I was tagged by the incomparable @mercurygray (danke!) and because I actually (gasp!) have a working WIP, I can happily share part of it with you all. This is from the beginning of chapter four of ânew romantics,â my Benophie Modern AU.
He wasnât lying. He really did have a bathtub.
Perhaps Sophie shouldnât have been surprisedâBenedict had just about everythingâbut she hadnât entirely been prepared for him to open the door to his guest bathroom, tucked away in a part of his flat she hadnât yet explored, and see a large, ridiculously old-fashioned claw-footed tub in the center of the room. There wasnât even the pretense of practicality, as it possessed only dual hot and cold handles and a single chrome faucet.
âWhat do you say?â he asked. âCare to take a dip?â
Sophie considered his question, taking into account her aching feet and desire to remove her beautiful but tightly-fitting designer gown, as well the fact that the bathtub looked roomy enough for two.
âWill you join me?â
Benedict needed no convincing, his only concern being where to locate a bottle of bath oil he knew had been acquired for just such an occasion. Sophie was left to extract herself from the dress, laying it gently atop the guest bed and then slipping off her heels before rejoining him. While she had been gone, he had begun running the water, the oil filling the room with the soft aroma of cedarwood. His tuxedo, she noted, had been discarded in a black and white pile on the tile floor.
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đšđšhazeljack pls and thank!!! (Yes that's 10 sentences. I'm mean.)
He can hear his fatherâs sure voice, you have nothing to fear from a beautiful woman.
Iâm not afraid, Iâm â IâmâŚ
Hazelâs down to the end of her cigarette, cherry glowing fire red against the night, dangerously close to her fingertips but she holds on to it still, tapping absentmindedly as she watches couples sway through the window. He can see Ev with a hand on Bertoâs waist, her hand on his shoulder, their free hands clasped over his heart. Sheâs laughing at something preposterous and Evâs being insistent, but not without a smile. Boochâs rolling her eyes as Dougie scoops her into a dip, Crank leads an uncharacteristically bashful Bobbie into step beside Bucky and Helen, and Dolores nods along to the beat from one of the tables toward the front, as close to Lola and the bandstand as sheâll let herself get.
All they have is the nightâs waning hours. Tomorrow theyâre back to consolidating racks and assigning new crews and practice runs. Death rides again, and they toward it.
A few twinkling notes on the piano bring the song to the end, the laughter and soft applause breaking Hazelâs spell. She takes a last draw from her smoke and stamps it out, making a point to twist the butt into the dirt, shoulders raised to her ears.
âThisâll be our last song,â Lola says from the bandstand, muted through the glass. âAnd Mike said last call about five minutes ago, for all of you headed back there.â
Jack can hear Bucky groan above the rest, but he claps twice and offers a hand to Bea, the grocerâs daughter from town, who accepts. Hazel doesnât see, or she doesnât want to see.
What was it she said earlier? I like stayinâ on the ground, just wish yâall liked stayinâ too. I hate beinâ far away. Sheâs always at an armâs length â in the office, in interrogation, even in a swinging club, and theyâre the ones that are far away, in their heads, in their bodies when that siren sounds. All she can do is watch, accept the reports that come in, hold one of her girls as she sobs into Hazelâs collar when a gunner doesnât come home. Not in the air but still in the line of fire.
Dawnâs coming fast and he thinks of Curtâs name up on the board in Ops for only a few more hours until he has to take it down and Chick gives her a new name to write. Her brotherâs name did that too, disappeared in an instant of dragging felt.Â
Heâs not afraid of her, heâs afraid of having a chance and blowing it. Heâs afraid for her, of a day when she has to take his name down and no oneâs there to hold her, no one to smoke with her outside.
The band starts up.
âWanna dance?â
She looks around like heâd be asking anyone else. âMe?â
100 paired prompts list - šâśâž perfume oil (or frying oil, your pick) and rolled up shirtsleeves, for Val! (Whose shirtsleeves are rolled up is entirely up to you.)
Hi friend! Iâm sorry this took me absolute ages, but it feels so good to come back to Val and Ev after being away for a while. Thank you for this đ
If you asked Val DiRosano what the hardest job was at RAF Thorpe Abbotts, she would tell you the ground crews, the pilots and their crews, doctors and nurses, operators and officers in the control tower all worked their fingers to the bone day in, and day out. If you asked Red Bowman or Chick Harding, they would tell you it was the four young women who upended their lives to serve in the war effort. The girls who, without much help outside themselves, made more coffee and donuts than they had ever seen in their lives, from inside of a converted single decker bus, and put up with hundreds of rowdy men boys just to give them a little slice of Americana while so far from home, without much in return.
Every morning like clockwork, the Red Cross Clubmobile was the first to come to life on Thorpe Abbotts airfield. One of the four girls would venture out to the truck at 4:30 in the morning to begin the ritual of making the first batch of donuts and starting the coffee urns. As the donuts baked and the coffee percolated she would then set about setting out any sweets that they had on hand from rations deliveries; chewing gum, lucky strikes and if they were fortunate, newspapers from the US along with the local East Anglia paper. A water bowl for Meatball was then placed at the bottom of the stairs at the back of the truck, so he was also taken care of when visiting his girls for the day. A daily ritual that they had done for so long now, that any changes were frowned upon. All except for one.
It was stifling; the heat of the donut maker filling the inside of the Clubmobile with steam even with the side hatch open and the cool morning air outside. The base wasnât awake yet, but Val could see the lights on in the control tower which meant that Chicky and Red were more than likely already working. The coffee urn behind her was filled to the brim, and the batch of donuts in the machine were just about finished as she moved to pull the rack for them off the storage shelf above the machine.
âShit!â
Helen had closed up the truck the day before after a supply run from ATS, and she was just tall enough that when she put things back on the shelf, no one else could reach them.
âIâve got itâŚ.â Ev slid behind her, one hand on her waist as he reached over her shoulder with his right arm to pull the rack down off the shelf.
âThank you,â she sighed, dropping her head back against his chest. âHelen and her long arms closed up yesterday.â
A laugh punched from his chest, both his hands now on her shoulders as he gently squeezed, letting her relax against him for a moment. The Clubmobile stirred with life, the scent of coffee and donuts permeating the air soon to be consumed by the men of Thorpe Abbotts; but for now it was just them, in the quiet of the truck as the sun still slept. Normally when it was her turn to open the truck, Val made a point of sleeping in her own rack, but she had been out on the hardstand all night- there was a borrowed jeep and some blankets involved- and when she had told Ev that it was her turn that morning, he had simply nodded, lit them both a cigarette, and followed her on her way to work. It was quiet and domestic, the kind of thing most of the men on base wouldnât dream of doing but Ev Blakely wasnât going to turn down the opportunity to spend a few extra hours alone with Val before he was dragged off to his office. Especially when those hours were peaceful, under the cover of dusk.
âItâs so quietâŚâ
Evâs hands slid down from Valâs shoulders. A gentle squeeze to her upper arms, down again to her elbows, past the bunched up sleeves of her jumpsuit that she had rolled up until he found her hands. The only sound coming from the truck was the methodical sound of the coffee urn, and the motor of the donut machine as the sinkers baked.
âI know,â she sighed, still leaning against him, her fingers threading through his. âItâs my favorite part of the day.â
âReally?â
âI pour myself some coffee, turn on one of the records, and itâs like Iâm home. Thereâs no war, no one looking for me to help with reports or set up for interrogation, no extra worries; Iâm just Val, having coffee, reading a magazine and making breakfast.â
âWell, thank you for sharing your quiet morning with me.â
âOur quiet morning.â She corrected, giving his hands a squeeze.
âWhen this is all overâŚâ Ev started, sucking in a breath through his teeth. âYou can have as many quiet mornings as you want.â
âQuite like sharing them with you, though.â
âYeah?â
âMakes me think about what it might be like when we get home. What our mornings might be like when thereâs nothing to get in our way.â
âWell, I think there might be some lazy mornings in bed,â pressing his nose against her cheek, she could feel his grin widen against her skin, mustache tickling her slightly. âMaybe coffee beneath the sheets, and breakfast could be more than a donut on my way out to the hardstand.â
âYouâve given this a lot of thought.â Valâs voice was soft, the words colored with wonder at how intricately Everett had crafted his post-war dream. Sure, she knew she dreamed of it often, but she hadnât expected him to have it all mapped out, and so perfectly.
âWhy do you always sound so surprised, hmm?â
With a laugh he brought their intertwined right hands up, gently kissing her knuckles before wrapping both his arms, and her own, around her waist. Gently nuzzling this face into her neck he breathed in deeply, the scent of her perfume and the oil from the donuts filling the space around him. A scent that was so uniquely Valencia he thought there couldnât possibly be anything better until she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. Now, it was her turn to nuzzle into his warmth; even though the Clubmobile was a hot box, only Everett could thaw the chill deep in her bones.
âHmm?â
âHmm, what?â She posed the question back to him playfully.
âYou never answered my question,â he shook his head. âWhy do you always sound so surprised?â
âI thought it was my job to daydream of happy ever afterâŚâ
âYou can,â he tugged her closer. âBut I already told you, youâre it for me. So, it crosses my mind more often than youâd think.â
âWhat else crosses your mind?â She tried not to think about how her mind immediately jumped to the how he could possibly want all of this with her, as opposed to the why. That being, he was not the man who hurt her, he was the man who loved her.
âSuddenly so interestedâŚâ he teased, pinching her waist gently.
âWell now that I knowâŚâ
âI think about where we might live, what weâll do when this is all overâŚâ he pressed his lips to her forehead, swaying her even though there was no music. âA couple of kids, if you want themâŚâ
âYes,â the word slipped out before she could stop it. The thought of life so peaceful with Everett making her want to go and end the war herself. âI think about that too.â
âWhich part?â
âAll of it.â
âOne day, baby. I promise.â
He continued to sway her as she rested her head against his chest, gaze falling to the open hatch on the side of the truck. The sun was peeking over the horizon now, and life was beginning to stir around them. The far off shouts of the ground crews, the gravel under the boots of men as they trudged from their rack to the mess hall, the grumble of Chick Harding as Meatball got caught under foot on his way from Operations. This was life now. She had spent so long thinking they had to get through the war before getting to the good stuff, but this was good stuff. A quiet morning, the man holding her, their friends, her dreams. It was all coffee and donuts and happy ever after.
Carola, please tell us more about this magical new fashion book you keep posting from! It looks great.
Hi! It's How to Read a Dress by Lydia Edwards and I'm in love with every single page.
It takes us from 1550 till the 2020 in 12 chapters. Each showing us a combination of paintings (especially in the earlier chapters, mostly because few dresses of that time survived until now), photographs of women wearing dresses, artists depictions, and photographs from various museums and collections of dresses, suits and accessories.
It's a great overview of the history of dress, showing and explaining how the dress changes throughout time and how and why the style changes. Every dress in here gets explained in detail: how it got cut and sewn, undergarments, how it can resemble a style from years earlier, changes made during its lifetime, newspaper articles, people's opinions of that time.
I'm feeling so much inspiration reading this book. And highly recommend everyone to read it.
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got tagged by @mercurygray , and while I donât have anything of the usual variety to share, I did start writing a D&D/Baldurâs Gate 3 thing, a sort of prelude to a characterâs backstory, if this is anything:
â
The boat creaked and groaned with every jostle of the choppy, uneven waves. The upper deck was empty of all but its Captain, who navigated the jagged rocks of the Sword Coast with careful precision, the elfâs keen eyes searching for a safe enough place to dock.
In the underbelly, all was silent, tension choking out most of the sailorsâ otherwise jovial nature as they stood guard, eyes transfixed on the young girl sitting on the floorâ her cuffs shimmering with the magic that had been imbued into them.
Silence. Thick, intolerable silence. Bestowed upon them by their queen, to snuff the girlâs magic out. And as an extra measure, still her mouth had been bound with cloth.
The guardsman shifted a bit on his feet as their passenger stared up at him with wet, mismatched eyes. One a soft, muted gray, the other a brilliant blue reminiscent of his own daughterâs. Proof of her fey heritage, just as much as the soft point to the girlâs ears. And yetâŚ
Sheâs touched by the Shadowfell, he reminded himself, a slight shiver racing up his spine as she held his attention with her terrified stare. An enemy of Karadorâ an enemy of all of Sarifal. Had it not been for the Duchessâ pleading, he was nearly certain one of the Queenâs Guard would have been tasked with cutting her down where she stood, expunging the rot from their island before it could fester and spoil anything. It is only because of that begging â grovelling, even, at High Lady Ordalfâs feet â that the child still lived. Exiled, never to step foot in Karador again, but alive.
A child, his throat ached and he swallowed thickly. Barely thirteen. Barely even a sliver of time in the long lives of their people â he could not remember being so small, and much less being so scared.
â
Take this also as a sign of life on my end, and feel free to jump off from this if you wish to participate :)
questions are from this oc ask list <3 inbox open for more!
how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?
In 2021, Olive dresses pretty similarly to others her age. Cuffed skinny jeans, tucked in shirt or tied blouse. In 1943, she's obviously in Red Cross uniform with her other girls but can't wait to eventually branch out to fashions of that time. I'd say she dresses for practicality as opposed to aesthetics, especially when just lounging.
how big or small is their family? who did they live with growing up? do they live with anyone now?
Olive's blood family is small - it's just her and Pearl, which you'll hear more about as to why in the forthcoming chapters. Luckily for her, Olive's family has grown and it's her chosen one - Val, Ev, Tattie, Helen, Dougie, Benny, Brady and the rest of the rowdy bunch at Thorpe Abbotts.
I did not know I needed these men in my life but now I cannot live without them. Itâs like the A Team meets The Dirty Dozen and I am absolutely here for it.
I also have a totally normal appreciation for Pat Riley. Totally normal about him.
