#I like to think Bill has fashion taste so has to get his own tailored outfit for every person he possesses.

[schlushiii]

A collection of Bill + Slush drawings and doodles because Ough…. They will not leave my brain

Also I made a video on TikTok of these drawings! Check it out if you want to!

[dweetwise]

yes hello i am back on my bullshit again, presenting you yet another felix x ace! (also i’m taking the creative liberty to call the ship riconti because it sounds like a cheese or something and i found it funny) anyways, this one is just me thirsting over the oktoberfest skin through ace, ft. some suggestive language but no nsfw!

word count: 2781

Felix X Ace: Clothes make the man

The whole thing starts as an offhand comment.

"—I mean, it's clearly tailored. He pulls it off,” Ace is telling Meg, who has been complaining about Felix's stuffy suit and even stuffier attitude for five minutes straight. “But it's so impractical!” the girl argues. “Wasn't he on some kind of field trip when he was taken? What kind of guy wears a suit to that?” “I don't know, but I'm not going to complain about free eye candy,” Ace smirks, and Meg rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, I forgot rich snobs are your thing. Sucks you can't scam him for his money in here,” Meg snarks. “Excuse me for having taste,” Ace shoots back. “I wish I had a suit like that. Do you think it's Gucci?” “Burberry,” an increasingly familiar voice answers from behind him and Meg whips her head around to look at its owner, eyes wide in shock at having been caught gossiping. Meanwhile Ace, liking to think he has more self-control, schools his face into a pleasant smile and slowly turns around to face Felix. “Would have been my next guess,” Ace says, trying not to let it show that he's mentally slapping himself for essentially thirsting over Felix when the other was within earshot. “I like the cut. You've got good taste.”

He’s feebly trying to save some of his wounded ego, but probably ends up laying it on too thick. Felix fidgets a little, maybe not used to getting compliments, before he seems to catch himself. He meets Ace's eyes and the hint of a smirk tugs on his lip.

“Wish I could say the same,” Felix says, pointedly looking at Ace's flamingo sweater, before turning around and walking away and leaving Ace to gape at the unexpected sass from the normally serious man. “I take it back, I like him!” Meg snickers beside him.

The Entity seems to share Ace's enthusiasm for Felix's fashion sense, and only a few trials in Felix is already in a different suit, this one a grey plaid.

“Hmm…” Ace pretends to mull over when they're working on a generator together. “Did you see something?” Felix asks, hurriedly glancing over the top of the machine to try, in vain, to spot the killer. “I think the navy blue suits you better,” Ace smirks at his own pun. “Though the plaid certainly makes a statement. Shame that statement is ‘I'm a grandpa at thirty years old’.” “You know, in my job, gold is really only used for trims. Any more than that is just tacky," Felix deadpans, not even sparing a glance at Ace's obnoxiously golden silk outfit. “And it's thirty-eight.”

Ace doesn't bother suppressing his grin over the fact that Felix seems happy to go along with his silly banter.

It becomes sort of an inside joke between them, and when Felix shows up to the campfire in a porn stache and driving gloves, Ace chokes on a laugh.

“I’m sorry, is this an 80's theme party?” Ace jokes. “Careful you don't end up on a propaganda poster with a stache like that.” “Why are you wearing an eye patch?” Felix immediately shoots back. “Is this the 16th century? Should we break out the rum and set sail?”

Ace hears Quentin snort beside him.

“It's a pilot outfit,” Ace argues, pulling his jacket with the pin-up print tighter against himself defensively. “No, mine is a pilot outfit,” Felix deadpans, and Ace can't really argue, not when the other is wearing a bomber jacket and pilot glasses and leather gloves. “Yours is a blind truck driver.”

Bill coughs out something akin to a laugh on the other side of camp and Ace bites his lip to stop himself from doing the same.

“Can I borrow the shades some time?” Ace forfeits the argument, and Felix smiles just the tiniest bit. “Sure.”

And Felix actually follows through with the promise, switching sunglasses with him when Ace later complains his own don’t go with his outfit. It’s a pretty cute gesture, like they were close friends or even a couple, and when Felix snorts and tells him he looks ridiculous it just serves to make Ace smile brighter.

It’s not like the exchange or the ones before it mean anything, it’s just harmless joking with the occasional flirt. Ace still thinks Felix is attractive, but he doesn’t have any illusions that the man would be into him like that, with what having a girlfriend and unborn baby back home, not to mention Ace having a good ten years on him in age. Still, he appreciates that Felix goes along with his cheeky comments, at least not grossed out by or taking offense to Ace’s flirting.

He only gets to keep the shades for one trial, because the Entity has blessed Felix with another outfit for Ace to offer his unsolicited opinion on.

“Oh my god,” Ace comments when he spots the horrendous, grease-streaked mop in place of Felix’s normally expertly styled hair. “Are you a closet hipster? Is an avocado smoothie going to fall out of the hat?” he quips, eyeing the fedora that is, in Ace’s humble opinion, vastly inferior to all of his own hats. “I needed a disguise to lay low for a while, and what better way to hide in plain sight in a big city?” Felix defends his unkempt hair and dirty t-shirt. “What’s your excuse?” he shoots back.

Ace glances down at his generously open shirt—gold again, just to annoy Felix—and tacky sequin pants.

“Vegas, baby,” Ace grins. “If you’d ever been, you’d know.” “I’ve never been happier to say I haven’t,” Felix chuckles. “I don’t think I could handle more of… whatever this is,” he says, gesturing to Ace’s outfit. “When we get out of here, I’m definitely taking you,” Ace quips. “I just want to see you cry over all the flashy satin and fake gold.”

Felix doesn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment like Ace expects. Instead, he stares blankly in confusion for a few seconds, before his expression settles into a smile Ace can’t quite place.

“Alright,” Felix simply says, and combined with the soft smile it’s enough to make Ace nervously look around camp for a distraction. “Hey, Kate!” he hollers, spotting the songstress braiding Meg’s hair. “You got a hairband for our friend and his questionable hair style over there?”

He ends up regretting the question as soon as Kate insists on braiding Felix’s hair and the normally standoffish man, somehow, goes along with it. He can’t believe he’s jealous for someone getting to touch the grimy, unkempt strands, and it sure as hell doesn’t help that Felix seems to like it. Kate looks thrilled to get to spend some quality time with the man, chatting about this and that and taking way longer than necessary to make the hairstyle, and Ace ends up walking away and pestering Dwight to play some cards with him so he can at least win at something.

His win streak over the poor boy is interrupted when Felix later sits down with them, gesturing for Ace to deal him in, and Ace can’t quite hide his pleased grin that Felix would rather spend time with him than the beautiful girl who just played with his hair for half an hour.

“Better?” Felix asks him, turning his head to display the most pathetic French braid Ace has ever seen, ending in a ponytail that’s barely an inch in length. “Much better,” Ace says, definitely referring to the company and not the state of his hair, and even the normally diplomatic Dwight gives him a weird glance over his cards after taking in Kate’s handiwork.

Only a few trials after the incident, Ace has the pleasure of spawning together with Felix in one of the Yamaoka maps. When he sees a horrendous checkered pattern from the corner of his eye, he knows he’s in for a treat.

He quickly turns to face the man, nearly tripping over some shrubbery as the Entity decided to place him in some inconvenient bamboo. He meets Felix's eye, opening his mouth to start a snarky comment, when his thoughts come to a complete halt upon seeing the entirety of the outfit.

“Well? Get it over with,” Felix demands, crossing his arms self-consciously and—lord have mercy—blushing a little.

Ace's brain is reduced to white noise in the equivalent of ‘hhhHhhHHhh’ while he just stands there, feet still in the stupid bamboo, and stares.

Felix's hair is now an impeccable undercut, a few loose strands framing his features beautifully, and the perfectly trimmed stubble adds a rugged charm to his handsome face. The vest is stylish, a navy blue similar to the suit Ace likes, and the checkered shirt shouldn't work with it but it does, and there's even a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. Ace's horny brain immediately goes to hanky code and shut up brain it's in the wrong pocket—

Ace mentally shakes his head and looks at Felix's pants instead. And that was a bad idea, because he’s wearing fucking. Leather. Pants.

Again, it should look ridiculous, but Ace feels himself start salivating at the idea of them hugging Felix's ass—ugh, focus!

The pants have small ribbons on the sides and the entire ensemble is so goddamn adorable and sexy that he can't even deal. And Ace has seen a lot of handsome men during his life, mostly in the mirror, but right now, Felix takes the cake.

Felix's attitude shifts from embarrassed to curious when Ace isn't immediately opening his big mouth like usual.

“If this is how all Germans dress, it’s a tragedy I’ve never been,” Ace flirts, his dick having taken over his brain and his mouth running on autopilot.

Instead of insulting Ace's panama hat and favorite pink shirt, Felix clears his throat and averts his eyes.

“You don't look too bad yourself,” Felix mutters, cheeks heating up again as he twiddles with the cuff of his shirt.

Ace idly wonders if the bamboo bush is big enough for them to make out in without being spotted—brain, focus! The guy is just being polite, no need to jump his bones!

They've got the usual back-and-forth out of the way, but Felix still isn't moving to start the trial, regarding Ace warily and fidgeting, and he's just so fucking hot—ugh, he needs to say something, doesn't he?

“God, the things I'd let you do to me," Ace thinks while he says ‘We should find a generator’ because he's not going to creep Felix out any further—

Felix chokes on nothing and his face flushes bright red, and Ace belatedly realizes his brain got its wires crossed and he definitely said the first bit out loud. Shit, that was definitely out of line, and if Felix hasn’t been offended before he sure as hell should be now.

There’s a screech from his left and Ace has never been so glad to take a bonesaw to the shoulder as when the Nurse teleports next to him and interrupts their awkward conversation, Ace finally running out of the goddamn shrubbery while clutching his injured shoulder. Strangely enough, the Nurse doesn’t follow him as he runs up to the temple, and soon after he hears Felix yelp instead, the killer chasing him around the shack.

Damn, now he somehow needs to make it up to Felix both to apologize for his foot-in-mouth syndrome and for him taking the Nurse off Ace’s back.

Unfortunately for them, the Nurse isn't playing around this match, and when she returns to tunnel Felix right off the hook, Ace barely even gets the chance to yell out a “Move!” and throw himself in the way of the attack, much less talk to him about what happened earlier.

Soon Ace is walking back into camp, the second to last to have been sacrificed, only Claudette remaining in the trial and trying to find the hatch. He's already prepared an apology, and hopefully he'll be able to joke it off and Felix won't be weirded out by him. Well, at least not more than usual.

But then he spots Felix talking to Dwight by the edge of the camp, and Dwight freezes mid-conversation upon seeing Ace, before his face twists into a—smirk? Since when has Dwight smirked?—and he says something to Felix before taking off, walking over to where Steve and Ash look to be engaged in a game of tic-tac-toe.

Ace doesn't even have time to ponder why Dwight suddenly seems like he knows way too much, because Felix is approaching him and he knows this is a make or break it situation.

“Dwight seemed awfully smug, huh?” Ace jokes to buy himself some time after his carefully crafted apology flies out the window when he sees Felix’s serious expression. “We need to talk,” Felix says, looking and sounding every bit the stern businessman Meg thinks he is. “Yeah, alright,” Ace agrees and tries not to deflate too much upon essentially being shut down before he can even try to make things right.

As he follows Felix out into the woods away from prying eyes, he considers whether it's even worth apologizing if their friendship is done with anyway. He just hopes this won't cause unnecessary drama within the group, the others sure as hell don’t need to get involved.

His train of thought is interrupted when he's suddenly pushed against a tree, letting out a startled yelp that he’ll later vehemently deny. Shit, is Felix going to beat him up?

An arm wrapping around his hip is finally enough to pull Ace out of his racing thoughts, and when he looks up at the man he finally realizes that Felix is definitely not upset with him, and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline upon seeing the clear bedroom eyes thrown his way.

“Is this not okay?” Felix asks, his dark gaze faltering from insecurity. “Naw, baby, just took me by surprise,” Ace practically purrs, a lazy grin spreading over his face as the familiar confidence returns, his hands running over Felix's shoulders appreciatively. “I thought you were upset with me from before, not that you'd take me up on the offer.” “Well, I—” Felix starts, clearing his throat self-consciously. “I've wanted this for quite some time, and Dwight said you probably wouldn't be opposed, so…”

That's what they were talking about? And Dwight convinced Felix that Ace is down to fuck? Shit, he needs to get the kid a fruit basket or something to thank him.

“He's definitely not wrong,” Ace says, trying for a seductive look but probably ends up leering stupidly from the anticipation instead. But apparently it gets the job done, because Felix pulls him tighter against him and leans in for a kiss.

And okay, wow, apparently he wasn't lying about really wanting this, because there's an urgency in the way he practically devours Ace's mouth, letting out an appreciative groan when Ace parts his lips and encourages him to deepen the kiss.

So maybe he should be worried about Felix's girlfriend or his sudden interest in men or whether he's looking for more than a casual fuck. But Ace has never been good at thinking certain things through and he's not about to start now, not when he has a breathless and flushed Felix pulling away from the kiss and looking at him with lust-blown eyes.

“I've wanted to do that for a long time,” Felix breathes, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “You really should have just asked,” Ace smirks, a little amazed that he managed to miss all the signs, because there’s nothing subtle about the way Felix looks at him now. “I was working up to it,” Felix argues. “But then you started practically eye fucking me—” “I was looking respectfully,” Ace corrects, causing Felix to snort. “You stood in a bush and drooled, and then propositioned me,” Felix points out. “Yeah, and you liked it so much you blushed like a virgin and started flirting and took the killer off of me—which, thanks for that, by the way—” Ace starts. “You're welcome.” “—and… why did I think you were mad at me again?” Ace realizes. “No idea. I thought it was pretty obvious why I dragged you here to ‘talk’,” Felix emphasizes, gaze roaming appreciatively over his body. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Ace encourages, flashing his signature smirk in challenge.

And Ace learns that no matter how much he likes Felix's outfit, getting to help Felix out of it is even better.

[chiseler]

Glad Rags: Fashion and the Great Depression

Some years ago, in a breathtaking lapse of taste, The New Yorker published a fashion spread that aped iconic photographs of Dust Bowl migrants. I was as appalled as the next right-thinking person by the pouting models in $400 distressed cardigans pretending to thumb rides along desert highways. But if the charge is infatuation with the aesthetics of the Great Depression, I am guilty, guilty, guilty. Throw me in the clink—just so long as it resembles the hoosegow that Barbara Stanwyck saunters around in Ladies They Talk About (1932).

Why was everything, from automats to automobiles, from nightclubs to radios, from skyscrapers to bus stations, from cocktail shakers to the battered hats on homeless men, so elegant in the thirties? Why did bums back then look better than bankers today? Why are the movies and music, the clothes and every aspect of design from typefaces to elevator panels, so intoxicatingly stylish?

The easy answer is that art deco glamour was a form of escapism, a consolation to the down-and-out, and an expression of irrational optimism. Cruise ships, trains, office towers, mechanized restaurants: art deco was all about speed and modernity, the thrill of zooming into the future. (Then why does deco still look modern and alluring, while the space-age design of the sixties just looks dated and silly?) If cynicism was society’s ballast during the Depression, style was the kite-string tugging upward, the flag that kept flying.

It’s not the swells in their glad rags that I admire most, or even the bootleggers in silk shirts, but the wardrobes of working girls. Take the plain, slinky black dress that Stanwyck, as an ambitious office worker in Baby Face, accessorizes with a series of different detachable white collars and cuffs. Those starched cuffs and collars—chic, yet as humble as table-napkins—are perfect, almost poignant symbols of Stanwyck’s determination to better herself with the small means at her disposal. In Golddiggers of 1933, out-of-work chorus girls draw lots for the privilege of wearing a gorgeous, borrowed outfit to an audition. The little hats that hug one side of the head, the soft dresses molded to the hips, the scarf collars and pleated hems, create a look that collapses the two meanings of “smart.”  Neither frivolous nor utilitarian, it’s a neat, streamlined look that is still seductive; it signals quiet confidence and also wit, the sort of wisecracking verbal self-defense these girls mastered.

Movies like Baby Face tell their stories largely through their heroines’ clothes and belongings: they climb from cotton frocks to furs, from paper matchbooks to jeweled cigarette cases. (Clothing is no less crucial to the gangster’s rise; tailored shirts and luxurious overcoats are almost the point of his law-breaking.) Like Stanwyck in Baby Face, Joan Blondell in Blondie Johnson starts out in the drab, shapeless clothes of the down-trodden. Alight with anger after her mother dies, denied aid by a sanctimonious government official, she vows to get hold of dough, “and plenty of it.” Next we see her, she’s wearing a snazzy velvet suit that fits like a glove and conning suckers out of ten dollar bills by pretending to be a damsel in distress. She’s willing to bat her eyelashes and exploit her curves, but it’s really her brain she uses to get ahead, rising to become the head of a criminal “corporation,” and fiercely defending her virtue, even while clad in diaphanous pajamas. In Hold Your Man, Clark Gable calls attention to the warmth of the room, trying to talk Jean Harlow into doffing her coat. She complies, but when he suggests she remove her hat as well, she quips, “I’m pretty cool about the head.”

It’s this sense of wit and sass that’s often missing from latter-day reconstructions of the thirties, making people in period pieces appear overly formal. Current actors, looking embalmed in handsome clothes and make-up, fail to capture the way Cagney in his pin-striped suits was always poised on the balls of his feet, ready to crack into a tap dance; or the stunning bodily freedom with which women wore their thin, fluid, backless gowns, somehow never looking unduly exposed. Carole Lombard in shiny satin wide-legged lounging-pajamas and high heels furiously riding an exercise bicycle: there is the deco spirit in a nutshell. I sometimes wonder if it was the sheer delight of wearing such flattering clothes that gave women in thirties movies their unequaled zing.

Their sleek clothes don’t hide the female form the way dresses of the 1920’s did with their dropped waists and bosom-flattening bands. Neither do they exaggerate it with structured undergarments like those abandoned after the first world war and re-introduced after the second. It takes little insight to observe that the times when fashion has been most extreme in its devotion to the hourglass figure have been repressive eras for women, and periods when their clothes were more androgynous have been times when women made strides toward equality. In the early thirties, however, fashions were feminine without being cartoonishly so; they simply revealed the way women really look. The ideal of beauty was slender but not boyishly skinny, effortlessly athletic without gym-workout muscles.

Thirties dames look sexy on their own terms, not trussed up for male consumption like women of the fifties in their waist-cinching girdles, teetering stilettos and torpedo bras (often filled out with falsies on actresses of the fifties.) Many women in the early thirties wore very little under their clothes, as pre-Code movies prove with their obligatory lingerie shots. One almost feels sorry for pre-Code men faced with gals like Blondell, who in Blonde Crazy allows Cagney to inspect her flimsy underwear but repels his every advance with a slap that sends his head snapping back against his spine.

It is surely no coincidence that the interwar period was perhaps the only time when fashion was dominated, or at least heavily influenced, by women designers. Chanel borrowed from men’s tailoring to make women’s clothes simple, comfortable and sporty, without making them mannish. Madeleine Vionnet pioneered the bias cut, constructing garments so the grain of the fabric ran diagonally across the body, creating that smooth, clinging drape that defines feminine style of the thirties. Stanwyck’s lithe, bold stride wouldn’t be the same without the skirts that show off her beautiful hips and just enough of her killer gams. The jazzy, diagonally-striped ensemble that Claudette Colbert wears in It Happened One Night—something she has apparently purchased with the proceeds from pawning her wrist-watch—is the sartorial equivalent of her cocked eyebrow and throaty, sarcastic delivery.

These are Hollywood movies, of course, in which actresses often wore dresses so tight they couldn’t sit down between shots. But there’s plenty of documentary evidence that ordinary women, while they made have had less perfect figures, had just as much stylistic sass. Inept, small-time criminals Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow might never have become folk heroes if police hadn’t found a roll of undeveloped film in their hideout in Joplin, Missouri in 1932, and if the pictures hadn’t shown Bonnie wearing a snug beret, a skirt and sweater as jazzy as Colbert’s, and standing with her high-heeled foot hiked saucily on the bumper of a Ford V-8.

Or consider the stout matron in Walker Evans’s 1935 photograph of a New Orleans barbershop, sporting a blouse with sizzling concentric stripes, a jaunty black tie and a black hat with a rakish white feather. Men were no slouches either. Evans’s 1936 pictures of street scenes in the “negro quarter” of Vicksburg, Mississippi feature men lounging idly in shirtsleeves, unbuttoned vests and felt hats, each one a fashion plate. Lined up in a row in the wood-frame buildings behind them are hand-painted signs for the Savoy Barber Shop, the New Deal Barber Shop, and the Brother In Law Barber Shop. These men may not have jobs, but at least they have well-trimmed hair.

One can always ask, was there really such an epidemic of elegance in the thirties, or did photographers just seek out images of dignity? In the same way, one can look at the photographs of Robert Frank or the documentary footage of Los Angeles in The Savage Eye (1960) and wonder if there was really an epidemic of ugliness and vulgarity in the late fifties and early sixties, or whether artists just emphasized it. But the question is moot: either way, the images reveal how Americans—or at least their professional observers—saw themselves. Struggling against deprivation and anxiety, they were proud, stoic and stripped to their lean, essential spirit. Prosperous and secure, they were hapless victims of an aesthetic crash. A movie like Murder by Contract (1958), about a hit man killing time in L.A., staying in suffocatingly tacky motel rooms, seems to be the portrait of a man sleepwalking through a society where taste has flatlined.

Fifties style was artlessly boastful; its ideals were plastic mannequins of happiness, innocence and surfeit. This is why when it failed it failed so hideously: the old, the poor, the ugly, the lonely look caught in a pitiless glare, all their shortcomings exposed. The beehive hair, bouffant skirts, school-girl necklines and cat’s-eye glasses made young women look stodgy and matronly, and older women look grotesquely girlish.  In the thirties, haute couture expressed sublime hauteur, but it was based on aesthetic principles so sound that even when they trickled down to the cheapest knock-offs and most threadbare hand-me-downs, they still looked good. And so we come to the paradox of men in breadlines, women in migrant camps, whose je-ne-sais-quoi can inspire fashion spreads.

I am haunted by a bit of archival footage from the superb documentary Riding the Rails (1997), which shows a group of teenage hobos gathered on an open flat-car. Their elegance is unforgettable. It’s partly that their ragged clothes are so well-cut—in those days before baggy, one-size-fits-nobody garments—and partly that they’re worn with such an air. One boy wears an overcoat that’s too big for him and a handkerchief knotted on his head; he looks like a Napoleonic soldier retreating from Moscow. Men today who affect newsboy caps tend to wear them as though they were balancing a plate on their heads, but these boys wear their soft caps pulled down low over one eye, making them look at once tough and shy. They also seem, like everyone Dorothea Lange photographed, to stand and move with uncommon, easy grace: idle, but charged with contained energy. Their faces are wary, reticent and disillusioned. In another archival clip, boys sitting around a fire in a hobo jungle respond to a reporter who asks them why they are on the road. “Out here for my health,” one deadpans. “Just riding,” another tersely shrugs.

These are the real-life versions of the characters played by Frankie Darro and the Warners juveniles in Wild Boys of the Road (1933). Several things about that film are startling. One is how the kids dress and act like grown-ups (at a school dance, they wear evening clothes and circle the floor to “The Shadow Waltz”), as opposed to today, when grown-ups dress and act like kids. Another is how quickly and completely two middle-class boys turn into outcasts, panhandlers, embittered scavengers living in a garbage dump. But most startling of all is the way stoicism and dignity are taken for granted, the universal determination not be a burden or feel sorry for oneself. The elderly interviewees in Riding the Rails are candid, matter-of-fact, wry and compassionate. There is more to elegance than dressing well, than being tasteful or—that overused and inelegant word—“classy.” There is an intangible quality, a kind of mental and moral grace. Elegance has spine, but it’s not rigid; it bends but doesn’t break. It is understated; it is reserved. It knows the virtue of holding something back—some strength, some anger, some sense of irony—because there is more than one rainy day.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[artificialqueens]

Mateo's Eight, chapter four (Branjie)--athena2

Previously: Vanessa laid out the plan for the heist and agreed to let Brooke work with her Now: They begin the steps of the plan while Brooke deals with her feelings for Vanessa

A/N: Thank you all so much for the feedback on this fic! I never expected people would like this and it means so much to me! Thank you as always to Writ for being the most amazing beta, you’re the best! <3 <3

Please leave some feedback if you can, I really do appreciate it!

Read on AO3

—

Brooke is early as usual, hands warmed by the coffees she’s holding as everyone stampedes by her outside the Met. The coffee is a probably too-desperate attempt to get herself on Vanessa’s good side, but it’s all she can come up with, because Vanessa has total control. Brooke is going to have to follow all her orders, because while she doesn’t truly think Vanessa would give her up to the police, she used to think the same thing about herself.

Brooke should have never taken that risk last summer when she had so much to lose, so much more than Vanessa knew. Hell, she shouldn’t be taking this risk now. But if they succeed, and she gets that money, the risk will be worth it. And if she has to butter Vanessa up with coffee, so be it.

Vanessa finally arrives, ten minutes late without Brooke to remind her of the time, looking fearful of all the people and the huge buildings looming around them. That Vanessa-shaped space in Brooke’s heart–a space she thought had stopped feeling anything–aches at seeing Vanessa suffering. She longs to wrap Vanessa in her arms and protect her from the world, but she has no chance of getting away with that now.

“What the hell is that? You trying to poison me?” Vanessa jabs a finger at the coffee.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Whatever.” Vanessa sips her coffee, and Brooke knows from her silence that she got the order exactly right: three sugars (not that Vanessa needs any sugar), two creams, and a shot of caramel. Brooke sips at her own black coffee, the rich taste making her think of all the times she and Vanessa drank coffee and shared apple pie at the diner.

Brooke slows her walk to match pace with Vanessa as they go inside, and figures it’s best if their conversations are about the plan and nothing else. “So, there’s no cameras inside the bathrooms due to health laws, which I’m sure you know, and the bathroom closest to the kitchens is the best location to steal the necklace.”

“I know,” Vanessa says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a round black piece the size of a dime. “Put this in your ear. Yvie’s on the other end, she’s in their security system to see how big the camera’s blindspot is.”

“Ear comms?” Brooke asks in disbelief. “What are we, superheroes?”

“Just put it in,” Vanessa hisses. “And I think you’re a villain, for the record.”

“Villains do have good hair.” Vanessa used to tear her hands through it in bed, twirling strands around her fingers, and braid it when she was bored, each twist woven with love as Vanessa trailed kisses down Brooke’s neck.

“And big mouths.”

Brooke knows she’s been beaten and shoves the thing in her ear. It doesn’t feel much different from her ear buds. She and Vanessa would sit tethered together by a shared ear bud wire, giggling as they chose songs for each other, a dazzling world of music unfolding for them.

“Keep up, Brooke.”

—

“You wanna run a scam together?”

Brooke’s stomach flutters at Vanessa’s offer. They’ve been dating over a month, have exchanged kisses and watched movies at each other’s apartments, done cons in front of each other, but this somehow seems more intimate.

You had to be completely in sync to run a con with someone, because any hesitation or second-guessing meant disaster. You had to trust them completely to follow through on their end. Brooke’s never had that level of trust in anyone. Her ex-husband Frank was the last person she trusted, however half-heartedly, and he had taken the most precious thing to her heart, leaving her with legal bills on top of the others.

But Vanessa doesn’t know about that. Brooke isn’t ready for Vanessa to know about that. She doesn’t know if she’s ready for a duo con either, but she trusts Vanessa and her skills.

“Sure,” Brooke says. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking some old-fashioned distract-and-grab.”

It’s a two-person street job, where one talks to the mark and distracts them while the other picks the mark’s pocket. Easy enough, but there’s that trust again, not to mention the danger of being on the street.

Brooke usually shies away from street cons, which require you to get much closer to the mark, so close they could identify you or even grab you if they figured out what you were doing. Brooke prefers running hers with a phone or credit card barrier, with lots of careful planning to avoid danger. But she knows Vanessa is well-suited to street scams, having the boldness and natural charisma needed to get strangers to bet money on a card game they’d never win.

“Okay,” Brooke agrees. “But I have some rules for street scams. Nothing after dark, no marks that look too dangerous, and no marks that need the money more than us.”

Vanessa nods. “Let’s do it.”

—

“How we doin’, Yvie?”

Vanessa’s voice rasps in front of Brooke and then crackles in her ear a millisecond later, a jarring effect she hasn’t gotten used to yet.

They stand in front of the bathroom, trying to act casual as Yvie watches them through her hacked security feed.

“So, there’s about three feet in front of the door and twelve feet across where the camera won’t pick up anything at all,” Yvie says.

“That’ll be enough for Silky. She’s gonna take the necklace off Plastique in the bathroom and put it on a tray in the blindspot to have it brought in the kitchen,” Vanessa explains.

“Sounds good,” Brooke says. She has to admit she’s impressed by the thinking Vanessa put into this. Brooke had reviewed the more detailed last Vanessa gave her last night and even she couldn’t find a flaw in it.

Watching Vanessa so closely, having the intimacy of planning a con thrown at Brooke again is bringing back feelings she’d forced herself to give up six months ago. She knows what she did was irreparable, and she even succeeded in pretending she no longer has feelings for Vanessa. But those feelings are returning as she watches Vanessa slam-dunk her coffee cup in the garbage, as she watches Vanessa’s eyes narrow in focus, head bent over her notebook. But Brooke can’t do anything about it, can’t do anything to jeopardize the heist. She’s silenced her feelings for six months, and she can do it a little longer.

They test the routes they’ll take on the big night, ignoring the beauty of the art around them, vivid colors and landscapes so realistic you’d expect to feel grass if you touched it. They’re much prettier than her world, and Brooke wants to climb inside and live there. Brooke wishes they could be here to take in the art, regular people on a date, taking pictures of Vanessa she could post later and look at whenever she wanted.

Maybe she can come back with Zoey some day. But that’s the future, and Brooke can’t let herself think that far ahead. She just has to breathe and go one day at a time, like she’s always done, no matter how much she wants to think weeks and months ahead.

Their work here is done, and Brooke follows Vanessa to their next stop.

—

Brooke dials the clunky phone. The Nokias had been her idea, a way to signal each other without being obvious. She calls the phone in Vanessa’s pocket, the vibration signaling that Brooke is ready, and Vanessa can begin.

They’ve already chosen their mark, a businessman in a tailored suit and shoes worth Brooke’s whole paycheck. Shoes are a good indicator, she’s learned. Anyone can have one nice suit, or even one nice jacket. But no one would wear shoes that expensive, especially in maroon–people tend to choose black when splurging on shoes, because it matches more–as an everyday shoe, unless they had ten more pairs.

Her heart picks up speed, the familiar adrenaline running through her veins. Even as the anticipation makes her feel larger than life, Brooke forces herself to disappear into the crowd, to go unnoticed. It’s something she’s gotten good at, for how tall she is. When Frank got mad he screamed at the first person he saw, and Brooke learned how to vanish.

Vanessa winks, and Brooke trusts her.

“Excuse me,” Vanessa starts, walking up to the businessman fearfully, “I think I’m lost. Could you help me?”

Brooke forces herself to focus, because Vanessa is a wonder to watch. She draws in her shoulders and widens her eyes, becoming younger than she is, an innocent girl people would drop anything to help, even in a city where most of the population would step over a dead body. Brooke herself would do anything to help Vanessa right now.

He begins giving her directions, and Brooke slips her hand inside his pocket, Vanessa holding his attention so well he doesn’t notice. Part of Brooke burns at the hungry way he looks at Vanessa, but she tells herself taking his money is good enough revenge. He has a leather wallet, slim and lightweight, worth as much as the money in it. Brooke frees four hundreds and puts it back in his pocket before he finishes the directions. Brooke can’t fathom having so much money she can carry hundred-dollar bills, so much money she wouldn’t even notice they’re missing.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Vanessa says as they walk away, Brooke triumphantly passing Vanessa half the money. Before she knows what’s happening, Vanessa tugs her into an alley, breathlessly pressing her lips to Brooke’s.

It feels like an earthquake rumbling under Brooke’s skin, her body buzzing and heart throbbing beneath Vanessa’s touch, Vanessa’s hands fumbling as they try to slip under her coat and heavy sweater to reach her skin. She forces herself to pull away, telling Vanessa they can continue this in her apartment, both giggling as they walk down the street.

“Look how big those cupcakes are!” Vanessa points at a bakery, the kind where cookies are four bucks a pop. Cupcakes with bright buttercream flowers shine in the window and Brooke can see the longing in Vanessa’s eyes.

“You want one?”

“Oh, Brooke, you don’t have to–”

But Brooke is already pulling Vanessa inside the cozy bakery. She doesn’t need to buy overpriced cupcakes right now, but she’s high on the success on their scam, high on Vanessa’s smile, and Brooke would pay anything to keep that smile there, let Vanessa enjoy her night a bit longer.

“Which one do you want?”

Vanessa bites her lip, teetering back and forth in front of the glass case, from chocolate to strawberry to lemon to red velvet.

“I can’t pick,” Vanessa says finally. “I like lemon and chocolate.”

Brooke grins. “How about we get both and cut them in half? Then we each get two flavors.”

Vanessa’s smile overtakes her face, and Brooke falls a little harder.

—

“This place is…fancy,” Brooke manages, looking through the restaurant window at all the people in suits and dresses, reading menus that didn’t even have prices.

“Even the damn soda is probably ten dollars,” Vanessa mutters. “And look at that guy’s lunch! Probably paid fifty dollars for that salad with one piece of lettuce and no croutons.”

“Like there’s any other reason to eat salad,” Brooke says.

“Exactly! Coulda spent two bucks at McDonald’s and got more food than that.”

“People think stuff tastes better when they pay more for it. Or if it has a fancy name,” Brooke says, the two of them at peace for the moment, united in their longing to scam people who spend hundreds on one lunch and still leave a two-dollar tip for the servers. She and Vanessa used to dream of tipping a thousand dollars after their big con succeeded.

“Ain’t nothing in there better than pizza. Or mac and cheese. Or French fries,” Vanessa declares, and Brooke smiles.

“Especially with ketchup on the side,” Brooke dares, and the faint smile she earns from Vanessa is worth the scowl that replaces it a second later, Vanessa turning her head away.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” Brooke asks, going back to the mission.

“I’m sure,” Vanessa says firmly. “Yvie’s been pretending to be Scarlet’s publicity head, hyping her up and talking to Plastique’s manager. Plastique requested Scarlet dress her for the Met.”

“She’s coming,” Scarlet hisses in their ear comms.

They turn their attention to the table inside where Scarlet nervously hugs Plastique. They sit across from each other and Brooke holds her breath as Scarlet begins talking about dress designs, casually mentioning how good a certain diamond necklace would look on Plastique.

“Damn. Scarlet could make a career out of this,” Brooke says, after she persuades Plastique to wear the necklace in just two tries.

“She’s good,” Vanessa agrees. “But not as good as me.”

“No, she’s not,” Brooke admits, the words slipping out though she knows they shouldn’t. She’s never been one to give out false praise, but Vanessa deserves it, has always deserved it, and Brooke can’t help herself.

Vanessa smiles, but it quickly turns to a frown. “Don’t be getting familiar. I’m calling the shots here, remember?”

Brooke nods, the two of them slipping into silence as Plastique agrees to wear the necklace and Scarlet suggests they meet Monday to sample dresses and view the necklace.

“Okay, on Monday, Scarlet will convince the jewel company to loan Plastique the necklace. She should have that covered.” Vanessa checks her phone. “Nina texted me. Vogue hired her as one of the ball interns and she’ll send more info when she can.”

“Okay.”

Vanessa crosses something off her list, and they move on.

—

Things come together over the next weeks, and Brooke is in awe. It’s like watching puzzle pieces finally making a complete picture. This was always Brooke’s favorite part of cons: the careful planning, analyzing each step and preparing for possible problems with it. Vanessa drew the finished picture and Brooke colored it in, perfecting each line.

They set up in a warehouse Yvie uses with her hacker friends, full of comfy, worn-in furniture. In days, it’s stocked with mission supplies and bags of chips and cookies that Yvie brings in, and it’s kind of cozy. Brooke has to admit that she counts down the minutes until she’ll be done teaching at the studio so she can head to the warehouse and work, the space always bursting with action.

Nina brings in a coffee maker, a blender, and a 3D printer, and Brooke mixes herself a smoothie and doesn’t think of where Nina got this stuff. There’s such an easy charm to Nina that it honestly doesn’t matter. Nina’s done well in her assigned role at Vogue, perfectly perky and cheerful and unassuming, getting them a seating chart and other information from the inside.

Nina has taken a liking to Brooke, always sitting next to her while they plan, and it’s nice to have a friend again, to be in the warehouse with the others working nearby, a change from the quiet life alone that Brooke’s had for six months.

“I got pizza!” Nina announces one night, loaded down with boxes. She sets them on the table and everyone swarms around her, even Yvie leaving her computer nest in the corner and taking slices for her and Scarlet. Brooke gets a slice for herself and looks over at Vanessa, pacing in front of the Met layout and seating chart taped to the wall, too lost in thought to care about pizza. Brooke grabs another slice and takes a breath.

“You want some string and tacks like the detectives on the serial killer shows?” Brooke asks.

Vanessa jumps and looks up at her, clearly surprised to have someone there. “Get outta here with that serial killer nonsense,” she says. “Besides, if I was making a murder board, it’d be prettier than this. I’d have matching colors and shit.”

“Flowers, too, I bet,” Brooke says.

“And ruffles.” Vanessa lowers her head and smiles like she’s lost a fight, her cheeks a rosy pink.

“Well, here,” Brooke says, handing Vanessa the plate. “You should eat something.”

“It has peppers,” Vanessa says quietly.

“Yeah. I know it’s your favorite.”

Vanessa is silent for a second, staring at the green peppers peeking through the cheese. She could throw it on the floor, or fling it back at Brooke, but instead, she takes a bite.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Brooke fiddles with the hem of her sweater, wondering if Vanessa will say more. But Vanessa goes back to her charts, and Brooke walks away.

Brooke isn’t sure why she’s so desperate to get back on Vanessa’s good side. Maybe because she hasn’t been able to stop loving Vanessa, even after giving her name to the police. Maybe because things ended so horribly, with Brooke never getting a chance to explain, that this sudden re-entry to Vanessa’s world is too precious to mess up. Her last chance to at least get Vanessa to stop hating her, maybe explain what happened, tell Vanessa the secret she kept for so long. She doesn’t think she can repair the crack in between them, but maybe she can smooth out the edges, keep them from getting hurt on the broken pieces of memory.

Nina winks at her when she sits back down.

“What?” Brooke demands.

Nina raises an eyebrow. “You still like her.”

“I…” Brooke trails off, because there’s something about Nina that makes her impossible to lie to, like you’re lying to Mr. Rogers. “Maybe I do.” But even that’s a lie, because Brooke knows she does, has known the entire time. Why else was she going so far out of her way to do things for someone she sent to prison?

“I thought so.” Nina smiles. “A’keria told me things ended after a con went bad last summer?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“How bad?” Nina asks softly. “Something you can try to talk through?”

Brooke just shrugs. They haven’t talked anything through, not that Vanessa has given her the chance. But how could she talk through sending Vanessa to prison, talk through her secrets Vanessa didn’t know? Talking about feelings has always been hard, something she could only manage with Vanessa. Lord knows her parents didn’t foster emotional health, ignoring each at dinner and arguing after they thought Brooke was asleep.

But Vanessa made her want to show her feelings. Vanessa made Brooke want to shout about her love from the rooftops and do every cliched thing people did in the rom-coms Vanessa always chose for movie night. Brooke knows she would still do all those things if Vanessa wanted them, and she knows the feelings she tried to push down haven’t gone anywhere, are poking through the soil like persistent spring flowers.

Brooke is still in love with her, and Nina’s smile proves they both know it.

“You know, I think you still have a shot.” Nina’s warm hand settles over her shoulder and Brooke has a lump in her throat because it’s been six months without anyone’s warmth or comfort, without a hand to hold or someone to burrow under a blanket with, and the simple touch is almost too much to handle. Nina points to the corner, and Brooke sees that Vanessa has eaten her whole slice of pizza, and she thinks maybe Nina is right.

—

Brooke snips the strings on the pristine bakery box, neatly cutting each cupcake and pulling Vanessa to the couch where they devour their feast, kissing frosting off each other’s lips.

“I love you,” Brooke says. It’s not as earth-shattering as she imagined, so natural it feels like any other statement. She’s never said it so easily, so early in a relationship, but she has also never meant it more. She loves Vanessa with everything she has, wants Vanessa with her every day, to hold her near and make dinner with and kiss on the couch.

“I love you too, Brooke. I really do.”

Brooke lays back on the couch, pulling Vanessa on top of her planting gentle kisses along her collarbone as her hands roam Vanessa’s back. Vanessa leans into her, lowering her lips to Brooke’s and sliding her hands up Brooke’s shirt again, stroking just beneath her ribs and making Brooke shudder.

“You sure you want to do this?” Brooke asks, pulling away from the kiss.

“I’m so sure, Brooke. I really, really love you, and I trust you. I want to do this with you.”

Brooke lets Vanessa pull her shirt off, both of them running to her bed. They nestle together afterwards, limbs intertwined, Vanessa’s head resting gently on Brooke’s chest.

Brooke is so warm with Vanessa’s skin against hers, so safe and secure, that she never wants this to end, never wants them to move from this bed.

She wants to tell Vanessa the truth about everything, stop the secret from wriggling inside her like a pit of snakes. She wants to tell Vanessa that she doesn’t teach workshops one Saturday a month like Vanessa thinks. She wants to tell Vanessa why she has so many bills, who the hospital ones belong to, how part of her heart was ripped away and she’d do anything to get it back.

But the words don’t come out, and instead she pulls Vanessa closer, buries her face in the top of Vanessa’s head, and drifts off.

—

The day of the heist creeps closer and closer as Brooke perfects her notes, making sure everything is accounted for, and she really thinks this will work. There’s ways it could go wrong, of course–there always is, especially with so many people involved–but the plans are so airtight, so organized, that Brooke can’t see anything wrecking them.

The real moment of truth happens on a Saturday, everyone crowded around the desk where Nina set up the 3D printer. Everyone holds their breath as a replica of the necklace is created out of thin air, a perfect copy of the one Scarlet saw in her dress fitting. Nina will find the fake after they steal the real one, and by the time anyone notices it’s just a worthless copy, they’ll already be 16 million dollars richer. Even Brooke can’t tell the difference between them, and things seem real in a way they haven’t so far. Duplicating the necklace is one of the hardest parts, and with that done, what can’t they do?

“Okay, Silky,” Vanessa starts, standing at the head of the table like a general about to lead her troops into battle. “You’ll be posing as a waitress. We’ll get Plastique in the bathroom and you take the necklace off her. Then put it on a waiter’s tray to get it in the kitchen with A’keria.”

“I’m sorry, but ‘In the kitchen with A’keria’ is the cooking show I never knew I needed,” Yvie interjects.

“I’d watch the shit out of that,” Scarlet says.

“I’ll be a guest star,” Nina says, and then the table is in uproar, Silky demanding a fried chicken episode.

Brooke snorts into her arm as Vanessa bites her lip to keep a laugh in before finally letting one out and then clapping to regain everyone’s attention.

“How are we gonna get Plastique in the bathroom?” Silky asks.

“We’re gonna put something in her food so she throws up,” Vanessa answers. “Everyone else will leave, ‘cause who wants to deal with barf, and I’ll stand outside so her bodyguard can’t get in.”

“Who’s gonna put the stuff in the food, though?” A’keria asks. “You got me in the kitchen, but I’m washing dishes, not serving them.”

“Send me in,” Brooke says quickly, having already come to that conclusion in her notes. Vanessa opens her mouth to protest, but Brooke cuts her off. “Have Nina tell Vogue they need a nutritionist in the kitchen. I’ll be the nutritionist, I’ll put the stuff in her dinner.”

Brooke knows from Vanessa’s steely eyes and the smug grin she’s trying to hide that she likes the idea but won’t admit it. “Fine,” Vanessa says.

Everyone resumes their own planning. Brooke is running through a timeline for the night when a coffee mug slides in front of her. Brooke looks up and realizes she and Vanessa are the only two left, so wrapped up in her notes that she never noticed the others leave.

“Last of the pot. Didn’t want to waste it.” Vanessa says, already back on the couch.

“Thank you,” Brooke says, taking a sip.

Vanessa shrugs before tucking her legs beneath her, and Brooke bends her head over the desk, a comfortable silence between them. For a minute Brooke forgets the past six months have happened, and it’s just another night–Vanessa on the couch planning makeup looks for work and small cons to do while Brooke goes over recital plans for the dance studio, sliding a plate of cookies back and forth. She forces herself to forget it.

“You wanna check this before I leave?” Vanessa asks an hour later.

Brooke takes the notebook Vanessa hands her, feeling like she’s holding a piece of Vanessa. She checks the detailed run-through Vanessa sketched out and feels that familiar tug in her heart over reading Vanessa’s handwriting, at seeing her ideas in her own words. “Looks good.”

Vanessa just nods.

Brooke grabs her stuff and they head out together, both awkwardly looking straight ahead. It’s not until they hit the street that Brooke realizes they’re stuck, since she lives 10 blocks from the warehouse, and Vanessa is 15 blocks from her.

Vanessa keeps staring at the ground while she walks, fists clenched tight. Brooke can’t imagine what six months in prison must have been like, the guilt settling in her stomach like bricks. She wants to hold Vanessa close, shield her from whatever’s in her mind, like Vanessa did for her countless times. She wants to give back some of the love and protection Vanessa exuded every day.

“Hey, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” Brooke has to try to help even if it’s not her place. “It’ll work. Believe me, I’ve been there.” She remembers rough nights before taking the stage, feeling like her shaky knees would drop her on her face. Each slow breath made her lungs burn, resisting the air she needed before finally accepting it.

Vanessa doesn’t say anything, but her breaths come slower as they take each block, until they arrive at Brooke’s apartment.

“You got rid of the old place,” Vanessa says. They’re the first words she’s said on the walk, and it might be Brooke’s imagination, but they seem tinged with sadness.

It makes Brooke sad too, that she had to sell the home they made together, with the bright couch pillows and fuzzy blankets and the breathless nights in bed turning into relaxed mornings as they sipped coffee together before work. Their home, the place Brooke’s body longed for after a rough day at work, where Vanessa’s dog would leap on her legs and Vanessa would greet her with a kiss.

“Yeah.” The outside of the building looks worse than the inside, with its peeling paint and cracked bricks. She’s done the best she can with the inside, laying a small rug over the weird stains on the living room floor, hanging cheery yellow curtains in the kitchen. But it’s still not what she dreamt of, what they dreamt while cuddling at night. “Couldn’t afford it anymore after…” After I ruined what we had to protect someone I never told you about, Brooke thinks.

“Well, it’s your own fault you had to pay the rent alone.”

“I know. But Vanessa–”

“You always were a coward. Too afraid to do the stuff that coulda got you out of this,” Vanessa says, gesturing at the decrepit building, and something in Brooke snaps.

“Yeah, well you were always reckless!” Brooke shoots back. “You ran into stuff just to do it! You know the times you would’ve been caught without me?”

“I don’t need you!” Vanessa yells. “I was fine before I got involved with you, never got caught once!” She pauses, her shoulders heaving as she pants out her anger. Her eyes light up with a sudden idea. “I bet I won’t get caught now. That guy over there”–she points to a man at a bus stop across the street– “I’m gonna get him. You just watch and learn.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brooke says. Her anger is fading and her reason is returning, and this is definitely too dangerous. It’s dark out, they haven’t prepared, and something about the man makes her arms break out in goosebumps.

“I don’t care what you think, do I?”

“Vanessa–”

“I’m doing it. You can’t stop me.”

“Fine.” Some part of her wants to see Vanessa fail, wants her to learn a lesson. Vanessa crosses the street, and from the way the man starts pointing, Brooke assumes she’s doing a distract-and-grab. Her hand works toward his pocket and he jumps back, eyes locking on Vanessa.

Brooke watches in horror, fear bolting through her heart, as the man grabs Vanessa’s arm, and before she knows it, she’s across the street, wrenching Vanessa from his grip and putting herself in between them.

“Leave her alone,” Brooke says evenly. “She didn’t take anything, just go.”

The man stares at her hungrily, and Brooke’s heart pounds, mind racing with all the ways this could go wrong. He could have a weapon, he could call the cops…she should run but her feet are stuck to the sidewalk. She shifts her body to block Vanessa from his view, ready to protect her, because she never wanted anything to hurt Vanessa, and the feeling is still present.

He shoves Brooke with a grunt, and she’s usually sturdy on her feet but she’s too worried about Vanessa to steel herself, and she stumbles down to the pavement, hands scraping across concrete to break her fall. He runs off, and Brooke rises unsteadily, wincing as her hands sting. She hisses in pain at the red oozing across her shredded palms.

“What the hell did you have to play the hero for?” Vanessa stomps her foot, buzzing with anger, and maybe Brooke can’t fix what happened, can’t even soften the edges.

“I thought I was the villain,” Brooke says through clenched teeth. This is the last thing she needs to do. She needs to stay on Vanessa’s good side to get that money, but she can’t stop herself from giving into the anger, the sheer rage she’s been carrying the past six months, after her future was stolen.

“I had him! I had him, and you ruined it–”

“He could’ve really hurt you!” Brooke says, images of Vanessa bleeding, hurt and in pain, still flashing through her mind. “And you didn’t have anything, he was totally on to you!”

Brooke knows insulting Vanessa’s skills is one of the worst things she can do, and the defeated look that crosses her face makes Brooke want to take it back. Vanessa huffs in frustration, spinning around on the sidewalk. “Go, Brooke. Just go. I don’t want you in on this plan anymore.”

Brooke’s blood runs cold, tears pricking at her eyes. She needs that money, she needs it so badly, it’s the only way to pay for a lawyer and win against her ex-husband—

“Please. Vanessa, please, I’m sorry–”

“Just go.”

Vanessa heads down the street, already too far for Brooke to chase, and Brooke’s last hope goes with her.

[statusquoergo]

I HAVE! A LOT ACTUALLY! Harvey helping Mike picking up a suit for the wedding at Renes. And like he eould look at Mike trying one and just knows... like not realizing he loves him, but accepting, embracing it. He would just get lost in his thoughts for a moment and Mike would go like "Harvey? What do you think?" and... i'll leave to you to continue. Happy ending pleaseee

Read on AO3

It’s a long drive over to Rene’s.

Actuallyit’s not, not even close, but Harvey lost his sense of temporal recognitionsometime during the brief drive from his condo to Mike and Rachel’s place; onceMike slides into the backseat beside him with a giddy little bounce, bitingdown on a perfectly innocent smile, the next fifteen minutes somehow bothstretch out to three hours and condense to approximately zero seconds. ThenMike grins at Harvey and opens the car door again, and Harvey thinks he pausesfor a second or two before he gets out (which would be confusing if true), butat this point it’s impossible to know for sure (so it doesn’t mean anything).

Mike has the good graces to hold the shop door open andallow Harvey to enter first; Harvey gifts him a gracious little quirk of hislips, and Rene is upon them the moment door snicks shut.

“Harvey,” he dotes, stepping forward with his handsclasped behind his back. “Come to discuss a new palette for the upcomingseason?”

“Not today,” Harvey says with as much authority as he canmuster, given the circumstances. “Rene, you remember Mike Ross.”

“But of course,” Rene says smoothly, turning hisattention to Mike with far more respect than he probably did when they firstmet. The man knows good taste; he can see how far Mike’s come. (Harvey smilesproudly.)

“Interested in opening your own account, Mister Ross?”

Mike laughs clumsily; to his credit, Rene seemsunaffected.

“I don’t think so,” Mike tries to recover. “I’m gettingmarried, actually, and I figured if I wanted to look my best, I needed to…go tothe best.”

Good boy.

The polite deference in Rene’s smile softens his featuresfor only a moment before it’s time to get down to business. Ushering Mike tothe fitting area, hidden away in the back behind a subtle corner, Rene beginsflicking through a rack of sample suits, commenting a little snidely that themeasurements he has on file from Mike’s last fitting are surely outdated, butat least the fabric will hang better this time around that he’s not such alittle slip of a thing.

Mike doesn’t look even remotely offended, craning hisneck to survey the samples for himself, and Harvey marvels silently at how wellhe’s begun to fit into this world. It’s no wonder, of course; he’s alwaysbelonged here.

Abruptly, Rene stops muttering under his breath and pullsthree suits from the rack; holding a decent brown one up in front of Mike, hefurrows his brow and then scowls briefly, putting it back and taking a darkerblue in its stead. Harvey nods his approval at the swap, not that anyone’spaying attention.

“In this order,” Rene directs, handing the suits to Mikeone by one. “Come along, Mister Ross,”he presses when Mike only holds them nervously, “I am a busy man.”

Mike nods and looks around for a chair or something tolay the two remaining suits on in the meantime; when Harvey offers his arms, hesmiles widely in relief and hands them over.

Harvey steps back to wait.

“Glen plaid,”Rene says as Mike buttons the jacket of the first suit, a nice neutral greynumber that reminds Harvey of Roger Thornhill. “Pay no mind to the fit, this isobviously a mere trial run, but you strike me as a man who has a healthyrespect for something with a bit of history behind it.”

Gripping the lapels, Mike turns slowly and looks backover his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His lipsare parted slightly, his eyes focused but just a touch narrowed, and Harvey hasno trouble understanding his thoughts; he likes it but doesn’t love it, andhe’s afraid to upset Rene by disagreeing with his taste. Mike is right—the suitis a nice shade, and the cut will work well on him once it’s fitted properly,but there’s something too somber about it for the occasion, toobusiness-formal. This should be a happy day, the happiest of Mike’s life, andhis suit ought to reflect that.

For a minute there, Harvey remembers Mike’s splittingsmile, his child-like wonder when he’d passed on that simple message, You got in, and reminds himself thatMike’s happiness is the most important thing. (That’s why we’re here, afterall.)

Rene must see Mike’s hesitancy too, because he shakes hishead and gestures for Mike to remove the ensemble.

“Not a soul will appreciate it in context,” headmonishes, “this won’t do at all. Go on now, the notch lapel.”

Mike looks blankly at Harvey, who has the good sense topass over the other grey suit; this one is darker and without pattern, andHarvey hopes to god it fits Mike to a T because he has nothing but respect forRene’s eye for color and tailoring, but Harvey’s been present for enough ofMike’s five-year fashion odyssey to know that the strong shoulders and higharmholes will flatter Mike’s figure perfectly, and that dark grey makes theboy’s eyes light up like a night sky full of stars.

Well that’s a hell of a thing to notice.

The whole journey has been quite the adventure, hasn’tit.

From the very first day, dumping his plastic bags of potall over Harvey’s meeting room at the Chilton, Mike has put a spark in Harveythat he’s been missing since… He isn’t even sure how to finish the thought. Itprobably hasn’t been missing “since” anything, whatever it is that Mike adds tohis life; it’s all Mike, irreplaceable and incontrovertible. His cockinessthat’s been tempered with practice and defeat into a more dignifiedself-confidence, but never quite lost its edge; his enthusiasm for life that’sonly grown the more he’s seen of the intricacies of the world outside his ownexperiences; his determination in the face of overwhelming odds to protect thethings and the people he holds dear, to always do the right thing, or the wrongthing for the right reasons…

There has never been a man quite like Michael James Ross.

“Harvey?”

Harvey looks up at Mike on the fitting stage.

Whatever happens, from now on to whenever, he’ll probablylove him ‘til the end of time.

Mike twists his spine and then tries to stand upstraight, smoothing down front panels and raising his chest with some dignity.

“So?”

Handing the remaining blue suit back to Rene to return tothe rack, Harvey crosses his arms over his chest. Yeah; this is the one,alright. It’ll run up some kind of bill—he estimates about five thousand, giveor take—but it’s worth it.

“What do you think?” Mike presses a little nervously atHarvey’s lack of response.

Here we are, at the end of the line.

Just give me a second, kid.

This’ll take some getting used to.

It takes a little more than a second, but Harvey smilesand nods, small enough that Mike has to pay attention to catch it; he will,Harvey knows he will, knows it in the grin that breaks out on his face inresponse, the comfort with which he puts his hands in the trouser pockets, therelief in his relaxing posture. The sparkle in his eyes, like a night full ofstars.

Rene’s assistant appears out of thin air to take Mike’smeasurements quickly and efficiently, and Harvey slips his credit card to Reneduring a particularly distracted moment; Mike catches him all the same andHarvey raises his hand to stem any potential protests.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists. “All part of beingthe best man.”

Mike is about to say something anyway before he thinksbetter of it. His face falls, just a touch, like he’s worried about something;Harvey hopes it isn’t the money. Whatever the final tally comes to, it’ll beworth it to see that smile on Mike’s face again as he stands in front ofHarvey’s windows, maybe on the balcony if it’s a nice day, backlit by the citythey both call home, on the happiest day of his life.

Yeah.

Mike steps down off the stage, shrugging out of thejacket.

“So, Harvey,” he says as he finishes putting his own trousersback on. “What’s wrong?”

Harvey stares, momentarily at a loss—surely he isn’t sotransparent—and then smiles as though the question is absurd.

“Nothing,” he says, the weakest of defenses. “Nothing’swrong.”

“So I know that’s not true,” Mike replies, unbuttoninghis cuffs to roll up his sleeves. “But how long is this gonna take? Ballpark.”

Harvey shakes his head; they’re not discussing this now.Not ever, but especially not now.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mike, don’t worry about it.”

“Harvey.”

God dammit.

Shrugging, Harvey tries to come up with something thatwon’t sound too self-incriminating. (Thisisn’t about you.)

“You’ve come pretty far,” he says. “I’m proud of you,kid.”

For a minute, Mike’s face is completely blank; he looksat Harvey like he doesn’t know quite what to make of him, like he’s just beengiven some important information that he isn’t sure how he’s meant to react to.Then it clears, and the pit in Harvey’s stomach lightens.

“It took almost six years,” he teases; “I was this closeto giving up, but here we are: Harvey Specter has feelings.”

This again.

This is safer ground; this, they know how to do.

“Don’t go spreading that around,” Harvey warns, raisinghis eyebrows, and Mike laughs.

“It’s on the record now,” he says, “no take-backs; can Iget it in writing, I’d like to have it notarized.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Mike laughs again, but it trails off weakly; his eyes dima shade or two, and though he’s still smiling, some of the luster is gone.They’re not kidding around anymore, and it was wrong to pretend.

Rene steps forward with his hands behind his back and anauthoritative coolness to his expression.

“Four weeks,” he dictates. “You will be notified upon thesuit’s completion and we’ll expect you to retrieve it in a timely manner.”

Mike blinks.

“Oh—thanks,” he fumbles. “Thank you.”

Rene nods, eyeing them for a moment before he turns tothe back of the shop and disappears. Harvey pats imaginary dust from histhighs.

Mike looks at the tie racks.

“Shouldn’t I be happier?” he asks idly, and Harveyfrowns.

“What’s wrong?”

Mike sighs.

“Nothing,” he says. “That’s the thing, nothing’s wrongand I’m getting married to a wonderful woman and I got into the Bar and all mydreams are coming true and I should be…happier, right?”

Harvey steps into Mike’s eyeline and thinks about puttinghis hand on his arm (but he doesn’t).

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Mikeinsists, “everything is perfect, butI…I dunno. Something’s…missing, or something.”

He looks into Harvey’s eyes then, and Harvey’s definitelyimagining it this time, but it’s almost as though he finds a little of whathe’s looking for (whatever it is).

“Are youhappy?”

Oh, Mike, don’t ask me that.

Harvey does clap his hand down on Mike’s shoulder now, affirming and steadying and trying to remind them (himself) what’s real,what’s important.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “Like you said, you’regetting everything you want, and…I’m proud of you. I am.”

“You don’t think I’m settling?”

If that isn’t straight out of left field. Harvey shiftsback, just a bit, and drops his hand.

“I thought you and Rachel were happy together,” he says,because this isn’t about the job, can’t be about the job (not when Mike is backwhere he belongs). “Did she say something?”

Mike laughs under his breath. “No, but you kind of did.”

Shit, shit, shit—

Harvey tries to convey skeptical derision, hoping none ofthe panic shows through. He didn’t say anything, did he? (When?) No, definitelyno. (Did he?)

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s not what you said,” Mike clarifies, “but—just now,when I was trying on the suits, you had this… I don’t know how to describe it.This expression.” He shakes his head with a little smile and directs his nextcommentary out the storefront windows. “My grandmother used to get itsometimes, when she’d given me something that had been hard to find, or hardfor her to get; like she was happy I was happy, like all her sacrifices hadbeen worth it because I was getting something I really wanted, something thatwas important to me.”

Harvey’s answering smile is tight-lipped and narrow; heand Edith would have been good friends, he’s pretty sure. He’s sorry he didn’thave the chance to get to know her.

There’s a hardness to Mike’s stare when he turns back toHarvey, a set determination that Harvey doesn’t know what to do with.

“Am I missing out on something I don’t have to be?”

Harvey’s been in this game long enough to know when anopportunity isn’t going to come around again. All the signs are there; thesingularity of the surrounding circumstances, the trepidation of the otherparty, the risk inherent in taking the plunge, in saying “Yes,” the knowledgethat there’s no turning back once he does.

It’s a yes-or-no question, man.

Harvey steels himself and holds onto the tightness in hischest.

“Mike,” he says. “If there’s anything more I can do tomake you happy; you got it.”

It’s as much admission as he’s capable of giving at thismoment. Mike searches his face with those skylight eyes of his; he knows thesame, knows that they’re about to dive over the edge of a cliff without knowinghow long the fall will last.

His smile is small and uncertain, but that’s okay. (I’mscared, too.)

There’s just enough of a lead-in for Harvey to back awayif he really wants, but that would be ridiculous; then Mike’s hands holdhis head steady as he leans in and damn, the boy knows how to kiss.

Harvey brings his arm up around Mike’s shoulders, drawinghim in, holding him close, and it feels terribly sensationalist even though itreally isn’t; they’re behind a row of mannequins decked out to the nines, andanyway, no one spares them a single glance, no one gives a fuck; no oneunderstands how tremendous this is, how abruptly the world has been tipped onits axis. Righted.

Harvey opens his eyes a moment before they part; Mikekeeps his closed for a moment after as he drops his hands away.

“Uh-oh,” he says quietly, but he’s smiling as he does.

Harvey rubs his thumb up and down over Mike’s shoulder.

“You’ve got about a month before your suit’s ready,” hemurmurs, and Mike nods.

“Kind of sucks that it happened this way,” he says. Thecorner of Harvey’s mouth quirks in a little smirk.

“What can I say,” he offers, “I was tired of waiting.”

Mike bursts out laughing, raising his hand to Harvey’sneck and leaving it there as he looks away, regaining his bearings.

“Oh, god, I love you,” he says carelessly; Harvey waitsfor the retraction, the “oh shit” moment after he hears himself, but it nevercomes. They’re bigger than those stupid clichés, anyway.

“I’m following your lead here,” Harvey informs him,because this is fun and all, but there’s the real world out there with its realworld consequences waiting for the chance to eat them alive. Mike nods, his jawclenching surreptitiously.

“I’ll do you proud,” he replies.

Harvey kisses him again, quickly.

Nodoubt about that.

—

Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant), the protagonist of North by Northwest (1959), iconically wears a grey Glen plaid suit.

This is a black version of the suit Mike ends up buying. (More accurately, it’s this, but in that picture it’s just draped over a chair.)

[theattainer]

How the Modern Man Should Dress, According to 6 Professional “Wardrobe Fixers”

https://robbreportedit.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/victoria-3.png?w=1000&h=563

http://theattainer.com/how-the-modern-man-should-dress-according-to-6-professional-wardrobe-fixers/

How the Modern Man Should Dress, According to 6 Professional “Wardrobe Fixers”

A-list celebrities have stylists who dress them for everything from film premieres to their walks from the car to the airport terminal (yes, really). But who can civilian men of means turn to for their own personal clothing conundrums? A new breed of “wardrobe fixer” has arisen in recent years to hack the closets of financiers, tech moguls, entertainment executives and other elites.

Today, thanks to social media, C-suite execs who once went incognito are expected to be public-facing representatives of their companies, which means having plenty of judgmental eyeballs sizing up not only their business acumen but also their sartorial choices.

In other words, ill-fitting clothing and square-toed shoes are no longer acceptable. To make matters more confusing, the days of the suit as a trusty go-to are over—the nebulous term “business casual” rules the day, leaving many brilliant minds scratching their heads when it comes to dressing their bodies. So Robb Reportasked a few of the country’s leading style advisors to weigh in on how a man of accomplishment should dress in today’s world. Here’s what we discovered.

Victoria Hitchcock

Victoria Hitchcock Style, San Francisco and the Bay Area

Years in the Business: 25

Services: “Excavation,” or editing a closet; “Rejuvenation,” which is focused on building a wardrobe from the ground up; and “Lifestyle Optimization,” a full style upgrade.

Fee: $2,000 to $25,000

What makes you successful at your job?

“I don’t work with people’s posses,” says Hitchcock, who insists on dealing directly with clients. “I’m not a ‘yes’ person. I’m here to help you show your authentic self.”

What is the number-one mistake that men make?

“Getting bedazzled by brand name or price tag; these measures do not necessarily equate to quality. Also, men’s shirt lengths are always off. The cuff is too long, or on short-sleeve shirts it’s almost to the elbow. Some guys are still wearing a polo too wide, almost like a golf shirt.”

Loro Piana’s Stafford jacket. ($5,995)

What’s the most common advice you give your clients?

“I ask people, ‘Why are you looking to upgrade? Are you going through a midlife crisis? Is it because you’re single and you want to step it up? Is it because you work with people who all look a little cooler?’ Figure that out. And no matter what you buy, make sure it’s comfortable and functional.”

What does every guy need in his closet?

“A cashmere version of a car coat or a peacoat, something soft and elegant—think Giorgio Armani, Loro Piana. Also, a leather jacket—every guy wants one. Everybody should have a really crisp, white shirt with a great collar that’s fitted, trim, in good-quality cotton.” As for shoes, she suggests a Chelsea boot. “Saint Laurent’s have been iconic since the ’50s.”

Saint Laurent’s iconic Chelsea boot. ($945)

What are items that men in Silicon Valley, in particular, need in their closet?

“Hoka Bondi shoes: They are really cool but may be fashion-forward for some people. They’re insanely comfortable, like walking on a cloud of air. Plus, they add an inch or two in height!” Other stylish but subtler items Hitchcock recommends are sneakers from Maison Margiela, Lanvin or Golden Goose; Frame denim jeans; a Moncler puffer jacket and a Maurizio Baldassari vest.

Andrew Weitz

The Weitz Effect, Los Angeles

Years in the Business: Officially five; pro bono, more than a decade

Services: Everything from a one-off “getting started” program for those who’d like “a taste of the services” to an annual retainer program.

Fee: $500 and up

You were a Hollywood talent manager and an agent at William Morris Endeavor; how did you get started in fashion?

“I was always known as the best-dressed agent, and it was because I wanted a competitive edge.” Clients and colleagues took note, and a new career was born. “It’s about standing out in the right way, minding your details, and appearing smart and in control of yourself. You’re branding yourself.”

Giorgio Armani’s double-breasted blazer in checkered serge. ($3,095)

What is the number-one mistake that men make?

“Old shoes that are worn out, or square-toed shoes. I see a lot of ill-fitting blazers that don’t sit on the shoulders right or are a little too long. Men who wear jackets from their suits as blazers, which is a no-no. Tailoring is the most common problem. People think the bigger the clothes you wear, the more you’ll hide your flaws, and that’s not the case.” The right tailor, Weitz notes, can elevate an item from looking off-the-rack to made-to-measure.

Tom Ford slim-fit white jeans. ($650)

What’s your favorite example of how fashion helped change a client’s life?

“I had a guy whose wife thought he was having an affair because he looked so good, yet she was also more attracted to him than she ever had been. And a month after working with this one executive, who was a messy guy but good at what he did, his ROI [return on investment] was 20 percent higher.”

Bill Bolling

Sales Associate, Boyds, Philadelphia

Years in the Business: 40

Services: Personal shopping services at home; in-house tailoring.

Fee: Complimentary

Is there a piece of advice you give to every client that seems to work?

“Buy clothing that you’re not only physically comfortable in but mentally comfortable in as well. I don’t recommend wearing something that’s not a reflection of you or your personality just because someone else is wearing it.”

A classic dark Ermenegildo Zegna suit. (2,895)

What are the key pieces you think every man should have in his closet?

“My top five go-to items include a dark suit—I prefer charcoal; a solid-colored blazer or patterned sport coat; a pair of dark slacks; beige or white linen pants; and a nice jacket—three-quarter length, long enough to cover a suit. I like Zegna’s full line; it’s a brand that is classic in its appeal but with a modern touch. I also like Scuderi, a private label that we carry. It’s high-quality at a reasonable price point.”

A deconstructed Brunello Cucinelli jacket.  ($2,995)

What do a lot of men need in their wardrobes but don’t already have?

“Most men—especially younger guys— tend to not own outerwear. They think coats are worn strictly to avoid being cold. But in a professional environment, a coat is a ‘finishing garment.’ To me, this reflects someone’s thought process in business.”

Faran Sheikh

Style Advisor, Wilkes Bashford, Palo Alto

Years in the Business: 18

Services: Personal shopping, in-house tailoring.

Fee: Complimentary

How do you start to make over a man’s closet?

“I say, ‘Let’s fit one shirt, let’s fit one jacket, one suit, the pants. Let’s make sure everything fits perfectly.’ They always want it fast, but I work with Kiton, and I have to tell them, ‘We don’t rush. This is a handmade garment.’ You need to make sure everything’s right, first.”

Versatile five-pocket trousers from Kiton. (1,095)

What do you order?

“Navy suit, blue suit, gray suit. White shirts. Kiton has seasonal fabrics that I use to make them suits and jackets for going out and having fun. Then I build out the looks from there. If a man doesn’t need a suit for work, I’ll give him five-pocket pants and put them with a nice sweater—a nice V-neck or crewneck. And a beautiful, elegant loafer.”

Do guys in Silicon Valley wear sneakers?

“If my clients do, they have to be really dark and understated—navy, gray, black, like barely black. No color, though, not even white. For running, yes, but not every day.”

Brunello Cucinelli dark sneakers. ($795)

What’s your best piece of advice for men?

“I have to see the person, to see what size he is. If he’s a big guy, it’s one thing, and if he’s small, it’s different. I like to see the character of the man, what job he has. What is his social life like? I need to know what color his hair is, what color his eyes are, his skin tone. That’s how I pick the best colors for him. Everything is connected to the client’s personality.”

Bob Mitchell

Co-CEO, Mitchell Stores, Westport, Connecticut (and Eight Other Locations on Both Coasts)

Years in the Business: 28

Services: The store, family owned since 1958, offers house calls and will send over selections from your favorite brands or host VIPs before or after store hours.

Fee: Complimentary

Is there a big trend you’ve noticed lately?

“We are selling a lot of sneakers, but in the $300 to $3,000 range. Guys wear them with everything from jeans to suits. Something sleek from Lanvin or Cucinelli.”

Sneakers from To Boot New York. ($350)

Is there some piece of advice you find yourself giving over and over?

“Fit is the most important thing to looking current. I think there’s a lot of misconceptions out there, like bigger guys thinking they can’t wear skinny pants, but they actually look better. Or we get guys who buy skinny pants, but they still want to buy a coat that’s really long, and it looks ill-proportioned.”

What should every man have that he doesn’t already own?

“You know the five-pocket jean style? We’re selling a lot of wool dress pants in the five-pocket style. I’m wearing a Cucinelli one today; Zegna does one. Also, very soft sport coats that feel like you’re wearing nothing. It’s an element of being dressed up but in a casual way. Don’t be afraid to buy something timeless and high-quality. Another thing on my list every man needs is a piece of Loro Piana outerwear. Our number-one coat for five years is a three-quarter-length waterproof navy cashmere. When people first see [the price, $4,595] they’re like, ‘Man, this is crazy.’ It’s an investment piece! You’re going to wear it 100 times more than anything else in your closet.”

Loro Piana outerwear. ($5,145)

Is there a common mistake you come across?

“Length of pants. As the bottom of pants has gotten narrower, it should be shorter, or it just stacks on itself.”

Taff Bakali

Gentleman’s Personal Shopper, Stanley Korshak, Dallas

Years in the Business: 25

Services: House calls, doing closet assessments and sometimes bringing in a tailor to give items that extra little tweak.

Fee: Complimentary

What does every man need in his closet?

“A navy blue suit, and a charcoal one is a plus. A beautiful lightweight cashmere blazer you can wear all year round. A selection of white shirts—I have 20 or 30, because anytime I don’t have time to think about what I want to wear, that’s where I go. I love Kiton, but it’s an exclusive brand for a certain client.”

A Kiton formal jacket. ($9,995)

Any advice for guys when they’re shopping?

“Bring your wife along, if you have one. I love to have wives’ opinions: If she says it’s beautiful, boom, it’s a done deal.”

Is there a must-have for guys in Dallas to wear?

“Honestly, it’s a blue blazer—from the new kid who just graduated to the guy who’s running a hedge fund. What matters is the quality of the blazer, though. You can have it in vicuña, but that can be as much as $25,000. I’ve noticed that people have been buying jackets in the color Bordeaux. The problem is that once you wear it one or two times, it’s been seen. You have to put it away for a little while.”

Marol white shirt. ($850)

What’s the biggest change you’ve noticed in men’s tastes over your career?

“There was a time when no guy would touch a flat-front pant; now 90 percent of our store—all of our pants, really—are flat-front. And guys want tapered pants. When I started at Ralph Lauren, people wanted them bigger and fuller. And everyone wants to wear sneakers now. Cucinelli makes a cool one. Keep in mind they’re like $950, and customers will say, ‘Wow, that’s expensive,’ but they wear them almost every day.”

What do you think?

[bffhreprise]

Entry 171

 “Looks like Jarod will be a bit still.  I’m sure he won’t mind if we go ahead and start shopping.” suggested James, looking completely unashamed.

 :We are partially to blame for not telling James the time in advance.: claimed Mai.

 :He still should’ve taught Jarod to always dress up for a date of any kind with us.  Having to inform him simply delayed things further.: I argued.

 :He might’ve caught too many eyes before he met us had he known better.: Mai insisted.

 James quickly assured us “I’m sure he just got a bit flustered when he was asked to dress up.  You know what he’s comfortable wearing.”

 Alma took James’ arm and started guiding him toward a store, so we didn’t bother replying.

 :He’s so very tall.: I commented, staring upward at him through my sister’s eyes.

 :Especially next to Lady Pendreigh, but they’re still cute together.: replied Mai with an internal giggle.

 We weren’t going to say anything of the like to Lady Pendreigh.  She was occasionally grumpy about her height.  Both of us grinned the moment we stepped inside, looking around the store together.  This place was worth the trip.

 :I wonder what Jarod will like best on us.: pondered Mai.

 Our thoughts had merged on that point, wishing we could read his mind at times.  We were still learning how to deal with Jarod.  He was handsome but had no sense of fashion.  He was quick-witted enough to keep up against both of us, which was incredible for a human.

 :The way he smiles!: exclaimed Mai.

 :He’s always up to something, but the happiness is so genuine.: I agreed.

 Lady Pendreigh had spoken with the staff on our behalf, and we actually liked a number of the dresses they brought out as well as some of the suits.  The shoes were another matter.  Several pairs were cute, but most were too dull.

 :We do have a bit of a collection.: teased Mai.

 :But we could always use more!: I insisted.

   I felt her agreement in her mirth.  We wondered at times how people managed without another half.  One body wouldn’t have enough hands.

 :Or eyes… feet… anything really.: agreed Mai.

 Yet Jarod managed.  He was incredibly productive and still would sit around talking with us about anything we wanted.

 :The way he catches onto things is amazing.: I stated.

 Giving an internal nod, Ai said, :I love how his eyes light up as he asks questions and makes comments.:

 Jarod understood.  He always understood.  Unlike James who was idly staring around the room, Jarod always paid attention as well.  We both grinned outwardly.

 :He still can’t tell us apart.: teased Mai.

 :James is a freak.: I stated.

 We didn’t have a clue how he always knew, but there was no fooling him anymore.  He didn’t even have to glance at us, and he’d know which spoke.  Lady Pendreigh had personally analyzed our voices before.  They were identical, but James still knew.

 With Jarod still absent, we decided to start trying on our favorites of what we had seen.  Lady Pendreigh actually decided to try one as well, much to our surprise.  We smirked.  Everything had to be tailored for her, since practically no one carried her size here.  She did have much better luck in Japan when we all visited together, but there was rarely reason to see our mother.

 We sighed, knowing she was going to cause trouble.  Winning nii-san over was an imperative, but Jarod could manage.

 :Couldn’t he?: we questioned, feeling somewhat worried.

 “Hey, James.  Mila told me you four were in here.” stated Jarod from the other room.

 We grinned and hurried to finish changing again.

 “Sorry.  I should have thought to text you about it.  Why are you wearing your glasses?” asked James.

 :Jarod’s always wearing those things.: we commented to ourselves.

 :They do look nice on him.: admitted Mai.

 “That will not do.” stated Lady Pendreigh.

 :The glasses?: I asked.

 :She has no right to complain about mutlitasking.: Mai insisted.

 “Sorry, but I don’t really have much occasion to dress up.” replied Jarod.

 :Oh.: stated Mai.

 :Of course.: I agreed.

 We could guess how he was dressed.  After checking each other over, we rushed out to save Jarod from more scrutiny.

 Mai rolled her eyes as she said, :Black tennis shoes.  Really?:

 :Only Jarod…: I agreed.  Then I posed and exclaimed “Jarod!  Does this look weird?”

 Mai posed as well, smiling at him as she said, “I look cute though, right?”

 We could tell by the way he looked at us that he approved of both outfits.  His smile was so wonderful.

 “You both look great.” he assured us.  “Sorry that I’m a bit late.”

 Lady Pendreigh rolled her eyes as she said, “I’ll blame James, since the twins were already at fault twice today.  Let’s get moving, shall we?”

 We pouted but hurried to change.  Neither of us doubted that she had been annoyed by the outfit she tried just as much as by Jarod’s current attire.  After quickly stating what we were getting to the awaiting attendant, we hurried back out to Jarod.

 “James, please take care of the bill for us.” ordered Lady Pendreigh before we were even finished.

 He was looking at his phone in confusion when we stepped out, but we didn’t doubt he was worrying over something silly.  Jarod, on the other hand, looked nervous under Lady Pendreigh’s scrutiny.  She kept looking up at him as she typed something into her phone.

 :Working, working, working.: complained Mai.

 :She never stops.: I agreed.

 There were times when we were younger where we actually did try to get her to take a break, but she never really gave into our pleas in that area.  There would always be a laptop floating by or at least one of her phones with constant messages be exchanged.  She made our ten to fourteen hour workdays look like shameless slacking.

 :We do take several days off at a time when we want.: mentioned Mai as she took Jarod’s arm.

 :Because we’re sane!: I exclaimed, winking as I took Jarod’s other arm.

 When James returned to us, we took our purchases from him and then followed as Lady Pendreigh guided us to another shop.

 “I’d recommend getting no less than a dozen suits ordered, Jarod.  You’ll make a much finer impression at meetings if you dress the part of a millionaire instead of acting the part of a million dollar bum.” she insisted.

 Jarod tensed.

 “Please, Jarod.” begged Mai.

 Staring up at him, I said, “For us.  You’ll look incredible in a nice suit.”

 “Don’t you want to dress up for us?” asked Mai.

 “We really do love seeing you in nice clothing.” I insisted, letting my bags slide down my arm, so I could play with the button of his shirt.

 Looking from us to James, Jarod asked “Mind helping me pick some stuff out, James?”

 :Completely smooth in a fight…: started Mai.

 :Scared of nice clothes.: I finished.

 :Only Jarod.: we thought as we watched him retreat into the store with James already rambling about options.

 Taking a seat, Lady Pendreigh said, “James has impeccable taste in clothes.  They’ll be fine.”

 We nodded.  There was no arguing that James dressed well.  He was like some artist’s rendering of what a perfect guy might look like, but he was too stuffy.  Perfectly likeable.

 :Incredibly likeable.: agreed Mai.

 :But stuffy.: I complained.

 As we waited, we listened in on the boys talking about suits and their current wealth.  We also considered what married life would be like for Lady Pendreigh and James.  We could easily picture them being perfectly formal even alone together, casually chatting about the weather even if their minds were on a dozen other things.

 :More like a million for Lady Pendreigh.: argued Mai.

 :James might try to worry about a million things at once.  Hard to say.: I countered.

 She didn’t argue.  We didn’t know how they’d ever make any progress.  Jarod, on the other hand, was playful.  He wasn’t against showing his feelings even as he analyzed ours.  We were going to have such fun with him, especially with him moving into the mansion soon.

 When the boys finally returned to us, we told Jarod about how excited we were to see him in a suit, certain he’d look absolutely perfect.  He didn’t argue as we followed the other two into the next building over.  Once there, we thrust our bags at James, who instinctively took them without a word.  Then we dragged Jarod off to find him something more fitting for today.  With Jarod being a far more reasonable size than James, finding some things we liked off the rack wasn’t a problem at all.

 “You have to try this one!” I insisted, grabbing a navy suit off a rack.

 “No-no.  He has to try this one.” insisted Mai, handing over a black suit with a scarlet shirt.

 :Isn’t it ruby?: asked Mai.

 :Maybe it’s the lighting, but I think scarlet.: I told her.

 Mai took that shirt back from him as I took the navy suit away.  Then I handed him a plum shirt.  Well, Mai did, but I had spotted it when I looked at her.  Jarod had such lovely green eyes, and the plum-colored shirt would bring them out.  Knowing we were going with this ensemble, we used a spell to take off the tags and caught them as if they had happened to fall off.

 “These shoes!” I exclaimed as we approached the dressing room.  Mai let go of Jarod long enough to grab them for him.

 “Get changed while we find you a better tie.” we insisted.

 He gave us a half-smile before doing as he was told.

 We had some fun looking through ties and imagining what they’d look like on them, but we went with a simple black one with dark grey designs across it.  Time was running short.  The moment Jarod stepped out, we smiled at him and hurried to put the tie on him.

 “Perfect.” insisted Mai.

 “I’ll trust your instincts.  Lemme get changed back, and we can be off.” he told us.

 We quickly grabbed him and said, “No!”

 “You can’t change back, Jarod.” I told him.

 “There’s no time.” explained Mai.

 “And we couldn’t bear to see you abandon the clothes we picked so quickly.” I insisted.

 Nodding, Mai said, “Let’s go pay.”

 Luckily, he didn’t fight us.  Jarod could be difficult in his own way at times.  James and Lady Pendreigh had barely moved from where we had left them, so finding them was easy.

 Smiling, I said, “And we present to you…”

 “For your viewing pleasure.” stated Mai.

 “Jarod, the lunch-ready-jerk-who-stole-our-shopping-day.” we finished together, pointing at him from each side.

 James gave a thumbs up while Lady Pendreigh gave a small nod.

 “I suppose that will do.” she stated before turning toward the door.

 Jarod nervously looked over his outfit.

 “Ignore her.” I told him, lifting his chin with a finger.

 “You look wonderful!” exclaimed Mai, hugging his arm.

 “We adore this outfit.” I added.

 If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t have forced him to buy it.

 The three of us followed the other two to James’ car.  Once there, we quickly insisted that our clothes would be wrinkled if we all squeezed in the back, so the three of us hurried to where Jarod had parked his Mustang.  I let Mai sit up front, so I could pout in the back.

 “So where are we going?” he asked.

 “Migliore del Cielo.” stated Mai.

 “Just take a right two lights down.” I told him.  “I give far better directions, so I really should’ve sat up by you.”

 “Oh, sister… Jarod likes me best, and we both know I give better directions.” she claimed.

 “Jarod, tell her you like me best.” I begged.  “You know it’s true!”

 “As if I could fairly pick a favorite between minds like yours.” he teased.

 :He really is remarkable.: stated Mai as she rubbed the sleeve of his jacket.

 :We’ll have him.  Lady Pendreigh will help us if needed.: I assured her.

 When we arrived, Jarod tossed the keys to the valet, and we each took an arm.  He never seemed to mind the stares of onlookers, probably something he picked up from James.  With James around, a group was guaranteed attention.  The manager knew us on sight and personally showed us to the table.

 “Please remember to be on your best behavior.” instructed Lady Pendreigh as she stared into Jarod’s eyes.  “This is important for you.”

 He was quite obviously surprised with how he looked at us, but we just smiled, confident that he’d manage without foreknowledge of who was visiting.

 “Nii-san!” we exclaimed, catching sight of our brother.  We then ran to him and hugged his arms as he smiled.

 Speaking in Japanese, he told us “I am glad to see you, but please behave yourselves.  You two need to work on your manners.”  Turning to Alma, he bowed and said, “Thank you for having me, Lady Pendreigh.”

 James rose to greet him, shaking hands and saying, “I’m James Michael Somerset III.”

 “I’m Duncan Daichi Drache.  Thank you for taking care of my sisters.  They speak highly of you.” replied our brother.

 Jarod, who had risen as well, also shook his hand, saying, “I’m Jarod Davis.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 We sighed as our nii-san went stiff.

 “I’ve heard of you as well.” he curtly stated.

 We blamed our mother.  Since Duncan spent most of his time with her, he picked up all sorts of terrible habits.  Despite her, he had a good heart.  We had hope for him yet.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Skewed Fairytale Part 2

A Lovemode Fanfic

February 13th, 5:23 PM

Morning shift officially ended at five o'clock. But it was not at all unusual for a Pageboy to be stuck up to an hour after shift completing a task give him by a guest. Katsuki exited through the employee entrance with a sigh of relief.

“Katsuki-san!”

He turned to find Marudo waving for him. “Ah, Marudo-san, I thought I’d run home and change.”

“Oh, there’s not time. Our appointment is at five-thirty.” Marudo told him.

‘Appointment?’ Katsuki thought in shock. “Um, Marudo-san, the expense-” He stammered.

“No worries.” Marudo took his arm and led him towards a waiting limousine. “It’ll be my treat.”

“I couldn’t accept.”

“Nonsense. All that money Tori pays for me sits around in the bank since he always pays for our outings, too. It’s just a tuxedo, Katsuki-san.”

The limousine door opened and Kiichi stepped out. “Good afternoon. Marudo-san. Katsuki-san.” He greeted, grinning.

“Huh?” Katsuki froze. “What? What is he doing here?”

“Sensei heard we were going shopping, and offered to drive. Well, he offered Haruomi actually. So I thought we’d all go together.”

Katsuki had the distinct feeling he was being set up, but couldn’t figure out what for or how to get out of it.

“I’m looking forward to today, Katsuki-san.” Kiichi grinned.

If Marudo hadn’t been holding his arm, Katsuki was sure he’d have run away then and there.

February 13th, 5:42PM

Jinnai Kuniaki parked his car outside the tailor shop, pausing when he saw a limousine parked there as well. One he recognized the plate numbers of. ‘Wonder what Kiichi’s up to now.’ He studied the limousine thoughtfully. 'Hn, this should be fun…’

He entered casually, and a man hurried to greet him. “Good afternoon. Ah, Jinnai-san. Pick up or adjustments?”

“Pick-up.” Jin replied.

“I’ll go fetch it then.” He hurried to the back room.

“Oh, Katsuki-san! You should try this one on.”

Jin’s head snapped over to the left upon hearing his lover’s name. Katsuki was surrounded by Kiichi, Marudo, and a salesman. He was still dressed in his pageboy uniform, and his hair was still back in the ponytail he wore to work in. Marudo, who’d been the one to speak, was holding up a white tuxedo in front of Katsuki, who was looking a little overwhelmed and flustered over the whole affair.

“White, Marudo-san? That seems rather…impractical.” Kiichi opinioned.

“It’s very fashionable, though.” The salesman put in.

“But black is far more classy.” Kiichi complained.

“Will you be wearing your hair up like this?” The salesman queried.

“Hn?” Katsuki had completely forgotten about his hair, obviously. “Oh, no, I usually wear it down.”

“Truly? I always see you with it up.” Marudo mentioned.

“He’s always working around you.” Kiichi pointed out.

“How does it look down?” Pushing the white tuxedo into Katsuki’s hands, Marudo reached up to pull out Katsuki’s hairband, letting his hair fall into it’s natural style. “Oo-la-la, Katsuki-san.”

“Oh.” The salesman seemed inspired suddenly. “We have the most marvelous tuxedo fresh from the runway. Ian Sanders modeled it.”

Jin felt his eye twitch. He had no idea what was going on, but there was no way he was going to stand there and let Marudo and Kiichi dress Katsuki in anything modeled by Rin’s moronic client. Ignoring the salesman who’d emerged with his own order, he crossed the floor casually to come alongside the group. “What’s this? Is it buy the poor a tuxedo day?”

Katsuki turned startled eyes on him, but Marudo and Kiichi seemed unsurprised by his appearance. He definitely smelled a plot, but with Kiichi involved, that was a given.

“Jinnai? What a surprise!” It was obvious the other host was anything but surprised. “Did you have an appointment?”

“Just a pick-up.” Jin replied. To his amusement Katsuki was trying to hand off the tuxedo he’d been handed, but Marudo and Kiichi kept pushing it back at him.

“Oh, do you have some spare time, then?” Kiichi glanced over with a grin. “Maybe you could give us a hand. Marudo and I can’t seem to agree on anything.”

“And what is this all about?”

“I gave Katsuki-san a ticket to the theater.” Marudo supplied. “Tori won’t be back in time. And wouldn’t it be a shame to waste? But he doesn’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

Katsuki’s face was flushed red at this point. His eyes locked at some point on the floor. He looked like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which wasn’t far from the truth. He shouldn’t have been accepting presents from the other hosts, and he knew it. “And who’s paying for this?”

“Tsk.” Marudo squinted at him “Don’t you go being a stickler for rules now of all times. I’m not a guest. I can tip the staff as I see fit.”

“Tickets and a tuxedo? That’s one hell of a tip.”

“Well, Katsuki-san is my favorite pageboy.” Marudo replied. “If you’re going to be a sour puss, you can go about your business, Jinnai.”

Jin ignored him. “Why so silent, Katsuki? I’m starting to think they’ve taped your mouth shut.”

“Urk.” Katsuki looked up. “No, I’m fine! I just-”

“You’re going to get overrun if you just stand there. Are you honestly letting Marudo and Kiichi dress you?”

“They were just suggesting-”

“Marudo has no taste, don’t you know that?”

“Just talk about a guy like he’s not here, why don’t you?” Marudo huffed from the side.

“Marudo always looks nice.” Katsuki protested on the other hosts behalf.

“That’s because Tori buys his clothes for him.” Jin took the white tuxedo out of his hands, giving it a cursory glance. “This being evidence of why he does.” He tossed it over his shoulder.

“Eep!” The salesman ran forward to grab it up.

“I’d like to see you do better.” Marudo challenged… a bit late, as Jin was already glancing through the racks.

“There’s a subtext here, you know.” Kiichi whispered to Marudo.

Marudo nodded. “Mm-hm. He wants Katsuki dressed to his taste.”

“Here, try these on.” Jin pushed two tuxedos into Katsuki’s chest.

“But-” Katsuki began to protest.

“What? You need help dressing?” Jin smirked when a new blush colored Katsuki’s face. He turned to storm off to the dressing room, but Jin caught the back of his collar. “And, Katsuki, come out in them. We have to see the fit to make an appropriate decision.”

“Grr…” Katsuki didn’t reply, but stomped into the dressing area, shutting and locking the door loudly.

“You’re ruining our fun, Jin-san.” Marudo came up to stand beside him. “I was beginning to feel a bit like I was dressing Cinderella for the ball, and now you’ve completely taken over.”

“You two are hardly fairy godmothers. You’re more like the wicked stepsisters.”

“A mean spirited, but not inappropriate comparison. Still, when you fall for the Big Bad Wolf instead of Prince Charming, the fairytale is bound to get a little skewed.”

Jin chuckled, but before he could respond, Katsuki emerged in one of the tuxedos. The color was good, but the fit was baggy, hiding the attractive slimness of his figure. Jin shook his head. “The fit is terrible. The next one.”

Katsuki frowned at him, his eyes threatening rebellion. Jin watched him, glancing at the hard line of his mouth. He knew how to soften his rebellion to obedience. One kiss was all it ever took. 'One word of protest…’ He thought, waiting.

Katsuki seemed to read his mind, though, and he whirled away - returning to the dressing area.

“So obedient, and I heard he was quite the wild one when he first came. Breaking and entering and everything.” Marudo mentioned.

“Jin put him through intensive training.” Kiichi volunteered.

“Training your own companion. How very…Pygmalion.”

“Boy’s rarely this obedient.” Jin spoke thoughtfully. “He must truly want to go to this play of yours.”

“Chai says Katsuki loves going to the theater. Though he usually gets his tickets from Seiichi. Seiichi isn’t the only one who gets such things as gifts from clients. Why did you never take him, Jin?”

“With tickets bought for me by a client?” Jin gave him a pointed look.

“If that’s 'dirty’ then buy your own.” Marudo took ahold of his arm. “Treat him as only a sexual object and sooner or later, Wolf, some nasty Prince Charming will steal him away. Tori bought out the whole box, you know. Shall I have Sensei fill those seats with charming men from the university?”

Before Jin could reply, Katsuki emerged in the second tuxedo. Jin paused, studying him from head to toe, a smirk curling his mouth. He slipped his arm out of Marudo’s hold, and strode forward to study Katsuki closer. “Ideal.” He murmured. Katsuki flushed no doubt remembering the first time he’d used the word to describe him - exactly as Jin had intended he would.

“A coat?” The salesman suggest to Jin, obviously having noted who it was necessary to please to make the sale. “Or a cape, perhaps?”

“A cape.” Jin responded without pause.

“Jinnai-san?” The salesman holding his own suit approached.

“Put it on the bill with this attire.” Jin nodded at Katsuki.

Katsuki’s eyes widened, glancing at Marudo briefly. “But I thought-”

“I’m paying.” Jin cut him off. The salesman returned, placing a double caplet over Katsuki’s shoulders. Jin studied him for a moment before nodding. “That as well.”

“Of course, sir.”

“He’ll be wearing it out.” Jin returned to the rack, studying the tuxedos again.

Katsuki followed him “Um…wearing it out? But the play doesn’t start until eight.”

“We’re going to dinner.”

“Why?” Katsuki asked him, eyes wide in surprise.

“Because it’s dinnertime.” Jin responded as if that explained everything.

“Huh?” Katsuki paused, then scowled, following him around the racks. “Hey, wait a minute! What kind of explanation is that?? Because it’s dinnertime?!”

'Finally!’ Jin thought, turning to grab his collar and pull him into a brief, but heated kiss. “Be good, Katsuki.” He instructed, picking out a tuxedo and heading for the dressing room himself. He paused by Marudo, holding out his hand.

Marudo chuckled as he placed an envelope in it. “Enjoy your evening, Jin-san.” He turned to Katsuki - eyes dancing. “And you as well, Katsuki-san.”

“Hm? Do we have to go now?” Kiichi protested.

“Come along, Sensei.” Marudo took his arm. “Why don’t you and Haruomi have dinner with me tonight?”

February 13th, 6:17PM

'You can fail to recognize your own fantasy, until you’re served it…wasn’t that what Marudo said?’ Katsuki thought as he sat down at the table of the restaurant Jin had taken him to. It was easily twice as extravagant as any previous lover had dined with him at. 'Is this a fantasy of Jin’s? Or did he feel pressured because I had accepted Marudo’s ticket?’

“You’re awful quiet.” Jin mentioned.

“I… I don’t know this place.” He dodged the subject.

“Only a select few do.” Jin responded. “But it’s one of the best in Tokyo.”

“Why are we here?” Katsuki asked.

“I thought we’d already been over that. It’s dinnertime, remember?”

“That explains why we’re eating. Not why here. And not why together.”

Jin was silent for a moment, studying the menu. Feeling exasperated, Katsuki opened his as well. “So… you’ll accept tickets to the symphony from Seiichi, and tickets to the theater from Marudo, but protest dinner with me?”

“It’s not… I never… that’s not it.” Katsuki stumbled over his response. “I don’t want to do things if… I want to please you.” It was the only way he could think of to phrase it.

Jin leaned his hand on his fist, studying Katsuki across the table. “Well, then.” He took the menu from Katsuki’s hands. “I’ll be ordering for us.”

“Hn?” Katsuki blinked, then frowned. 'What the-how is that an answer??’

The appetizers were oysters. Steamed and served in shell with a sauce. To be honest, Katsuki wasn’t even certain how to eat one. Jin picked up the shell, sipping from it like a glass. Katsuki followed suit slowly, feeling slightly unnerved when Jin paused to watch him. “Historically, shellfish were regarded as an aphrodisiac.”

Katsuki nearly choked on the appetizer. “Is that so?”

“It is.” His lips surrounded the shell, sucking the meat off of it slowly.

“But it really isn’t.” He closed his eyes as he imitated how Jin ate the appetizer. He opened them to find his lover’s gaze on him, somehow both heated and smug.

“Are you certain? No affect at all?”

The only thing affecting him was Jin’s unwavering gaze. “People eat shellfish all the time. It really must be just an urban legend.”

“Hmm.” Jin took a second one, sipping at it. “Pufferfish is next.”

Katsuki was sensing a theme. “Isn’t that also said to be an aphrodisiac?”

“It’s also poisonous, if not prepared correctly.”

“I remember that. And isn’t it something like, if he poisons a guest, the chef has to take his own life? Not that that seems helpful in any way.”

“Honor.” Jin sneered. “To preserve the honor of the restaurant.”

“So it’s technically for his boss, not the guest that he kills himself.”

“I suppose.” Jin finished the second oyster, and sipped from his wine. “But it’s the thrill of taunting death that’s supposed to make the pufferfish an aphrodisiac.”

“Is tonight’s entire menu aphrodisiacs?” He asked. Jin’s smirk was answer enough. He reached for a second oyster, but Jin snatched it up first. He frowned up at his lover, and found the shellfish held out - a challenge in the host’s eyes. Leaning forward, he surrounded the shell with his lips, sucking the innards into his mouth slowly, his eyes sliding shut. The shell was pulled away, but a thumb brushed his lips - catching some of the sauce.

His eyes flew open and he felt his breath quicken as he watched Jin lick the sauce from his thumb. “No effect?” Jin challenged him.

Katsuki gave a toss of his head, meeting the other man’s gaze determinedly. “None.”

“Well, perhaps another course will prove more potent.”

Pufferfish, truffles and roe, caviar. Katsuki couldn’t remember a richer meal in his life. And with each and every dish, Jin would explain the qualities said to make the food an aphrodisiac, and the country it came from. Katsuki committed them to memory, as he had during his “lessons” with the host. Jin would always ask him about the things he’d told him later. Forgetting always displeased his lover. Dessert was a simple bowl of fruit with different dips. Refreshing after the richness of the meal. But no more innocent than the oysters. Not with Jin’s eyes watching every fruit he popped into his mouth, every flick of his tongue to catch a drip of sauce. He didn’t think it was the food half as much as Jin’s gaze that had his body coiled with need when the meal was over. If Jin had suggested skipping the theater to return to his room at the B&B, Katsuki knew he’d have agreed. But, surprisingly enough, Jin never made the suggestion.

February 13th, 7:47PM

Had he truly taught him to be so sensual? Or had it been a natural talent, rusty from disuse? The way his lips had wrapped around the oyster shells. Eyes closed in invitation. The flick of his tongue against his fingers as he ate the fruit dessert. It was titillating. Downright arousing. In private, they’d only have lasted half the meal before he’d have given in to whim and ravished the boy. He knew he was dying for it. Saw it in every catch of his breath and flush of his cheeks. And they’d get there. They’d definitely get there.

Right now they were climbing the steps to enter the theater, the double caplet he’d chosen for Katsuki flouncing a little between the stairs and the wind. He looked good in the tuxedo he’d chosen for him. And the thought brought back an old, nearly forgotten, memory…

“Sex in the snow.” Akechi, the Court Jester. The Omega of all the Semes of the B&B under Aoe Shougo.

“You’d get frostbite!” The original No 2 Uke. What had been his name? Eight years since that night. It took him a moment to remember. Jiima.

“Not if the sex was hot enough. Snow melts, remember?”

“Then you’d be rolling around in slush. That’s just gross.” Jiima had taken a drink from a bottle of wine he held, passing it to Jin.

“You’re just prissy.” Akechi had replied.

“Your turn, Marudo.” He’d ignored him.

“A blowjob on a building ledge.” Marudo had volunteered.

Jin had choked on the wine, laughing. “You’d fall off.”

“You partner would have to hold on tight.” Marudo winked.

“Suicidal sex, nice.” He’d passed him the wine. They’d snuck into the wine cellar. Well, actually, Akechi had given the guard a blowjob for the key. Shougo hadn’t been around for a month, and they’d been feeling cocky.

“Beat me.” Marudo had challenged.

“An entire night out in public titillating each other, with no chance of privacy for hours.” Jin told him.

“I don’t get it.” He’d complained.

“Think about what would happen when you finally did get somewhere private? You’d just rip into each other like wild beasts.”

The others had started laughing. “Isn’t that just your usual method, Jin-san? You’re a wolf.” Marudo had said.

“No, no. There’s merit to it!” Jiima had put in. “The wait would be savory. And if you got desperate enough, things could get wild.”

“Leave it to King to not have a simple answer.” Akechi had gotten ahold of the wine. “Okay, here’s one. Naked or dressed to the nines?”

“Naked, come on.” Jiima had said as if it was obvious.

“How are you a higher number than me?” Marudo had complained. “Taking it off is so much sexier.”

“I’m with him. Naked and ready.” Akechi had shrugged.

“Dressed exactly to your specifications.” Jin had offered. The group had paused.

“Damn, I think you’re onto something there, King.” Akechi had admitted.

“No arguments.” Marudo had taken the wine bottle off the seme.

“You don’t count, Marudo. You have no fashion sense.” Jiima had stated.

“What?” Marudo glowered.

“Seriously? Those professional dressers? Shougo hired them for hosts like you.”

“That is such a lie!” Marudo protested. The group had been laughing, and Jin had been opening a new wine bottle, when the lights turned on.

“Well, well. Don’t things seem quite merry down here?”

At the first word the group was on their feet, a little unsteady but there. Lined up in a mostly straight line, as if the show of respect could somehow make up for the empty wine bottles littering the floor. Marudo had hid the bottle he held behind his back. Jin hadn’t bothered trying. He knew it to be a futile effort.

Shougo studied the group as he came down the stairs. Paced the line silently. A corrupt emperor choosing the fate of errant members of his court. He reached down to pick up one of the empty bottles, going to Akechi. “The keys.” The command was obeyed without hesitation. “I’m afraid I’ve had to fire your little friend.”

The return smirk had been cold. “He wasn’t much fun anyhow. Not enough noise to even get a good hard up.”

Shougo chuckled, then threw the wine bottle against the wall. The sound of it shattering was loud in the room. They all had winced. “I don’t pay you to pleasure security guards! I don’t pay you to come down here and get drunk! Why don’t we see how a month without pay suits you?”

“Aoe-sama.” They’d bowed. Marudo had stumbled.

Shougo’s scowl had darkened. “Marudo!”

“Aoe-sama!” He’d bowed deeper, not losing his balance this time.

“You have a guest. Do you intend to service him drunk!”

“T-There’s thirteen hours before-”

Aoe grabbed the bottle from his hands. It followed the path of the first. Still half-full, liquid splattered - dripping down the wall to pool on the floor. Marudo winced away. “I suppose Shinzoo will have to take your place now.”

“?! But Shinzoo is No. 7!” Marudo protested.

“We’ll see what his standing is after tonight, won’t we? He may be moving up. You’d best try harder, Marudo. You don’t want to fall. That would indicate failure, and you know I have no patience for failure.”

“I know it well, Aoe-sama.” Marudo’s eyes had been glued to the floor.

“Kashima.” Aoe turned to his ever present second.

“Aoe-sama.” The man bowed.

“Make note of the transfer of Marudo’s client to Shinzoo. And that these four’s wages are to be withheld.”

“Yes, Aoe-sama.”

“Back to your rooms, all of you. Sober up.”

They’d bowed, wordless, heading for the door.

“Jinnai.”

He’d paused, waiting. The others had gone ahead, leaving him alone with Shougo and Kashima.

“I expect better of you than to be involved in such a pathetic display of rebellion.”

“I apologize, Aoe-sama. It was a lapse in judgment.”

“Hn.” Shougo had approached him. “A lover dressed to your specifications? Do you really dream of such?”

He’d stiffened at the taunt. “A jest.”

Shougo had chuckled. “Was it? Don’t bother with such wasteful speculations, Jinnai. The only dreams you have are the ones I select you to fulfill for a client. Forget the others. It’s too late for them.”

“As per your will, Aoe-sama. I am yours to command. I take my leave of you.” He’d climbed the stairs, only to find Marudo was waiting for him. “If Aoe catches you eavesdropping, you’ll pay.” He warned him.

“These bodies may belong to him, but he can’t stop us dreaming if we don’t let him.”

“Do you remember your dreams before this place, Marudo? Truly?” He’d challenged. Marudo had stayed silent and he’d begun to walk away.

“Jin-san.” The way he’d said his name stopped him. “As your friend, I’ll remember your dreams for you. Even once I’ve forgotten my own.” He’d glanced back at him, and Marudo had offered him a smile. “I promise.”

They were led to their seats. As the door closed behind the steward, Jin pulled Katsuki to him, kissing him hungrily. He didn’t even hesitate to respond, arms wrapping accommodatingly around his neck - leaning up to mold his body more easily to his. He let it continue for a moment, his hands sliding downward to squeeze Katsuki’s butt. The young man moved eagerly against him. Willing, if not downright wanton. It took all his control to push the pliant body away. “Behave, Katsuki.” He murmured.

“Me?” The young man gaped at him. “You started it.”

“A promise for later.” Jin smirked, reaching out to trace his jawline with his thumb. “Savor the wait. It’ll be worth it.”

Katsuki’s eyes regarded him warily as he took several breaths to calm himself. “You’re impossible tonight.” He told him, and took his seat.

Jin chuckled as he sat down next to him. He took his hand in his, bringing up his palm to nibble on. “This night has only just begun.”

To Be Continued…

Aw, wasn’t the flashback cute, scary, and sweet? If it’s possible to be all those things. LOL Marudo got into my “I love this OC book” with his promise to Jin to remember his dreams even once he’d forgotten his own. Damn, my Lovemode OCs just like to take on a life of their own…

Salmon

[male-emporium]

Editors’ Picks: Our 10 Favorite HSS Posts of 2016

from He Spoke Style - Men's Style, Fashion, Grooming, Tips and Advice

Our favorite posts aren’t the most popular – does that mean we have bad taste?!

While we enjoy writing each and every post on the site, there are always some posts that are simply more enjoyable to write for one reason or another.

A subject that scratches a creative itch or allows us to dig deeper into a bigger editorial idea. A scope of work that challenges us to go above and beyond in both our written and visual storytelling. Or a newfound passion that reignites the flame of curiosity.

These are the things that keep us energized because we don’t write because we have to, but because we want to.

We don’t write because we have to, but because we want to

If there was ever any doubt about that statement, I would respectfully ask you to take note of the fact that none of the posts included on our “favorites” list appear on our list of most popular posts of 2016. Do we wish some of our favorites would be your favorites too? Sure. But that’s not what it’s all about.

To that end, we’re thankful to have an audience that indulges our more creative and long form side from time to time. You are known by the company you keep. And we’ve got some amazing readers.

So here are our 10 favorite He Spoke Style posts of 2016 – in no particular order – and the stories behind the stories.

1. Speaking Style With Edward Sexton

A huge highlight. It’s not every day that you get to sit down with – and get measured by – a living legend. And Edward Sexton is about as legendary as they come in British tailoring. In addition to hearing all of Edward’s amazing stories and meeting the house’s exceptionally astute Creative Director, Dominic Sebag-Montefiore, this was a big moment for us in terms of content creation.

As a bunch of perfectionists dedicated to producing the highest quality product all the time, we can sometimes paint ourselves into a corner and induce paralysis when it comes to the actual execution of a high-level project.

The fact that we shot this on two cameras in the span of about three hours and produced an immersive, image-rich post along with an insightful video interview that generated a ton of positive feedback, gave us an immense amount of confidence in our ability to be light on our feet, mobile and create exceptional content even when time and resources are less than ideal.

Read the full article here.

2. Some Thoughts On Embracing Luxury

We’ve made very clear our position on transparency when it comes to our brand partnerships. As I know you’ve heard me say before, we are fortunate to be in a position where we can be selective with the brands we choose to partner with. We’ve worked with brands in the very distant past who have been incredibly prescriptive. And we’ve learned from those experiences that those arrangements never turn out positively for anyone – especially for you, our readers.

We want to work with brands who respect our editorial voice and vision, who know that we know our readers and brands that we are honestly very passionate about. In other words, brands who get it.

IWC is one of those brands. As part of a three-part content series centered around the release of a limited edition Portugieser (see below), we were turned loose and allowed the freedom to dig into a bigger cultural idea. I can tell you from experience that being given that sort of latitude by a brand is exceptional and is one of the reasons why we truly love working with IWC.

Read the full article here.

3. A Menswear Meet Up With Fabio Attanasio

Via the medium of Instagram, I’ve been able to discover and connect with like-minded and passionate people all over the world. And also via Instagram, one day in NYC I saw that one of those people, Fabio Attanasio, was in town as well. Though we were members of a mutual admiration society and had engaged online a bit, I’d not met Fabio in person. Until this day.

Our meeting was short – much too short, honestly – as Fabio had to catch a plane back to Italy later in the day after a successful trunk show in the city. But it was great to finally make a real life connection. Most important, however, was learning that Fabio IRL was the same Fabio I “knew” from Instagram. That’s not always the case these days and it was refreshing to know that there are some truly genuine folks out there.

Read the full article here.

4. HSS At Three: The Lost Art of Blogging

This was a big one for me. Did everyone like it? I don’t think so. I ruffled more than a few feathers – which I honestly intended to do in a free advice/teachable moment kind of way – and got called out for swearing. Do I regret it? Absolutely not. Why? Because it started a conversation.

In the past I’ve seen some of my favorite websites have some serious head-eating-the-tail moments so being self-reflective – even if it happened to be in a public forum – and honest about the space we work in was important. It allowed me to be up front with all of you and to reinforce to you and ourselves by laying it all out there, why it is that we believe we do it “right”.

Read the full article here.

5. The IWC Portugierser Tourbillon Edition “D.H. Craig USA”

I enjoyed writing and creative directing this post immensely. It was something completely new for us. Styling and shooting watches is not easy. It’s tedious. It requires excellent light. And it’s time consuming – no way around it. You shoot with a macro lens on a tripod and hold your breath while you’re making video files to turn into cinemagraphs. But it’s all worth it when you know you’re delivering a finished product of a quality that few others will actually take the time to produce.

Here’s an extremely interesting tidbit. If you’ve read the post – or just happen to be a watch nerd and/or IWC fanboy – you know that there were only 27 of these $57,000 pieces made. However, what we discovered after the fact was that the particular watch that we had been given to shoot and play around with was actually one-of-a-kind.

When we submitted our post to IWC for review, someone in the company noticed a small, but important, detail on the dial. Recently, IWC updated the font used for “Schaffhausen” from one with a serif to a sans serif font. Our watch, which was actually a prototype, had the serifed font. The watches available to the public used the new font. Don’t believe me? Check out the actual dial on the watches that were sold!

Read the full article here.

6. Remembering Bill Cunningham

When Bill Cunningham passed away on June 25, 2016, Instagram was awash with people posting photos of themselves that had been taken by Mr. Cunningham adorned by captions expressing how “honored” they felt to have been photographed by him.

Within this sea of ambulance chasing narcissism, our own Robin West penned a heartfelt, respectful and very sincere personal remembrance of a man – the progenitor of modern street style photography – who inspired her (and countless others) to express herself through the medium of fashion and to pursue a career in the industry.

This is the kind of relevant and affecting content so in line with our “don’t look at me, listen to me” ethos that we wish was possible to post three times a day.

Read the full article here.

7. A Rare Experience: The Macallan Rare Cask

One of the pillars of advice from our guide to drinking whiskey like a gentleman is “friends first”. So when the opportunity arose to partner with The Macallan to highlight their Rare Cask offering, inviting my buddy (and HSS whiskey editor) Chris Sarangoulis to experience it one afternoon was a no-brainer.

As someone who has pretty much tasted it all, Chris can be something of a skeptic when it comes to trying something new. And since up until that point, scotch hadn’t piqued his interest the same way that bourbon and rye had, he was doubly dubious of this NAS offering. While the food and the company were fantastic that afternoon, my favorite part of the experience was Chris saying, “Wow, that’s really awesome scotch!” And now he’s really into scotch…

Read the full article here.

8. A Guide To Buying Your First Rolex

This was a personal post. But one that turned out to be very useful to more people than I thought. Luxury watches are not cheap. In fact, they’re extremely expensive. And buying one is not an activity to be taken lightly. It’s a big deal. As I note in the post itself, it took me the better part of a year to research and decide which exact Rolex I was going purchase as my first. I thought by sharing my personal journey – both the good and the bad – that others in the same situation could benefit from that experience.

We have a set of three questions written on our white board in the studio designed to guide everything we do and every decision we make. We revisit them constantly. The first of those questions is, “What is truly unique about He Spoke Style?” And one of the answers to that question is the personal connection we’ve created with our readers.

We are not just another mostly voiceless editorial publication that is beholden to advertisers and the perpetual fashion calendar cycle, publishing boilerplate editorial because we have to. Over time we’ve nurtured a relationship with our readers to where you want to know what I – what we – think about this, that or the other thing.

I’m extremely proud that this particular article took nearly an entire year of actual, real-life research to write. I think it shows. And it is what, in my opinion, makes it stand out amongst the many similarly styled pieces – many from larger, “big league” publications – that exist out there on the interwebs. I wrote this because I had something I was passionate about and wanted to share with others who may share that passion, not because we needed this piece of content in our portfolio.

Read the full article here.

9. Italian Prep: Going From Polo To Pellegrino

Amidst a slew of posts focused on higher-level editorial ideas and personal and team achievements, a single outfit post might appear to be something of an interloper. But for a very simple reason, I like this one. A lot. For many guys, especially those just beginning their personal style journey, Italian style can seem a little advanced and very flamboyant. In keeping with our idea of approachability, the aim of this post was to demonstrate that this is not always the case. With a few simple tweaks, we showed you how to transform a classic preppy look into something a little more European – no excessive flair necessary.

Read the full article here.

10. What’s It Like To Drive a Ferrari?

This was a favorite (and absolutely amazing) for obvious reasons. Driving a Ferrari up the PCH on a pristine late-spring day is the type of once-in-a-lifetime experience that will never be forgotten. It was also a whirlwind. In less than 48 hours, I was on the east coast, in Big Sur and then back on the east coast after an overnight flight.

Aside from the apparent, there were two other personal highlights I’d like to note from this trip. First, connecting with a select few on the trip who I deeply respect and admire for their work. Second, having the opportunity to work with the photographer Michael Shaffer.

I rarely – hardly ever, actually – work with anyone other than Rob. In fact, it gives me great anxiety to step in front of someone else’s lens, especially for a high-profile project. Are they going to get it? Do they know how we regularly shoot? It’s scary when you’re required to create something without the person you create with 99.9% of the time.

But on this trip I had Mike. Lucky me. You’ve likely seen his photos gracing the pages of magazines like Motor Trend and for big advertising campaigns by luxury auto manufacturers all over the world. So it should be pretty easy to understand why I feel very fortunate to have had the chance to work with him.

Read the full article here.

What were some of your favorite HSS articles of 2016? Chime in below!

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stylishly Yours,

Brian Sacawa He Spoke Style

Photography by Rob McIver Photo

The post Editors’ Picks: Our 10 Favorite HSS Posts of 2016 first appeared on the men's style blog He Spoke Style - Men's Style, Fashion, Grooming, Tips and Advice

First found here: Editors’ Picks: Our 10 Favorite HSS Posts of 2016