#Italian merchant

[unbfacts]

[katriniac]

Silvio hates your wedding customs.

... not all the customs. Just one:

The DOLLAR DANCE

Picture it:

Silvio and Emma emerge from the wedding ceremony and go straight to the reception. It's all taking place in Rhodolite, because she told asked him.

That means Rhodolite customs are taking place.

When the emcee announces the "dollar dance", Silvio is at the open bar getting his drink refilled, so he doesn't take much notice.

Until men begin lining up to dance with the bride. His bride.

Silvio stares in disgust as the first man has the gall to slip paper money into her sleeve at the wrist. They begin to waltz.

"What. The. Fu--?? Hold my drink. Nah, on second thought --" He slams the liquor back, crassly wipes his lips, and stalks towards the dance floor.

Now the next man in line is putting a rolled-up bill under Emma's hem at the top of her shoulder.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

A few tumbled chairs, many foreign swear words, and one broken wrist later, Emma is explaining at the top-of-lungs what this wedding custom is all about.

Silvio matches her volume and stubbornness in refuting the fact that the custom is "stupid" and that she should know "no one gets to throw money at you except me".

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Amid the quietly stunned guests , Clavis gleefully puts a wad of cash in Nokto's palm.

Luke: " Why're you so happy to be forking over cash? Didn't you just loose the bet that Silvio would go ballistic over the dollar dance?"

Clavis: "Ah, yes, yes. I took that bet gladly, and raised the ante so high that Nokto couldn't refuse. I knew if this much money was on the line, he'd make certain the dollar dance would be at the reception."

Nokto: "A pleasure doing business with you."

Luke: *confused baby bear*

Clavis: *shrugs, guffaws* A nice, normal wedding dance is boring. Boring, boring, boring. The bribe -- er, I mean friendly wager -- was a way to ensure the occasion would hold some excitement!

[postcard-from-the-past]

Jewish merchant from Salonica, modern-day Thessaloniki, Greece

Italian vintage postcard, mailed in 1918

[peaches2217]

Fun Italian fact! "Grazie," which English speakers tend to pronounce "GRAHT-see," is actually pronounced "GRAHTS-yeh." I only figured that out because I went to Italy for Spring Break in college, and when I boldly and apparently incorrectly thanked a convenience store cashier, she slowly repeated it back with the correct pronunciation.

I wonder if she still thinks about that sometimes: that American who somehow ended up in an area with absolutely zero English speakers, taking her hint and realizing they'd been saying it wrong and then thanking her one last time with the correct pronunciation. 'Cause God knows I think about it every time I come across that word. 😆

[katiajewelbox]

The couple Dryden Fassa and Princess Millerna Aston from the anime Vision of Escaflowne have a very complicated shared path in life thanks to royal politics as well as Hitomi's interference with fate. Are they too opposite to ever attract, or are they really a strong match due to their differences complementing each other? This pair go through a lot of changes in their relationship over the series, but I hope they get a happily ever after one day whether it is together or apart.

My Picmix portrait features official animation stills from the series along with a painting of Venice by Canaletto.

[maranzalla]

The people who live in the courts of the great are more apt to be evil than good

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"FRUIT STORE OWNER SLUGGED, ROBBED," Toronto Star. March 5, 1934. Page 20. --- Assailants Open Vicious Attack Before Escaping With $4 ---- Slugged over the head from behind by two bandits before he had a chance to obey their command to "stick 'em up," Dominic Lamantia, 36, proprietor of a fruit market at Parliament and Carlton Sts., was robbed of $4 as he stepped from his truck at the rear of his home, 45 Pерlar Ave., East York, a.m. at 1 yesterday. Mr. Lamantia suffered a deep scalp wound and injuries to his fingers which were hurt when the robbers tramped on him as he fell.

Three or possibly four men drove up in a car behind Mr. Lamantia as he returned home with his truck, according to information given East York police by neighbors. Two men alighted from the car as Mr. Lamantía turned in his driveway and the robbers' car continued a short distance up the street with its lights extinguished.

"I heard footsteps as I stopped my truck to open the garage doors and I knew what they were after," Mr. Lamantia told The Star later. "One of them shoved a gun into my side and said 'Stick 'em up, but before I could step off the running board the other fellow smashed me over the back of the head. I can remember pulling out $4, all I had. I had hollered when I was struck and the noise attracted Russell Smith, my neighbor, who came to the back window. That frightened them. It wouldn't have been so bad if they had just taken my money, but to hit me on the head without warning makes me mad."

Police think the thugs followed Mr. Lamantia from his store expecting him to have the Saturday's cash takings on his person.

[mapsontheweb]

Spread of the Black Death, 1346-1353. It arrived from Central Asia & quickly traveled on merchant ships carrying grains & furs from the Italian Black Sea colonies Tana & Kaffa, moving west along the dense, interwoven trade networks and eventually causing ~ 50 million deaths.

(Credit: Simeon Netchev)

[nightmaremonarch]

jojo’s bizarre fantasy au BECAUSE I LOVE PART 5 AUGHHHHHHHHH

i rewatched the entirety of part five in the span it took to make this. Details about the lore and characters below the cut ^_^

Ok. I will be separating this based on character… in an attempt to be more organized. Included will also be my friend’s description that she gave for each character upon seeing the drawing.

Giorno Giovanna — Race, half vampire. Stand name, Gaia. Unfortunately lost his silly victory rolls, which have been replaced with donut shaped curls. Has a dream of usurping the Crimson King and ending his oppressive reign.

Friend’s Description: “‘pink is still manly for this era guys trust’”

Trish Una — Race, human(?). Stand name, Spice. I like to think she tries to maintain an air of elegance and superiority, but she’s just a kid who doesn’t particularly want to be in the situation she’s in. The princess of an underground kingdom? No way. She just wants to be Trish.

Friend’s Description: “Noblelady”

Guido Mista — Race, human. Stand name, Coitus Cluster (good god the creative juices are NOT flowing). Best archer, like, ever. Probably enjoys animal furs but is too broke to get any. Stinky loser.

Friend’s Description: “Robin hood.”

Pannacotta Fugo — Race, elf. Stand name, Purple Death. Former nobleman and still dresses like it. Had to limit the holes in his clothes because he is, unfortunately, not immune to being sunburn.

Friend’s Description: “totally not a vampire”

Bruno Bucciarati — Race, human. Stand name, Strings of Fate. I love him. He’s the love of my life. I may or may not have put the most effort into his outfit. He’s so beautiful. No notes. Also, since zippers weren’t invented till like… mid 1800’s, rather than zippers, he uses strings!!! Tugs on ‘em the way you would a loose hem…

Friend’s Description: “Italian nobleman”

Leone Abbacchio — Race, drow. Stand name, Rewind. It takes the form of a snake!! Because Moody Blues had them.. neck thangs. I don’t know. Anyways. Abbacchio coulda been drippier, but at the time of drawing I was running low on brain power.

Friend’s Description: “TOTALLY NOT A VAMPIRE”

Narancia Ghirga — Race, human. Stand name, Pheonix. Due to the fact that airplanes did NOT exist prior to some point in the 1900’s, Narancia’s stand is a bird. Probably breathes fire and can detect carbon dioxide… cannot come back from the dead though. Sorry buddy. Also, his left eye is blind from his eye infection. Sorry again buddy.

Friend’s Description: “peasant working on a merchant ship”

AND FINALLY:

Diavolo — Race, Demon. The Crimson King. He took FOREVER to draw. Especially those tattoos. I tried to make his color scheme salvageable, but seeing as I was working with Diavolo’s actual color scheme… it is not the best. Diavolo used to have wings as well, but after an incident that prompted him to go underground, they’re gone. He hides in the body of a halfling named Vinegar Doppio… though they are two completely separate entities.

Friend’s Description: “Dante’s homosexual Inferno”

idk if ill elaborate more on this au. depends on the reception of this…!! this is all just for fun… goofs and gaffs… love u sorry for only posting wips for months before this

also in this au i think stands would be called spirits/be spirits ok that’s all fr now bye love u

[fdelopera]

America owes its independence to Haym Salomon, a Sephardic Jewish Patriot

A Jewish American Hero

by Yosef Kaufmann

October 17, 1781. An eerie silence takes hold over the battlefield outside Yorktown, Virginia. After weeks of non-stop artillery shells and rifle fire, the rhythmic pounding of a drum is all that is heard. Through the wispy smoke that floats above the battlefield, a British officer can be seen waving a white flag. General Cornwallis has surrendered Yorktown, ending the last major battle of the American Revolution. The surrender of Yorktown and the nearly 8,000 British troops convinced the British Parliament to start negotiating an end to the war. On September 3, 1783, the treaty of Paris was signed. The war was over.

If not for Haym Salomon, however, the decisive victory at Yorktown never would have happened.

Haym Salomon was born in Leszno, Poland, in 1740. In 1770, he was forced to leave Poland for London as a result of the Partition of Poland. Five years later, he left London for New York City, where he quickly established himself as a broker for international merchants.

Sympathetic to the Patriot cause, Haym joined the New York branch of the Sons of Liberty, a secret society that did what it could to undermine British interests in the colonies. In 1776, he was arrested by the British and charged with being a spy. He was pardoned on condition that he spend 18 months on a British ship serving as a translator for the Hessian mercenaries, as he was fluent in Polish, French, German, Russian, Spanish and Italian. During those 18 months, Haym used his position to help countless American prisoners escape. He also convinced many Hessian soldiers to abandon the British and join the American forces.

In 1778, he was arrested again and sentenced to death for his involvement in a plot to burn the British Royal fleet in the New York Harbour. He was sent to Provost to await execution, but he managed to bribe a guard and escape under the cover of darkness.

He fled New York, which was under the control of the British army, and moved to Philadelphia, the capital of the Revolution.

He borrowed money and started a business as a dealer of bills of exchange. His office was located near a coffee house frequented by the command of the American forces. He also became the agent to the French consul and the paymaster for the French forces in North America. Here he became friendly with Robert Morris, the newly appointed Superintendent of Finance for the 13 colonies. Records show that between 1781 and 1784, through both fundraising and personal loans, he was responsible for financing George Washington over $650,000, today worth approximately over $13 million.

By 1781, the American congress was practically broke. The huge cost of financing the war effort had taken its toll. In September of that year, George Washington decided to march on Yorktown to engage General Cornwallis. A huge French fleet was on its way from the West Indies under the command of Comte De Grasse. The fleet would only be able to stay until late October, so Washington was facing immense pressure to lead an attack on Yorktown before then.

After marching through Pennsylvania, with little in the way of food and supplies, Washington’s troops were on the verge of mutiny. They demanded a full month's pay in coins, not congressional paper money which was virtually worthless, or they would not continue their march. Washington wrote to Robert Morris saying he would need $20,000 to finance the campaign. Morris responded that there was simply no money or even credit left. Washington simply wrote, “Send for Haym Salomon.” Within days, Haym Salomon had raised the $20,000 needed for what proved to be the decisive victory of the Revolution.

Haym’s chessed continued after the war. Whenever he met someone who he felt had sacrificed during the war and needed financial assistance, he didn’t hesitate to do whatever he could to help.

He was also heavily involved in the Jewish community. He was a member of Congregation Mikveh Yisroel in Philadelphia, the fourth oldest synagogue in America, and he was responsible for the majority of the funds used to build the shul’s main building.

He also served as the treasurer to the Society for the Relief of Destitute Strangers, the first Jewish charitable organization in Philadelphia.

On January 8, 1785, Haym died suddenly at the age of 44. Due to the fact the government owed him hundreds of thousands of dollars, his family was left penniless.

His obituary in the Independent Gazetteer read:

Thursday, last, expired, after a lingering illness, Mr. Haym Salomon, an eminent broker of this city, was a native of Poland, and of the Hebrew nation. He was remarkable for his skill and integrity in his profession, and for his generous and humane deportment. His remains were yesterday deposited in the burial ground of the synagogue of this city.

Although there is little proof, many believe that when designing the American Great Seal, George Washington asked Salomon what he wanted as compensation for his generosity during the war. Salomon responded “I want nothing for myself, rather something for my people.” It is for this reason that the 13 stars are arranged in the shape of the Star of David.

[ptseti]

"THERE IS NO GROUP THAT EVER CAME INTO AFRICA THAT MEANT ANYTHING GOOD FOR AFRICANS" -Dr John Henrik Clarke.

“The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart.” - From 'THINGS FALL APART' 1958, written by Chinua Achebe and was translated into Italian, French, Hungarian, Portuguese, Russian, Swiss, Flemish and other languages.

According to historian, Dr John Henrik Clarke, "every group of people that came into Africa meant nothing good for the Africans… and the very first thing each and every one of these groups did was to declare war on African culture…" What followed was the bastardization of African spirituality and ways that held the societies together for millennia before there was a Greece or Rome or before "the first European learnt to wear a shoe or live in a house that had a window." Or as Dr. Yosef Ben Jochannan put it, "Before there was Rome, Greece, Jerusalem or Mecca… Before there was a Jehovah, Jesus or Mohommet" (Muhammad ibn Abdul'Mutallib).

It most be noted that the first Hebrew to ever come into existence was a Chaldean from Ur, known as Abram in 1675 BC. Before then, their was no concept of a Jehovah or Jesus, whatsoever, and no Hebrew as a tribe, the world over, from as far as history revealed. By this time, the 82 pyramids in Kemet, and the over 203 pyramids in Meroe, the smaller Nsude pyramids in Udi highlands were already built. The Africans had their own spirituality through which they connected to the non-material world, through which they learnt science like iron smelting, as well as which herbs could heal what sort of disease, agricultural practice, astrology, alchemy, mining for useful minerals from the earth and so on.

Most of Africa were connected to the worship of a deity, Ptah. This was over 5000 years before the first Hebrew came into existence, it was thousands of years before Greece or Rome came into existence and before any Abrahamic religions (which are Judaism, Samaritanism, Christianity and Islam etc) came into the knowledge of anyone at all. Abram, the father of it all had not even come into existence.

In kemet, there was a belief that if one died far away from the Nile, one would not resurrect in the afterlife. Hence Kemet became the place of high culture for all tribal nationalities along the Nile from its source through modern day Tanzania, Uganda, Ethiopia Sudan etc. Abydos was a city of pilgrimage where most Africans, who could, travelled up the Nile, through the Sahara (Which was not a desert until about 5000 years ago, as archeological discoveries indicated), to worship and commune with other Africans. Osiris later become the god in Abydos while Memphis became the home for Ptah, after several foreign invasion from across the Mediterranean and the sands of Arabia.

Most of the magicians in Kemet came from Gao, a city-state of the Soudan(west Africa then). African regions and cities had their own gods and it was necessary to pay homage to the god of a land when visiting or passing through as a sojourner, merchant or gypsy. By this time, Arabian peninsula was the colony of Africans (Study from 'From Babylon to Timbuktu', 'The African Origin of Major Religions, Herodoctus, and Strabo's geographica).

{[IMAGE: The 'inner circle' of the Mossi people. Not every king on the throne rose to the societal status, necessary to attend this gathering. The first shattering effect on this 'inner circle' began when the Arabs arrived west Africa in the 7th century CE, while extending the trans-saharan trade routes through the desert.]}

[seongwars]

ardently | iii

Pairing: Viscount!Choi San x Countess!Reader AU: non-idol | regency au Summary: After falling victim to one of Choi San’s many wagers, you vowed to a life of eternal spinsterhood. However, when the Choi family faces the imminent threat of losing their estate, the very man you swore you would never forgive re-enters your life.  Word Count: 6.5K Warnings: yeosang's corny jokes, one swear word, historical inaccuracies (sorry again history buffs)

Fic Masterlist

a/n: finally, more plot!

Mornings at the Kang estate were typically quiet, a gentle hush settling over the grounds as dawn cast a soft light over the gardens and pathways. Peace reigned in those early hours—until, without fail, Duke Jeong Yunho would arrive with his boundless energy and unfaltering cheer. 

Though you had grown accustomed to the Duke’s frequent, and often untimely, appearances, the sight of him stepping down from his carriage at such an early hour still managed to catch you off guard.

Moments later, Yunho appeared at the threshold, looking every bit the gentleman with his neatly pressed coat and bright smile. He greeted you with a slight bow, the usual warmth in his gaze as he held out a parcel wrapped in fine paper.

"You do know it's not calling hours, don't you?" you muttered, wondering what had possessed him to arrive with such a sunny disposition at such an ungodly hour. It was only ten in the morning. 

"And here I thought I might actually receive a warm welcome. I came across something I thought might interest you."

You narrowed your eyes at him, immediately suspicious. The last time he had uttered those words, you’d been subjected to an encounter that haunted you to this day. 

"The last time you came across something you thought might interest me," you replied, eyeing the package warily, "it flew out of your pocket and onto my face."

Yunho’s grin widened, clearly pleased with himself. "Oh, you mean the toad?" he teased, utterly unrepentant. 

"I think it showed you more affection than I ever could. It really liked you, you know."

"It attacked me, Yunho."

"It befriended you," he corrected with a mischievous wink. "You're terrible at reading the intentions of amphibians."

You gave him a skeptical glance before cautiously unwrapping the parcel. As the paper fell away, your skepticism turned to surprise. Nestled inside were beautifully bound sheets of music, their once-vibrant edges slightly worn, as if they had traveled through time itself. The faded ink on the covers hinted at their age, while intricate notations in elegant Italian script decorated each page.

Your breath caught as you gingerly flipped through the compositions, your fingers tracing the delicate notes written by a hand long gone. The music was intricate, sophisticated—far more than anything you had ever expected from one of Yunho’s usual "finds."

“Where on earth did you find this?” you asked, marveling at the notes.

Yunho’s playful demeanor softened as he watched your reaction, clearly pleased with himself. 

“A merchant from Italy was docked at the port,” he explained, leaning casually against the doorframe. 

“We chatted about his goods, and the conversation eventually turned to music. He mentioned he had a collection of rare compositions from Venice—many of them passed down through his family. Apparently, his great-grandfather had been a patron of the arts, collecting works from Italian composers during their prime.”

He paused, his smile widening. “Naturally, I couldn’t resist asking to see them.”

You raised an eyebrow, still flipping through the pages. “And you just happened to strike up a conversation about music with a merchant?”

“Well,” Yunho admitted with a sheepish grin, “I may have mentioned I was looking for some rare items for a friend who appreciates these sorts of things. He showed me his collection, and when I saw the quality, I couldn’t leave without bringing some of it back for you.”

You stared at him, speechless. Yunho wasn’t typically one for grand gestures like this, especially without some sort of joke attached. 

“These are…remarkable,” you said softly, glancing back down at the parchment. 

"Well?" Yunho pressed, jerking his head toward the pianoforte with a gleam in his eyes. 

"I didn’t go through the trouble of charming a merchant just for you to stand there admiring the notes."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the corners of your lips twitch upward. "And here I thought you brought it over to practice your own skills," you quipped, folding your arms.

Before Yunho could retort, a shadow flickered at the edge of your vision. Your mother stood at the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her gaze keen as it traveled from you to Yunho with an unmistakable glimmer of interest.

“Yunho, how lovely to see you,” she greeted, but her tone carried a hint of something more curious. 

"Lady Kang," he replied smoothly, the slightest hint of a bow gracing his posture. "It’s always a pleasure."

“And I see you’ve brought Y/N a gift?”

Yunho hesitated, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. “Ah, yes,” he began, voice shifting to a more formal tone, “just something I thought she’d appreciate.”

Your mother gave a knowing look, her smile widening. “Oh, I’m certain she will! Though it’s not every day a young man brings a lady a gift with such…intention.”

“Mother, please don't.”

You could feel your mother’s amusement bubbling beneath her calm exterior. She had always liked Yunho, perhaps a little too much sometimes. The hint of matchmaking in her tone was unmistakable, though she never said it outright. Instead, she turned to you, her voice light. 

“It’s so sweet of the Duke to bring you such thoughtful gifts. One might think…” She trailed off with a raised brow, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

“Oh, is this the part where Yunho tries to convince everyone he’s not courting you?” Yeosang deadpanned, strolling into the foyer with casual nonchalance.

He glanced between the three of you—your mother’s raised brow, Yunho’s flustered expression, and your obvious discomfort—before his eyes landed on the stack of sheet music in your hands.

Yunho shot him a look of pure exasperation only to earn a shrug from his long time friend. You couldn’t help but snort at his mortified expression, grateful for the well-timed interruption. 

“Why don’t I have the maids set up tea in the garden?” your mother suggested, a sly glint in her eye.

“Yes, an excellent idea,” Yeosang agreed, clasping his hands with an all-too-innocent smile. He managed to keep his amusement at bay, though his gaze flickered briefly to Yunho, clearly enjoying his friend’s flustered state.

“Then it’s settled,” she declared, her eyes twinkling with unmistakable mischief.

⋆

The sun was gentle in the garden, casting warm patches of light through the leafy branches that stretched over the table. Your mother’s idea for tea outdoors was a success, with the scent of blooming roses in the air and a soft breeze carrying just the right amount of summer warmth. 

Yeosang, predictably, had gravitated toward the lemon cakes, nibbling on them with a contented sigh as though savoring every bite. You watched him, smiling to yourself, as he nearly stacked three cakes on his plate, an oblivious bliss on his face that somehow felt entirely on-brand.

“Remember the time you thought you could impress Lim Sara by climbing that tree in the garden?” your brother began. 

“You got stuck halfway up and had to be rescued by the gardener while Ms. Lim looked on in horror.”

Yunho’s face was flushed, but he was laughing too, his usual composure softened by the memories.  

“I thought it would be heroic!” he defended, voice muffled but carrying a hint of laughter. “How was I supposed to know climbing wasn’t my strong suit?”

“Is that why you turned to trading?” you laughed. “No trees to conquer, just ledgers and contracts.”

Yunho’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than usual, a warmth in his eyes that felt almost…tender. He cleared his throat, catching himself, and shifted back into the ease of conversation.

“Before I forget, I’ll be hosting a hunt at my family’s estate in a few weeks,” he announced, his gaze moving between you and Yeosang, though his smile was still aimed in your direction. 

“I expect you both to join me.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve been waiting to remind you of my superior aim,” Yeosang chimed in, smirking as he picked up another lemon cake. “Just try to keep up, Duke.”

A faint smile lingered on Yunho’s face, but then, almost as if in passing, he asked, “By the way, how is Mr. Choi?”

“Haunting our grounds like a ghost,” you muttered before you could stop yourself, a tinge of bitterness slipping into your tone.

“Y/N,” Yeosang warned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gave you a subtle shake of his head. 

It had been a few weeks since San’s accident. He’d been recovering in the guest room, and you’d barely spoken to him since your last encounter in the hallway. Every time you glimpsed at his door, a wave of apprehension washed over you, followed closely by a stubborn urge to look away, as if doing so could banish his presence from your mind. 

I think the world of you.

When he looked at you with those pleading eyes, you knew better than to believe it. His words were nothing more than empty pleasantries, meant to charm, meant to smooth over whatever fractures he’d left behind.

It was the sort of thing he could say without a second thought, words crafted to keep you wondering, lingering, trapped in a net of his own design. And yet… somehow, they’d managed to worm their way under your defenses, lingering in the quiet of your room and refusing to let you sleep. 

A scoff slipped past your lips, willing the thought away, only for it to worm its way back in. Maybe he had changed, or maybe this was simply a new tactic, one meant to keep you doubting your own instincts. But you weren’t foolish enough to be taken in again.

That night, you clutched your pillow to your chest and sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. A spinster’s life—a world unmarred by romantic turmoil—wasn’t that the fate you’d resigned yourself to? 

Yes, you’d be content, filling your days with the peaceful pursuits that brought you joy. Books and music would keep you company, their worlds vast and vivid, painting colors far richer than those society’s courtships could provide. You’d have the steadfast loyalty of a dog by your side, the soft warmth of companionship without the encumbrance of expectation. Your own home, a haven of solitude and independence, would be yours to keep.

And maybe one day, you would travel, explore new lands beyond the constraints of the ton, tasting freedom unchained by marital duty or obligation.

At least, that’s what you told yourself, hugging your pillow a little tighter, as if that small gesture might steady the quiet, yet stubborn flutter of longing that refused to be stilled. 

Somehow, against all reason, your heart continued to betray you. No matter how many times you’d sworn it off, how resolutely you told yourself that you’d no use for love, a glimmer of something softer—something almost hopeful—would creep in.

“I didn’t take Mr. Choi to be such a recluse,” Yunho commented, bringing his teacup to his lips. 

“He might be avoiding company now,” you replied, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from slipping through. “But it’s only a matter of time before he returns, likely more insufferable than before.”

Yunho chuckled, setting down his drink with a soft clink, but his smile seemed to fade a fraction as he studied you. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, and you caught a glint of concern beneath his curiosity—a silent question, perhaps.

“Enough about San—his accident is far too grim a topic for such a sunny afternoon.” He gestured around at the blooming garden, where the roses nodded lazily in the breeze. 

“No need to cloud such a pleasant gathering with talk of his sulking.”

You stifled a small laugh, grateful for the shift in conversation. “An excellent point,” you agreed, tracing your finger along the edge of your teacup.

“Now, about that hunt,” he continued, his tone brightening considerably.

“You'll need some fair practice if you’re to keep up with me.”

“I assure you, my skills are quite adequate. But worry not, your grace, I’ll try not to embarrass you,” you replied, smiling over the rim of your teacup. 

"Is that so? It appears I've underestimated my company," he said, his smile warm as though your confidence amused and pleased him all at once.

But as you took another sip, your gaze drifted over the garden, lingering just a bit too long on the pathway leading toward the manor. Here, in the company of friends, surrounded by laughter, you ease just enough to breathe freely. Perhaps, for a time, you could forget the questions clouding your mind—the ones about San and the strange ache that sometimes emerged with the mere thought of him.

San stared out the window of the guest room, the first light of dawn casting a faint glow over the courtyard below. Sleep had eluded him, leaving him tangled in memories that seemed determined to haunt him, replaying over and over in his mind. 

He could still see the way you’d looked at him–guarded, assessing his sincerity, and ultimately finding him lacking. His heart raced unsteadily, each beat a painful reminder of everything he’d done wrong as you walked away from him. 

What if he’d said too much? What if he’d said too little? He wanted to convey his remorse, to strip himself bare of all pretense, and let you see him as he truly was—not the arrogant rake who’d made you the center of a careless bet, but the man who wanted nothing more than to be worthy of the chance to make it up to you.

He knew you weren’t exactly thrilled to have him lingering around the estate, considering the awkwardness between you two. But despite your best efforts to avoid him, your paths seemed to cross constantly.

One morning, you attempted to slip quietly into the library for a few hours of solitude. But as you turned the corner, nose buried in a book you’d been meaning to finish, you collided—quite literally—with San. 

He was precariously balancing a towering stack of books under one arm, and the impact sent both of you stumbling. His books tumbled to the floor in a noisy cascade, and the two of you scrambled to gather them up, both muttering apologies, both avoiding eye contact.

You also had the misfortune of encountering him in one of the least dignified settings possible–right after a ride across the grounds. 

You tried to walk past him as casually as possible, pretending you hadn’t just emerged from the stables looking as though you’d been dragged through every muddy patch on the estate. You kept your eyes fixed ahead, hoping he’d simply nod in greeting and continue on his way.

No such luck. San’s steps slowed as he approached, his eyes taking in your windblown hair, your riding jacket streaked with dust, and the scuffed boots that had seen better days. 

His expression was uncharacteristically soft and curious, and the subtle rise of his brow suggested he wanted to say something, yet he remained silent, as if he, too, was caught off guard by the moment.

Your face warmed under his attention and you stiffened, willing yourself not to look flustered even as his gaze lingered. This was already humiliating enough without him turning it into an opportunity to tease you further.

Without thinking, you spun on your heel, aiming to escape before he could witness any more of your disheveled state. The muddy boots scuffed loudly against the floor, but you didn’t care; you wanted to put as much distance as possible between you both. 

At dinner, you found yourself regrettably seated beside him, your mother’s handiwork evident in her suspiciously delighted expression. San, for his part, was equally uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, a small, polite cough that seemed to signal his lack of readiness for whatever tension your mother had created between you. 

“The duck looks wonderful,” Yeosang piped up suddenly, his voice robotic in his attempt to break the silence. His eyes darted from you to San and back again, his expression painfully earnest. 

“A true masterpiece of poultry. You could say it’s egg-squisite.”

“Yeosang, dear,” your mother began with her tone that she reserved for moments of social critique, “perhaps it’s best if you let San and Y/N find their own…conversational rhythm.”

“You’re right mother, I wouldn’t want to duck into their affairs.”

Yeosang, clearly thrilled with himself, leaned back in his chair with an insufferably smug look, adding fuel to the already blazing fire your mother had set between you and San. 

⋆

San’s gaze followed you as you precariously hoisted yourself onto the edge of the fountain. He hadn't intended to stay in his room for so long, but there was something about seeing you alone in that quiet space, where the world felt distant and softer. It was a place where you were unreachable, yet somehow, he found himself drawn closer every time.

He knew he should give you space, especially after everything that had transpired a few weeks ago. The memory of that day haunted him—the way he had followed you down the corridor, desperate to explain himself. His words had been clumsy, tangled in his own frustration and the weight of misunderstandings. 

His breath caught as he realized how intently he was watching you, heart betraying him with a familiar flutter he had no control over. But as you moved through the garden, the delicate sheet music in your hands, his resolve faltered. He watched as you sat at the table, your movements so careful and precise as you set the delicate pages near the edge.

“What in the world…?” San muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing as he peered more closely. He could see your fingers stretching out toward something. Before he could make sense of the situation, his legs were already moving, carrying him out of the drawing room, down the stairs, and out the door. 

After seeing Yunho off with your brother, you were eager to fetch the sheet music he had gifted you. The delicate weight of the sheet music he had gifted you felt almost sacred in your hands, each page carefully filled with handwritten notes, as if you could almost hear their melodies in its silence. 

But just as you settled into the peaceful moment, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the garden, tugging at your hair and clothes and pulling the fragile pages from the table. 

Outside, you were oblivious to San’s growing panic. Your focus was entirely on the lost sheet music, drifting just out of reach. The wind had betrayed you, and now the last page of the composition was gliding lazily across the fountain’s surface. With a huff, you leaned further over the edge, teetering dangerously close to plunging into the water.

“Oh fuck me,” you grumbled, stretching as far as your arm would go without toppling over. The paper flirted with your fingertips, taunting you with its slow, inevitable descent into the fountain’s depths. 

“Y/N! What do you think you’re doing?” 

San sounded utterly scandalized, as if you were hanging from a cliff rather than a fountain ledge. 

Startled, you turned to face him, wide-eyed. The moment of distraction cost you–your arms flailed, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward, plunging into the cold water with a loud, humiliating splash. Water sloshed over the edges as you struggled for a brief moment before finally sitting up in the fountain, thoroughly drenched and utterly defeated.

San’s eyes widened in horror as he skidded to a stop, staring at you, sopping wet and dazed, sitting in the middle of the fountain. His concern overtook everything else, and without thinking, he jumped in after you, the water soaking through his clothes instantly as he rushed to your side.

“Are you alright?” His voice was breathless with concern as he knelt beside you, his good hand hovering just over your shoulder, unsure if he should touch you. 

Blinking up at him, you brushed the soaked strands of hair from your eyes, meeting his gaze with a flicker of surprise. His shirt clung to him, dripping from his hasty attempt to save you, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. For a heartbeat, you forgot about the ruined sheet music and your own disheveled state, captivated by how breathtakingly handsome he looked just then—his guard down, his focus entirely on you.

Curse him—and curse yourself, too, for noticing. How maddening it was that a face like his could soften even his sharp, infuriating personality, leaving you momentarily spellbound despite every fault you’d sworn to hold against him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended. 

“You fell headfirst into the fountain!” San replied, his words spilling out too quickly, flustered and breathless. His brow furrowed, cheeks flushed. 

“I thought—you might have hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

"Right… good," he muttered, clearly trying to mask his embarrassment as he bent down to retrieve a single, waterlogged sheet of music that had drifted past. 

You glanced at him, biting back a comment as you caught sight of his flushed face, water dripping down from his hair onto his brow. The sight of him, now a complete mess, tugged at something within you, though you weren’t sure if it was anger, amusement, or something else entirely.

San cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly as he looked around, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that he was standing knee-deep in the fountain with you. 

“I’m… I’m sorry about your notes,” he stammered, the words slipping out in an awkward, clumsy rush. His fingers tightened around the soaked page, but the ink had already bled, leaving only faint, dark rivulets smudging across the once-perfect sheet music. 

“I-I’m sure Yunho will understand.” 

A pang of guilt surprised you—you hadn’t expected to feel bad for him. But the moment Yunho’s name left your lips, you noticed the subtle shift in San’s expression. His shoulders stiffened, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he managed to mask it.

There was a beat of silence, the awkwardness hanging between you as you sat there, dripping wet and too close for comfort. You moved away slightly, crossing your arms against the cold water seeping into your clothes. 

“My Lady! Mr. Choi!” your head maid, Anna, called as she rushed across the lawn, a small battalion of maids and footmen following in her wake with towels bundled in their arms.

You exchanged a quick, sheepish look with San as the entire staff seemed to descend upon you both, determined to undo the mess of your unplanned dip in the fountain. 

"Good heavens, what a state! Mr. Choi, we can't have you catching a chill!” she fussed as one of the footmen wrapping a thick towel around San’s shoulders.

“We need to get you both dried and respectable again before anyone else sees.” 

She waved another maid forward, who quickly stepped in to brush stray droplets from your dress as you tried not to look too mortified.

San glanced sideways at you, his initial look of mortification easing into a wry, self-conscious smile. He held out the crumpled sheet music, his gesture hesitant, almost apologetic, as if hoping this simple offering might somehow make amends.

When you reached for it, his fingers brushed against yours, lingering for just a heartbeat too long—a subtle, tentative touch that seemed to test the unspoken boundary between you.

Without a word, you accepted the damp page, and for the first time, the distance between you had softened, shrinking ever so slightly.

The Jeong Estate was as magnificent as ever, its manicured lawns rolling in lush waves of green, punctuated by bursts of color from sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch endlessly around the grounds. But today, all that beauty was secondary; your focus lay elsewhere, drawn inexorably toward the stables to prepare Darcy for the hunt. 

As you made your way along the gravel path, the soft crunch underfoot blended with the distant clatter of hooves. A sharp murmur drifted over from the main courtyard, where guests were gathering for tea.

“It looks like the wallflower has made an appearance,” a voice sneered from behind a fan.

“Is it true the Duke paid her a visit?” another whispered, their tone half incredulous, half pitying, as if the thought of you being granted a visit from someone as high-profile as Yunho were an oddity in itself.

A soft scoff followed. “I pity him. Can you imagine being saddled with a wife so…ordinary?” 

The whispers stung, each one sharper than the last, but you had no intention of ignoring them. Pausing deliberately, you turned just enough to catch their attention, leveling them with a sharp, challenging look.

“Ms. Hwang,” you began, voice steady and biting, “if you spent half as much time minding your own business as you do discussing mine, perhaps you’d have more to offer a husband than idle gossip.”

A hush fell over the group as a few faces flushed in embarrassment, others quickly averting their eyes and murmuring with sidelong glances. The moment stretched, each second more uncomfortable for them, yet you held your ground, unbothered and unwavering.

“That is, of course, if any of you were to secure one,” a voice added smoothly.

You whipped around, surprised to find San approaching. Despite the sling still securing his injured arm close to his chest, his posture was relaxed, his expression unfazed as he directed a pointed smirk at the group. 

“Odd how those who contribute so little always seem to have the most to say,” he continued, his tone casual but cutting, as if dismissing them was hardly worth his time. 

The whispers died completely, the silence thick and heavy as the crowd shrank back, some even turning to pretend interest in the flowerbeds or silverware, clearly hoping to escape any further notice.

San shifted his gaze back to you, his smirk softening into a gentle smile. “Seems some people needed a reminder of their place,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” you replied, barely meeting his gaze, hoping the faint tremor in your voice would convey the sincerity you couldn’t quite bring yourself to express fully.

The weight of their prying stares bore against your back as you turned swiftly toward the stables, heart beating a little faster. As you approached the stable yard, the familiar hum of the estate—murmurs, laughter, the soft clink of silver—faded into the distance.

You were greeted by Darcy’s familiar silhouette, his ears flicking forward in recognition, his coat catching the warm afternoon light in a gleam that felt almost comforting.

"Hello, love," you cooed, reaching out to scratch the spot just behind his ear, the place you knew he liked best. Darcy leaned into your touch, his head bowing in a gesture that felt almost like a hug. 

"You’re the only one I can always count on, aren’t you?"

You slipped him a treat, his muzzle brushed your palm with a gentleness that made you smile.

“…A right mess it was, but we did what we were paid for.”

You froze in place. Your heart skipped a beat, as the clop of heavy boots and a murmur of voices approached. You edged closer to the shadows of the stable wall, ducking into Darcy’s stable, but before you could catch a breath, a soft snort sounded right by your ear, followed by a damp, insistent nudge against your shoulder. 

You tried to brush his nose away with a quick wave, but the horse was undeterred. His large, expressive eyes blinked innocently down at you as he pushed his head into your space once more, this time almost knocking you off balance.

“I didn’t expect ‘im to break his arm, though,” came another voice, rough and heavy. “Poor bastard’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

A third voice chimed in, this one sharp with a nervous edge. “Keep it down, would ya? You want the whole bloody estate to hear?”

They were talking about San. The accident. The stablehands didn’t sound remorseful—only wary, as though they knew they tread dangerous waters. A chill crawled up your spine, and your pulse quickened.

“Aye, well, it’s not like we had much choice, did we?” the first man grumbled. 

“We got paid good coin to add barbs to that saddle and stirrup. Not our business to ask why.”

“I still don’t like it,” the second voice muttered. “If someone finds out…”

“No one’s gonna find out. Just keep your mouth shut, and it’ll be fine.”

Your stomach churned as the truth settled over you—they’d been paid to tamper with San’s riding equipment. This wasn’t an accident at all; someone had intended to harm him.

“C’mon, let’s get back before someone notices we’re missin’.”

You stayed perfectly still as they passed by. Once you were sure they were out of sight, you exhaled shakily, your mind reeling with the weight of what you had just learned.

San’s accident had been deliberate, orchestrated by someone who had paid off the stablehands to sabotage his equipment. The thought of it made your blood boil. Who would do such a thing? And why?

But more importantly…who could you trust now? 

You were conflicted. Part of you wanted to storm up to San and tell him everything, to let him know of the danger he’d narrowly escaped. He deserved to know, didn’t he? But another part of you hesitated, wary of the chaos this might unleash. 

Whoever was behind this wasn’t some petty gossip or rival with a bruised ego; they’d gone to meticulous lengths to cause him harm. If they were willing to do this once, who was to say they wouldn’t try again?

Despite everything—despite the resentment you still harbored toward him for what he’d done to you—you couldn’t ignore this. He had to know he wasn’t simply a victim of chance. He’d been targeted, purposefully and maliciously.

You slipped out of the stables, treading lightly as you moved across the grounds with determination. Every instinct warned against going straight to him, but something stronger drove you forward. He needed to know about the threat lurking in the shadows.

As you rounded the corner of the path, you froze, the words dying on your lips. There, in the golden glow of the setting sun, stood San—and beside him, unmistakably close, was Cho Jini. Her hand rested lightly on his arm as they exchanged low words, their faces uncomfortably close. This encounter was precisely the sort of thing that would set the ton ablaze with scandalous whispers.

You blinked, and then a quiet laugh bubbled up. The Choi’s with their priority and meticulous attention to reputation had finally flung themselves into a scandal at the hands of their very own heir!

For a moment, you entertained the idea of simply backing away, retreating into the shadows to leave them in blissful ignorance of your presence. But then Jini’s eyes locked onto yours, her face paling as if she’d seen a ghost. 

“Ms. Kang!” she gasped, her fan clattering to the ground. “Oh, heavens—please don’t say anything! We weren’t—”

A prickling bitterness settled in your chest as San and Jini jumped apart. Why should it matter so much? you wondered bitterly. 

This was the same San who plunged into a fountain for you, casting aside his dignity in a reckless display of chivalry. The same San who, supposedly, thought the world of you and had defended you against the sharp whispers about your ordinary disposition.

Yet he was the same San who once again slipped effortlessly into the role he knew best—the role that required no self-reflection, no change.

"An unchaperoned meeting with Ms. Cho? You must think rather highly of the ton’s discretion if you believe they wouldn’t make you the centerpiece of their gossip, Mr. Choi," you remarked, watching San shrink beneath your penetrating gaze.

For a moment, his expression faltered, his eyes darting to the ground before he managed to compose himself.  He’d done this before—shrugged off impropriety like a second skin he could slip out of whenever it suited him. And yet, the unmistakable glint of panic that flashed in his eyes told you that this time…this time was different.

This time, he wasn’t in control. This time, his fate was in your hands.

He swallowed, his gaze flitting back to you, softer now, almost pleading.

“Y/N, I—Ms. Kang, please—”

“I’ll keep your indiscretions to myself but...at a cost,” you cut him off, voice low but sharp enough to make him wince. 

Jini’s face drained of color as she clutched her fan, looking between you and San with mounting desperation. 

"Oh, please—Ms. Kang," she stammered, her voice trembling. "You must understand. I never wanted… I had no intention of—"

She shot a furtive glance at San, then took a step forward, lowering her voice to a frantic whisper. 

“I don’t want this—I don’t want to marry him!” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her chest as if the very thought caused her physical pain. 

“You must believe me! Please—I'll do anything!"

Her pleas echoed in the garden, and you gauged her reaction. She was trembling, her eyes wide and pleading, no trace of affection or longing for San in sight. If anything, she looked like a cornered animal, desperate to escape a fate she hadn’t chosen.

“Anything?” you repeated slowly, voice cool and deliberate. Jini nodded feverishly, clutching her fan tightly as she awaited your response. It was almost laughable how quickly she’d thrown him under the proverbial carriage at the first sign of trouble.

“I have no interest in your secrets, Ms. Cho.” 

You shifted your gaze to San, who looked pale, his mouth opening as if to protest before you cut him off with a quiet, pointed tone. 

“It’s Mr. Choi I want something from.”

Jini looked from you to San, relief flooding her features as she realized she was free of her entanglement. “Thank you—thank you, Ms. Kang.”

Without another word, she turned and all but fled, her skirts swishing in her haste as she disappeared down the garden path.

San's mouth opened and closed in hesitation, his eyes darting around as if seeking an escape. You simply watched him, noticing the slight tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders slumped in defeat. There was something almost pitiful about it—a rare sight of vulnerability in someone who typically wore confidence like a second skin.

“I suppose this wasn’t how you envisioned this evening,” you said dryly, folding your arms. “Though I do pity you—it must be incredibly dull to sit with the rest of the ton, unable to hunt.”

"You must believe me, Y/N. I did not welcome that interaction from Ms. Cho. She approached me out of nowhere, and before I could even make sense of her intentions, you arrived.”

“I know. The poor girl looked like she was about to faint.” But the humor quickly faded, replaced by the weight of what you were about to say.

“There’s something more serious I need to discuss with you.”

Choosing your words carefully, you looked directly at him, hoping he’d understand the gravity of what you were about to say.

“Someone is trying to sabotage you.”

His eyes widened in shock. "Sabotage? What are you talking about?"

You took a steadying breath, keeping your voice calm. “I overheard some of the stablehands talking. They admitted to being paid to tamper with your saddle and other riding equipment. This wasn’t an accident, someone intended for you to get hurt.”

“And you’re certain about this?”

You nodded. “Whoever orchestrated this intended to send a message, be it to you or your family.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Consider this my way of thanking you for retrieving my notes the other day.”

“I appreciate the warning. Truly.” He hesitated, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“But… you haven’t said what you expect in return. You wouldn’t risk telling me this out of mere gratitude, would you?”

“Expect something from you?” You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I only said that to send Ms. Cho scurrying.” There was a glint of amusement in your eyes you didn’t bother to hide.

“I wouldn’t put much stock in it, honestly. She’s barely nineteen, likely frightened out of her wits at the thought of being trapped in a marriage with someone she hardly knows.” You paused, glancing toward the path Jini had hurried down. 

“In truth, I doubt her heart was in it at all.”

You took a step closer, leaning in just enough to hold his gaze with a playful intensity. 

"But if it troubles you, Mr. Choi, to feel so indebted…" you murmured, letting the words trail off like a subtle tease, "perhaps consider it an open invitation."

You paused, catching the way his brow arched ever so slightly.

"If ever there comes a time I require your… assistance," you let your gaze drift down to his lips before meeting his eyes again, "rest assured, I shall make it known."

You walked away, careful to keep your expression neutral, though beneath the surface a thrill pulsed through you. San’s struggle to maintain his composure had been a sight you’d savor for some time, but even that small triumph was only the beginning.

His breath hitched, though he kept his expression steady. After years of enduring the repetitive flattery and rehearsed charms of the ton, its never-ending cycle of polite rituals and insincere courtesies had become second nature to him.

But it was your quick wit and unpredictable nature that always drew him in and left him captivated. In your presence, he felt free, as if, for once, he wasn’t bound by the silent demands of society, as though he could speak and act as he pleased. In these moments, it struck him how desperately he craved your company. 

He knew it was foolish to allow himself to hope, but if you could ever return his feelings—even a fraction of them—he would give anything, everything, to close the distance between you and repair the rift he had so recklessly created.

For so long, life within the ton had been predictable, stifling in its polite routines and endless facades. You’d learned to navigate it well enough, adapting to the ceaseless tide of polite whispers and idle intrigue. Your patience for it had long worn thin. It was all a game—empty, shallow, and dreadfully dull.

But now, here was something real. Not just petty scandal or trivial gossip, but a matter with depth—a true conspiracy lurking beneath the ton’s polished exterior. And it wasn’t just an idle intrigue; it was an invitation, daring you to uncover its secrets.

Whoever had set their sights on San had unknowingly invited you into the fray, and you fully intended to unravel it.

<< ii | iv >>

taglist: @e3ellie @scuzmunkie

[anli-rambles]

I can't explain how incredibly funny I find that Spanish cheese merchant scene from Forsaken. Haytham strolls into a mansion with a stolen brick of cheese all confident in his plan just because he speaks Spanish fluently, but then he gets busted at the door by the first person he talks to and has to lie that he's actually Italian and somehow it works until he speaks again and immediately gets clocked as an Englishman by his target who also recognizes the cheese Haytham stole bc Haytham was wholly unprepared and unable to sell his act (man knows nothing about cheese) and just trying to bullshit his way through this mission, like if this isn't proof enough that he's 100% Edward's son idk what is

[proosh]

I can fully understand why Hima made Vene a coward who is Bad At War but it's a bit of a shame that almost nobody knows about how surprisingly vicious the Venetians were at times. like they were the first guys to put Guns On Ships and do naval bombardments to pummel the other merchant city-states into submission, and then much later in WW1 both the Austrians and the Italians were straight up aiming their artillery to cause avalanches and bury the enemy alive. real brutal shit.

[enchanting-chit-chat]

Beetlejuice's Backstory and the Black Plague 💚🕷️🥀💀 PART 3

Good evening! As promised, here’s Part 3 of my series on Beetlejuice’s past and movieverse. Today, we dive deeper into historical fashion, analyzing the outfits of Beetlejuice and Delores to uncover their personal stories.

If you missed the earlier parts, check out PART 1 and PART 2.

Warning: This post contains SPOILERS for ‘Beetlejuice Beetlejuice’ (2024)... and many, MANY speculations.

Quick recap: In Part 1, we discussed the Plague. In Part 2, we delved into Beetlejuice’s past, questioning the claim that he died over 600 years ago.

I wondered: is that really true? Why does his clothing reflect the Baroque style, then?

That's right! In Part 3, I confirm my previous point: there are several clues suggesting that Beetlejuice most likely lived during the Baroque era - a cultural movement that began in Rome at the end of the 16th century and faded around 1750. Here is the list of the clues I noticed:

The lace neckband around BJ's neck.

His three-piece wedding suit.

Delores off-the-shoulder neckline and puffed sleeves.

The bird masks used by Delores and the undertakers.

AliveBeetlejuice first outfit (when he's stealing from corpses): specifically, the pirate shirt and the type of shoes.

Keep in mind that most of these elements were revolutionary novelties of the 16th-17th century. Here is proof for every. single. one of them.

The Lace Cravat

A behind the scenes still of Michael Keaton in 'Beetlejuice Beetlejuice' vs. the portrait of Jacob de Witte, Lord of Haamstede (Netherlands). The artwork was made by Jan Mijtens in 1660.

The first cravat, the predecessor of modern neckties and bow ties, originated in France during Louis XIV’s reign as a political and fashion statement. (Although the early idea comes from the Ancient Roman focale, used around 200 CE). The King was inspired by a particularly eye-catching necktie wore by Croatian mercenaries as part of their uniform. The new article of clothing quickly became a fashion staple for high-ranking men across Europe.

In its use, it represented the evolution of the common handkerchief, already popular in the 1500s as a practical tool, a flirty decoration, and a status symbol. I believe the variant Beetlejuice is wearing in the picture is called ‘jabot,’ and is one of the older, simpler versions.

Lace, often used in cravats, highlighted the wearer’s wealth. Italian lace, especially from Venice, was highly sought after by the European elite since the 15th century, when ruffs and collars were in vogue.

This detail suggests two possibilities:

Beetlejuice might have been an impoverished aristocrat (or a rich merchant) clinging to his title until the end. This could also explain the ring on his index finger, symbolizing power or family ties. Or both.

Alternatively, he may have been someone who strongly wished to be part of the elite.

Jacket and Breeches

Aristocratic fashion, 1630 (Victoria & Albert collection) vs. What Beetlejuice wore in the wedding scene.

Another standout innovation of the Baroque period was the introduction of the three-piece men’s suit, known as the ‘Habit à la française.’

This ensemble included a tailcoat (a calf-length jacket), a coat (a long waistcoat), and knee-length breeches. Like the cravat, this fashion was adopted across Europe. As you can see, Beetlejuice is perfectly embodying this fashion, which evolved and remained popular until the 19th century. Interestingly, one shoe is missing.

Pirate Shirt

Originating in the 16th-17th century, the ‘poet shirt’ or ‘poet blouse’ remained popular through the Romantic era. These multi-purpose shirts served as both underwear and nightwear, featuring long tails that reached mid-thigh or knee. The body and sleeves were gathered at the collar and cuffs, creating a full, loose fit.

Delores' Outfit

For comparison, I’ve included an illustration of noblewomen’s fashion at the court of Louis XIII (died 1643). His successor, Louis XIV, made France a cultural and fashion beacon for the next two centuries.

In the movie, Delores wears two nearly identical outfits: long dresses with puffed sleeves ending just below the elbow, a corset, and an off-the-shoulder neckline. This style aligns with 17th-century trends when fashion became more comfortable and relaxed.

The black color suits her character’s personality and role in the film, possibly hinting at a connection to the late Renaissance and the Spanish Court.

In fact, during the reign of Charles V (1500-1558) and his son Philip II (1527-1598), Spanish aristocracy particularly favored the black color, as it represented austerity and power for both men and women. Additionally, a deep shade of black was particularly difficult to achieve with the dyeing methods of the time, making those fabrics quite expensive to make.

However, The Spanish style was quite the opposite to what France later proposed: it consisted in a severe and somber luxury, which increased in opulence as the time passed. As Spain happened to be the beacon of fashion before Louis XIV came along, it's only natural that black rapidly became quite popular all around Europe as well. The color was particularly appreciated by the members of the middle class in Protestant nations and, apparently, in Italy as well.

Finally, keep in mind that 'Delores' is a variant of the more common 'Dolores'. Both names have Spanish origins and means 'sorrows'.

So what do we think? Was Beetlejuice from a rich family? Was Delores a Spanish witch?

Who knows! But I’m willing to dream and speculate!

Until the big reveal from Tim Burton himself in the now teased but not confirmed yet sequel, have a fantastic week!✨