January Of Firsts - Day 1: First Impression

January Of Firsts - Day 1: First Impression

Anakin is convinced that Grim and Obi-Wan are actually related.

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Fitting and Choosing

Steve Harrington x female reader (y/n)

Word Count: 1038

Warnings: mentions of parental abandonment, weddings, wedding dress fittings, Steve Harrington being sweet is a warning, some fluff, humour, Eddie being Eddie, emotional adults.

A/N: The prompt foundry have put together a challenge list for Firsts. Day 5 was first fitting and it got me thinking about how the 80s was influenced by Dynasty and the work of fantastic designer Nolan Miller. Add it to Steve trying to get the guys to pick something for them to wear on the day and I put this together. I wanted to give Dustin’s mum and Karen Wheeler a role too because I feel like they need a bit of character exposure as they aren’t always given enough except to be shown as mums who don’t do much. I feel like Karen is the type to know fashion and Claudia could be an amazing seamstress.

Y/N turned to look at her reflection in Claudia's full length mirror. She bit her lip nervously. It was definitely the dress style she wanted but it needed a lot of work.

Claudia and Karen both clapped excitedly with a shared vision of what to do. Karen pulled out her folder while Claudia set out her dress maker pins and fabric scraps.

"Y/N this dress is going to look stunning" Karen squealed showing her the designs she had done for dress detail that she and Claudia felt were achievable. “I listened to what you said about the Nolan Miller designs on Dynasty with Fallon’s two dresses and Amanda’s dress when she married that prince” Karen’s excitement was tangible.

“Oh that was such an exciting episode not knowing who was alive or dead” Claudia chimed in as she checked Karen’s designs too. They were debating whether to change the sleeves and make them puffy or go with an off shoulder look. They had plenty of options as the top of the dress had t-shirt neckline and short sleeves that could easily be adapted. Dustin came out of his room to get some juice and stopped to look at Y/N and some of the Nolan Miller designs Karen spread out. A cheeky smile spread across his face.

“Oh Y/N be careful, mom will make you look like a meringue if you let her decide” he teased. Claudia gasped and looked at Dustin like he’d wounded her.

“Young man if you have nothing nice to say then don’t say anything” she reprimanded.

“Girls dream of their weddings from a young age and their dress has to be perfect” Karen added.

It had been an hour, Dustin was getting fed up hearing about ruffles, pleats, rhinestones, sequins, ribbons and fabric. He’d been roped into helping as Karen sketched Y/N’s vision based on Karen and Claudia’s ideas while Claudia chalked and pinned pieces on the dress as Y/N wore it.

A knock at the door gave Dustin the reprieve he needed. Opening the door, his smile grew instantly.

“Henderson!” Steve greeted with Eddie. He let them in only to have Karen panic and usher Y/N into Claudia’s room as it’s known to be bad luck for a groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding. Steve looked baffled.

“Y/N are you OK?” his concern echoed in his voice.

“Steve she’s being fitted for her dress, why are you here?” Karen asked.

“I brought some magazines for the Dustin and Eddie to see which style fits better and talk colour of suits for the wedding” he answered. Karen huffed and looked to Y/N who indicated she was tired and figured they had enough to go on.

“OK well Y/N will be changed and out of the room to see you shortly” she responded as Steve sat back down and started sharing stuff with Eddie and Dustin.

They were arguing colour and fit within no time. Dustin opting for bright colours, Eddie suggesting tuxedo t-shirts as cost effective and comfortable only to be met with Dustin arguing they are tacky which surprised Steve.

“What?” Dustin asked looking at Steve.

“I never thought you saw them as tacky” Steve spoke still astounded.

“Steve, you’re getting married. You’ve asked Eddie and myself to be your best men, I am not going to turn your big day into a joke” he replied earning a hair ruffle from Eddie for sounding sappy.

“It’s Y/N’s day though,” Steve reiterated, “she told me since she was 8 she’d been dreaming of the perfect dress. How the day would go and because her parents are refusing to share in the planning and believe they won’t attend due to work, I want to make sure she knows how special she is” he revealed with a solemn look, eyes almost filling with tears.

“But it’s our day Steve” she surprised him as she stepped over Eddie to join her fiancé.

“Y/N, I had no idea that your parents were...”

“It’s OK Karen. You and Claudia more than make up for it and I wouldn’t want it any other way’ she thanked the two woman who couldn’t help but shed a few tears.

“What about this?” Eddie asked pointing to a leather looking blazer. Steve turned to look at him with disbelief?

“Really Eddie? This is a wedding not some rock band reunion” Steve’s response was not meant to be as blunt as it sounded as Eddie feigned offense at his words dramatically clutching his chest and falling to the floor only to earn chuckles from Dustin and Y/N while Karen and Claudia shook their heads amused and went off to discuss how they were going to work on Y/N’s dress.

Dustin got the attention of the others as he jolted upright and shouted “a ha!” as he turned the page in the magazine he was looking at. Eddie sat up and Steve sat forward as Dustin slammed the magazine down on the coffee table eagerly pointing at a set of men all dressed in matching suits. They were black but the collar and lapels were satin and a different colour with ties that matched the lapels.

“These come in a range of colours. Steve, you said black is smart and Eddie you like black too but look at the collar, there’s colours and patterns to choose from” he was so proud of himself, grinning from ear to ear. Y/N winked at him thankfully for being a mediator and having a good eye for detail.

“I... I mean they look good and we can always co-ordinate the colour with the bridesmaids. My cousin did something similar at her first wedding,” Eddie let on, Dustin looked at him with confusion, “she’s been married five times” Eddie continued just to answer the unasked question.

“Move over Elizabeth Taylor” Y/N joked getting a play barge and girly giggle from Eddie.

“We could all have collars in a colour or pattern that suits our personality, that way we can wear them more than once,” Steve added, “good find Henderson” he felt relieved because first fittings and picking outfits are renowned for being a nightmare. At least they were all on the same wavelength for the wedding.

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1 Your First Fandom

As strange as it may sound that would probably be anime - specifically, Shaman King. Funny thing but at the time it was airing on the local tv channel and I did not even know that is was an anime and not a regular animation show. Also worth mentioning, W.I.T.C.H. and Jackie Chan Adventures animated.

@thepromptfoundry has a brilliant prompt idea fro this February, so jump in everybody on this fandom train)))

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Title: Artist and Muse Prompt: Decadencember Fine Clothes @thepromptfoundry Artist: Caiti Relationship: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff Rating: T Note: Should any of my mood boards prompt a fic, please link me so I can enjoy and brag! But please - take this as permission to write it!!

He Who Tends, He Who Mends

tw: PTSD, period-typical homophobia

Prompt 10 - a luxurious bath @thepromptfoundry

They’re all battered and bloodied when they meet their queen. She is purity incarnate and here were her knights and soldiers, coming in through the palace halls with the stench of a war hardly fought but surely won. That is the first thing Wymond talks about when she inclines her head for him to speak.

“Your Majesty,” He starts. “Our sincerest apologies for not cleaning up before—“

“No need,” She interrupts. The unease still obviously stirring within him and the others must’ve shown because she raises a brow.

Wymond tenses. So do the others and there are twitches of fingers too close to their weapons because these are people who’ve just come back from war. Coming back doesn’t mean they’ve learned to come home.

If the queen notices the tension, she doesn’t show it. She maintains that raised brow and those fingers tapping on the throne’s armrest. A few seconds. Some minutes. An hour, maybe, of how the silence lasted and the tension thickened like blood gathering on the cursed ground of a battlefield.

Then she smiles, ever so softly and says, “Good work.”

Wymond’s not the only one who has to steady themselves. He’s not the only one whose legs threaten to buckle and give under him, with the tension that’d been running whisked away by those two words. Like the others with him in this room, he chokes on the air that his body has finally allowed him to take in, pure, clean, and free of that heavy scent of death.

Wymond gets to breathe and with it comes the burn of tears he hasn’t allowed himself to nurture nor shed. Hitches of breath, sobs, and sniffles fill the room and while Wymond wants to join in, he still has a duty to fulfil.

He straightens up. He feels his tears silently pour out and streaking down his face. His vision of Queen Aldith blurs but it only takes some blinking for him for her visage to become clear again and again.

She’s smiling still at him—at all of them as if they are but her children who tried acting tough after skinning their knee. Wymond feels small but that’s alright because she’s the queen who’s letting her soldiers and knights cry before her.

“Now,” She says finally. “Report, if you please.”

Wymond sniffles and blinks away the new onslaught of tears. He salutes, goes on one knee, and follows the order.

Queen Aldith calls after him once the last of the weeping knights and soldiers are out and he’s a step away from the doorway. No one hears the command but him, the others too tired from the sudden expulsion of emotion to notice anything else than the promise of a peaceful rest.

Wymond stops and turns back. The queen’s halfway to the passageway behind the throne and there’s a look on her face he’s all too familiar with.

He stiffens under her gaze. He does not reach for his sword.

After a moment, she speaks again as if these are words she’d rather not say but is bound to set free.

“Amis wants to see you,” She says. “Best be on your way to not disappoint him. He’s been in a… state, lately.”

She does not turn away to go when silence descends on the both of them again. She keeps her gaze—that look—on him and Wymond feels like he is being sent to war again.

But this is a war he’s been fighting for as long as he could remember and one he would spend his last breath on.

Wymond straightens, returns the queen’s gaze, and says, “Gladly, your Majesty.”

When the doors close behind him, he still feels that gaze trying to penetrate his will like a dagger chipping at a mountain.

None of the others ask or look twice when he splits off from them and goes for the wing where the royal quarters are. They have all shed blood and shared loves and fears with each other. Gossip is not something any of them can afford. Well, not right now, anyway.

The way to the royal quarters is long and heavy with silence. Guards litter the hallway but they give nothing more than a salute and a nod before assuming their stoic position again. Their shiny armours glint in the sunset.

Wymond knows his armour is too caked in blood and dirt and the darkness of death to even have a chance with the light.

The clink clank of his armour accompanies him on this walk. It’s a comforting sound, reminding him he is protected in this place whose sovereign does not want him anywhere near. Not in this place where autumn’s fall has not yet shaken the will of the royal gardens to live and flourish. Not in this place of purity where his every step spreads miasma of a war they’ve prevented from ever reaching the palace doors.

Wymond walks. And walks. And walks.

He stops.

The door to Amis’ room is ajar. Light spills from the crack and Wymond hesitates for the first time since his declaration at Queen Aldith. The light’s unlike the waning colours of sunset too close to the colour of washed out blood. It’s… soft. Bright. A gentle light beckoning him to come inside, come inside, my knight and Wymond wants and he is scared.

The war is over and his fear makes him push open the door.

The room is as he remembers. There’s still the desk by the window, its width taking up the entire expanse of the wall. Papers and books opened to various pages fill up the space with nary a place for any personal effects. Those, he knows, are carefully stored in the chest at the foot of the four poster bed which he’s all too familiar with.

Except it isn’t familiar. Not when Amis isn’t there, curled up in a light sleep which the prince always is when waiting for him. Amis isn’t there at his desk either, furiously scribbling on paper of his treatises and governing proposals.

Amis—his Amis—isn’t here and Wymond…shuts down. He panics. He can’t breathe, his knees giving way under him and he’s tearing at his hair—at his face—a guttural sound coming from deep in his chest.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

“Myn lykyng?” Softly callused fingers slid across his face till a pair of hands fully envelops and cups it. “Wymond?”

He opens his eyes and sees salvation incarnate. There Amis was, bending over him, his shadow a place of solace for broken men like Wymond. Strands of cropped hair—when, why had he cut it?—fell delicately on that face that graced his dreams when all he knew is blood and death and dirt. And he’s…

“Why are you unclothed?” Wymond croaks out, his throat sore from swallowing down his cries and shouts.

Amis looks amused. His hand moves to finger Wymond’s ear and only then he realises it’s hot and burning. Oh gods. He’s blushing.

“Cute,” Amis says as if unbothered by his current state. Their current state. “I forgot how cute you are, myn lykyng.”

A finger runs down and traces incoherent symbols on Wymond’s jaw and neck, nails lightly scratching the dirtied skin. Amis seems unbothered from the state of his filth and something in his chest unfurls and breathes a sigh of relief. It’s okay. He’s okay for Amis. He’s still okay for his prince.

Amis steps closer and closer till his bare body is flush against Wymond, armor to skin, purity to filth, love to love.

Amis smiles and kisses the corner of Wymond’s lips. “Welcome home, myn lykyng.”

Wymond shudders and there’s only a monent of hesitation before he wraps his arms around his prince, bloodied hands gripping tight at supple skin. He leans close, brushes his lips against Amis, and closes his eyes.

“I’m back, myne owne hertis rote.”

Amis had always been gentle. Before he left and now, he is gentle in unbuckling and taking off every piece of Wymond’s armour that seemed to have melded together with blood and dirt as adhesives. His touch seems to carry purity and cleansing with it as the gathered filth in the kinks fall apart.

Wymond feels like falling apart, too. Without his armour, his knees tremble and his hands shake. He wants nothing more than to collapse into the floor, letting the ground reclaim its child.

Amis doesn’t let him and he follows the silent order.

“Okay,” Amis says as the final piece falls. He catches Wymond’s eye and smiles. It’s childish and reminiscent of their time as children, running across fields, hand in hand. “Now you’re gonna take a bath, myn lykyng.”

It is not the first time he’s in his prince’s room but it is his first time he’s in his prince’s tub. The water’s warm as it sloshes around his calves, making him tremble all the more as he climbs in. Or, more accurately, as Amis orders him to get in.

He’s a knight who’s commanded an entire battlefield but he’s manhandled by Amis to sit his arse down in the tub. He does quite dutifully. Then he looks towards his prince as if waiting for the other to join him.

Amis smiles, childish and gentle and salvation all in one. He takes Wymond’s hands and brushes his lips against each dirtied knuckle.

“Oh, myn lykyng,” He says. “It’s time you get taken care of, don’t you think?”

Wymond opens his mouth to protest but Amis is already starting. He kneels on the cold floor, takes a sponge and sets it to his skin.

The words die in his throat. He swallows its corpse, glad to have something to do because he is not used to…this. To the gentle almost rocking motions of the sponge against his skin—his arms, his chest, his face and his legs. He’s not used to the scents Amis drops into the bath nor being able to breathe so so easily without his armour.

Wymond thinks he talks during this. About the war. About each battle they fought and lost. He talks of the dead they had to burn and how the smell that permeated their food for weeks to months.

Amis listens. He listens and bathes his knight till the water turns murky and Wymond is cleansed.

Later, he listens as his love gets to sleep properly for the first time in months and that is enough. It always is for Amis.