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dippedanddripped · 2 years

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Bespoke clothing company 5001 Flavors and its retail location Harlem Haberdashery are celebrating two anniversaries — 30 Years of 5001 FLAVORS and 10 Years of Harlem Haberdashery — with special events and upcoming collaborative partnerships with The Museum at FIT and the Museum of the City of New York.

ABOVE: Entrance of Harlem Haberdashery / Driely Vieira

“The Museum at FIT (MFIT) is thrilled by the recent donation from 5001 FLAVORS, which represents Guy and Sharene Wood’s significant influence on fashion, hip hop style, and popular culture. These pieces will be prominently featured in the upcoming exhibition Fresh, Fly, and Fabulous: Fifty Years of Hip Hop Style (opening January 2023), and will be a part of MFIT’s permanent Hip Hop Style Archive. Preserving these fashion objects ensures that scholars, researchers, and future MFIT exhibition audiences can access 5001 FLAVORS’ one-of-a-kind creations, which have helped shape and tell the story of hip hop style and American culture,” says Elizabeth Way, Associate Curator, The Museum at FIT.

“We are honored to celebrate these milestone anniversaries, proud to have expanded into our various lifestyles brands, and excited to see what’s next for 5001 FLAVORS, Harlem Haberdashery, and the #FirstFamilyOfFashion,” says Sharene Wood, President & CEO of 5001 FLAVORS and Harlem Haberdashery.

Sharene and her husband Guy Wood, Sr., along with partners Kells Barnett, Louis Johnson, Jr., Ashlee Muhammad, and Guy Wood, Jr., will commemorate these special anniversaries with the following in-person and virtual activations and events (with more to be announced):

Harlem Haberdashery presents The Harlem Derby Harlem Haberdashery, 245 Lenox Ave at 122 St., NYC Saturday, May 7, 2022 | 3 – 9 PM Free | 21+ over with ID to receive Maker’s Mark® cocktails

Inspired by the Kentucky Derby, Harlem Haberdashery will welcome elected officials, celebrities, and notables to celebrate its award-winning and critically acclaimed boutique as a pillar of community, culture, and commerce for 10 years. The public event encourages all to look their Derby best while enjoying cocktails sponsored by Maker’s Mark. Light bites and fun photos from day to night including the legendary brownstone group photo!

NYCxDESIGN Self-Guided Tours Harlem Haberdashery, 245 Lenox Ave. at 122 St., NYC 10027 May 10 – 20th Free

Harlem Haberdashery will participate in the 10th annual New York design week with NYCxDESIGN’s Self-Guided Journeys, an interactive online platform that uncovers the engine of creativity across New York City’s five boroughs–featuring design studios, architectural facades, cultural institutions, creative landmarks, restaurants, and more.

Cocktails & Culture Museum of the City of New York, 1220 Fifth Ave. at 104th St., NYC Thursday, June 16, 2022 | 6 – 9 PM Free

In celebration of Harlem Haberdashery’s 10th anniversary, the lifestyle brand extension HH Bespoke Spirits, the award-winning craft spirits collection, will be the featured spirits during MCNY Juneteenth-inspired public program. The evening will feature HH Bespoke Spirits complimentary tasting (6-7 PM) and craft cocktails throughout the evening.

Uptown Bounce! Summer Stylin’ featuring 5001 FLAVORS Museum of the City of New York, 1220 Fifth Ave. at 103rd Street Thursday, July 21 | 6 – 9 PM Free

To celebrate 30 years of 5001 FLAVORS, MCNY welcomes back 5001 FLAVORS to feature six live mannequins wearing 5001 FLAVORS ensembles created within their illustrious 30-year career. The evening will consist of a soundscape featuring 5001 FLAVORS artists played by Mobile Monday’s DJ Misbehaviour with cocktails served throughout the evening.

Fresh, Fly, and Fabulous: Fifty Years of Hip Hop Style The Museum at FIT, 27th and Seventh Ave., NYC January 2023

5001 FLAVORS will be featured in this groundbreaking, free exhibition that celebrates the 50th anniversary of the birth of hip hop by examining the roots and history of hip hop fashion from its inception to the present time. Co-curated by hip hop style scholar and journalist, FIT professor Elena Romero and MFIT assistant curator Elizabeth Way.

#harlem haberdashery #5001 flavors #fashion institute of technology #Fresh Fly and Fabulous: Fifty Years of Hip Hop Style The Museum at FIT #nyc hiphop #hiphop fashion brands #sharene woods

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 5 months

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Something Borrowed

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1.5k Summary: An addition to Best Intentions. Read as a standalone, if you'd like.

Author's note: A birthday gift for @hoosbandewan - husband Tom on your birthday. Happy birthday, Erin! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“God’s got bigger things to worry about than me makin’ an honest woman outta ya,” Tom had told her with a wink. “Besides, the money we save we can put towards a bigger do. Would rather everyone have a few beers and sarnies to celebrate, than sit in a stuffy church with their arses going to sleep.”

That had settled it. Her and Tom were to have a registry office wedding, with a reception at The Ducie Arms afterwards.

Even without money being as tight as it is she knows that this is what they would always have chosen. It’s just irrevocably them. Theirs is not a love born of grand gestures and material possessions. They share a soul connection, a lifetime of scraped knees, shared sweets, building their lives around each other, growing together. They are already two halves of the same whole, this is simply the string that ties it all together.

Despite keeping the ceremony itself modest, she feels like a princess as she stands in front of the mirror, her mum behind her fastening the last few buttons on the back of her wedding dress, as she places the last of the pins in her hair.

They’d gotten a deal at the haberdashery on some end cuts of lace and satin, and her mum had worked her magic with her sewing machine. The dress looks shop bought.

She smiles as she smooths her hands over the skirt, taking in the high neckline and draped sleeves, grateful that she’d woken early enough to clasp herself into the lingerie and slip that lies beneath - a wedding night treat for Tom - before her mum had arrived to help her get ready.

It had been a struggle to get out of bed that morning. Her mum, Lois and Connie had all popped round to the flat the previous evening to make sandwiches for the reception. She’d been half way through spreading margarine on a slice of bread when Connie had produced a bottle of gin from her bag.

“Well, if Tom and the rest of the lads are all at the pub, why shouldn’t we?” Connie had asked with a smile as Lois had rushed to get glasses down from the kitchen cupboard.

The pounding in her head the next day tells her exactly why she shouldn’t have. She wonders if Tom is in as much of a sorry state as she is. Thankfully, her make-up does a good job of hiding it.

Tom has called in a favour with a customer at the garage, so she can travel to the registry office in style. She has to stifle a laugh behind her hand as the sleek black motorcar pulls up outside the shop to pick her up. It’s the exact same one that her and Tom had vigorously made up in the back of.

As she slides onto the seat, gathering her skirt so that it doesn’t catch in the door, the memory of Tom laying between her thighs replays in her mind, causing her skin to heat up.

“Everything alright?” Her mum asks, climbing in next to her. “You look a bit flustered.”

She blinks, swallowing and nodding, startled out of her reverie. “Yeah, Mum, bit nervous is all.”

Tom stops fidgeting with his tie knot the moment he sees her, a grin spreading across his face as she walks towards him and the registrar. He lets out a low whistle as she stops beside him, turning to face him. She bows her head, giggling. She feels like a school girl all over again.

Time seems to stand still for her as she gazes into Tom’s blue eyes, not really registering the words being spoken, or the vows she utters in response, fixated only on Tom’s beaming smile. Once more he is that little boy, face full of sunshine and the sweetest little rabbit teeth she’s ever seen.

Except now he is hers. Her husband. She is a wife.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Tom mutters, surging forward once they are told they can kiss.

He grasps the back of her neck, pressing his lips to hers in a motion that steals the air from her lungs. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, smiling into it, her heart fluttering just as it had the first time they’d ever kissed. In a way, this is a first too, the first of many things they’ll share as a married couple.

“Hello, Mrs. Bennett,” he whispers against her lips when they finally part for breath.

The words have heat pooling between her legs almost instantly. She is certain she’ll never tire of hearing them.

As everyone heads in the direction of The Ducie Arms, she is confused when Tom pulls her back in the direction of the shop.

“What you doing?” She asks, brow furrowing as she resists his gentle tug on her arm.

“Left something in the flat, need to go back for it,” he tells her, nodding his head in the direction he wants to go.

“Can’t you just quickly go back for it on your own, and meet me at the pub?”

He shakes his head, tugging at her hand again. “Need you to help me, come on.”

She sighs, relenting and allowing him to pull her along. “We’re gonna be late to our own wedding reception.”

Tom smirks, glancing sideways at her. “They’ll wait, they have to.”

As soon as they’re home, he’s upon her, backing her up towards the bedroom as his hands grasp her waist and his lips find hers.

She giggles between hurried kisses, their breaths intermingling. “Is this what you forgot then?”

Tom pushes her back against the mattress, placing hot, opened mouthed kisses against her throat. “You look so good in that dress, darlin’, couldn’t wait any longer.”

She gasps as her hands slide up her skirt, bunching it at her hips. He leans back, arching a brow appreciatively at the white lingerie he finds beneath. His fingers hook beneath the strap that attaches her stocking to her garter belt and pull back slightly before letting go. It snaps against the flesh of her thigh, making her squeal.

“Tommy, we can’t!” She protests. “I’m wearing things that I won’t be able to put back on if you take them off.”

“Why ever would I take ‘em off?” He asks mockingly, cocking his head. “It’d be a waste.”

She whines as, forcefully, he pushes the gusset of her knickers to one side, swiping through her slick folders, grinning at the wetness he finds. “Gonna make us late to our own wedding reception with this. Naughty, naughty.”

Writhing against the bed, she no longer cares for her fancy lingerie, or if she rumples her dress, not when she hears the metallic clink of Tom’s belt buckle opening. The noise travels straight to her core, causing her to clench around nothing, until finally he’s lining himself up against her entrance and pressing inside. No matter how many times her and Tom make love she’ll never get used to the exquisite torture of that first initial stretch. It robs her of all coherent thought every time, only able to focus on the feeling of him pushing her walls apart.

She expects him to be quick and brutal with her, but he stills once he’s fully inside, resting his forehead against hers. It’s comforting to have him this close, just to feel the weight of him.

As she runs her hands down his back, met with the wiry yet solid expanse of muscle, she’s taken back to a time when he first returned from France and was so thin she could feel every vertebrae in his spine. This is testament to how far he’s come, how far they’ve come; not just the weight he’s put back on, but that he’s healed enough to be in a place where can be someone’s husband, and he has chosen to be hers.

Feeling a prickle of tears in her eyes, she blinks them back, feeling embarrassed when one strays its way down her cheek, until she looks back up into Tom’s eyes to see his are similarly wet.

He holds her close, he takes his time with her. It’s gentle, unhurried, and full of love.

“I love you, Mrs. Bennett,” he whispers to her.

They are late to their reception, but met with rapturous applause as they enter through the pub doors nonetheless. They drink lager, and eat spam sandwiches, and Tom treads on her feet when they attempt to slow dance to ‘Sentimental Journey’ by Doris Day. She can’t imagine a more perfect evening, that is until Tom guides her outside.

They walk back towards the wall, their wall and Tom helps her up onto it, before sitting beside her. Her legs don’t dangle as high from the floor as they used to, and it’s odd to look down and see her legs draped in white lace, instead of littered with scrapes and bruises.

She grins when she turns to Tom, watching as he produces a paper bag of sherbet straws from his inside jacket pocket. “Just wanted to say thanks for helping me with my maths homework fifteen years ago,” he says with a cheeky smile, “Mates, yeah?”

Warmth spreads throughout her chest as she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Always.”

#tom bennett x reader #tom bennett smut #tom bennett fluff #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett x you #tom bennett imagine #tom bennett #tom bennett world on fire #world on fire tom bennett #tom bennett fan fiction #ewan mitchell #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #tom bennett fan fic #world on fire #world on fire fan fiction #world on fire fanfiction #world on fire fanfic #world on fire fan fic

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beansprean · 1 year

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Art for the Exchangeapalooza gift I got from dear @yougoadedme!!! Ranch N' Rider Weekly: Special Edition - please go read it it's so good

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Full body of Marwa dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, and a pink flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. She has one boot up on the bottom slat of a wooden fence and one hand braced on the top slat, the other in her hip as she grins into the distance. The background behind her is a rolling green field and rows of pine trees in watercolor. She is wearing a gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring.

2. Waist up of the Djinn, human, on a vague purple background, dressed in a flannel version of his salmon shirt tucked into his usual brown trousers. He is smiling indulgently, looking up over his glasses and holding up a bottle of margarita mix in one hand and tequila in the other. The margarita mix reads "EZ Margs - Delicious Margaritas at the snap of your fingers." The Djinn says, "I live to serve...liquor." He is also wearing a gold wedding band.

3. Guillermo sitting at a coffee table on a vague real background. There are a few black playing cards with white writing sitting on the table and Guillermo is on the side closest to the viewer, topless, and turned around to face the viewer with a sour expression. His face is flushed red and sweating, eyes darting away from the image before him. The image before him is this: human Nandor, having leaped fully onto the table in a crouched position in nothing but a white jock strap with pink hearts, flexing both of his arms with a triumphant grin and crowing, "I win!!"

4. Close up of human Colin Robinson, aged about 7 or 8, wearing a green flannel open over a red tee shirt. He is grinning excitedly, eyes shining, as he places a cowboy hat with a beaded turquoise band over his head. No less than five speech bubbles full of unintelligible babbling surround him.

5a. Nandor and Guillermo stand in a paddock, the former wearing a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up tucked into jeans with a silver horse belt buckle and the latter wearing a blue embroidered western shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a light brown cowboy hat. Nandor has his back to Guillermo's front and a leather bridle looped around his neck and shoulders. He holds the bit in his hands, but the ear strap is pressing directly into his throat. Behind him, Guillermo is holding the reins in both fists and is pulling them taut so Nandor is forced to lean back into him. Nandor's face is flushed, expression dazed and struggling to be stern but clearly not altogether displeased with the situation. He mumbles, "Guillermo, what...are you doing?" Guillermo's eyes are wide and wild, as if he isn't fully in control of his actions, face red and sweating profusely. 5b. Behind them, Colin, wearing a red cowboy hat with a strap and a long sleeved yellow shirt under an orange tee shirt that says 'Lego my Eggo' with a picture of a Lego waffle, stares at his uncles from atop a horse. The horse, Glitterfoot, is gray with a lighter mane and darker nose and ears, a white blaze down his face. He is properly tacked up western style, the reins in Colin's loose hands. Glitterfoot is also staring at the other two men, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he and Colin await instructions.

6. Guillermo and Derek sit across from each other at a table in a bar. A neon sign on the wall says "Sassy Cat Bar & Grill & Tack & Feed & Haberdashery. Mon-Sat 9am-12pm 2pm-2am" Guillermo, wearing an untucked red-violet flannel and jeans, is sitting with his back to the viewer. The back of his wooden chair has a burnt-on design of a rearing horse with a cat on its back, wearing spurred boots and waving a cowboy hat in the air. The Guide, human, leans one hip on their table and stares at Guillermo with a flirtatious grin, pen and notepad poised and awaiting their order. She is wearing a sparkly black beret, hoop earrings, a black and purple flannel shirt mostly unbuttoned tucked into a high waisted jean skirt, a gold horse belt buckle, and sparkly black thigh high cowboy boots. Her hair is curled and teased out big and poofy. Human Derek, sitting across from Guillermo in a brick red Henley and jeans, leans his crossed arms on the table and grins expectantly at Guillermo, waiting for him to react. Guillermo's shoulders are hunched up defensively and he has his face half turned away from the Guide toward the viewer, flushed and sweating nervously. /End ID

#wwdits #nandermo #mlm #mardjinn #baby colin robinson #ranch au #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #fic rec

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rehfan · 1 year

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New Ralph Penbury fic…. This is only chapter one. More to follow!

The Hat Shop Girl

Inexperienced!Ralph Penbury x Fem!Reader/AFAB!Reader

Summary: You were working as a clerk in a hat shop when Ralph Penbury walked into your life. Nothing was ever the same.

Tags: Under 18 - DO NOT READ PLEASE, Eventual smut, slow burn, class differences, fantasies, implied/references to drug use, sexual inexperience, first kiss, first French kiss, vaginal fingering, nipple play, PIV sex, blow jobs, cream pie.

Read the story on AO3 — LINK HERE

DO NOT REPOST MY STUFF TO ANY OTHER SITE PLEASE.

***********************

CHAPTER ONE: THE BOY WITH THE SUNSHINE SMILE

“Good grief! You don’t mean that she’s actually tricked me into purchasing my own hat?” the man’s brown eyes got bigger in his incredulity.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” you whispered quietly. “This hat is yours? Your name is on the band inside,” you showed him the inside of the boater that you were holding out to him, “‘R. Penbury’? That is you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he blushed beautifully in his humiliation, his brilliant smile gone. You couldn’t help but feel for him. He wasn’t the brightest bulb, but he had shone just the same. When he had first entered the shop, he was all smiles, eagerness, and jolly good times. He had tried several different styles of hats, showing increasing enthusiasm for each one that was brought to him. He had been especially impressed with the styles and materials that you had designed, describing them as ‘wizard’, although you hadn’t mentioned that personal point to him. You had been flattered by his candid positive reactions.

Your boss, on the other hand, just wanted him to buy all the damn hats and be done with it. You were bringing out his twenty-third selection to him when she pulled you aside and said: “God, he’s insufferably stupid. More money than brains, that one.” She paused, an evil glint in her eye. “Do you know? I bet I can sell him his own hat back to him and he would never notice.” So she did; she wrapped his straw hat which he had discarded when trying on the new styles in a hat box and brought it out, flourishing it as though it were the perfect answer to sir’s troubled soul, the very thing that sir was looking for, and would sir care to try?

And sir did. And he said it was perfect. When he said to put it with everything else he was purchasing, your boss gave you an avaricious grin and wink as she smoothly carried it off to the growing stack of other selections he had made, expecting a little extra in the till at the end of the day from that trick.

But you couldn’t live with that. While she cooed over him again about one of the more expensive hats and would sir care for a handkerchief to match? You stole the hat back and timed it so that when Elvira went to the back to fetch another, you pulled him aside to share the bad news.

He was sweet, a true innocent, and there was a motherly side of you that leapt up to protect him from harm - including that of your own opportunistic boss, the owner of the haberdashery shop you were employed in. At least, the one you were still employed in. By preventing your boss from taking advantage of this poor man, you may not have a situation to report back to in the morning.

But Elvira, or Evil-virus, the nickname given to her in secret by you and the other clerks who worked under her iron fist, was living up to her nasty reputation and you weren’t going to take it any longer. “I should have applied for a job at Selfridges,” you muttered, more to yourself rather than the humiliated man beside you.

You heard him sniff and saw his terrified indecision. “Don’t worry. We’ll pretend that she’s gotten away with it. I’m the one who will tally everything up, sir. I won’t charge you for it. Promise. I won’t let her do this to you. Alright?”

He smiled through eyes that welled up. “I’ve been a ruddy fool, haven’t I?” he said, his voice shaky. “I expect you will all have a jolly laugh about it after I go.”

“I won’t be laughing, sir,” you said. You were angry. Angry that this terrible excuse of a human being would take advantage of a man made of starbursts and sunshine. “I’ll be looking for other employment, but I won’t be laughing.”

“D’you know what?” he said, donning his hat and setting it at a jaunty angle in the mirror, “I’m going to reward you for your kindness.” At that moment, Elvira came out of the back with the next hat in hand. Mr. Penbury straightened his spine and said to her: “Never mind, my good woman. I’ve changed my mind about your shop. Sell me my own hat, will you? Well, I’ll be certain to inform all in my considerable social circle not to bother with this place.”

Elvira’s face dropped and she stared daggers at you. You swallowed hard, expecting a vicious private word once the gentleman had gone, purchasing nothing. Elvira’s smile recovered seconds later but Mr. Penbury brooked no arguments, further machinations from the woman, and he certainly wasn’t about to allow her to abuse you - even with so much as a look - right in front of him.

“Now don’t bother blaming your clerk here,” he said, “She’s got moxie. Honesty is the best policy after all and I’ll be damned,” the word spoken with emphasis and care, as if the man never swore in his life unless he truly meant it, “if you think for one minute I’m going to leave her here to be reprimanded for doing the right thing.”

Turning to you, he said, “Retrieve your belongings, my dear. You’re coming with me. Let us leave this horrid woman to her horrid ways in her horrid little shop.”

You blinked at him in amazement, jaw dropped, wondering if this was a dream, or a trick, or a hallucination. His smile and encouraging nod to you reinforced his statement; he had meant what he had said. You went to the back, gathering your coat, hat, and handbag and, with a last look around the place, you left. You were going to be sacked either way, so you may as well go off with a man who could at least prevent you from having a strip taken off of you by your boss.

Out on the pavement, he turned to you with another burst of smiling energy. “I heard you mention Selfridges and I happen to know the chap who’s one of the floor managers. What luck, eh? He’s set to join us at a party at our country estate tomorrow. Would you care to go? I could make the introductions and you could have some champagne and we’ll all celebrate your new position!”

You were utterly gobsmacked. “Sir? Are you joking?” You had to ask because not only was he too good to be true with his tailored suit, bright face and gorgeous brown eyes, this was too similar to dreams that you had had about being swept away by a handsome, wealthy man who could make all your dreams come true. Not that you were a gold digger. No, not you. But you had been an adult in the world long enough to know that money may not buy happiness, but it could purchase a close cousin or two.

“Why, no.” He looked a little offended.

You quickly added: “I only ask, sir, because I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You don’t seem real, really.”

“I don’t?”

His eyes were killing you. He didn’t see himself as others did, that much was obvious. “No,” you laughed, “you’re like a dream. Like you’re some knight come to rescue me and I’m secretly some queen or sommat.”

His grin spread ear to ear. He held his arm out to you. “Then let me guide you to my motor and on to my castle, your majesty. I plan on treating you like a queen for the favor you’ve done for me today.” His arm was warm and strong and it seemed more and more as if he was that knight from your fantasies.

He strolled with you on his arm openly down the street, the two of you creating such an odd pair: a dapper man-about-town with a woman who was obviously a shopgirl on her day off. But he didn’t seem to notice. He kept giving you proud glances as you walked along until suddenly, stopping next to a rather impressive Rolls Royce, he announced: “And here we are! Your chariot, my queen.” A liveried driver came out from the front of the vehicle and opened the rear door for both of you.

Your head swam. This had to be a dream. You tried to relax into the soft buttery leather seat, Mr. Penbury next to you, his straw hat on his knee as he regaled you with the plans for the party on the weekend as the vehicle smoothly pulled away from the kerb. It was no use. All you could think was that you really shouldn’t be there. You weren’t of his class and it showed. Lord only knew what the chauffeur thought of you. Probably thinks I’m some chippy, you thought. Mr. Penbury, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind one bit.

As Mr. Penbury spoke, you realized that he really just floated along in life without any concern or stress at all. He didn’t have to worry where his next meal was coming from. He didn’t have to worry about the worn appearance of his clothing and whether anyone else would spot it. He never had to make do with the bread and butter in the larder because his pay packet wouldn’t arrive for another two days. You, on the other hand, well… your bills were always paid, but you were living close to skint; Mr. Penbury had never had the experience. The gulf between the two of you widened that much farther.

Yet for all his wealth and privilege, he didn’t seem selfish at all, which is a realization that gave you pause. All the wealthy folks you had met in your life - including the Hollingsworths that your parents had worked for - they had always been too busy with themselves to worry about any other human being. They sat in high judgment of people like you and people who were poorer than you. To them, you were nothing more than ‘the help’, there to make their lives easier without a thought to how much more difficult they were making your life. There was no self-awareness on their part. There was nothing but the next thing that would keep them amused, comfortable, and insulated against the cruelties they were happy to inflict on others.

Mr. Penbury wasn’t anything like that - or so he seemed. Sure, he was ignorant of the day-to-day details of your life including the insecurity of shelter and food that you fought off on a daily basis, but he seemed aware that poorer people existed and - miracle of miracles - actually seemed to acknowledge that you yourself were actually a person.

He was interested in music - specifically jazz - which you also loved and his eyes lit up even more when you told him about an American cousin you had that would send you phonograph records from artists you couldn’t find in England.

“Oh you must bring your collection to the party!” He instantly gave his driver a command to take them to your place. You supplied your address and off you both went, Mr. Penbury simply beaming at you. “You really are the mutt’s nuts, aren’t you?”

He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh! Was that rude?” He laughed freely. “I’m sorry. I just get so excited.”

“I can see that,” you said, smiling. “I’ll be glad to bring my meager collection.”

“And a change of clothes! Bring your party dresses. And your dancing shoes!” he said. You shook your head at him, unable to tell him that you didn’t really own party dresses (plural) nor did you own dancing shoes. You did, however, own one dress you were quite proud of and you set your mind to bring that one. You only hoped it would be nice enough to get a new job, but not too prudish not to have fun in. Mr. Penbury would probably fancy it if you showed up in sackcloth and sandals on your feet. Lord knows what the manager at Selfridges would fancy.

It didn’t take you long to arrive at your home, a seven storey structure in a more modest part of Spitalfields. It struck you what Mr. Penbury had just said. “Wait,” you said when the car stopped. “What did you mean by ‘bring a change of clothes’, sir?”

“Oh,” he stammered, blushing suddenly, “I only meant- I mean- If you weren’t going to be working at that horrid shop anymore…. Why don’t you just spend the weekend? Or the week? You don’t have to start at Selfridges straight away, do you? You could just… have a bit of fun first?”

Fun. You haven’t had any of that in years. You’d almost forgotten what it was like. And you didn’t have a position to return to anymore, did you? You had paid all your bills for the week so, why not? Why not go and have some fun with this ball of absolute joy? He was looking at you expectantly, seemingly ashamed of his forwardness. It was your turn to smile at him.

“That sounds wizard,” you said. His excitement warmed your heart and you went in to gather your things for a weekend you weren’t sure you were going to remember, but one you knew you would never forget.

CHAPTER TWO: The Whirlwind Twins LINK HERE

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Tagged People: @h-ness1944 / @crazyjenny8675309 / emma77645 / @hahahafucku

#Ralph timewaster #Ralph Penbury #writing #fanfic #Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn #ralph x reader #ao3 #ao3 writer #The Hat Shop Girl #THSG

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violettduchess · 2 years

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i'd loiter in ur asks daily to shower u in compliments, not only becuz u deserve it but also just to spite that one anon. have i mentioned that i think you're such a phenomenal writer? you're genuinely one of my favorites on this site, also on ao3!🖤 (also if you're requests are still open, can i please ask for Chevalier, enemies to lovers [predictably], bandaging/stitching up an injury? 🙏 the opportunity is here and i must take it><)

A/N: One last entry at the last minute for the Different Universe Same Love Content Creation Challenge hosted by @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady

@rawr-mortgage very graciously was ok with me taking their request and doing something AU with it so thank you!

TW: Blood, Needles, Injury

Word Count: 2651

Under the cover of a clouded night sky, you lurch your way towards the sheriff’s office, a building you never in a million years would’ve ever thought about visiting voluntarily. Unfortunately Fate in the form of a Colt Single Action Army Revolver stepped in and here you are. Each step brings new agony as the rendered flesh of your side spits blood with every movement. If the moon wasn’t hiding its sensitive gaze behind clouds, it would see the way the dark stain on your shirt slowly grows with each passing second, greedily gobbling up the plaid fabric.

That rat bastard , you think through gritted teeth. That one-eyed rat bastard.

Your boots scuffle across the dirt road, past the dark windows of Dompteur’s General Store, The Klein Brothers Funeral Home, Haberdashery by Yves. It's so late even the saloon, Jin’s Joint, is dark. This is an hour made for sweet dreams and whispered secrets and here you are, arriving in the dead of night at the beast’s doorstep. You pause, gripping the splintered wooden railing of the sheriff’s office to catch your breath. Of course his windows aren’t dark. They never are. The sheriff is always working.

Stifling a groan, you pull yourself up the worn wooden steps and with a final burst of energy, bang your fist against the door, right underneath the copper sign, gleaming in the orange glow of the lantern hanging from the eaves: Chevalier Michel, Rhodolite County Sheriff and Jail.

He opens the door the same way he does everything, controlled and with purpose. He’s still in the gleaming white and brown of his sheriff’s uniform, but even through the haze of pain you notice that the top button of his shirt is open and his signature pristine white Diamond-style cowboy hat isn’t perched authoritatively on his pale head. Could the sheriff have been…..relaxing?

You have no chance to ponder further as you are yanked up by a firm grip on your upper arm and dragged into the one-room building, your yelp of protest falling on deaf ears. Although only lit by several oil lamps, you know this place well. You’ve spent many a night behind those bars. Broken out of 'em too. Chevalier whips you around, walking you backwards until you bump into the hard wood of his desk, your hand grabbing its edge for support. His sharp blue eyes rake over you, but you must have taken him by surprise. He hasn’t noticed your injury.

His expression is frost, tinged with a hue of annoyance as those azure eyes narrow.

“What are you doing, skulking around in the dead of night?”

Your huff of laughter is strained, pain lapping at your side with a rough tongue of fire.

“Just thought I’d pay my favorite sheriff a visit. Been a while, Chevy, hasn’t it?”

His lips parts, about to rebuke you for that nickname he hates so when he spots the way your hand is pressing to your side, the way your fingers are slowly becoming ringed with dark red. He lifts his gaze from your hand to your face.

“What happened?” His voice is neutral, slate-gray.

You shift as pain coils itself tighter around your midsection, beginning to squeeze the air from your lungs.

“Obsidian. He’s back in town and lookin’ for blood. Seems he didn’t take too kindly to losin’ an eye–Hey!”

Chevalier has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, fingers tugging on the hem of your flannel. He brushes against the skin of your stomach and you jerk from the contact, a reflex that does no good to the raw wound born where the bullet grazed your skin with claws of fire. He lifts his face, bathed in pale orange light, an angry denizen of heaven.

“Stay still. I need to assess your injury.”

You clench your jaw as he lifts your shirt, his touch gentler than you might have expected. The sheriff has touched you many times, usually when hauling you into the jail cell, but never like this. He’s leaning down, examining the damage so you can’t quite see his face but you can see the way his brow furrows, the way his hands still, tension visible in the corded muscles of his forearms. He says nothing as he straightens up again, turning on heel and disappearing into the small alcove off of the office. You glance down, wincing at all the red. So much of it.

He returns, small wooden box in hand, towel slung over his arm. He reaches for you, wrapping his fingers around your bicep.

“Up.”

A moment of panic sends your heart skipping. Is he going to kick you out? You have no one left. The ones Obsidian didn’t take out scattered like dust in the wind and you are in no shape to go searching for them. Especially not if he is still out there.

“For God’s sake, I’m not going to kick you out.” With an annoyed snap of his wrist, he lays the towel down across his desk. “I would prefer it if you didn’t bleed on the wood.”

Strong hands help you back to the desk, guide you down slowly.

“How’d you know I was gonna ask–”

Chevalier meets your gaze and again your heart jerks like a horse unnerved, stomping at the ground with its hooves.

“Your face is an open book, bandit.” You see the shadow of…something…in the curve of his lips as he stands, leaning over you. “I need to remove your shirt.”

“Alright.” He needs to be able to reach the wound. Your shirt is in the way. It’s all very rational. And yet when those hands reach down, when they begin undoing each button, you find yourself distracted from the pain each inhale brings. You feel instead the way his fingers brush against your skin. The moments of contact are brief, a sliver of a second, but you feel each and every time it happens.

You close your eyes, hoping to shut out how close he is. It must be the injury. Delirium setting in. Blood loss. Something else that is creating this hyper-awareness of him, the thing robbing you of the ability to breathe steadily.

He makes short work of cleaning the blood away. You feel the soft, damp cloth and the astonishingly gentle movement of those hands.

“This part is going to hurt.” Your eyes open and you see the bottle of alcohol in his hand. You know what's next.

“Is that swill safe to drink?”

His lip curls up slightly at the thought. “I believe so but–” His words are stopped short by you grabbing the bottle, lifting it to your lips and taking a long, fiery pull. It burns as it slithers its way through you. You thrust it back at him. The sheriff blinks, those blue eyes trained on your mouth, as if he can’t believe you just did that. That must be why he can’t seem to look away.

“I’d expect you to have fancier stuff, Chevy.”

Your words break the spell and he shakes his head, a firm hand pressing you back down to the desk. “This isn’t mine. It’s contraband.”

“Of course,” you mutter, your body tensing in anticipation. “You seem like you’re the fancy whiskey sort who–” You gasp as the alcohol splashes against the wound. You thought it felt like fire before but this…this is truly the flames of hell biting into your side. Chevalier is thorough, cleaning out the wound with the attention to detail he is famous for.

“Now to close it,” he says, more to himself than you as he leans down, needle in hand, and begins the delicate work of sewing up the split path the bullet made of your skin. You clench your jaw, your eyes focusing on the wooden beams of the ceiling. His hands are steady, but it still hurts like hell.

“Hold still,” he snaps. The needle had caught for a moment, pulling skin and your body had jerked like a skittish colt.

“You know, Chevy, you gotta work on that bedside manner.” You close your eyes now, your teeth clenched so hard you hope nothing cracks. You hate the way your voice shakes, the tell-tale sign of pain, dulled as it may have been from the swig of alcohol.

“I’m a sheriff, not a surgeon,” he says pointedly, his hands never wavering, never slowing in their work.

“Well there’s one thing to be grateful for,” you mutter, wincing as the needle pulls the thread tighter.

He scoffs, a sound so close to a laugh that you nearly open your eyes in astonishment. You’ve never heard him even come close to laughing before. It momentarily blocks out everything, the sun eclipsing the moon, throwing the earth into celestial shade. Confusion wells up inside of you like dust clouds under a stagecoach’s wheels. The encounter with Obsidian, the injury, it must be affecting you more than you realized.

“It’s closed. We still need to bandage it.” He reaches down, helping you slowly into a sitting position. You feel as the wounded skin pulls against the stitches, but everything holds. One glance down tells you Chevalier did a phenomenal job. Of course he did.

“Gotta hand it to you. I’m impressed.” He glances up from the first aid box where he is selecting a bandage.

“You doubted my ability?” He walks over and you are suddenly acutely aware, now that you aren’t bleeding all over and the wound has been cleaned and shut, of your state of undress. Your bloody shirt has been tossed on the floor, leaving you in only the band of fabric tied to support your chest. A state of undress in the presence of a man that would cause a scandal if anyone ever knew. Then again, you’re an unmarried female who runs with a wild gang of misfits. You probably already have your name chiseled on a plaque for Most Scandalous Woman in the West, right alongside Calamity Jane and Belle Star.

“I….um…” Words. You knew how to use them once. But right now Sheriff Chevalier Michel, who smells far better than any man in a dusty town like this one has a right to, is leaning in again, his hands brushing your skin as he begins winding the clean, white bandage around your midsection. His fingers brush your back, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach, trailing sparks in their wake.

He glances up and you swear there is a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You’re not usually at a loss for words, bandit.”

“Stop callin’ me that.” There. That nickname. There’s something to distract you from how close you are to a man who smells like temptation in the empty sheriff’s office in the depths of the night.

He tightens the bandage around your middle, tying it off. You resist the urge to grunt but can’t help the glare. He notices it, his own brow arching in question. “Why? Aren’t you one?”

He steps back, his gaze running over his work. His expression is so cool, so schooled. What would you have to do to make it crack?

“I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your attention that the folks we liberate from their goods are folks a little liberation won’t bother.”

He scoffs once again as he turns away from you, cleaning away the medical kit and disappearing for a moment into the same alcove from earlier. When he returns, he’s holding one of his own white shirts.

“Stealing is stealing.” The shirt lands in your lap and you stare at it a moment, unable to hide your surprise. “Just put it on.” His voice peaks with annoyance as he moves, lifting it and then helps you, pulling the sleeves over your arms so you don’t have to twist your body in a way that might cause your injury to bare its teeth once more.

He stands in front of you now, once again close, and his fingers start at the bottom, slipping the buttons through their buttonholes. You’re unable to look away from the sight. Slow, sure, beautifully sculpted hands. You clear your throat to dislodge the ball of heat that suddenly blossomed there.

“It isn’t a bad thing to steal when you’re helping those who would otherwise have nothing.” He’s at the part of your midsection that’s bandaged, careful as he pulls the material of the shirt together.

“A regular Robin Hood.” His fingers move higher, now closing the buttons directly under your chest. The light in the room feels faint and shadows lean over his shoulder, caress his face, curl up against his body. Only those eyes of his seem to burn as bright as if it were midday.

“Guess that makes you Nottingham?” He’s buttoning the shirt over your chest and suddenly the fingers aren’t quite as smooth in their movement. The buttons are jammed into the buttonholes, the only sign that he feels the way the office has slowly shrunk down to the space around the two of you. You wonder if he can feel the way your heart is roaring in your chest, loud as a rolling thunderstorm over the plains.

“Archenemies, are we?” His voice has never sounded quite like this, like the crackling of a fire right when it begins burning properly. His hands still when he reaches the top of the shirt. Despite how close you are he doesn’t step away. His gaze is locked with yours, holding you in place as surely as if you were handcuffed.

“I’m not your enemy.” The pain in your side is gone. A different kind of heat has begun stalking its way through your veins, swiping at your lungs and making it hard to catch your breath.

You have seen the sheriff in action. You’ve seen the cold, hard hammer of justice he wields come down on the deserving. You’ve seen the way he defends Rhodolite County, with whatever it takes, whatever means necessary. You’ve long suspected he’s maybe even enjoyed your run-ins with him, perhaps that he has known all along that you’ve been helping out the poor of the population and therefore he’s never truly come after you with the full force of his authority. You’ve seen him angry and resolved and thoughtful.

What you have never seen before is the way he’s looking at you now, with his eyes like sapphires on fire and his fingers awkwardly lingering on the last button of the shirt he's covered you with.

Aw, hell. What is a bandit if not someone who takes what they want?

And with that last thought, you reach up, curling your fingers into the crisp fabric of his own shirt, pulling him toward you. One second. Two. His lips don’t respond and the heat inside you suddenly shrinks back, curling in on itself. Did you just make a mistake that could land you behind bars for the night?

You start to release him, your fingers going slack, your body leaning back when he comes to life, and the response is overwhelming. His hands don’t seem to know where to go, traveling down your arms, then as he steps even closer, around your back, fingers pressing into you, staking their claim. And while his hands are traveling to their settlement, his mouth moves, suddenly greedy, possessive, demanding in a way that brings the heat in your veins roaring back to life as you hold on to his shoulders, almost dizzy with the rush of it all.

You don’t know what will happen when you two finally break apart, when one of you has the sense to break away from the unexpected cyclone of want that has temporarily displaced you both from the roles you usually play with one another.

But damned if you aren’t going to make the most of it.

Right here, right now.

🔹

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