#velvet loungewear

[thekaftancompany1]

Buy Women Cotton Shorts Set, Nightwear & More | The Kaftan Company

[martysimone]

Marjolaine | Sylvia • nightie in violet velvet + lace + silk

[egglygreg]

Having a chronic illness and being stuck in bed sucks, but having fun vintage loungewear helps

[bluefunkybeats]

LAUNDRY STORIES WITH ZAYNE

pt1 headcanons. sfw

ZAYNE WHO RETURNS TO YOUR CROSS-LEGGED FIGURE ON HIS BED HOLDING THE WHITE LATTICE-PATTERN LAUNDRY BASKET. He gives you a small smile as he comes through the doorframe and sets the basket on the bed and takes a seat himself on the mattress, already getting a start on folding the clothes freshout the dryer.

There’s a gentle light coming in through the window, and the sky such a pure light blue shade for the autumn.

The t-shirts and sweatshirts get neatly folded quite quickly with your two pairs of hands, and Zayne begins stacking them to store them. All that’s left in the apple-pie-latticed basket are a sea of mostly white socks.

Zayne turns back to you after storing everything where it should be in the wardrobe, quite inquisitive at the scene he’s now watching.

He flumps down again at the bed and already curiously grabbing one of the rolled pair of socks.

“Well this is unusual,” he says piqued in his hypnotic velvet voice, rotating the sock like if studying it will uncover something new. “I didn’t know you organised your socks this way.”

“Mhm. Foolproof for finding the right sock,” you comment.

Of course he won’t tell you that you can just make piled matching pairs. It’s cuter this way anyway.

He lets the little snowy ball smelling of fabric softener rest in his palms between his opened thighs as he queries back to you, looking a bit distracted making the little rolls.

Before you know, the side of your cheek is met with a small bun of white against your cheek, making you look up to Zayne extending his arm to a v-shape to let it reach you.

“It’s look like a little snowball,” he remarks, with his signature little smile on his face.

Now you’re clearly piqued by his behaviour, which you let know with a breathy smile.

IT’S VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING, AND THE SKY IS STILL GLOWING DARK INDIGO IN THE WET WINTER WEATHER.

Zayne is already risen for work, finishing with what he needs to get done before heading off to the hospital. He’s in the kitchen under only the dim white light of the range hood, looking at his phone for any updates in his schedule. He already transcribed a doodle response and short phrase to your mess on his wall-hung calendar, which he had to complete under the very same scarce light source because it’s so dark outside it illusions night time. There’s leftovers suitable for breakfast in the fridge in case you doze in for a few more minutes and don’t have as much time to prepare it.

The reminder to not forget his watch jolts to his mind, and so he enters the bedroom very quietly, so very slowly turning the door handle and slowly lifting it back up to lessen the recoil sound.

In the same cautious manner he slides open his wardrobe to find his watch. He can’t find it for a while, and turns his head around to where you’re still sleeping.

From his viewpoint looking at you, he can see a little further behind you something silver shine on your bedside table. Ah, he remembers now: when he came home last night, very tired, you insisted on giving him a well deserved hand massage before he head into the shower. With the both of you sat at the foot of the bed when he’d just come in the bedroom, gently kneading his hands…; you took the watch off him then.

But, then you did put it back in its correct place, because he remembers finding it there as he dressed into his loungewear whilst you took your own shower followed by him.

However, before closing the closet door, Zayne quickly began missing your touch on his hands again; which led to him fiddling with his watch, his favourite watch, engraved with his name in your handwriting and a heart.

Then he recalls how he had the watch on during dinner, and how you took it off him again when he settled in bed with you and you continued on his hand massage for a little while. That’s how it wound up there.

Zayne quietly steadies to grab his memento of you on your bedside table, and a very rumbled and near silent thunder brings a streak of light between the small gap of the closed curtains.

From the short-lived light source, he was able to catch glimpse on how your fluffy house slippers now appeared a bit stained and discoloured. He surveyed it was likely from the night you crept to the garden, still in your pijamas and slippers to let a collar-clad cat inside the solarium for the night; who was well received with food, water, and a woolly blanket. It was cold and the grass damp that late night, which is the reason why you let the cat come in and why your slippers got soiled.

Zayne grabs a page from a handy small notepad handing ‘round, clicks his pen once and starts writing on it. He clicks it once more and puts it away.

Zayne follows by lifting your hand that’s almost hanging off the bed and bringing it to his lips with a kiss, settling it back down gently, and turning to fasten his watch clasp secure on his wrist.

Your lover then bends down to pick up your slippers, his flexed index securing one slipper, and a flexed middle finger securing the other. Then he makes a job of toeing off his own slippers.

You wake up a few hours later, and notice the little note by your bedside: “Your slippers are in the washing machine. Wear mine.”

You look down and sure enough, Zayne’s slippers are facing outwards from the bed, just where your feet would naturally go to stand.

[beejunos]

SINNERMAN | Alastor x f.reader | part 1.

Summary: After Sir Pentious's failed attempt at spying on the hotel, the Vees approach you to make a new deal—a deal that you can't refuse. Help them take down Alastor, and you will get to kill him again.

After all, the great butcher of New Orleans had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. And you would love to do it again.

Tags: Alastor x f!reader, slow burn, obsessive behaviour, enemies to lovers, spying, murder

PART 1. | AO3 | PART 2.

Chapter 1. The Deal

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Hell was not just a place where souls who had done horrific things with pleasure went, but also with people who had done appalling things out of necessity. Murderers, thieves, abusers and, growing more in numbers every year, politicians - hell was not a place for the weak-minded, but sometimes a human could be pushed into such acts, not because they themselves were more inclined to such behaviour, but because circumstance could turn anyone into a bloodthirsty killer.

You were one of those people.

Condemned to Hell for an eternity for a crime that you still believed to be justifiable. After all, the great butcher of New Orleans killed your brother, so it was only fair that you killed him in return.

"I told you it was a bad idea to pick that idiot to spy on the hotel. Did you honestly think it would work?" said Velvet without looking up from her phone. She was typing something with rapid-fire as she blew a bubble with her pink gum. It made a big popping sound that seemed to echo in the living room, making Vox clench his fist so as not to destroy the desk again. They had just replaced the last desk after he had dug his claws into it and left deep and long marks in the wood, and he did not feel like getting yelled at again for ruining the decor.

Vox counted to ten slowly backwards before he turned around from the monitors to look at the short woman. She was sitting curled up on the sofa before him, dressed in luxurious loungewear with hearts all over it. Valentino was sitting stretched out right beside her, his arm casually on the backrest. He was on his phone as well and did not look up when Vox came closer, but Vox could see that he was also irritated by Velvet's comment from the slight twitching of his right eye.

"Well, Velvet, my dear," Vox said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don't remember you having a better idea, but please, if you do, share it with the group."

Vox stopped walking as he reached the sofa, hands behind his back, and leaned down in front of the female sinner to force her to look at him. He had never been good with others ignoring him, and Velvet was taking her sweet time finishing her text before she even looked up from her phone. When she met his eyes, electricity was firing between his antennas, filling the air with static noise.

She just sighed before she picked up her phone again and started typing.

"You picked an idiot; that's why your plan didn't work. Little Miss Sunshine will believe anyone; just pick a smarter spy next time," said Velvet in her heavy British accent, popping another bubble with her gum. Vox's irritation grew with every word she uttered, and for a moment, he entertained the thought of grabbing her phone and throwing it out the window.

"And who do you suggest we'll ask?"

It took Velvet a few more seconds of searching before she found a decent photo, and then she turned her phone and showed Vox who she had in mind. The photo was old and blurry, with its subject in the distance, but it was still possible to distinguish who was in the picture. Vox turned his piercing gaze from Velvet down to her phone and quickly stepped back.

"You can't be serious!"

"Who?" said Valentino, now interested, as Vox started to pace the room. Velvet turned her phone towards the moth demon, and he reared back in alarm. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you even know how expensive she is?"

"So what? If you want the job done well, then pay a fucking professional," stated Velvet as if it was apparent.

"Professional? She runs a PR firm! Glorified party whores. Why the fuck should she be the spy?" cried Valentino, throwing his arms in the air. The gesture would have made anyone in his studio flinch, waiting for an impact, but Velvet sat rooted in her seat. She was used to the man's physical displays of anger by now but never feared them since he would never dare lay a hand on her. She lifted one of her eyebrows and continued with her argument:

"Didn't you see the fucking joke of an interview the princess did on the news? The hotel has a serious marketing problem. Everyone thinks it's a joke! What if the princess had someone to help her with the marketing and networking? Someone she would trust wholeheartedly, and that person worked secretly for us? It would be the best fucking spy! Not a guest but a staff member who could manipulate everything from the inside. We would know everything. A staff member would also be with the princess all the time and could keep an eye out for Alastor to make sure that no deal is made!"

Valentino groaned loudly before throwing his phone on the coffee table. He knew that Velvet's argument was good; he just did not like how expensive it would become if they went with it. There was a reason only the top of the elite of hell hired this PR firm, and it wasn't just for the public relations part. Rumours were travelling around the underground networks that you also dealt with some shady businesses, but who weren’t in this town?

"Can't we just kill them ourselves? I still want to shoot someone," mumbled Valentino, knowing none of his partners would accept the idea.

"And what? Piss of Lucifer for attacking his daughter? We could just piss on our own graves instead! If we pay her, we know she will get the job done; after all, you've heard the rumours, right?"

"What rumours?" snarled Valentino, sinking deeper into the sofa. His night was now officially ruined.

"No one hates Alastor more than she does."

"Well, that's not new! Half the city hates the old-timey prick." Vox, who had been pacing back and forth deep in his thoughts, abruptly stopped and turned around to look at Velvet. He also highly doubted anyone could hate the radio demon more than he did, but that was beside the point.

"So, let's use that to our advantage," said Velvet, growing more frustrated by the minute, "She is bound to at least be interested in the job if we can convince her to take down Alastor with us."

It wasn't a dumb idea, which annoyed Vox the most. However, his desire to take down Alastor outweighed any concerns for costs. He was prepared to cut his own leg off with a rusty saw if it meant he could take down the demon that plagued his very existence.

Vox sighed and crossed his arms in front of him, effectively giving up on arguing against Velvet.

"Okay, how do we contact her?"

On the opposite side of the entertainment district, where the Vees residence was located, was a small part of the pride ring where the older architecture still stood. The sinners who lived there were usually the ones who had stayed in hell the longest, many of whom had lived during the 18th and 19th centuries. There were fewer flashing lights and billboards in this part of town, but that did not mean that the sinners who lived there were anti-technology—for the most part.

That was why you liked living in this part of Pride, being from the early 20th century yourself. There were no loud noises, and during the night, you would, on more occasions than not, get a good night's sleep. Compared to the entertainment district, where no one seemed to sleep ever.

Your PR firm was located on the top floor of an old Gothic Revival building in the centre of this district. With its intricate stone details and towering spires, the building could feel almost cluttered and overwhelming on the outside. However, the rooms were spacious and elegant, with large stained-glass windows that cast colourful lights throughout the building.

You loved your office building and its moody exterior and interior. It made you feel like a character in one of the gothic novels that you had only learned to appreciate after your death. You could also argue that the whole thing had been influenced by the fact that when you had died and woken up in hell, your soul had taken the form of a bat. Reminding you of the book Dracula that your mother had loved so much, but that was irrelevant.

Walking around dusty old stone buildings, surrounding yourself with heavy wooden furniture and thick dark fabrics worked much better with the wings, big pointy ears, claws, and razor-sharp teeth you had now.

You had tried in the beginning to surround yourself with things that reminded you of the time you had been alive, but as time ticked on and the years went by, you could not help but leave most of the 20s and 30s behind and welcome the new ages, and all their inventions and quirks, with somewhat open arms. Your youngest assistant, a young sinner named Claudine, who died at the age of 25 in 2015, talked a lot about how similar social media in hell was to when she was alive, but considering the things she liked to show you, social media was one of the inventions you did not have any interests in. Your people could handle it for you instead, and if the three overlords that had strolled into your office like they owned the building were running the biggest tech and social media company in pride, you would happily leave that responsibility to Claudine.

Vox, Velvet, and Valentino were indeed a sight to behold. A poor sight for you. Their fashion and colourful clothing clashed horribly with your moss-green couch.

It was always a satisfying experience to observe new customers arrive at your office. However, this time, you could not help but wish they would just leave.

You put down the silver tray you held, with all the teacups and the teapot, on your mahogany coffee table and sat in the armchair on the opposite side of the sofa. Slowly, you started to pour the tea from the pot into the small and thin teacups before handing the first to Velvet. 

"Suger?" you asked, opening the lid to the sugar bowl. 

"Yes, please," she said, putting two sugar cubes in her tea. The smaller sinner grabbed one of the tiny spoons before she started to stir her tea, making the spoon hit the side of the teacup. The clinking sound seemed to bounce around the room endlessly. She may not have the most refined manners, according to you, but you suspected that she was the one who had wanted to see you in the first place since she was the one who was behaving the best.

"I must say, I was quite surprised when my assistant said that the Vees were waiting in my office." You took one sip of your tea that had one sugar cube and a dash of milk in it. "It is not often that I get these types of unplanned visits unless someone is in dire need of their reputation being saved, and last time I checked, you three had your own PR team." 

"We are here because we are interested in your more niche skill sets." 

Now, that was far more interesting. You had a sense that the Vees were not here for what your company offered on the outside but more for what you could provide that was strictly off the records. 

You looked over at Vox, who had spoken. Waiting for him to continue. 

It did not take the sinner long to tell you their plan and why they had decided to contact you specifically. Hell was filled with sinners and demons who said they specialised in espionage or assassinations, and although they could get the job done, more often than not, these "professionals" would leave long traces of evidence behind, which didn't matter in the end since hell did not have any justice system to speak of, but if you wanted to be undetected, it wasn't the best solution. However, you took your job seriously and worked with the utmost discretion, which led to you now holding almost the same amount of power as any overlord in pride. The big difference between you and the other overlords was that your capabilities were mostly unknown, and that's how you wanted it. It made it easier for you to work in the shadows. To hunt and kill without anyone knowing they were being hunted.

Only two overlords, Carmilla Carmine and Zestial, knew of your strengths and often hired you to deal with others they did not have time for or wanted to make time for. Yet, if the Vees knew about this side of your work, that meant the information about your skill sets was being spread around a bit more frequently than you wanted it. But that didn't worry you too much since you could always have Claudine and Earl fix it in just a few days.

"That is not a small task you have asked of me. To take down another demon is one thing, but to take down an overlord? Who also works for the princess? Now, why would I ever do that?" 

"We're not asking you to take down the princess. Only Alastor," said Velvet, putting a hand on Vox's arm. The man had started leaning forward unconsciously, his fists closing up with every second. 

Alastor. There was no man on earth or in hell that you hated more, and you would gladly watch him bleed to death, forgotten and alone in the forest again. After all, he had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. But things had changed. He now possessed a form of power that you had never seen in another sinner in all your years in hell, and it made you pause. You knew that as soon as he found out what you had done, he would avenge his death, and you were not sure that you would survive that. So you stayed in the shadows, bidding your time. 

"Either way, we are not asking you to take him down alone. We want you to ensure no deal is struck between that radio freak and the princess. Find his weaknesses and help us take him down." Vox had the sort of manic look about him that you only saw in souls who were consumed by their obsessions, making him unreliable and reckless. But a deal like this did not come to you often, the type of deal that made you believe that you could kill Alastor again, and you never looked a gift horse in the mouth.

"Very well, I will help you, but it will cost you. Five hundred souls."

"Dea-"

You did not let Vox finish before saying, "Each."

"Each? Bitch, are you out of your mind?" roared Valentino, who had been quiet up till now. Even if the other Vees did not start shouting like the moth daemon, they were equally shocked and angered by your demand.

"My prices have always been high. Take it or leave it." You looked over at Vox, staring him down. You knew he would be the first to crack and agree to your demands. Velvet may have been the driving force that had led the Vees to your office, but she was still too rational and would start to bargain with you. Vox would sooner or later let his obsession win, making him agree to your deal.

"Do we have a deal?" You reached out your hand to Vox, trying to corner him and push him into a contract with you.

Before Velvet or Valentino had the chance to stop him, Vox shot forward and took your hand, and as he uttered the words that would sign their contract, an eerie green light filled the room. Cracks travelled up the walls all around you as the howling of hunting dogs travelled with the wind that started to blow in the office. Large shadows of the hunting dogs began to grow on the walls, their red eyes fixing the Vees in their places and right as the dogs would pause and devour the sinners on your sofa, the green light dissolved, and all that was left was the four of you in your office.

"Always a pleasure doing business with new customers," you chuckled, letting your sinister smile dance on your lips.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey there, hi there, ho there! It’s your friendly neighborhood tailor! Pleasure to meet you Fellow! I’m quite the seamstress, and I always love to have people to practice styles on! I have, here with me, an entire wardrobe for you and your little brother there! I’ve got winter coats, summer shorts, formal wear for any kind of stuffy event, and a line of loungewear for any kind of casual affair! Hehehehehe. These are a little more experimental outfits, but a charismatic, distinguished gentleman such as yourself would be able to pull it off seamlessly, I’m sure. *Pushes the enormous mountain of clothing to Fellow to try on* Don’t worry about any cost, I just want you to be ready for any occasion. Everyone deserves to look and feel their best. Clothes make the man and all that. I…sincerely hope you and Gidel find something out there worth doing. Take these around for a spin and see how they work. I’ll make any adjustments necessary.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The dressing room curtain wasn't red nor velvet, but pushing them aside felt like the opening night to a grand show anyway. Fellow and Gidel stepped out, dressed in brand new outfits--similar in construction to the originals, without the holes or the mismatched fabrics. They had been trying on various threads provided by the town's local tailor for the last few hours--and, at the end of the day, this was what felt most comfortable to the duo.

A full-length mirror had been propped up against the wall, allowing them to inspect their figures in full dress. Gidel twirled and twirled until he got dizzy and had to take a seat. Fellow adjusted his lapels many times over, admiring the look and feel of brand new fabrics and buttons.

"Hmph. Not bad. Not bad at all," he said to his smug reflection.

"You're both so handsome," the tailor gushed. "The clothes suit you well."

"You sure we can have all of this for free? No strings attached?" Fellow asked warily.

His eyes darted to wheeled rack that displayed many more items. He almost breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there. Not a figment of his imagination, not a reward to be yanked away at a moment's notice. Something tangible and real.

"Yes, really! I'd appreciate it if you took them off of my hands. They're some of the season's old fashions--they've been hard to move--and some experimental pieces I made in my off-time that don't have mass appeal. It'd be a waste to not let them be worn and shown off." They chuckled to themselves. "Besides, free advertising for the shop, am I right?"

His eyes lit up, mouth breaking out into a smile that showed all of his teeth. "Hot dog! Didja hear that, Giddie? We’re set!”

The two scrambled to gather their new things. Left uncollected for too long, and they feared the clothes would vanish.

The tailor peered into their changing stall and, upon spotting their old discarded outfits strewn on the floor, tutted. They bent, retrieving them.

“You forgot to pick up your…”

They stopped.

The dark green trousers they had picked up bore large diamond shapes along one pant leg, a design most unusual. Textiles with red, green, and golden patterns pilled in the diamond holes, sealed in place with neat, tight lines of stitching. Saddle, passing back and forth—the sign of hand, not machine, stitch.

There’s talent here, they realized. Untapped potential.

The tailor cleared their throat.

“Excuse me, but have you ever considered taking up the needle and thread for a career…? If so, I might just have the apprenticeship for you.”

[bunnytornado]

Okay so imagine Vox smokes way too much weed one night and is crying while Valentino just sits there on his computer. Velvet walks in and asks why he’s crying and Val just goes “I thought it would be funny to pretend to take his nose but all it did was make him realize he never had one.

No Nose Allowed

Valentino x Vox X Velvette

TW: Drug use

Crying, Velvette had to listen to crying for the past thirty-five minutes. While normally she had to listen to whining, normally from Valentino being a piss baby about something or another, hearing Vox crying was grating on her nerves. Velvette set up her phone to record whatever the hell was going on in the living, Velvette slipped on her loungewear, and made her way to the door.

She walked out of her room and stopped to see Vox curled up against Valentino, sobbing into the taller Moth Demon’s collar fluff. “What the bloody hell is fucking going on here,” she snapped and crossed her arms. “Someone want to tell me why he’s crying like Alastor stole his fucking balls?”

“He’s high,” Valentino said with a roll of his eyes, one arm tightening around Vox’s shoulders, his two lower ones holding his laptop on his lap, and the final typing away at his computer.

“You say that like he hasn’t been high before, with out the fuckin’ crying fit,” Velvette said and walked closer. “What the fuck is your deal Vox.” Velvette nudged him when Vox would not respond. “Dude, come on fucking tell me what’s up.”

“I don’t have a nose,” Vox sobbed loudly and buried his screen into Valentino’s collar more.

Velvette stood there a few moments, trying to register what she just heard. “The fuck did you just say?”

Vox looked at Velvette and sniffle sounds could be heard from him. “I do not have a nose. I never had a nose. Yet I can smoke, smell, and everything else.” He started sobbing again. “Why wasn’t I given a nose?!”

“It is okay Papi, your darling Valentino is here is here. You do not need a nose honey. Noses are for chumps. You are a big bad CEO who does not need one. Everyone else does so they can turn it brown,” Valentino purred and pulled Vox closer.

Velvette groaned and rubbed the bridge of her own nose. “Valentino. Why the fuck is Vox giving a damn about a non-existent nose.” The shit-eating grin on Valentino’s face made her want to wipe it off his stupid face.

Valentino laughed and tilted his head, his eyelids drooping slightly. “Well, I pretended to take his nose.”

“But I don’t have one,” Vox cried and flopped over on the couch. “I need a nose!” Vox was more dramatic than normal, while it was great for the camera, it was horrible for Velvette’s growing headache.

“Oh, my fucking god. This is unbelievable,” Velvette groaned and walked out of the room. She came back with a stick-on nose she used for one of her models. “Here. Shut the fuck up now,” Velvette snapped and shoved it on his screen. “There. You have a nose. Fucking ass cunt.”

“I have a nose,” Vox cried out happily. His hands flew up and started to touch it. His grin spread wide and looked up at Velvette. “You’re the best Vel.” If Velvette had a heart, it may have stopped at that look of pure innocent joy. Currently, it just made her want to throw up or punch Valentino in the face. Honestly, both sounded good at that moment in time.

“And you are high as fuck.” Velvette groaned and shook her head. “Val do not ever get him this fucking cry. He is a god damn headache when he is not this high. Even more so when he is crying of a fucking nose.”

“I have one now,” Vox proclaimed. The look on Valentino’s face said all, he was enjoying the fuck out of what he was watching.

Valentino nuzzled Vox’s forehead, a grin spreading wider, and his fingers curled possessively around Vox’s waist.

“This was on purpose, wasn’t it?” Velvette was almost completely sure Valentino had done this on purpose.

Valentino’s face split into a huge grin, his free arm stretching while the one wrapped around Vox tightened just a tad. “Oh Vel, you know I would never do such a thing to our dear friend.

Velvette gave a hum of disbelief and continued recording Vox’s high reaction to having a nose.

“You’re going to send me that right?” Valentino asked and tilted his head. He placed a small kiss to the stuck-on nose, causing a giggle from the normally stoic overlord.

Velvette smirked and shook her head at the scene. It was cute, in a gag me sort of way. “Oh, you know it.”

“Good, I can get him to allow me to have my own network on the air.” A laugh bubbled from Valentino as he blew more of his drugged smoke into Vox’s face to help keep the overlord malleable and high.

Suddenly, the stuck-on nose fell off. In an instant, the high Technology Overlord looked at the fallen nose. His eyes traveled to Velvette then Valentino. They then drifted back to Velvette, and he broke down sobbing again.

“Fucking Hell,” Velvette groaned and facepalmed. It was going to be a long night within the penthouse of Vee Tower. At least Velvette would have a lot of extortion fuel for later. She might even be able to get her favorite show back on the air.

The next day, Vox found the video playing on every TV in the penthouse. That day, Valentino went to work with a black eye, and Velvette with a broken phone. Vox also made sure none of the cameras worked in either of their studios. He would pay them back for their actions.

[that-salty-ghost]

As Above, So Below | Chapter 27: Scary Stories | Viktor [Arcane] // Male Reader | Rating: M Throughout

Word Count: ~4.1k Summary: Opening up is spooky Tags: swearing, sexual tension, flirting, little bit o'fluff, mage-y stuff Last Chpt: A Matter of Time

Check my pinned post for more details/previous chapters/etc.

The initial rush of the towel snafu eventually dies down and you get some new bath water running for Viktor while he gathers up the pajamas he picked up from the night market. Two small knocks draw you back towards the door.

"Are you decent?"

"Never."

A small creak follows an exacerbated sigh as he tentatively cracks the door from the other side—a bag of dry clothes emerges slowly through the narrow opening. The flash of metal catches your attention and you find that he's using his cane to nudge the loungewear through. Likely an attempt to keep a safe distance from the entry point...just in case you were, in fact, indecent.

"Excellent technique." You tease as you kneel down to retrieve the pjs—grateful to have something that isn't saturated with river water to change into for the night. You watch with growing amusement as the bottom part of his cane gradually withdraws from the room again, catching the side of the door to pull it shut. "Although maybe a touch unnecessary—I won't bite."

Your head is rustling into the new shirt when his voice comes just outside the room. It's further muffled by the running water and wooden barrier separating you. But is still just coherent enough for you to think that you heard him say, "That's disappointing."

"OhhhHH?" You half laugh and can hear him chortle on the other side. "I suppose," You start, relying on the limited experience you had at the brothel to coax you through your response and keep your voice steady, "if you ask nicely...I could make an exception."

The pause that follows makes you wonder if you had misheard him. Instinctively you want to fill the silence to lighten the uneasy air you've just created. You inhale before opening your mouth to speak, but thank whatever god is watching this shitshow you kept quiet just a little longer than Viktor did.

"Tempting offer."

His less-than-passive approach to flirting teases the thought into your mind. And although his quip may simply just be that—something to joke with, you can't help but wonder if this was an attempt at testing the waters of hypothetical happenings.

When you open the door, you find Viktor leaning comfortably against the frame. Arms crossed with an easy-going grin; his eyes meet yours fondly before looking on at your new attire. As you move to trade places with the other man, his eyes remain fixed on your form as you pass. Walking makes you realize that the fabric of the shorts tends to pull up a little more than you're used to and you habitually tug at the hem to leave some room for imagination.

It clearly doesn't go unnoticed when you hear Viktor mutter a playful, "Very...tempting." before closing the door behind him.

Once you're back in the living area, you decide that one of the armchairs seems like a good choice to settle your heart rate back down before you collapse or die or both at this rate. The emerald green velvet lays smooth against your palms as you take a seat, warming yourself by the crackling fire that Viktor previously stoked back to life and watching the snow fall just outside the window.

Getting comfortable, you prop your legs up on the footrest and for the first time in ages it hits you.

There is nothing you need to do right now.

Nowhere you need to be. No early shift at the coffeehouse, no late-night trade or hustle tonight. Just...this. It's a rare thing, to have free time. And to be honest, you're not quite sure what to do with it. So, you stay still. Absent-mindedly watching the snow continue its decent from the hazy sky.

Which—you had to admit—is a strange thing for you to do.

You've had a complicated relationship with the cold since you were forced to survive it. Training in the tundra for your father, curling up into nothing more than an alcove to protect yourself from the wind and snow—not exactly your happiest memory.

Still, you can't deny that the sight outside is mesmerizing. Blankets of white layer the rooftops and sidewalks, slithering and serpentine through the streets as the breeze picks up. The wind brings an ache to the old building, forcing a whistle from its walls as the storm builds. The sound makes you instinctively rub a hand over your arm to self-soothe, reminding yourself that you're indoors. You're warm. You're safe.

...But you can't sit idle like this for much longer.

You decide to walk it off by exploring the room, taking in the temporary change of scenery you get to enjoy for the evening. The sound of steady dripping moves your attention to the sopping wet towel that gave Viktor a show not long ago, drawing a light hearted scoff from you before peering at the books in the small reading nook. One in particular catches your eye enough for you to pull it from the shelf.

The cover image of a ghastly lighthouse in the midst of an eerie sea fits the tattered binding and dogeared pages all too well—showing clear signs that it has been thoroughly enjoyed over the years.

"Must be good." You mumble to yourself before taking it with you back to the armchair.

It's been a while...you struggle to remember the last time you used a book for leisure rather than for learning a new skill or trade.

And as if the pages themselves knew that truth, they lure you in effortlessly.

The detailed descriptions of a worn home with haunted happenings in and around it paints vivid images in your mind as you absorb line after line. The cries of cliffs in the story nearly mirrors the whistling winds just outside your own window and before you know it, you're hooked—entirely engulfed in another world until the sights and sounds of your own are all but drowned out.

The cozy room that you're in is quickly exchanged for a weathered house by the sea. A lit cityscape in the undercity traded for a vast ocean of black—illuminated intermittently by the spinning beam of the lighthouse's beacon. Noises of trickling bath water replaced by ruthless crashing waves...and then a creaking door closing just downstairs in the old house—alerting you that someone was inside.

Your heart beats faster as you eagerly turn the page.

Your sight was limited in the dark dwelling, but you had a sinking feeling that you weren't alone. Hearing no footsteps but opening the door to see the fresh, muddy stains of footprints that weren't there before you entered. Someone had walked the halls without you knowing.

Without you seeing.

Something was hiding in the darkness of this house just down the hall from you—stalking silently like a wraith in the night.

...patiently watching

...waiting...

"Reading?"

"FUHHACCKK!" You practically jump out of the chair, startled to your core when Viktor's voice jolts you out of the book that is now tumbling onto the floor. "Ohhh...hell." You breathe out as you rub your eyes, gradually recovering from the fright pounding in your chest.

"Hello to you too." Viktor is laughing quietly, retrieving the fallen novel for you while you try to return your soul back to your body. "I take it you didn't hear me coming?" His voice is maddeningly calm and for the life of you it feels purposeful.

Slack jaw and holding the back of your neck with one hand, your eyes are focused entirely on the ceiling while you try to come back down from the jump. "Now what gave you that idea." While the response is sarcastic it doesn't disturb Viktor's clear entertainment from scaring you in the slightest.

When you finally level your gaze again you find him browsing the first few pages, nodding periodically while he speed-reads to see what you were so engulfed in. As he pages through, a small smile tugs more and more at his lips—quietly deducing that he found the particularly spooky encounter that you must've been reading when he startled you.

But while he's busy with that, your eyes unwittingly start to drift down and over his chest. It's difficult not to admire the small droplets of water falling from his damp hair onto the angular shoulders below. Let alone how the loose-fitting material of his shirt drapes low on his neck, leaving his collarbones and the notch in between them deliciously visible.

The slightest sign of tautness pulling in his shoulder holds your attention again as he turns another page. The motion causing slight tension in the muscle above his clavicle, making the small dip in between even more prominent. A single droplet of water from chestnut locks drips torturously onto it. Taunting you by tracing over his collarbone slowly as it trickles down and all you can do is bite back the urge to lick your lips like a goddamned starved animal.

"You like it?"

His question causes you to cut yourself off before your knee jerk answer of 'absolutely' even graces your lips—a concerted effort to prevent a repeat of misusing that word again. And to ensure you're responding to him with the correct context in tow.

"The book—you mean do I like the book?"

"Yes, the book..." The rising intonation at the end of his sentence turns his statement into a question. His curious mind shows through with a downward tilt of his head, as if a better look at you would help him better decipher what else you could be referring to.

"I do. Fell right into it."

Your words draw a grin out of Viktor as he holds the book out towards you. "So, I noticed." His grip loosens around the novel and you catch an impish quirk in his eyebrow before he turns to work on the fire.

Your eyes follow curiously as he crouches down—his cane resting against the wall as outstretched fingers wrap easily around each piece of firewood. You never thought such simple movements could be so graceful, it catches you up a bit as he speaks again.

"It's endearing, you know."

"What's that?" You wonder as he stokes an iron rod into the smoky chamber. Slowly the cinders are fed the new kindling—becoming a blaze within the stove.

"That you can become so immersed in a piece of literature that way." He smiles to himself as he nurses the flames back to life, a satisfied tone carrying his voice all the while. "There is, ah—" a tired grunt escapes him as he lifts himself off of the floor to stride towards chair across from you. "—a certain amount of passion necessary to elicit that kind of response."

'Or a perpetual game of cat and mouse that is trauma and escapism.' Your intrusive thoughts are doing you no favors, but you keep that to yourself. Choosing instead to enjoy the way Viktor is talking to you—about you.

Choosing instead to get to know the man sitting fireside with you.

"Is there anything that does that for you? Something that takes you miles away?"

"I could...name a few things," He pauses, considering his words as lax fingertips trace directionless patterns into the velvet arm of the chair. "Though I admit, the best one is currently seated quite handsomely in front of me."

The warmth of his smile matches the very hearth fire roaring between you. You can't stop the sly grin slowly curling on your lips—his choice of words catching your attention well.

"You think I'm handsome?"

"I think you're incredibly handsome."

He doesn't even hesitate. And despite the vulnerability of his answer, Viktor's voice doesn't falter for a second. He's certain. Confident. Like he needed you to hear this. "I wanted to tell you at R&R's, but there was an...interruption."

You recall the moment—he had started a sentence similar to this, but was cut off by the drunkard outside the bar. 'For what it's worth, [Y/n]...I think you're incredibly ha—'

He did need you to hear him...because you didn't the last time—the first time rather.

"I was wondering what you were going to say."

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms heavily on his knees as his eyes light up. "What were your theories?"

Who are you to deny his curiosity? You recall the various possibilities of what could've been and report back in no specific order.

"Hm...Harrowing?"

"Couldn't be further from the truth." The abruptness of his response—he doesn't leave room for debate on that and nods his head up towards you to continue. "What else?"

"Hammered."

That one makes him chuckle. "You forget we did successfully climb a flight of stairs—allow us some credit."

"Climb is a bit of a stretch." You reply, amused as you recount the struggle. "Stumbled maybe."

"Semantics." Viktor dismisses your criticism with a fluttered wave, a grin spreading across his face as he fails to hide how much he's enjoying trying (and failing) to cover up just how sloppy you both were. "Anyway. You were saying."

You rest your hand against your temple, getting comfortable again as you answer him with your last hypothesis.

"Hard to read."

"Mm. Incredibly." While you're surprised to hear it, you simultaneously understand. You don't exactly wear your emotions on your sleeve, let alone allow anyone to get too close most of the time. "But, admittingly—it's a trait of yours that I'm quite drawn to."

"Don't like 'em easy, huh?" You joke and watch as he sits back but notice him trying to roll his wrist out again once he moves his cane over. Your eyes narrow to get a better view, brows furrowing when you remember he had done a similar motion after rowing the boat...and after tripping the cutpurse up with his cane.

"Now where's the fun in that?" He chirps back until he catches you eyeing his reaction. With a shake of his head and flex of his fingers, he dismisses the worry that bore into your expression with a quick, "I'm fine."

"You're incredibly fine." Your lips twitch upwards at the corner as you find your own confidence to finally hit on the other man with some fluidity before continuing. "You still have that old salve on you?"

You watch him bite the grin pulling on his lower lip when he hears you flirt, happily taking a pause to soak it in before acknowledging your question. "The one night I forgot it." He mechanically reaches for a pocket that doesn't exist or house the container in question.

"Bringing that backpack throw you off?" You make your way over to the bedside table, Viktor watching closely as you snag the balm you brought.

"Evidently. What are you...?"

His sentence trails off when you hand the small tin of cardamom salve you made over to him. You watch as his thumb ghosts over the triangle crossed with a diagonal line carved cleanly into the lid.

"I see your engraving skills have improved." Viktor teases before he opens it, eyes softening when he recognizes the familiar aroma. "You...carried on your mother's craft?" His eyes meet yours, warm and curious. But you can't tell if he's referring to the alchemy or the arcane.

"In my own way." You pause as you move to lean on the top of his chair. "It's not quite the same as hers. Close, but hers had more uh...oomph—I s'pose." It's tricky to word and you stop yourself before trying to explain yourself better.

From what you gathered he only knew that your mother was a mage. But you still weren't positive if he actually knew that you were as well. You also weren't sure if that was something that would scare him given that you're alone in a hotel room together. Miles from home no less.

He studies you silently until something ignites his thoughts.

"Your own way...?" He tilts his head inquisitively up at you, seeming to stop himself from saying more as well as he hands the salve back. Absent-mindedly he flicks his wrist up with a small 'pop' and now you're positive that he must've hurt it during the scuffle with the cutpurse.

But why wouldn't he admit that?

In that moment you realize that for one reason or another, he was holding something back too. Both of you were. And from the way he hums to himself and shifts his sights to the floor, it looks like he realizes it as well.

"We've got some decent walls up, don't we?"

Seemingly grateful for your speculation, Viktor huffs with raised brows. "It appears that we do." His honeyed eyes catch yours before he speaks again. "Maybe we can chip away at those together."

"Hm." You grin again at his remark, it sounds so nice when he says it. Still, you had to admit the notion was scarier than any ghost story you've picked up.

But you've been running around like this for years. Moving through your life with your guard up and your head down. With a wraith of your own haunting the halls of your mind every step of the way. To keep you quiet—keep you complacent.

So that you move through your days as covert as possible, lest you draw any more attention to yourself. Hardly a second where you're not keeping busy creating something, working for something, working toward something.

Always something.

Anything.

Anything as long as it put some distance between you and the resounding baggage that your family name hogtied you with. As long as it kept your mind busy. Too busy to really think about anything else.

If you were being honest with yourself, it's a tiring way to live.

And also, a lonely one.

There's a good bit of risk in this that can't be denied, but maybe...just maybe Viktor could be someone you didn't have to wear the mask around—didn't have to hide away from. After all, your mother didn't seem to think so...right?

You inhale.

Exhale.

"Alright." You give him the go ahead—your heart pounding hard at the thought of what comes next—unrelentingly so when Viktor takes his first swing.

"If you're sure..." He starts, "When you say 'your own way'—ehh..." You can tell he's trying to be selective with his words even though you know exactly where this is going. "Does that also mean...?" His sentence trails off and it looks like he considers letting his implication speak for itself. But something has him shake that off, choosing to reword his question despite whatever had him pause. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Curious, golden eyes find yours as you move to take a seat on the footrest in front of him. "If you're hurt I could...show you." Viktor cocks a brow as you sit slightly below him now, holding your hand out for him to take. "Can I have a look?" You motion towards his wrist and watch as he pieces together what you're asking.

He nods slowly, quietly admitting to an injury as he lays his hand in yours. It's a small thing, but you recognize it—exposure. That acknowledgement wasn't easy. He's taking a risk trusting you too—letting you chip away at him while he does the very same.

And while this entire exchange has the makings to intimidate you half to death, the warmth and weight that fills your palm once Viktor's hand is in yours is all you need to ease your mind and work the very trade that your mother once taught you.

The muscles around his lean forearms twitch lightly as you press your fingers along the tendons and ligaments lining his carpals. You feel him tense up when you find inflammation near his thumb and visualize how the joints move together as you dip your fingers into the balm.

"Is this okay?" You ask as you rub the salve between the pads of your fingers, feeling small trickles of electricity move through you as you try to channel your abilities.

He nods with a soft smile. "Exceptionally okay."

You recognize those words immediately, it's difficult not to. His direct reference to your peculiar, tongue-tied response to him at The Last Drop gives you pause. Your response to when he had held your hand to deter the creep from hitting on you further. A solution you were all too eager to participate in.

The familiar feeling of comfort laced with excitement begins to stir in you as you recognize how familiar this moment with him is. You wonder if he's picked up on it too—by the way he's watching you, you imagine that he does. A shiver runs up your spine as the tips of your fingers begin to tingle from the arcane coming through for you, making itself comfy in your nerve endings as you adjust to the new sensations it brings.

"You remember that, huh?" You smile crookedly while you relive your awkward reply, secretly enjoying how Viktor says it. The other man only lets his smile grow wider, studying the way you move his arm and examine him.

"I remember how badly I wanted to keep holding your hand..."

That little squeeze that he gave you just before he had let go...you had wondered if the gesture was intentional. Like he had tried to memorize the moment—attempted to capture it in the very palm of his hand...and in yours.

"And now?" You glance up at him, wondering if this small, similar instance was something he found himself clinging onto as well.

Quietly, calmly—Viktor curls his pinky and ring finger over your thumb. He stays that way for only a second until you feel it. The same gentle squeeze that you remember from before. When he relaxes his hand again you can feel new energy surging through your veins, dancing with your adrenaline before you settle the static in your mind and fingers. After a moment you're able to reestablish the concentration he's all but shot dead into the ground and focus on the task in hand...at hand. Fuck.

Whatever, you're just trying not to short circuit and accidentally kill the man at this point.

"I hope that answers your question."

"Just uh...try to stay still for me."

He lets you lay his forearm onto your knee but not without muttering a small "Of course." Or without biting back a snarky grin at your swift deflection.

As you leverage your hand under Viktor's to stabilize you both, he shifts in his seat to get more comfortable. Gradually leaning closer and closer, you force yourself not to think on the proximity for too long.

You're forcing yourself not to think on a lot of things right now.

Like the similarities this moment shares with the start of that vivid dream you had barely two nights ago. You definitely try to forget that.

Try to concentrate on the warmth of the salve melting onto your free hand rather than how Viktor's pulse quickens under your touch. Try to ignore how perfectly his hand seems to fit in yours. Try to zero in on his anatomy rather than your chemistry so you don't fuck this up.

...You're trying.

Viktor remains silent and unmoving but you can feel his gaze burning through you when you start to rub your thumb against your fingertips until they warm up, practically humming with energy now. With a breath in you flick the side of your index finger against your thumb, a similar motion to igniting a lighter...all the way down to taking a couple of tries to get the damn thing to work.

When small flecks of blue and white electric light stutters from them, you mutter a small "Sorry—" before momentarily moving the hand you had under Viktor's out. He watches intently as you roll two fingers up your veins, trying to move any residual magic that might've gotten trapped.

"It's like a high cholesterol for a mage—when we don't practice, shit gets...stuck..." You're half-explaining why you look so weird right now and half-muttering to yourself, but finally you feel like you have a handle on your control. The magic feels a little more erratic than you'd like, but you've made do with worse. If you could get the godsdamned butterflies out of your stomach you're sure you could stabilize it even more.

Easy, right?

Before you start, it finally hits that you just did all of this in front of a live audience. Curiosity kills the cat and you glance up to check the other man's reaction. And relief washes over you when you find that he isn't afraid in the slightest.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

----------

A/N:

Shoutout to @thehistoriangirl for being cool with having The Tides Have Veiled be the book pulled from the shelf that y/n is reading--if you haven't read her fic yet it's incredible, go to it <3 As always thank you for just being the kindest and most patient humans/readers with this, I know updates are lengthy af so please know I just appreciate all of you and am glad this is something folks still enjoy/come back to. 

Also season two is just around the corner! I'm going back and forth on how far into the future this fic should go and that's giving me plot paralysis so hopefully I figure that out soon send prayers. Thank you again for reading and I hope y'all have a great weekend!

-Ghost

[marzipanandminutiae]

The Other Nightgown Set, or, The Most Underappreciated Crimson Peak Costume

okay, CPeak fans. when I say Edith's nightgown, what do you picture?

this, right?

RIP to the gorgeous silk dressing-gown we never see after this scene. but I digress.

and yes, that is the more iconic one. but you're forgetting my own dearest-beloved, my #cozygoals, my unsung hero of Victwardian gothic loungewear...The Buffalo Robe/Nightgown Set

finding photos of this is ridiculously difficult, and that strikes me as a travesty. but it's a robe of a goldy-chartreuse silk-velvet, with what appears to be a salmon lining (silk again, I'm guessing), floral appliques, and a black sash. She appears to be wearing a lacy cotton nightgown underneath, although a rather short one- only to mid-calf. Interesting.

because Netflix cannot be screenshotted, I took photos with my phone of some details- pardon the quality, glare, etc.

The collar has piping of the lining fabric. This is done by wrapping a thin cord in the material you want to pipe with, and then stitching that whole affair between two pieces being seamed together. It's a pain in the ass to execute, IMO, but such a nice detail.

Our heroine is furnished with POCKETS! you can see lace on either side of the robe "skirt," either decorative pocket flaps or outlining the openings for normal, flap-less pockets. I can't quite tell which.

A slightly better view of said pockets as Edith regards the door that Eleanor (her mother) just opened using Ghost PowersTM.

I didn't screenshot this specifically, but her sash is a black ribbon- of course -with gold edges.

The Buffalo Robe interests me because it seems much more practical than what she wears at Allerdale. Sure, it's goth-tinged and lovely, but it also looks...cozy. It's not all the way up her neck, it's not silk brocade- it's soft velvet, and with pockets to boot. It's something the audience could see themselves throwing on over their own nightwear to lounge around the house. Plus, those pockets bespeak a need to carry things and do Activities- not just wander around crumbling manors with a candelabra looking appropriately ingenuecore. It kind of plays into an interpretive theory I have about Edith falling into the "world" of the Gothic when she goes to Allerdale- she's no longer in reality, sort of, so she gets this over-the-top fantastical nightgown as her primary outfit.

It also bears, I think, more resemblance to actual dressing-gowns and wrappers of the period than her Allerdale nightwear set:

(Dressing gown, 1880s. Fashion Museum, Bath, England. Earlier than Edith's vague 1895-7 aesthetic, but still similar.)

(Deaccessioned from the Rochester Historical Museum, New York, USA. This is described in the listing as an "1880s day dress" and the bodice does have a hidden button closure, but. Come on. The visual similarities are insane. I'm not convinced that Kate Hawley didn't see this dress somehow. Also earlier; also pretty close regardless.)

Makes you wonder if Lucille's got a more practical option stashed away somewhere, too...

[tinydeskwriter]

CINEMA {Chapter I}

A/n: Someone wrote a lovely comment describing y/n and harry as “ ex lovers with unconditional love that never truly go out of style trope” which is now my very favorite way to describe it, unfortunately, my careless self deleted the comment while trying to delete my own reply—because I post it without being finished (tumblr doing me dirty)— so I dedicate this to her/him/they (?), thank you for the amazing comment.

Thank you to everyone that replied to my desperate need of help to choose Y/n ‘s ex-boyfriend…

I honestly hope not to disappoint you guys with this first chapter, I just wanted to give a first glimpse of Harry and Y/n’s ‘friendship’ dynamic. Also, it’s almost Harry’s birthday!!

Cinema | Previous Part 1.Boyfriends

Harry holds the door open with one hand, as he hold a cup carrier with four coffee drinks in the other—Luis is arriving soon, and Rebekah must already be somewhere in the house with Y/n—, he doesn’t know most of the people passing by him, from the group of fifteen+ he recognizes Chrystal, Y/n lawyer—who in more than one occasion back when they’re dating, managed to get out of circulation invasive paparazzi shots of the young couple—and Monica, her publicist since 2012, Rebekah was right behind them, escorting them all to the door.

Rebekah is their age, pixie hair, New York accent, always in flowy blouses and high waist jeans, Y/n’s PA, friend and confidante.

“Good morning H, I am going to take this, thank you.” The woman took her usual order and went back inside, turning back a few steps in, “She’s in the music room.”

“Thank you Bekah.” He said closing the door behind himself and taking the opposite direction from the PA.

The music room was one of Y/n favorite places in her house, a large space with two walls made of glass overlooking the pool, with a view of the city and the park. It’s where she keeps her prized Concert Grand Piano in custom Sycamore wood adorned with a gold leaf mural of London’s skyline around the entire case of the piano, a twenty-first birthday gift by Harry—which her boyfriend at the time saw as competition and got her a 61’ Rolls Royce Silver Cloud II in an auction. 

Y/n’s enviable guitar and vinyl collections occupied the two inner walls, the only sitting furniture in the room—other than the piano bench—was the Bellini U-shaped couch from the 70’s in burnt orange velvet and Gucci throw pillows. The piece de resistance was the Brionvega RR126 Y/n inherited from her grandfather.

He found her laying in the couch reading what seemed to be a script.

She looked completely fine for someone who just sold 50% of what she called ‘her first born’, Harry was honestly expected a little bit of nostalgia or melancholia from his little love.

“Got you coffee.” He put the cup in her hand and kissed the top of her head as a greeting before sitting down next to her, his own coffee in hand.

Y/n hadn’t even took her eyes out of the pages.  

“How are you feeling?”The question finally made her put the script down on her lap, and sip her coffee before looking at him.

“I feel like I just sold half of my soul to the devil for $500million dollars.” She said deadpanned. 

Harry looked at her with furrowed brows. 

“So why sell?” He asked slightly confused.

Y/n had started Muse unpretentiously, her goal was simply to offer to the costumers something that lacked in the market: an all-inclusive, vegan, high quality and affordable priced make-up and skincare line. Muse became a beauty empire that included even daily/basic lingerie and loungewear in 69 sizes and 15 nude colors—going by Y/n’s philosophy that basic doesn’t need to be ugly, ‘nude tones’ meant different shades from beige and pretty stuff should fit everyone. 

It was her passion project. 

“I don’t have the hours in a day for everything I need to do, and I want to have a life, I want to be able to dedicate myself to relationships.” She said honestly. “LVMH is the same parent company that owns half of Fenty Beauty, they are the only ones that agreed to my terms, I get creative control and veto vote, the company philosophy stays the same, I am getting a female CEO of my choice, and Muse gets global distribution, we’re going to be available at Sephora, Harvey Nichols, Boots, Ulta at a even more affordable price.”

Harry nodded. She has handing over some control of her company to have more control of her life. It was almost poetic in a sense.

“And what is this about?”the 'Adore You' crooner points to the script on the youngest's lap, he knew her well enough to know when he need to change the subject.

“Robert Eggers’ new project...but first...”She stops, looking seriously at Harry, “how was it with Olivia?”

Harry and Olivia had agreed to meet that morning to discuss their relationship.

Olivia apparently felt that tempers had run out, and that everything had been left very much up in the air.  

Y/n didn't even know what was going on between the two until her former director called Harry the night before while they were getting ready for dinner, and even then she had only managed to get Harry out of the fact that they had had a fight before he came to her aid.

She had a suspicion there was trouble in paradise after Harry spent the third night in a row sharing a bed with her without his girlfriend's interference.

The man sigh, close his eyes and rest his head against the back of the couch.

“Was it that bad?” Y/n watches Harry closely.

Y/n honestly didn't like Olivia, and it wasn't even because the older one was dating Harry—which she personally found unethical and unprofessional, the kind of thing that causes a stain in someone’s career, specially with the whole scandal surrounding it.

The former Angel could write an entire essay about all her reasons to dislike Olivia Wilde, but in short it would resume to Olivia was simply an amalgamation of the kind of person Y/n looked down on in the industry: ambitious personality, fake character, and acting according to convenience.

She would never mistreat the woman or say a word against her in front of Harry, but that didn't mean she approved of their romance. 

And Y/n knew Olivia didn't like her either, she could see it in the older woman's catlike eyes, her years in the fashion industry made her perceptive of those kind of things. 

Olivia tolerated her for Harry, and had unwillingly offered the role of Violet to her under pressure from Warner Executives who saw Y/n as yet another money grab for the film—like Harry, she had a fanbase and more Instagram followers than the entire cast put together—and which she only accepted at Florence and Harry's request.

“We talked, we agreed that after our fight it's best to take some time off from each other, I have the tour, she still has to sort it out with Jason regarding the kids, we'll keep in touch, but we'll have a more definitive conversation when this leg of the tour is over to know where we stand.” He told her everything in one breath.

“And how do you feel about that?” The woman take a sip of her coffee.

Harry sighs again, running his hands through his hair in an anxious gesture

“I honestly don't know.” He confess. “I care about Olivia…”

“But you don’t love her…”Y/n completed. “That’s tough.” She nodded. “Do you think it’s a matter of time? Like, you can come to love her?”

“Yeah, sure…”He don��t look so sure. “Olivia is cool, she’s so intelligent and eloquent…” Y/n wide her eyes a little, condescending and pretentious fit Olivia better in her opinion. “If I am honest, our relationship hasn’t been a thought in my head for three days, this kinda of says something…”

“This actually screams something.” She said against her coffee, only to get a disapproving look from Harry. “H, you mistook the excitement of the honeymoon phase for something else and you stepped heavy footed into the relationship, I mean you moved her in three months after you guys started to date, we all told you it was too soon…”

“She needed a place to stay, things with Jason were though.” Harry defended his actions.

“And why is that?” The question was rhetorical, followed by a humorless laugh. “H, I love you, but you’re too good for this world.”

Harry looks at her with his brow frown. “Why?”

“My Love, everyone knows she broke up with Jason after you guys blurred the line, Florence told me that Jason and her acted pretty couple-ish the times he took the kids to visit, and that only changed after you started to spend too much time in her trailer.” Y/n told him what her and the girls had debated so many times before in their slumber parties over copious amounts of tequila. “Even Gemma agrees, and she’s like completely against talking about peoples life.”

The man stayed silent for a moment, absorbing what he had heard.

There was only one thing he wanted to know after hearing her thoughts.

“You never said anything against the relationship before.” It wasn’t even a question

“Because I want you happy, and you seemed happy with Olivia, that’s all I care about, it doesn’t matter if I don’t like the woman,” she answers with honesty. “I would never criticize your taste in women, the same way you never criticized my bad choices in men.” She jokes to lighten the mood.

Harry chuckles, eyes closing and dimples showing. 

The musician stopped criticizing Y/n’s boyfriends after the second time she got back with Abel after he got together with Selena while they’re on a break—he did wrote her na album as na apology. He kept quiet about Charlie—needy, jealous Charlie—, and bit his tongue with Jack—flirting, handsome Jack, even Harry would have to admit the younger man knew how to be charming—.

He liked Jack less than he liked Abel.

And he had despised Abel because they got together not long after their break up, and Harry was still hung up on her, regretting his decision to end their relationship. But it was too late, Abel swapped her off her foot the minute their break-up was announced, taking her on a first date in Dubai just months later, the beginning of their whirlwind, world wide romance that just ended for good in 2019.   

Jack, Harry hated him because he seemed less invested in the relationship than Y/n. He showered her with flowers and gifts and pretty words, but he was always away and it was always Y/n traveling to him. His Little Lovie was a woman in love with love, she always invested herself in the relationships, and was always heartbroken when things didn’t worked out in the end.

They were interrupted by Rebekah holding a lovely flower arrangement in her hands and an apologetic expression on her face. “Y/n…” 

The actress turned to where her PA stood in the doorway, the young woman rolled her expressive eyes at the peonies, ranunculus and carnations bouquet. 

“Beks…” Y/n sigh. “Just put it in the guest house, will you? Please.” She asked, and the held up her hand, stopping Bekah from leaving the room. “On second thought, it would be sad to let all those beautiful flowers go to waste, see if you can get a van to transport them all to the nearest nursing home.”

The assistant nodded and was already turning to leave the room and start to making calls when this time it was Harry who stopped her.

“Call Jeff, we have a van to transport instruments that you guys can use.”The musician offers.

“Thank you, H.”The young woman said honestly, with a bit of relief showing in her face.

The former couple turned best friends watch her leave the room before going back to their conversation. 

“Is he still sending you flowers?” He points to where Bekah disappeared with the flowers. 

Y/n just rolls her eyes. “I feel like I can open my own flower shop.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “He’s still blowing my phone.”

“Are you going to talk to him?” Harry takes a sip of his coffee, watching her closely.

“NO!”She says categorically. “I played this back and forth game with Abel, I am not doing it again with Jack.” She sighs. “But I still have to see him at least at the VMA’s, I can’t pull back at the last minute.”

“Shit, I had completely forgot about that.” Sometimes he forgot that she was what the industry called a triple threat: she acts, she dances and she sings, she had already used her voice in three movies. 

With her always dating musicians, it was actually an impressive feat that none before Jack had put her vocals on a track—Harry did, but they aren’t dating at the time he recorded her for TPWK. 

No one ever thought that ‘Into Your Arms’ would blow up the way it did, it was a romantic—that in some ways reflected Y/n and Jack’s relationship at the time—song, and Tik-Tok and Instagram Reels made it a huge sensation.

“Yeah, we have to perform it on the 11th.” She honestly wished there was a shot of vodka in her coffee. “Let’s talk about nice things now, My Love.” She lifts the nearly forgotten script from her lap pushing it towards him. “I need you to do this with me."

{next part}

Taglist: @slutforcoffein ; @lilsiz ; @pandxthings ;

@ameerakane20 ; @angywritesstuff

[gardensofthemoon]

Curufin/Finrod + 21 - on a place of insecurity pls?

21 - on a place of insecurity. prompt list here

“Easy on the firewood, Ingo, do you want to turn your bedchamber into a forge?” groaned Curufin. He stretched, loose-limbed and warmed with pleasure after yet another of their nightly political debates. The furs, which had provided a symphony of sensation during Finrod’s well-put counterargument, were now sticking unpleasantly to his naked skin.

“I’m not,” replied Finrod, “freezing in my own damned bed.” He prodded at the fireplace with a poker until the flames danced merrily sparking with copper-red bursts.

Curufin opened his mouth but found he couldn’t jab at him. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Finrod draped himself with a robe. A thick, velvet robe, his mind supplied, long-sleeved and brushing against the floor.

Far away, outside the stonewall shields of the city, snowstorms were plundering the open fields, covering the frozen earth in white.

Finrod shivered.

“Come here,” said Curufin without thinking. He scooted over, arms opening wide, and Finrod slipped in. He gathered Finrod close and barely suppressed a yelp when Finrod’s icy fingers dug into his rear.

“Warm me up?” Finrod’s usual nonsense made him roll his eyes. He had a mind to question Finrod’s generous collection of seasonal loungewear, or point out the several blankets that had been rucked to the side sometime midway through Curufin’s concluding point. However the hour was late, and liquid-lazy contentment was streaming in his veins. He chose the cleverer option and let Finrod think he was touched by the poor attempt at pillow-talk.

“Don’t laugh,” Finrod whined. Curufin felt Finrod pouting against his cheek, and hid a smile. His hair was tickling him, that was all. “I really am cold.”

“What don’t I do for you,” said Curufin, and kissed Finrod on the tip of his freezing nose.

[terrence-silver]

What kind of nightwear would Terry buy for beloved? And what nightwear would he wear himself 🌙

We pretty much are given a big hint or two on what kind of loungewear and nightwear Terry enjoys and has enjoyed throughout the decades; silk and satin houserobes in demure dark, decadent white or vivid jewel toned colors. Rich. Sophisticated. Classical. All heavy velvets and plush. Embroidered materials. Undoubtedly matching satin trousers underneath with button up shirts for his torso. The type of luxurious pajamas that cost thousands of dollars a pair, all custom commissioned and specifically tailored for Mr. Silver's leisure, of course. Lush fur slippers for his feet, equally as expensive? Yeah, entirely possible. Just like it was possible Terry Silver in the 80's simply slept in the nude. Perhaps, with only his jewelry to keep him company in bed, but in general, Terry's nightwear choices looked a little like this;

As for a beloved of any gender? Their style respectively simply matches what is showcased for Terry Silver above purely for synchronicity's sake, perhaps, with the slight and artistic addition of a monogrammed T.S. embroidered on their dressing gown in symbolically silver thread, right next to their heart, just so it would be known who they belong to, and just so they themselves would never forget it either.

[mrovercomeback]

Kyla Delaney

Sim makeover 3.

She's just gorgeous, try to don't leave her alone. :)

Full CC here:

Outfit:

Milkie dress @belaloallure3

Madison pj

Hailey dress @joancampbell-jcb

Adidas dress #elliesimple

Ella @camuflajesims

Cut out skirt and Top @busra-tr

Dress bd394

Adia loungewear set @simpliciaty-cc

Shoes:

Low top sneakers 07 @jius-sims

Flatform sliders 01

Velvet pointed toe pumps 01

Leather sandals 08

Leather pumps 06

Vans old skool @darte77

Hair:

Vintage curly hair @wingssims

Makeup:

Skin @sclub-privee

Lips

Lips 2

Eyebrows

Eye contacts 77 @sims3melancholic

Eyelashes @mmsims

Body preset @o--b-s-c-u-r-u--s

Eye preset 5f

Accessories:

Nails @sclub-privee

Others:

Zodiac Sign + add on

You can download the sim on my gallery.

[brokenhardies]

WIP... Thursday???

i was tagged by @sith-as-heck! while i have two wips running (decode chap 17 and foolsuke chap 2) foolsukes the one ive been working on so here we go!

also taglist here;

@darth-caillic​ @sterling-writes​ @ryutabas​ @reirvival​ @arrthurpendragon​ @foxesandmagic​​ (want to be added or removed? send an ask or a dm!)

“Master, the patient is awake.”

The contralto voice that woke Yusuke up should’ve been the most surprising thing about what happened. That, however, was closely followed by their attire – instead of the loungewear they went to sleep in, they looked down to see they were wearing a pure white straightjacket, their hands strapped behind their back.  They tried to wriggle their way loose, but found that they couldn’t, hands tied. They quickly slid down the bed they’d been lying on – it was closer to a mattress than the cardboard box with a futon they had been lying on, and looked in front of them. That was glass. It seemed almost perspex, something that couldn’t be broken through.

It took them a second to realize that, aside from the previous voice, they were not alone in this location. A hunchback old man sat behind a steel table, rapping his fingers against it, nearly causing Yusuke’s eardrums to burst. If it weren’t for the dim light of the room, they would’ve noticed that strapped across the old man’s head was a collection of bandages, as if covering a recent head wound. 

“Welcome, trickster, to my Velvet Room.” 

His face was almost carved open, like a Jack O’ Lantern. It was an unsettling smile, causing Yusuke to tremble, but they tried to appear brave. In spite of the fact their hands were tied, they could still try to break out. They pushed against the glass wall, struggling to move it and make a run for it. Had they been kidnapped by this strange old man? Probably, but considering how quickly it would’ve taken to get them undressed and redressed – and they were a surprisingly light sleeper – it was becoming unlikely by the second. Okay, it’s a nightmare then. A really strange nightmare.

“Don’t bother, Patient,” The contralto voice from earlier said, causing Yusuke’s head to turn. A woman stood to the left of their cell. “The glass of your cell is unbreakable. And besides, it’s unlikely to break while you’re inside.” 

Their eyes widened as they saw a tall woman standing to the right of their ‘cell’, as she called it. She had pale, silver hair and glowing yellow eyes. Her hair was loose, which contrasted with the surprisingly… Constrained attire that she wore. A simple dark blue dress beneath a white apron, formal black shoes and a simple white nurse cap. Ah, so she was the nurse in this strange location. 

[ilovelisasstuff]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Lululemon High-Rise leggings *Crushed Velvet - Size 8.