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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 4 years

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@cayeeast 🥰 You are never too late, my inbox is always open. :) I hope Damirae?! I have to preface this: I apologize in advance. I don’t really do fics like these—this is the first. But I want to grow, be a better writer, and try new things. I have never written anything like this before, so honestly, THANK YOU.

Prompts

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"More sauvignon blanc, Miss?"

A bottle of wine was withdrawn from the metal ice bucket, lifted by their waiter's practiced hands. Beads of ice cold perspiration were congealing, beginning to travel downward as Raven swallowed another gulp of air. Though it was slight, her grasp began to shake around her cutlery. She had done her very best not to look at the bottle during the duration of the meal.

Now it was practically in her face, sweating.

Her breath hitched in her throat, as she watched the condensation continuing a steady drip.

It was quite possibly mocking her.

The moment seemed to stretch on before veering into uncomfortable, until both gentlemen glanced down at her untouched white.

"Malbec, sir?"

"Please."

The waiter gently replaced the white before disturbing the red. He swept around the table to refill another glass for Damian, who murmured a polite thanks.

Damian fingered the long, thin stemmed wine glass and turned it towards himself in circles. Several rotations were completed to air out the liquor. He guided the blackened magenta beverage to his lips and sipped thoughtfully.

"Raven."

Though Raven didn't immediately glance up, she was focusing on her meal rather intently. She shuffled slices of swordfish steak and capers to make them chase her chanterelle mushrooms and root vegetables around the triangular shaped plate in different patterns.

Of course, the half-demon was sure to select the appropriately suited silverware as she did so. Her efforts were starting to slow, however, as the lemon cream sauce became nearly nauseating when paired with seafood vapors.

Did fish always smell quite so pungent?

"Is there something wrong with the food?" She refocused on the handsome face of her dining companion, flickering in and out of the candelabra light.

"No, it's wonderful," Raven insisted. "Really, wonderful—great... presentation." His emerald eyes parsed the perfectly placed parsley and the latticework of sauce that was now a soupy mess saturating a plate of parsnips and fish.

"Oh, well it must have been." Damian exhaled sharply out of the corner of his mouth. "But, I'll always say nothing is too beautiful to eat..." He drawled.

"I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought..." she mumbled, flushing a little more than delicately.

"I hope our waiter doesn't insinuate to the kitchen that the meal fell short of perfection tonight. If the chef doesn't already know..." He scanned the perimeter of the dining room, as if expecting to be ambushed by the staff or a number of dining guests.

"I'm willing to bet if it wasn't so busy, he'd be out here himself, demanding to know what's wrong with the food." He cut his steak as he reminisced. "Remember what happened the time you asked for salt...?"

"It could just be me." Subtly, she slid her plate nearer to the center of the table. "Even though, I'll never be fully assured that fish is the best idea on a Monday... Are you sure it's fresh?"

"Is it fresh?"

A part of her was teasing, but Damian physically recoiled an inch. To insinuate that he would frequent an establishment that would serve his fiancée day old fish? His face was drawn with his jaw so set, it was as though he had been slapped—or someone in the vicinity had insulted his mother.

"I called ahead. That swordfish was caught earlier today. They're in season, sustainably sourced, and delivered directly to the restaurant—"

And with a menu that read: price available upon request, where other establishments printed dollar amounts, they all but prepared it table-side.

"But... you didn't follow them to the docks?" She asked in a deadpan. "You didn't call the fishmonger either? And I'm guessing, you didn't stand in the kitchen and observe the process?" Raven folded her arms. "Well, I don't understand how someone who takes shortcuts manages to run a billion-dollar corporation."

Raven wasn't at all new to this and she wasn't sure she would ever fully get used to it.

But sarcasm always helped.

"I was under the impression it was your favorite... You enjoyed it so much when we were here months ago." Damian's eyes darkened and then shone, like a man accepting a challenge. "Have your tastes changed already?"

"It's just... It's a little strong—the smell." Raven cleared her throat with her cheeks draining of their remaining color. "It's much stronger than I remember."

"Tell me... Is it work?" He surveyed the tail-coated waiter standing at the ready and lowered his voice accordingly. "Is it...something else?"

This was meant to speak of their nightly activities, the ones that involved aliases, capes, and crime.

Well, the other ones that involved aliases, capes, and crime—no safe words.

Inwardly, Raven groaned, because once again she was reminded of how much harder this could become.

By Azar's blood.

"It's not...that either. My stomach really is too unsettled for fish today." She took the napkin from her lap to wipe her mouth. "Normally it wouldn't be, but maybe... I'm a little unsettled, too."

"Tch... Well, I knew there had to be something." A half frown stole across Damian's full lips. "It's me, Raven... And this is us. We don't hide things from each other. Not anymore."

"I know." She heard her voice wavering. "I know that..."

"If there's anything at all, you'll tell me." He reached across the table to brush her hand. "If you're unhappy, tell me. I'll do whatever I can..." he whispered, lifting his eyebrows to punctuate his next words. "And I mean... anything."

Now Raven couldn't contain a crude snort. "I know, Damian."

"We can stop by a jewelry store - that engagement ring looks awfully lonely by itself." She sucked her teeth in a manner that was less than refined.

"Shoe store then... You can never have too many pairs of those very similar—" Haughtily, Raven blew air up through the side of her mouth to ruffle through her hair. "—but different, black pairs of boots..."

"We can take a trip..." His voice grew lower still. "...have a threesome." But, that one might have been a question rather than a suggestion. And as he pondered his words, his fork went sailing straight through the remainder of his steak without the aid of the knife. "Well...maybe not that last one."

"You're incredible...suggesting a ménage à trois at a French restaurant? Coquin." The half demon shook her napkin at him. "I'd laugh if this fish wasn't making my eyes water."

"Well, I'd do anything for you..." he replied evenly. "If it would make you happy, I'd even consider thinking about that last." And Raven shot her lavender eyes straight up towards the domed ceiling. They both knew the truth. "Maybe someday in the far, far future..."

As if he would ever share her.

That was exactly right, wasn't it? As if he would ever share her, or their lives with anyone?

Why would he?

They lived on the top floor of an elegant building in Gotham with a vintage lift whose golden grills led straight out into their penthouse apartment. But, it could be argued that the building wouldn't have been complete without their elderly doorman, Tom.

On the daily, he hailed cabs for Raven. Semi-weekly, he handed Damian hangers of dry-cleaning that refilled their twin walk-in closets of the numerous suits, trousers, and shirts and monochromatic dresses, blouses, and skirts.

Each morning, he bade Raven good morning as she went off to work and each night he held the door as he bade Damian good evening, a spectator in the lover's lockstep.

Weekly, Damian and Raven maintained long-standing lunch dates clustered in his corner office at Wayne Technologies. Monthly, the couple attended Sunday brunch with the extended clan of brothers, sisters, partners, kids, and pets all assembled together at the Manor.

Yes, there were others in their lives.

Even though Damian would argue they existed more or less on the fringes of a tapestry, while he kept her framed at the center.

Still, he seemed to love everything exactly as it was and he was in no hurry to change it. Especially when every night ended with them tangled together in their king-sized bed.

Two.

Plus one dog.

Titus was the only exception. Unless things changed in the far, far future.

"Do you mind if we cut dinner short?" Raven suddenly suggested. It must have been abrupt because Damian seemed caught off guard. "I think I want to go home early, curl up next to you, and finish those final pages of my book."

"Alright." He signaled for the check. "I'd like that... We'll get you home and I want your final thoughts on the ending. They better be scathing." The waiter reappeared instantly and it was like he'd never left. And even though his eyes remained lowered to the ground, she knew he had to be appraising her.

Raven mumbled something about the ladies room. She considered splashing her face with water and giving herself a pep talk. But to what end? The evening had already gone array. Something unexpected had cropped up.

Unexpected.

How was she supposed to tell him this?

Damian was a planner and for the most part, so was she. They didn't do unexpected.

"Actually, I'm going to grab my coat."

She excused herself and placed her napkin next to the untouched glass of wine. Her feet were pinched tighter in the heels with every step towards the exit. Raven followed the partition around the perimeter of the dining room, arriving at the stairs to the entrance hall.

As she waited in the queue for her coat, her eyes wandered past the sweeping architecture and up the wrap around staircase, where Damian was probably talking to the head chef and the owner. Just as he predicted.

She handed over her ticket, her heart leaping towards her chest as the end of the evening dawned on her. And as Raven grabbed the coat, she wanted to whirl around in her uncomfortable heels and march back up those stairs. Uncaring of her rudeness, she'd steal Damian away, tug him towards the hallway with the row of chandeliers and kiss him.

And tell him absolutely everything.

She would tell him why La Chandelle wasn't at all appealing tonight. She would tell him why she'd suggested going out to dinner in the first place. She would tell him why things had changed so suddenly.

And why everything could.

Instead, she slunk away. Out of the restaurant. Onward. The best she could do now was hope: hope they could get home, hope she could get out of these heels as soon as she could. And then, Raven would figure out how to tell him tomorrow.

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"Raven?"

Damian was racing down the stone front steps of the restaurant to meet her at the curb.

"There you are." He was hurriedly slipping a pea coat over his suit jacket and he sounded nearly breathless. "Where did you go?"

"The coat check. Did you get the car?" Her voice sounded small and defeated. "I really, really want to get home..."

"I can see that," He deadpanned. "But that's not what I meant and we both know that." His brown-black brows began to knit together. "You were somewhere else for most of the evening. I know when you slip into your mind fortress and this is different from that. So where did you go, Raven?"

She swallowed and held out her hand for him to take. They walked a few steps in silence, turning towards a side street. The sound of laughter, music, and chatter faded away and for the first time all evening, she felt like she could finally think. Raven exhaled, deciding this was far enough.

"Damian, when I asked about dinner," she began. "I wasn't expecting this... I figured we were going somewhere with a little less wine and a little less fish—less wine cooked into fish..."

He blinked, processing slowly with his hands in his pockets, his head pointed down towards the cobblestone street, coated in a mixture of oil and water. It had to have rained recently. "Well, it's not too late, we can go somewhere else—nothing French, I promise."

He licked his lips before he continued, probably sensing her apprehension. "We can go to that noodle place and ask for two pots of oolong tea instead of the usual one... Or we can just grab tea?" He offered. "But if you're too tired, we can always make it at home. I'll make yours with the biggest, widest mug and saucer we have."

"So you're just...not going to give up on tonight, are you?" Raven murmured, her lavender hair moving as she shook her head from side to side, as if wondering who this man was.

"No, I don't think I will." A smirk started up on his face. "That's the thing about having a fiancée. You can't get rid of me that easily." He tapped her cheek good-naturedly and ghosted over her forehead with his lips. "I'm always going to be here."

"Didn't we...just get engaged?"

"Is that what this is about...?" Her husband-to-be searched every single inch and orifice on her face. "We can slow things down or postpone the wedding for a few months. The last thing I want you is for you to be stressed about this."

"What I mean is..." She ran a hand across her damp forehead. "Gods, I had this whole speech planned—how I was going to tell you..." Raven's unease fell away when she felt warmth radiating in waves, like he was lending her strength.

"Anything," he whispered. "You can tell me anything." He placed his arms on her shoulders.

Raven took a deep breath, her eyes locked on his, and—

"I'm pregnant."

The words froze suspended before them in midair. Damian continued to stare at her, but without blinking. Then, Raven nodded. And then Damian started to nod too.

She couldn't believe she said it aloud; she couldn't believe that it even happened. "I know it should be impossible... And not just that it's too soon."

"You're..." Damian breathed. "You're pregnant."

And he was taking her hands with his own to squeeze them tight. He started to smile—not just smile, he was beaming in a way Raven had only seen once before: when she said yes. This was more than elation, he was in absolute awe of her. He lifted her from the rain-soaked street in a generous hug to sweep her right off her feet.

Damian was holding her, lifting her. Supporting her from below. He was staring up, as his breath streamed sweet steam swirling against the seam of her lips. From somewhere inside blooming outward, was a warmth that no amount of healing or surge of power or strike of hellfire could ever compare.

And he too was giving himself over to this sensation.

With fingers gliding through his hair, eyes welling emotion, she nodded again. And she wrapped her arms around his neck, and drew closer to connect. Deeply, gently, then sweetly, they kissed into the night.

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Damian feathered his lips over hers, placing her gingerly onto her feet. And he was grinning madly at her. Then, his grin slid down a little. And then a lot.

His mouth opened, like he was about to say something. He started to talk and stopped. Started and stopped.

"The wine—"

"The fish—"

He ran a hand down his face while he replayed the events of tonight. "I'm such a goddamned idiot. I'm so sorry, Raven."

"It was a nice meal. I had a great time. So, I couldn't eat anything or drink anything—so what?" Raven chuckled. Whatever cruel sense of irony there was in the world, it was a wonderful night. "You know, it's actually hilarious in hindsight, and now we have a funny story to tell our friends... A-and our—our—"

She was enveloped by the warmest, safest embrace Damian could manage as he was trembling. He rocked her and held her tight, inhaling deeper and exhaling harder until they both relaxed. "I am sorry. I should have sensed something more was going on."

"Well, neither of us thought this was even possible. Up until three days ago, I didn't know it was," Raven blurted. And it felt so good to blurt around him again. "We live together. I could have said it at breakfast. Or at the movies on Sunday... When we were in the shower together, last night. I'm the idiot. "

"The shower..." he repeated. "So that's why you were a little touchy about your body." She groaned loudly—this was not happening. "Raven, you've got absolutely nothing to worry about," Damian insisted. "And besides, you're not even showing yet."

"That's what you think," she grumbled.

His lips curled up. "Habibti." Raven raised an eyebrow. She knew as well as he did, that he had better choose that next sentence very carefully. "Habibti... you've always had an aura glowing about you, only now it's just going to grow brighter."

"Pfft," Raven muttered. "Right. As I grow bigger and rounder."

"You know what, yes," he scoffed. "You will get bigger and I don't care. For that matter, neither should you." Gingerly tilted her chin towards him. The way he was gazing at her, with unconditional love, understanding. "You'll be just as beautiful—equally exquisite."

Who could ever doubt Damian?

"And you'll be even more sensitive in all the right places." His low voice was filled with the darkest promises of sin. "I can hardly wait."

"You're dangerous," Raven murmured, knowing she was turning pink.

"Dangerous?" His nose traced the curve of her neck, as the skin shivered.

"As if you didn't know," she said flatly. "It's probably how you managed to conceive with a half-demon in the first place."

She felt him chuckle into her skin, then it morphed into something like a groan. "So, I botched dinner... And sex in the shower... I should have drawn you a nice, hot soak in the tub... Gone down on you for an hour at least...gone a few blocks past the park to grab some slices of 99 cent pizza..."

"How did you know about the pizza?" Raven's eyes widened on her flushed face. "Did Tom tell you?" Whenever Raven said she was going to 'feed the pigeons in the park', what it really meant was she was going to cut through the park to grab a slice of the cheapest pizza she could get her hands on.

So much for the code.

"You actually thought that was a secret?" And when Damian rolled his eyes, he looked less worried and more like his usual surly self. "Please. I've seen the napkins and the pathetic excuses for paper plates... Really, I should have known something was up, there were a few more than usual."

Through the ovens of pizza and pregnancy, he knew and he loved her.

And Raven threw herself forward and held him tightly to her. "You're sort of perfect, you know that?" she mumbled into the hard chest, smelling the usual amber and spiced apricot. She lifted her head and he brushed an errant strand of lavender from her eyes. "I don't want to cut tonight short. Actually... I kind of want frozen yogurt."

"Fro-yo it is."

And as they walked, he bent his head towards her. He touched her face and murmured, "I...can't believe you're carrying my child..."

Damian began to kiss her so avidly, so impatiently, they had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. She was moaning and pulling pomegranate and malbec from his lips until they were both breathless.

Damian gave her a final peck and they walked back to the restaurant. It was all such a daze, Raven barely remembered him asking the valet to bring their car around. She made a motion towards the door and she noticed he'd already held the passenger side ajar for her.

"I can still do that myself."

"Hmm..." He stared off into the distance with a vague smile, as though contemplating their future. "You're going to fight me at every turn aren't you?"

"No," Raven said quickly. His eyes flickered faintly with amusement. "Not frozen yogurt—I want ice cream. Real, honest-to-goodness, ice cream made with cream, and all the toppings. Whipped cream, hot fudge..."

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"Birdie's Diner?"

"Ignore the name, it's a good restaurant. I used to come here all the time, even before we were—" Raven was trying to pull his fingers aside to see his flushed face lit by the bright neon sign. "All diners serve eggs, alright? I'm sure that's all it means."

"And that's the only thing that drew you here?"

He hung his head in defeat before holding the door. "After you."

There were low lamps hanging over the booths and classic rock stringing out of a jukebox in the corner. Raven hadn't been to a diner like this one in well, ever. The hostess handed over two laminated menus and told them to seat themselves. So Raven sat in a red vinyl booth in the back corner, and very discreetly, slipped off her heels.

Instantly, it felt much homier than La Chandelle.

"Raven, we're getting you the best OB in Gotham—that's non-negotiable," Damian was saying. One coffee down and he picked up exactly where he'd left off in the car, driving and planning particulars. "Or Kori can recommend us hers - they're probably accustomed to working with unique cases."

Demonic blood or not, Raven sincerely doubted there was any OB-GYN in the city that wouldn't pass off a patient or two on a colleague, to quite literally, bag a Wayne baby.

The caffeine had fully set in because he was drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the table while he spoke. "It'll cost us another Sunday morning, because you know Kori will want to do an extended brunch when we tell her and Dick the news."

And the second they told her, Raven would promptly conjure up an extra-strength, soundproof barrier around her cellphone to contain the joyous shrieks. And she'd probably have to buy a new phone.

"But it'll be worth it... You know what, it's not too late, I can probably call Dick right now." His left hand darted towards his pocket.

"No. No, you won't." She placed her hand over his. "We'll do it in the morning. Tonight, you're going to sit here with me and eat ice cream, okay?" Then, her ears perked up in a way that Titus would have been proud of. Hearing the sound of a whipped cream dispenser, behind the diner counter, she was almost gleeful. Her ice cream was in transit and was arriving on a round, plastic serving tray.

"Here ya go, sweethearts." A waffle-printed glass dish and two spoons were deposited onto the smooth, scrubbed surface between them. "Enjoy."

"Thank you." She smiled back at the kindly woman in the light blue waitress uniform, with a name tag that read Shirley.

Cookies and cream on a bed of bananas, crushed oreos. Whipped cream and hot fudge. Even one of those radioactive-red cherries on top. And it was absolutely wonderful. She passed Damian one of the long, thin-handled spoons, which they both knew was ill-suited for ice cream. According to Alfred, it was technically for iced tea, but appropriate cutlery was far from her mind. She tapped her spoon to his.

Cheers.

Raven dug in and moaned. In a word it was: heavenly, and far better than she could remember of ice cream. Six more bites and she could just imagine the tip of her spoon about to hit the bottom of her half. That cherry was hers.

"Hey Damian," she nudged his spoon with her own. "Now you're not eating."

"I was thinking..."

"You can think later... You've done more than enough." They would deal with the rest tomorrow. For now, she chose to think of this as a little celebration of the news—just between them.

"Come on, don't let me eat this alone... Sympathy weight starts tonight." She swallowed another spoonful while he glowered at her. And Raven knew full well he'd already had an entire steak earlier. "Don't worry about abs, your aura will just glow brighter."

"Tch—I wonder what genius said that..."

Raven snorted, but didn't argue. In fact, she was absolutely fine with riding Damian's abs—and hard body—straight into the next two trimesters.

"But I have to agree about one thing." Damian drew up his thumb, using it to wipe a smudge of whipped cream from her upper lip. "There is something about real cream..." He held her gaze as he licked his finger slowly.

The blood in Raven's core was warming, the temperature forming liquid fuel for an ache of a different kind. Officially, they had been together for over a year. And this man was now her fiancée. How did he always manage to turn her into some sort of sticky mess?

It had to be unnatural because it was utterly unfair.

Not so subtly, Raven tilted her head at the space next to her. And Damian joined her on the other side of the booth. The diner and the ice cream were so much better with his thigh lined against hers.

"Raven, can I...?" He hesitated, waiting for her approval. He held his hand up to her stomach.

"Of course you can."

Softly, he stroked the skin over her shirt, where the tiny swell would eventually grow. "Raven," he whispered at last, and she opened her eyes. "I want us to take that trip."

"A trip?" Her eyes were so wide only a sliver of purple remained. "A moment ago, you were talking about baby-proofing the apartment." He seemed unfazed. "Nannies? Au pairs? Daycare? What happened to buying every pregnancy and parenting guide our devices will permit? We can't take a trip, wouldn't that be an irresponsible start?"

"We can make time for something important like this," he insisted. "It could be good for you. And for us."

"Why in the name of Azar and all her disciples would this be a good idea?"

"Hear me out... A mother and father-to-be take a trip before the baby actually comes—a baby-moon. That's what they're called," Damian murmured. "I propose we take one, before our lives, and bodies change." He spooned a dollop of whipped cream and slid it between his lips. "What do you think?

"Oh..."

"We don't have to..." He said quickly and dropped the spoon in the dish.

"I think...it could be an interesting idea."

"If you think it's not for us," Damian reached for her and stroked her hair calmly. "I understand."

"No—Damian—we should do this." She searched his eyes. "I want to do this with you."

"Yes." Damian kissed the top of her head. "Just you and me, Raven. We can go anywhere you want."

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mocalmangeal · 5 years

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field trips through the years with the mellark children because @rosegardeninwinter put me into a mood and this ended up much longer than intended oops

Willow Mellark is four the first time her preschool class is led outside of their colorful brick building and told to prepare for an adventure.

She squints her eyes against the bright morning sun, surveying her surroundings carefully. Mama tells her it’s important to always be aware of what’s around you. Her eyes land on the faded mural flanking the sides of the school’s entrance; a dandelion field, with children of all ages zooming through the yellow blooms. Papa painted this, she remembers. A long time ago. Before mama even had any babies.

A hand curling around her back shakes her from her thoughts and she snaps her head up. “Mama!”

“Are you excited for your field trip, love?”

She crinkles her nose. “I don’t want to go to a field. Can we go back inside and read a story?”

Katniss merely laughs, grabbing her daughter’s hand to follow the rest of the group.

After a few minutes of walking, a familiar storefront comes into view with its dark green facade and large picture windows showcasing various cakes. Willow points her fingers and shrieks excitedly. “It’s Papa’s store! Mama, can we go say hi?”

Her mother smiles down at her. “Of course we can.”

Willow runs hurriedly through the door, not noticing the other kids following along. She sticks her tongue out as Papa kisses Mama, his hands resting on her watermelon-round belly. Yuck.

“I’m glad everybody could make it. Today, boys and girls, we’re going to learn all about the kitchen,” Papa’s soft voice calls from the front of the room. “If you follow me, I’ve got your uniforms all laid out.”

Ten tiny aprons lay folded over the back of chairs. Willow ties hers on (with Mama’s help) and sits up straight, hands folded on the table and watches mesmerized as Papa throws ingredients together into a large glass bowl.

“These are called shortbread cookies. First, we have to mix the butter with the sugar. Let’s pass the bowl around and take turns. Don’t be afraid to get in there with your hands; baking is a messy job after all.”

When the bowl has made its way around the table, much to the delight of the children, Peeta adds the vanilla and flour and sets out rolling the dough across the table’s surface. “Now, each of you gets to choose what shape you want your cookie to be.” A pile of cookie cutters lands on the table with a clank.

Tiny hands reach out excitedly, grasping for stars and birds and flowers. Willow picks a simple circle. When Papa makes his way over her to her, he nods and cuts her cookie out. “Why just a plain circle, Catkin?”

She grins. “Because it’s shaped like Mama’s baby.”

The ten minutes it takes the cookies to bake are the longest of Willow’s life. She huffs, kicks her feet against the counter, scowls at the clock (despite not being able to read the time), crosses her arms.

Finally, at once, the timer is done, and she pumps her arms in the air excitedly. Mama helps set each cookie down in front of its rightful owner, while Papa sets out a rainbow of colorful tubes and jars of shining sugar sprinkles. She peruses them carefully, squinting at her selections. No, not that one.

Finally, she settles on the purple. By the time she’s done, her fingers and face are a mess of violet frosting and Mama has to take her to wash up.

“It’s almost time to head back, love. Why don’t you go say bye to your dad?”

She skips over to Peeta, who’s at war with a red splotch of frosting on one of the chairs. “Papa?” She tugs the bottom of his apron, pulling him to her level.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think you should give me an extra cookie.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “I’ll give it to Mama. For the baby.”

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Eight year old Ash stomps impatiently at the grassy edge of the schoolyard. They should’ve left for their field trip exactly four minutes ago. That’s four less minutes that he gets to spend in the woods, all thanks to--

“Hey, isn’t that Mr. and Mrs. Mellark?”

He swivels in place, balking at the site of his parents running to his class group. No, why are they here? He groans out loud.

“Sorry, I thought I forgot to turn the oven off when we left so we went all the way back and turns out it was off the entire time but then I saw that I had put on my old boots with the holes in them and had to go and find--”

Mama gasps in a deep breath, not even finishing her sentence. “Sorry, we’re here now. Let’s get going.”

They’re split into two different groups. Ash ends up in Papa’s group, shying away when Papa tries to ruffle the top of his head. He turns on his heels, pretending to not notice the hurt expression on his face. It’s a fifteen minute hike to the stream they’re studying today and he just wants to get a move on.

By the time they reach it, he’s giddy with excitement. First assignment of the day: make rubbings of bark and leaves. He’s first in line to snatch up the paper and charcoal being distributed, taking off blindly towards a fallen log. He’s deep in thought, deciding which leaf would turn out the best, when he sees another boy coming in the same direction. A scowl twists Ash’s face.

Fine, take my spot. My leaf is still cooler than yours.

He scratches the image of the oak leaf into his paper with great precision, producing a perfect carbon copy. At last minute, he decides to add another, smaller leaf next to it and sets off in search of another perfect specimen.

He stops when he hears voices, peaking around a thick pine to investigate.

“Just press down on the paper a little harder. Don’t worry, you won’t hurt it. There. See, you did it!”

Papa stands next to Blair Ingham, guiding his hand over the rough bark of a maple tree. Ash scowls. That’s my Papa. He folds up his completed rubbing, shoving it into his back pocket and saunters over to his dad.

He tugs on Peeta’s sleeve. “Papa, I need help too.”

“Well now, there’s enough to go around for everyone.”

On the trip back to school, Ash sits perched on Papa’s shoulders, tasked with the job of swatting branches out of the way.

“You know, it’s funny. After I showed you how to make the leaf rubbings, I found a paper laying on the ground. Looked like someone was trying to throw it out. And you know we don’t litter in the forest.”

“Oh?” Ash looks down at the top of his father’s head.

“So I took a peak at whose it might be so I could have a talk with the culprit, and wouldn’t you know, it was a perfect leaf rubbing. Now, tell me why somebody would want to get rid of their school assignment?”

Ash feels like cheeks burn. “No clue.”

“Really? Because, if my memory serves me right, I believe I saw the name Ash Mellark on the bottom corner.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a trip that Willow has been dreading for the last two weeks.

Not to say that she doesn’t want to visit the Justice Hall, it’s just that, well.. when your parents are who they are, it just doesn’t sit right.

They started learning about the Games in school this year. She’d be of reaping age as of last month if they still existed. A shudder runs through her. Then, a sudden wave of sadness. She’s surprised her mother and father agreed to chaperone this trip, but if they have any qualms about doing so they hide it well.

Papa meets her out front of the school, hands dug deep into his pockets. “Your mother isn’t feeling well today. Ah, River Cardwell’s mom stepped up as an emergency volunteer.”

She takes a minute to study her father.

His eyes are ringed red, his cheeks splotchy. His hair is rather unruly this morning as well and a quick peak shows her he’s even forgone one shoe, the shiny metal of his artificial leg catching the afternoon light.

“Papa, are you sure you want to go on this trip?”

“I’m fine, Catkin. This place isn’t what it used to be. The last few times I was here were rather happy occasions, actually. It’s just.. hard to shake old memories sometimes.”

She curls her arm around Peeta’s waist, pressing into his side. “Will you and Mama ever tell us about...” she trails off, unable to say the words. She’s caught glimpses of their past, enough to get a general idea--it’s hard not to when your parents’ photos are printed in the margins of your textbooks--but they don’t talk about any of it, save for brief asides every now and then.

“One day.”

They walk silently wish the rest of her class towards the gray stone building in the center of town.

She’d once heard her mother call it a place of sadness, but today it is a rather ordinary looking front. Gray steps lead up to a glass door, pristine white tile shining from the inside. She pushes the door open.

A gust of frigid air sweeps out with a soft sigh and Willow shivers.

Mrs. Dalley passes out folders and pencils and clears her throat. “This Justice Hall was constructed the year after The Second Rebellion ended. In the pre-war days, it was where children said goodbye to their families after being Reaped.”

Willow turns to Papa. “Were you scared?”

He looks down, nodding. “I was. But not for the reasons you’d think.”

She peers up at him through long, dark lashes. “Was it because of Mama?”

“You’re a smart girl.” He chuckles. “By the time Effie called my name, nothing mattered anymore. Katniss was already standing up on that stage. I knew that I had to die, because if I lived it meant she wouldn’t. In a matter of seconds I’d already accepted my death.”

She feels tears pricking the corners of her eyes at his words. “But they let both of you live.”

“Well, yes, but no.”

Before she can ask another question, she’s being ushered down one of the long corridors.

“This is the Hall of Records. Here is where we keep..”

She’s completely exhausted by the time the day is over and ready to flop into bed, but before she can make a beeline to her bedroom, she’s startled by Mama pulling open the front door.

“Willow.”

If Papa looked worse for wear this morning, then she’s... well, a disaster.

“Come inside.”

Nervous, she steps through the threshold, noting the strange quietness of the home. Usually, Ash is antagonizing one of the cats by now, or Papa is clanking around in the kitchen.

“Where’s everyone else at?”

Mama doesn’t answer, instead reaching up on top of the creaky old bookshelf in the corner, feeling around a minute for something. Finally, she pulls down a large, dusty rectangle, blowing it off. She sets it down on the kitchen table and turns to her daughter.

“I haven’t written in here in a very long time.” Mama pulls the scarf she wears tighter around her neck. “I think it’s time for you to read it.”

Willow steps closer, peeking down at the worn leather cover.

“Memory Book”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Ash cranes his neck, searching for his mother through the crowd in front of the factory.

When he spots her, he pushes his way through the snickering kids, coughing “Mama’s boy” his way. He blushes, staring at the ground the entire time.

“Your Aunt Prim would’ve loved to have seen it,” she remarks, peering up at the four story monstrosity. Despite being constructed well over twenty years ago, she’s never actually visited the place. Until now.

“Willow talks about her sometimes,” Ash says, drawing a line in the dirt with his foot. “Almost like she knows her.”

“Prim would’ve loved you both. Spoiled you, even.” Mama treks inside, following the other groups of kids. She stops short, darting her eyes in every direction. “Wow. District of healing, alright.”

Ash follows her gaze. Tall machines whir and buzz, moving at a rapid rate. They dispense colorful pills and liquids faster than he can keep up with. A conveyor belt moves bottles from one end of the factory to another, quick hands slapping labels on and pushing them into boxes for shipment.

“It’s definitely a sight to see.”

Mama nods in agreement. They walk together, gasping and oohing as new sights emerge.

“Will you tell me about her?” Ash glances at his mother.

“She was smart,” she starts, running her finger along the glass partition between them and the great big machines running the factory. “Smarter than me, anyways. She was going to be a doctor. She was a great healer. I could never stand the sight of our mama’s patients on the table. But Prim? She could stitch any wound there was and not bat an eye.”

They stop suddenly, staring into some kind of testing room. People in strange rubber suits mill about on the other side of the glass, and Ash thinks they look a bit crazy with those fishbowls on their heads.

He spies a man in a white coat behind them through their reflection in the window. “We’ve been testing a new antidote for tracker jacker venom. I think this might be our big break.”

Mama shudders, turning away from the man.

They resume walking. Ash watches with fascination as a large roll of white bandaging is stretched and cut in one smooth movement.

“Prim always wore a ribbon in her hair. She tried to get me to wear one too, once, but I told her it was impractical. Can’t have it coming loose and stuck on the fence or a branch. I wish I would’ve just let her do it. Ash?”

He turns to Katniss. He no longer has to look up at her; he’s quickly surpassing her in height thanks to inheriting his father’s build. “Yes?”

“You and your sister be good to each other.”

They break for lunch around noon, propped up against the shady wayward side of the factory. Mama pulls out two sandwiches, turkey on rye, and passes one to Ash.

They eat in silence, listening to the zooming of hovercrafts here to transport the most critical medications and supplies to the big hospitals in other districts. Like the one that Grandma Everdeen works in.

“I think I might like to be a healer. Like Prim, and grandma.”

“You’re so much like her,” Katniss sighs. “C’mere.”

Before he can protest, she’s pulling him towards her, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head atop his. She leans in, whispering in his ear. “Now you know I don’t condone violence, but if those boys are still giving you trouble, stick rats in their lockers. That’ll have ‘em pissing themselves.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a two day train ride to the memorial site.

Every graduating class for the past ten years has been required to visit one, and even though she’s known it was coming for a while, Willow still shakes the entire way.

Mama isn’t faring any better. She carries a length of rope with her, knotting and twisting until her palms bloom pink. She doesn’t sleep, instead sitting frozen, staring out the window for hours. Papa doesn’t even leave his compartment.

There’s a lump in Willow’s throat because this isn’t just any random dismantled arena-turned-tourist attraction-turned memorial; it’s the one from the 75th Games.

When she’d told her parents which arena had been selected for this year’s trip, Mama had simply nodded, got up, and walked into the woods. She didn’t come back for three days.

Papa gripped the back of a kitchen chair, shaking. When Willow tried to comfort him, he spat, holding his hand out to stop her, telling her to take her brother and stay with Uncle Haymitch for a few days. They ended up having to stay for a week.

She still doesn’t know the full story, really. She knows more than she did all those years ago, but refuses to watch any tapes from the Games, and still gets sick trying to read more than a few sparse details. She knows her parents pretended to be in love to appease the Capitol clowns that held the guns to their heads. She knows they eventually grew to love each other for real.

She knows nearly everyone they loved is dead.

She doesn’t think she wants to know every detail after all.

When the train pulls into the station, Willow gets up on unsteady legs.

Papa leaves his compartment for the first time with a distant look in his eyes. He shambles straight to Mama, whispering something in her ear, pulling her to her feet. Their hands are grasped so tightly in one another’s that Willow can see the fingernail indents from here.

From a distance, it looks like it could be any other nature park. There’s a fountain in the middle, a winding, paved trail, a crumpled piece of metal that could be easily mistaken for contemporary art.

A short, stout woman meets the group at the opening gates.

“Welcome, welcome! I’ll be your guide today.”

She’s far too cheery for the occasion, and Willow supposes she’s a bit like Effie Trinket in that regard (at least, from what she can piece together from her parents’ memory of her).

They’re lead first to a low stone wall, and WIllow’s eyes fall across the names. Her mouth goes dry as she finds some she recognizes. Finnick Odair. Johanna Mason.

Katniss Everdeen.

Peeta Mellark.

“These are the names of every tribute who went into this arena. Every person who was forced to fight in the last Hunger Games our nation ever had to witness. Oh, heavens, I was still in diapers at the time.” Their guide dabs at her eyes.

Willow dares sneak a glance at Mama and Papa. They stare straight ahead, silent tears falling down their faces.

She follows the group next to the mangled pile of steel she’d seen from the train.

“Now, this is all that’s left of the arena now. The rest has been recycled and put to better use. As you may know, this one was a remarkable failure for the game makers and actually helped jump start the revolution. An electrical short sparked a fire that brought the entire thing down--”

“Actually, that’s not what happened.”

Willow snaps her neck around towards Mama’s voice.

“Oh, dear, have you kids not read your history books? Everybody knows tha--”

Mama pushes to the front of the group, Papa trailing behind her. “That’s not how it happened,” she repeats.

She turns now, gripping Papa’s arm as she faces the class. Her voice raises.

“My name is, was, Katniss Everdeen. I’m fifty-one years old. And I survived the 75th Hunger Games.”

Willow can’t hide the shock that crosses her face. A few stray groups turn towards the commotion.

Her parents are a far cry from the photos in the history books now. Lines age their faces, they sport twin stripes of gray in their hair. But underneath it all, they still have the same fire in their eyes. Determination.

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I survived the 75th Hunger Games. This is our story.”

And the words tumble free.

#everlark #my writing #i was having a lot of feelings after our discussion #this is the first everlark i've posted on here that wasn't straight up crack #um this was supposed to be a drabble and it's 3k words

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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What Shoes To Wear With Every Suit Colour

http://fashion-trendin.com/what-shoes-to-wear-with-every-suit-colour/

What Shoes To Wear With Every Suit Colour

Shoes are dangerous, financially speaking. Watches are expensive, sure, but it’s shoes that’ll do real damage to your wallet. Buy the wrong the pair, or the right pair in the wrong colour, and you can wave goodbye to hundreds if not thousands of pounds worth of tailoring. After all, not even the finest Savile Row suit can be saved from a seriously misjudged pairing.

“Your choice of footwear can instantly change the aesthetic of your suit,” says Topman personal shopper Frazer Goater, who suggests before doing anything that you invest in a stalwart of the shoe rack. “A pair of black Derbies will provide you with a footwear choice for any suit colour; from grey, black or navy to heavy checks and impactful floral designs.”

What follows is a guide to which other combinations definitely work, and coincidently, which ones definitely do not. That’s not to say though, that there aren’t exceptions in every case. Colour, like style in general, is largely subjective, so it’s important to experiment. Still, to paraphrase one Señor Pablo Picasso, you need to know the rules before you can break them.

Which Shoes Are Suit Shoes?

Time was, selecting a pair of shoes to wear with a suit was as simple as choosing between formal Oxford shoes and slightly less formal Derbies. Now though, in a more relaxed and less rule-bound era of menswear, everything from leather sandals to sneakers can serve as ‘suit shoes’, provided you know which type of suit to pair them with.

Still, for the most part, the classics endure: Oxfords and Derbies are the bona fide godfathers of smart footwear, and no man should be without at least one pair of each in his wardrobe. A pair of black Oxfords (elegant, svelte and the perfect partner to a classic dinner suit) and a pair of brown Derby shoes (a handsome workhorse of the footwear arena, versatile enough to be worn to work or a wedding) will stand you in good stead for whatever your calendar throws at you.

The Shoes To Wear With Every Suit Colour

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Navy Suit

As one of the most versatile colours in the wheel, it’s hard to go wrong with a navy suit. Not only does this particular shade of blue complement pretty much every skin tone, but it’s the perfect balance of smart and casual that’ll serve you just as well in the office as at dressier affairs.

A chameleon though it may be, there is still a clear favourite when it comes to footwear pairings. Brown leather or suede styles are your best bet here. No need to fuss about the exact shade: hues from tan to dark chocolate will sit comfortably with navy, their richness offering a pleasing counterpoint to navy’s steely neutrality. The exact style is entirely negotiable too, so choose from Oxfords, Derbies, loafers or Chelsea boots depending on what works best for the occasion at hand.

Not a fan of brown? Try deep burgundy leather, light grey suede, or – for a more contemporary take – minimalist white sneakers or off-white canvas kicks. Black shoes work too, but remember you’ll need to wear them with the confidence of someone who’s cool with bending the rules.

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Grey Suit

Grey is a solid all-rounder when it comes to shoe suitability. As a neutral colour, it’ll pair well with pretty much any hue the colour bods at Pantone cook up, from oxblood leather to dusty pink suede. That said, there are some classic combinations worth having in your repertoire.

Being cool, grey tends to team best with warmer, richer shades that pop when paired with either a light or dark grey. Dark shades of brown, burgundy, oxblood and navy all inject enough colour for a clear point of difference, but pastel shades work just as well, particularly in summer.

For a more classic take, choose black. Black leather shoes, Chelsea boots or similar brogue versions never fail to impress alongside a grey suit, particularly fine wool suits in light grey or more rugged wool suits in darker grey shades.

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Black Suit

Black shoes, of course. Other colours work in a pinch, but it’s best to steer traditional with this one. Despite it being a neutral colour, black doesn’t make for as effective a blank canvas as grey, meaning that while you can technically team a black suit with contrast-coloured shoes, the overall effect comes off more brash than finely blended.

Our advice? Black Oxfords as the first port of call (especially for formal events), followed by Derbies, monk straps, Chelsea boots and brogue boots. If that all sounds a little too snooze-inducing, try incorporating colour by opting for an Oxford or brogue with contrast sole detailing or panel; white, off-white and oxblood work well in this regard.

Still too subtle? Try suede loafers or velvet slippers in jewel tones or go all out with what could be loosely termed ‘novelty’ shoes – metallic gold or silver, paint-splattered or otherwise printed styles. Definitely not advisable for buttoned-up engagements that aren’t black tie — though it that case you should really be wearing a dinner jacket — but a stylish way to shake things up anywhere the bouncer won’t bar you for wearing them.

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Neutral Suit

Given their name, you’d be forgiven for thinking neutral colours such as beige, off-white, taupe and so on would team seamlessly with all types of shoe on your rack, but the supposed wallflowers of the colour wheel are more temperamental than appearance might suggest.

The trick to accessorising a neutral suit is finding shoes in a colour that is both different enough to contrast with it, yet similar enough to complement its earthiness.

What’s that exactly? Any shade of brown (try experimenting with different shades depending on the lightness or darkness of the suit), black, white (in the form of sneakers only) and certain pastel shades including blue and pink (particularly good in summer, which also happens to be the best season to wear a neutral suit). A neutral suit in linen, cotton or a blend thereof is also the one suit style you can get away with wearing sandals with. Sans socks, of course.

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Blue Suit

Bold, contemporary and stylish year-round, a blue suit is a worthwhile investment for men whose suited social engagements skew more smart-casual. Less traditional than navy, tailoring in lighter shades of blue is also marginally less versatile, so you’ll need to tread a little more carefully when it comes to shoe choice.

As with navy, brown shoes work well with lighter shades of blue, but while dark browns complement navy’s depth, you’re better off sticking to lighter brown hues with blue tailoring. Tan Derbies, brogues and monk straps work well, as do slightly richer shades of brown – think milk rather than dark chocolate.

Pairing a blue suit with black shoes isn’t a sackable offence either, but black’s inherent dressiness can jar slightly with blue tailoring’s lack thereof, so take any blue-suit-black-shoes combination for a good test drive in front a full-length mirror before leaving the house.

What Colour Shoes To Wear With A Charcoal Suit

Like a light, slate or mid-grey number, a charcoal suit looks sharp with shoes in black, burgundy and oxblood. Unlike suits in lighter shades of grey, however, a charcoal one won’t play well with navy or light brown footwear.

Because it’s a neutral colour with a lot of depth, charcoal is best paired with strong hues that subtly punctuate, rather than starkly contrast with it. By far the best options in this regard are black and burgundy styles in a high-quality leather that, after you learn how to polish like a pro, are sumptuous in colour. Brown works too, but only in rich, deep shades like chestnut and mocha.

While there may be exceptions for the suit colours mentioned thus far, there aren’t any when it comes to charcoal. So, veer away from this advice at your peril.

Failsafe Suit And Shoe Combinations For Men

Navy Suit With Black Shoes

A smart partnership indeed, a single-breasted navy suit and black shoes is an office-ready outfit no man’s work wardrobe should be without. Stick with a plain, pattern-free suit and style with black Derbies or monk straps for a look that’ll boss the boardroom.

Hugo Boss

Grey Suit With Brown Shoes

This combination is a tried and trusted failsafe for formal events. Traditional and more than a little inspired by the British countryside, it’s executed best with a grey or checked grey suit and brown Derbies, brogues, Chelsea or brogue boots.

Belvest

Charcoal Suit With Brown Shoes

Another wedding favourite, this combination offers a more traditional, vintage-inspired alternative to a light grey suit and brown shoes. Remember: charcoal is a rich and intense shade of grey, which means the brown shoes you team it with need to offer a similar depth. Styles-wise, brogues, brogue boots and monk straps strike the smart-casual balance you’re looking for here.

Navy Suit With Burgundy Shoes

Black and brown shoes too dull? Try bookending navy tailoring with an eye-catching injection of colour. Burgundy shoes – especially Derbies and monk straps – make for a characterful counterpoint to a navy suit’s cool tones. It’s a winner for pretty much anything that isn’t black tie, but use in the office at your discretion if you don’t want a disciplinary.

Brunello Cucinelli

Neutral Suit With Brown Shoes

Need a suited look for summer? Say no more. This Riviera-inspired combination plays a blinder in the brighter months. Opt for a suit in cotton, linen or a blend of the two for optimal breathability and match with a pair of leather or suede Derbies, brogues, monk straps or – to nail that upscale Italo vibe – loafers.

Mango Man

Navy Suit With Brown Shoes

If there’s one formula to note down, it’s this. A handsome twosome whatever the occasion, a navy suit and brown shoes is a classic combination you can rely on now and forever. One thing worth keeping in mind is that these colours have a tendency to look casual; to ensure you stay sharp opt for a shoe from the smarter end of the spectrum such as an Oxford, Derby or monk strap.

Burton

Blue Suit With Brown Shoes

A punchier, more youthful alternative to wearing a navy suit and brown shoes, this sartorial set-up works well for work and smart events with a relatively relaxed dress code. Don’t skimp on the suit (cheap fabrics look exactly that in brighter shades of blue) and choose shoes in shades of brown from tan to chocolate. Anything lighter will contrast too starkly, while anything darker won’t contrast quite enough.

Marks & Spencer

Black Suit With Brown Shoes

Before you run for the hills, allow us to explain. While footing a black suit with brown shoes may sound like something cooked up to cause a stir at Fashion Week, it is in fact proof of how sometimes breaking the rules can prompt some exceptional results. Much like marrying black and navy, with enough difference between the two to make it look purposeful it can look damn good. Plus, David Beckham has been seen doing this on multiple occasions, and if it’s good enough for him.

Unknown

Blue Suit With Black Shoes

Different, but not dramatically so, these two colours paired makes a safe bet for guys that want to stand out without going full Pitti peacock. As for the suit, a punchy, vibrant shade such as cobalt works best, while the shoes should be in a saturated black leather that looks almost patent but, you know, isn’t.

Tommy Hilfiger

Charcoal Suit With Black Shoes

A cold-weather classic, this duo has globetrotting spy written all over it, especially if teamed with a black fine-gauge roll neck. To ensure you come off more James Bond than dock worker, opt for a fine wool suit rather than anything weighty and pair with jet black shoes; Oxfords, Derbies and monk straps give a particularly slick finish, but brogues and brogue boots will work too.

Thomas Pink

Neutral Suit With Blue Shoes

Whether you’re jetting off to a summer wedding abroad or looking for something the right side of dandy for parties at home, this peak summer tie-up promises to set you apart from the more predictable choices made once the mercury rises. As with any suit you intend to wear for sweating season, look for linen, cotton or a linen-cotton blend; as for the shoes, stick to suede styles in lighter shades of blue.

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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The Worst Men’s Fashion Trends Of All Time

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-worst-mens-fashion-trends-of-all-time/

The Worst Men’s Fashion Trends Of All Time

Fashion can be a fickle mistress. She can also be straight-up sadistic. Three-quarter-length trousers, straw hats, Uggs for men, what was she thinking? And what were we thinking for listening to her?

To make matters worse, designers like nothing more than performing Lazarus-like feats, giving a second shot to styles we thought were banished to menswear purgatory until the end of time. But while last summer’s bum bag renaissance (or was it the corduroy comeback?) may have made you regret binning such items in horror all those years ago, there are certain pieces you can dispose of safe in the knowledge they’ll never stand a chance of coming back into fashion.

Cheesy Slogan T-Shirts

Whether or not you’re with stupid, the only thing your T-shirt should tell people is that you’ve got the building blocks of a good wardrobe down to a fine art. While tees with political messages or bold streetwear branding have been trending recently, they shouldn’t open the door for older styles that are supposed to show the world that you’ve got a sense of humour – but actually just advertise the fact you’re a douchebag.

Your rotation of basics doesn’t have to be plain, mind (although it’s never a bad move). Just remember, puns or sexual invites are as inappropriate on your clothing as they would be yelled at strangers in the street. Plus, there’s no such thing as a female body inspector. We checked.

The Fix: Plain Or Printed T-Shirts

Deep V-Neck T-Shirts

If you’re not a washed-up porn star, former Jersey Shore cast member or Cristiano Ronaldo circa 2007, then you’d better have the self-respect to stop short of trussing yourself up in breast-baring slithers of cotton. Deep V-neck T-shirts don’t so much flaunt your gains as bizarrely feminise them – no matter how much of a Lothario you think they make you look.

Instead, stick to classic crew necks and put the Vs (of a less naval-plunging proportion) to work on premium knitwear, whether worn under a suit or solo for a Riviera chic look.

The Fix: V-Neck Knitwear

Square-Toed Shoes

Like Halloween’s Michael Myers, these boxy, clunky, ugly – yes, ugly – excuses for footwear simply refuse to die. We’re not sure (and frankly, don’t care) why they were invented exactly, but despite how ‘smart-casual’ you think they might look, or how comfortable they might be, we appeal to your humanity to chuck yours and save your fellow commuter’s eyes.

Even Gucci tried to make them happen and failed. If a brand that has made billions off something a horse sticks in its mouth can’t make them work, no one can. So, scrap them, and stick to time-honoured footwear styles like classic round-toed Oxfords and Derbies. Your feet will thank you, and so will we.

The Fix: Round-Toed Shoes

The Chin Strap

Shaved most my beard off on Monday, got bullied for it at work on Tuesday, regretted my decision by Wednesday and on Thursday and Friday and Saturday… you get the idea. Granted, Craig David was responsible for some of the biggest tunes of the early 2000s, but ‘7 Days’ and ‘Fill Me In’ will forever be overshadowed by one of the worst facial hair styles in history.

The main issue with David’s pencil-thin chin strap is that a beard should never be shaved along the jawline. You could have a bone structure to cut cheddar on and you’d still end up with a double chin every time you peer down at your phone. Instead, always look to taper under the neck and simply tidy up top rather than create overly harsh lines.

The Fix: A Well-Groomed Beard

Uggs For Men

Forget ‘winners don’t do drugs’. ‘Winners don’t wear Uggs’. Much better rule to live by. Don’t get us wrong, in recent years the Californian brand has produced some rather stylish hiking boots and even a sneaker or two. But these were an out and out abomination.

Ben Affleck, guilty. Ronnie Wood, guilty. Even the usually unlambastable Pharrell Williams, Justin Timberlake and Jaden Smith – guilty, guilty, guilty. You burn the boots, we’ll burn the evidence, and we can all move on with our lives in proper footwear.

The Fix: Hiking Boots

Sagging Jeans

Regardless of how much you can squat, no one wants to see the results bursting out of your denim. Supposedly inspired by the ban on belts in the US prison system, sagging jeans were adopted as an anti-authoritarian statement by LA gangs and hip-hop stars during the 1990s. Unless you’re either, letting your jeans drop below your buttocks is sartorially short-sighted at best, cultural appropriation at worst.

Jeans should sit on your hips to let the legs hang properly against yours, while tailoring should sit nearer your waist to prevent an acre of shirt appearing between your jacket closure and trousers. If your legwear falls down by itself, congratulate yourself on sticking to that cardio regime and promptly reward yourself with some that actually fit.

The Fix: Well-Fitting Jeans

Gap Year Jewellery

Unless you’re Mãori or in a nineties boyband, there’s no excuse for jewellery made from puka shells, beads, pebbles of dubious heritage or fraying strands of rope woven by this amazing Indian spirit healer, who really showed you how to discover yourself. You have a job now. It’s time to let those pre-university days go.

That’s not to say men’s jewellery can’t be stylish. Bracelets, cuffs, necklaces and rings are all fair game. Just choose simple styles that are minimal, lightweight, and act as an extension of your outfit rather than upstage it.

The Fix: Grown-Up Jewellery

Drop-Crotch Trousers

Do you have friends? Do you wish you didn’t? Then why not wear a pair of drop-crotch trousers? The instant illusion of wearing a big, sagging adult-sized nappy on your lower half will ensure you’re never invited to another social gathering ever again. Win.

Of course, we’re not against drapey, easygoing styles altogether (unless they reach flare proportions – more on that later). But the comfort you gain from these wardrobe horrors is nothing that you can’t get from a pair of relaxed-leg trousers. Plus, Bieber likes drop-crotch. Nuff said.

The Fix: Premium Joggers

Oversized Belt Buckles

Freud would probably have had something to say about this. Much like a tank-sized SUV or an extensive air rifle collection, the idea behind a brash and brassy oversized belt buckle is to let everyone know you’re packing. But in reality, it does exactly the opposite – not only exposing your deepest insecurities, but also your godawful sense of style.

Leave the giant eagles, bullhorns and anything equipped with a bottle opener to the wrestling world and downsize your XXL belt buckle to something more run of the mill (solid leather for smart, woven for casual). Not only will your trousers look better, but people will also stop mistaking you for a line dancing instructor. Win-win, really.

The Fix: Understated Belts

Crocs

Crocs are possibly the biggest example of false advertising in the 21st-century. With a name like that, you’d expect something pretty bad-ass, but what you get is foam clogs. Foam. Clogs. No part of this sounds like it’s going to look good, does it?

Frankly, no one cares how good your feet feel in them – unlike the once-maligned Birkenstock sandal, these will never regain their stylish status. Mostly because they never had it in the first place. For something equally lightweight, comfortable and summer-appropriate, try a pair of espadrilles or driving shoes instead.

The Fix: Espadrilles & Drivers

The ‘Going Out’ Shirt

Two common misconceptions are responsible for spawning this fashion monstrosity. The first is that you’re never dressed up without a ‘proper’ collar – for that, we have hoity-toity golf clubs to blame. The second is that you’ll stand a greater chance of pulling if you’re wearing something that stands out – a trick no doubt thought up by some misogynistic pick-up artist. Hence the going out shirt: oversized, obnoxiously printed and unfailingly worn untucked and unbuttoned to the lowest possible chest hair. It’s less a wingman, more sartorial wing-clipping.

Ugliness aside, the main issue is that you don’t need a wardrobe dedicated to ‘going out’. Dress for where you’re heading, not the fact that you’re heading there. We’re already drowning in dress codes. Don’t invent another one for the pub.

The Fix: Pared-Back Smart-Casual

Straw Hats

We’re going to put it out there and say there isn’t a haircut bad enough to warrant wearing a straw fedora on top of your head. Not now. Not ever. Even if your barber was out until 4am and showed up to chop your mop still blind drunk with nothing more than the plastic knife and fork he ate his kebab with. Still no.

You’re not Bruno Mars on the beach. And if you are, get a better hat. Like a baseball cap. Or a bin bag.

The Fix: Baseball Caps

Flares

There will be very few readers of FashionBeans who remember these from the first time round in the 1970s, and (hopefully) only a few misguided enough to try them in bootcut form in the 1990s. But don’t be swayed by the fact that Gucci, Valentino and Raf Simons have all tried to revive the flare in recent years, for they are every bit as terrible today.

Reason #439 why we hope these never come back: the fact that the only way to wear them was with frayed hems dragging on the floor, soaking up rainwater and sweeping up every cigarette butt on the street as you walked. Gross.

The Fix: Straight-Leg Cuts

Three-Quarter Length Trousers

You might think that with the quite literal rise of the mankle, trousers deliberately cut off mid-calf would save you precious minutes cuffing your denim. But rather than hinting that you’re a man so busy he can’t find time for a pinroll, they actually paint you as one wracked by indecision, whose inability to choose between trousers and shorts left him with their bastard child. You’re only one step away from cargo pants with legs that zip off.

There is, of course, a right way to wear cropped trousers. The key is that no one should mistake them for long shorts. A slightly relaxed, rather than calf-hugging cut, which ends just above the ankle, lets you flash your trainers without looking like you’ve been bathing in Miracle Grow.

The Fix: Cropped Trousers

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