#Half Wigs Uk Black Hair

[wiggituk]

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[six-costume-refs]

Why did Roxanne, Erin and Kelsey all switch from the side pony tail to the braid and back pony tail? Roxanne's old Parr wig was one of the best of any production, and to switch out both Erin and Kelsey's wigs when they're different from what Gabriella wore or what they used to wear just feels bizarre

Wig design is basically about trying to take the typical standardized styles and translate them to the individual actors’ faces, hair/skin tones, and textures. (Here’s a great in-depth post Sofia did that goes into more detail about this and talks about Roxanne Couch’s change too). In this case, the mid-ponytails are more flattering on them than the side.

Some styles just work better than others for different facial shapes - some people look better with a high up do, with a low, half pulled back, all down, bangs, whatever. In Roxanne’s case, the side ponytail was a little too harsh; the new wig softens and flatters her face more subtly. Similar reason for Erin Ramirez/Marilyn Caserta/Kelsee Kimmel as well. The old styles weren’t bad on them, and it was nice on Roxanne particularly! But the new styling is a better fit for all of them.

It’s also pretty heavily based on hair texture. The initial side Parr styling was based on a style sometimes worn by Alicia Keys, and the hairstyle is primarily worn by Black women. As such it's based on a range of hair types and textures that we mostly see in (some) Black women: defined, soft, loose curls with a lot of volume. If you're familiar with hair typing, it's going to work best with hair in the type 3 categories (here's a good introductory article with examples). It's a gorgeous style that can look lovely! It was very flattering on Maiya Quansah-Breed and has continued to work well for queens with similar hair styles. But Six has struggled from the start with adapting it to other hair types and textures. Most of the other Six hairstyles are generic enough that they can be adapted to different textures with minimal change to the overall aesthetic. The original Parr not so much, because it really needs that specific combo of qualities for the hairstyle to work. If you have the looseness but don't have the right curl or the volume it looks too flat and asymmetrical, which we saw with Gabriela Carrillo's initial hairstyle; if you go for the curl but go too short or structured it's just not going to flatter as many of the actors and you've lost that really lovely softness, which we've seen with quite a few of the non-Black actors' styles. Many of the Black actors naturally have the hair texture(s) and type(s) that lend itself well to the hairstyle, so they've generally had a lot of success with those. For the Black actors that don't, they've generally A. adapted the hairstyle to work with their natural hair (usually for queens with enough volume that it still translates well, like Viquichele Cross or Danielle Steers), OR B. given them a wig that may not quite match their natural hair texture, but still looks natural and allows for the right texture/structure. (Generally queens in both camps have a type 4 hair texture and which they go for has depended on budget and hair care for the individual actor.) But for the non-Black actors, that's much more difficult. Very few non-Black actors have hair that's even remotely the right texture for this hairstyle: actors like Gabriela Carrillo and Roxanne Couch have some texture but not enough of the curl and volume needed, while actors like Erin Ramirez and Kelsee Kimmel have natural hair textures that are much closer to working but still don't quite work. They could give these actors a wig with a texture different than their own that would be more conducive to the style, but while doing so generally reads as natural on the Black queens, doing so for non-Black queens would often make the wig read as unnatural or even outright inappropriate. The UK has historically gotten around all that by doing the curly side ponytail. It does work fairly well, but it's still not flattering on everyone and the style they go for is visibly unnaturally curled, which isn't inherently bad but doesn't work as well for Parr as it does for some of the other queens (her whole vibe is very low fuss, or as low as it can be given the spectacle that is Six costumes). It's not a bad choice, and like you said Roxanne's was one of the best! But it's not going to work well for everyone, and for Roxanne specifically the switch to a back ponytail is a slightly better fit, and of course they've continued that trend since.

In the US (and NCL) there's been a whole lot of experimentation. The Aragon Tour alone has gone through multiple different hairstyles. Think Gabriela Carrillo's original Aragon Tour side-swept to her loose low side ponytail, compared to Kelsee Kimmel and Erin Ramirez's loose curly updos piled more directly on top of their heads. Over on the Boleyn Tour we've seen Tay Pearlstein with a smaller and more structured side updo, and then Sydney Parra with a looser and relatively longer side ponytail (which is one of my personal favorites, actually!). For Gabi and Sydney they experimented until they got to styles they ultimately were happy with, and now they're standardized to the current back ponytail iteration, but Erin/Kelsee/Tay never quite had that. TL;DR: Back ponytail is both more flattering on most of them + an easier style adaptation for some of the queens whose hair doesn't lend itself as well to the side ponytails.

Also quick note that there’s also nothing saying the alternates’ hairstyles have to be remotely identical to the principals! Six has never really gone for that anyway, beyond the usual standardization. Like I said, they experimented with Gabi's wig (over a longgg period of time) until they got to something they were happy with, but it seems like they just never got to that point with Erin/Kelsee/Tay/etc!

[angrylizardjacket]

mouth full of white lies {Machine Gun Kelly} 3

3. i thought love was a kind of emptiness

Summary: So you’re in love with him. Not great. And you wanna tell your brother about it, but that means coming clean about everything, and you’re not gonna do that! So you’re just gonna suffer, because it’s for the greater good. And you’re not gonna make things weird. Speaking of weird though, how is this even going to end? Colson sounds kind of like a masochist when he talks about it, but there must be a way to make neither of you seem like the bad guy... When this all ends. Which it will, much to your chagrin.

A/N: watch me have no idea about american geography

the brainstrust: @sataninsatin @silvertonguedserpent @juliarose21 @kellysimagines @estxxbritt @machine-gun-casie @harringtonstudios @misscharlottelee @narcvissa @hiworlditishumbleme @angelwarner28 @nevilles-insinuations @rumoured-whispers @mgkobsessed @edwardtriggerhandzz @suckerforbarnes @wastelcve @bakerkells @local-troubled-writer @freddiessmallnipples @oopsiedoopsie23 @mayaslifeinabox @mrs-machinegun-norris @hxbbit

----

For the record, and if anyone asks, when Colson sends you a photo of himself in full Tommy Lee makeup, your heart definitely doesn’t skip a beat. The long wig, the sharp contouring, the eyeliner, it does absolutely nothing for you. You definitely don’t spend a good five minutes contemplating how much you want his lipstick to stain your mouth. Because he’s not your real boyfriend. You’re doing this to minimize the amount of nasty messages you get online. The fact that he’s hot and funny and surprisingly kind and weirdly observant, and god, have you already said hot? Because he tends to walk around your shared hotel room in shorts and little else and it’s really not doing great things for your productivity. 

The point is, all those things are a bonus! A happy little accident, if you will, a positive side-effect of this whole arrangement. Like getting a job and realising that you’ll be working with your brother, who currently is quickly becoming very, very close with your fake boyfriend.

There’s no-one you trust more in the whole world than Douglas, but if you tell him that your relationship is fake, you’ll have to tell him why you’re in a fake relationship, and he’s not above starting an online rampage against people sending his little sister death threats. Which, by the way, you’re not getting a lot of since dating Colson, honestly you might even be getting less than before, so it’s working.

Your absolutely fake relationship with Colson Baker, whom you have no feelings for whatsoever is functioning exactly as intended. 

Except for the fact that when you’re on set, and you see him in costume, smiling, it kind of makes your day. Watching him play drums? He just looks like he’s having so much fun, and you can’t help but be endeared by it! This was outlined as low commitment, high reward, and now your feelings are ruining it for everybody. Well, just for you. Because it’s just a small crush, and he’s your friend, so you’re not going to make it weird.

Which, right now, it isn’t. He hogs the blankets, which you pretend you’re annoyed by, and sets about fifteen different alarms for himself that have you waking up at the crack of dawn so that he can go in early to get his tattoos covered, even though you don’t need to be there until much later than he is. So you grumble into the blankets, and when you get to set there’s always a hot drink waiting for you. 

He’s out most nights, not late enough that he’d need to oversleep to be functioning the next morning, but it’s not uncommon for you to be curled up on your side of the bed, usually scrolling through social media, and he’ll come in, sometimes humming something, sometimes chattering away on the phone. Sometimes he’ll shower, but he always smokes, watching the stars, right before he comes to bed.

Or you’ll join him. 

On the weekends, you’ll grab dinner together after filming, and he’s in his eyeliner, the foundation sometimes a little worse for wear, and you’ll explore the nightlife that LA has to offer, seeing live bands, or going to clubs. Of course, as a famous musician, DJs will pull Colson up into their booth, to play a song or two, and you, without fail, always managed to feel out of place. So you hang back, maybe have a dance, or maybe get a drink, or even just people-watch. You enjoy it, but you enjoy going back to the hotel more.

Tabloids, or the modern equivalent at least, get familiar with your name, and it’s not long before your image starts to change.

About six minutes into a twenty minute ‘tea spilling’ video, the host says your name.

“Now, [Y/N] Booth, DuckDuckBooth, whatever you know her as, has been all over the mainstream media lately because - shock horror - she’s in a relationship with someone with a bad reputation! Because that’s what we love here, ladies and gents; rumours and slander,” the host, a young woman with bleach blonde hair and a thick English accent rolls her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her tongue, “so a bit of a run-down for those who don’t know, [Y/N] is a lifestyle and, I don’t know, entertainment industry insider - YouTuber? She makes videos on what it’s like to work all different jobs in the industry. And her brother’s famous? I think?” She looks to a point off-screen, presumably where her laptop was sitting, letting her look him up. “He was in Jupiter Ascending, he was the weird prince-dude; Douglas Booth, and he was in a bunch of stuff that was only really released in the UK.” 

It cuts to a new shot of the host tucking her hair behind her ears.

“So [Y/N] recently started dating Machine- MG- uh, I don’t know how to say it, it sounds wrong coming from me; Machine Gun Kelly? He’s a rapper I think? He’s been in a few shows on like, streaming services? I don’t know, I don’t know him that well, but apparently he’s one for scandal - allegedly.” She emphasises, before taking a deep breath, “and now he and [Y/N] are working on the same project, and have started dating, like two adults who like each other might start doing!” It’s condescending, as if directly responding to some less than polite criticisms she’s seen online, but she shrugs it off flippantly.

“Anyways, I’ve been following [Y/N] for a while, I’ve seen her recent uploads and Instagram stories and such; they’re cute, okay? I don’t personally enjoy his music, but that’s just my tastes, you know? And I don’t understand all the negativity she’s suddenly receiving; you all know she’s an adult, right? Like not just in the UK, she’s over 21, she’s allowed to go out and drink, and be a human being. It’s not like she’s suddenly become a different person; just because she’s not acting in the way your overly-sanitized view of her should, doesn’t mean she’s a different person, or that she’s corrupted or whatever. She’s not a bad person for enjoying herself.”

“Everyone speculating about whether it’s fake or not, like they have nothing in common, well it’s almost like you don’t know them personally; if it’s fake, who even cares, that’s -” she laughs a little, “that’s Hollywood, isn’t it? I think the people hating on her, or on him, or wanting them to admit it’s fake or just break up, are jealous, honestly, because even if it’s fake, it’s a hell of a commitment.”

“Do you ever worry?” You can’t help but ask, it’s late, much later than you know you should be up, but he’s awake too, yawning, looking at his phone. Both of you tucked up in bed, he takes a moment before looking at you. There’s something about the shadow of eyeliner he hadn’t quite been able to remove that just makes him look edgy and gorgeous.

“I try not to,” he answers candidly, “but about what?”

“About people finding out about us.”

“Usually,” he cracks a half smile, “when a girl asks me that, it’s about people finding out that we are together,” and he’s smiling, but you just frown in the dark, unable to appreciate the humour. 

“What’ll they say? Of course you’ll be fine, but I-” you swallow, shaking your head, “sorry, asshole thing to say; of course I care about what they say about you, just as much me, but -”

“But you’ve got a lot further to fall than I do,” he says with a surprising honesty, and you meet his gaze in the glow of his screen light, “honestly I have no idea how this is gonna end, I thought you did.” And you feel your stomach drop. 

How were you supposed to respond to this?! There is absolutely no way you can say what you’re thinking, that you don’t want this to end because you’ve started to catch real feelings. 

“I’m winging it,” you admit softly. Something about his expression softens, but his screen goes dark before you can see it, “I know you’re a good person but-”

“Then you don’t know me that well, Ducky,” he laughs a little, though the sound is hollow, and you can hear him rustling around as he looks up at the ceiling in the dark, “kid, you don’t know me at all -”

“Don’t call me kid,” you bristle, quietly defiant, but he just seems to ignore you.

“I know I’m a bad dude, okay? And if you want this whole thing to end with everyone thinking I’ve broken your heart, then do it, I’ve been through worse. I’ve done worse; if you wanna just worry about yourself, you can.” 

“So it’s black and white; I’m red riding hood and you’re the big bad wolf? That’s how we end this?”

“You think in fairy tale analogies,” he huffs an almost disbelieving laugh, “I’m just saying that if you didn’t have to be with me, you wouldn’t be; you wanted scandalous but not a scandal, I get it, okay? I’m good at that; good at both, actually, but I guess you’re cute enough that you can pick one and not the other.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap, feeling angry, almost betrayed by his callous words. In the dark, you can make out the shape of his silhouette against the stars.

“You’re all clean and shiny and shit, you’ve got a philanthropist big brother, and a life in the entertainment industry without the actual pressure of being an actor, and yeah, YouTube is hard, I get that, now more than anything else, watching you ‘s definitely given me a new appreciation for the effort that goes in, but -”

“But what? It’s not a real job?”

That shuts him up fast. 

Fuming in the dark, you clamber from the bed, and head onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you. The night air is cool and crisp against the warm anger bubbling just beneath your skin, and you take a few deep breaths. Why you’re out here, you’re not sure; you should have gone down the hall and stayed with Douglas, but here you were, cooling off on the balcony. 

You’re in his seat, the seat he always sits in to smoke before bed, and it feels strange, but you’re not going to give up the seat, even as he opens the door. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he leans against the railing, looking out at the ocean glittering with stars.

“I wasn’t -” he starts, before sighing, “fuck, I know it’s a real job, okay?”

But he’s met with silence.

“I was gonna say - fuck, there’s like, a quote thing someone once told me, I think it was Shakespeare or some shit - there’s more things in Heaven and Earth, you know, than are dreamed in your philosophy.” He paused, “I’m dealing with more than just your shit, you know? Every fuckin’ person wants to hate me right now; your shit is small fish, Ducky. If you’re not getting hate, then it’s worth it, okay? And after all of this, I’ll still be averaging the same amount of hate as I always get, not that I give a shit. It’s pebble in a stream stuff.” When again, he’s met with silence, he sighs gently, hanging his head, before heading back inside, though he doesn’t close the door.

On your own, for only a moment, you feel your insides twisting, frustrated at overreacting, heart warming at his words, just a little. 

“Pebble in a stream stuff?” You ask quietly, when he joins you once more, this time with a joint and his lighter.

“Immutable,” he says, voice flat as he focuses on lighting up, before taking a long drag. After a moment of holding the smoke in his lungs, he breathes out, watching it as he speaks, “like a river, if you throw a pebble in, it creates a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river just keeps flowing in the same direction.” 

“Deep,” you muse.

“It’s from X-Men,” he responded, and there’s a beat, before the two of you break out into laughter at the absurdity of it all, of his philosophical ramblings being ripped from a comic book movie, of the idea of the two of you ever getting into this situation in the first place.

When the laughter dies down, you find yourself smiling at him, watching him while his grin is turned up to the stars.

“You say I don’t know you, even though we’ve been doing this for almost a month and a half now; I wanna know you,” you tell him as genuinely as you can manage in your tired state, and he turns to you with an unreadable expression, and you catch yourself before you act on the fluttering in your chest, “to make it more believable.” You add, and he nods, and his gaze goes back to the sky; if it was a little disappointed, you try not to think about it too hard, “so you don’t like cutesy dates like fairs, what do you like?”

Licking his lips as he thinks, he finally turns to you, eyebrow raised.

“Honestly?”

Why does his gaze right now make your pulse race?

“Honestly.” You dare not break his gaze.

“I like going to clubs with you, to see bands and shit,” he tells you, and... oh, you weren’t expecting that. There’s that soft, unreadable expression again, though he seems endeared by your genuine surprise, “but I sometimes get the feeling that you feel, uh, out of place?” He seems concerned.

“I mean, not really, it’s fun and all!” You try, but he gives a smirk.

“You don’t have to sugar coat it -”

“It’s sticky, and it feels weird with all the dudes trying to grind up on me when I’m like, meant to be with you. I always feel like someone’s about to pull out their phone, snap a photo and accuse me of cheating.” You blurt out, and Colson’s expression turned from surprised to amused.

“Stick with me then -”

“I don’t wanna be a bother; I’m not a music person, I shouldn’t be in like, a DJ booth I don’t think.”

“You’re with me, you can go wherever you want.”

The night is cool and crisp, and he’s got an early start, but the two of you sit out there, talking, laughing, actually getting to know each other. He tells you all about Cassie, about how proud he is of her, how much he misses her, and how proud she is of him in turn. You, in turn, tell him stories of yourself and Douglas from your childhood, of how he’d always been your biggest fan, and your first defender, and how you’d been to all of his premieres. At this, Colson’s eyes glaze over a little, lost in thought.

“I have no idea how this is gonna end,” he says gently, before looking to you, “but whenever you wanna call it quits, say the word.”

But you hear I’m read to cut and run at any moment, and you know it’s selfish, but it’s not what you want to hear.

“Thanks,” you respond, with a small smile instead, “same to you; don’t just stick around for my benefit,” you try to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out right. It’s quiet after that, though it had to be said, and it’s not long before the two of you go to bed.

It’s a turning point, it’s where you start to really try to get to know each other, rather than just being around each other. Maybe it’s just hope, but it feels a little more real with each day that passes.

“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve got a very special guest! And if you’ve read the title of this video, you know who it is! That’s right, my boyfriend is going to try and teach me the basics of drumming!”

The comments of the video tell you that you both look so happy, look so cute, look so in love.

“You’re a good actor,” Colson tells you, as if he believes the starry-eyed looks you give him are a carefully calculated ruse. You, on the other hand, feel like a fool only moments from being outed as being in love with your fake boyfriend, which was ridiculous; he’s the only person who needs to believe it’s a ruse after all.

Even Douglas tells you the video is good, and suddenly you’re starting to feel like an asshole for lying to him for so long.

But it’ll work out. It has to. And neither you nor Colson is gonna be the bad guy. Because he’s not, no matter what he says .

He keeps buying you hot drinks if his alarms wake you up, and he keeps you close whenever you go out, and he gives you a blanket whenever you fall asleep in his trailer during breaks, and -

“Has Duck ever told you about how she found a frog when we were little, like a live frog,” Douglas was grinning over lunch, while you were slowly becoming more embarrassed by Colson's side, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your brother recounted one of his favourite stories, “and she named it after me, because she was always a bit of a menace, but it got free, and mum and dad almost lost their minds when she came crying about how ‘Doug was missing in the woods!’” He grinned, both fond and a bit sharp, “they only realised she was talking about the frog when I joined the search party after getting home from a friend’s house.”

You heave a sigh, but Colson gives you a gentle, reassuring pat.

“No, that’s fuckin’ adorable, but no she hadn’t told me that; but I had heard about how you made the both of you duck costumes for your school’s Halloween,” and Colson gives him a toothy grin as Douglas flushes with embarrassment, though he seems endeared by the nostalgia of it all, “primary school, was it?”

“Not Halloween, it was a book fair,” Douglas corrected, and you surfaced finally, leaning into Colson, who wrapped an arm around you, and you level a soft smile at your brother, who returns one in kind, before his gaze flicks to Colson’s, and back. A smile. A nod. A silent approval. Fuck, you hate lying to him.

But you’re not above a little white lie to the internet for some advice.

r/AmITheAsshole posted by u/idkquackythrowaway

AITA for falling for my fake boyfriend and lying to my best friend about it?

So hello, throw away account because if either of them find this, I’ll be mortified and have to run away to canada and live as a goat farmer.

So I started ““““dating”“““ my “”””boyfriend””””, let’s call him C, a few months ago, because all of our friends kept accusing us of dating, and it was easier to just go along with it than deny it - there’s a lot of extenuating circumstances here; and yes I have issues lying to my friends, but I can deal with it for the greater good. It’s better for C and me in the short-term anyways.

Anyways so my best friend, D, is someone I’ve never lied to, we’ve always been so incredibly close, but now he’s getting to be good friends with C too, and approves of the two of us, but I’m just worried he’ll be betrayed if I tell him it wasn’t real.

Also, I might have real feelings for C, which he Does Not Have for me, so I feel like I’m betraying him too, by pretending that it’s not fake. ANd I wanna tell D about this, but then I’d have to come clean about everything, which....... its a lot. 

So Am I The Asshole for catching feelings in a fake relationship, and lying to my closest friend about it?

[324 comments]

The reaction is mixed.

And mostly unhelpful.

A lot of people are calling you the asshole, which, ouch, but you had kind of already come to terms with that. A lot more people, however, are just abstaining from making judgement, considering there was definitely more to the story. You’re not sure how to deal with those comments; you want to defend yourself, or give more context, but you also know you absolutely cannot. 

Eventually you decide to come clean.

“I’m in love with Colson.”

About the wrong thing. To the wrong person.

Douglas blinks slowly at you, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Really?”

“Really really.” You sigh, with an air of defeat, though this has him frowning, putting his fork full of pasta down. 

“What’s wrong, did he do something?” Douglas is playing the protective older brother, just as he has done for as long as you can remember, but it’s all you can do to shake your head.

In truth, Colson’s been fucking perfect; despite his reputation, he’s a fantastic - fake - partner. Perhaps it’s that you work together, so he doesn’t have to find a distraction outside of his main focus. 

“Duckling,” Douglas says it so gentle, taking your hand over the dinner table, “I’m happy for you, as long as you’re happy.” And what can you say to that? Another lie? You feel like you’ll be ill if you let another lie pass your tongue in front of Douglas.

“I love him,” you say, weakly, and you feel your eyes misting at the implication, the reality of your words. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I-” you choke on your words, and tears start to gather, threatening to spill, “I think I love him more than he loves me.” It’s not a lie, but it’s enough for Douglas. 

“I’m sorry,” he sounds so genuine, holding your hand tight in his, finishing dinner, and taking you both back to the hotel. He does the only thing he can think of to cheer you up; put on a movie on his laptop and wrap you up in blankets like he would when you were kids. The movie’s a little outdated, but he’s trying, and that alone makes you feel a little better. 

“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve just got a low-effort video, it’s just a top ten comfort movies from childhood that survive a modern rewatch! As decided by me and Douglas!”

Filming is set to move locations soon, from being on-location on the Sunset Strip to a back-lot about an hour away, somehow closer to the hills, and you feel like you can hear the ticking of a clock counting down.

“When filming’s over, we can end it if you want,” you tell Colson as you’re packing up your suitcases.

“Oh,” he seems surprised.

“Oh?”

“That’s soon,” is all the clarification he gives, but he doesn’t sound happy about it, “are you sure?” 

“I mean, I don’t wanna outstay my welcome,” you try to joke, but he makes a noise that you can’t quite decipher, “what?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just thought it would maybe go until the premiere.” He admits, and you pause, actually surprised at his words, and he clears his throat, “it would be weird seeing you there if I was with someone else, right?”

“Right,” you muse quietly, before going back to folding your clothes, “that’s a year away still, I’m pretty sure.” You tell him, and he hums, but doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Well I’ve got a few events before then I need a date for,” he says, noncommittally, “and we’ll see each other before then; if you wanna be convincing you can crash at my place if you wanna, in The Hills, at least for a bit, if you ain’t got anything else to do sort of thing,” he actually sounds a bit hesitant, and you swallow hard, before letting yourself smile, pleased.

“I think you like having me around.” When you look at him, he’s trying to hide a smile of his own.

“'course I do.”

[thisbrokenmask]

V for Vivian

pairing: female reader x Kim Seokjin

genre: angst, romance

word count: 5,409

warnings: nothing explicit, but there are descriptions of a toxic relationship

summary: certain that your ex sort-of boyfriend won’t turn up to taehyung’s new year’s eve costume party, you go ahead with your half of the couple’s costume you’d planned. 

a/n: I need to stop writing 5k+ ‘drabbles’ in 24 hours, but I wanted to get at least a line of my @btsholidaybingo​​ card completed before New Year! I have two left to do tonight, so hopefully I’ll get them in before the clock ticks over to 2021 here in the UK. Somehow my ‘Costume Party’ prompt became this 5.4k word story, but hopefully it’s okay. Massive shout out to @hereinyourarmsforever​ for putting up with me sending her these at all hours of the day - couldn’t do it with you ♥

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea~” Namjoon singsongs from your bed. He’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, the same position he’s been in for the last twenty minutes while you’ve been getting ready. His feet are hanging off the edge to keep his shoes from getting on your sheets, even though they’re brand new and basically clean, especially considering they’ve only touched the floor outside when he’s gotten in and out of his Uber to your apartment. “You know he’ll think you did it for him.”

“I still don’t think he’ll be coming~” you sing back as you adjust your wig, a blonde bob that frames your face. You decide to bypass pinning it tonight, knowing that it will be held on by your hat until you decide to take them both off later. “Besides, if he turns up, he’ll just look like any other guy in a suit,” you sniff dismissively as you pick up your large gold hoop earrings. “I, however, will look hot as fuck whether he’s there or not. See?”

You turn and pose for Namjoon, who looks up just as you’re pushing your red painted lips into an exaggerated pout, blowing him a kiss. 

You laugh when his jaw actually drops and he stares at you unabashedly, blinking at you from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes rake across your frame, taking in the large cut outs in your dress, the skirt of which finishes way above mid-thigh, and dropping all the way down to the black, knee-high boots on your feet, safety pins instead of zips for added effect. 

“No?”

Namjoon’s eyes snap upwards, mouth still gaping like a lost fish. 

“Huh?” You smirk at the way his voice catches in his throat as he adjusts himself on the bed, not so subtly trying to adjust himself in his khaki cargo pants at the same time. At least they give him some breathing room, you think to yourself deviously, wondering if you’ll have the same effect on everyone else going to the party tonight. 

“Hot as fuck, or?” You turn on the spot, shimmying your hips to make sure your exposed waist draws attention, grabbing your paperboy hat from your dressing table as you go. With a pointed look at your long-term friend, you pinch the bill of your cap between your fingers and pull it down over your wig, relying on it to keep everything secure for at least the first hour of the party. “Or not so much?”

“Definitely hot as fuck,” Namjoon agrees, nodding as vehemently as he can without taking his eyes off of you. “Yeah, screw Seokjin-hyung,” he declares after a few more seconds of inspecting you. “You’re wearing that whether he’s going or not.” 

“I’m glad you agree, kind sir,” you laugh, preening under his attention and performing a curtsey that pushes your skirt even higher up your legs. You try not to spare too much thought to the brief mention of your sort-of ex, too many complicated feelings thrumming under your ribcage at the thought of him. You grab your coat, a cheap red one you found on eBay and super-glued some fake black fur cuffs onto, and your favourite black purse as you usher Namjoon to follow you. “Because I have nothing else.”

Part of you really doesn’t want to see Seokjin, still mad at the way he easily brushed off any talk of commitment one too many times. Everyone thought you were together, your friends referred to you as one of the couples of the group, and yet he would always make a point of saying you weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend - you just… went together. 

Another part of you, though, wants him to be there. Wants him to turn up at Taehyung’s apartment in his stupid suit that makes him look like he walked right off the runway, just so he can see you dressed in Julia Roberts’ knockout opening outfit from Pretty Woman. You could probably have a few guys eating out of your hands with just a bat of your eyelashes to prove a point to him, too. 

You don’t need him, not if he doesn’t want you.  

“I’m sure Taehyung wouldn’t complain if you went naked,” Namjoon ponders, and you can tell by the slightly dreamy tone to his voice that he’s definitely thinking about it. You lightly elbow him in the ribs as he follows you out of your front door before you turn to lock it and he laughs, adjusting his glasses. 

“You look good, by the way,” you tell him as the two of you turn to the building’s elevator. “Who are you again? Mike?”

“It’s Milo,” Namjoon whines as he steps in behind you, tapping at his phone for an Uber. This is the fifth time you’ve gotten the name wrong and by now he’s certain you’re doing it on purpose. 

“Ah, yes, Milo. From Atlanta-”

“Atlantis.”

“Right, right,” you grin as the doors open and you step out into the lobby. “Atlantis.”

Taehyung’s apartment is significantly bigger than yours, easily hosting at least 50-odd people for his New Year’s costume party, and you happily let yourself in like it’s your name on the buzzer. Namjoon follows, your hand wrapping tightly around his fingers to keep him close as you start to make your way through the throng of people. He keeps his expression as blank as he can when he eyes any guy who gives you a double or triple take, fiercely protective of you despite your assertions that you can handle yourself.

He’s known you long enough, though, to know that there’s only so much attention you can enjoy before you get overwhelmed. He knows large crowds panic you, which is why you’re gripping onto him so tightly, scared of getting separated from the people you’re comfortable with. You may bask in the attention of flings and passersby, but you are really only happy to spend time with those you know well.  

You spot Taehyung’s mop of dark curls through the gaudy costumes and head straight towards him, dropping Namjoon’s fingers. You know he’ll be right behind you no matter what. You move as fast as you can without pushing anyone over, a grin already plastered on your face before you reach the evening’s host. 

“TaeTae!” you call out and he whips round, completely forgetting whoever he was talking to as a wide boxy smile takes over his face at the sight of you. He scoops you up when you jump, his arms around your waist as he spins you round in a hug. He puts you down just as Namjoon makes his way into the little pocket of space that always seems to form around Taehyung.

“Hey, kitten,” Taehyung croons into your ear and you flush at the nickname that only Taehyung calls you. There’s always been an unspoken attraction between you and Taehyung, unspoken only because it’s so blatantly obvious that neither of you actually need to say it. You’ve never acted on it, both gluttons for the excitement of dancing around each other and having someone decent to flirt with at parties. The number of ‘almosts’ with Taehyung are too many to count and, still riding the wave of confidence Namjoon’s reaction gave you earlier, you’re sure tonight will be another almost-notch on the bedpost. “You look great.”

His nose brushes against your ear before he pulls away, turning to greet Namjoon, acknowledging the older man for the first time. 

“Who are you meant to be?” Namjoon and Taehyung ask each other at the same time, staring at each other with critical gazes and you burst out laughing between them. 

Taehyung’s brow twitches as he takes in Namjoon’s brown boots, his khaki-green pants and his cream sweatshirt, a light jacket thrown over the top (that you know Namjoon will hide away in Taehyung’s spare closet so he doesn’t lose it). You join Taehyung in his scrutiny of Namjoon’s outfit, but you rather admire how his chest fills it out, how his styled hair sits perfectly above his wire-rimmed glasses.

Namjoon eyes Taehyung’s military-style jacket in return, brow furrowing at the frilly black cuffs peeking out at the end of his sleeves, the white ruff at his neck and the two red stripes of face paint across his cheek in return. You love Taehyung’s outfit and you must admit you’re impressed with the level of detail he’s been able to achieve, down to his black painted nails. You’re pretty sure no part of his outfit came from eBay.

“You’re meant to come in a costume,” Taehyung says, eyes zoning in on the book in Namjoon’s hand. “Not your normal stuff.”

Namjoon stares back at him blankly. 

“Do you literally ever see me dress like this on a normal day.”

“I mean-”

“It’s a costume.” He insists, and Taehyung snickers.

“He’s Mike from Atlantis,” you supply, Taehyung leaning closer to you to listen, an arm snaking under your coat and curling around your waist. You suppress a shiver at the heat of his palm against your skin, his fingertips sinking into the curve of your waist.

Namjoon’s eyes quickly flicker down to watch the movement before he levels his gaze at you, his jaw clenching when he arches an eyebrow at you. You can see the playful glint in his eyes and you’re trying just as hard not to laugh as you bite your lip to keep your giggles in check, clinging onto Taehyung’s jacket as he looks on in amusement.

“Wasn’t he called Milo?” Taehyung asks and you see Namjoon’s eyes literally light up.

“Yes! Thank you,” he excitedly claps a hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, jostling the two of you slightly but he’s so happy to hear someone get the name right after all the times you’ve said it wrong that you can’t help but smile.

“And Tae is clearly Adam Ant,” you say, pressing your hand to Taehyung’s chest and smiling up at him. “Gotta brush up on your 80s rock bands, Joonie.” Taehyung stands taller, chest pressed forward into your palm, clearly glad that someone has picked up on his costume first try.

“Yeah, Joonie,” Taehyung grins, knowing Namjoon won’t hurt him, especially not in front of you. 

“Drink, Valerie?” Namjoon asks, purposefully getting your name wrong in a failed attempt to annoy you. You grin.

“Yes please, Joonie.”

“Usual?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You got cherries?” he asks Taehyung, who looks offended that Namjoon even had to ask.

“Of course.”

With a nod, Namjoon heads off to the kitchen before stopping himself, looking back to Taehyung. “Look after her,” he warns, voice dropping low. Taehyung pulls you closer with a nod, hand slipping onto your hip as Namjoon starts to pick his way through the crowd.

“So,” Taehyung hums when Namjoon finally leaves you alone together, guiding you by his grip on your hip to the edge of the room. Several partygoers vacate the sofa pushed up against the wall when Taehyung approaches, allowing the two of you to sink down into the velvet together. “You look great, Victoria,” he teases, leaning in close with his hand still firmly on your hip.

“Thanks,” you cross one leg over the other, your boot brushing against Taehyung’s knee as his gaze drops down to the skin of your thighs. “Pretty Woman is one of my favourites, and this was probably my favourite look in the whole movie,” you say, repressing a shiver as he lets his free hand ghost against the side of your thigh. His eyes are dark and hooded but he’s still attentive, listening intently. You’re pretty sure you could talk about the colour of his ceiling right now and he’d be just as enraptured. 

“Mine too,” he says, voice low enough for only you to hear. His fingertips ghost the hem of your skirt, barely inches from a heat that always grows when you’re near him. “Especially on you.” He pauses, gaze dark as the hand on your hip climbs back up to your waist and keeps rising, drawing light circles across your ribs. “Although that scene in the bath is a close second.”

“Want me to badly sing Prince songs to you, Tae?” you tease, reaching up to finger the gold detailing on the lapels of his jacket. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your fingers. 

“If you’ll be wet and naked and covered in bubbles, you can sing whatever you want,” he grins. “Want me to go fill up the tub?”

“Maybe later,” you say, and it’s not entirely a lie. You’re pretty sure you wouldn’t turn down a bath with Taehyung given the opportunity, but you doubt either of you will remember this conversation within the hour. “This was supposed to be a couples costume, you know,” you sigh, letting the jacket drop back off your shoulders to pool on the sofa. Taehyung watches the material fall, absentmindedly licking his lips when his eyes rove over your newly-exposed skin. “But no way was I passing up wearing this outfit just because we weren’t coming together.”

“Very good choice,” Taehyung says, pressing his lips to your shoulder in a lingering kiss and you feel heat curl in your abdomen. “I would have had to kick Seokjin out if you’d come in something else because of him.”

He feels you tense under his hands and presses another quick kiss to your shoulder, his wandering hands pausing, relaxing to be more comforting than exciting.

“So he did come, then,” you mumble, refraining from turning to search through the crowd and focusing on fiddling with Taehyung’s buttons. 

“He did.”

“Is he-?”

“Dressed as Richard Gere?” Dark umber stares back at you when you meet his gaze, soft around the edges. “Yeah, he is.”

“Goddammit,” you huff, letting your body drop into the back of the sofa. You were hoping he’d at least come as something else, if he was going to come. It wasn’t like Seokjin didn’t look good in a suit, very much the opposite actually, but without you dressed as Julia Roberts on his arm, you figured he’d switch to a different costume that could be recognisable on its own. “Where is he?” you ask, picking at the hem of your dress while Taehyung puts his hand on your knee, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. His other hand slides across the back of the sofa and you lean your head against his forearm.

“Dunno,” he says without even looking at the crowd around you. “Don’t care, to be honest. I’m just glad you still came. But I’ll keep him away from you, if you want.” 

You smile up at him, knowing that he’s just as protective over you as Namjoon. You’re well aware that the two of them both have feelings for you, a cause of contention between them as they both feel the other isn’t good enough for you. Whether it’s simply lust or something more, you’re not sure, but you’ve never been able to say wholeheartedly that you felt the same about either of them and so you never allowed anything to happen. Taehyung is fun to flirt with, and he knows the limits he’s allowed to dance around with you, whereas Namjoon is your best friend, for years the two of you have been each other’s go-to dates for work events and other things you’d rather die than go to alone.

You’ve made it clear where you stand with both of them, and they respect those boundaries. 

Seokjin, however, had been incredibly confusing for you. He could be incredibly sweet, even domestic when you’d spend weekends in his penthouse with him and you’d quietly become exclusive without a conversation. He’d never said so himself, but you knew from whispers on the socialite grapevine that Taehyung kept you tapped into that he wasn’t seeing anyone else. 

You’d had a few flings over the years, nothing too serious but at least they were willing to publicly claim you were seeing each other. Seokjin had never done that for you, but you’d been more like a couple than any other relationship you’d ever had before. He was definitely the first person who made you feel so fiercely you feared your chest would burst just from him looking at you. The first man to make you feel like you wanted to be with someone long term. 

You haven’t seen him since he let you walk out of Jimin’s Halloween party, although ‘party’ may be too casual a term for the events Jimin throws. Halloween had been an elegant masquerade ball in an old theatre uptown, every room lavishly bathed in purple and silver, from the drapes to the wait staff’s outfits. 

You’d been drawn into yet another conversation about the nature of your relationship when Jimin’s latest flame had asked how long you’d been together, although Jimin had quickly dragged her away with the lure of more champagne to avoid the impending argument. 

You’d jokingly suggested that maybe you should put a label on whatever it was between you and Seokjin, if anything to make those conversations easier, but he hadn’t agreed. Oh no, he’d told you to stop trying to fit other people’s expectations rather than doing what you wanted for yourself. When you’d shot back that maybe you did want to put a label on it, he’d told you firmly, again, that he’d never agreed that would happen. You accused him of giving you whiplash, of treating you like he loved you one minute then acting like you were nothing more than a fuck on speed dial the next. At least Jimin acted like he liked his flings, could bear to be seen with them in public and admitted to the connection, however brief. Seokjin had fallen into stony silence instead of replying, sipping his champagne as he watched the party, making it clear the conversation was over without walking away.

So you did, instead. 

You found Jimin, who protested profusely when you pressed a kiss to his cheek as you said goodbye, and walked out without looking back.

You have only heard from Seokjin once since, a single text that you’d refused to answer, and when he hadn’t tried again you’d assumed that, whatever it had been between you, was over. You weren’t going to be the one to extend the olive branch this time, tired of waving a tattered white flag and being the first to break the silence. If he’d wanted you, he’d known where to find you, known which circles you ran in and which friends he could scout out. 

But he didn’t.

Fuck him, you thought, shaking off the growing ache in your chest and forcing a smile to your lips as you considered Taehyung’s offer.

“Don’t worry, Taetae, I’m sure he won’t be seeking me out any time soon.”

“If he does, you come find me, okay? Or Namjoon,” he adds, and you can tell it almost pains him to suggest you go to someone other than himself. “I don’t want him ruining your night.”

“I won’t let him,” you say resolutely, although neither of you quite believe your words. 

You’re not quite sure how it’s happened, but you’re still wearing your hat two hours later despite having lost your wig from underneath it. You have a vague memory of Jungkook dancing around with a blonde bob, but you’ve had several more Cherry Bombs following the first one Namjoon had made you earlier. He had been making them for you, but when you’d figured out he was skimping on the rum, you stopped telling him when your cup was empty, much to Taehyung’s amusement. 

That’s where you are now, in the kitchen making your next drink in a daze, popping a cherry in your mouth as you go through the motions. 

The kitchen is pretty much empty by this point, most of the partygoers having  collapsed into plush sofas around the apartment or filed out to the balcony ready for the fireworks. You know both Taehyung and Namjoon are out there waiting for you, although your head is a little fuzzy on who you would rather be standing next to when the clock ticks over. 

You’re pondering if you’d be capable of convincing them both to kiss a cheek each at the same time when someone else enters the kitchen. You don’t notice the footsteps coming toward you until you get a strange feeling down your spine, but you just figure someone else is waiting for something you’re using. 

“I’ll be done with the rum in a second,” you say cheerfully, finishing your pour and putting it out to the side for them to grab, but they don’t move.

“I don’t drink rum,” a familiar voice murmurs, sending a chill down your spine that’s definitely not coming from the ice cubes in your hand. “You know that, Y/N.” He takes a step towards you, not close enough for your bodies to touch but you’re definitely aware of his presence now. “Or should I say Vivian?” 

“Seokjin,” you breathe out, turning to see the man in question stood in front of you looking just as handsome as you feared he would. Despite several hours of the party having passed, he doesn’t look anywhere near as dishevelled as most others are, but you assume that’s due to the scotch you recognise in the crystal-bottomed glass he’s holding. He’s always been one for sipping something stronger to keep his buzz rather than drinking to get wasted, and tonight is clearly no different. He’s not wearing a suit jacket, probably hung up somewhere to keep it safe, but he’s still wearing his dark blue waistcoat and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to expose his forearms. His hair has retained its style for the most part, only a few strands having fallen out of place across his forehead. 

“You look good,” he says, holding your gaze, and you know without asking that he doesn’t need to look down at your outfit because he’d have memorised it within the first half hour of seeing you. You consider your words carefully, knowing that this is much more than him simply coming to pay you a compliment.  

“I know,” you turn to grab your drink and make to leave, but his voice still has the power to stop you in your tracks. 

“You still wore it,” he states, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are softer than you expected despite the slight smirk on his lips. 

“Of course I did. It’s a good costume.”

“It is,” he agrees simply, looking down at his suit with a frown. “I just look like a rich asshole without my Vivian.”

“Nothing new, then,” you mutter into your cup and you’re surprised to hear him laugh.

“I guess so,” he says, and if you didn’t know him better you’d think he sounded sad. He takes a sip of his drink and you can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. The kitchen falls quiet between you. It’s awkward and heavy but neither of you make to leave. This is the closest you’ve knowingly been to him all evening and you’re torn between wanting to leave him in your wake and wanting to stay close to him. As much as he hurt you, you’re still drawn to him, still feel pulled towards him by the rope around your heart that neither of you ever severed. 

“What do you want, Seokjin?” you ask, wishing you were in between a bickering Taehyung and Namjoon right now instead of here with him. At least you know how everyone feels when you’re with them. 

Seokjin falters slightly at your question and your own nerves grow, a thickness in your throat that even your rum can’t cut through. Seokjin never falters. Something’s wrong.

“I just… I wanted to apologise,” he says, not quite meeting your eye, neck flushing red. You subtly take a sniff of your drink, making sure you haven’t accidentally slipped in something stronger, but the sweet cherry scent is exactly as it always is. 

Seokjin notices your shock and chuckles to himself, embarrassed, but he’s been going over what he wants to say to you for weeks and he’s not about to back out now. Steeling himself, he puts down his glass and turns to you, his expression sincere. 

“I really am sorry, Y/N-”

“For what?” you interrupt, curious whether he actually knows what he did wrong or if he’s just trying to butter you up. He doesn’t falter this time, as if he’s been expecting a third degree interrogation from you, but he doesn’t bristle either. The more you watch him and the way he accepts your sharp tone with resignation, the more you realise he is genuinely apologetic. It’s such a strange concept to you that you briefly wish he would go back to being an asshole to you just to feel a bit more familiar. 

“For everything,” he says, continuing before you can berate him for such a cop-out answer. “For never treating you properly, never treating you like you deserve to be treated.” He slips his hands in his pockets as he takes a few cautious steps towards you, keeping an eye on your reaction to make sure he doesn’t overstep. “I know I hurt you, when I told you I never promised I’d call you my girlfriend. I know I hurt you a lot of times.”

Hearing him say the words you’d wanted to hear for so long, actually admitting that he knew he’d hurt you and apologising for it, is enough to make your throat sting with the rising sensation of tears. You stare into your cup but you don’t see the cherries and ice cubes swimming in your rum: your attention is solely on him.

“I’m sorry I let you walk out of that party without telling you how I feel about you, about us.”

Your gaze snaps to him, feeling like all of the air is being squeezed out of your lungs. Seokjin never spoke about his feelings or spoke about the two of you as an ‘us’, only ever referring to you as two separate people who just happened to go to events together. 

“The last couple of weeks, I’ve… thought about you, a lot. I’ve really fucking missed you, Y/N,” he chokes out, closing his eyes tightly and you grip your cup. You’ve never heard him cry before. 

He looks up at you, eyes red, and you almost step towards him before you catch yourself. You’ve missed him, too, and not just for the way he leaves you weak in the knees the morning after. Despite his reluctance to put a label on your relationship, Seokjin was more domestic than he was perhaps capable of admitting. It had touched you when he’d learned your coffee order within a week, always had your favourite snacks stocked away in his penthouse kitchen and even bought you a small wardrobe’s worth of clothes. 

But it was the occasional evenings spent on his sofa that you remembered fondest, a bottle or two of red wine split between you while you watched TV together. He would always lay your legs across his lap, gently massaging down your calves while your chosen film or documentary played out in front of you until he was pressing circles into your feet with his thumbs. He always said he didn’t care for TV so he’d let you choose, but he’d be just as engrossed as you by the end of the night, insisting on one more episode before you dragged him to bed. It was those moments of intimacy that you missed, when he seemed like he could actually be your boyfriend if only he wasn’t so reluctant. 

You’re not sure if you can bring yourself to believe him, given how easily he threw it all away. 

“Sure, you did,” you roll your eyes, sarcasm dripping from your voice to mask the hurt you can’t swallow. “My phone’s barely stopped ringing.”

His gaze hardens, but a flash of hurt crosses his face. 

“I texted you,” he bites out. “You didn’t reply.”

“You asked me what I was doing for the holidays, Seokjin. You didn’t apologise, you didn’t say anything about what happened. You didn’t give me any reason to talk to you.” You put your cup down on the counter behind you, the temptation to throw it at him growing every second. 

“I didn’t know what else to say,” he says quietly. “I’m not used to…” he trails off, unsure how to phrase it. “I’m not used to being the one to fix things.” 

You laugh hollowly; you can’t help it. It’s bitter, the reminder that you were always the one to crawl back first, but it’s true. 

“It’s not nice, is it?” you ask, letting him see your own teary eyes as you look up at him. “Waiting for someone else to give you what you want.” His features fall and his shoulders drop, the meaning behind your words as clear as day: you waited for him to give you a relationship and he kept teasing you with it, pulling you along like a fool. 

“No,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not. But I’m ready, I think.” Seokjin takes one more step towards you, his hands still buried deep in his pockets, arms tense with the restraint it’s taking him not to reach out and touch you. 

“Ready?” you ask, head spinning, heart pounding. “Ready for what?”

“To give you what you want,” he says gently. “I’m ready to give you a relationship, if you still want one… still want me.”

You’ve waited months to hear him say those words but now that you’re hearing them you’re struggling to understand. Your eyes search his features and you see that he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept properly for a while. 

You’re conflicted. The disbelief of hearing those long-awaited words sits level on the scales of your emotions, balanced out by the sting of too many rejections in the past. You’re tired, too. Tired of waiting for him, of having your hopes raised by tender touches only to be dashed by the sharp words claiming you’re nothing more than his friend. You don’t want to fall for his words only for them to come back and cut you later on, but you also don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to at least try having everything you’ve ever wanted with him. 

It’s too big of a decision to make in one moment, even when you’re sober.

“I do,” you say hesitantly, careful with your expression. “I do still want you, but-” you put your hand out to stop him when he takes another step closer, hands withdrawing from his pockets to reach out for you. They hesitate in mid-air at the touch of your fingertips to his chest, fingers curling in on themselves. “But I can’t just say yes to this, not tonight. I need time. I need you to prove to me that I can trust you, and that you mean this, Seokjin.” 

His gaze softens and his hands slowly close over yours, holding your palm to his chest.

“I understand,” he says, hands holding yours tightly. “I’m willing to wait. I think it’s only fair, I’ve made you wait long enough.” 

“Too right,” you say, pushing him gently on the chest and his cheeky smirk falls into a grin. 

“Start the new year with me,” he says, gradually bringing you closer until he can press a kiss to your hair.

“Okay,” you whisper, wrapping your hands around his torso and relaxing into the planes of his chest. You’ve missed being held by him. “Let’s go outside.”

You retrieve your glasses and head out onto the balcony together hand in hand, taking the alcohol with you more to keep you warm than to keep any lingering buzz going. Namjoon smiles when you come up beside him, almost wrapping his arm around your shoulder when he catches sight of your hand entwined with Seokjin’s. His expression falls slightly but he recovers, meeting your gaze to silently ask if everything’s okay, and when you nod his smile returns, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. You know he’ll have questions and you’ll answer them in time but, for now, you’re happy to watch as colours explode in the sky above you all. 

If you’d like to read any more of my writings, please visit my masterlist  ♥

[annathesimple]

What everybody brought to the ESC (sprinkled with my humble opinion)

Albania: desire to call the storm your brother (yeah, I dig it and it made me poetic, shut up), run from civilization and make the spirits of the wild your allies. Also: Cleopatra Mom in a Pride dress can I squeal with joy??!

Armenia: empowering song and beautiful performer. I hope she brings her suit *winks*, oh, yeah, and the braids, the braids!! And a familiar face to Ukrainians! ;)

Australia: stop shitting on them, the pips know what Eurovision is about, look at them this year: try to describe this without the word extra. They just embodied the moth&lamp meme. Brought: the daughter-dress of 2018 Estonia and Russia paired with the sexiest dementor you've seen

Austria: if she will look into me like she did in the music video than maybe I will break down, she is tearing at my walls. Brought:  blue hair to make me listen, and it works.

Azerbaijan: a medal for aesthetic goal. It might not exist yet, but it freaking should. Also, I am stealing so many of the things that they used in the music video, you just watch me

Belarus: that white outfit of hers. Or the legs. No, the outfit. Or the legs?.. Which one of these makes me keep staring? (Also brought all these dislikes from Belarussian people, which reminds me - RIP the potato masterpiece of this year)

Belgium: quality Netflix Original's soundtrack. Also a soundtrack to a montage of you running towards your goal and honestly - it's sweet.

Croatia: KAO HEROOOOOJ!!! Also: piano?? hopefully a piano?? We need it, come on, people need to fill out theirs esc bingos, people want to get drunk and we will help them! Also: stairs?? Possknly many stairs??

Cyprus: "Fuego" got reborn and we are being delivered heavy dance beats again, yay!

Czech Republic: oh, the funk, they stolen it? and added an 80' bassline? I hate it and I love it, you have no idea how hard are my relationship with this song is. But facts are facts.

Denmark: A MOTHERFUCKING HUGE CHAIR, I hope they bring it: I am supporting a policy that if you have a lot of space - you should do crazy shit with it. Also: brought German, cause Germany couldn't

Estonia: Aviici wibes and, oh yeah!, another song about a storm! I vote to start a new category for esc bingo: songs featuring storm in their lyrics or title. Also: guitar? Pretty please

Finland: Darude. As a rule I don't list people here, but the rules don't apply to you once you become a meme. Also: Poison Ivy just came to dance on a rotating cube in the middle of the stage - cause that's what you do, that's what I would have done if only I have been confident enough.

France: good boy, cinnamon roll, his wigs are the best and are not to be snatched, ok??! I am getting serious "Phoenix" wibes. Also: cute glasses!

Georgia: yes! They brought these awesome back vocals for which I love them so much!! Also: I feel like Georgia has its goal to make us love Georgian, and idk about you, but it works on mee~~

Germany: SISTAH!!! It's caraoce night and Elsa and Pocahontas are winning it. Also: can I talk about how refreshing it is to see a female duo?

Greece: actual Greece aesthetic wibes?? Beauty, so much beauty. Also: give them swords!! Allow them swords on the stage, cowards!!

Hungary: a song about a dad! I sense a streak! And I want to kiss everybody responsible for keeping it in Hungarian. Also: whistling! That you cannot get out of your head!

Iceland: they got last place last time so they are angry now, ahah. But honestly, we haven't even started yet  and Hatari is already a meme, and we all know that it's the true currency of Eurovision fame. They are worth an essay, it's just I won't do it here.

Ireland: light happy pop for you to finally relax. And, for some reason, nostalgia? I blame Irish magic.

Israel: an Israeli Freddy Mercury with a strong song and a pinch of Disney sound. Interesting in a good way vocals.

Italy: "ramadan" rimed with "Jackie Chan", a big fuck you to all the haters and international versions of D.Trump. Also: ~~soldiii~~, ~~soldiii~~

Latvia: your soundtrack for soft and quiet, warm night walks. Magic the color of black and crimson velvet. The ocean of the eyes.

Lithuania: that one song that encourages you to stand up and go towards what you want, plants a seed of self appreciation inside of you. Good stuff. And his voice is higher than the expectations of your relatives.

Malta: another aesthetics award!! Also - I can't possibly say no to people who put chameleons into music videos. Also: another member of "nana" squad!

Moldova: this year it's them who is bringing us a ballad: and a solid one, + the voice

Montenegro: oh yes!! Finally!! A grandpa!! With a beard!! Playing a traditional instrument!! The sacred commandments are being followed!! Also snow in May aesthetic.

North Macedonia: a powerful ballad for girls and I am here for it!! Go and break the rules! Make everybody fucking emotional!! We need it and we deserve it!

Norway: the sickest Christmas party in a Narnia setting: LET ME IIIN.The furry jokes. And if u think they will stop any time soon - you are wildly misguided. And now we have another version of what does the fox say!

Poland: if you haven't heard them already - probably they brought smth you haven't really expected from them as a folk band. They make me feel things. The outfits!! I said THE OUTFITS!!

Portugal: a true to life representation of my last two brain cells. It's so eary, so unusual that I am in love. Back in my days (and it's like a week ago) I had to do a half an hour long deep YouTube dive to get to music like this. Artttt

Romania: abandoned mansions aesthetic, possible mythical wibes, yessss, bring it to meee!

Russia: Lazarev. They brought Lazarev. You know who he is, what can I say except for: why is his signing is so good??hmm

San Marino: a true leader of "nanana" squad appears!! I like to think that's how San Marino celebrates all of its national holidays. They've always came to Eurovision to party, and they are proving a point once again.

Serbia: I know many like to complain about ballads: but come on, we need at least some, and Serbia delivered, at least we always can rely on Balcan countries for that! Also: I hope she brings her crystal horns with her to the stage, they paid them so much attention!

Slovenia: depressed youth love brought you some indi to relax but also to float into space contemplating your choices.

Spain: is here to cure your depression in case any of the previous songs triggered it. Brought a party, the Sun, and the most Spanish sounding thing I have ever heard. I feel like they thrive out of dandelion wine.

Sweden: changed their formula a bit and suddenly in works on me, and it works very well! There is a literall door to heaven above the stage! That's where they came from! Also: I am in love with the back vocal singers.

Switzerland: a Spanish wibe + some Asian notes/sound?? + heavy dance beat = yeah, they got me, it is indeed good to dance to.

The Netherlands: brought sensitivity and forced it on me, brought tears and put them behind my eyes. Goodness gracious, whyyy

UK: such a sweet happy song, love how the entries from UK tend to be so sunny and bright recently. Brought me desire to hug my friends and close ones.

Please note that I have no intentions of offending anybody, we all are here to have a good time. I respect everybody on this list.

[hetaliapandaa-blog]

Aph China body headcanon

Everyone is going this so lol.

WARNING:

My China is manly so don’t expect to put an uke cute Crybaby :)

Physical appearance:

Face: (I headcanon him as having feminine face)

Eyes: Extremely dark eyes, he has a double eyelid shape but they have that “oriental” feeling, his eyebrows are thicc but in a symmetrical way.

Hair: his hair is extremely black, jet black, nearly dark blue. Long, he usually tied it wig a high ponytail, half hair up do and a high bun.

Nose: he has a high nose, but it is not considered big.

Mouth: he has a small full lips, with a reddish colour.

Skin: he is fair, but not that extremely type of paleness.

Body: he was extremely muscular in his youth, that’s because he was a master of martial arts, body building and what we would consider nowdays Fitness.

After falling in depression because of the Opium war, he had a more slim appearance nowadays.

His shoulders are large, he has an invert triangle type of body. He has abs, and strong legs.

[jaehyunsdick-blog]

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[papermoonloveslucy]

THREE FOR TWO

December 3, 1975

Directed by Charles Walters ~ Written by James Eppy

Synopsis

Lucille Ball and Jackie Gleason play three married couples in three stories about married life. 

Cast

Lucille Ball (Sally / Rita / Pauline) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. With Richard Denning, she starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” which eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Jackie Gleason (Herb / Fred / Mike) was born in 1916. He became one of America’s most recognized all-around entertainers but is perhaps best remembered for his iconic character of bus driver Ralph Kramden on “The Honeymooners” which was seen on CBS just like “I Love Lucy.”  On “The Lucy Show” Lucy Carmichael frequently referred to Gleason even borrowing his “Away we go” exit in a couple of episodes. In 1968 he did a wordless cameo on “Lucy Visits Jack Benny” (HL S1;E2) as bus driver Ralph Kramden. He died in 1987.

Gino Conforti (Waiter in “Herb & Sally”) began his TV acting career in 1968 and has been continually working since, although mostly as one-off characters. He had a recurring role as Felipe on “Three’s Company” from 1980 to 1982, a series Lucille Ball admired. He played the burglar in “Lucy Plays Cops and Robbers” (HL S6;E14) in 1974. He was also seen in “Lucy Gets Lucky” earlier in 1975.  

Vanda Barra (Hostess in “Fred & Rita”) made over two dozen appearances on “Here’s Lucy” as well as appearing in "Lucy Gets Lucky” (with Dean Martin) earlier in 1975 . She was seen in half a dozen episodes of “The Lucy Show.” Barra was Lucille Ball’s cousin-in-law by marriage to Sid Gould. 

Irene Sale (Woman #1 in “Fred & Rita”) was a stunt double and played Louise (uncredited) on Desilu's original “Star Trek” in 1966. This is her penultimate screen credit. 

Eddie Garrett (Man #1 in “Fred & Rita”) did two episodes of “Here's Lucy” and also played a party guest in Mame (1974). He retired in 1986 and died in 2010.

Mel Pape (Man at Table in “Fred & Rita”) was Jackie Gleason's long-time personal assistant. As such he played small roles in such Gleason projects as Smokey and the Bandit (1977), Nothing in Common (1986), and The Sting II (1983). He died in 1995.  

Due to the darkness of the nightclub only Lucille Ball and Jackie Gleason's faces are actually visible on screen. Barra, Sale, Garrett and Pape remain in shadows.  

Tammi Bula (Maureen in “Mike & Pauline”) played the recurring role of Marcia Woolery on “The Waltons.” One of her six episodes aired a month before this special.

Maureen is Mike and Pauline's daughter. She is engaged to marry her boyfriend Steven.

Paul Linke (Alfred in “Mike & Pauline”) also appeared on “The Waltons” in an episode that aired the day after this special was first broadcast. He spoke at the memorial service for his good friend John Ritter, who had appeared on “Life With Lucy” in 1986.  

Alfred is Mike and Pauline's son. He recently broke up with his girlfriend Betty Dorsey.

Director Charles Walters was an uncredited director on Ziegfeld Follies (1945) which starred Lucille Ball, although not in the segment he staged. He also directed two episodes of “Here's Lucy” and will also direct “What Now Catherine Curtis?” in 1976.

This special is billed as “Renee Taylor and Joseph Bologna's 'Three for Two'” which may indicate that the material was originally written for the married comedy team (who often performed together) instead of Lucy and Gleason. This is James Eppy's only screen credit which may indicate that this was merely a pseudonym for Taylor and Bologna as writers. Screen writer Joseph Bologna will act in Lucille Ball's next special “What Now Catherine Curtis?”

This was Lucille Ball's third prime time special after the end of “Here's Lucy” in 1974. The first two were “Happy Anniversary and Goodbye” and “Lucy Gets Lucky” nine months earlier.  

This special is available on DVD from MPI video or can be streamed online. It was originally aired on CBS in the USA and ITV in the UK.

There is no studio audience or laugh track.  

Although he made a wordless walk-on cameo as bus driver Ralph Kramden in the second-aired “Here's Lucy”, this is the first time Lucille Ball and Jackie Gleason have acted together on screen.  This continues Ball's employment of “Honeymooners” alumni:

Art Carney (Ed Norton) in “Happy Anniversary and Goodbye” and “What Now Catherine Curtis?”

Audrey Meadows (Alice Kramden) in “Life With Lucy” (1986)

Jane Kean (Trixie Norton from 1966 on) in “The Lucy Show” (1966)

In form and content, this material resembles Neil Simon's 1968 play and 1971 film Plaza Suite, which is also divided into three stories with actors playing multiple roles. The fact that the first story of the special takes place in a hotel suite strengthens the comparison. The year after this special aired, Simon wrote a similar play titled California Suite which was filmed in 1978.

Like the two previous Lucille Ball Specials, the show reunites many “Here's Lucy” production staff, including hairstylist Irma Kusely, prop master Kenneth Westcott, costumer Renita Reachi, and script supervisor Dorothy Aldworth.

This special was berated by the critics and the ratings were not as large as Lucille Ball's previous specials. CBS worried that it would lose its number one place after more than twenty seasons at the top. This pretty much spells the end of CBS's confidence in television shows featuring Lucille Ball.

“Herb & Sally” (20 minutes) ~ Lucy and Jackie Gleason play Herb and Sally Wolbert, a middle-aged couple from Cleveland with grown children who are on a month-long vacation in Italy after 24 years of marriage. After Rome they are traveling on to Venice, Capri, and the ruins of Pompeii.  

As Sally, Lucille Ball has on a black wig with silver highlights. She wears a peach chiffon nightgown (which she also owns in blue and black).

The story opens with Sally singing a carefree verse of “Volare,” a song that Dean Martin sung on the previous Lucille Ball special “Lucy Gets Lucky.”  

Oops! When the waiter hands Herb the room service menu, it opens far enough to see that Jackie Gleason has his lines written on the inside. Gleason was not a big fan of rehearsing, while Lucille Ball was a stickler for it.  

SALLY: “I gave up a successful career to marry you!” HERB: “You were a screw counter in a hardware store.” SALLY: “I was learning the business.”

Lucy Barker will be co-owner of a hardware store in Lucille Ball's last television series “Life With Lucy” (1986). Herb reminds her that his own career as a bamboo furniture salesman is no fun. Herb demeans himself by entertaining buyers in nightclubs and doing his Peter Lorre impersonation.  

HERB: “Do you mean you don't like my impersonation of Peter Lorre?” SALLY: “It stinks, Herb.” HERB: “Then our whole marriage is based on a lie.”

To prove his Peter Lorre impersonation is good, he does it for the waiter: “Did you get the information, Mr. Miller?  You didn't get the information, Mr. Miller? You were supposed to get the information, Mr. Miller.” Gleason is paraphrasing Lorre's dialogue from All Through the Night (1942) in which Gleason himself co-starred with Lorre, Humphrey Bogart and Ludwig Stössel as Mr. Miller. The waiter incorrectly guesses he is imitating Gina Lollobrigida!  

HERB: (to Sally) “I'm fat!  I'm fat!  And every pound I've put on you've put there!”

Sally says there are three men in Cleveland that keep her sane: Lou Fergazi, her butcher; Andre Molan, her decorator; and Stu Bridgeman, her family doctor.

SALLY: (yelling to the street from the balcony) “I'm a pleasure object!” HERB: “She's 45 and in two months she'll be a grandmother!  You hear that?  A grandmother!”

Lucy Ricardo visited Rome in one of the most memorable episodes of “I Love Lucy,” “Lucy's Italian Movie” (ILL S5;E23), where she soaks up local color for a movie role by stomping grapes with her feet.

“Fred & Rita” (5:30 minutes) ~ Lucy and Gleason play banker Fred N. Schneider and homemaker Rita Fledgeman, a couple carrying on a discrete affair and trying to decide whether they should tell their spouses. They meet at Cookie's Tip-Toe Inn, a dimly lit hideaway nightclub.

RITA: “I Love the touch of your aftershave. The sound of your hair when it moves.” FRED: “And I love the smell of your boa.”

Lucille Ball wears an upswept blonde wig and a feather boa. At first, both Fred and Rita wear sunglasses, despite the darkness of the club.  

RITA: “I'm only alive when I'm with you. I'm dead at the supermarket.  I'm dead at the PTA. I'm dead at the beauty parlor.” FRED: “You think you're dead? I'm dead at the bank. I'm dead at the little league games.” RITA: “Are you dead with Myrna?” FRED: “Of course I'm dead with Myrna. Why?  Aren't you dead with Harry?” RITA: “You know I'm dead with Harry.  I live only for you!”

Fred is married to Rita's best friend Myrna. Rita is married to Harry, Fred's second cousin. They've been married twenty years.

RITA: (about a possible time to meet again) “The only possible day is Veteran's Day.” FRED: “I'd love to, but I'm marching.” RITA: “You'd rather march than go away with me?” FRED: “I can cheat on my wife, but not the National Guard.”

“Mike & Pauline” ~ Lucy and Gleason play domineering parents involved in a New Year's Eve family crisis as they are forced to recognize their college-aged children's declaration of independence.

As Pauline, Lucille Ball wears a honey-brown wig, topped with a paper crown (because it is New Year's Eve).  

Mike lists his best friends as Johnny Bridges, Georgie Shry, Tommy Ritzo, Eddie Kunz, and Lefty Bryan.  

MIKE: (about his best friends) “I always listened to their viewpoints and made sure that I had all the facts – before I punched each one of them out. It happens to be the code I live by: logic – and then violence.”

Mike mentions the family's New Year's Eve traditions of watching the ball drop in Times Square, listening to Guy Lombardo, and the kids watching Mike and Pauline dance to “Apple Blossom Time.”  "(I'll Be With You) In Apple Blossom Time" was written by Albert Von Tilzer and Neville Fleeson in 1920. It was introduced on big screen by the Andrews Sisters in their 1941 film Buck Privates. In “Lucy and the Andrews Sisters” (HL S2;E6, above), Lucille Ball, Lucie Arnaz, and Patty Andrews sing it as part of a medley of the Andrews Sisters' greatest hits. Guy Lombardo was mentioned on “Lucy and the Drum Contest” (HL S3;E4) when Harry calls him his favorite musician.  

MIKE: (to his grown children, angry) “Nobody's going anywhere. No how, no way, no chance!  The case is dismissed! Through!  Finished!  Done!” PAULINE: (calmly) “Now that's fair.  Your father's very fair.”

Only one episode of a Lucille Ball sitcom was ever set on New Year's Eve: “Chris's New Year's Eve Party” (TLS S1;E14), originally aired on December 31, 1962.

Alfred wants to quit college and become a nightclub comic. Mike tries in vain to give his son some pointers about the timing of his jokes. Before being signed to a film contract, Jackie Gleason worked as a nightclub comic at New York's Club 18.  

In the end, the children go out to be with their dates and Mike and Pauline watch the ball drop on TV to the strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” As they dance in the living room to “Apple Blossom Time” Mike and Pauline become Lucy and Jackie dancing together as the credits roll.  

This Date in Lucy History - December 3rd

“Men Are Messy” (ILL S1;E8) ~ December 3, 1951 

“The Ricardos Visit Cuba” (ILL S6;E9) ~ December 3,1956

“The Celebrity Next Door” (LDCH S1;E2) ~ December 3, 1957

"Vivian Sues Lucy" (TLS S1;E10) ~ December 3, 1962

“Harry Catches Gold Fever” (HL S6;E12) ~ December 3, 1973

The writing here (whoever is responsible) is what makes the difference.  The first segment is familiar territory and feels expected. The shortest segment is the best written and most interesting.  The final scene is a family dramedy with some unfunny inferences to spouse abuse and violence.  Ball and Gleason are not Meryl Streep and Laurence Olivier, but they do well enough to make it a mostly entertaining hour. 

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[rufeepeach]

Fic: Closing Arguments

Title: Closing Arguments Rating: NC-17 Summary: Jaded defence barrister Mr Gold finds himself inexplicably drawn to the Crown Prosecution Service's rising star, prosecutor Belle French.

AO3 link

A/N: Written for @rumbelleorderinthecourt​, and posted five minutes before the deadline! Fair warning, you're going to learn a few things about the UK court system, since this is set in London.

A few starting points:

 A barrister is a lawyer who stands up in court and argues, wearing a wig and robe (at least in the criminal Crown Court, where this is set). Barristers work in Chambers, solicitors work in firms. Both Belle and Gold are barristers in this. If you want a laugh, look up the wigs and robes, then imagine being sexually attracted to someone wearing that.

The CPS stands for the Crown Prosecution Service. They're the people who represent the prosecution in criminal trials. Basically the UK version of the District Attorney

All the case law in this is entirely fictional, if you can't tell by the names, so don't expect to learn any actual law.

Gold had made any number of mistakes in his life.

However, the one that haunted him this morning was not his failed marriage, or his estranged relationship with his son, or how easily he’d let work and greed isolate him from the rest of the world.

This morning, Gold lamented one thing: telling Mal Vincent, in a moment of weakness, that he was not a morning person.

At the time, Mal had been a colleague, another QC working out of his Chambers who was disgustingly capable and put-together first thing in the morning. He’d been heavily hung-over that day, as far as he recalled, and she had breezed into Chambers in her pristine grey pantsuit, her hair coiffed and make-up perfect, and scoffed at his five o’clock shadow and dependence on his coffee cup.

He’d made a sour quip about how sobriety would force one to embrace the morning – less chance of coming across temptation that way. Mal hadn’t taken too kindly to the slight on her history, and he actually liked her, in his own misanthropic way. He’d muttered an apology when he’d realised his offence, and told her how he loathed working first thing in the morning.

Just his luck she’d get appointed to the Bench. It was one thing to have a friendly rivalry with a colleague: it was another to have a Judge take pleasure in tormenting him.

And so, Judge Vincent had scheduled this CPD seminar for 9am, Monday morning, and Gold was certain part of it was just so she could torture him.

He had considered skipping it altogether. However, with the recent King ruling having thrown so much of the law into disarray, he couldn’t afford to miss an important insight. Especially since he was certain King would factor into the arguments he’d have to give next week in court, and Judge Vincent wouldn’t go easy on him just because he’d decided to stay in bed today.

So here he was, at 8:45am, hunched over the terrible coffee machine in the courthouse lobby, hoping to God that the muck it churned out could keep his heart beating for the next few hours.

The machine finally gurgled to a stop, and Gold pulled back his cup and took a hesitant sip. He grimaced: it tasted like burnt engine oil. It was, however, vitally necessary for his continued functioning, so he took another sip. Bad coffee was always, always preferable to no coffee at all.

“That bad, huh?” a soft voice, female, came from beside him. He looked up to see who in the world was stupid enough to address him before his first cup, and saw a stranger.

She was tiny, was his first thought, even in her sky-high heels. It was so rare for him to meet anyone he could tower over, but this diminutive young woman barely came to his shoulder. Her dark hair hung in long, shiny curls over her shoulders, and she smiled so brightly it hurt his eyes. Her neat black skirt-suit told him nothing about who she was: professionals and members of the public alike would dress up for court.

“Bloody terrible,” he muttered, in response to her query. She laughed, a bright and merry sound. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Starbucks ‘round the corner has a half-hour queue out the door,” the woman confided, stepping in to fill the space he’d vacated and beginning to fill her own cup. “Or else I wouldn’t be relying on it.”

“You seem chipper enough to dodge the bullet,” he groused. “Young people don’t have to rely on stimulants.”

She laughed again, and looked at him. “I have a seminar in fifteen minutes on the developments on judicial treatment of white collar crime,” she told him. “So I don’t think youth alone will keep me standing.”

He eyed her appraisingly. He’d thought he knew everyone working in their little sector of the City these days; it was a small enough group after all. He knew he’d remember if he’d met her before. She was beautiful, no two ways around it, and she made full eye contact every time she spoke, those striking blue eyes meeting his fearlessly.

She was young and bright-eyed enough to still be in pupillage, or perhaps she was a trainee solicitor sent by one of the firms. Whoever she was, she hadn’t heard of him, so she couldn’t have been around for long. He knew every pupil and trainee in the City had their own ‘run-in with Mr Gold’ story – it was all but a badge of honour, at this point. Maybe she was even an assistant, or a paralegal. Whoever she was, she was green as a sapling.

“Have you been to one of these before, then?” he asked, not knowing why he did. Maybe there was something slipped into the god-awful coffee that made him converse with strangers.

The woman smiled, and shook her head, those long, soft curls shaking with the motion. Her cup was full, and she stood straight. “No, I- Oh sweet Jesus!” she cried, having taken a sip and belatedly actually tasting the contents. “You were giving it too much credit!”

“It’ll keep you awake,” he shrugged, taking another sip as if to prove it. This time, he managed to hide his grimace as he swallowed. “That’s all it has to do.”

“I haven’t been to one of these before,” she told him. “I’m actually new to London. So I didn’t know the coffee was this bad – honestly, I didn’t know that coffee could be this bad.”

Well that explained it, then. She was clearly fresh out of University, and some superior had brought her along to see the courtrooms and hear the big players speak.

“How do you like the city?” he asked, because she was still making that infuriating eye-contact and he felt it was expected. She smiled – it seemed she was always smiling.

“I love it!” she enthused. “It’s everything everyone always says it should be, and there’s so much more interesting work than where I used to be.” She narrowed her eyes, and looked him over. “I hope this isn’t rude, but... are you Mr Gold, from Castle Street Chambers?”

Gold sighed internally, and for just a moment, was strongly tempted to lie. Of course she knew who he was. She’d probably approached him with the intent to get a good Mr Gold Is An Arsehole story out of him to laugh about with her fellow trainees later. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been baited. Worse, she could be trying to play him, get some kind of recommendation or favour out of him in exchange for a few moments of attention from a beautiful woman. He knew plenty of men in his position – barristers, judges and solicitors alike – who were guilty of such weakness.

Gold was a firm believer that one should earn one’s favours. He had no time for men who would take advantage of a young woman like her offering her time or her good graces, or, in fact, for the sort of woman who would offer them in the first place.

Regardless of her game, she was mistaken: he was twice the arsehole any of her colleagues may have warned her he was, and he could not be bought with a winning smile.

“I am indeed,” he said. She brightened, if that were possible. She really was remarkably pretty; it was almost hard to remember that she was certainly trying to work him.

“Your reputation precedes you,” she said. He smiled, thinly. If she wanted a show, then that’s what she’d get.

“This is your first time, you said? Well then, a few pointers, if I may,” he said, and she nodded, eyes shining and expectant. “There’s limited seating, so it’s good form to allow qualified lawyers and judges to sit at the tables, and stand at the back if there’s no room. If you have a question based on lack of understanding rather than furthering the conversation, keep it to yourself and look it up on your own time.”

She looked as if she had been doused in cold water, her lush mouth parting with shock, her warm blue eyes widening with hurt then flashing cold, narrowing in anger. Her lips pressed in a thin line. She almost – almost – snarled.

“Good advice,” she said, tightly. He thought for one moment she might throw her hot coffee directly into his face. He’d probably deserve it. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Do,” he advised. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he turned and picked up his briefcase, and made his way toward the conference room used for the seminar. He didn’t look back at the tiny, shaking woman behind him, who would almost certainly be hissing and spitting his name to everyone she met for the next few weeks. Good thing, too, he supposed. It would prevent more of her ilk from approaching him in the hopes of getting anything from him. One thing those stories were good for was keeping hopeful young people well away from him.

He met Judge Vincent at the door, and shook her hand. “I see you managed to drag yourself from your crypt, Mr Gold,” she said, with a smug smile. “The allure of today’s keynote too strong to resist?”

“More like the knowledge of how I’d be made to regret not attending,” he replied. “I’ve been a little too busy to pore over today’s agenda.”

“It should be an interesting one,” Mal said, not taking the bait. “And certainly relevant to some upcoming cases. We’re honoured you decided to haul your carcass to join us. You almost look as if you slept last night.”

“Any time, your honour,” he muttered. She grinned.

“I do miss you, Gold,” she said. “We should catch up sometime.”

He didn’t bother replying to that. He just took another long sip of his coffee, and turned to make his way to his customary seat at the back of the room.

Mal’s voice stopped him, “Oh, Gold!” she called. He turned. “I’d like you to meet today’s keynote, since I know you so avidly devoured the preparatory materials she sent out.” She turned to a sickeningly familiar figure, whose mouth was smiling warmly but whose eyes were glaring daggers. “This is Belle French,” Mal said, indicating the woman beside her. “I’m sure she requires no introduction.”

Indeed, she did not. Belle French was a name Gold had come across any number of times in the past week, while preparing for the Feinberg case next week. She’d published any number of influential articles in the past few years, and was by all accounts the CPS’ star prosecutor for high-value white-collar crimes. She had, in fact, been junior counsel for the prosecution in King, and was rumoured to have been the real mastermind behind the arguments that had lead to such a revolutionary ruling. She was also his opposition on the Feinberg trial next week.

“Oh, we’ve already met,” Miss French smiled a silky, pointed smile, and held out the hand not holding her coffee cup. “Mr Gold, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered, his stomach sinking. When he’d pictured Belle French, reading over her articles and her court documents, putting together his defence against her, he had imagined someone who hadn’t left the library in ten years, someone as pathetic and married to the job as he was. Who else could have achieved so much while still so young? Whatever he'd expected, it wasn’t the stunningly beautiful, charming woman before him. And he’d just put her down and grievously insulted her, without even learning her name. “Good to see you again,” he said, weakly, shaking her proffered hand. Her handshake was firm, solid, although he imagined she didn’t dig her sharp fingernails into most people’s hands the way she did his.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she sneered. Mal glanced between the two of them, her eyes lighting with the scent of something amiss.

“You’re our keynote, then,” he surmised. “Well, you did say you hadn’t been here before.”

“I did,” she agreed. “And don’t worry: if, when I’m finished with my analysis of the rise of complex computer coding and encryption in the commission of embezzlement and fraud, and what this means following King, I find that there are no more seats available, then rest assured I’ll be happy to stand at the back.”

With that, she gave him a sunny smile that sent a chill down his spine, and turned to Mal, who was staring at them both with a small smirk curling her lips. “It was such an honour to be invited, Judge Vincent,” she said, her warm tone at complete odds to the ice that had preceded it. “I’m ready to begin whenever you are. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go check on the PowerPoints.”

She turned to move past them, and Mal returned her attention to Gold.

“Are you going to explain that, or…”

“You know these young upstarts,” Gold replied, coolly. “Always seeking to make an impression.”

“I’ve known Belle French for three years now,” Mal said. “I’ve never heard her have an unkind word to say to anyone. You walk in, and suddenly it’s as if I’m talking to Regina Mills.”

“I have that affect on people,” he shrugged, uncomfortably. “If you’ll excuse me, Judge.”

Mal waved her hand, still smirking, and Gold made for his seat. His hands shook as he pulled out his notepaper and fountain pen, ready to make note of anything new Miss French could come out with. He hoped – unkind and ungracious as he was – that she would have nothing of real interest to say.

Her talk was, of course, revelatory. Having read her articles, her background – no picture provided, or maybe he hadn’t looked, an oversight in either case – and her arguments on her past high-profile cases, he was well aware of her intellect. Her faculty with words, however, her excitement about the law and the passion and vigour with which she spoke about justice about the importance of keeping the law up to date with modern methods and modes of crime, the way she brought her audience along with her, bringing what could have been an extraordinarily dry review of case law to glorious life… Gold blinked, blearily, at the end of her talk, to find he hadn’t written a word. He was too busy watching her, enraptured by the way she moved and the way she spoke so eloquently, her warm alto accent rolling over each word.

She had been beautiful before, yes, but there was something extraordinary about how she lit up when talking about her chosen subject, her bright intellect lending light and warmth to her features, until she was all but glowing with passion and life. He felt he could listen to her talk all day, about any subject she chose. She could have read him the phone book, but if she spoke like that he’d have been glued to his seat.

After Miss French finished speaking, Regina Mills followed, talking about a far less interesting area of public sector financial law. Gold allowed himself to zone out, his eyes on the back of Miss French’s head. How he ever could have taken her for a grasping, ambitious, silly little trainee he had no idea. Doubtless she had been luminous even during her training – it was clear from how she spoke that such perception and passion could not have been taught, but were innate. She had added to that raw talent with a breadth and depth of knowledge that almost matched his own. Given a few more years’ experience, she would be truly formidable.

And he had spoken down to her, spat at her, and made her less than what she was. For the first time in years, Gold felt truly ashamed of his bad behaviour. He knew he could be beastly – there were good and honest reasons for his bad reputation in London’s legal community – but Miss French had been wholly undeserving of his scorn.

She would hate him now, as well she should. She would trounce him next week – Cara Feinberg was guilty as sin, for all she would deny it until the cows came home – and he’d have to watch and know she took true pleasure in it when she did. He’d known that already, since the CPS’ case was watertight and Mrs Feinberg was mostly pleading not guilty on the off chance a technicality might save her. That, and because Gold was reasonably certain she was a psychopath who enjoyed the attention and the theatre of it all. She’d probably enjoy prison, he thought: he felt sorry for the poor women who’d wind up locked up with her.

At the end of the seminar, there was a half hour networking session scheduled. Gold, loathing almost everyone in the room and the concept of networking itself, made for the door as quickly as he could.

He’d made it to the cloakroom, almost to the foyer, when he heard a voice behind him. “Do you have any questions, then?” Miss French called. He stiffened, and turned.

“None that spring to mind,” he replied. “You were very comprehensive.”

“You’ve changed your tone,” she noted. “Are you sure you’re not waiting for me to ask what ‘fraud’ means? Or how about whether theft is a crime? Although I suppose I should look that up on my own time. You know, due to my lack of understanding.”

He winced at the bite in her voice, although she looked and sounded amused. He wasn’t used to having his own cruel words thrown back at him.

“If you’re seeking an apology, dearie, then clearly you’ve not heard as much about me as I’d have thought.”

Miss French gave another tight smile, and to his surprise her eyes gleamed with challenge rather than malice. Or maybe they just looked the same, coming from a bright young woman with a good, strong heart.

“I know more than enough about you, Mr Gold,” she said, stepping closer. “Unlike some, I bother to do my research.”

Once again, Gold was flummoxed by how he could ever have imagined this sharp, dangerous woman as a flighty little trainee in search of approval. He was a head taller and twenty years her senior, and had the experience and accolades to show for it, and yet in that moment he felt she towered over him. He stood his ground, bracing his weight on his cane between his feet. Let her get her moment of triumph, he thought: he owed her that much after his comments a few hours previous.

“Then you know that this morning was hardly uncharacteristic,” he replied. “I’m surprised at your shock.”

“Oh, it wasn’t your unkindness that surprised me,” she told him. “Everyone warned me about that. I just expected that you wouldn’t be so stupid to not at least Google the keynote speaker of a conference you were planning to attend. Especially when I’m also counsel for the prosecution on your case next week. I expected better from you, that’s all.”

He gaped at her, his heart racing. He hadn’t been so thoroughly dressed down in years, and never by someone so tiny and so beautiful, who seemed to take such pleasure in doing it. It said something none too favourable about him that he enjoyed the sensation.

“Well I’ve been rather busy, Miss French,” he replied, swallowing to wet his throat. “No free time for idly trawling the Internet.”

“But you had read my paper on the use of hacking and coding in private client embezzlement cases,” she pressed. “I saw you nodding along while I was discussing those points. You were one of the few who looked as if you understood.”

“I will admit it was a well-researched position,” he conceded. “Even if the point you made about Blanchard v Glass was a little farfetched.”

Miss French’s eyes lit up, even as her lips hardened into that thin line again, her jaw tightening. Her mouth was a very soft red, like rose petals. He wondered if they felt as soft as they looked.

His eyes flicked back up to hers the moment he caught himself, and he saw her cheeks had bloomed a little, a hint of red beneath her immaculate make-up.

“In what sense?” she asked. “The facts of that case were clearly relevant to the issue.”

“It wasn’t a criminal prosecution,” Gold replied. “Hardly relevant to a paper discussing white collar crime.”

“The case was on-going while Sydney Glass was being investigated for money laundering, on behalf of Blanchard’s wife!” Belle cried. “Exactly how is his being sued for breach of fiduciary duty irrelevant, when he had purposely designed software for that purpose and abused his position to use it?”

“No case was ever brought,” Gold spread his hands. “An investigation is just an investigation, no jury ever had chance to find him guilty. That’s the issue the CPS always has. Too much faith in the police, too little ability to admit their mistakes.”

Belle’s cheeks did flush then, an enchanting shade of rich, deep crimson. He did notice, however, that her lips were twitching, curving into a smile. She was enjoying this as much as he was. “Blanchard won that case, you know,” she said. “The court was satisfied he was at least guilty of the breach.”

“Impropriety is one thing,” Gold replied. “Illegality quite another. You’d do well not to confuse the two.”

“And which is Cara Feinberg?” she asked, pointedly. “Illegal, or just improper?”

Gold grinned, all pointed teeth. “Certainly the latter,” he conceded. “The former is for the jury to decide next week.”

“You know she’s guilty, Gold,” Belle said. “I’ve never seen a more open-and-shut case where the defendant refused to plead guilty. She all but signed her name on those corrupted files!”

“I never said my client was wholly sane,” Gold remarked, and couldn’t help a genuine smile at the soft laugh he surprised out of Belle. It softened her whole face, when she laughed, turning that bright and ready smile into something warmer still. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, her rosy cheeks glowing. He couldn’t help but stare.

“Cara Feinberg is a special case, from what I’ve heard,” Belle agreed. “Why didn’t you advise her to plead guilty?”

Gold raised an eyebrow. “My client has yet to be found guilty, Miss French,” he said. “And so I don’t think it prudent to discuss with the prosecution what legal advice she has and has not received.”

“Fair enough,” Belle nodded. “Confidentiality and all that.”

“Indeed,” Gold agreed. “Thankfully, I haven’t been the one handling her for the most part. That heroic task has fallen to her solicitor, Ms Fisher.”

“Heroic indeed,” Belle agreed. “Even if you are trying to keep a demented thief on the streets."

“Propriety, Miss French,” he chided. “You won’t lure me into conceding my position.”

“Worth a try,” she grinned, her bright eyes sharp and gleaming. “So… was it improper or downright illegal how rude you were to me earlier?”

“Neither,” Gold grinned. “You spoke to me before my coffee, dearie, and without even the good sense to introduce yourself and thus give me a good reason to temper my speech. As such, anyone in that room would agree you got off lightly, all things considered.”

“So speaking to me like a servant in a Victorian novel was warranted, because you hadn’t caffeinated yet?” she surmised, eyebrows raised. “That’s some arrogance you have there.”

“You assumed I should know who you were based on your professional connection to me, and your accomplishments,” he replied. “Isn’t it arrogant to have assumed I’d have looked you up in advance?”

“Not at all,” she smiled, like the cat that got the cream. “I didn’t overestimate my importance, just your intelligence. I had just assumed you were smart enough to know your enemy. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.”

She gave him a bright smile as she delivered her coup de grace, and then turned on her heel, and made her way back to the doors into the conference room, to her adoring public.

“I’ll see you in court, then?” he blurted, turning to face her. She looked delighted, all but bouncing in her heels as she turned to look back at him.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied.

  One week later

“Whatever is the matter with you, darling?” Cara Feinberg murmured through the glass separating them, as Gold glanced at the courtroom door for the fifth time. “Aren’t you supposed to be urging me to plead guilty again or some such nonsense?”

“I’m fine, Mrs Feinberg,” he assured her, returning to the task at hand.

“Whoever are you waiting for?” Cara asked, ignoring his response. “It’s not that delicious judge, is it? Ugh, I could eat her with a spoon.”

“Perhaps if you acted less like Hannibal Lector’s lecherous sister every time you spoke, this not-guilty plea would seem less ridiculous,” Gold snapped. Cara’s immaculate dark eyebrow rose.

“Touchy this morning,” she murmured. “If it’s not the delectable Judge Vincent you’re waiting for, then whoever is it?”

“I’m not waiting for anyone,” he replied. “Now, when Mr Feinberg takes the stand, remember that you need to look miserable. The jury will be watching your reactions, and the worst thing you can do is have no reaction. The only way they’re going to take our case seriously is if they get an emotional connection to you. You’re the betrayed wife, remember?”

“Oh, I know my lines, darling,” she drawled. “This isn’t my first divorce hearing.”

Gold sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unless the glass somehow didn’t tip you off, Mrs Feinberg, this is not the Family Court. This is the Crown Court, you are defending charges of fraud and embezzlement, and you’re facing a prison sentence if the prosecution make their case.”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” Cara said, waving one immaculate red-clawed hand. “You just go out there and do your thing, and I’ll be in here, getting to know this lovely gentleman.” She turned to her security escort, and waved her fingers. He blinked back, stone-faced.

“Please don’t-“ Gold stopped, arrested by the sight before him. Belle French had slipped into the room without his noticing, and was organising her documents. She looked rather different, with her hair in a neat bun under her white wig, her black robes concealing her petite, perfect figure. He supposed that was how he’d missed her.

“Ah-ha,” Cara grinned. “It’s Little Miss Prosecution, isn’t it?” she said, and Gold was exceedingly thankful then for the thick glass, that made it impossible for anyone but himself and the guard beside her to hear Cara’s crowing. “You’ve got a crush on the enemy, you naughty boy!”

“Please try and take this seriously, Mrs Feinberg,” Gold pleaded. Cara grinned, a serial killer smile that Gold hoped she wouldn’t show to the jury.

“Please try not to throw me under the bus to impress your little girlfriend,” Cara retorted.

“Miss French is a respected colleague,” Gold bristled. “Nothing more.”

“Ohhh Miss French,” Cara cooed. “How delightful. You know, she’s very pretty, if you like that sort of thing, doe-eyed and righteous. Just the sought you imagine needing rescuing from a tower someplace.”

“If there’s nothing more you need from me, Mrs Feinberg,” Gold sighed, testily. “Then I’ll be returning to trying to keep your terrible self out of Her Majesty’s custody.”

Cara grinned, but waved him away. Gold returned to his place on the bench, facing the pedestal where Judge Vincent would seat herself soon enough.

“Mr Gold,” Belle greeted him, when he came level with her.

“Miss French,” he nodded politely.

“Have you had your coffee yet this morning,” she asked, politely. “I wouldn’t want to attempt a conversation with you until you had.”

“Before I left home, Miss French,” he assured her. “And again before coming to court. Thank you for the concern.”

She grinned. Gold returned to organising his documents.

“They’ve re-opened the Glass investigation,” she told him, a moment later.

“So I read in the paper this morning,” he replied. “New evidence, apparently.”

“The software I discussed in my talk last week,” she said. “They’ve traced elements of the transactions directly back to Glass’ IP address. I daresay the CPS will be contacted soon enough.”

“So the civil case may yet meet your requirements for relevancy,” Belle continued. “The point I made in my article may not be so farfetched after all.”

“You don’t let things go easily, do you Miss French?” Gold said. She cocked her head to one side. He wasn’t sure when they’d moved closer to one another, but he could see the flush in her cheeks now. Was it possible he got her heart racing as fast and easily as she did his?

“Not when I’ve been sneered at and had my work criticised by a man who couldn’t be bothered with a basic Google image search, no.”

“You could have introduced yourself,” he pointed out. “Saved us both a fair bit of embarrassment.”

“Saved you embarrassment, you mean,” she retorted. “I’m not embarrassed at all by your bad manners!”

He stared at her, right in her eyes, so close now he could count the little flecks of turquoise among the brilliant blue. She was astonishingly beautiful, and infuriating, and with her cheeks flushed and her breath coming hard he could barely think of a retort.

His eyes flicked down to her lips, still so soft, coloured that same shade of rose petal red. He wondered what they tasted like, whether she’d look the same in pleasure as she did in anger. He wondered if he’d ever had so much fun riling someone up as he did Belle French.

“All rise!” the clerk’s voice rang out, disturbing them, and Gold jumped back, startled. He and Miss French only just managed to scramble to their own sides of the bench before Mal entered, and he swore he heard Cara Feinberg wolf-whistling behind him.

Mal took her seat, allowing Gold and Miss French to do the same. He knew he caught her smirking at him, right before she schooled her face and called in the jury.

The trial began.

  Three days later

Belle shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

Gold was giving his closing argument, and goddamnit was it hard to sit still. Did he have to roll his accent so he was caressing every word? It was hard enough to concentrate when he was being so clever and looked so good, talking with his hands and making eye contact with her every chance he got. But then with his accent and the wisps of his shaggy dark hair peeping out from under his wig, it was unreal how badly she wanted the trial to be over already.

He was rude, and superior, and he fought her on everything she said. But then, she supposed since they were opposed in court, it was his job to fight tooth and nail for his client. Even if his client was the guiltiest person she’d ever seen, and she was certain he agreed.

Cara Feinberg wasn’t even trying to look innocent. Belle wasn’t sure why she’d tried pleading not guilty, when the case against her was so clear. Even Gold with his impressive oratory skills and legal mind, couldn’t manipulate the law or facts well enough to paint her as the victim. And when Leonard Feinberg, tiny and harmless as they came, shuffled into court two days ago and was visibly terrified of his wife in the defendant box, Belle had known the jury were in her pocket.

The problem wasn’t winning the case. The jury hadn’t needed a three day trial to know a criminal when they saw one. The problem was her intense physical reaction to Mr Gold, easily the rudest and most challenging man she’d ever met, and how badly she wanted him to rip off her robe and wig and take her right there in the courtroom.

It was distracting, to say the least, and highly inappropriate considering the setting, not to mention how he’d treated her thus far. The way he’d spoken to her on that first day, sneering at her as if she’d just dribbled on herself, acting as if she were some sort of student in need of etiquette training, still made her blood boil. Any physical attraction she’d harboured when she first saw him – sleek and elegant in his tailored Armani suit, his longish hair lending an air of recklessness to his otherwise immaculate appearance – had been quashed by his disgusting attitude. She’d enjoyed the look on his face, when Judge Vincent told him who she really was. She’d enjoyed even more being able to shut him down and embarrass him, throwing his words back in his face.

She’d been more than ready to forget about him altogether. But then, while she’d delivered her talk, her eyes had drifted to him more than once. She’d expected him to be dismissive, texting or working on other matters, barely listening. Instead, he had been listening intently, nodding along with some of her points, frowning in disagreement with others. Of all the distinguished men and women in that room, Belle had known she had his full attention. He watched her like she was the North Star, like he couldn’t look away, and she’d known he’d understood and appreciated every word he’d said. When she’d confirmed he’d even read her literature, that he was as well read and sharp as everyone had warned her, more than a match for anything she could throw at him, her attraction to him had returned in a dizzying rush.

He clearly wasn’t a very nice person, and there was no excuse for being that rude even if she had been a junior or a student the way he’d clearly assumed. But when she’d caught him afterward, the way he’d questioned her points and talked to her like an equal, the way he’d clearly enjoyed every moment of their interaction even when she’d been dressing him down, was hard to forget about.

There was a push and pull he gave her, a spark of challenge that she found addictive. She felt more alive arguing with him than she did agreeing with anyone else.

It helped that he was so handsome, in a distinguished, prickly sort of a way. She thought there was someone else underneath that irritable, standoffish façade, someone who really enjoyed needling her, and who had very little enjoyment in his life otherwise. There was such a sad cast to his face, when he thought no one was looking. She wondered how lonely he must be, that he got so much pleasure from riling up a woman he barely knew.

But then, how hard up must she be, if she was squirming in her seat just watching him give his closing argument? She knew it had been a while – over a year, at least – since she’d so much as been on a date. Not that she wanted to go on a date with Mr Gold. Her thoughts toward him tended far more carnal than dinner and a movie.

His fingers moved so elegantly, tracing a line of argument for the jury. She watched them with a dry mouth, and wondered how they’d feel inside her.

Three days. Three days this trial had rumbled on, and thankfully it was almost over. There was no way he’d want anything to do with her socially, after this, so she could finally get her peace of mind back once he left the courtroom. At least, until the next time his name appeared on a new case sheet.

That was unless she could get up her nerve and just ask him to dinner. She’d worn her nicest underwear and stockings to court today, on the off chance she’d find the courage to ask, and he said yes. She didn’t imagine she’d get much past dinner without throwing herself at him and all but ripping his clothes off, but the pretence was respectable at least.

Mr Gold sat down. The jury were excused, due to return in an hour unless they required more time. Belle wondered how much of that hour would be needed to make a decision, and how much would be spent idly discussing their families and hobbies, waiting to be allowed back in.

The courtroom emptied out, Mrs Feinberg led back to her cell after a brief consultation with Mr Gold, the clerks scurrying off to file the paperwork, Judge Vincent long since gone back to her office. All of a sudden, Belle realised she was alone with Mr Gold, and she didn’t have a word to say.

“How long do you think it’ll take, then?” Gold asked, while she packed away her things. Belle’s head shot up, and she met his warm dark eyes with a shiver down her spine.

“What?”

“The jury,” he explained. “How long until they realise Cara did it?”

Belle’s eyebrows shot up, and she wondered how many ethics rules he’d just broken with that one admission. “Maybe fifteen minutes?” she suggested. “If they take advantage of the free tea and coffee first?”

He laughed, a low rich chuckle that reverberated through her bones.

“Why did you take the case?” she asked then. “If you know she’s guilty?”

“She was offering an obscene amount of money,” he replied, with a crooked grin. “Well, her solicitor was. They’d charged her a fortune to take her on, and so my hourly rate went up as well.”

“That’s highway robbery!”

Gold shrugged, “You read the bundle, do you believe Mrs Feinberg to require legal aid? She could have taken a legal aid solicitor, pled guilty and gotten a third reduction on her sentence. Instead, she put us all through this dog and pony show. Excuse me while I line my pockets with her hard-stolen money while she does.”

That shocked a giggle out of Belle, and she couldn’t help but notice how his eyes lit up when she laughed, how his gaze flicked to her mouth and back up again. “I’m almost jealous,” she admitted. “My CPS salary doesn’t vary when the case gets harder.”

“I’m sure you’re far above such petty tricks, Miss French,” he waved a hand, dismissively, wrinkling his nose as if in disgust at his own tactics. “You’re too good for such things.”

“Mr Gold, my name is Belle,” she said, stepping closer, unsure why she did. It was as if he exerted a gravitational pull on her: no matter what he said or did, he pulled her in. “And I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“For once, it wasn’t an insult,” he replied. Gold sighed, and lowered his head. He’d taken his wig off, and his long hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his expression as he leaned heavily on his cane. “I just meant that you clearly work for a better purpose than I. Your motivation comes from above the bottom line. It’s almost inspiring.”

“Sometimes it’s not so easy,” she admitted. “I didn’t start out in white collar, and it’s hard not to feel for some defendants.”

“This line of work can be easier in that sense,” he shrugged. “I can’t imagine you’ll be overwhelmed with guilt when Cara Feinberg gets sentenced.”

Belle giggled through her nose, “No,” she admitted. “I can’t say I will. That’s why I do this job, you know? To get a sense of justice being done.”

“That’s almost heroic,” he remarked.

“And that was almost a compliment, Mr Gold,” she said, now so close to him her feet were almost touching his, and she could feel the warmth of his body through their robes. “Could it be you’re losing your edge?”

“Maybe questioning a few positions,” he admitted. “Your influence, no doubt.”

“Mine?” She heard her voice come soft and questioning, disbelief slipping in through her usual confidence. She’d known him a week, in a purely professional setting. She had no idea what he could mean by her ‘influence’ working on him.

“It’s not so easy as it seems, being the one fighting to keep Cara Feinberg free and clear,” he explained. “Imagine being Hannibal Lector’s barrister, and you come close. It must be nice to get a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day.”

“Considering a career change?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “The fearsome Ephraim Gold QC changing sides?”

“I prefer to negotiate my going rate,” he replied, with a small, crooked smile. “The CPS can’t afford me.”

“Like you said, some people care about things other than the bottom line,” she replied. “But I should have guessed that didn’t include you.”

“Self-righteousness has never quite been my forte,” he retorted, and she had to laugh at that.

“No, but towering arrogance more than compensates,” she replied, and he laughed at that. She wanted to trace the smooth curve of his soft lips with her tongue. “Or at least, arrogance covering for whatever lies beneath.”

“Nastiness, unpleasantness, and a deep lack of empathy for the human condition,” he informed her, briskly.

“I don’t believe that,” she replied. He rolled his eyes.

“Then you don’t know me, Miss French,” he replied. “I suppose all you’re made from is beauty, bravery and goodness.”

“How are you capable of making such a lovely compliment sound like a terrible insult?” she demanded, her eyes searching his, seeking out that hidden place inside she’d seen once or twice, the softness she knew lurked beneath the surface.

He was staring at her, and she wasn’t sure if he was even listening. His eyes ran over her face, from her mouth to her eyes and back again, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something, as if she threw his brain for a loop.

Belle went stiff with surprise when suddenly his hands were cupping her jawline, and his mouth covered hers, swallowing her shocked little noise, his lips working urgently against hers. Belle moaned, her mind finally catching up with what was happening, and she felt her eyes slip shut as her hands wound into his thick hair, and she was kissing him back.

One of his hands moved to cup the back of her head, and she felt her wig fall from her head onto the bench. She didn’t care: she was too busy teasing the seam of his lips with her tongue, swallowing his little groan when he opened for her and allowed her entrance. He tasted like coffee and tobacco, an oddly pleasant flavour, and suddenly the kiss had turned into a passionate, desperate thing, her hands clawing at his hair as he pushed her back against the bench.

Belle hopped up to sit on top of it, spreading her knees so he could stand between them, and suddenly everything was heat and pressure, his mouth plundering hers, his hands sweeping behind her head, mussing her neat bun and making her grateful she could cover it with her wig.

“You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he told her, his mouth trailing kisses from her mouth and across her face, down her neck, nipping at the juncture between throat and shoulder and making her whimper.

“Same to you,” she gasped, rolling her head back, “You seem to go – oh!” he sucked at her pulse point, making her groan and clutch at the back of his head., “You go out of your way to wind me up!”

“You’re stunning when you’re angry,” he told her, kissing her mouth again, making her moan and shudder against him. His hand had left her hair and was now sliding up under her robe, up her thigh to the top of her stockings. When his fingers met the lacy tops, he paused. “Stockings?” he asked. She nodded.

“I was going to ask you to dinner,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

“Stockings… for me?” he stammered, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her lips. He looked wrecked, as if he could barely comprehend what was happening. Belle completely knew the feeling.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since we met,” she admitted, her voice high and breathy as his fingers traced up over her thighs, teasing the bare skin and along the line of her knickers. “Shouldn’t have,” she admitted. “You were such an arsehole that day, but I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

“I’ve thought of nothing but you since,” he confessed, and her heart leapt, racing in her chest. “Something about you sets me on fire.”

She nodded: she knew the feeling. His fingers dipped under the gusset of her underwear, and found the evidence of her reaction to him since well before he’d kissed her. “You’re wet for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, and oh she loved to hear him call her that, his rich accent caressing the word, melting her insides. She nodded.

“We’re in the courtroom,” she whispered, regretfully. She glanced over his shoulder at the doors, terrified she’d see some security guard or clerk catch them in the act. They were still alone, thank god. “Anyone could see.”

He shook his head, “No one will come in until the jury are done,” he replied. “They never do. We have a little time.”

“Good,” she said, fervently. “Good, don’t want to wait, please…”

He nodded, as if he couldn’t think of anything else. She kissed him again, quickly becoming addicted to the taste and heat and softness of his mouth, how right and good it felt to kiss him, to claw at him, to channel the fire he ignited in her into something better than arguing. Her hands scrabbled to yank up his robe and find the flies of his trousers beneath, regretful now that they didn’t have more time, that they’d see so little of one another even during the act.

She couldn’t help it: she needed him now, had needed him for hours, and she was afraid he’d pull away from her if given time to think it over. She vowed she’d make him come to dinner with her tonight anyway, and then take him back to her apartment and see everything his robe and three-piece suit were hiding from her now.

He was hard, when she cupped him through his fine wool trousers, and she loved how he stiffened all over, how his head sank to rest in the crook of her neck, this powerful man undone by the feel of her hand on his cock.

It was the work of a moment to have his flies undone, and his hard flesh resting in her hand. She gave an experimental tug, and heard him keen against her throat, the noise hidden in her neck. “Please,” she heard him groan. “Please, Miss French…”

“Belle,” she insisted, gripping him a little tighter and enjoying his full-body shudder. “Call me Belle.”

“Belle,” he agreed, and she knew she’d never get enough of hearing him say her name like that, his accent thick and rough, wrecked and undone. “Belle, please, please let me, please, I need you, please…”

She nodded, her knees shaking with the thrill that gave her, how hot it was to hear him beg her like that. She wondered if he’d let her tie him up sometime, tease him for hours, make him beg and plead with her for mercy. She hoped he’d do the same to her. She fervently needed there to be a next time, she thought, for this one chance was never going to be enough.

She moved her free hand between her legs, and hooked her fingers under her underwear, moving the gusset aside and out of the way. She lined them up, and then guided him forward, his hips thrusting as he sank into her. Belle kissed him to muffle her low, long moan of completion. He felt amazing inside her, perfectly sized, filling her up and making her whole body heat and tremble.

She kissed him again, biting at his lips, her fingers digging into his hair – she couldn’t get enough of his hair, so soft and thick, so good to cling to – as he set up a deep, hard, fast rhythm, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he pounded into her. The fingers holding her underwear apart slipped upward, and she rubbed her thumb and forefinger over her slippery clit in time with his motions inside her. She was already a livewire, already so keyed-up and on edge, that she was close to coming before she even realised it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, his voice huffing against her ear in short sharp breaths, “So bright, so good, lovely Belle…”

“Yes, yes, please, there,” she moaned, kissing him with tongue and teeth, grasping at him, trying desperately to keep from screaming. “Please, Gold, please…”

“Yes, yes!” he grunted. “Yes, that’s right, come for me, please, Belle, let me see you come, beautiful Belle, please…”

His words sent her over the edge, and she bit her lip so hard she broke the skin as her head snapped back, and she felt herself clench hard around him, over and over, waves of pleasure breaking inside her as she came and came around him. The pleasure was so intense she could barely see, and she felt him kissing her open mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, anything he could touch of her.

She felt him redouble his efforts, drawing out her orgasm and short, sharp aftershocks as he chased his own climax, finishing inside her just a moment later.

He slumped against her, breathing hard as she fought to calm herself, limp and boneless in his arms. It was a miracle no one had come in and seen that, she thought as she came down from her high. She hoped no one ever reviewed the CCTV.

She felt a hysterical giggle leave her, and he laughed too, his arms coming around her in something like a hug as he helped her to her feet, his cock slipping out of her and leaving a trail of wetness against her thigh. She straightened her robe as he fumbled with a tissue, tucking himself away and setting himself to rights as she did the same. Her wig would cover her mussed hair, and her robes were only a little rumpled. She’d need to go to the bathroom to fix her hair, however.

“I ah, need to go to the ladies’,” she told him. “Clean up, you know.”

“Of course,” he nodded. He seemed as staggered as she felt by what had happened. She’d just had sex in a courtroom, with her opponent, in the middle of a trial, on a Friday afternoon. She was sure stranger things had happened, but nothing came to mind right then.

“But after the trial… would you like to go to dinner?” she asked. “Bear in mind the grievous insult you’d be doing me by saying no, after you just fucked my brains out in semi-public.”

His mouth fell open, either at her invitation or her candour, but he nodded. “With that in mind, how can I say no?”

“You can’t,” she told him, sunnily. “Meet me outside at seven?”

“S-seven it is,” he stammered, and she grinned, and pecked him on the lips.

“Wonderful,” she said, feeling lighter than air. “I’ll see you for the verdict, then,” she beamed, and all but flew out of the courtroom, her heart soaring in her chest.

Regardless of whether Cara Feinberg was found guilty, Belle had definitely won her case today.

[peckhampeculiar]

A cut above

Hairstylist Tracey Cahoon has worked with stars including Kate Moss, Michael Fassbender and Amy Winehouse to name but a few. We met the Peckham resident at her local salon to find out more

Words Emma Finamore; Photo Tristan Bejawn

There aren’t many salons where you can enjoy panoramic views of London’s skyline while having your hair cut. But Cahoona’s Hair Hub isn’t like most salons. 

Based on the sixth floor of Peckham Levels, it is a colourful, vibrant space, bedecked with bright wigs, framed vintage magazine covers, antique and contemporary furniture and, of course, that view.

This dynamic vibe reflects founder and longtime Peckham resident Tracey Cahoon’s varied career in hair. Tracey was an art director at international salon chain Toni & Guy in the 1990s. “In its heyday I was travelling the world with them,” she says.

She then became a freelance “session” hairdresser – cutting and styling hair for photo shoots and Fashion Week and working with celebrities and actors for their press junkets in places like America, Japan, Africa and Scandinavia.

“I kind of got propelled from Toni & Guy straight into cutting Kate Moss's hair,” she recalls. “I did her hair for Vogue, for Time Out [the framed cover hangs on the wall of her Peckham salon], and high-end art magazines in Europe with Corinne Day.”

Day was a pivotal figure in 90s fashion and photography, working with counter-culture publications like The Face and i-D. She is well-known for her images of a young Kate Moss and the “heroin chic” look associated with the time.

Working with Day was an important opportunity for Tracey. “She was amazing – we’d go to a Hackney warehouse and do a shoot with a supermodel; she did lots of grunge stuff too. I learned so much about photography and hair and art from her.” 

In addition to counting Kate Moss and Jefferson Hack – founder of Dazed & Confused – as clients, Tracey has worked with Jude Law, Sadie Frost, Orlando Bloom and Michael Fassbender, as well as legendary photographer David Bailey.

“That was a big moment in my career,” she smiles. “I went to meet him in his studio in Holborn and he walked out from behind this screen with his hands in his pockets. I was a bit star struck.”

This starry career trajectory continued, with Tracey creating looks for Gucci, Preen and Paul Smith campaigns and heading the hair departments at catwalk shows for fashion designers such as JW Anderson, John Richmond, Pringle and Acne.

She also worked extensively with one of the UK’s biggest music stars, Amy Winehouse. “Amy was a beautiful soul, and I used to get goose bumps when I heard her sing,” she says.

“I was on her first ever shoot and we were trying things out – this feisty young girl, you could tell she was really raw, she was only about 17. Towards the end of the day she said, ‘Can you do a beehive?’ So we did it, with her holding this guitar, I think I have a Polaroid somewhere.

“I remember thinking, ‘That’s her look!’ and she did go back to it after a few years of the more ‘natural’ look. Then I did the cover for Back to Black with all the long hair. I have lots and lots of fond memories of her.”

Tracey describes working with clients like these as a “collaboration”, and this is an approach she’s continued with Cahoona’s, which she founded after running a pop-up salon – The Little Shop of Hair – at the back of a vintage fashion shop in Nunhead.

Staff spend lots of time chatting with clients to pin down exactly what they’re after, and customers are given a dedicated colourist and a dedicated stylist (so two members tending to their needs), each with extensive experience.

The same love and attention has been given to the salon itself, which Tracey has dressed and decorated with care, saying she wants it to be an “immersive experience”.

Carefully chosen vintage and contemporary pieces are pulled together with bright fabric upholstery and a matching, striking wall-hanging designed by artist Laura Eldret, who also happens to be Tracey’s cousin.  

If you look closely at the print on the chairs and wall-hanging, you’ll see shapes depicting gods associated with ancient hairdressing techniques, hands, the “visionary eye” needed for creativity, and locks of hair. 

Hairdressing really is in Tracey’s blood: her mum cut hair at home in Portstewart, Northern Ireland, before going on to open a string of salons. “I used to stand up on a stool at the sink in the kitchen and shampoo for her,” Tracey remembers. “That was from the age of about eight. I was rinsing perms, sweeping the floor.

“Then she opened her first salon and did all the punks and all that stuff. By the age of 14 or 15 I was cutting my friends’ hair. It’s just second nature to me. For a lot of hairdressers, it’s in their family. Toni & Guy for example are all brothers – there’s a lot of history there.”

Cahoona’s combines the family-orientated, welcoming feel of Tracey’s early hairdressing experiences with the higher end, glossy vibe of her career that came after.

Mums, prams and toddlers are encouraged to make use of the big, easy space when they can find time to come and get pampered – “we had three prams in here the other day!” – and organic, vegan hair products (used by Madonna’s hairdresser) are on sale.

Tracey and the team do weddings and events, work with new artists and often open the space early for actors and actresses to come and have their hair done before going on set. The salon has also been used as a filming location for Channel 4.

Tracey has just worked on a shoot for Hunger TV (part of Hunger magazine, from Dazed & Confused co-founder, the photographer John Rankin) in which she celebrated local women of all ages, shapes and sizes by using them as her models.

Keeping it local is vital to Tracey. “Collaborations are really big on my mind at the moment, and I think it’s really important to collaborate with local businesses,” she says, adding that the salon also hopes to be a hub for young, local talent.

“I’m going to offer education and training,” she says. “I really want to help young people become incredible haircutters and colourists. That’s what I’m looking for at the moment actually – good apprentices who live locally would be amazing.”

It’s two and a half years since Tracey pitched her idea to Peckham Levels, and after a lot of hard work – meetings, business plans, projections, designing the space – now it’s all about the future. As she says: “It’s about moving forward, with a great team of people.”

[spotlight-on-musicblog]

The Physics House Band - Mercury Fountain (2017)

Short but intense, that's summing up the 2nd album from this stunning (instru)mental trio from Brighton UK. Progrock albums don't always need to be pretentious and long you know. My fav.track ? : The Astral Waves (with beautiful violin and wild sax) !

Released: 21 april 2017

Info Bandcamp: Bio / Press Release from comedian/writer Stewart Lee: I’m nearly 50. I don’t know what’s going on anymore, I’ll admit. The internet’s availability of all sources ever simultaneously has destroyed my understanding of cultural development as a logical progression.  All music is time travel, forward and backward both at once, now. But three years go my friend Simon Oakes, of prog-psych conceptualists Suns Of The Tundra, directed me to a Youtube clip of  The Physics House Band. Impossibly youthful looking, and sounding like vintage Seventies stadium-prog behemoth, a Yes or a Rush, but stripped of any errors of taste and judgment, fed amphetamines, made ashamed of their record collections, slapped in front of the whole school, immersed instead in post-rock procedure and practise, and made to apply their obvious talent and ability to a more worthwhile end than their forebears. Three years on here’s their second album, a super-dense sci-fi mindfuck of a thing, music scholarship charity case keyboards in combat with squally spacerock guitars, dub boom bass and multi-time-sig clatter; a territory staked out over mushrooms at break-time, on the top floor of the multi-story car park, overlooking the ‘70s Bauhaus shopping centre concrete functional fountain square, but now gone all Escher in the aftermath, like a black and white architectural schematic drawing dipped in tie-dye. Mercury Fountain doesn’t stop, a twenty nine minute surge of tracks that it would be a crime to split apart, the kind of part work The Physics House Band’s progenitors aimed at but never quite produced, settling instead for gatefold sleeves that gave the illusion of structure and intent; a fulfillment of the Red-era King Crimson manifesto, channeled by boy-conduits that needn’t have even have known the source documents, learning their lessons instead from hints woven into the post-punk works of Radiohead, Tortoise, The Mars Volta and 21st century sub-krautrock. Mercury Fountain loads you into a water canon and shoots you out through its intermingled opening tracks, the group finally allowing you a pause for breath at the half way point, during A Thousand Small Spaces; and then you’re kicked out of the airlock back into the Negative Zone again in Obidant, the laws of physics in reverse, Newton’s apples flying upwards past your grasping fists, your hair on end, arching to follow them, until you’re finally abandoned into the techtonic drift of Mobius Strip II. It’s a two black Americano experience that makes me wish I still had pin-sharp hearing to lose.  Another minute would be too much. - Stewart Lee

The Physics House Band are: Adam Hutchison Bass Guitar, Electric Guitar, Synthesisers, Organ, Vibraphone, Keyboards, Piano, Midi Programming Samuel Organ: Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Piano, Keyboards, Organ, Synthesisers Dave Morgan: Drums Featuring: Raven Bush - Violin (6 & 8) Biscuit - Flute (7) Willy G: Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone (8 & 9)

What they say: “.... a cataclysmic, cyclical odyssey that spirals in and out of kaleidoscopic pockets, serene ambience and frenetic, apoplectic wig-outs, all in the space of half an hour..... Mercury Fountain undoubtedly takes the formula laid down on Horizons/Rapture and cranks everything up to achieve interstellar levels of virtuosity. It’s a well-worn music cliché that a band’s second opus will attempt to take bigger, brasher and bolder steps than their first, but often so many fall short. But where others have faltered, The Physics House Band have excelled....” ( independent.co.uk)

“.... it treads a masterful line between confusion, deceit and brilliance. Mercury Fountain is the kind of album which in the hands of the inexperienced could be a complete and utter wreckage. You’ll be pleased to hear, though, that TPHB instead show themselves to be adept and thoughtful composers once again....” ( drownedinsound.com)

Mercury Fountain by The Physics House Band

[spiceukonline]

Our Fave Protective Hairstyles for Winter

TV Review - Gilmore Girls: A Year In The Life, Winter

Dialogue

Acting

Shock Factor

Visuals

2016-11-28

4.0/FIVE

All girls with kinks and curls know our hair does not fare well in winter. The cold literally sucks our hair dry of moisture, leading to a snowball effect of split ends and breakages. Not to mention the only people who ever look good with windswept hair are Victoria’s Secret models.

If you happen to not be a VS angel, and are ready to put away the beanie that doesn’t fit over your ‘fro anyway, here’s our guide to the best protective hairstyles out there, as chosen by the Spice UK gals:

  1. Box Braids

Source: thirstyroots.com

Source: ESSENCE magazine

“I wore box braids during the summer, but there is no reason why they can’t be rocked all year round. Box braids are by far my fave protective style. They’re edgy, versatile and super easy to maintain with a little TLC. I used extensions for mine with flashes of blonde for a summery look, but at the moment, I’m loving KeKe Palmer’s (right) deep red braids -” Georgia

2. Crochet Braids

Source: YouTube

Source: Instagram

Source: Pinterest

“This protective style is fun, quirky and full of life. An alternative to a traditional sew-in weave, this protective style allows you to run your hands through your hair and actually feel your scalp do you know how satisfying that feels? They’re super versatile, and with a life span of 2-6 weeks, you’re never stuck in a style rut. A winner for those on a budget, they’re also inexpensive, whether you install them yourself (check out these DIY videos here) or get them done at the salon. Give your hair a break and embrace the crochet braids!”- Beatrice

3. Wigs

Source: Pinterest

Source: Pinterest

Source: thankgodimnatural.com

“Wigs are the ultimate lazy-girl hairstyle, especially for those like me whose braiding abilities are definitely not on point. I love half-wigs because you can blend them in with your natural hair and they cost about half as much. My favourite website for wigs is afrostyling.com because they are one of few sellers that ship from the UK, so no sky-rocketing shipping fees”- Georgia

4. Ghana Braids

Source: Pinterest

Source: Pinterest

“I’ve not quite mastered the wig life, so for now, Kanekalon hair is my go to. I saw the least breakage and most growth with Ghana braids. Make them your own and style it with cute gold braid beads”- Rashida

5. The High Pony

Source: Pinterest

“Also a Kanekalon purchase, this look is sleek, easy, and most importantly-  Zendaya approved-” Rashida

6. The Turban

Source: Instagram

Source: sheblogs.com

“Okay, not technically a hairstyle, but a funky turban will add a splash of colour to those grey, miserable IDGAF days and give your hair a much-needed break. Check out this super easy tutorial.-” Jess

7. Bantu Knots

Source: thirstyroots.com

source: xonecole.com

“Bantu Knots have been appropriated by everyone from Marc Jacobs to punk rockers, but we all know that black girls do it best. I love them because they’re actually super easy (this tutorial walks you through it) and you’re left with cute ringlets for days once you’ve taken them out-” Zara

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[static-peach]

<h1>30+ Hair Shade Concepts</h1> <p>For curly wigs, use a decide or comb to loosen fibers, however

30+ Hair Shade Concepts

For curly wigs, use a decide or comb to loosen fibers, however don't pull on the hair. 2.Wash with moisturizing hair care merchandise. This step is very necessary in case you are utilizing hair extensions because the hair is not going to get any of the moisture from the pure oils your scalp produces. Moisturizing hair care products will keep your hair healthy. ,https://www.diigo.com/profile/voigtskovgaa,If you're longing for shine, use a serum. Many hair care merchandise that promote shine have a drying have an effect on on hair. This u half wig appears precisely just like the photographs!

Find your affordable rpgshow wigs now when its on sale. With a multi-strand colouring system and 17 colors to select from, our halo hair extensions will naturally mix and accentuate your locks, even should you’re in between shades of black, or blonde. With our high quality, clip in human hair, you'll be able to enjoy tangle free, lustrous lengthy, thick hair with no hassles. And should you determine on a selected style that you would like to maintain for a few months, our permanent real human hair extensions are good for your wants. As the leading hair extensions shop within the UK, with customers from everywhere in the world, we now have one of the best clip-in hair extensions in the UK, along with a big selection of permanent extensions too.

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