brocade pattern

Harry in Nashville | September 25, 2017

Custom Gucci Suit

Harry wore another custom Gucci suit for his performance at the Ryman Auditorium, this time in a brown floral brocade pattern with a white silk blouse and Gucci horsebit boots

Thanks to a well-timed fan photo, we got a glimpse of the tags inside. Gucci jackets have a small black label that states the jacket’s cut, like ‘Heritage’ or ‘Monaco’. If we squint, it looks like his says ‘Harry Styles’. What do you think?

Cup of Tea

I wrote this, like so much of what I have backlogged, a little over a month ago. It was largely inspired by the filth @inkedferns and I spew at each other, much of which happens when we don’t even have the excuse of being intoxicated. I wasn’t going to post it just yet, especially not so soon after It’s About Chances, but I was feeling #thirsty today, so…. It’s… it’s PWP. There’s no purpose. Just smut. x. 

Warnings: Daddy!Kink. Explicit. It’s not the most hardcore daddy!kink ever written, but there’s no beating around the bush. So, if it isn’t your cup of tea (Harry’s not the only one with jokes), you might want to skip out. 

There’s also spankings, and there’s a reason I have a “rings on please” tag”. This was the chicken to the egg.

You don’t try to piss Harry off very much. You love your happy, smiley, doting boyfriend. He’d been absolutely thrilled when he said the next stop on the tour was near you (relatively speaking) and you offered to fly to see him. You’re not sure you’ll ever forget how he’d hugged you so tightly he’d lifted you inches from the floor in the airport, and you’d been hoping to hold onto that version of him.

The thing is, he’s not even looking up from his phone. You’re in his suite in his hotel – a beautiful suite in a beautiful hotel – and he’s not even looking at you. He’s lounging in his chair at the breakfast table, still in his pajamas of a t-shirt and boxers with you adjacent to him, snickering and snorting as he scrolls through text messages and Twitter and tries to find the perfect, one line, corny as all hell joke that will fit inside of 140 characters. His social media accounts have become art for him – fitting The Aesthetic Trend very neatly – and it amuses him to curate them so carefully.

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Commission of Sith!Obi-Wan for the ever-delightful @soartfullydone

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE and thank you for commissioning me! He was hella fun to do and oh my god lighting and holocrons and brocade patterns and slowly-bleeding-from-blue-to-red-eyes OH MY

Commission info is here, if anyone is interested - currently 3 spots are filled but more are open!

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Various fabrics used in the UK Rooftop dresses, 1986-2017

  1. 1986-1989: Purplish pink brocade with small floral pattern and metallic sheen (Sarah Brightman, Claire Moore, Maria Kesselman, Rebecca Caine, Jan Hartley Morris, possibly Jill Washington and Shona Lindsay)
  2. 1989-1996: Beaded and sequined lace over a blue or silvery fundament (Jill Washington, Shona Lindsay, Lisa Hull, Nikki Ankara, Nicky Adams, Megan Kelly)
  3. Ditto
  4. 1997-1999: Multicoloured floral print (chintz?) with silvery sheen (Myrra Malmberg, Meredith Braun, Zoë Curlett. Also used in the Restaged US Tour by Celia Hottenstein and Kaitlyn Davis)
  5. 2000-2004: Transparent pink “rose” fabric over a silver brocade (Charlotte Page, Deborah Dutcher, Celia Graham, Ana Marina, Claire Louise Hammacott, Katie Knight-Adams, Robyn North. Also used in the Restaged Tour by Katie Hall, Julia Udine and Grace Morgan)
  6. 2004-2010: Transparent embroidered floral organza over a mint fundament (Rachel Barrell, Sofia Escobar, Robyn North, Leila Benn Harris,
  7. 2008-2011: Pink brocade with metallic flowers (Gina Beck, Robyn North, Katy Treharne, Katie Hall)
  8. 2012-2017: Mint brocade with pink flowers and gold details (Katie Hall, Sofia Escobar, Anna O’Byrne, Olivia Brereton, Sierra Boggess, Celinde Schoenmaker, Harriet Jones, Emmi Christensson, Claire Doyle, Lisa-Anne Wood, Maria Coyne, )
  9. 2017-2018: Bright pink brocade with paler pink and gold acanthus pattern (Harriet Jones, Amy Manford)

Note: the lists might not include every single wearer, just those I’ve seen depictions of. The years given is also a bit of an estimate; it shows when the dresses were MADE, but not necessarily how long they stayed in use.

It had been an accident.

A simple mistake – Damien had misread the time for Open Mic night – and it had cost them the chance to listen to some of Maple Bay’s most eclectic music. But Mat had taken pity on his friends. Smiling broadly as he unlocked the door, Mat let Damien and Hugo into the Coffee Spoon, broom in hand.

“Hey! You missed all the excitement.”

Mat regretted those words the minute they escaped him. Damien’s face twisted in disappointment, and Hugo’s expression didn’t much differ.

“I…yeah…of course you knew that. Wow, I just rubbed that in, didn’t I? I am so sorry. And now I’m doing that thing again where I can’t seem to stop talking-“

“It is quite all right, Mat.” Damien gently interrupted. “Hugo and I had planned to be here for this musical extravaganza. We had been so looking forward to such a relaxing evening. If I had not misread the poster…”

“Trust me, you didn’t miss too much.” Mat had been about to expound on the current antics of Jonathan Jones and the Speakeasy Choir, but Hugo’s noticeable silence had struck him. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but Hugo looked as though he definitely needed some R&R.

“Hey, it’s uh…gonna be a while. I just got started on cleanup. Why don’t you guys take a load off?”

Mat was sure they’d protest, but instead, Hugo’s face broadened into a relieved smile. “You’d be all right if we just…sat and talked?”

“I’d even bring you a Chai Antwoord.”

Hugo wrinkled his nose. “You know, it’s pronounced-“

Mat waved his hand as he walked behind the Coffee Spoon’s bar. “I’m gonna change it eventually.”

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HighSpecs Week: The Sweetest Torture

Prompt: Nightmares / First Time

Author’s Note: A period piece AU where Ignis and the guys are in an undercover jazz band, and Aranea longs to be a singer. Imagine 30s/40s big band meets WWII meets Eos. Ignis plays the saxophone. Aranea gets hot and bothered by it.

AO3 Version


The Silver Gil was hazy with cigarette smoke, the scent mixing with expensive perfumes and cheap thrills. The dark walls were covered in ornate wallpaper, with dim lamps on the tables that dotted the venue highlighting its tonal brocade patterns. Signs were lit up as decoration, regaling patrons with encouragements like “Just Kiss Already” and “Make Tonight Count.”

And that is exactly what Aranea was going to do. She wasn’t here for the jazz, after all.

Well, not exactly. She was here to see the Royal Insomniacs, yes, but not for their renowned big band tunes. She was here for the people they would attract—namely, Gralea’s greatest music managers and producers. After all, it wasn’t every day in this time of war that a famous foreign band was invited to play at Gralea’s most exclusive speakeasy.

The thing was, Aranea was dying to get on that stage. She had talent and she knew it. She could play a piano with such passion and intensity, throwing all of her often-hidden emotions into it, and her sultry voice was a treat to anyone that bothered to listen. It’s just that no one bothered. It was hard to get a break in Niflheim; there was simply too much competition.

Aranea grabbed a drink at the bar—a double shot of whiskey, straight, for courage—and she settled at a small round table in a good spot. Not so close to the stage so as to seem desperate, but not so far that she’d be hidden in blackness. She wasn’t sure how she was going to mingle with the right people yet, but just being here was a good start. It hadn’t been easy finding out the password for the door either, but she had a few connections.

The place was getting crowded, with the show slated to start soon. The seat across the table from Aranea was still empty, until a figure appeared.

“Excuse me, but is anyone sitting here?” said a refined accent.

Aranea looked up to find a tall and slim man standing there, his long white hair in a ponytail. She would have recognized that figure anywhere: Ravus Nox Fleuret, manager of the top musical acts in the country. Aranea’s breath hitched, but she pinched her thigh subtly, reminding herself to play it cool.

“Yeah, go for it,” she drawled, taking a sip of her whiskey.

“No date tonight?” Ravus said.

“Nope. I’m just here for the Royal Insomniacs.”

“Ah, a fine choice. Where are my manners, my name is Ravus.”

He held out a hand.

“I’m Aranea.”

She took his hand and met his eyes. She knew what must be going through his mind—her sparkly, low-cut black dress and red lips were intended for a specific effect, and he was taking the bait. Good.  

“So, Aranea, what do you do when you’re not—”

Suddenly a loud drumming interrupted them and the lights dimmed, and they both looked at the stage to see a spotlight hit a skinny blonde warming up on the percussions. He grinned like a kid with a new toy, though he clearly knew his way around his instrument with speedy precision.

Next, a bass line began to play and the spotlight focused on a tall man holding the upright bass and strumming with his fingers. He was dressed in a simple black button shirt, and his hair was tied back in a refined ponytail.

The spotlight hit the grand piano next, with a black-haired young man playing in a way that made Aranea envious. He moved so elegantly across the keys, fingers feather-light yet creating such a beautifully intentional sound.

But that was nothing compared to what came next. A soft single note started from the dark area left in the middle of the stage, rising slowly as the other instruments supported it. The spotlight began to glow, highlighting a tall and slim man with his saxophone, playing this single note that was so alluring in its simplicity and perfection. Then, as the light came to its full strength, the saxophonist sprang that single note to life into something complex and positively mind-blowing. His fingers moved deftly, his diaphragm contracting with each powerful breath.

Aranea’s jaw dropped. She heard they were good, but this was something else. The band’s mastery left her in the dust, and she understood why she wasn’t the one on that stage. Instead, this foreign band had been allowed here, despite concerns over spies, because they were just that good.

A couple of songs in, and Aranea had all but forgotten her prestigious tablemate. She was spellbound by every instrument and note from the band. But, more than anything, she was mesmerized by the saxophonist. He wore sunglasses even in the dark, but she didn’t need to see his eyes to feel the emotions with which he was playing.

As they finished their latest song, the saxophonist took the mic for the first time.

“Hello everyone, and thank you for coming out. We are the Royal Insomniacs, as you know.”

There was a cheer from the crowd.

“We’re going to take things in a slightly different direction,” he continued. 

“We’re going to play a new song, something a bit… slower.”

The way he said that last word made Aranea sink into her chair a little.

The drumbeat came in softly. The bass found a most sensual combination of notes. The piano played a very suggestive chord progression. And the saxophonist came in almost painfully slowly, teasing Aranea and practically leaving her begging for more, like a kiss that wouldn’t come.

Aranea found herself focusing on the saxophonist’s lips as he blew into his instrument. It was a beautiful mouth, and the little bit of sweat in his Cupid’s bow made her lick her lips. She followed a trail of sweat from his temple, down his cheekbone, and over his strong jawline. She followed it over the muscles twitching on his neck, and watched it disappear under his shirt collar. He wore suspenders, and as he offered up more beautiful notes on his sax, Aranea imagined grabbing those suspenders and pulling him on top of her.

She rubbed her thighs against each other and noticed she was throbbing. She felt wetness on her underwear. Her neck pulsed noticeably.

The saxophonist found even more alluring notes, teasing and sensual and low. She felt it going straight into her deepest regions. She watched his slender fingers now, imagining licking them and then putting them between her legs. He would slide into her with ease, she was so wet.

Aranea squirmed in her seat as subtly as possible. She moved closer under the table, hoping to shield her actions with it. Her dress had a long slit, and before she could think it through, her hand was sliding under. She found herself, drawing little circles on her wet panties with her finger.

She kept watching the saxophonist as she touched herself and pretended that it was him doing this to her—and really, it was. He had a way of playing she had never seen before, and each note reverberated deep within her till her fingers were under her panties and slipping inside.

It was almost like the saxophonist knew exactly what he was doing to her, knew the perfect pace she needed, cause he seemed to face her and play for her alone. He worked her up into a frenzy, and Aranea worked her finger furiously while trying to keep her arm as still as possible. Sweat dripped down her brow, but the saxophonist wouldn’t dare let up and give her a moment to catch her breath. He just played at her faster and harder, till she was almost there.  

And that’s when the music stopped.

The drums ceased. The bass simmered out. The piano never existed. Just a single note of the saxophone echoed in the air as the musician took his lips away from the mouthpiece. It was a perfect torture.

Aranea gave him a look, as if how dare he. How dare he stop now. Finish the song dammit, she thought. Fucking finish it.

As if he could hear her begging, the saxophonist smiled at her, just a subtle smirk, but she got the message. He slowly placed his lips back on the mouthpiece and took a breath in, but waited.

And waited.

And then released the most perfectly explosive note as the other instruments joined in, and Aranea gasped as her finger sprang back to life and brought her to a shaking mess of an orgasm. A sound left her own mouth, a note perfectly harmonized with the saxophone, and heat washed over her.

As the music faded out sweetly and softly, Aranea pulled her hand out from under her dress, absentmindedly grabbing a napkin from the table and wiping her fingers as she kept her eyes on the saxophonist. They were both panting in time, their gaze upon one another.

“I hope you enjoyed that song,” the saxophonist said into the mic, never taking his eyes off her, and Aranea nodded to him in response. Something hung in the air a moment.

“Onto our next number then,” he said, perking up and seemingly snapping out of whatever had just happened. “This one is a bit more upbeat.”

As the band continued, Aranea’s senses returned to her, and she couldn’t quite believe what she had done. She looked at Ravus, and he seemed oblivious. She looked around her shoulder, and no one else paid her any mind.

She looked at the saxophonist again, brows furrowing. Who did he think he was? No one had ever made her come like this before. There was a first time for everything.

The Whispered Wish

Invites you to join us for our grand re opening! We recently moved from our old plot to a large, don’t worry, not too far… we’re now at Ward Nine, plot Forty Three! To celebrate our tremendous success, and in an effort to thank you for bringing it to us, we’re hosting a Picnic Basket Auction!


When? 6PM PDT, 9PM EST Saturday September 16th!

Where? Ward 9, Plot 43 of The Goblet! The new location of The Whispered Wish!

What? Well you heard me, a picnic basket auction! You’ll get a chance to come bid on a picnic basket, without knowing who exactly MADE that picnic basket… See, several of our wonderful staff here at The Wish made these baskets with their own desires and hearts in mind, so if you like a basket enough to bid on it, bid on it! If you play your cards right, perhaps you’ll even get to take the basket -maker- with you on an illustrious picnic date.

Who? YOU!

Keep reading below the break to see some of our wonderful picnic baskets that are going up for auction!

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anonymous asked:

Can you do the zip me prompt with QuiObiAni Sith Au please. You're writing is amazing

OH GOSH I just realized you requested QuiObiAni AU stuff! MAN. This is just regular Obikin fic but I’ll be sure to add some clothing specific stuff to the AU. I’m sorry anon. <3 


Obi-Wan stared at himself in the mirror, eyes narrowed. A delicate chain stretched across his forehead, disappearing into his hair. His robes were pale blue and made of heavy brocade, the silver pattern shining dully in the bright lights. The sleeves, by contrast, were pale, thin gossamer; every move Obi-Wan made showed glimpses of skin.

Obi-Wan should have expected something like this. This marriage was a statement of power for Anakin. The entire affair would be over the top, an excuse to display his wealth and and splendor, as well as an excuse to show off his new pet Jedi.

Wincing away from that thought, Obi-Wan looked down at his hands. All but his fingertips were covered by the thin fabric. A good way to make fighting more difficult, Obi-Wan thought, although the force inhibitors would do the job well enough.

When he looked back up, Obi-Wan realized he was no longer alone. He held his surprise well enough, he thought, and met Anakin’s gaze in the mirror.

Anakin held the heavy, opulent tunic that was to go over his robes. Obi-Wan noticed, bitterly and ashamed for it, that the tunic didn’t have sleeves; it seemed he would have to come to terms with his nearly bare arms.

“Surely all this isn’t necessary,” Obi-Wan said but submitted to having the robes draped over his shoulders. Arguing wouldn’t change anything.  

“Necessary, no,” Anakin said, reaching around to knot the tie at Obi-Wan’s waist. “But desired, yet. And what I desire, I get.” His hands smoothed down the thick fabric of the tunic before landing on Obi-Wan’s hips. Anakin leaned forward, a line of heat down Obi-Wan’s back, and cautiously nuzzled against his hair, careful not to disturb the chain. Obi-Wan froze in his embrace, although he kept his face carefully blank. When Anakin finally pulled away, it was only to take Obi-Wan’s shoulders and turn him around.

Obi-Wan shuddered at the intensity of Anakin’s gaze and he frowned, finding it difficult to meet. “What are you doing?”

Anakin smiled. “Admiring my consort.”

Obi-Wan fixed his gaze at a point over Anakin’s left shoulder. “Oh, of course,” he said. “Don’t bother asking how your consort feels about being manhandled.”

Laughing, Anakin leaned closer. “Such a flair for dramatics,” he said, which Obi-Wan thought was an outrageous and downright hypocritical claim. “This certainly doesn’t count as manhandling.” He cupped Obi-Wan’s cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “When I manhandle you, you’ll know it.”

Despite his resolve to not allow Anakin to get to him, Obi-Wan felt his cheeks heat up and he turned his face to the side. Anakin forced Obi-Wan to turn back to him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t hide from me.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Am I not allowed the privacy of my own thoughts and emotions?” he asked tonelessly.

Anakin pulled away and Obi-Wan despaired to know he was deciding how to answer the question. Anakin stared at him for a moment before cocking his head to one side. “While there is to be no secrets between us, you are allowed to have your own thoughts and emotions.”

“How magnanimous of my lord,” Obi-Wan said, and immediately regretted the snark when Anakin’s eyes darkened. 

“You agreed to this!” Anakin said. “You know me better than anyone else in the galaxy, Obi-Wan, and you agreed to this.”

“For the good of the galaxy,” Obi-Wan said. “I didn’t agree because I wanted to, to belong to you! I agreed because this was the ultimatum you ordered, Anakin! This is what you wanted. If it weren’t for that….” Obi-Wan paused, taking a deep, trembling breath. “If it weren’t for that, I would never have come here. I would never be yours.”

There was silence between them for a moment. “That’s where you’re wrong, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said. “And we both know it. You’ve belonged to me for a long, long time.” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Obi-Wan’s, his hands heavy on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “Remember how it was, when it was just the two of us against the universe?” he murmured. “When we were constantly on missions and had no one but each other. We belonged to each other, you and I. Do you remember?”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes but he could still feel Anakin’s heat, his breath against his face. “Of course I do. But things are different now-”

“They don’t have to be,” Anakin interrupted. “I’m doing what I’ve always done. Whatever’s best for the galaxy. I know you don’t believe me now but you’ll understand soon.” He cupped Obi-Wan’s cheeks in his hands, smiling. “I’ll make you see.”

He believed it. Obi-Wan could tell, from the quiet fervor in his gaze and the resolution in his smile, that Anakin absolutely believed what he was saying. Obi-Wan found the delusion terrifying. But was worse than Anakin’s perfect belief was Obi-Wan’s momentary desire to accept it.

But he would not. He was not falter at the face of this seduction. As Anakin offered his arm, as Obi-Wan took it, as they walked from the dressing room, Obi-Wan chanted quietly in his mind that he would not get swept away.

And once again, he ignored the quiet voice that suggested this was the best possible way to drown.

Atlas Safehouse DETAILED DESCRIPTION

Hi Bioshock community!

I have noticed that, within this fandom, there are a lot of stories, drawings and roleplay that take place primarily within Atlas’ safehouse. I am writing some Jatlas myself and I realized I wanted to have more than just a vague memory of what this place looked like, so I hopped into the game and went there. 

What follows is a very, very detailed description of Atlas’ safehouse in Hestia Chambers. 

I don’t know if anyone will care, but for other Jatlas writers, or for anyone who writes Atlas fiction or roleplays as Atlas, it might come in handy as a resource. 

Description under the cut. 

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