#Historically accurate

[late-goal]

Finally some good food. Yum yum

If the coats with hoods aren’t historically accurate, what coats did Chinese people wear prior to the modern period?

Hi! Thanks for the question, and sorry for taking ages to reply!

By "coats with hoods", I assume you're referring to the doupeng/斗篷 (cloak/cape) commonly seen in modern hanfu and guzhuang (drama costumes), like the one below (x):

Chinese people did wear doupeng prior to the modern period, along with other kinds of coats. However, as I mentioned in my post here, historical Chinese doupeng did not have hoods attached to the cloak/cape. That is why many modern doupeng aren't considered historically accurate - because they have hoods attached. Below are examples of more historically accurate, hoodless doupeng (1/2):

In the image on the above left, the model is wearing a separate, detached hood/hat called fengmao/风帽 (wind hat) which was historically worn to keep warm. Below - examples of fengmao (1/2):

Historically, fengmao was often worn with doupeng when travelling during cold weather (x). Below - women wearing doupeng & fengmao in historical art (top row), and Chinese opera performers wearing doupeng & fengmao as part of their costumes (bottom row) (x):

Oftentimes the doupeng & fengmao are matching, which can give the impression that they are attached - but if you look carefully, you can see that they are separate. Below - Chinese opera costume (x):

Below are historical photos of women wearing doupeng in 1920s Beijing - note how they are hoodless (1/2):

Hooded doupeng, in contrast, are more similar to historical western cloaks, such as the below American/European cloaks from the 18th century (1/2):

The hooded doupeng of modern hanfu are likely based on those seen in guzhuang dramas - another instance of drama costumes not being the most historically accurate (x):

An example of a drama with a historically accurate depiction of doupeng & fengmao is the 1987 TV adaptation of Dream of the Red Chamber. As seen in the below images, the characters wear hoodless doupeng & occasionally matching fengmao as part of their winter wardrobe (1/2/3):

The 1994 TV adaptation of Romance of the Three Kingdoms also depicts historically accurate, hoodless doupeng & matching fengmao worn by men (x):

For more references, please check out my doupeng, fengmao, and winter wear tags.

Hope this helps!

[skankhunt44]

[marcus-junius-brutus15]

reasons to kill caesar (in order of importance):

he slept with my mother

hes a dictator

Cassius doesn't like him.

[16woodsequ]

Things People Seem to Forget About Steve Rogers (aka the past is complex)

Things in the future didn't happen in a vacuum, and while Steve missed a lot of stuff while he was in the ice, he would have seen the roots of things like the Civil Rights, Women's Rights and even LGBTQ+ Rights movements in his time.

While I'm sure Steve encountered a lot of people expecting certain right-wing behaviours from him, due to his birth year and the things he missed in the ice, this doesn't mean he would act that way—even right out of the ice.

But first lets take a look at the things Steve missed and see what he did in fact know:

The atom bomb. Steve never saw the atomic fallout, but what did he see? Hydra bombs literally being flown to his home city. There is also a possibility that as a specialty team, he learned about the German Nuclear Program during the war. His unit was tied to the Strategic Science Reserve, so I wouldn't be surprised if between that, and Hydra's bomb initiatives, Steve was well aware of the potential of a bomb threat. I doubt Steve has clearance to know about the Manhattan project, and I think he would be horrified to learn about the impact of the atom bomb on Japan (especially since he essentially thwarted the same thing from happening to New York) but majorly powerful bombs would not surprise him.

• The Cold War. Steve may not have experience the Cold War, but he grew up surrounded by the outcome of the First World War after the Communist take over of Russia. The debates surrounding Communism, Socialism, and Capitalism aren't new. Steve would have grown up with them and would probably be familiar with American pro-capitalist, anti-communist rhetoric. But would he agree?

Here's some things we know about Steve: He's an artist, he grew up during the Depression which was heavily mitigated by socialist measures, he grew up poor, he grew up disabled. As an artist Steve would be well aware of the debates between the political movements, and with his background, and the success of Roosevelt's New Deal reforms, it would not surprise me if Steve leaned more towards the Socialist side of the scale.

All this to say: Steve would not be unfamiliar with the tension between Russia and the USA. Especially since even though they were allies during the war, there were already concerns that the USSR wasn't so much 'liberating' the countries they drove Germany out of, as putting them under new management.

Steve would be familiar with the tensions underlying the Cold War, and his background might lead him to have a critical view of some of the pro-Capitalist propaganda that came out during the Cold War. While I don't think Steve would approve of Russia's methods and the ultimate outcome of Communism there, I don't think he would approve of the Red Scare Witch Hunt that happened in the States either.

• Civil Rights Movement. While Steve missed the major changes that occurred during the 50s and 60s, he would not be unfamiliar with movements for equality. Steve would also not be unaware of the inequality that minorities faced in his country.

For example:

National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) was established in 1909 and is still run today. The NAACP fought and fights against discrimination and advocates for equality.

In the 30s President Roosevelt responded to "to charges that many blacks were the "last hired and first fired," [his administration] instituted changes that enabled people of all races to obtain needed job training and employment. These programs brought public works employment opportunities to African Americans, especially in the North" (Link)

"The first precedent-setting local and state level court cases to desegregate Mexican and African American schooling were decided during [the late 1930s]" (Link)

In 1941 thousands of Black Americans threatened to march on Washington for equal employments rights which pushed Roosevelt to issue an executive order that "opened national defense jobs and other government jobs to all Americans regardless of race, creed, color or national origin." (Link)

The Double Victory or Double V Campaign during the war was an explicit campaign to win the war against fascism in Europe and the war against racism as home.

All this to say, Steve would not be unfamiliar with many of the issues tackled during the Civil Rights Movement of the 50s and 60s.

Not only that, but Steve led a multi-racial special unit during the war during a time of active army segregation. Not only does he have a Black man on his team, but also a Japanese man. This would have most definitely led to backlash from higher command as well as discrimination from other units against Jones and Morita. Steve and the entire Howling Commandos would be explicitly aware of prejudice against two of their members and likely had to fight for them many times.

• Anything space travel. It's true Steve wouldn't know anything about attempts to reach the moon. But there were still several space discoveries he could know about, especially since he and Bucky are clearly interested in scientific discoveries, considering how they went to the Stark Exbo before Bucky shipped out.

Some discoveries:

Hubble's Law: In 1929 Hubble published evidence for an ever expanding universe, and thus provided evidence of the Big Bang theory.

1930: Discovery of Pluto (makes me chuckle to think this is a relatively new discovery for Steve and he wakes up to find it is a dwarf-planet now. You think Millennials are protective of Pluto? I think Steve would be too 😆.)

1937: "the first intimation that most matter in the universe is `dark matter'"

Personally I think Steve would be absolutely amazed by the advances in space travel.

• Women's Rights. Like with Civil Rights, while Steve may have missed the large movements during the 50s and 60s, he was around for the early movements. The 60s movement is called Second Wave Feminism for a reason. This is because there was already many pushes for women equality in Steve's time.

For example:

1920: White women win the right to vote. This means Steve's mother first voted in his lifetime. I feel this alone would make Steve heavily aware of inequality faced by women. (As a side note I feel that Sarah always emphasized voting to Steve since it was such a major development in her lifetime.)

Also in the 20s the Flapper trend rose, along with hemlines. Women's skirts were shorter and they smoked and drank with men. Middle-class and working-class women also worked outside of the home. The 1920s-1930s 'modern' woman is very different from the Victorian vision of a woman in petticoats and skirts.

Early Birth Control movement: Was "initiated by a public health nurse, Margaret Sanger, just as the suffrage drive was nearing its victory. The idea of woman’s right to control her own body, and especially to control her own reproduction and sexuality, added a visionary new dimension to the ideas of women’s emancipation. This movement not only endorsed educating women about existing birth control methods. It also spread the conviction that meaningful freedom for modern women meant they must be able to decide for themselves whether they would become mothers, and when."

1936: A Supreme Court decision declassified birth control information as obscene. Legalised doctor-prescribed contraceptives.

WW2 Watershed: Women serve in the army and work factory jobs. The government establishes universal childcare while women work.

Women also wore pants and form fitting clothes to work in factories. We also see Peggy wearing pants during the last assault on Hydra. While Steve may need to get used to modern fashion, he would already be familiar with the 'morale outrage' over women's clothes in his time, and probably try to manage his surprise in private as well as possible.

• LGBTQ+ Rights. Like with the rest of the equality movements, LGBTQ+ rights movements also started before the late 1900s.

1924: "Society for Human Rights is founded by Henry Gerber in Chicago. The society is the first gay rights organization as well as the oldest documented in America." This organisation was broken up soon after founding due to arrests, but it published "the first American publication for homosexuals, Friendship and Freedom."

In the 1920s and 30s "the gay and lesbian movement started taking shape. Social analysts began rejecting prior medical definitions of "inversion" or "homosexuality" as deviant.

Communities of men and women with same-sex affiliations began to grow in urban areas. Their right to gather in public places such as bars was tenuous, and police raids and harassment were common." (Link)

WW2 Watershed: While many LGBTQ people lived in rural areas or outside 'queer neighbourhoods' the war brought people from all backgrounds together. "As with most young soldiers, many had never left their homes before, and the war provided them an opportunity to find community, camaraderie, and, in some cases, first loves. These new friendships gave gay and lesbian GIs refuge from the hostility that surrounded them and allowed for a distinct subculture to develop within the military."

They still had to hide their identities for fear of persecution and a 'blue discharge', however "Gay and lesbian veterans of World War II became some of the first to fight military discrimination and blue discharges in the years following the war."

It's unclear how much Steve would have known about the gay and lesbian rights movement. But in the comics he has a gay friend Arnie Roth, and there are many meta posts (X X X) about how Steve may have lived in a queer neighbourhood.

And, according to my history professor, gay and lesbian soldiers were often protected by their friends in the army instead of outed. This is not to downplay the discrimination and pain outed veterans faced, but there was a comaraderie and understanding that developed between soldiers that protected many gay soldiers.

• Computer and the internet. The seeds of modern computers began during World War Two. Arguably it began earlier with Ada Lovelace. While technology has changed a lot for Steve, there is a long history of it's development.

Colossus Computer: Kept secret until the 70s, it's unclear if Steve's association with the SSR, Peggy (who was a code breaker before SSR) and Howard, would have led him to know anything about the "the world's first programmable, electronic, digital computer", but we see electric screens and machines being used in Captain America: The First Avenger. So he would know something of those mechanisms.

Also the first American TV was broadcasted in the 1939 World Fair, And since Steve and Bucky are already shown going to a science fair, I believe it is reasonable for Steve to know about the concept of television, though it looks much different in modern day.

• Rise of Neo-Nazis. Steve already saw the rise of fascism in his own country before the war, so while I think he would be horrified and saddened to learn of the Neo-Nazi movement, I don't think he would be surprised.

Because:

Eugenics: A large part of the Nazi campaign, this part of the movement originated and was inspired by the United States Eugenics movement. "It is important to appreciate that within the U.S. and European scientific communities these ideas were not fringe but widely held and taught in universities."

Lobotomies and institutionalisations were part of the treatments for disabled and 'weak-minded' individuals during Steve's time. With Sarah being a nurse it is likely Steve knew of these treatments and more. And as a disabled child of immigrants, I have no doubts Steve brushed up with eugenics beliefs many times.

1939: More than 20,000 people attended a Nazi rally in Madison Square while "[a]bout 100,000 anti-Nazi protesters gathered around the arena in protest".

In the comics Steve canonically has a Jewish friend, Arnie Roth. If he wasn't part of the protests against the Nazi rally, he would have heard about it and known about the rise of antisemitic sentiment in the US before the outbreak of the war.

So Where Does That Leave Us?

Steve has a history of anti-racist behaviour. While he would still have a lot to learn from the Civil Rights Movement and no doubt has unconscious biases he grew up with, he also explicitly builds a multi-racial team that would have led to clashes with systemic racism in the army. This would have inevitably led to him and the Howling Commandos taking an anti-racist stance in protection of their members.

Would Steve say the N-word? Likely not. The N-Word already held negative connotations by the 19th and early-20th century. I doubt Jones would be willing to follow a man who would knowing use the insult. 'Coloured' or 'Negro' were seen as the more acceptable terms. So Steve may use those words at first, instead of 'Black' or 'African-American'. 'Negro' is a controversial term for some Black Americans, so this would be something for him to learn, but he would not purposely by insulting or hurtful. And I believe he would adapt as quickly as possible upon learning.

Steve saw the early steps of many social movements. Given what we know about Steve—artist, disabled, immigrant, poor, raised by a single mom, gay and Jewish friend, potentially lived around queer people, worked with Peggy and smiled when she punched a sexiest, and built a multi-racial team—Steve would not only be aware of the social movements of his time, but he would be happy to learn of the developments after he went into the ice.

While it would take some time for him to learn all the changes that happened, Steve's background would led him to be pleased with the changes in society. This is the opposite of being racist, sexist, and homophobic. Some things might take some adjusting for Steve to get used to, but he is already open-minded and has a frame of reference for many of the social changes that happened.

People sometimes bring up Steve's Catholic upbringing to argue about some beliefs he might have. But while I do think this upbringing would lead to some biases, I think Steve's life experience helped counter, or helped him unlearn some of those biases, even before he hit the ice.

Also, as an Irish-Catholic, Steve would have faced some discrimination of his own. It is most certainly not on the same level as other minorities, and things were better in the 20th century. Being very clear, any discrimination Steve faced for being Irish-Catholic would not be systemic or commonplace like racism. But adding his heritage to the rest of Steve's background helps give us a better idea of why he was already open to social movements like the Civil Rights movement before the ice. And it may have made him already more understanding of LGBTQ+ people, who he may have lived around, even if he grew up being taught certain biases.

Other Things We Forget About Steve

He is quite tech-savvy. While Steve would have a lot to learn, we know he is capable. There are a lot of jokes about his technical know-how in Avengers, but I think he's actually managing very well considering it's probably only been a few weeks or months since he came out of the ice.

Examples:

Deleted scene where we see Steve using a laptop in his apartment. He presses the spacebar to pause a video, which is a keyboard shortcut. So not only can he set up a laptop to watch a video, but he already knows key shortcuts.

Deleted scene where waitress mentions 'wireless'. Steve is confused and thinks she means radio. But I think he actually knows about wi-fi at this point, but probably had never heard it referred to as 'wireless' before. By this point he knows radio is not as common, so his real confusion is why the waitress is offering him 'free radio'. If she had said free wi-fi (the more typical phrase in my opinion) I think he would have understood.

Canon scene of Steve helping Tony fix the Helicarrier engines. This is my favourite evidence because Tony asks Steve to look at the relays and Steve makes a quip that they 'seem to run on some sort of electricity' indicating he is out of his depth. But we never see Tony tell Steve what to do. Steve figures out how to fix the relays himself. Tony is busy with the debris in the rotors and the next thing we see is Steve telling Tony the relays are all good.

Steve is much better at adapting and figuring out technology than we give him credit for. This doesn't mean he won't be anxious or uncomfortable with the sheer amount of stuff he has to learn (especially if everyone keeps making jokes about it to him). But by 2014, it's clear he's already mastered all of it, which is amazing when you think about it, because that's only two years of learning.

Steve is very book smart. In the comics Steve goes to art college, implying he finished high school. Even if he did drop out of high school to work, we know Steve is very smart.

We see him unloading a whole suitcase of books in the barracks before he got the serum.

The mental math is must take to throw the shield at the right angles for it to bounce back is insane.

Steve is also known as a master tactician. So it is clear he has the brains and smarts to run his team during the war. Not only that, but he is not just Captain in name. He actually has that rank, which means he passed the Captain's exam. I also have a feeling he would have needed to pass some kind of evaluation to get the serum in the first place.

We see in Steve's 2014 apartment that his bookshelves are full of history books. Steve is a veracious reader and spends a lot of his time catching up on what he missed. Things he didn't learn or were taught differently growing up would definitely exist, but Steve is actively working to counter that.

Steve would swear. Swearing has been a constant throughout all of history. So too, the backlash against profanity. Even if Steve grew up being told not to swear he would have heard it. And, Steve became a soldier. If he didn't swear before the war, he most definitely picked up some of it then.

I think Captain America isn't supposed to swear, and I think Steve would be aware of this perception of the symbol of him. But I think when Steve is comfortable with people, he would swear. We see in Avengers he doesn't swear, but in Avengers: Age of Ultron, he does.

We joke about Steve and the "Language" line, but I think that line has something to do with Steve's history of being perceived as a symbol and as Captain America since he said it 'just slipped out'. So, while Steve may have been encouraged not to swear growing up, and expected not to swear as Captain America, I fully believe that soldier, veteran, and Irish man Steve Rogers does swear.

Wrap up

I hope you liked this deep dive into Steve's history and character.

I think it can be easy to take the past as a lump sum and view everyone in the past through one lens. We know the past was racist, sexist, and homophobic, so we view everyone from the past that way.

And while it's true things were different back then, people were most definitely fighting for change and aware of the issues. There is also a lot of nuance to the past, and a lot that can be gleaned from what we know about Steve.

It's true that Steve would have a lot to learn when it comes to terminology and specific technology, but I believe Steve's background would prepare him for a lot of the social changes that happened after he went into the ice.

[deadassdumxass]

stars aligned for this

[brujademente]

A friend told me "Marcus Acacius just look like Pedro Pascal as Pedro Pascal in costume" and I was like "it's because those guys looks like Pedro Pascal as Pedro Pascal in real life" and she was like "yeah but should have cut his hair or maybe shave is face" and I was like "???? Bitch what do mean?????"

[ophelias-lamentation]

Mostly historically accurate Disney Princesses

Disclaimer most of the hairstyles aren’t historically accurate because i said so

[historicalshroe]

Tic-tac-toe on Robespierre's gigantic forehead.

[dragqueenachilles]

Not even all the glue sticks in the world could help some of these characters get their shit together

[melit0n]

Miasma

- Synopsis: In the halls of the Palais Garnier, a ghost holds a grasp on the minds of almost all those who enter. A ghost, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or, perhaps, a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.

In the glory of the golden auditorium, the burn of his eyes can be easily mistaken for the glare of the calcium lights.

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 5.2K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Gracefully, your feet move in carefully practised synchronicity with the fellow members of the soloists, different shades of expensive tulle twirling in time with the orchestra. You were nearing the end of the final, full run-through rehearsal for to morrow's show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The choreography was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, five to ten hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest, adrenaline habitually coursing through your veins, practice or live show aside. Despite the seemingly endless hours you had spent practising this piece, you still had the innate fear–whispering in the back of your mind–of tripping over your own feet and falling. Or, even worse, crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimanding from the ballet master. 

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset. 

Even with the distinct lack of a large, judgemental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure. 

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium. In between fast moving limbs, the blurred faces of the orchestra and your fellow dancers, you find nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes. 

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organised flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of one of the violin players, shrouded in darkness within the cavity of the pit. 

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only repeat it the next.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and bring the piece to a finish. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble. 

Careful not to be considered anything less than perfection. 

Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns. 

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck six pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck. 

You avoid the eyes of the violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again. 

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies sarcastically.

“For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it. Considering how close you were to the official show, you have no doubt they’ll be annoyed that you somehow managed to rip it. 

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send an official complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene–directed by the shouting stagehands above–and passing by your fellow actors. Each are either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands. Though, it is mainly the younger girls trying their luck with the older men. 

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to walk home. God above knows if I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“I wonder if you will fall asleep in our booth after dinner?” You jest. You both had a ritual of going out to dinner, trying a new restaurant for each occasion, the day before performing a new show. While you saw each other every day, you both found it to be a pleasant way to unwind after practice. 

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes and my rent, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not–would not–burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the ever moving and humming guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening. 

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to a member of the ballet, or the orchestra, silently vying for your attention. That, or perhaps an unfelt draft coming from the cellars.

Now, hidden away from the burn of the calcium lights, your practised facade of expected neatness slowly unfurls. You gently pull out the hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns, wisp like strands following. The tight ribbons that keep your shoes together are also loosened, allowing your feet to finally breathe. Augustine’s are quickly falling apart and, while it wasn’t usual to have them replaced frequently, the price had increased dramatically in the past months. You expect all your fellow dancers–at least those without donations–were beginning to struggle to come up with the money. 

As you do so, many people meander past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you intend to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to begin conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.” 

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil and new candles, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit. What of you?”

You shrug. “I expect something similar; a restock of oil and possibly some soaps.” She nods, understandably, at your decision.

As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that violinist. Yet, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers. 

“Y/N? Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way onto her pretty face. 

“Hm…mayhap The Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She shrouds her accent with an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Agustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. Easily enticed with mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh. Expectantly, some even linger or slow their gait to listen in on any gossip about the local ghost. 

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of your corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms. Your pace had been slowed talking to Augustine, so you find it already full of the other female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude. 

The dressing room was made of dark, shined oak, and was lit in a lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang upon them, the glass of them scratched and worn with time and bristling skirts. It’s spartan in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of the main actors, yet, it's a comforting place of shared fatigue and tired conversation.

However, once, you visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in her room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you. While the only thing she had need to do there was change and perhaps receive the occasional public visitor, she was provided a room that oozed refinement and grandeur. 

The warm lodging contained an intricately designed pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. Along with an astounding number of fresh bouquets, a second floor length mirror lay on the far left. The walls themselves were covered in delicate, floral wallpaper and accented by odd art pieces that appeared to be original.

You’d later learn that while she deeply enjoyed the attention of her older patrons, she tended to take a liking to artists.

Overall, it matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra. A complete juxtaposition of the sparse changing rooms you now currently stand in.

Different shades of hats were sat, as per usual, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night, when rich patrons–ring-bearing or not–usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Do not apologise.” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I will not berate you for wishing to save some extra money.” 

She gifts another warm smile in your direction, before averting her eyes, almost shyly, away from your partly naked form. Aimlessly, she begins to chatter to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the conversations that flows around the small room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. 

In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and the glint of some sort of large gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself, beginning to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.  

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner. 

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practising for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes begins to moan. She was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers, what with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice adds their opinion to the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, halfwit-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says, “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, if you will. You had kept up the game for almost three years now; her having just turned fifteen. While she was adamant in becoming refined and elegant, as all girls that age are taught to be, she still held onto some of her child-like tendencies with you.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes somewhat sarcastically. You smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer. 

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening. 

Slowly but surely, the girls drift out of the room, some by themselves, and others in larger groups. 

By the time you’re finally fixing your dress, most have left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I cannot believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes. 

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.” 

Her eyes turn to you, body still bent with her shoes. “Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice; I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you. 

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Conserige’s head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell, suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged fifty-six, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. However, many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that exists and lingers, purely, in the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet. 

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which reads that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger. 

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago. Where could it have gone?

You begin to scour the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching methodically around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor. 

Sighing yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room. 

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I can never remember how late they stay into the evening.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door, you crouch ever so slightly; haunches rising like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. 

“Jammes…” you mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers. 

You scoff, surprised, before peeking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Innocently, your scarf sits at the end of it, hidden partially around another corner.

Mocking you. 

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. 

You hear no steps echo against the wood and stone. You surmise he has not arrived yet.

Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf. 

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness. 

No reply. 

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; spirited away and down another ill-lit hallway. 

“Jammes,” you whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you still follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home. 

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a monster, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off his own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull. 

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet. 

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her this to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose. 

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry with each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you. 

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mere scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired and frustrated, with fear building up in your dry throat.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for the air they can’t seem to inhale fast enough.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain. “...I did not see you.” 

He wears the type of expensive glove that only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mould, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust. 

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind. 

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric wrinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds onto it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper emphatically. You’re sure he can hear the fear laced in his voice. Considering the habits of the other patrons, you wouldn’t be surprised if he finds amusement in it.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be. 

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves. 

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging. 

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “... Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it. 

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. 

Take it and make you a part of his bone collection. 

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back. 

Idiotically, with worry entangled in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm. 

Something between a gasp and a sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time. 

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm. 

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the darkness. 

One oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you. 

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void. 

There is nothing there other than lingering dust. 

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

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

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect.  I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. I'm thinking about doing a series of Phantom one-shots, hence why I'm leaving this as 'incomplete'. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights.

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939. 

- Pier glass = A mirror that is placed on a pier, i.e. a wall, between two windows supporting an upper structure. Generally used to fill the space between the windows.

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up. 

[ofmiceandwomen]

I’m very bad at social media but on the other hand I keep complaining that nobody cares about my creations and it’s like a vicious circle and I don’t know what to do with it.

Also, I have been experiencing a kind of a Tolkien burnout recently, and I feel particularly bad about it.

So, anyway… have my latest passion project - Autumn court waistcoat inspired by ACOTAR series. Maybe it will be a full Eris Vanserra cosplay although I don’t particularly love the series.

I have copied the pattern from 1760s waistcoat and I got inspired in the Napoleonic uniforms for the embroidery.

The waistcoat is made from synthetic silk brocade, embroidered with metal (I love the gold work and the oak leaves make me feel very heroic and empowered, lol).

The shirt is a classical 1700s shirt and my first attempt at historical sewing.

Is anyone interested in these irregular screams into the void?

[forestgromlin]

y’all. y’all. i’m reading the wiki page ont he newsboys’ strike of 1899 for the first time and yk most of the names in the movie/broadway are made up, but race was actually a real person. and guess what. “racetrack” higgins (as it’s written on wikipedia) was the leader of the brooklyn newsies!! :0

oh and ofc kid blink was the leader of the strike

and david (simmons) was the union president

[arielleshaina]

I have a historically-accurate 1890s AU marriage-of-convenience fic on Ao3! Just posted chapter 2 ✨ And of course I drew a pen sketch to go with it 🤭

[deadpresidents]

Hi! I'm a longtime reader and am trying to find something you posted years ago about Saddam and Dubya and the real "cause" of the iraq war to show my friend. Are you able to help me find the link to it? THANK YOU!!!!!!!!

Thanks for sticking around for all these years!

I'm guessing this is the post you were talking about. It's one of those posts that gets requested every couple of years:

Anonymous asked: Why did Bush start the Iraq War?

It all started in the spring of 1986 when George W. Bush was sent to Iraq as a secret emissary on behalf of the Reagan Administration.  Despite his lack of experience in…well…anything, President Reagan sent Bush because Bush’s father, Vice President George H.W. Bush, said he could be trusted.

The Iran-Iraq War was at a stalemate and the younger Bush went to Iraq in order to offer assistance to the Iraqis in their cause.  The United States had a vested interest in the deposition of Iran’s Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, and senior aides in the Reagan Administration, as well as top American intelligence officials, believed that strengthening Iraq would lead to an Iranian defeat and that an Iranian defeat would result in the end of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.  That would bring about the fall of Ayatollah Khomeini.

George W. Bush, just 39 years old at the time, arrived in Baghdad in secret and was whisked away by helicopter to one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces, on the Euphrates River in Najaf.  It was there that the eventual adversaries would first meet, but at the time, they really enjoyed each other’s company.  For hours, they joked, watched local performers, spoke to one another about their hopes and dreams, and then gathered for dinner.

During that dinner, the seeds were planted for a conflict that later would cost thousands of American and Iraqi lives.  Saddam and Bush feasted on quail that Saddam claimed he had personally hunted earlier that day.  Bush, remembering his diplomatic initiative, asked Saddam what the United States and President Reagan could do to help Iraq defeat the Iranians and topple Ayatollah Khomeini.  Saddam laid out what he would need, and Bush assured the Iraqi leader that his requests would be no problem and that he was glad that they could come to an agreement.

Unfortunately, both men began drinking during the dinner, and both men became boisterous.  Good-natured joking was transforming into sharp jabs and then downright hostility.  Saddam and Bush were joined by a very small group of people, and the entire room went silent as the Iraqi dictator and the future American President started boasting about their manhood and making challenges to the other man.

Saddam found himself in an unusual position as Bush would not defer to him in these challenges.  When Saddam dropped and did 50 push-ups, Bush did the same.  When Saddam swam across the Euphrates and back, Bush did, as well.  They had a foot race around the palace with no clear winner.  Arm-wrestling settled nothing.  They competed to see who could kick a soccer ball the furthest and, again, there was no distinction between the two.  Saddam skipped a rock across the river six times, and so did Bush. 

Saddam was getting more-and-more frustrated by his inability to best George W. Bush in feats of strength, athletic contests, or the board game “Sorry!”.  If an Iraqi had met all of Saddam’s challenges as Bush had without deferring to the Iraqi dictator, Saddam would have had his son Uday torture the man.  Of course, he couldn’t do that with the son of the Vice President of the United States, especially since he had been sent as a special emissary by President Reagan.

Suddenly, an idea brightened Saddam’s countenance.  He summoned an aide and whispered something in the man’s ear.  Five minutes later, Saddam’s aide walked in with a large boombox and an Iraqi soldier brought in several pieces of cardboard.

Saddam stood up, loosened his tie, removed his military-style beret, and rolled up his sleeves.  Staring at George W. Bush with fire in his eyes, the Iraqi dictator growled, “Let’s see your B-boy stance, Texas.”

Bush quickly stood up, ready for the challenge, removed his jacket, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, as well.  Removing his shoes, Bush gestured to Saddam, “It’s your country…for now…so, why don’t you go first?”.

Although he was fuming and visibly shaken by Bush’s confidence, Saddam closed his eyes, took three deep breaths, and pointed at the Iraqi near the boombox.  Immediately, Run-D.M.C.’s self-titled album began playing and – there’s really no other way to put this: Saddam Hussein got the fuck down.  The Iraqi dictator was popping, locking, busting out power moves and pulling up with world-class freezes.

Bush was obviously overmatched.  The confidence was gone.  The liquid courage from the night’s alcohol was abandoning him.  As “Rock Box” played, Bush discovered that he couldn’t match Saddam Hussein in everything.  Had it ended there, with Saddam smiling and shaking hands with the future President after Bush graciously admitted defeat, perhaps the world would be different today.

Saddam, however, had been humiliated earlier in the night.  Instead of smiling and shaking Bush’s hand, he pointed once again to the boombox.  Saddam stared hard at Bush, did the Crip Walk and then transformed that into a Moonwalk.  Saddam Moonwalked right out of the room, continuing to stare Bush directly in the eyes, and saying, as he reached the doorway, “Show yourself out, motherfucker.”

When George W. Bush returned to the United States, he immediately gave up drinking alcohol and focused himself on his life and future.  He swore to himself that he would one day gain revenge against Saddam Hussein’s disrespectful showing during their b-boy battle in Iraq.  Everything Bush did from 1986 on was done with the single purpose of destroying Saddam Hussein.  Owner of a baseball team, Governor of Teas, President of the United States – none of these things meant much if Saddam Hussein was still gloating about his victory.

People talk about the oil or the revenge for slights against George W. Bush’s father or a search for weapons of mass destruction, but you now know the truth.  George W. Bush went to war in Iraq because Saddam Hussein ambushed and embarrassed him during their breakdancing battle in 1986.  There was never blood for oil; the blood was for breakdancing.

[it-was-dead-when-i-found-it]

Me: wow I love sewing historically accurate fashion, the designs are so beautifully simplistic and fabric efficient!! Maybe I should just sew my whole wardrobe like this...

Me, 0.5 seconds later: gussets make my brain hurt and pleats are the bane of my existence, someone get me out of here-

[xeyesofstardust]

This is what I think the uniform for the Slytherin witches would’ve looked like if they were going for the historically accurate

I found it while scrolling on Etsy if anybody’s wondering.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1526624361/