Tuesday: Fashion Choices
Mar. 15th, 2011 11:29 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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comment_ficHey everyone,
It's day two and today we will be focusing on fashion choices. Those outfits that are larger than life themselves, bring them out, all those fashion choices from any fandom should join us on the catwalk today.
Just a quick reminder of the rules:
: Only three prompts for the same fandom & only five prompts in a row (though if one of your prompts is filled, you can prompt again).
: No spoilers in your prompts for at least a week after the airdate/release.
: Warn for any spoilers for your fic in bold and leave at least three spaces before the text.
And please take the monkeys into consideration when writing your prompt. If the prompt is too long, it becomes very hard to record it properly in the archive. Thank you!
Also, remember to keep prompts in the correct format. For example:
Doctor Who, Fifth Doctor & Any, Celery as a fashion statement.
Chuck, Chuck, Chucks – the best shoes for running from bad guys.
NCIS/White Collar, Tony & Neal, Is that a Devore?
And if nothing here catches your eye there is always the Lonely Prompts.
tag=fashion choices
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:31 am (UTC)maternity pants
Date: 2011-03-15 12:48 pm (UTC)"What, these?" Gabriel asks, gesturing at the the livid orange pants with his yogurt spoon. "They're my new maternity pants," shrugging a little as he eats another spoonful of blueberry-and-virgin-blood yogurt and curls further into Crowley's couch. "Can't fit into my jeans anymore now," he adds, patting the occasionally softly glowing bulge at his middle.
Crowley's face softens for a split second as he focuses on Gabriel's belly, but he recovers quickly and goes back to hating the pants. "They're orange," he points out.
"Indeed they are."
"Why are they orange?"
Gabriel groans. "It was the only color they had in stock at the store, okay? I didn't pick them with the express purpose of annoying you. But now that you're acting like a dick, I can't say that I regret the color anymore," he says, pointing the spoon menacingly at Crowley's chest.
The demon grimaces. "Can't you just..." He waves his hand in that way Gabriel has come to take as 'your ridiculous angel/pagan nonsense powers.'
"Sorry, darling," Gabriel says with a shrug, not really looking very sorry at all. "Kids are sending my powers on the fritz, so the pants are staying orange." He even draws out the word 'orange,' which he will admit is just to be an annoying dick.
Crowley just stands there for about twenty seconds, looking all sorts of displeased, until finally, with a deeply unhappy noise escaping his throat, he moves to sit down beside Gabriel on the couch. The angel happily takes the opportunity to curl up against him, looking for the perfect seating arrangement before finally ending up almost in his lap, Crowley's arms around him.
"You'll learn to get used to them," Gabriel says, holding out a spoonful of yogurt for Crowley to taste.
"Lord, I hope not," Crowley mumbles before accepting Gabriel's offering. "Mm," he says after swallowing. "That's delicious. What batch was that?"
"The girl from Boston," Gabriel says, scraping out the last of the yogurt from the bowl. "Surprisingly light on the teenage angst."
"Good." Crowley nods. "The last thing we need is for our spawn to end up like the Winchesters," he says, patting Gabriel's belly and the angel smiles at the marvel in his eyes at the tentative sparks of questing power from his children, their children, coming out to feel him.
"Perish the thought," Gabriel laughs, and under Crowley's hand, the children share their mother's mirth.
Crowley smirks, pressing a kiss to Gabriel's lips, and Gabriel takes the opportunity to lick the last of the blueberry and blood taste out of his mouth. Then, he pulls back and reaches for his phone, pressing the speed-dial two.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? Work? Now?"
"It'll only take a minute," Crowley assures him. Then, a couple of seconds later, frowns. "Really, Bela? Your answering machine? I know that this is your night off, but this is unacceptable. Even if you're breaking into the Vatican, I should be able to get a hold of you!" He sighs. "Well, when you hear this, I need you to do me a favor. Gabriel needs a pair of maternity pants in a color that isn't as nauseating as orange. Find some for me. ...And keep your phone on."
"Seriously?" Gabriel says as Crowley hangs up. "You hate them so much you're willing to piss off the one person in your administration that doesn't actually want to rip your throat out?"
"Yes," Crowley says without hesitation, glaring a bit at the pants. "Yes, I really do."
Re: maternity pants
From:Re: maternity pants
From:Re: maternity pants
From:Re: maternity pants
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:32 am (UTC)Filled.
Date: 2011-03-15 12:00 pm (UTC)He had a feeling that it had to do with the part of their brain that convinced them that a Convair was just a particularly hairy and filthy beggar. anything too out of the ordinary and their brains just automatically replaced it with something acceptable.
Really, he had only added the celery as a joke but now he was almost afraid to remove it. He wondered if anyone would notice if he replaced it with a big yellow flower.
The Doctor stood in front of his mirror and debated using a handkerchief or a carrot instead but as he heard Tegan making her way down the hallway he chickened out.
Superstitiously, he felt that the celery was now infusing him with life, allowing him to escape the almost certain deaths that followed him.
Tegan looked at him strangely as he stepped out of the wardrobe room, tucking a fresh stalk of celery into his button-hole.
"Why do you wear celery?" she asked.
"A fashion statement, my dear. Not many people can pull off a decorative vegetable." He said blithely as he walked towards the control room.
Re: Filled.
From:Re: Filled.
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:32 am (UTC)No fic but
Date: 2011-03-15 11:36 am (UTC)Re: No fic but
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:32 am (UTC)Fill: NCIS/White Collar, Tony & Neal, Is that a Devore?
Date: 2012-04-20 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:47 am (UTC)When he was growing up Sherlock went through a goth phase. Mycroft takes great pleasure in E-mailing John pictures of Sherlock looking like the love child of Siouxsie Sioux and Peter Murphy whenever Sherlock annoys him...
no subject
Date: 2011-03-16 04:59 am (UTC)"John," Sherlock says, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Phone."
Deedly dee. Deedly dee.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Sherlock, you're right next to-- Oh, never mind." John sighs, sets down his laptop, and crosses the room to pick up the phone lying at Sherlock's feet. "It's your brother."
Wordlessly, Sherlock takes the phone, answers, and hangs up. He throws it onto the couch and leans back into his previous position.
John returns to his computer and checks his email, surprised to see a new message has appeared in the few seconds since he got up. He opens it and there's a long period of silence that Sherlock relishes until, "What the hell is this?"
It is, quite obviously, a rhetorical question, so Sherlock holds his silence and remains deep in thought.
"Sherlock, is this you?"
At that Sherlock is on his feet and at John's shoulder in an instant, peering at the photograph that Mycroft (that pompous interfering brat of an elder brother) has just sent to John.
"Oh." Sherlock swiftly snaps the (John's) laptop shut and carries it back over to the couch before John can get a better look. "Yes, I do believe it is." Safely back in his seat, he opens the computer again and deletes the email. "You can have this back now." And he holds out the laptop although John is now on the other side of the room. John sighs and retrieves his computer, wishing he could have gotten a better look at the photograph. He's sure Sherlock has already deleted it from the trash bin as well; the man would never make such a careless oversight.
Deedly dee. Deedly dee.
"Phone."
"Sherlock."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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From:(no subject)
From:...You guys are evil.
From:Re: ...You guys are evil.
From:Re: ...You guys are evil.
From:Re: ...You guys are evil.
From:Victims of Adolescence, Sherlock/John + Mycroft (BBC Sherlock) -- part 1
From:Victims of Adolescence, Sherlock/John + Mycroft (BBC Sherlock) -- part 2
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 07:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:49 am (UTC)FILL: Too Much Talking, Not Enough Listening.
Date: 2011-05-27 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-16 02:53 am (UTC)Do you know how sometimes, the TARDIS decides to go off where it wants to go. And the Doctor normally has no control over it. And he's sometimes not very happy about it.
That happened. She took us to the Planet of the Ood. Apparently he's been there before a few times and they're all happy and in love with him. (Though, who could blame them.) In fact, they made a painting of him of the last time he was there. The Doctor didn't want to see it. He was trying to be so modest. "Oh, no, no, no we don't need to see that. My face is big enough already, why do we need to see an even bigger version of it." But the Ood insisted and, really, the Doctor is a bit of an egotist so we ended up going down to see the portrait.
Oh. My. God.
It was hilarious. Apparently, the Doctor can change the way he looks, but his awful fashion sense has always been the same. The portrait had him in this BIG brown trech coat, a lei, sunglasses and, ugh, a COWBOY HAT. Can you believe it? Well, maybe you could. After that, I can see why he liked the fez.
Rory and I couldn't help ourselves. He just looked so ridiculous! We started laughing and we couldn't stop. And the Doctor. He was so flustered. He couldn't say any words. It was just, "W-Well, uh, that's lovely and, uh, no they're laughing because they like it" and the pitch was EVERYWHERE. I think he may have even blushed a little bit. He managed to get the Ood who was showing us around to take us away, but Rory and I kept giggling about the picture while we walked through the rest of the Citadel...
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 11:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 10:44 pm (UTC)Short jackets, long coats, decorative trim, matching hat, many solid colors to pick from, patterns, materials, and lined or unlined. There were more choices than planets and moons in the verse.
Trying on a lined orange jacket Mal was loosing hope that he would find a coat today and would have to wait until they got to the next station. Giving the merchant half an ear as expensive coats where waved about Mal spotted brown.
Mal quietly examined the coat. It was a simple coat with out elaborate or decorative embroidery. Leather cuffs and thick fabric the color of brown mud pies he made in the back yard as a kid with his best friend. The inside lined with soft and warm comfort reminiscent of prized bed sheets his mom treasured. Hand stitched with many useful pockets, his fingers finding some hidden pockets.
This coat was made for him. A perfect fit.
Bartering with the merchant Mal walked out credit less but wearing his new coat. During the war Mal wore the brown coat but even if they were called Redcoats he would have still warn his brown coat. It kept him warm and protected. Sometimes his whole life was in those pockets.
Some days it seemed like there were three of them; Zoe, the coat, and him. Once in a while he got fanciful and imagined his coat was so shiny the Browncoat Independents were named for his coat.
Through the war, finding his ship, his crew, to Miranda and back; Mal loved his coat.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:02 pm (UTC)Snug Conceits, Dexter, Dexter, he needs a new murder shirt
Date: 2011-03-16 09:40 am (UTC)The rest of the shirt was still the same generic light brown the store had poetically called 'mahogany taupe.' It still fit his chest with the reassuring flow of a really worn-in garment. He could tuck it in and no one would see the rip - except he would know it was there.
Harry's rules; everything mattered in preparation for a kill. There was no skipping meals or drinking too much coffee. There was no skirting the details to get to the fun - even when the dark passenger was almost salivating over a nice, sanitary plunge with the knife. The equipment was cleaned before and after, the garbage was taken out promptly, and the murder shirt was duly laundered. Aside from football uniforms, Dexter thought it was the most hard-working shirt in Miami. The shirt was part of his overall planning, part of things going well. It had saved lives.
He usually didn't think much about one article of clothing over another, but the shirt was comfortable from the very first. As it aged and was washed, it became even more perfect. But it was damaged and he supposed it was only a matter of time. Dexter folded it gently and laid it on the bed to be thrown out.
He stared at the wall for a moment, and tipped his head back with a quirk of his lips. Or maybe he could learn to sew.
Re: Snug Conceits, Dexter, Dexter, he needs a new murder shirt
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-14 01:54 am (UTC)Jim also thought that her clothing also best represented his personality: on the outside, he was calm towards his clients. On the inside, he wanted to see everyone burned and turned into leather goods, especially Sherlock.
But the reason why he liked Westwood the most was the feel of the suit against his body. He had to keep his love of the fabrics and textures of the suit hidden from his henchmen, but privately he delighted in them. Wool blends against his skin, the feel of the orb buttons in his hands—they were his private pleasure.
It's no wonder why Moriarty screamed "Where's my Westwood?" when a maid took all his suits out for dry cleaning without telling him in advance.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-16 03:39 pm (UTC)People 'borrow' it. Make funny faces at each other and cock their hips like gunslingers. Shuffle off with red faces when he returns to his desk. “Not my thing/I don't even like hats/looks kind of silly.” But their looks linger, watch him as he places it back on his head. Something clicking into place.
He hates when it's gone. Doesn't let on maybe, but he always ends up pulling his forelock, or running his hand through his hair. Making a move to tip a hat that isn't there.
He does realise how he looks. Realises that people see the hat, not that man and sometimes that can work to his advantage, (all right, he nods at the Rachel-voice in his head. A lot of time, that works to his advantage) but sometimes not... 'course sometimes he can use that too.
People find it funny and that he can definitely use. The cowboy Marshall. Less funny after Tommy Bucks, and the cowboy story became less about the hat and more about the fast draw.
None of it actually bothers him though.
See, one day he was on stake out and across the street there was this store, vintage, old clothes, that sort of thing. And he was browsing, half looking, not really paying attention. He picked up the hat, tried it on, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and blam. That was it. Didn't even take it off to pay for it. Just, walked up to the till, tilted his head. “I'll take it. How much?”
It's a hat, it's a help and a hindrance and sometimes it's a joke. But at the end of the day, it's him.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:09 pm (UTC)Nothing Stands Between a Man and His Sense of Style (Even the Russian Mafia) - G
Date: 2011-03-17 01:37 pm (UTC)“What are you wearing?”
Bryce sighs. At least, Chuck thinks it’s a sigh. Bryce’s sighs are more in his eyes than in a sound. He breathes slowly and evenly and looks at Neal.
Chuck’s pretty sure he’s sighing.
“Neal, how many times have we talked about this? You can’t infiltrate an enemy compound wearing a three-piece suit.”
Neal doesn’t look impressed by Bryce’s disapproving tone of voice. “Really? ‘Enemy compound’? It’s a four-star hotel. Do all spies talk like they’ve been playing too much Call of Duty? Do you talk like that?” he asks Chuck.
“Uh- I don’t really-” ‘-like to get in the middle of these things,’ Chuck thinks.
“You sound like we’re ten again and playing ‘spies and assassins’ behind Old Lady Morgan’s place.”
Chuck grins. “You used to play-” but Bryce looks at him, and Chuck says quickly, “Okay. It’s not important. Oh, look, is that an Astin Martin?” Chuck becomes incredibly interested in the traffic on the street below their vantage point from the roof of the Mosaic Hotel. And in keeping the corners of his mouth from twitching.
‘If I don’t laugh, Bryce won’t shoot me. If I don’t laugh, Bryce won’t shoot me.’ The words become Chuck’s internal mantra.
Bryce just crosses his arms and waits out Neal’s continued defense. Neal actually looks a little agitated.
“And why can’t I wear my suits for your spy stuff?”
“Because the point is to dress in something nondescript, Neal. And stop calling it “spy stuff”. This isn’t a game. Petrov is going to be meeting the heads of all the major Russian crime families operating in the States - here, tonight.”
“And I can’t swipe his key card wearing something tasteful and appropriate for the Mosaic?”
“’Tasteful and appropriate’ gets you noticed, Neal. Gets you remembered.”
Neal raises a brow at his brother. He gives Bryce and Chuck both a purposeful once-over. “I’m pretty sure Petrov’s gonna remember a couple of guys in black busting into his hotel room and shooting up the place.”
Chuck looks down at his own dark clothing and frowns. Honestly… Neal has a point.
“If you do your part correctly, we won’t have to “bust in and shoot up the place”,” Bryce says patiently. “And it’s a lot harder to track down surveillance footage of a couple of guys in black turtlenecks than it is to track down the only guy in the hotel wearing a vintage Cy Devore.”
Neal smiles pleasantly. “Well. I guess you’d better do your part correctly, so no one goes poking around at the surveillance footage. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”
Chuck looks up to find both the brothers looking at him.
Jeez. Is this how Bryce feels every time Ellie pressures him to take her side in their ongoing Morgan Door debate?
“Uh… Right?” Chuck says tentatively. Bryce did hang Chuck out to dry that time he was supposed to be Chuck’s excuse for missing Ellie’s dinner with the Whitcombs.
Bryce sighs again.
Re: Nothing Stands Between a Man and His Sense of Style (Even the Russian Mafia) - G
From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-15 12:12 pm (UTC)