that stitching up small wounds is old hat.

You hold the stranger’s face in your hands.  As if of their own mind, your fingers stroke their cheeks along the underside of the threadbare mask you have yet to ask about and they have yet to remove.  Their eyes flit from the floor to meet your gaze and drop again. Tracing the bottom edge of the red bandana with a caress, you decide now isn’t the time to discuss it.

“You’re going to be OK,” you start to say, but even as the words escape your lips, you worry.  Their skin is clammy and pale. Cold-blooded animals need external sources of warmth. You let the press of your palms linger on their emerald skin, lending their warmth for a minute, for two.  You could be imagining things, but you think that your companion sighs in relief, that they lean into your touch.

There’s no time to waste on wonder.  Your patient isn’t only weak from blood loss and the fatigue of a fight, it’s possible their hypothermia is advancing.  

Your fingers stitch faster than you thought you could manage; but, then again, your patients have never sat this still before.  They’ve never demonstrated such patience and fortitude while under duress.  

When you’re done, you cradle their face in your hands once more as if to admire your handiwork.  Their cheeks are even colder than before. You force your voice to be steady as you say, “Let’s get you into a warm bath.”  It’s more an order than a suggestion.

Using the countertop as support, the man-sized turtle pushes themself to stand.  Still, they haven’t said a word.

You’re under their arm in an instant to offer what support you can, but a knock on the door jars your attention.  The turtle squares off their shoulders at the interruption. Despite injury and fatigue, they’re taking on a fighting stance and staggering toward the wall.   Years of self-defense training inform you of the obvious; this stranger fully intends to defend your home from whomever has come.

Their caution has alarms sounding off in your head.  Seeing them ready to attack reminds you that their wounds aren’t the result of an accident.   There had been a fight on Purple Dragon terf, and it is as likely for the person at your door to be a member of the gang looking for retribution as it is to be a friend.

A large green hand reaches for you, but a lack of coordination is another symptom of hypothermia.  It takes a second try for the hand to land on your forearm. The grip is delicate, trembling.  

“I’ll get rid of them,” you say reassuringly, before gently removing yourself from their hold.  You signal for your companion to wait as you check the peephole. You won’t let them expose themself, especially not in their current state.

Seeing your landlord’s daughter on the other side of the door fills you with the anxiety brought on by the risk of being found harboring an unexpected, highly unusual, guest; but the relief of seeing her instead of a Dragon is enough to ease the tension in your shoulders.  You whisper to the hulking figure in the shadow of the hall, “It’s OK.”

Leaning heavily against a closet door, your companion gives a nod.  Their breaths come in harsh gasps, though they are trying to hide their struggle.  You’ll do a more thorough exam and listen to their lungs after they’ve warmed up.

You’ll make things with Lori quick.

Pulling open the door just enough to make conversation, you’re hit by a blast of cold air and sleet.  "Hey, Lor. Everything good?“ you greet the young woman at your doorstep.

“Ma sent me down to bring you this,” Lori says, nudging the space heater at her feet. “She knows it gets colder here than the other units.  Though I dunno how useful it would be if any more ice builds up on the power lines.”

To bring an end to the conversation, you accept the heater without argument.  “Thanks. Tell her, thanks.”

“If you wanna ride out the storm with us upstairs, you’re more than welcome-”  Lori’s invitation is cut short when her gaze lands upon the fresh bloodstain on the thigh of your scrubs.

“Crazy night at the Urgent Care,” you explain, forcing a stiff chuckle.  “You should get home. I’m good here.” You drag in the space heater and wrap your arms around yourself to emphasize the fact that every second at the door is a second Lori is forcing you to face the cold without a jacket.  (And it’s not like you can put on the blood stained coat without drawing additional concern and/or suspicion.)

“Yeah, well,” Lori raises her hand in farewell, “stay safe.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder but find the corridor empty of your red banded companion.  To Lori, you offer a tight smile and a hurried, “You too,” before closing the door.

“Where did you go?” You ask the empty hallway as you drag the wheeled space heater behind you.  

Hunched over the back of the couch, your companion shivers where they stand.  You abandon the space heater in an instant.

When you take the turtle by the arm, they don’t flinch.  In fact, you experience a touch of deja vous. They’re leaning into you - you’re almost positive - but you can’t waste time reading into it.  They’re only seeking your warmth, you tell yourself. Their temperature needs regulation ASAP.  And turtles, you think, have an affinity for water.

“You.  Bath. Now.”

By the time your patient is standing beside the tub, they look so pale and shaky and weak you are sure they’re about to faint.  Quickly, you adjust the water at the faucet and help them in.

Although their mouth is drawn in an unreadable line, a sound like a purr rolls from the turtle’s throat as they sink into the deep bathtub.  You’re glad you decided to spring for the deluxe remodel and double-wide tub. Anything smaller, you think, would be too tight a fit for the turtle’s giant shell.  

You don’t dare turn on the harsh overhead lights, opting instead for the softer lamp of the vanity across from the bath.  It’s the least you can do when stripping your companion of their privacy, but they haven’t voiced a wish for you to leave the room.   They haven’t made any indication that they’re made uncomfortable by your company.

Water sloshes in gentle waves as you soak a washcloth.  Using it, you try to warm your patient’s forehead and cheeks with slow presses of the wet cloth.  You try to ease their unspoken concerns with hushed words of hope and encouragement for their recovery.  

Once it seems like they’re regaining some color in their cheeks, the turtle sits forward.  There’s enough room for you to wash their back, but only just.  

You dip the washcloth into the bath.  It’s properly soaked when you raise it again, but you pause.  Your stomach flips. It seems silly that after helping the turtle clean the rest of their body you’d be hesitant to bring the cloth to their shell, but this feels different.  Though a part of you wonders if the carapace is sensitive to touch at all, your heart races at the thought of feeling its bumps and edges under your palm.

Holding your breath, you squeeze warm water over the hard scales and watch it run in rivulets through the patterns of the shell - some natural and others caused by old scars and new wounds.  It’s mesmerizing. The water passes over the kanji and the paint dissolves into the water, red, but thin compared to the blood that continues to seep through the turtle’s bandages. You bring your hand down against the shell to rub at the writing and your patient tenses before you both release a long breath.

“Can you feel this?” you ask in a whisper.

“Yeah,” they say and you’re shocked by the deep tone of their voice and the heavy accent on their tongue.  

“Does it hurt?“ You lay your tingling palm on their shell to marvel at its texture.

“No,” they say shortly.  “…it’s…” Your companion exhales another shaky breath.  “It don’t hurt.”

You take up washing their back again and listen to the turtle’s slow and shallow breathing.

“Ya always take in strangers?” they ask gruffly.

In response to the accusation, you introduce yourself with the hope they’ll answer in kind.  

“Raphael,” they say with a huff, turning to catch your eye.  Their gaze is soft despite the hard edges the turtle insists on maintaining.  

You offer a warm smile as you swipe the washcloth over your patient’s wide shoulders and neck.  Their pulse is getting weaker, and slower. Their eyes are starting to spend more time closed than open.  You’re surprised that they have been able to stay awake this long.  

With a halting reach, you bring your hands to their mask.  The weight of their hand on yours stops you from untying the knot behind their head.  But the need for pause is brief. You receive a nod of consent before Raphael slowly brings their hand down to the water again.

The knot is tight, but your nimble fingers have no trouble untangling the long tails of the mask.  Setting the bandana to soak in the sink with the other bands and wraps you’ve removed from the warrior’s arms, hands, and feet, you take a peek at the mirror.  You have a view of the turtle’s full face for the first time. Your heart clenches as what was for so long a hardened expression droops into a sleepy frown.

You wonder if the change in Raphael’s expression has anything to do with being unmasked, or if it’s all a result of the need to recover from the night’s events.  Returning to the side of the tub, you offer another smile. You bring the washcloth to Raphael’s cheek again to wipe at the clear line where the bandana had protected the top half of the turtle’s head from the elements.  Raphael’s breath hitches at the attention you give.

Your voice breaks despite your resolve.  "Not so much a stranger anymore, now, are ya Raphael?“

A hint of amusement flashes through their bleary eyes as their upper lip curls in what could have been the beginnings of a smile, had the movement not pulled the fresh stitches and turned the expression into a grimace of pain.  

⁂

Raphael’s not a person of many words, but you learn that he was separated from his brothers during a rooftop fight before he fell.  By your professional assessment, and from what he’s told you, it was the stun of the fall that kept him immobile long enough for the cold to wrack his system.

You’re almost through rinsing the last of the soap and grime from his shell when the slur of his words takes a turn for the worse.  Raphael’s eyes blink heavily, though they try to hold your gaze. He slumps against the back of the tub. “…don’ think… I’m gun’…”  

Following his retreat. you rise up on your knees and grab his shoulder in the hope you can keep him awake long enough to get him to a bed or the couch - somewhere he can have a proper rest.   Nonetheless, his head lolls forward, and no matter how insistent you are as you squeeze his arm or pat his cheek or speak his name, you can’t keep him from slipping into unconsciousness.

[lady-divine-writes]

Coldflash - “Far from Helpful” (Rated PG13)

After a blast meant for Leonard Snart knocks Barry out cold and wipes his memory, Len follows the team back to STAR Labs to make sure he's alright. Of course, not being entirely welcome, he has to sneak in. But after one small slip of the tongue, Len might find himself watching over Barry permanently. (2359 words)

Written for @sparroet

Notes:  This is the first iteration of the story I wrote for @coldflashweeks Valentine’s exchange 2019 prompt - Barry suffers a permanent injury that affects his work as Flash and Len helps him to work out where to go next. Warning for a serious injury involving blood.

Read on AO3.

“Hey, Red. I’m telling ya, we have to stop meeting like this,” Len says in a low voice, gruff from barking orders that didn’t matter worth dick since no one listened to him anyway. If they had, maybe Barry wouldn’t be lying on a gurney down in the med center of STAR Labs, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Maybe he wouldn’t have had the ever-loving shit beat out of him … again. Even the fights Barry does win usually end up with him getting bashed in the head or kicked in the stomach.

Just because he has the power to super heal doesn’t erase the fact that Barry Allen gets beat up a lot.

Len is also a bit worse for the wear – a gash on his right cheek that might require stitches, a blackened left eye, an arm he’d thought was broken wrapped tight in an ACE bandage. But that’s nothing compared to what happened to Barry – slammed in the gut by a high-intensity photon blast that was meant for Len and thrown over two hundred feet straight up. Had Barry come back down the way he went, Len might have been able to break his fall, plus his whole body in the process. But Barry had traveled, and Len abandoned the fight, abandoned his team, to go on the search. Halfway out of town, Len found Barry skewered on an iron fence post, the spear-like tip protruding from his chest and covered in blood. When Len saw him - bent impossibly backward with arms and legs limp - his heart stopped.

He thought his boy was dead this time for sure.

Then along came Cisco and Caitlin, and boy, do they have a convenient sense of timing. They had nothing to do with Len finding Barry, but they sure did rush in and scoop him up as if he was theirs and theirs alone. They barely gave Len a thank you, barely looked him in the eyes.

When it comes to him, Len has discovered, even when he’s fighting on their side, they don’t consider him on their side.

Perhaps that’s the way it should stay.

Caitlin did take a second to check out Len’s arm and wrap it up, but that was a consolation prize. A token.

The literal least they could do.

But it was also a message. In their eyes, it made them square. Now Len’s job was over, and it would be best for everyone if he stepped back and left Barry alone.

Right. Like that was going to happen.

Caitlin and Cisco packed Barry up in their ‘Flash-mobile’ and left Len alone out in the middle of nowhere, probably all sorts of assured that he wouldn’t make it back to STAR Labs anytime soon.

And, as usual, they were wrong.

Not only was he fifteen minutes behind them the whole time thanks to his newest acquisition – a beat-up old Indian motorcycle he’d spied quietly rusting in an otherwise vacant driveway on his way out of town – but he’d managed to let himself into STAR Labs super slick and steal away into Barry’s room the second the Wonder Twins ducked out. Sure they’ll be watching Barry like a hawk so of course they’ll find him, but now that he’s in, he’d like to see them try and kick him out.

Len gives Barry a once over, head shaking with disgust and disappointment.

And guilt.

Barry looks okay. Aside from a few scratches, he’s the same as always … on the outside. From what Len could make out while Caitlin and Cisco were talking, the blast scrambled Barry’s brain like an omelet, hence his constant waking up and knocking out. From the times they were able to talk to him, Barry didn’t know his name, didn’t know where he was, who they were, or that he was The Flash. They hooked him up to a dozen or so machines monitoring his brain waves, his temporal lobes and whatnot, but when he finally comes to for longer than a minute, they have no idea what he’ll remember.

Or if the memories he’s lost will ever come back.

They also can’t tell with absolute certainty if Barry is still a meta. The blast doesn’t appear to have eliminated his power to heal, but it slowed it to a crawl. Hence why he’s down here while the net that is the Speed Force sews him back together, albeit at an infuriating rate.

And why it hasn’t worked on his brain? That’s another mystery altogether.

Len moves sections of Barry’s blankets aside to assess the damage for himself. Large hematomas mar Barry’s skin like a battle-scarred landscape. Len’s gaze falls on the blood-stained bandages covering the hole in Barry’s chest and sucks a breath in through his teeth. By rights, any man who sustained an injury like that should be dead. Since that blast was aimed at Len, that means he should be dead right now – dead and gone while a still young and vibrant Barry Allen mourns for all of fifteen minutes the twisted, dysfunctional non-relationship they have, one where Barry constantly reminds Len that there’s good in him as if that means something, and Len spends his nights seething because the good Len wants inside of him is Barry.

“Jesus Christ, you know, you gotta stop taking the blows that I’m supposed to take. When it’s my time, it’s my time. Nothing you can do is going to change that, Red, no matter how good you think I am.”

“Wh-why … do you keep calling me … Red?” a gravelly voice struggles with as Barry turns his head to look Len’s way.

Len shrugs, taking a seat in the chair beside Barry so he won’t have to move anymore. “It’s just a nickname I have for you. That’s all.”

Barry relaxes back into his pillow now that the object of his attention has conveniently moved into view. Eyelids narrowed, he stares at Len, soaking in the particulars of the man in front of him. “Who ... who are you?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“I … I don’t know, but … you seem so familiar.”

“I should. I’m your husband,” Len teases without thinking, sarcasm stepping in when the alternative means revealing too much at an inconvenient time. Why not? It breaks the tension. Barry is more than likely not going to remember this conversation. Besides, Len is dying to see the look on the kid’s face as he tries to comprehend that this tired, filthy, broken old man is his spouse.

And Barry doesn’t disappoint. His head jerks back a hair. His eyes widen. His jaw works around wordless questions.

In short, he looks thoroughly confused by life.

“You … you are?”

“Yup.”

“But … but the doctors that were in here … they didn’t tell me.”

Len pats Barry’s hand. “They don’t like me. I sometimes think they’d like to forget I exist.”

“Oh …” Barry’s eyes dart back and forth, scanning his brain for any nugget of a sliver of a memory of him being married to the man sitting in the chair next to him. Several long seconds tick by. Len watches Barry’s face with an intense curiosity and mild amusement, waiting for his inevitable surrender back into unconsciousness that will herald the end of this charade. Then Len will sit and guard over Barry for as long as he can before his obnoxious wardens return. But Barry doesn’t surrender to sleep. He smiles, an unexpected realization overwhelming him that adds color to his pale cheeks and light to his blank-slate eyes. “Oh … my God! We’re … we’re married?” Barry laughs before Len has a chance to answer. “Wh-what … what lottery did I win to get you?”

A vision of the fight they were in not two hours ago rolls through Len’s brain, how Barry got hit, then flew so hard he blinked out of sight like a cartoon character.

“Let’s just say I swept you off your feet.”

“I thought … I thought it was a dream …” Barry continues. “I didn’t think it could be real.”

Len chuckles, assuming Barry is thinking of that same take-off moment, until he keeps going.

And then Len’s heart stops a second, longer time.

“We met in a theater … didn’t we?”

“I guess you can say that.”

“We had a wedding on the beach … and our honeymoon … camping at the Grand Canyon …” A spark twinkles in Barry’s eyes that Len has never seen. It’s not the lightning that lives inside him, that erupts to mirror his emotions. It’s different – just as supernatural, but more inexplicable. It sends chills down Len’s spine, and that’s something that doesn’t happen too often.

“Ho---honeymoon?” Len’s legs go numb. He turns at the waist, looking for a place to sit until it dawns on him that he’s sitting already.

“Yeah.” Barry’s smile grows and takes a bashful twist. “You and me in a two-person tent on the South Rim, drinking champagne and watching the sun set …”

Voices echo in the hallway. Urgent voices. More than just Cisco and Caitlin. It sounds like Joe might be with them, along with a few other members of the CCPD. Len doesn’t hear what they say, but he has his suspicions that they’re talking about him.

“Shoot!” Len hisses, wishing the oncoming invasion could take a powder for about five minutes so that Barry can finish telling him about that honeymoon. From the shade of red Barry’s cheeks have become, it must have been good. But it would probably be a good idea if he retreats to his favorite air vent for the time being. “Look, kid, I’m going to have to …” He springs out of his seat but Barry grabs his hand with a speed that confirms that yes, he definitely still is a meta.

“Wait, what are you doing? Where are you going?”

“I need to bow out for a minute. But don’t worry. I won’t go too far.”

“Go? What … no! Don’t … don’t leave! Please?”

The voices become louder, accompanied by hurried footsteps, and Len curses under his breath. Before this little adventure began, weren’t they all allies? On a temporary basis, but playing on the same team? “Barry, I’m sorry, but I have to.”

“Why!?”

Len looks into Barry’s pleading eyes and sighs. Yup, leave it to him to take a joke too far, and now here he is - married to The Flash and sixty seconds away from being locked behind bars.

“Remember those doctors I said don’t like me?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, they’re coming back, and from the sounds of it, they’re bringing the police.”

“But, why does that matter?” Barry scans the room, searching frantically for help. “You’re ... you’re my husband!”

“They may not see it that way.”

“I’ll make them see! Just … wait here and we’ll get this straightened out. Please? Please stay?”

Len opens his mouth, but even though he has to, he can’t say no. He shakes his head, taking a step away, and Barry goes into full blown panic mode.

“They said I could have whatever I wanted! Have whoever I want in here with me! Whatever would make me comfortable! If you’re my husband, then I want you! We’ll tell them that I’m … I’m not staying here without you! I’ll … I’ll get up and leave!” Barry plants his hands on the mattress pad beneath him and tries to sit up. “I swear!”

“Shhh, easy now, kid. Don’t get carried away.” Len puts his hands on Barry’s shoulders and in an instance feels him relax, which makes Len want to punch himself in the throat. He did this – him and his frickin’ inability to not make a joke out of everything. Maybe he and Barry don’t always meet on the same side of the law, but he’d never want anything bad for Barry.

Which is why he keeps his distance on the day to day. If Leonard Snart is anything, he’s bad for Barry.

But for some reason, Barry seems to believe wholeheartedly that he’s married to Leonard Snart. And not just believes it, but has memories of it. But where those memories came from, Len doesn’t know. He didn’t say enough to plant any subliminal thoughts in Barry’s mind, nothing as detailed as a wedding on the beach, or a honeymoon. Where did that all come from? Could it be a side-effect of the memory wipe? Cisco specifically said ‘scrambled Barry’s brains like an omelet’. Those were his exact words. Barry’s mind manufacturing a wedding that never happened sounds like the kind of thing a scrambled brain might do.

Or is there a chance that those thoughts were there in Barry’s mind already? Fantasies hidden that the accident unlocked?

Does Barry, on some level, have feelings for Len that venture outside of the hero-villain dynamic they’ve so masterfully cultivated?

As much as Len would like to investigate that possibility, he can’t. They have a situation here that he doesn’t have an easy fix for.

But maybe he doesn’t want one.

Len knows that this can’t go anywhere but downhill, for him and for Barry. But he also knows he can’t back out on Barry now. Not with those eyes staring at him as if he’s the only thing keeping Barry tethered to planet earth.

No one’s ever looked at him that way, with that level of need. Not even his sister.

It’s also not lost on him that this is the longest Barry has managed to stay awake since he arrived at STAR Labs. That in itself is a reason for Len to stay.

What Len doesn’t know is how the hell he’s going to pull this off.

Make a plan. Execute the plan. Expect the plan to go off the rails. Throw away the plan.

Welp. He seems right about on par.

He squeezes Barry’s hand gently. To his own surprise, he leans forward and gives him a kiss on the forehead.

“All right, Red,” he whispers. “I’ll stay. We’ll … figure this out.”

[fashiontrendin-blog]

The Complete Guide To Men’s Dress Shirts

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-complete-guide-to-mens-dress-shirts/

The Complete Guide To Men’s Dress Shirts

Whether you like it or not, chances are you’re going to have to shoehorn yourself into a tuxedo at least a couple of times over the course of your existence. But don’t worry, contrary to what many men would have you believe, getting dressed up to the nines doesn’t have to be a painful battle between man and mirror. Well, not if you know what you’re doing.

First off, you’re never going to fully channel your inner covert MI6 agent if you don’t have a Bond-like confidence in your outfit. So, if you know that underneath your immaculate dinner jacket, you’re concealing a shirt so ill-fitting it could give Jeremy Clarkson’s favourite pair of jeans a run for their money, it’s going to have an impact on the way you hold yourself during your next black tie soirée.

A quality dress shirt will provide a solid foundation on which to build the rest of your eveningwear and so it’s not a purchase to be taken lightly. “It’s just a white shirt,” you might think. “How difficult can it be?” However, picking the right one out can take a masters in menswear because there’s a surprising amount to bear in mind if you want to elevate your black-tie attire from Dr No Idea to Double-0-Heaven.

To school you in the minutiae of this most troublesome formalwear component, we’ve prepared an in-depth guide, covering everything you ever wanted to know about dress shirts but were too afraid to ask. Starting with the basics…

What Is A Dress Shirt?

Just to make matters that little bit more confusing for you, definitions of the term ‘dress shirt’ will vary based on who you ask. Query an American, and he’ll tell you a dress shirt is anything with a collar and cuffs, that’s smart enough to be worn to the office. However, here in the UK, our definition is a little more specific than a work shirt, and for the purpose of this guide, that’s what we’re going to be talking about. Sorry, America.

First off, you certainly wouldn’t want to rock up to work sporting a dress shirt. Not unless you’re the Queen’s butler or one of those gents who holds the doors open at posh department stores. No, a dress shirt is to be worn exclusively as part of a black-tie outfit, most commonly a tuxedo.

“An evening shirt will ideally have a slight cutaway collar to make a space for the bow tie,” explains Jermyn Street master shirtmaker, Emma Willis. “[It should also feature] a super-imposed rounded or squared bib front either in a stiffer ‘marcella’ pique fabric or pleated for a more decorative look, holes for suds on the front rather than buttons …and a double cuff for cufflinks, which can match your studs.

“The ideal fabric for an evening shirt would be as light as possible for evening cool especially if you are dancing, [always in] white or ivory cotton or silk. The collar and cuffs look very sharp in the white marcella too if you are having this bib front.”

The Key Dress Shirt Components

Still with us? We never said it was going to be easy, but if you really want to wow the shop assistant with your shirting knowledge, it’s important to understand the three key elements that set dress shirts apart and how they can vary across the board.

Collar

One of the first things a newcomer is likely to notice about a dress shirt is the collar. Most often it will be a turndown collar. However, classic pointed collars and cutaway collars are also common. Save winged for white tie occasions.

Cuffs

While casual and formal shirts tend to come with barrel cuffs fastened by a button, dress shirts do away with this in favour of a dressier French cuff, which doubles back on itself and is held in place with cufflinks.

Another more modern option is the cocktail cuff, which was invented by Turnbull and Asser for use in the James Bond classic Dr No. It features a turnback with a cutaway, allowing for buttons rather than cufflinks. All the good looks of a French cuff, without the fuss.

Bib

While we know it best as a tool to prevent babies from getting revolting-looking paste and vomit all over themselves, in the world of eveningwear, an altogether different type of bib is at work.

The dress bib is an additional layer of material commonly stitched into the front of a dress shirt. It tends to be either plain or pleated and gives a thicker appearance when worn under a jacket while allowing the body of the shirt to remain light and breathable.

How Should A Dress Shirt Fit?

Selecting a quality garment is half the battle, but if trying it on leaves you looking like either the a kid wearing his dad’s clothes, or the Hulk when he gets all green and angry and bursts out of his clothes, it will all have been for nothing. Ideally, you want to be aiming for somewhere directly in between those two extremes.

“A well-fitted, well-made shirt is always a must, but even more so when it comes to eveningwear,” says Dean Gomilsek-Cole, head of design at Jermyn Street master shirtmaker Turnbull & Asser.

“A loose fitting shirt will become uncomfortable with excess fabric folding, rucking and rubbing against the skin.

“While a shirt that is too tight can look good standing, but will also become uncomfortable when seated, and can lead to button strain, which is not a good look.”

In short, a good dress shirt should fit much the same as any other type of shirt – the main difference being the length. Dress shirts tend to be made significantly longer in the back and tails for tucking in, so don’t worry if you try one on and it looks like you’re wearing a nighty.

Aside from that, the shoulder seams should rest nicely on, well, your shoulders, the cuffs should be comfortable and shouldn’t extend onto your palm, while you should be able to fit two fingers between your neck and the collar when the front is done up.

What Material Should A Dress Shirt Be?

If you’re lucky enough never to have spent a sweaty afternoon at a black-tie summer wedding, you might think that shirt material is of little importance. However, once you’ve experienced the hell that is a dinner jacket/heavy twill combo in 30-degree heat, you’ll immediately get a sense of its significance.

“One tip from me for formal occasions is to get a bespoke dress shirt made from a voile cloth,” says Gomilsek-Cole. “This cloth is very lightweight and perfect for wearing under formal dress when you have to keep your jacket on for long periods of time.

“The fabric is quite transparent. But the trick is to have the front panel, collars and cuffs and front ‘bib’ made with a heavier cloth and no one will ever know how you managed to stay so cool and composed.”

Aside from voile, pique – sometimes referred to as ‘marcella’ – is the shirting material most commonly associated with the black tie dress code. It was initially created for use with white tie attire, as the way the fibres are woven makes it capable of holding more starch than other cotton fabrics.

Being nice and light, poplin is another good option in the warmer months, plus the smooth, silky appearance lends itself perfectly to a dressed-up look.

When To Wear A Dress Shirt

Easy. If the dress code says anything other than black or white tie, you should leave your dress shirt well alone. No one’s going to look good wearing a starched shirt with a pleated bib with a pair of jeans. While we’re all for individual style, there is a line and wearing a dress shirt with anything other than a tux crosses it by a country mile.

The Best Brands For Dress Shirts

Now that you could give the experts on Jermyn Street a run for their money in a dress shirt-themed episode of Mastermind, let’s take a look at what you should be spending your money on.

Turnbull And Asser

If your end goal is to look like Bond then who better to buy your kit from than the people who dress him? Not only has the luxury London-based outfitter dressed 007, but it has also created shirts and accessories specifically for him, including the famous cocktail cuff.

Turnbull And Asser is steeped in history and has been held in esteem by some of the most important men in Britain and beyond. When it comes to quality and prestige, this Jermyn Street heavyweight is second to none.

Buy Now: £255.00

Hawes & Curtis

Originally founded by London tailors Ralph Hawes and George Frederic “Freddie” Curtis in 1913, Hawes & Curtis quickly became known as one of the most respected gentleman’s outfitters in the capital.

The heritage label is the original Jermyn Street shirtmaker and has outfitted everyone from Hollywood stars to royalty during its time in the city.

Expect high quality, heaps of sophistication and price tags that won’t leave your wallet empty.

Buy Now: £79.00

Next

Next is one of the most reliable names on the British high street and is well known for making slick suits at affordable prices. The brand’s sartorial output doesn’t end there but carries over nicely into the eveningwear arena.

You won’t get handcrafted, made-in-England garments, woven from the most beautiful silk cloth, but what you will get is a solid, stylish dress shirt and change from £50. Can’t argue with that in this stormy financial climate.

Buy Now: £24.00

Emma Willis

The first and only female shirtmaker to boast a shopfront on Jermyn Street, Emma Willis is widely regarded as one of the best in the game. The celebrated tailor counts the likes of Daniel Craig and David Gandy among her returning customers, and when you take a look at her masterfully crafted shirts, it’s not difficult to see why.

For stunning bespoke and ready-to-wear shirts, handmade with premium materials in London, you need look no further.

Buy Now: £350.00

Zara

Thanks in no small part to a highly responsive supply chain, Spanish high-street heavyweight Zara is always at the cutting edge of what’s fashionable. However, that’s not to say its timeless classics aren’t up to scratch, as exemplified perfectly in its range of sharp, crisp dress shirts.

Expect contemporary cuts, modern styling and prices so cheap you’ll feel like stocking up your entire evening wardrobe.

Buy Now: £19.99

Marks And Spencer

A shirt bought from historic British retailer Marks And Spencer is a shirt bought with confidence. Renowned for its reliable quality, huge variety and timeless designs, it’s no wonder M&S has become a firm favourite in the UK.

If you’re looking for a sturdy, reliable dress shirt that you won’t need to sell a kidney to buy, you will find it right here. An ideal choice if you’re only pulling your tux on once or twice a year.

Buy Now: £45.00

T.M. Lewin

Established in 1898, T.M. Lewin is one of the most historic shirtmakers on Jermyn Street and unlike many of its neighbours, the prices are well within most budgets.

These modest price points aren’t indicative of subpar quality either, which goes a long way towards explaining why this heritage outfitter is one of the most popular in the country.

Buy Now: £49.95

Thomas Pink

Founded by Irish brothers James, Peter and John Mullen in 1984, Thomas Pink set out on a mission to challenge the traditional shirt making for which Jermyn Street had become famous. Named after the 18th-century tailor who designed the famous red hunting coat, the label carries on the name and tradition of exquisite attention to detail which was a hallmark of Pink’s work.

Choose a shirt from Thomas Pink and you’re buying into a focus on the more delicate details and a perfect blend of tradition-meets-modernity.

Buy Now: £100.00

Charles Tyrwhitt

Nicholas Charles Tyrwhitt Wheeler founded his eponymous label in 1986 after deciding he could make a better shirt than anyone else. What’s more, he believed he could do it with no compromise on quality, a dash of British charm and at absolute knock-out prices.

Did he succeed? Well, judging by the fact that his business now boasts 27 successful stores worldwide, including a flagship on Jermyn Street, we’d say so, yeah.

Buy Now: £49.95

John Lewis

Having opened the doors of its first store on Oxford Street in 1864, luxury department store chain John Lewis has gone on to become one of the most established names on the high street. The brand has a reputation for its unfaltering solidity, making it the first port of call for many a shopping Brit.

Regarding men’s eveningwear, it’s more of the same. Timeless, quality garments that offer a touch of luxury at not unreasonable prices.

Buy Now: £40.00

For The Menswear Geeks: The History Of The Dress Shirt

Having first appeared on the shoulders of European men in the early sixteenth century, the shirt quickly went on to become the undergarment of choice. Just the ticket for keeping all that sweat away from expensive clothes at a time when personal hygiene was still a pretty abstract concept.

As the years rolled on, a crisp white shirt became a status symbol, as only very wealthy men could afford to keep them pristine. Then, during the Victorian era, and with the rise of the dinner jacket, the dress shirt, as we know it today, was born.

Unlike in the thicker, more substantial shirts of years gone by, shirtmakers began to manufacture shirts with a bib panel stitched onto the chest. This panel could be starched, giving the front of the garment a whiter, crisper appearance, while reducing the thickness of the shirt overall and maximising comfort.

After World War II, the tuxedo became de facto eveningwear, cementing the modern dress shirt as one of the essential components in today’s black-tie attire.