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remys-lucky-franc · 3 years

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I’m Bringing Sexy Back (To Regency England) - Immortal Heart Society

So this happened because I referred to new series IHS’s baddie Lord Montague as ‘Lord Timberlake’ due to the coiffuring similarities and it made @aquagirl1978 LOL and she made me this:

See how alike they look though?! I’m not crazy.

Literally no one in the world wants this fic, and it’s just stupid, but I had a giggle writing it, so 😆 Also, I genuinely know nothing about JT, if any of you are superfans and I’m way off, it’s just a bit of fun, no ill intent or offence meant 💕

Also it’s just in time for all the good old memes... (At the end if anyone needs a ref point)

Word Count ~3500 (yeah, I’ve gone off)

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In the grandiose but soulless marble bathroom of the Boston penthouse, Justin squeezed his eyes tight-shut, splashing his face with frigid water. He inhaled sharply as the moisture hit his skin, opening his eyes and staring intently at the reflection mirrored back at him. It had been quite a night so far. He’d been courted by ‘The Society’ for a couple of months now and on receiving their latest invite, he had finally acquiesced. Over the course of the evening he’d exchanged pleasantries and mingled with a fusion of intriguing individuals - all very different, very separate people, but all who clearly had gotten the memo: convince him to join. Justin suspected before he arrived, from the exclusive address on the invite alone, the sort of members The Society would have on its roster and he wasn’t surprised - even if most of them were no more than masked silhouettes. Initially when he had exited the elevator and caught sight of all those shaded faces, Justin’s heart stuttered: had he inadvertently accepted an invite to some sort of sexy party? How would he explain this one? ‘Hey Honey - funny story...’ But it didn’t take long to deduce that the disguises were all part of the prestige and served as identity protection rather than a conduit to anyone having any real sort of fun.

The mixer itself had been entertaining enough, but the hushed secrets shared in the drawing room were what had piqued his interested and saw him hiding in the restroom searching his own soul for answers. He’d been trading anecdotes with a handful of members before he was interrupter by a well dressed blonde and ushered through a side door, where he was greeted with a firm handshake by one of the top men within the society (apparently), Richard - Something. Initially Justin had smiled but internally rolled his eyes as he considered how these shady types only ever give out their first names - and how that felt particularly unfair when everyone here knew fine well what his surname was... Richard was perfectly charming and charismatic - in the same faux-caring, calculating way politicians are as they try to snare floating voters. His smile was bright and his words were warm, but his eyes were a stark contrast. The Society’s hoi-polloi were obviously deemed to have played their part in warming him up and now Richard was here to give him the hard-sell: and sell he did.

And at first, it sounded relatively normal. At first. Until Richard started with tall tales of how society members held all of the power in the world through power stones. Initially Justin got to his feet and scoffed - weren’t crystals just for spa days and hippies? This had to be a set up. He scanned the room looking for any clue of a hidden camera, Ashton Kutcher’s sneakers showing from behind a curtain perhaps - but nothing. It all sounded truly ridiculous, but as Richard stood, laying a firm hand on Justin’s shoulder, directing him towards a plush chair, pouring him two fingers of whisky, something held him; fascinated him. Stopped him from barging straight out of the room. Justin observed in silence as Richard thumbed through various documents, showing him photographs, pulling up search data online... Explaining. Convincing. Persuading. Justin didn’t trust the suave smarmy suit as far as he could throw him, but the more Richard divulged of the spiderweb of societal involvement in major global events and current affairs, the more sense it made... And in spite of himself, Justin started to succumb to this strange reality. Every word out of Clever Dick’s mouth was revelational, peeling away one layer after another, after another, until Justin’s mind was blown; his brain hurt the same way it did the first time he watched Inception. He couldn’t bend his mind around why Richard was telling him all this, or why a collective more powerful than The Walt Disney Company would want a musician to join their ranks? Richard shrugged coolly as he continued to play for Justin’s buy in, simply smiling and saying that, as a big pop star, it would be quid pro quo - a very mutually beneficial arrangement. The society had access to the best labels, the best A&R departments, they could get Justin as much airplay, fame and publicity as he wanted.

Justin couldn’t deny it sounded appealing - but what did they want in return? So far it was all ‘quid’ and no ‘quo’. He had to ask. Even the easy, practiced grin on Richard’s face couldn’t offset the glint of ice in his dark eyes and menace in his voice that chilled Justin’s blood.

“Justin, come! Everyone knows that music is what shapes the youth of today! The influence wielded by artists, the loyalty inspired by them, their marketability, it’s simply insurmountable! Think about it, dear boy? If The Society control the music, they control the populace.”

Justin cleared his throat as he sized himself up, readjusting his skinny black tie and squaring his shoulders. Richard must be insane. The Society’s logic was fatally flawed: they couldn’t seriously think that it was possible control the entire world’s population through having a singer in their ranks? It was infeasible. Impossible. But what they were offering him in exchange? Now, that was a very attractive proposition indeed. If he agreed to join, and got all of that out of it, it would be worth it? The Society would surely realise at some point that they couldn’t rule the world through the power of song? Yes, the power of a one-line harmony had already been proven by McDonald’s to sell a shit-tonne of burgers - and while it was a pretty convincing argument, selling fast-food to hungry people was one thing - but full-scale global domination?? That was something else entirely. But if he could ride along on their coat-tails and reap all the benefits until they realised just how crazy that idea had been in the first place...

—- two years later —-

Cash carded his hand through his dark hair, exasperated as he listened to Alana’s latest report, “You all understand that Timberlake is completely out of control, yes?”

Emilio grunted flatly as his head fell into his crossed arms on the table like a five year old ready to play heads-down-thumbs-up, “Yeeeeees.”

Cash bristled further as he looked to Rafe and Kiran for their input, both simply nodding back at him as though to say, ‘yes, we know.’

Alana looked down at her phone, worrying her full bottom lip between her teeth, “It’s worse than you think though, Cash.”

He was instantly on his feet staring at her, Rafe and Kiran leaned forward and Emilio raised one weary brow from his slumped pose, concern evident on all their faces.

Kiran was first to speak, “Alana how can it be worse? Richard’s vanished off the face of the earth. Justin’s last billboard count had him go multi-platinum - again, and his lyrics are becoming...”

Rafe offered flatly, “Odd.” He stood, cracked his neck from side to side and headed towards the small stove, absentmindedly filling a saucepan with water and a packet of instant noodles.

Cash shook his head at Rafe then turned back to glower at the rest of the Inner Circle, “Thank you all for the recap. It’s bleak, we know. Alana?”

Green eyes fixed the room as Alana cleared her throat and mouthed, “One hundred and ninety-four.”

Dumbfounded silence filled the room; jaws hung slack. Until Kiran broke the spell, a spluttering cough turning into an uncomfortable laugh, “One hundred and ninety-four what? Because I know you definitely can’t mean stones. We know the exactly location of over fifty percent of them? They’re safe?”

Rafe, back at the table with his ramen by now, paled as Alana shook her head at a loss for words, red curls bouncing around her shoulders, “How is that possible?”

Alana threw her hands in the air, confessing “I honestly don’t know. But he has ones that we knew the location of, and more besides.”

Cash paced the room, clearly agitated as he cursed and barked,

“That’s every stone in existence, except ours and one other.”

Alana puffed out her cheeks before huffing out the breath sharply, “Correct. He has the lot, excepts ours - and the Garnet.”

Emilio’s hand slid under his shirt, a double-check to be sure his Alexandrite remained firmly on the chain hidden beneath the dark fabric, fiddling with it like a child with a comfort blanket as he spoke, “I- I just don’t understand. How? How did he get so many without us knowing?”

Rafe shrugged as he shovelled a spoonful of noodles into his mouth and chewed thoroughly before answering, “Richard’s protege. His pet project. Nothing surprises me when he’s involved. Everything he touches gets tarnished.”

Alana sighed sadly, “Justin seemed like such a sweet guy when he first joined. I really liked him. I thought he could have been part of our Inner Circle someday.”

Rafe shot her a rueful smile before looking down into the noodles, “Same. He changed. Fast.” Coiling his fork in a thick helping, he swung them into his mouth without ceremony.

Cash pinched the bridge of his nose, stopping pacing for long enough to stare and snap at Rafe,

“What is it with you and those blasted ramen noodles??”

Rafe shook his head silently as though to say, ‘I don’t know’: he wasn’t entirely sure why, but every time someone mentioned Timberlake, he couldn’t stop himself from carb-loading. All he wanted a big bowl of ramen in his belly and he couldn’t think about anything else until he was full of noodley-goodness. He’d eaten more instant ramen in the past couple of years than he did during college, and that was saying something.

Kiran cut through the atmosphere between the two men, venturing, “So how are we going to shut him down?”

—-

Richard had been missing for months, and although all trails had gone cold and no one was one hundred percent clear on what had happened to him, there was very strong suspicion within the group of five that Justin had something to do with it. How else had he managed to acquire almost every power stone in existence? He must have dispensed of Richard and taken them for himself - there really didn’t seem, to be any other explanation. The Inner Circle had been aware that Richard was hoarding stones, but his haul had escalated significantly and quickly with Justin by his side - at the Circle’s last count maybe six to eight months ago, Richard only had sixty-five stones in his custody. The dirty duo had been busy.

Emilio shuddered solemnly as he thought about what must have happened to the rightful owners of those stones. He was at the tower with the Inner Circle, minus Cash. Cash would arrive soon, bringing Justin to the table with him. Creating a rouse of support, and then double-crossing him to recover the power stones had been deemed the only feasible plan. Emilio watched the rest of the group: Rafe stirring at a saucepan at the small kitchen set up, Kiran flipping aimlessly though a fashion magazine and Alana tapping at her cellphone. They were all feeling nervous about this, the stakes had never been so high. He scrubbed his brow as he ran through the various scenarios of what could possibly happen with Cash and Justin arrived.

He didn’t have long to wait as the door opened and laughter reverberated around the room. Cash was manoeuvring Timberlake expertly, and Justin seemed to be lapping up everything he said. A round of smiles and handshakes later everyone sat around the table, eyes expectantly on Cash.

“Justin, firstly, thank you for joining the group here today. As you know, with Richard... Let’s say, elsewhere. I’ve been standing in as the ‘interim leader’. And I’ll be frank, Justin, I always thought it would be for me, but it’s not. And it takes a lot for me to admit that. I can do the decision-making, the negotiations, but what I cannot abide is dealing with attitudes and egos all day long.”

Rafe chortled, “He thinks he should be the only one allowed an attitude and an ego!”

Justin grinned and visibly relaxed within the larger group.

Clearing his throat irately, Cash gestured towards Rafe, “Exactly what I’m talking about. Justin, my calling doesn’t lie in leading The Society. I am more interested in having a less ’public facing position’ shall we say, where I can really put my true talents to use. And that’s why I invited you to sit with us today, Justin.’

Timberlake nodded enthusiastically, “ I see.”

Cash stood, wearing a trail in the carpet as he walked back and forth,

“What are your goals, Justin? We understand you must be distraught about Richard’s disappearance, you two seemed close. Do you have aspirations for The Society’s Leadership? We’ve been observing you for some time, and feel that we could all benefit each other within this little group, everyone here wants to progress and wants ‘more’. And we feel like you may have some ideas that could help us all to achieve just that.”

Justin leaned back in his chair observing the group sat around the table. Of course he knew what his goals were. He’d never really considered leadership of The Society until recently - his mind had been consumed with his plan for ultimate pop domination over the past two years. And he’d progressed so far that it was within his grasp - and that was when he and Richard had begun to clash. Badly. Richard’s vision was so- So limited. He couldn’t see Justin’s potential past being a Society tool used to control the public. Justin knew his worth, he was more than a tool for Richard to implement as he saw fit. He felt the anger bubble inside him as he recalled the final fight with Richard. They could have controlled the entire world together: why couldn’t Richard have seen that? Why couldn’t he have got on board with Justin’s plans? As he sized up the twelve eyes watching him, he thought about the dozens of power stones locked securely in the safe in his apartment: these people could see his strength. His power. His star ascending. He leaned forward, his decision made,

“I have acquired many power stones and my plan is, to use our time-travelling abilities to go back in time and wipe other pop stars from existence, so that I am the single biggest pop star in the world today. Then with my influence, The Society will control everything. We, friends, will control the world.”

Alana and Kiran eyeballed each other as the men nodded at Justin.

Kiran interjected,

“There’s no doubt that The Society would benefit from that sort of influence, but what about all of the damage that would be done to culture and humanity without artists?”

Justin looked confused as he stared at her, “But they’d still have me?”

Kiran chewed the statement over before asking, “And who are you going after? Are we talking about Elvis? The Beatles? Frank Sinatra?”

Justin waved a hand as though he’d practiced this very conversation in the mirror a hundred times, “No, no. Only today’s artists. I can’t disrupt anyone who directly or indirectly influenced my career. Butterfly Effect and all.”

The Inner Circle nodded sagely as Justin continued, “And when my plan is complete, who, I ask you, will be the biggest pop star in the world??”

Alana glanced up grimacing, “I don’t know Justin, I mean Lady Gaga is pretty huge? Iconic, even.”

Emilio shook his head, “Right now, Ariana Grande’s the biggest artist in the world, I read it somewhere.”

Justin fixed them both with an affronted stare, “But think about it, if none of them ever existed... Then who would be the biggest pop star in the world?”

Alana and Emilio exchanged a world-weary glance as Justin cackled, “Guess what? It’s gonna be me.”

Rafe scrunched his nose, confused, speaking through a mouthful of ramen, “May? What? Are the Emmy’s not always in September?”

Cash shotshim a withering glance before grinning at Justin, “You’ve thought a lot about his haven’t you?”

Justin, visibly flattered, shrugged off Cash’s praise, “Just a little.”

Cash leaned towards Justin conspiratorially, “So tell us, what more do you need to make your dreams a reality, and how could we, as a group, facilitate that?”

—-

Over the next few weeks the Inner Circle had planned for two consecutive missions. One intricate scheme with Justin, that involved him travelling back over two hundred years to Regency England to secure the Garnet power stone from a Lady Foxworthy. And their own private secondary mission that involved luring Justin back to Regency England where there was no power stone to be found.

When the day to venture back in time arrived, Justin paraded around the tower preening in the mirror at his era-appropriate garb. Kiran had stitched it to perfection, a beautifully embroidered waistcoat over his cravat, fitted cream pants and a midnight blue, velvet long-tailed coat that really made his eyes pop. Rafe let out a low whistle, winking at Justin’s reflection in the mirror, “Looking sharp! Nice work Kiran.” This look was a definitely a step up from double denim!

Kiran moved around Justin turning him, dusting down his shoulders, “Oh hold up, you have a thread. Let me just get that for you. Can’t have you looking less than perfect!” She reached for her scissors and touched the back of his jacket whilst swiftly clipping a tuft of hair from the back of his head.

The corners of Cash’s mouth quirked upwards at her almost imperceptibly as he spoke, “Very elegant, good Sir. You look quite the part.”

Justin gave Cash a delighted twirl to show off his new threads before performing a low, sweeping bow - completely unaware of his missing locks - speaking in a haughty-sounding English accent, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Tarkhan, I am Lord Timberlake.”

Alana had to swig at a cup of water to stop herself from bursting into peals of laughter, it was like the only English person he’d ever heard speak before was Queen Elizabeth herself! Cash raised an eyebrow in her direction before addressing Justin, “You’re definitely comfortable travelling back alone, because it would only take Alana here a few minutes to change into something suitable and accompany you?”

Justin waved a hand dismissing the suggestion, quite honestly he didn’t want anyone cramping his style. It wasn’t Justin’s first time in Regency England - when he and Richard had travelled there previously he’d had a ball. He had exactly eight hours to get there, get the Garnet, have some fun in a previous era and get back - and then. Then a whole new era would begin. His era... Leader of the most powerful Society in the world and the biggest pop star in history. Justin grinned as he stepped forward, placing his hands around the ornate pocket watch and beginning the arcane chant to begin his voyage through time. The rest of the Inner Circle joined the chant, turning back the clocks within the tower as Justin’s world started to blur at the edges, drifting backwards through two hundred years of history.

After Justin was gone, a series of stealthy grins were exchanged around the group. Emilio breathed a sigh of relief, “We did it.”

Kiran tossed the little velvet bag with Justin’s hair inside to Cash - their insurance policy, should he need to be dealt with ‘more permanently’ at a later date. Today’s plan didn’t involve the singer being turned into a surprised-looking statue, just giving him an extended stay in Regency England instead... The garnet wasn’t there - in fact, there were no stones left there. It was common knowledge within the Inner Circle where the garnet was: firmly on the finger of Richard’s blissfully unaware and estranged daughter - passed down by his long-missing wife. A point that Timberlake was sadly remiss of: they all had banked on Richard never disclosing a topic so sore as his failure as a father out of pure pride and vanity - and they’d been correct...

Now there was nothing more to do than wind all the clocks back to the correct time, then sit and wait until Justin would try to get back.

—-

Seven and three-quarter hours later, the group within the tower saw a blurry portal loom in the corner of the room. Suddenly alert, they listened intently as Justin’s voice crackled through,

“Rafe, Cash, guys! Are you there? Help me! I can’t... I can’t get back! Alana?? The ritual, it’s not working, I’m not fading back through??”

Cash drawled as he examined his fingernails, looking thoroughly bored,

“Ah, so our little ritual worked then. Good to know.”

The passage through time became narrower and narrow as a sickening realisation suckerpunched Justin, panic rising like bile in his throat, “You... You did this on purpose!! You screwed me over!! You bastards!!!!”

As the portal flickered and shrunk to no more than a pinhole, echoes of the roars of their names reverberated around the room, until the gap sealed itself trapping Lord Timberlake in Regency England for ever more. Silence settled over the tower for a few moments, until Rafe glanced up at the rest of the group thorough his sweeping fringe, a smirk slowly stretching from ear to ear as he shrugs,

“Cry me a river...”

#immortal heart society #lovestruck

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marzipanandminutiae · 4 years

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Hello! I was wondering if you might have an answer for this. I have seen a fashion history account claim that side parting just wasn't a thing before the 20th century, and truly they provided lots of pictures of portraits where women's hair was always parted down the middle. But is this true? And if so is there any known reason? I'm just finding it so hard to believe that literally no one did a side part, ever. Why would that be? Thank you in advance for answering I really love your blog x

Almost nothing in dress history is a case of “literally no-one, ever.” You can find an exception to almost every rule somewhere, if you look hard enough. But that doesn’t mean it was commonplace or widely accepted.

Side parts on western women weren’t a thing like 99% of the time until the 1890s-1900s. To be fair, they weren’t a thing on men for centuries, either. You start to see them in portraits (on men and sometimes on women with the “coiffure a la Titus,” a curly pixie cut) around the 1810s, as far as I can tell. Before then, most western men’s hair seems to have had bangs, been parted down the middle, or been brushed straight forward or straight back, depending on the era.

After the advent of side parts, they were almost exclusively associated with men and boys. You do occasionally see images of women with very short hair- again, coiffure a la Titus, or later probably recovering after an illness -where they have side parts. But that’s more of a masculine-inspired look, though the sitter is usually feminine-presenting otherwise. It reminds me of “boyfriend” jeans or adding a necktie to a skirt-suit for work. When the hair is long, it’s pretty much always parted down the middle. Or occasionally, during the early Victorian years, in three sections radiating out from the center front.

(When it’s short, in the Victorian era, it’s usually also parted down the middle. Or brushed forward or back. Or has blunt, curled bangs. Images of even short-haired women with side parts almost completely disappear once the coiffure a la Titus goes out of fashion.)

It’s not until the 1890s that you see the side part start to feature in hairstyles without any masculine associations. And even then, bangs or a center part still seem to have been more common.

Why? I honestly have no idea. I’m not sure there IS a definitive reason. Humans are weird and this was a tradition that had existed for a very long time. It’s possible people were just like, “well, this is How Things Are Done; there’s no real reason to change it.” And then once it became associated with men- again, for no specific reason I can see -there was a bunch of cultural baggage there that may have discouraged experimentation for a while.

...please don’t jump on that and start saying side parts were a Scandalous Rebellion Against the Patriarchy. At least not without solid evidence, which I personally have never seen.

The thing about asking “why did they do that?” re: fashion trends is that we’ve been taught to expect one or two definitive answers. Pop history listicles are all too eager to jump in with the Secret Reason Victorians Did XYZ(TM). But if you look at fashion nowadays, most of it doesn’t have one easily condensed source.

Why was galaxy stuff so popular a few years back? Why has cat-eye liner remained varying degrees of popular since the 1960s? Why are...please hold for Googling...off-shoulder tops in right now? It’s hard to point to anything beyond “someone thought it looked cool and a lot of other people agreed.” And our ancestors weren’t really that different.

Enough people thought center parts, weird double parts, or swept-back hair were The Looks for women for several centuries that almost everyone just kind of went with it. Tempting as it is to hunt for deeper reasons, there often aren’t any.

Anyway, those are my long-winded thoughts on the matter. Hope I’ve cleared things up a bit!

#ask #anon #fashion history #hair history #tune in next time for: Every Time You Say Panniers or Hoops or Bustles Were Meant To Emphasize Fertility I Scream Into A Pillow #and its sister lecture: Skirts With Fullness At The Upper Back Were Popular Before Sara Baartman Was Even Born #But Not Particularly During Her Lifetime Or Immediately Thereafter #I Am Begging You To Leave The Poor Woman Out of This

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my18thcenturysource · 5 years

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Hairstyles of the 18th Century

As requested, here’s a simple and quite basic timeline of hairstyle during the 18th century. It is mostly eurocentric, because most of fashion moved from Europe (especially France) to the rest of the world (even if a style was not originated there).

I thought to give you all a glimpse into the main changes of the century, of how hairstyling and wigs changed through the years, and how different the looks from the early century are from the ones of the late century: how we can see the change from the Baroque to the Regency era, and the rise and fall of the Rococo style.

So, in the images above, you can see a detail of a portrait of woman and a man from each decade of the century, starting in the 1700s and ending with the 1790s. Of course there are several examples for each decade, but I chose to use just two as a way of simplifying. But you can see the full paintings and more references in this Pinterest board I made.

I like to divide the century style in four parts just because that’s how I get it better: early, mid and late century, and the turn of the century. And of course each with its own cute little subtitle.

EARLY 18TH CENTURY a.k.a. fuck yeah the Baroque is still here (1700s-1730s)

WOMAN - For the late 17th century and early 18th century, the key hairstyle is the fontange, or top-knot in England, which is a hairstyle with the front hair piled up high, and in the late 17th century accompanied by a lace hairddress that could reach quite interesting heights. The hairstyles we see in the portraits above, are fontanges, but the frelange headdress got smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

The hair lost height until the 1720s, when low, simple hairdos took place, but the curls were not lost, they just turned into the tête de mouton.

MAN - the full bottomed wig is THE wig of the early 18th century, with its fluffy curls in natural colours or white, almost waist length and middle parted. This style was originated by Louis XIII in 1624, when he lost his hair it turned from the natural hair to wigs for everyone, since such volume is hard to achieve and keep. So, more is more. This style was worn pretty much until the 1730s.

During this time we see the emergence of the bag wig in the 1720s (the hair was tied at the back and then put in a small black bag, curls were made over the ears), and the bob wig (hair falling just below the ears, it had curls or a simple frizz all over) begins to be worn in the 30s

MID 18TH CENTURY a.k.a. never enough curls /1740s-1750s)

WOMEN - During this time, the hair was worn in soft waves with little or no height, and in the back it was arranged in small curls, a twist or a braid pinned to the head. But, if you could encapsulate THE hairstyle of the mid century, it would be the tête de mouton, with its close-fitted style of curls in neat rows, and the powdered with white powder (remember this look from Marie Antoinette?). This style was immortalised by Madame de Pompadour, and with her dead in 1764, this style went out of fashion for the sky-high styles of the rococo.

MAN - From the 40s-60s, the hair became bigger, the Ramillies wig (tied the hair in a plait at the back) came into fashion (even though it existed before, and was prefered by military men) with its tie in the back and the curls over the ears, which became THE mens hairstyle for the 18th century, or at least the one we all easily recognise.

LATE 18TH CENTURY a.k.a. we do not know the limits of things anymore (1760s-1780s)

WOMEN - During the 1760s, the high styles began to appear, being about 1/4 or 1/2 the length of the face. It was styled in an egg shape and was pretty much simple with the styling with a few decorations. But oh, the 1770s came, and HUGE hair became all the rage, going to 1 1/2 times the length of the face, styled in the shape of an air balloon. To achieve the height cushions or toques were used: attached to the top of the head, then the hair (natural or false) was curled, waved, or frizzed, and piled over the cushion, the back of the hair was set in curls and angled towards the back of the hair, and then decorated with all kinds of things. And I mean that, all kinds of things: from bows and ribbons to ships and bird cages. These styles were worn for days or weeks at a time, and were styled into allegories of current events (vaccinations? done! air balloon? done! zodiac? done!). This style was called pouf, pouffe, or toque.

In the 1780s the volume became horizontal, instead of vertical, and out very favourite hedgehog style, or coiffure à l’enfant, was born: a halo of of frizzy curls around the face, a small hank of longer hair left straight or in ringlets. The name coiffure à l’enfant was given by Marie Antoinette’s coiffeur Léonard Autie, when she gave birth to the dauphin and she lost a lot of hair and he made this hairstyle for her (which she wears in her portrait by Louis Elisabeth Vigée-LeBrun wearing a chemise à la reine). But, like a lot in fashion, the style can be seen a few years earlier, so it’s likely that that was just the same that stuck. Even though the style of the 1780s was supposed to be more natural, the hedgehog could be really REALLY big, and fake hair was used to achieve that volume.

MEN - Men’s hair went up as well, not as high as women’s BUT certainly higher. We see the volume of the pouffe in men’s hair at the top of the head, with pigeon wings (curls over the ears) and the rest of the hair tied in the back. This is the clear origin of the 1950s Pompadour hairstyle. Power was all the rage in many colours, and wigs were desirable in white or grey, but natural colours were accepted as well, just need to powder it.

TURN OF THE CENTURY (1790s-1800s) a.k.a. oh shit, that was too much! Let’s get minimal

WOMEN - After French Revolution powder went out of fashion in France, and in England it happened in 1795 when it was taxed even though it was already used less and less. This was the start of what we know as Regency fashion, which was an absolute contrast of the silhouettes worn in most of the century. Ad hair was not different.

The hedgehog was still worn, but the volume became more natural, and the hair was decorated simply with ribbons. Another style was the hair being worn in ringlets framing the face in a more restrained way, and a chignons in the back, showing off the neck. The hair could also be cut short, like very famously Lady Caroline Lamb did, ina a style called à la Titus, that became fashionable for men and women. Very Jane Austen-esque. The colours were natural with the powder gone, and this was the beginning of the Romantic period.

MEN - The powder was out of fashion, so no more white, grey or colourful hair for men. With the discovery of Pompeii’s ruins, we see a renaissance for classical and hellenic references during the 18th century, and we see that in women’s white fashions and curls, inspired in Greek and Roman sculptures, and in men we see short hair for the first time in a LONG time, inspired by ancient senators and gods. In 1795 with the powder tax, men potested cutting their hair (I mean, no hair, no need for powder), and we see the rise of the Bedford crop (a short cropped hairstyle with curls, parted to the side, styled with wax), started by the Duke of Bedford and then followed by his friends.

The layered short curly hairstyle called à la Titus, became famous while being worn by actor François-Joseph Talma as Titus Junius Brutus in Voltaire’s “Brutus”, shocking audiences with his short natural hair, also known as the Brutus hairstyle.

Formal court dress still required a powdered wig, as well as some professions and older and military men. But, by 1812 the age of the wig was gone.

_________________________________________________________________

FINAL NOTES: If you’re using this a guide for writing/art or a reference for how to style your hair, remember that these dates are not absolute, and that the beginnings and endings of the decades have a lot of mixing styles. So, for example, you can still have a hedgehog style in the 1790s, even though it was not THE hairstyle of the decades, and of course the portraits of the time clearly show this.

Images, from top:

Marie-Anne Mancini, duchesse de Bouillon (présumé) , ca. 1700, Nicolas de Largillière.

Sir John Chardin, ca. 1703, Unknown Artist.

Self-Portrait with sister, 1715, Rosalba Carriera.

Sir John Rushout, 4th Baronet, 1716, Sir Godfrey Kneller.

Madame Isaac de Thellusson, née Sarah le Boullenger, 1725, Nicolas de Largillière.

Portrait of Léopold Clément, Hereditary Prince of Lorraine, ca. 1720, Pierre Gobert.

Portrait of Giovanna Bagnara, 1739, Pierre Subleyras.

Portrait of Jean-Gabriel du Theil, 1738-1740, Jacques André Joseph Aved.

Mademoiselle Louise Jacquet”, 1748-1752, Jean-Étienne Liotard.

Francis Greville, Baron Brooke, later 1st Earl of Warwick, 1741, Jean-Marc Nattier.

Portrait of a Girl Holding a Spaniel, 1750s, by Alexander Roslin.

Sir Henry Oxenden, ca. 1755, Thomas Hudson.

Maria Christina, Duchess of Teschen, 1766, Marcello Bacciarelli.

Portrait of Edmund Rolfe, 1761, Pompeo Batoni.

Portrait of Anne, Countess of Chesterfield 1777 - 1778, Thomas Gainsborough.

A Young Man, presumed to be ‘John Bertram’, 1773, John Smart

A Lady, 1785, John Smart.

Jean-Joseph Mounier, 1789, Jean-François Favre.

Portrait of a Lady, 1790s, Hugh Douglas Hamilton.

Portrait of Prince Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, 1798, Guy Head.

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blarrghe · 4 years

Text

Shall We Not Revenge? Ch. 24

I finally wrote something!! This was going to just be a drabble, but now it’s a chapter. A very short chapter that I am posting the entirety of under the cut because it’s been so long since I wrote anything.

I recently broke my Inquisitor’s heart, and fortunately/unfortunately he and Dorian took the leap to start their relationship at pretty much the exact same time. I’ve had it in my notes to write a bit on how that affects things, so this soft bit of drabble quickly became uh,,, sad. On a lighter note, I got to make use of my extensive knowledge of curly hair physics. Ps. Shout out to @midnightprelude for giving me the push I needed to finish this thing. Sorry it got less fluffy, in senses both literary and literal... Read on AO3 or under the cut!

“Mm,” the sound Dorian’s waking mind made in response to Taren’s movement beside him was muffled by pillows at his lips. With eyes still closed he turned his head to breathe in the scent of Taren’s hair, and found it brushing up against his lips, wisping as it did in light, messy locks over Taren’s neck. Dorian shifted a little closer, hooking an arm around his torso and pulling Taren’s body up against his so that he could feel the bones of his hips press against the curve of his back. His hands clutched over his chest and then seemed naturally to drift downward, pulling his torso into place. It fit so perfectly there, pressed snugly up against his own. He leaned his head in and pushed his lips through that soft cloud of tickling, lightly pine-scented hair until they found purchase at the base of his neck, and the kiss he left there fell out of him like instinct, barely conscious and utterly natural.

“Soft.” Another murmur from his still mostly-slumbering mind tumbled out of his mouth as he nudged the delicate locks aside, as he brought a hand up to brush his fingers over the smooth section of hair that had been shaved close and patterned for the ball in Orlais. That night seemed oddly far away now, and Taren hadn’t tended to the intricate hairstyle whatsoever, but the soft fuzz left there betrayed the shortness of time, and Dorian could still feel the light bumps of texture under the stroke of his thumb, playing at his fingertips like embossed velvet.

Taren responded to his sleepy mutterings with one of his own.

“Hmm?” It came with the inflection of a question, as he turned his face and shook the loose hair from where it draped over his forehead and eyes.

“Your hair is so soft.” Dorian muttered the explanation into his neck, his nose still poking through some of it. Soft.

He felt Taren’s laugh rising up through the warm neck under his lips, lightly shaking the body his arms were hung around. The movements pulled him just a little closer to wakefulness, and a little farther away from the uninhibited musings of sleep. He was doing that thing again, he realised as he opened an eye and started to allow daylight and reality to float in, that unguarded thing. Waking up drooling and even a little sweaty - ungroomed, half naked - in another man’s bed, mumbling inarticulate compliments about the softness of hair. No wonder Taren was laughing.

“Thank you,” Taren replied between chuckles. He turned, breaking from the secure mould Dorian had made for him only to press himself back into place, his hands finding their way into his hair now, as though to compare their morning states of unkempt.

“Good morning.”

Dorian opened his other eye as Taren’s fingers delicately swept some of his own hair off his forehead, and as he came into focus, so did his thoughts. Mostly, they were pleasant; grateful observations on Taren’s full lips and bright eyes, and a more fully conscious appreciation of how good his body felt, still connected to him from belly to thigh, how comfortable. A leg shifted to wrap itself over one of his, and he couldn’t help but smile. But there was another thought, too, worming it’s way uninvited into the forefront of his mind: the nagging little voice that berated him for his naivety in being kept so close - in being seen and held and woken up with in such an unmanicured state. For a second, his blissful morning was soured by the thought that he shouldn’t really be there at all, but that he should have at least risen a little earlier, and fixed his hair.

His hair. It was getting long too, going uncared for as it had on the extended trips across the demon-ridden and war torn regions of the south. There was no one to cut hair in Skyhold - at least, no one he’d trust. For one entirely unsympathetic reason, he was beginning to regret not joining Taren on his recent excursion to free the man formerly known as Blackwall from a Val Reauex prison: it would have provided an opportunity to seek out a proper barber. He kept that thought neatly to himself; southerners never seemed to understand the importance of a well-styled appearance.

Taren’s hair tickled his nose again as he nestled deeper into the embrace, and he let his vanity fall aside without even trying to, though that little voice insisted on whispering a new question into his collection of lovestruck anxieties. How might Taren perceive his close attention to appearance? Would he find it tiresome, once the novelty of it all wore off? Look at you, it seemed to say, you’re being vain, and you aren’t even doing it well. Taren’s approach, of course, seemed only to be to keep himself cleaned and sweet smelling, without a single care being given to the rest. It suited him, but there seemed to Dorian to be a certain bravery to that which he did not possess.

But here he was, unkempt and drowsy, spending another morning where he shouldn’t, waking within arms reach of the thing he had told himself he wasn’t allowed to have. His hair was long, and without creams or pomades to keep it in check, and Taren was pushing it out if his eyes, and he was feeling a strangely comfortable uncomfortableness with all of it. Taren’s lips met his forehead, and the voice reminding him that this was a perilous position to be in quieted a little more.

“Good morning.” He returned the greeting as he let his fingers fall through Taren’s hair and graze the length of his smooth cheek, taking the moment to study the little straw coloured flecks that sparkled in the mossy green of his eyes. Dorian leaned in, pulling Taren’s chin gently with one hand and his waist in tight with the other, and kissed him deeply, morning breath be damned. Taren returned the kiss, and he eagerly invited the quickening of his heart that came with it, falling into the all-encompassing sensation of warmth that drove away all his other cares. He let his mind go back to being mostly unconscious, let it go on with uninhibited wanting and appreciation for the softness of hair, of lips, of warm skin on his. His hands moved and he kissed and kissed and rolled Taren over him and pulled and felt and squeezed. Waking up where he shouldn’t, doing that unguarded thing with his thoughts and feelings and actions, keeping the day away for just a minute longer. And Taren kissed him back, dug his hands into his back and squeezed himself into it with his eyes closed and his breath quick, until he didn’t. Two blinks, and a sigh.

Taren was positioned over him when he stopped, blankets tangled about his ankles and morning sun glowing through his wild hair. Dorian’s hands were at his waist, poised to become more than just gentle guides for his hips - ready to reprise the passion of the previous night. Taren rolled off of him, slowing things down with a quick run of his fingers through his hair, which smoothed under them but sprang back in all directions as soon as they were through. Some of the curls broke apart with his fingers, and if anything the mess only grew from the attempted taming. He moved to sit up, looking away with an expression Dorian couldn’t read, but kept his legs wound over his.

Dorian sat up too, staying close and planting a few more kisses onto his shoulder and neck as he did, then taking his own hands up to the soft tangles sprouting from Taren’s head.

“Sorry, I… um -” Taren gave his head a shake and flashed Dorian half a smile, one that was still lopsided and warm, but sad at the edges. He wondered which weight was holding it down - there were plenty to choose from - but commented on the hair instead. He patted down a lock that had gone particularly upright, tucking it carefully behind his ear and regarding the rest with a smile that bordered on laughing.

Taren caught his amused look and the smile seemed to rise just a little higher. He grabbed a few more locks from their stray places and tried to find them homes behind his ears, but they didn’t stay. Dorian chuckled.

“What - why, what does it look like?” Taren was back to speaking through quiet laughter, and he leaned his shoulder into Dorian’s.

“Magnificent.” Dorian replied, meaning it. Chunks of hair in all directions, some lumped to the side in a cloud of not-quite curls, and some smoothed into a crushed, bent fold where his head had pressed it into his pillow overnight. Some shorter pieces near his forehead stood straight up in little spirals, and the whole coiffure had no discernible part to it, with sections tossed this way and that. It was wild, hilarious in a way and unbearably sexy in another.

“Sometimes I think I should cut it all off.” Taren joked, pulling it all back now. With a few quick flicks of his hands he’d wrangled it into a thick braid, the ends of which still splayed out in haphazard curls and waves, but of a more orderly sort. The short pieces that didn’t make it still stuck up, but for the most part the wildness had been tamed.

“Don’t you dare.” Dorian tugged gently at the braid, pushing Taren’s head toward his own for another kiss. The kiss that Taren returned was full and warm, but as he pulled away the edges of his mouth were reluctant again.

Dorian frowned. “Something on your mind, Inquisitor?” He said it teasingly, hoping for an eye-roll and a playful reprimand, instead he received another sigh.

“Just a lot of work to do.”

Maybe bringing the title into the picture was the wrong choice, as Taren seemed now even more ready to jump up and begin his usual unceasing bustle about the fortress.

“Of course, no rest for the wicked.” Dorian kept his tone teasing, and nipped at his neck with sensual emphasis for wicked.

Taren didn’t take to the opportunity, however, and shuffled his legs out and his body up into still more of an upright seat. He kissed Dorian tenderly, once on the cheek and then softly on the lips.

“I have to get going.” He said apologetically, something dark and unreadable again behind his eyes. Dorian ceased his attempts at temptation and let him rise, watching him as he made his way to the folded piles of clothes on his dresser and hastily threw some on. The drab beiges and browns of wool and leather were a disappointing sight after the glow of tan skin and artful tattoos, but he tried not to let it show on his face.

“If you ever take a break, you know where to find me.” He said, trying to sound casual despite the flutter of his heart. The rejection felt shattering in a way that was utterly unreasonable and almost certainly unfair, but the sneering little voice that had been silenced under soft messy hair and impulsive kisses was screaming at him now, and it was all he could do to keep it from biting into the tone of his speech as he tried to say something gentlemanly and take his leave.

It isn’t that, he told himself once he’d settled into his own work in a quiet alcove of the library, carrying on a debate with the suspicious voice in his head that insisted that whatever was wrong, he must surely be the cause. It had taken him the better part of the morning to weed out his selfish reactions from the truth. There was plenty to choose from besides his breath or hair or his being an Altus, plenty to worry an Inquisitor which had nothing at all to do with him. The most genuine person he had ever met was telling him that it was the work, and who was he to make it all about himself, anyway?

He sighed, rereading a sentence in the dusty tome before him for the seventeenth time, words tangling about like Taren’s morning hair. Hair that was messy and soft and sexy and wild, but wilder, he knew, because of how he had spent his night tossing and turning in his sleep, restless with some nightmare that crept into their bed even after he woke.

He shook his head at the jumbled words and runes that refused to make sense before him, letting the unhelpful little voice get one last word in. You are good for sex and excitement, not this, it said. You have never opened your heart to anyone, why should he trust you?

#my fic #my writing #swnr?#dorian pavus #taren lavellan #pavellan #some sad fluff for you today #dai #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition fanfic #dragon age

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typinggently · 4 years

Note

7) a theater at midnight, golden jewelry, a whispered secret - alfie/tommy (listen you can't post this and expect me to NOT ask for tolfie for it)

An anon requested the same prompt - it was a delight to write!!! Thank you two so much!!!!

As some might know - I certainly know that you are aware, Maggie – I claimed a prompt on the Shelomons prompt fest for the Les Liaisons Dangereuses AU. This prompt really inspired me in that regard, so let’s say it takes place in that universe, where Tommy and Alfie are both social climbing, scheming manwhores.

Warning: Vague mention of straight sex

Baroque AU

In general, Alfie wouldn’t say that many instances render him speechless. This, however, comes close. “My dear, would you hand me the opera glasses for a moment, please?” James hurries to comply and thusly armed, Alfie glances once again at the balcony of The Duchess.

Pretty thing, soft and full of wine-sweet smiles, but Alfie is more interested in her companion. Ever since her marriage, she’s been guarded like a particularly nice bone and her husband, ever the snarling watchdog, is right by her side any time she goes out. The poor, soft little peach has not a single moment to herself the second she steps out of the house and she certainly isn’t allowed to invite men into her box. However – “Oh, that little rat.” Alfie shakes his head, laughing to himself, and gets up. “My sweet, I’ll be right back. I saw an old acquaintance and I’m afraid I’ll have to make polite conversation.” With that, Alfie drops the opera glasses in James’ lap and runs a gentle hand through his hair. “You stay here with the gentlemen, I’m sure they’ll take care of you.”

Considering the fact that he’s supposed to introduce James to a certain circle of respectable friends of his, just dropping the poor thing to go hunt for his own adventure might seem a little rude, but Alfie left him in the caring company of four friends of his and while they might chew on him a little, he won’t be lonely. Which means that Alfie isn’t all that wrong about seeking his own amusement.

At the box, he thankfully meets Mrs Denver, who was kind enough to trust him with her daughter a few years ago. Lovely girl, she was, if a little cold at first. The mother’s had a soft spot for him since, which means he is smuggled right into the box for friendly introductions.

The Duke – tall, eyes like a hungry dog – regards him with a cold look, which isn’t surprising. The Duchess up close has a quite different sort of hunger glinting in her eyes and oh, Alfie almost changes plans when Mrs Denver introduces him as the former teacher of her daughter and that little peach face flushes so sweetly. But no, no. He didn’t come here for that.

“And who’s your friend, if I may ask?”

Oh, these eyes are ice cold. Half hidden in the darkness, the mysterious companion of the Duchess rises and extends a hand. Alfie makes sure to miss the ring, kissing the back of a trembling hand instead. Warm silk against his lips.

“Oh, that’s Lady Violet, a dear friend of mine.” The Duchess is pink and sweet, giggly at her husband’s side. A heavy hand on her round, lovely little shoulder.

“Lady Violet?” Alfie squints, steps a little closer. The faint rustle of silk as the friend presses herself into the corner. “I dare say I almost didn’t recognise you. We met before, didn’t we? At the- the garden party, last May?”

The Duchess fidgets a little, he can see it out of the corner of his eye. “Please, she has a cold, she can’t speak, but – I don’t think –“

“I remember.”

Now, if Alfie had been speechless before, he certainly is now. The softest little whisper, delicate like spun sugar. He nods, bites his tongue to make sure he doesn’t grin. “How glad I am to hear it. But I’m terribly sorry about the cold, my dear friend. Would you allow me to accompany you to the bar downstairs? I’m sure they’d be more than thrilled to offer you a little whiskey and honey for that throat of yours.”

It’s almost too much, but he knows he’ll get away with it. Lady Violet nods while The Duchess tries to argue, tries to step out of her husband’s grasp to shield her dear friend from Alfie. But all rescue attempts are pointless.

In a flutter of blue silk, the Lady has melted out of the shadows and kissed her friend on the cheek, then she puts her hand on Alfie’s arm and forces him out of the box. Outside, Alfie keeps up some nonsense conversation about honey and whiskey and lovely pale throats, then Lady Violet pulls him down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the theatre. Here, their steps quicken and Alfie really isn’t all that surprised by the familiarity with which his blue-silked companion leads him through the hallways.

At one door, they finally stop, a silky hand on the doorknob.

“In.” Not all that soft a voice, now.

Alfie stumbles when he’s shoved and laughs. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It’s the first thing he can think of, the only thing on his mind now that they’re alone. A strange rush of adrenaline burns through him and he laughs again, watches as Tommy leans against the closed door, breathing heavily. “What the fuck is all of that?”

It takes him a few seconds to catch his breath and open his eyes and Alfie uses those seconds to their full extend. They’re in a changing room, rows of costumes in the back and glittering mirrors on the wall. The candles on the two candelabras fills the room with multiplied, flickering light and beeswax-scented heat. It catches on the silk of Tommy’s dress, making it shine like crushed and molten sapphires, wet and shimmery. A terribly fetching contrast to the powdered white of his chest, his throat. There’s a hint of blush on his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his face. His Adam’s apple is hidden behind a heavy necklace, gold flickering in the candlelight, while his waist – he has to be wearing a corset, all optical illusions and cleverly arranged lace aside, there is simply no way his waist is naturally that tiny.

“Now, how did this little costume idea come to be, I wonder?”

Tommy opens his eyes just a little and he huffs, squaring his shoulders. Alfie has never seen him in anything but royal layers, so the sight of his collar bones is terribly enticing. “It seemed like the most practical option.”

“What, instead of hiding with the chambermaid you construct this disguise and go to the theatre with them? You could’ve walked back to London in the time it must’ve cost you to do your hair.” At its mention, Tommy reaches out to touch it, a delicate pat against powdered strands. It can’t be a full wig, some of it has to be Tommy’s own, but Alfie can’t tell. He’s never seen him bare-faced. A soft curl rests on his shoulder, once again leading the eye to his collarbones and skilfully distracting from the unusual broadness of Lady Violet’s shoulders. “And where did you find a dress in your size? Does she always put the men she sneaks into her bed into those? I had no idea she was this wicked. What fun you two must’ve had.”

Tommy huffs and finally steps further into the room, passing Alfie. The faintest hint of rose and lavender. Alfie turns to watch as he sits on one of the wooden stools to check his hair in the mirror. “Judging by the way she opened up, she hasn’t had male visitors in a good while. It took me two months to get there, she’s awfully timid for such a soft nymph.” There’s a little line of silk roses braided into the back of his coiffure, their colours matching the pink dress of Lady Violet’s conquest.

Alfie takes a moment to consider it, the wine-sweet mouth soft and hot, little fingers digging into Tommy’s shoulders, her peach-softness bruised by his hands. Finally, he steps closer to meet Tommy’s eye in the mirror. “Two months, huh? And all the while you planned to put on a dress to escape?”

Tommy raises a brow at him. “Something like it.”

It’s pure vanity, then. It’s pure foolishness. A story to tell. Alfie huffs and runs his fingertips along Tommy’s powder-smooth collarbone, tickling his neck with his fingertips. “You better watch out, Lady Violet, your performance might be too convincing. What do you do if the Duke gets curious about his wife’s friend?”

“I doubt that will be a problem,” Tommy says, but his voice is light, distracted. He tilts his head a little and Alfie’s fingertips run along the edge of his heavy necklace, pearls and gold, skin warm.

“No?” From this angle, Alfie can see the lace-trimmed neckline, roses and ruffles making up for a distinct lack of volume. Still, it’s a little loose and Alfie can just barely make out the pale shimmer of Tommy’s chest in the shadows. “Will you leave with them? All piled up in their carriage, him not knowing that you’ve gotten your knuckles wet in his wife –“ Alfie would go on, the image is quite appealing, but instead he slips his hand from Tommy’s shoulder down into the open neckline of his dress, cold fingertips on warm skin. Tommy draws in a harsh breath, involuntarily pressing his chest against his curious fingers. Another breath and Alfie finds his nipple, pinches it. It’s a lovely view, his hand buried to the wrist in silk, but then he looks up and catches Tommy’s expression in the mirror and oh, that’s even sweeter. His cheeks are dark, lashes heavy, eyes glittering and unfocused. Alfie pinches him again, watches him shudder, then pulls his hand back.

It’s only now that Tommy meets his eye, lips sigh-wet and pink. Alfie pulls him up by the shoulder, spins him around to press close, feel the trim, silk-smooth waist under his hands. When Alfie reaches for the lacing of the dress, however, tangling his fingers and pulling, he reaches out to hold his wrist, leaning in so close that his lips are brushing Alfie’s, smearing them with red as he speaks. “It took us an hour to get it on.” Tommy’s flushed, breathing heavy. The corset must be tight, poor thing.

Alfie reaches down with his free hand, squeezes his sweet little waist and listens to the stutter in his breath. “It’ll take me ten minutes to get you out. At most.”

With that, he kisses him, tasting wine-sweetness and rogue. Tommy’s grip on his wrist loosens.

Together, they manage in seven.

Now that was fun to write, but it took rather long. It feels more like parts of a fic than a Drabble, I have to admit, but I wanted to give a proper taste of what I imagine for the Les Liasons AU. Also: The secret is that Tommy’s a guy..that’s..all. Idk.

Also (2): I did research for the makeup and was harshly reminded that all that shit was toxic. We’re ignoring that.

Also (3): In this universe, Tommy basically just whores around and gets into the good graces of various families because he’s “charming”, while Alfie at least pretends to be a teacher. He teaches them something alright. Also I’m not saying James is getting gangbanged in that box while Alfie is off to make “polite conversation” butttttttttttttt you know

Again! This was fun fun fun! I hope you enjoyed it too, I’m aware I went a little wild w that one

the prompts 🥰

#alfietommy #shelomons #tofie #drabble #lady violet

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gogmstuff · 2 years

Photo

1846 Cécile Mendelssohn Bartholdy by Eduard Magnus (Staatsbibliothek Preußischer Kulturbesitz - Berlin, Germany). From Google search; cropped frame & removed spots & flaws w Pshop & fit to screen 958X1400 @96 507kj.

#1846 fashion #early Victorian fashion #Romantic era fashion #Cécile Mendelssohn Bartholdy #Eduard Magnus #straight hair #bun #side curl coiffure #Y part #chemise #off shoulder scoop neckline #pleated bertha #Vdécolletage #long close sleeves #brooch #pardessus

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chic-a-gigot · 1 year

Photo

La Mode illustrée, no. 11, 14 mars 1875, Paris. Coiffures et accessoires de coiffures de chez M. Boutin, rue du Quatre-Septembre, 9. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Coiffures nos. 1 et 1a. — Pour l'exécuter on noue les cheveux sur le côté gauche assez haut, on les roule sur eux-mêmes en colimaçon. On forme au-dessus du front une frisure Fontanges, à canons mousseux. Les cheveux des tempes sont relevés en racines droites, et couvrent la frisure du devant.

Par derrière on place un chignon à quatre branches, dont deux sont disposées en torsade retombant sur la nuque, pour former un catogan, et les deux autres sont placées comme diadème, touchant à la frisure Fontanges. Une longue boucle mousseuse, placée derrière la torsade supérieure, coupe celle de la nuque et reparait large et souple sous le catogan.

La frisure Fontanges coûte 10 francs, le chignon à quatre boucles, 40 francs, et la longue boucle mousseuse, 15 francs.

—

Hairstyles nos. 1 and 1a. - To perform it we tie the hair on the left side quite high, we roll them on themselves in a spiral. A Fontanges crimp is formed above the forehead, with frothy barrels. The hair at the temples is raised in straight roots, and covers the curls in the front.

From behind we place a bun with four branches, two of which are arranged in a twist falling on the nape of the neck, to form a ponytail, and the other two are placed as a diadem, touching the Fontanges crimp. A long foamy loop, placed behind the upper twist, cuts that of the nape of the neck and reappears wide and supple under the ponytail.

The Fontanges curl costs 10 francs, the chignon with four loops, 40 francs, and the long fluffy curl, 15 francs.

—

Coiffure nos. 2 et 2a. — Les cheveux sont ondulés par devant. Peigne en acier bleui, de forme élevée. Par derrière, un chignon-barrette mousseux, imitant l'ondulation. Les cheveux de la personne que l'on coiffe sont attachés assez bas, partagés en deux, et croisés sur le devant avant de placer le peigne.

Le peigne en acier bleui coûte 35 francs, le chignon ou barrette mousseux coûte 40 francs.

—

Hairstyle nos. 2 and 2a. — The hair is wavy in front. Blued steel comb, high form. Behind, a sparkling bun-bar, imitating the wave. The hair of the person being styled is tied fairly low, parted in two, and crossed in front before placing the comb.

The blued steel comb costs 35 francs, the sparkling chignon or barrette costs 40 francs.

—

Coiffure nos. 3 et 3a. — Les cheveux de devant sont ondulés sur la fourche grand modèle, par conséquent, à larges ondulations. Sur chaque côté on forme ou l'on pose trois canons roulés de bas en haut, comme pour les coiffures Louis XV. Une torsade ayant 60 centimètres de longueur encadre ces canons.

Par derrière, les cheveux naturels, noués très-bas, forment un catogan, puis sont roulés en canons, fixés par une épingle à pointe fermée.

Deux boucles mousseuses (no. 7) placées derrière la torsade forment des ondulations bouffantes, qui retombent sur le canon du bas. Chaque boucle est partagée en deux, afin de garnir de bouclettes le pied du canon. Une guirlande de marguerite et myosotis formant aigrette se prolonge un peu en arrière, et repose sur la nuque.

La guirlande de fleurs coûte 25 francs, les six rouleaux coûtent 12 francs, la torsade ayant 60 centimètres de longueur coûte 20 francs, la paire de boucles mousseuses, 25 francs.

—

Hairstyle nos. 3 and 3a. — The front hair is wavy on the large model crotch, therefore, in wide waves. On each side one forms or one poses three guns rolled from bottom to top, as for the hairstyles Louis XV. A twist having 60 centimeters in length frames these guns.

Behind, the natural hair, tied very low, forms a ponytail, then is rolled up into barrels, fixed by a pin with a closed point.

Two frothy curls (no. 7) placed behind the twist form puffy waves, which fall on the lower barrel. Each loop is divided into two, in order to garnish the foot of the barrel with loops. A garland of daisies and forget-me-nots forming an egret extends a little behind, and rests on the nape of the neck.

The garland of flowers costs 25 francs, the six rolls cost 12 francs, the twist 60 centimeters in length costs 20 francs, the pair of sparkling curls, 25 francs.

—

Coiffure no. 4 (vue de dos). — Se compose d'un chignon sans tiges en forme de torsades dans le bas, avec nœud postillon, garni de bouclettes et entouré de coquilles.

Le chignon sans tiges coûte 70 francs, la paire de bouclettes mobiles coûte 5 francs.

—

Hairstyle no. 4 (back view). — Consists of a bun without stems in the shape of twists at the bottom, with postilion knot, trimmed with ringlets and surrounded by shells.

The chignon without rods costs 70 francs, the pair of loose ringlets costs 5 francs.

—

Accessoires de coiffures.

Chignon no. 1. — Composé de la natte mousseuse no. 2, à pointes frisées, et de la natte jumelle no. 3, également à pointes frisées, qui se-recoiffent très-facilement.

Les nattes jumelles no. 3 coûtent 35 francs, la natte mousseuse no. 2 coûte 45 francs.

Chignon no. 4. — Se compose d'un catogan lisse, entouré d'une jolie torsade avec marteaux, renversé au milieu.

Son prix est de 45 francs.

Chignon no. 5. — Chignon Marie-Antoinette, très-élégant, avec frisures devant, torsade, nœud, marteau et catogan.

Son prix est de 60 francs.

Chignon no. 6. — A six branches, pour trois torsades ou deux nattes mobiles. Très-facile à recoiffer.

Son prix est de 50 francs et au-dessus, celui de la boucle mousseuse est de 13 francs.

Frisures nouvelles. — No. 7. — La paire, ayant 60 centimètres de longueur, coûte 25 francs.

No. 8. — Serpentine-bandeau, rétrécissant le front.

Ce bandeau coûte 20 francs.

—

Bun no. 1. — Composed of foam mat no. 2, with curly tips, and the twin braid no. 3, also with curly tips, which can be combed very easily.

Twin mats no. 3 cost 35 francs, foamy mat no. 2 costs 45 francs.

Bun no. 4. — Consists of a smooth ponytail, surrounded by a pretty twist with hammers, reversed in the middle.

Its price is 45 francs.

Bun no. 5. — Marie-Antoinette chignon, very elegant, with crimps in front, twist, knot, hammer and ponytail.

Its price is 60 francs.

Bun no. 6. — With six branches, for three twists or two mobile mats. Very easy to comb.

Its price is 50 francs and above, that of the sparkling loop is 13 francs.

New crimps. — No. 7. — The pair, being 60 centimeters in length, costs 25 francs.

No. 8. — Serpentine-bandeau, narrowing the forehead.

This headband costs 20 francs.

#La Mode illustrée #19th century #1800s #1870s #1875 #periodical #fashion #coiffure #chignon #description #retouch #Forney #dress #hair #bun #accessories

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kelyon · 5 years

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Golden Cuffs Chapter Two: The Feast

Believe it or not this does get smutty eventually!

Golden Cuffs posts every Friday in 2019!

Read on AO3

Belle tried not to cry as Jeanne dragged a brush through her hair. Lady Colette had always said that Belle had her father’s hair--thick and curly and brown. If hair could have a personality, hers was definitely masculine. It was stubborn and unmanageable.

“This thing is going to break, Belle,” Jeanne grunted as she wrestled the wooden hairbrush out of the tangles. “Why haven’t you used that tonic we got at the market? It works wonders for Mathilde.”

“I have been using it!” Belle insisted hotly. “My hair is just incurable.” She threw her face into her hands and heaved her elbows on her dressing table. It was still so early and all she wanted was for this day to be over. “I’m hopeless.”

It was the afternoon before the feast celebrating her engagement to Sir Gaston. Her father had made the pronouncement in the town square that morning and all the people had cheered. Her aunts and uncles and cousins had been pouring in to the castle for days now--further displacing the villagers who had already been displaced by the ogres. Gaston and his soldiers and the Duke and his court had also descended, setting up tents and pavilions all around the castle. Sir Maurice was housing all of them--the gentry, their servants, and their animals. The cost of feeding everyone was an extravagance Belle had never seen before.

But it was a cost they had to bear. It was expected that the only daughter of a prosperous lord would be feted and doted on for her engagement, no matter who she was to wed. And Belle was marrying the son of a duke! A second son, to be sure, but the second son of the Duke of the Frontlands! Such an advantageous match had to be properly--and expensively--celebrated.

In addition to the age-old tradition of ludicrous hospitality, Belle knew that they had to prove their worth to the Duke and his son. In marrying Belle, Gaston was lowering himself socially. If she were not the heir to her father’s land--if Gaston could not call himself the lord of his own castle once Sir Maurice was gone--he wouldn’t have bothered to even court her, let alone offer to marry her and take up their war as his own.

They needed Gaston to win the war. They needed the men he brought with him, the experienced lieutenants, the hearty soldiers in their strong armor. Gaston had conquered his father’s enemies and now Belle’s people needed him to win against their enemy. She needed him to save them.

Gaston was their only hope, and she needed to make him happy. She had to be beautiful and pleasing, everything he wanted. She had to look resplendent. Nothing could be allowed to stop her, not even her hair.

Belle wiped her tears and sat up straight. “Try again, please, Jeanne.”

With grim determination, Jeanne picked up the brush.

Would this all be easier if her mother were here? Lady Collette had always told Belle what to do when she was troubled, how to be brave in the face of fear. She had always comforted her.

If nothing else, Lady Collette’s presence would mean that Belle would have no reason to feel guilty about having a feast so soon after a funeral. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to marry Sir Gaston. Belle was betraying her by agreeing to marry him. Celebrating that betrayal only a month after her mother had died was the same as spitting on her very grave. But she would understand, wouldn’t she? The ogres weren’t stopping, they were still killing people and destroying homes. Lady Collette had to know how important it was to stop the attacks, to save everyone. Gaston would do that, but only if Belle married him.

“Well, I guess that’s a little better,” Jeanne sighed as she looked her over. The curls had loosened into waves soft enough to style. “Did you ever decide if you wanted it pinned up or hanging loose?”

“I should wear Gaston’s hair pin,” Belle said dully. “Bring out the armory.”

Jeanne snorted and opened up a large box of copper hair pins, the “armory” necessary to hold Belle’s hair up in a stylish coiffure. With admirable patience, Jeanne began to take up Belle’s tresses and pin them into place.

Belle made herself stay still. The pins were sharp and if she turned her head or even spoke, Jeanne might have a mishap that would end in blood. There was a strange comfort in this stillness, in being forced to sit in one place and not move, to have other people move around her and act their will upon her as though she were nothing. It was peaceful, to know that the only thing required of her at that moment was to sit on her stool in front of her vanity and try not to wince when Jeanne pulled her hair.

As part of his betrothal gift, Gaston had offered her an ornate hair pin. It was made of silver and had a large gem on the end--a poison-green peridot. The pin was heavy and old-fashioned, apparently an heirloom, but hopelessly ugly.

And worse, it was completely useless. Jeanne had left the hair on the back of Belle’s head loose so that the silver pin could be the focus. But the heavy thing wouldn’t work. It slipped through her hair and refused to hold anything up. In the end, Jeanne used the copper pins to to the heavy lifting and set Gaston’s pin at the very top of the mound of hair, a nonfunctional ornament.

Jeanne stepped back to examine her work. Belle sighed. “Are we done?”

“I am, but Mathilde still wants to do your cosmetics.”

Cosmetics. Of course. Fashionable women had to paint their faces with powder and rouge, and kohl around the eyes. Normally Belle didn’t have to worry about being fashionable, but this was a grand event. She was going to marry the son of a duke. She had to beautiful. Cosmetics were mandatory.

At least Mathilde knew how to apply them--which was more than Belle would ever be able to do. She was lucky she had her, lucky she didn’t have to do this herself, lucky she had another small stretch of time where she did have to do anything, but merely allow herself to be done to.

Mathilde held Belle’s face steady and looked into her eyes. It was such a stark intimacy, a closeness she rarely felt, even with the girl who shared her bed. Mathilde’s brown eyes looked into hers with intense focus. Belle felt the moisture of her friend’s breath, the heat of her skin as she leaned in close to make delicate marks on her eyes and cheeks and lips.

“Oh, Belle,” Mathilde whispered in that closeness. She spoke with an amazement that Belle had never heard from her normally sensible friend. “You’re so beautiful. The black around your eyes makes the blue sparkle like diamonds!” Mathilde blinked suddenly and shivered as though she felt a draft on this summer day. The girl straightened up and gave Belle a sheepish grin. “Gaston is lucky to have such a lovely bride.”

Belle practiced a gracious and ladylike smile on Mathilde and Jeanne. “I wouldn’t be so lovely if I didn’t have you two to help me.”

They helped her stand up of the stool and shook out a few wrinkles in her golden ball gown. The dress had been a collective gift from her mother’s family: Jeanne’s mother, Aunt Therese, had selected the pattern, Uncle Raoul, who had no children, had paid for the cloth-of-gold fabric, and her grandfather had arranged with certain elves to have the whole thing sewn together in less than three weeks. It was a mad extravagance, but it perfectly fit the life she would soon be leading as Gaston’s wife.

“Is there anything else?” Belle asked the room full of attendants.

“Only this.” Ermentrude stepped forward and offered her a small wooden box. “I just got it back from the jeweler’s today.”

Belle opened the box and saw her mother’s necklace lying on a strip of red velvet. The jeweler had repaired the clasp and polished the gold and the chip of unicorn horn until the whole thing gleamed. Belle bowed her head and took Ermentrude’s hand. “Thank you,” she whispered. It was all she could say.

The older woman could say even less, but she squeezed Belle’s hand tightly and gave her a small, proud smile. “Let me put it on you, my lady.”

Belle gave Ermentrude the box and turned around. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror--a woman, so unlike the girl she had been this past winter. So much had changed, both around Belle and inside her.

“I wish Mama could see me wearing this.”

“She would be so proud of you.” Ermentrude put her hands on Belle’s bare shoulders as she fastened the necklace around her throat. “Just as I am.”

Belle turned again and opened her mouth to speak, but Mathilde shouted, “Don’t cry, you’ll ruin the cosmetics!” and the whole room chuckled.

Once they got to the great hall, everyone sat in different places. Jeanne stayed with Andre and their parents at the family table. Ermentrude and Mathilde sat on benches with a few of Lady Collette’s old friends at a lower table. Little Claude was too young to join in the feast and was probably already asleep in the trundle bed in Belle’s room.

As one of the guests of honor, Belle sat at the high table next to Gaston. The two of them where the focus of the room--given more honor than even Gaston’s father. The Duchess and Gaston’s sisters were seated along his side at the high table. Belle’s father was the only person seated on Belle’s side. They all looked down on the people sitting in front of them--though for Belle and Sir Maurice the act of looking down was only literal. The Duke’s family looked down on people even when they stood on the same floor.

Gaston looked down at her even when she stood over him. His expression didn’t change when he saw her by his side. He remained disinterested and frankly bored. He was already seated, long limbs sprawling over his chair.

Belle waited for him to stand and pull out her chair so that she might join him. These chairs were solid oak, and heavy--and furthermore it was polite for gentlemen to stand when ladies approached them. But he didn’t get up. Belle stood at attention like a servant until her father finally noticed her and pulled the chair out of her way so that she might sit.

“Thank you, Papa,” she said brightly, more for Gaston’s benefit than her father’s. Ermentrude had always told her that the only answer to rudeness was courtesy.

Gaston glanced over at her briefly and then looked away again without speaking.

Through the first course, Belle watched the man she was going to marry. She had met him before and they had exchanged six entire words before their fathers had decided that they were to wed. He was certainly handsome--tall and muscular. She heard that he had trained at soldiering since he was a boy and was tireless on the practice field.

He had a strong jaw and a cleft in his chin. He was clean shaven but had coarse black hair on the backs of his hands and fingers. Belle could imagine how much hair he had on his arms and legs and chest. Unbidden, the thought came of this man naked in her bed, ordering her touch his hairy body. What would that feel like? Would his hair scratch her, like wool? Would it hurt? Would his muscles have any softness, any comfort to them at all?

Belle swallowed and tried to distract herself from her perverse thoughts. For the second time in her life, she spoke to her fiance. “There certainly are a lot of people here tonight.”

It took Gaston a moment to notice that she had spoken, then another moment to come up with an answer. “It just looks like a lot of people, because your hall is so small. Back home we could fit twice this many.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Belle said, not dishonestly. She’d rarely had an opportunity to visit the grand castles and palaces of nobility like the Duke. It would be an adventure to move to a new home and meet new people.

“But you have to wait,” Gaston spoke slowly, as though she needed an explanation, as though she didn’t understand. “We can’t get married until next summer.”

“Oh, I know,” Belle answered, a little embarrassed that she had seemed ignorant. “That was my mother’s idea. My parents married when the roses bloomed and she wanted us to--”

“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?” Gaston interrupted her to grab a pastry from the server and shove it into his mouth. “Wasn’t that recent?”

“A month ago.” Speaking of it turned Belle’s stomach into stone and she waved away the servant with his tray.

Gaston took the opportunity to turn from her and Belle didn’t try to speak to him again until the eighth course.

“So what do you like to do?”

“Kill,” he said over a mouthful of wild boar. “If there isn’t a war going on, I’ll go out hunting.”

“Do you hawk as well? I’ve never had a falcon, but I’ve read so much about--”

“Hawking is for mannish widows,” Gaston threw a bone behind him on the floor. “Women should stay inside.”

Belle persisted. “I’ve heard that King Midas’ daughter, Princess Abigail, is a skilled falconer.”

Gaston snorted. “Like I said, mannish. A woman like Abigail doesn’t know her place.” He gave her a look over his wine goblet. “My wife needs to know where she belongs.”

She couldn’t stop herself. “I should belong at my husband’s side, shouldn’t I? Presenting a united front, doing things we both enjoy, being… companionable, together.”

“Is that what you think marriage is?” Gaston took a drink and muttered, “Stupid woman.”

“I’m not stupid,” Belle whispered, much too faint for him to hear. They ate the next several courses in silence.

By the end of the feast, after the servants had refilled their wine goblets many more times, Gaston had lost whatever composure he had started the meal with. He leaned back in his chair and lolled his head over to look at Belle.

“How much longer is this going to go on?”

“Two more dishes. Happy occasions are celebrated with twenty-seven courses.”

“Twenty-seven?”

Belle nodded. “It’s a lucky number.”

“That’s stupid.” Gaston turned up his nose at the servant offering jam cakes and digestive tea.

“It’s tradition.”

“It’s a stupid tradition.”

Belle realized now that she’d had more productive and mutually fulfilling conversations with Little Claude. She realized that she had spent better evenings in the company of the cats in the barn. And she realized that for the next twenty years or more she would be obliged to speak to Gaston, to try to amuse him and understand him. It would be her duty as his wife, for as long as they lived.

She took a drink of wine.

After the final course of nutmeats, it was time for toasts. Then there would be dancing for as long as the musicians could stay awake. If Belle was lucky she would be in her bed by midnight.

As the host, Sir Maurice gave the first toast, much to Belle’s dismay. When he wasn’t reading from an official proclamation, her father was a terrible public speaker. He stumbled over words, repeated phrases, lost the thread of his own speech and often trailed off into silences that felt interminable for the audience. Lady Collette used to write his speeches down for him as he told her what he wanted to say. She had turned his half-formed thoughts and plans into a poetic oration that stirred the hearts and minds of every listener.

He was lost without her. Belle could see how old her father had become in the past few months since the war had started, since he had lost his wife. Not long ago, Sir Maurice had been a man of laughter and boundless energy. But now his laugh lines were wrinkles, and his steps were measured and grave. His hair used to be like Belle’s, but now under his cap his curls were thinning and gray. The more he spoke, the more his voice quavered.

“Belle,” he said to conclude, “I wish you and Sir Gaston every happiness. The times are troubled, but we will get through them together. Even … even if we are not all together to see our happy endings. Gods bless you both.”

Below them, the assembled friends and family applauded and drank. Belle leaned over and whispered, “Thank you, Papa,” into his ear. Without her exactly meaning it to, her hand went up to her mother’s necklace. It comforted her to feel the gold chain beneath her fingers.

Then it was time for Gaston’s father to give a toast. The Duke was a tall man, like his son, but running to fat. He had a skilled tailor, however, and his clothes were expansive and expensive enough to turn his size into an asset. Thick robes and bejeweled doublets dyed in expensive blues and purples created the illusion of majesty and power. Looking at the Duke was like looking the very idea of Nobility in the face--and seeing it sneer at you.

Unlike Sir Maurice, the Duke’s hair and beard were still black, though his hairline had receded some, and his skin shone with sweat. He addressed the crowd with fluid ease and a clear voice. He was not afraid to make ribald jests that earned him hoots and laughter from his men. From what Belle could see, the Duke was the sort of man who enjoyed all that life had to offer--and often enjoyed it past the point of good sense.

“Is there anything more beautiful than a bride?” the Duke indicated Belle but addressed the whole crowd. “Any bride, of course, not just our sweet Lady Belle! Any girl who is on the cusp of womanhood, pure and clean as fallen snow, just waiting to be made a wife, waiting for a man to make her complete in a way she has never known before, never imagined.” Belle’s future father-in-law licked his lips as he looked at her and then shook his head. “I tell you, my friends, it is a shame--a damnable shame!--that the custom of a lord’s right has fallen out of favor!”

The Duke laughed and his men laughed and even the Duchess wore an unmoving smile. Gaston, to his credit, was stone faced. Under the table he twisted his fork in one hand, rubbing the silver back and forth with his thumb.

The Duke raised his glass. “A toast to my son! Boy, if you need help during the honeymoon, I am all too eager to lend a hand.”

Gaston grimaced at his father but made it look like a smile. Under the table, Belle could see him bend the fork backward over his hand.

Her Uncle Armand spoke after that, then one of Gaston’s people. Back and forth along the hall men stood and wished the couple well. Traditionally, toasts were to last until either everyone in the room had spoken or the kitchen ran out of wine.

Only one woman stood up to offer her blessings. Madame Nanette was a villager who was reverently known as a witch. She was certainly the most successful midwife within a hundred miles. She was eighty years old, had seen ten children grow to adulthood, and been present at every birth, wedding, and funeral that anyone among Belle’s people had ever heard of. If any woman had the right to speak in a public place, it was her.

“I’ll not take the lordships’ time,” Madame Nanette’s voice was high and clear. “Time is one thing I have little of. But I have much of wisdom. I have seen life and I have seen death. I have seen love and I have seen war. I have seen strength and I have seen weakness. Over and over I’ve seen it. And I see it now, Lady Belle. I see it in your life. I will not wish, for wishin’ is magic and magic has a cost I’ve no inclination to pay. But I will offer you hope, Lady Belle. Hope that your future lets you know what you want, and that you have the strength and wisdom to take it.”

With a simple nod, Madame Nanette raised her glass, drank, and sat down.

Though Belle didn’t entirely understand all that Madame Nanette had said, the words still pierced her heart. Perhaps it was because the old woman’s hope was an impossibility. The future didn’t care what Belle wanted. Even if she knew what her heart’s desire was, she would never have the chance to take it.

“Crazy old bat,” Gaston scoffed. “You people let just anyone talk, don’t you?”

Belle didn’t answer. Over the course of the evening she had learned there was no point.

The last speaker of the night was one of Gaston’s friends. He was a short man, and his round stomach strained the buttons on his lieutenant’s uniform. He swayed on his feet as he spoke, red-faced and with bright eyes.

“What can I say about Gaston?” the small man began his toast. “He’s the greatest hunter in the whole world! No ogre stands a chance against him--and neither do any of the ladies!” He threw his head back and laughed.

Beside her, Belle heard a sound she would have never imagined possible: Deep and booming laughter. It was Gaston. For the first time that evening, he was sitting up and paying attention to the speaker, looking down on the little man with sincere enjoyment.

“In the ranks,” the lieutenant gestured to the tables of soldiers, “we have a saying, a little joke. We say that no one can do things like Gaston. No one fights like Gaston, no one eats like Gaston, no one marches like Gaston--and it’s true! He’s the best!” The man turned his head to look at Belle. “So he deserves the best.”

Belle was not threatened by this drunkard, but her stomach did tremble at the thought of all it would mean to give Gaston what he thought he deserved.

“After all,” the little man was still talking, “we came all this way, to this poor, provincial town because that’s what Gaston told us to do. And because we’re the best, all us Frontlanders. Don’t forget, it was Frontland men who beat the ogres the last time they were a problem. We won that war, and we’ll win this one!”

“Hear, hear!” Gaston called out, clapping and stomping his feet with the rest of the men.And not just the Duke’s men, Belle noticed. Her own people were shouting their agreement, encouraging the bloodlust, getting swept away in a tide of confidence.

There had been another ogre war, hundreds of years ago in the Frontlands. But it had not been as easily won as the little man made it seem. She’d read that the war had dragged on for years, that a young man who joined the fight and lived to father a son would see the boy grow up and take his place in the ranks. No book mentioned how the war had ended, though, only that the victory had come quickly and suddenly--almost like magic.

When the little man finally sat down, Belle and Gaston lead the party in the first dance. It was a stately dance, slow and measured, and that gave Belle ample time to try to clear her head. She wasn’t used to drinking this much wine or eating as much as she had. She wasn’t used to wearing a gown with such heavy corseting, or having her hair pinned so tightly. She wasn’t used to feeling so exposed, to being looked at and talked about and required to smile so much when she had so little joy in her heart.

Belle went through the motions of the dance like a sleepwalker, curtsied politely to her fiance, and left the great hall as soon as it was acceptable to do so.

She couldn’t bear it anymore. She couldn’t pretend to be polite and sweet and oh-so-radiantly-happy for another second. The pressure of maintaining this facade was enough to make her scream. Alone, Belle left the lights and noise of her own party and sought out the comforting darkness of her bedchamber.

But before she found it, she saw a tiny figure in a white nightgown, peering through the door to watch the celebrations.

“Claude?” Belle asked when she recognized the child. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

The little girl looked away from her spying. “I was too excited and I couldn’t sleep. So they let me watch.”

“Do you like what you see?”

Little Claude nodded vigorously. “I’ll get married too, someday.”

Her heart cracked for her cousin, this little girl who had no idea what being married really meant. Had she ever been so innocent, so young? At that moment Belle was so weary she couldn’t remember ever being anything else.

Little Claude went back to her watching and Belle walked alone to her room. There was only one servant in her bedroom, but Belle only needed one person to help her out of her gown. She breathed deeply once she was freed from her corset and stays. Wearing only her shift, she felt a liberation that was more than just physical. The maid gave her a bowl of warm water and a cloth, but Belle washed her own face and unpinned her own hair.

Her curls must have been cowed into submission, because they gave her no trouble as she brushed her hair and braided it for sleep. She felt more herself, now that she was stripped of all the things she didn’t want but had to accept. Belle even took off her mother’s necklace and laid it gently in the box Ermentrude had given her.

She was alone. She was free. She was going to bed.

Without any of her companions to crowd her, Belle stretched out her arms and legs as far as she could. She rolled from one side of the bed to the other, delighting in having so much space for herself.

She wouldn’t have that luxury when she married Gaston, Belle thought sharply. Husbands and wives shared a bed. It was a part of what made a couple married, wedded and bedded. It was an aspect of adulthood that Little Claude could not imagine--and that Belle herself could only vaguely understand.

The first night after her wedding was important. That was when the marriage would be consummated. Belle was pretty sure she knew what that meant. She had seen horses put to stud and noticed the rude gestures of the stableboys who had no idea she was watching. And there was a medical text on her bookshelf, a study on male and female anatomy. She knew the facts of copulation. But how to turn facts into understanding?

Of course, she wouldn’t really know until it happened. Until Gaston took her into a bedchamber and they lay together, naked and … And what? Frightened? Happy? How would she feel on her wedding night? How should she feel? How would Gaston--or any husband--want her to feel?

Virgin brides were supposed to be afraid, weren’t they? She had heard stories of girls weeping for their lost virtues, screaming and fighting when their husbands approached. Was that acceptable? Belle couldn’t imagine a man taking kindly to such a display of emotion. But if she were to act overjoyed and deliriously happy on her wedding night, wouldn’t that be just as off-putting? Wouldn’t a man think her weak and feeble-minded for having any passions at all? Gaston didn’t care about anything except fighting and hunting. Why would he care about her feelings when they were in bed together?

Perhaps he wouldn’t know what to do either. She remembered the Duke’s speech, his offer of assistance on the honeymoon. The Duke was loathsome, but at least he had seen her. At least he had acted like he wanted her, like he would enjoy laying with her, even if she did not enjoy being with him.

Belle was flushed. Her hand felt cold against her cheek. She rubbed her face and realized that she was going to do it again. She tried not to do it very often, but on some nights she couldn’t help herself. Usually the desire was strongest in the last few days before her monthly blood came. She always knew because that was when her breasts became swollen and tender. It hurt to touch them, but it felt good as well.

She could fit one of her breasts in one hand, squeeze it, and rub her nipple with her thumb. It had been a thrill the first time she had noticed her nipple rising and growing hard while she touched it. Playing with her breasts always made her feel strange between her legs.

One time, when she was very small and taking a bath, she had pointed between her legs and asked Ermentrude what that place was called. “It’s where your husband will go,” Ermentrude had answered. “Try not to touch it too much.”

She hadn’t wanted to touch that place for many years, until her bleeding came and her breasts budded and she suddenly had hair down there as well as under her arms and on her legs. Ever since then, since she began to think of herself as a young lady and not just a little girl, Belle had been plagued with strange itches and desires to explore that secret place.

Only rarely did she have a chance. Mathilde and Jeanne took turns sleeping in Belle’s bed. There were always people around her, people who needed something from her. The only time she ever had for herself was when she woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t sleep. That was when she would touch her body over her shift, clamp her hand between her legs and squeeze as tightly as she could, not knowing what she wanted but only that she wanted it.

Even now she would have to be quick. The party would go on until dawn, but her friends or the servants or even Little Claude could walk into her room at any time. She kept herself hidden under the covers as she pushed her nightgown over her waist.

It had always made sense to Belle that the hair on her body would be as curly as the hair on her head. The hair between her legs was soft and pleasant to touch. Perhaps touching Gaston’s body would be the same. Before she had known that he would be her husband, she had imagined sharing a bed with much older men--with old men, who had gray hair growing from their noses and ears. Widowers, she had imagined, childless men who had taken a young bride to get her pregnant before they died. She imagined their frenzy, their desperation to bed her as often as possible, no matter how disgusted she was by their coarse, hairy bodies.

But Gaston was her age and desperation was not in his character. He didn’t want anything except to hunt and kill and be with his men. Did her body hold any charms for him at all? Did he even want her to bear his children? What would it be like to be his wife? Would she spend the rest of her days abandoned and neglected?

She didn’t deserve that, Belle knew it in her heart. She deserved a man who wanted her, who would enjoy being with her. It was the way of the world that a woman might be bound to a man she found repulsive--but it was truly cruel that Belle was matched with a man who was repulsed by her as well.

The space between her legs, the place where husbands go, was slippery. That usually happened when she did this, though it was as involuntary was sweat or tears. Sometimes her body had a will of its own, and Belle was left to find ways to give it what it wanted.

Would another man notice if she were neglected in her marriage? Would the Duke speak to his son, admonish him to desire his wife? Her father-in-law had spoken of women, and he had spoken with confidence. Obviously, he had already broken his vows to the Duchess. And he desired her. Belle thought of that large man with his oily skin and fat fingers. That was the sort of husband Belle had trained her mind to accept. He would want her because she was young, because she was beautiful--and because he was neither.

Her father-in-law would bed her if she allowed him to. Perhaps even if she did not. No one says no to their lord. It would be so easy for him to press his suit, to seduce her in front of his own family, to defile her marriage bed while her husband was under the same roof.

Belle’s body jerked sharply and she blinked out of her reverie. As quickly as that, the desire was gone, the need had vanished. After a few breaths, she brought her hand out from between her legs. She tried not to smell the vinegary odor that clung to her fingers. She tried not to remember the shameful, evil thoughts that had occupied her mind so intently.

It was wrong to imagine such things. Wrong and nonsensical. The Duke was awful. He disgusted her--but that disgust had filled the strange need in her belly. And it wasn’t even the man himself who entranced her, but the very thought of being wicked, of wanting forbidden things and having someone who would all but force her to accept them--that was what had satisfied her yearning.

Belle flipped around to lie on her stomach and sleep. There was something wrong with her, she knew. There were strange and monstrous appetites buried deep inside her. She only hoped that they would stay subdued.

#golden cuffs #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #once upon a time #fanfiction

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rabbitcruiser · 2 years

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National Hair Day

Maybe every day can’t be a good hair day but in celebration of National Hair Day, this one certainly can be. Join in and get ready to learn and appreciate everything fun and exciting that has to do with hair!

History of National Hair Day

Hair has been the crowning glory of the human head perhaps since the very beginning of time! In fact, researchers think the comb was used by ancient Egyptians as far back as 5500 BC. The hairbrush took a bit longer to come out though, and the Kent Hairbrush Company is recorded as having started in 1777 in Hertfordshire, England.

While wealthy people have been having their hair done for centuries, early on this was typically done either by a family member or perhaps by a personal servant.

By the mid-1700s, however, the first person to have declared himself a ‘professional’ hairdresser in Europe was Legros de Rumigny who worked for the French court. In fact, he wrote a book on hairdressing that included pictures of the unique hairstyles that he had designed. The book was called Art de la Coiffure des Dames, which can be translated to The Art of Hairstyles for Ladies.

National Hair Day is a bit newer on the scene and is just beginning to develop its own history. Founded in 2017 by NuMe, a hair care company, this day is all about celebrating the styling tools and hair care products that help to make each person’s hair as beautiful as possible.

Whether hair is straight, wavy, curly or kinky, there are a myriad of different products and tools that can help to enhance the natural texture of hair while making it look its very best. And National Hair Day is the best time for it!

How to Celebrate National Hair Day

Wondering how to celebrate and enjoy this delightful day? There are all kinds of ways! Get creative on your own, or try out some of these ideas that can be enjoyed in honor of National Hair Day:

Get a Haircut

Make an appointment at the barber or hair salon in honor of National Hair Day! Get that new ‘do that you’ve been thinking about, whether chopping it short, going for layers, adding bangs or fringe, or turning into a platinum blonde inspired by Marilyn Monroe. Don’t be afraid to go for the full shampoo, cut, color and style. The sky’s the limit when it comes to what kind of fun that can be had on National Hair Day.

Consider a New Hairstyle

Of course, National Hair Day doesn’t mean it’s necessary to go to extremes. Even those who aren’t ready for a new cut or color might be able to play around with their hair a bit on this day. Maybe start by making the part of your hair on the other side!

This is also a great time to learn a new skill that is related to hair styling. Perhaps that might be learning how to make a regular braid, a French braid or a Fishtail Braid. YouTube and other online videos can act as an excellent resource for learning with easy, step by step tutorials on how to create a new hairstyle.

Try Out Some New Hair Care Products

National Hair Day is the ideal time to pop into the beauty supply store and find out what’s new in the world of hair care products and styling tools. Perhaps pick up a new brand of mousse or heat protectant spray. Try out a new curling iron, blow dryer or hair straightener. Or even consider getting a fun new color for hair, whether temporary or permanent.

Buy a New Hairbrush

Some hairstylists say that a typical person needs to replace their hairbrush every six months to a year. Of course, this depends on how often it is used, how much product the person uses, how long their hair is and even how often they clean their hair brushes.

It’s also possible that some people have simply been using the wrong kind of hairbrush for their particular type of hair. Those who are in the market for a new hairbrush might want to consider one of these styles in celebration of National Hair Day:

Curly Hair. Many people say that curly hair should never be brushed, but if it’s necessary for detangling, then use a special cushion brush that has nylon bristles to keep the curls from getting frizzy and knotted.

Frizzy Hair. This is a complicated hair type and the best type of hair brush will tame that frizz and keep it in place. Try using a hairbrush that has bristles made of boar. The natural bristles help to distribute the hair oils more evenly throughout the hair.

Blow-Dry Brushes. People who blow dry their hair on a regular basis need special tools to keep their hair happy and healthy. The best type for blow drying are brushes that are made from ceramic and have ionic properties that repel water to shorten the drying time and keep the hair from getting overly damaged.

Teasing Brush. Looking for more volume? A special boar’s hair and nylon teaching brush gets close to the scalp to get that hair high. Choose one that has a pointed handle which can be used for creating parts or separating strands of hair.

Enjoy Some New Hair Accessories

Pop into an accessory shop or department store and check out what’s on offer these days for hair accessories. Ribbons, ponytail holders, barrettes, clips and so many other delightful products provide tons of different options for wearing the hair in unique ways. Try securing a ponytail in the back, a braid, two buns on the sides, or even a popular banana clip to hold the hair back from the face.

Little girls can get away with a brand new hair bow in honor of National Hair Day! Something colorful like Jojo’s Bows would be a fun and delightful addition to a hairstyle today, keeping things snazzy.

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alexandralyman · 6 years

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comfort & joy (between heaven & hell)

Happy Holidays everyone! I’ve written another Christmas-themed fic set in the BH&H verse. In Victorian London, the demon Killian Jones finds himself visited on Christmas Eve not by three ghosts, but by a certain angel who brings tidings of comfort and joy. Hope you all enjoy <3

Rated: M

Read on ff.net here or on AO3 here

London - 1891

The narrow street was dark, gas lamps extinguishing one by one as his carriage rumbled past them with the clatter of sharp hooves against the cobblestones. Fog shrouded the ebony coats of the horses and gave them a rather spectral air, seeping up in a thick swirl of grey mist that looked almost like smoke, as if the eternal fire that burned unseen in the world below was escaping across the barrier between his birthplace and the city where he maintained one of several residences.

Killian held his gloves loosely in one hand when the carriage door was opened by his driver and he alighted down the steps, his evening coat left open over his dark suit and a white silk scarf wound loosely around his throat, both worn for fashion and not for warmth. His house was a tall, narrow terrace at the end of the street, the only one unadorned by greenery tacked to the door, and he paused at the small iron gate and bare shrubs, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a faint yellow glow visible in the parlour window. A candle was burning, ordinarily not a cause for alarm, but he had dismissed all of his servants for the evening and the house should be empty. Church bells rang faintly in the distance, setting his teeth on edge as they always did but even moreso on this holy night, the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas Eve, a night for song and prayer, a night when he, infernal demon born of Hell itself and certainly not in a stable, preferred to be completely alone.

Few would dare to intrude uninvited into his chambers and he was wary, keen senses listening for the sound of a heartbeat when he entered the silent hall, seeking the one who had interrupted his chosen solitude and would pay the price for it. His eyes flashed red and his shadow lengthened and stretched, peering into the open doorway first and he felt himself frown.

The parlour was empty.

But a long taper in a brass holder was set on the windowsill, the flame flickering and dancing against the lacey pattern formed by the frost on the glass as he slowly approached and contemplated the meaning of it. Pure white wax that stood unmelted even as the wick burned, not so much as a single drop had rolled down the side of it. The light chased away the darkness that clung to him, miraculously staying lit even when he pursed his lips and attempted to blow it out.

Few would dare to intrude into his home uninvited, but only one was always welcomed when she did.

Emma

The rustle of silk skirts and something else came from behind him and Killian turned, pursed lips turned to a smile and lifting the top hat from his head as was proper in the presence of a lady. She was dressed in a narrow gown of a rich, emerald green, high at the throat and caught up in the back in a bustle, hair in tight curls swept back from her forehead and a single white flower pinned in the heavy mass in lieu of hat or jewel.

Gardenias were hothouse blooms from tropical shores, nearly impossible to find in the midst of a cold English winter, but when one was willing to spend as many sovereigns as it took for the one gift his angel would accept from his hands, he had worked his own miracle to send them to her.

"Salve de infernum, beata. Have you come to bring me tidings of great joy?"

Her face conveyed her amusement in the lift of her brow and the quirk of her lips, "Salve de caleo, damnate. If you were a humble shepherd tending to your flock, then perhaps. But we both know you are the wolf in sheep's clothing."

He set his gloves and hat aside on the table, trappings of his latest guise as a wealthy banker, and bowed with a flourish of his wrist.

"The wolf is at your service, my lost little lamb."

Emma came closer, the light from the candle glowing even brighter at her approach and turning her hair to molten gold, like the gift of the Magi all those centuries ago. Gifted to him this night, his fingers easily found the pins that held up her coiffure and the curls spilled down loose on her back. He left the gardenia, heady scent wafting to his nose when he bent his head and rested his forehead on hers. Not lost, she hadn't wandered unaware across his path, she had come unasked for reasons known only to her. He'd wanted to call out, but Christmas was a time for saints, not sinners, and the angels rejoiced while the demons kept to the shadows. Surely his voice would have been drowned out by all the others, so he'd stayed silent and resigned himself to waiting patiently for the New Year.

"Did you miss me?"

It was whispered between them while her fingers curled in his waistcoat, holding him in place. The windows were completely fogged over by the contrast from the cold outside and the heat that blazed under his skin while the house was quiet and still, caught in that ephemeral hour between very late and very early, where darkness was absolute and yet would inevitably yield to the light. Emma didn't answer, not with words, anyway, but in the rise up on her toes to press her lips to his. A thrill ran through him at the contact as it always did, his touch was utterly forbidden to her yet she sought it out, craved it even, he knew (hoped) and for all his many sins there was no greater one for a demon than to fall on his knees before an angel in supplication. He might not be the lawless pirate he once was that night he'd first lied with her under a sky filled with stars, but he was still willing to defy his own lord and master for this and follow his own star wherever she led.

She took him by the hand and led him silently up the oak stairs, to his private chambers, carrying the candle with her to light the way in the deep gloom. A small supper was laid out on the table, cold meat, mulled wine that smelled of spices and orange peel, not a grand feast but a festive one nonetheless, with sweets dusted with sugar like a fall of fresh snow. He'd been gone for hours and the room was cold, frigid even, but it quickly warmed when he lit a fire in the hearth with a snap of his fingers. It sizzled and popped as the logs caught, roaring hotly to life in an instant and glowing a deep crimson. The flames reflected against her pale skin, seeming to lick and caress and consume and the burn grew in his belly at the sight of an angel on fire. His power was muted at this time of year when man was slightly more congenial towards his fellow man, old carols of miracles and faith sung again on every street corner and in the city squares and wreaths on every door, warning his kind away, but it was still there, smouldering like banked coals just under the surface and hungering for more than just meat.

"Emma...why are you here?"

The flames didn't reach her eyes, untouched by the shadows that filled the room and jewel-bright as if lit from within. Her light shone even brighter this night than it usually did, her power at its peak. It could blind him and bind him and he should flee from it, scuttling away like a rat on a sinking ship.

He didn't.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She smoothed down a fold of her gown, uncertainty crossing her face. He closed the distance between them in a blink, moving much faster than a mortal man to tip her chin up with his ringed thumb and stare directly into her light.

"You know the answer to that." he said, softly.

They sat down to dine with the words left unspoken, it was late, and time was far too precious to waste, even for two immortals. He could hear the faint tick tock, tick tock from the tall grandfather clock out in the hallway, reminding him that there was never enough time. They weren't meant to be, they had never been and at some point these stolen moments would run out. Killian put the thought aside for now, though he knew he would return to it later over a glass of scotch that would undoubtedly turn into the whole bottle.

The candle continued to burn tall and unchanged through the meal even as the fire started to die down to embers and ash. Shadows moved across the walls, silent witnesses while the gown slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor in a heap. Wine clung to her lips, turning them the colour of fresh cherries and just as sweet on his tongue with a faint hint of nutmeg and cinnamon underneath. The silk of her underclothes parted like water under his fingers, whalebone corset and beribboned stockings that he untied, on his knees, sliding hands up her inner thighs and feeling the muscles quiver while another rich scent filled his senses and made him giddy with anticipation. It was cold outside, bitter winds that cut like a knife and ice grown thick on the banks of the Thames itself, but even without the fire he was more than enough to keep her warm and Emma leaned into his touch when he rose and traced the tender curves of hip and breast, lush and ripe and the little sound that escaped her lips when his thumbs brushed her nipples went straight to his cock. His waistcoat was quickly discarded, the shirt unbuttoned and peeled back from his shoulders with his cufflinks scattering somewhere under the table, forgotten instantly when they were both bare and he lifted her into his arms. The bed curtains were pulled back with a flick of his wrist, revealing sumptuous linens and swanfeather pillows. Swans reminded him of her, he would walk along the river on fine days and watch them glide about, beautiful, graceful creatures that were far more powerful than they looked. She wore their feathers in her hair the night he had watched her dance at Versailles, accompanied by a man who betrayed her and chose another, the bloody fool.

Unlike feckless mortals, swans mated for life.

Emma stretched out on the bed and drew him easily into her arms, fingers tracing gently along the line of his spine and kissing the hollow of his throat, making him swallow hard. They lay on their sides, facing each other, feet tangled together and palm against palm. Killian was content to just stay in this moment, even with his raging lust pressed hot to the soft skin just below the shadowed dip of her navel, another feeling had his heart beating faster and a different kind of warmth than the carnal spreading over him from somewhere deep inside.

Joy

Jewel-bright eyes stared into his, green flecked with gold, and her voice was a soft confession in the dark. "I did, you know. Miss you."

It was effervescent, to feel such delight right down to his toes. He knew what it was to be sated, to be satisfied, to be happy even, but this was different. Emma had brought joy into his eternally damned existence, his shining star from the heavens above.

She rolled him onto his back then and straddled his hips, the feel of silken flesh gliding across his groin making him hiss and twitch with the need that flooded him now, sweet torture to be hovering so close to sheer bliss. His palms now pressed to her thighs, sliding back to the curve of her arse and helping her lift and position herself to take him in. His cock twitched even more and a rosy flush spread across her breasts, nipples hard points that jutted out proudly and made his mouth water. Emma rolled down and he arched up, they joined in a rush of sensation that had his stomach contracting and a low noise rumbling deep in his chest from the voluptuous pleasure of being sheathed to the hilt. Killian guided her movements, rocking in a steady rhythm and watching as her head tipped back and her lips parted on a sigh of his name. It pulled at something primal within him, the sound of a demon's name on an angel's lips, and he pressed his thumbs to where he was buried deep inside, planting his feet against the bed.

"Come here, darling."

His voice was hoarse and begging while he circled his hips as best he could in this position, seeking just the right angle to find that sweet spot and hear his name again. Each stroke had him gasping, every time she accepted the full length of him sent pleasure shooting under his skin at the heated slide of his throbbing cock into her velvet quim, wet and snug and divine. But it was nothing compared to when she fell forward, hair curtaining them both and hands braced on his chest, light pulsing under her palms to the same quickfire stattaco of their hips moving together and sinking into his skin, she was inside him while he was inside her and Killian wasn't sure if it was the wind howling or him, windows rattling in the frames and the bed shaking and squeaking from the force of their coupling. They weren't so much kissing as breathing together, mouths open and his tongue darting out to flick across her lips. Emma rode him at a near gallop and Killian relished it, her nails digging in with bursts of pleasure-pain and his arms wrapped around her back, holding her to him until she squeezed around him with a cry and it was all too much. His head fell back, chest heaving into hers as he was dragged right over the edge, swelling that final bit and letting go in a hot spill while his vision flared incandescent. A thousand candles burned behind his eyes and his limbs went utterly slack, he was helpless as a babe and heedless of nothing but the angel in his arms. Dangerous, to let his guard down so fully when he was at his most vulnerable, but he didn't bloody care and never did.

Emma stirred and he tightened his arms by reflex, knowing he couldn't truly stop her from leaving. She wouldn't stay, not the way he wanted, but the candle still hadn't gone out and it gave him a tiny bit of hope that he might be granted another miracle.

"I know you have your obligations in the morning and I won't keep you from them, but it isn't morning yet. Will you stay until then, blessed one?

"I will, infernal one. Until morning."

Emma tucked her head into his shoulder and the bed curtains fell shut on his unspoken command, cutting them off completely from the world outside for the rest of the night.

Almost.

But it was enough.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #bh&h #Between Heaven and Hell #merry christmas i give you the gift of angel/demon smut

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