#Madame Lacroix

[gogmstuff]

Dress for the Afternoon in 1910 -

1910 Annina Morosini by Lino Salvatico (Villa Foscari - Venizia, Veneto, Italy). From lamalcontenta.com/index.php/it/vita-in-villa/in-villa-1924-1965/annina-morosini; filled in shadows and increased exposure 591X1137.

Left 1910 (December) Afternoon dress by Maison Agnès, Les Modes - photo by Félix. From les-modes.tumblr.com/page/23; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 756X1920.

Right 1910 (December) Afternoon dress by Rivain & Cie., Les Modes - photo by Félix. From les-modes.tumblr.com/page/14; fixed spots w Pshop 714X1920.

Left 1910 (July issue) Afternoon dresses by Martial & Armand, photo Félix, Les Modes. From tumblr.com/catherinedefrance.

Right 1910 (July) Les Modes Afternoon dress by Drecoll. From les-modes.tumblr.com/search/1910s/page/12.png; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 1000X1556.

Left 1910 (May) Afternoon dress by Drecoll, Les Modes - photo by Chéri-Rousseay & Glauth. From les-modes.tumblr.com/page/27; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 944X1920.

Right 1910 (May) Les Modes Afternoon dress by Beer photo by Félix. From les-modes.tumblr.com/search/1910s/page/12; fixed spots w Pshop 1280X1781.

Left 1910 (May) Les Modes Afternoon dress by Bernard, photo Félix. From les-modes.tumblr.com/search/1910s; fixed spots w Pshop 782X1920.

Right 1910 (winter) Afternoon dress by Lanvin (Tessdier Sarou - 21Nov22 auction Lot 21). From tumblr.com/fripperiesandfobs/701955600969596928/afternoon-dress-by-lanvin-winter-1910-from tumblr.com/beautifulcentury 1280X1920.

Left 1910 Madame Lacroix by Giovanni Boldini (?). From artrenewal.org/artists/giovanni-boldini/332; fixed spots w Pshop 2580X2600.

Right 1910 The American Girl in France by Harrison Fisher (location ?). From Claudia's photostream on flickr via pinterest.com/veroniquelovescats/peintres-1900/harrison-fisher 1446X2047.

[kacperabolik]

Madame Lacroix

20x30in. Acrylic and ink on linen

Kacper Abolik, 2023

[theoriginalsupermodels]

Madame Figaro, 1993

By: Tyen

[dorianwolfforest]

(speculation in tags is fine but if you know/figure out the correct answer please don't state it. keep it fun for everyone :])

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

The two committees signed arrest warrants against Danton, Desmoulins, Philippeaux and Lacroix for the following night. In the morning, Marat's sister, having learned about it through the indiscretion of an employee of the Committee of Public Safety, who had heard a few words, ran to warn Danton. As he had already left for the Assembly, she went there and called out for him. “Mount the rostrum,” she said to him. ”You have no time to lose, because the rumor is that you have already been arrested: the opportunity is favorable: Tallien presides: your friends are numerous, and your eloquence will crush the committees. In circumstances such as these, it is the one who attacks who wins.” ”I would have to proscribe them, replied Danton; because I know Billaud and Robespierre: they are relentless.” ”But since they want your head, take, if necessary, theirs, remember that, without you, Robespierre will very quickly be swallowed up himself. My brother told me the day before his death* that he was only good at making speeches, that he understood nothing about government, and that he would lose his head at the first crisis. If he abandons you, his friend, you, the man of August 10, he is only a villain; he must perish. Collect your thoughts for an hour, and mount the rostrum: change the committees; proscribe them if necessary. "Well! Once they have me arrested, would I not be acquitted by the revolutionary tribunal and brought back in triumph, to the Convention, like the Friend of the People was? Then my enemies will be confounded and order will be restored without bloodshed.” ”Don't be fooled: last year the tribunal was impartial; now it is only the slave of the committees, which after having hindered the defense of the Girondins and that of Vincent, will prevent you from speaking.” Danton fell into reverie.  “Above all, remember,” added Mademoiselle Marat, “that you must neither flee nor hide. Several patriots, in their friendship, have proposed it to you; you were even offered asylum. Danton has no other place than the rostrum. Get up there without delay; this is not just about your salvation, but of that of all of your friends, but of the salvation of the republic. Farewell." Danton shook her hand and left her, promising to not lose time.

Histoire de la Révolution française (1850) by Nicolas Villiaumé, volume 4 page 40-42. Villiaumé had gotten into contact with Albertine Marat before her death, so it’s most likely she herself who is the origin of this anecdote. It ties in rather well with the by Alphonse Ésquiros, who him too interviewed Albertine near the end of her life, reported part: ”She then spoke to me about Robespierre with bitterness. ”There was nothing in common,” she added, ”between him and Marat. Had my brother lived, the heads of Danton and Camille Desmoulins would not have fallen.”

*According to a woman who lived next door to Albertine at the time of the latter’s death in 1841, she didn’t arrive in Paris until after the murder of her brother, at the request of Simonne Évrard — ”One day I said to her: “But, Mademoiselle Marat, you say that you came to Paris after Marat's death, however, I read a book where the author says that you attended his wedding with your brother.” - “That’s a lie, madame,” she replied. And, you see, Mademoiselle Marat was incapable of lying.” (Cited in Marat et ses calomniateurs ou Réfutation de l’Histoire des Girondins de Lamartine (1847) by Constant Hilbe). So either she or Villiaumé is mistaken here.

[downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le]

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader ) - Chapter Five

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - Chapter Five Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Word Count: 6718 Warnings: major angst, major fluff, mentions of murder, graphic descriptions of dead bodies, crime scenes, near-death experiences, slow-burnish romance, death, canon violence, rape, swearing, guns, knives, prostitution, canon cuteness of the team. Spoilers: Maeve's death, mentions of previous cases or canon events from seasons 1-10.

Spencer and you have an unspoken connection with one another. Nothing has ever happened between you two, especially since everything went down with Maeve, but your love has grown and overcome and is now clear as day to everyone. However, just when Spencer builds up enough courage to ask you out officially, you're requested on an undercover mission that halts your budding relationship in its tracks.

Months go by without a word from you until bodies of prostitutes start showing up in New York and the BAU is brought in to help. Spencer and you finally reunite as both your cases collide, but your lives and your love are both on the line now.

Will you and Spencer be able to find the way back home this time?

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Epilogue

~~~

You watched from your place against the wall as Spencer, Kate and Hotch left the Pit, keenly aware of Spencer's eyes seeking you out and adjusting your hiding place accordingly. But you kept eyes on him, and when his own turned away from the Pit in defeat, you let yourself relax.

You hadn't been expecting your old team to come down and put pressure on Madame Lacroix, especially not tonight when a meeting had already been arranged. As long as they didn't allude to what they know, you thought, everything should be fine.

The plan would remain the same: you would meet the seller, play it casual, seem willing and pliant, gain as much evidence as possible that would expose him and the rest of the managers, then high-tail it back to your team ready for the take down.

You rubbed your temples as opposed to your tired eyes to avoid ruining your makeup. All Madame Lacroix had said about the meeting was that you would be summoned sometime tonight. And while you knew you needed to be focusing on the upcoming meeting, on the seller, on taking him down, all you could think of was him.

Dr. Spencer Reid, with his brilliant, amber eyes that could freeze you in place with one look. Dr. Spencer Reid, with his strong hands - the hands that held you close to his body only minutes beforehand. You'd initiated the contact, but it had been instinct, a defence mechanism as Serena Vanderguff. Once you'd realised the position you'd placed the both of you in, you knew you had to pull away as fast as possible.

He'd looked at you like he had that night in the office. Looking up, the soft light of the booth had illuminated his eyes to appear warm and alive - and so full of admiration you could hardly believe such a wondrous, more beautiful sight existed on earth.

But that voice in the back of your head, Serena's voice, nagged at you. Not yet, she said, it's too risky. But hadn't you risked it all already? Hadn't you done your duty to the fullest? No. That voice belonged to you, and that was what pulled you away from him, what made you send him away.

'What would you have said? That night I asked you out. Yes or no?'

It wasn't that you were surprised he asked the question. It was inevitable, and you had practiced your answer everyday since you'd left, hoping you'd get to finally say it to him.

What surprised you was how he said. It was like his whole life surrounded the question, like it would determine how he would live the rest of it according to your answer. It was important to him, but something as trivial as an answer to a date didn't seem like the thing Dr. Spencer Reid would be hung up on almost a year later.

But Spence - your Spence - would. The man behind the facts and figures, statistics and books; the man you'd befriended; the man you had stood by and who had stood by you in return through the hardest of times. The man who'd quoted you Shakespeare when you were tired, and made you laugh by recalling a memory of you two you had sealed away so carefully you'd almost lost it.

The question was important to Spence, in all his vulnerable glory, and it was for that reason you did not answer him. The mere thought that you mattered to him in the way he mattered to you was too much to handle, especially now.

A gentle hand on your shoulder jolted you from your silent state. It was Ajani, worry creasing her gorgeous, dark features.

'You good, Serena?' she asked, observant eyes raking over you in a quick check.

You nodded, using the action to bring you back to the present. 'Yeah, I'm fine,' you answered, slipping back into your Serena Vanderguff costume. 'Just feel a bit crowded in here, you know?'

'That's why I stay behind the bar,' Ajani quipped, and you were thankful for the break in solemness.

'Then what are you doing with us peasants out here?" you asked, a cheeky smile pulling your lips up.

Ajani pushed your shoulder she was holding lightly, her laughter making it feel you were in your own little bubble. 'You're in luck, it seems,' she said, and your stomach dropped along with her smile. 'Madame wants you in the loading dock.'

You didn't question it. The request could only be one thing. You nodded your thanks and made your way through the masses towards the loading dock. Making sure no one was watching you leave, you opened the door partly and slipped through the small gap before gently closing it behind you.

You were met with Madame Lacroix at the garage entrance to the dock, three men in black S.W.A.T.-like outfits, mouth masks, and a limo behind them. None of the men moved at your appearance which told you they were trained guards of sorts, maybe ex-military. You noticed one of them had a tattoo peaking out from under his pushed up long sleeve shirt. It was a tail of sorts, maybe an ancient Chinese dragon's tail.

You switched your focus back on Madame Lacroix and approached her, the perfect picture of calm and grace. You didn't flinch as you spotted each men with an assortment of knives attached to their legs, and a gun each holstered at their hips.

Madame Lacroix stepped closer to greet you, a hopeful smile adorning her red lips. 'It's time,' she said, taking your hands in hers, giving them a squeeze, and leading you to the limo. The men didn't move as you approached, instead waiting until you were closer to make a move. The middle one - the dragon tattoo guy - stepped forward as you approached, a canvas bag in hand.

'Is that really necessary?' you asked, pulling your head away slightly.

He raised it to your head. 'Nothing personal. Just protocol.'

You scowled at him but didn't argue further, allowing the man to place the bag over your head. Your world went instantly pitch black, and then you were moving again towards the car thanks to the men and Madame Lacroix. She sat next to you in the car based on the hand that still held yours, and from the sound of the other door opening on the opposite side one of the three guards was sitting in the back with you, too.

The car trip was silent and an hour almost passed before the car pulled to a complete stop, the engine rumbling down to a soft purr, then silence. You'd counted the minutes that passed in your head as an anchor. Not being able to see made you a little anxious, and counting kept your mind occupied. It also helped you listen out for anything happening outside of the car.

The men and Madame Lacroix had been careful not to speak the entire ride, but that allowed you to hear the blaring of car horns and city traffic fade about twenty minutes into the trip. You'd noticed the slight change in road when that happened too; slick tarmac like a highway. The road became increasingly rougher the longer you travelled, and the last ten minutes you turned off the highway and onto a long dirt road.

Out of town, you concluded internally. Secluded, off the beaten track, south bound. While these people were bringing you into their elite circle, you couldn't shake the feeling that something might go wrong. It was important you had some idea where you were in case you needed to escape.

You were gently tugged out of the car by Madame Lacroix, who had never let go of your hand the entire time. In an odd way, it was comforting, knowing someone was there supporting you, looking out for you. Even if it was someone as shady and two-faced as Madame Lacroix.

Your opened toed heels tripped on gravel and dirt, lodging a few loose stones between the straps. It was summer, but the cool breeze of the night had you shaking in your skimpy red dress. Yep, definitely off the beaten track.

You heard a tin door open by the way it echoed and creaked with the motion, and you were guided into a darker place where the moon couldn't illuminate the bottom edge of the canvas bag that kept you connected to the outside world. Immediately your nose was hit with the sterile scent of bleach, like a hospital. You mentally counted your steps, mapping out at what number you turned left, then right, then right again, and finally straight for about ten paces. One of the men fiddled with a door handle, but this one sounded more solid, not rustic like the outside one.

Another ten paces forward and you were pulled to a stop. The door behind you closed, and finally the canvas bag was taken off.

You blinked a few times, gaining your eyesight back and catching your bearings. Once both had returned, you found yourself in a room with a long table and thirteen chairs around it. In eleven of them sat men and women, some of whom you recognised as your old managers like Alfred Royalton and Melton Jones.

Behind them stood women, all different, but all undeniably beautiful. But for some, being called a woman was a stretch. Some of them couldn't have been older than eighteen at best, their faces too youthful, too innocent. And yet they were here, standing behind their bosses like trophies or handbags. You couldn't tell which label was worse.

You noticed an empty seat. No doubt Madame Lacroix's place at the table. That made the twelve establishments. But there was still one more person sitting down, appropriately at the head of the table.

He was a burley man, white button up under a grey suit jacket barely holding in massive muscles. His dark hair was slicked back from dark, slitted eyes, pale face glowing with health under the fluorescent light. The Boss, you concluded. The Unsub. His ringed hands were clasped in front of his face, and you forced yourself to hold your ground as those slitted eyes narrowed on you.

The emptiness you found in his eyes scared you more than anything. You expected him to be lecherous, perverted and possessive in all aspects of his being. That was how you profiled him after learning of the sadistic manner the girls were killed in. But he showed nothing but a void of emotions or care.

And a man without feeling was a man worth fearing.

You held his gaze for a moment longer before he waved a hand in the direction of the empty seat. 'Madame Lacroix. So good of you to join us. And I see you've brought a guest.'

Like a proud mother, Madame Lacroix grabbed your arm with one hand and wrapped her other around your opposite shoulder, red lips drawn back in a wide smile. 'Yes! Everyone, some of you may know her already, but this is Serena. She'll be hanging out a lot more often after tonight.'

'Bold of you to assume I will approve of her,' the Boss said, and his gaze returned to you. 'You know I have... requirements she must meet.'

'Trust me, she will, Walter,' Madame Lacroix said, her smile slipping into a scowl as she narrowed her snake eyes on him. 'Besides, if you'd stop killing off our girls, we wouldn't have to keep bringing in new ones to teach everything all over again.'

You held back your surprised gasp. So she did know this whole time he was the killer. She'd practically just called him out in front of everyone, and none of his men were in the room to protect him if things went south.

Agreeing murmurs dribbled around the room, but a single raise of the Boss' - Walter's - hand silenced them in a second.

'You'd do well to remember your place, Madame Lacroix,' he said, deathly calm as he returned his hands to clasping one another, his dead eyes locking onto her. 'You may make money off your girls, but I'm the one who still owns them; therefore, I suggest you keep your accusations to yourself unless you don't want to have any employees tomorrow.'

Walter either truly didn't kill Roxy and the others, or he wanted the managers to be looking over their shoulders in constant fear that they would be next. Either way, by not out-rightly admitting to it, he retained power over them all because it was too ambiguous to determine whether he did or didn't kill those girls. And you didn't get a confession.

Like it would've been that easy anyways.

The threat was enough to dull the ire in Madame Lacroix's eyes, lowering her gaze from him in defeat. You looked between her and Walter, terrified at how such a man could tame - no, make cower - a woman as bold and powerful as Madame Lacroix. He re-offered his hand to the empty seat, and you followed your manager as she followed his silent order without question.

'Now, anyone else have something to say?' Walter asked, but the room remained silent, every spokes girl with heads bowed and every manger looking sheepish as they avoided his steel gaze. Walter leant back in his seat. 'You know I will not tolerate insubordination. I have given you lives, prospects, something to call your own. Those girls... met an unfortunate end. Work with me, and I can protect you from that same fate.'

Again, he danced around the confession. He spoke with such threat, but acted like a protector. It frustrated you. It was like he was taunting you specifically, knowing that you were recording-

Your breath escaped you as fear crept into your bones. What if he did know? What if you'd already given yourself away and he was just biding his time until he could finish you off himself?

The thought niggled at the back of your mind as the meeting continued. They talked about stock and other deals, all the while the spokes girls remaining silent as the managers discussed business. The thought had almost slipped your mind until the end of the meeting came about.

'What do you want us to do about the FBI?' Alfred asked. 'There are only so many lies and half-truths we can tell to cover for all this.'

You watched Walter's reaction carefully. But he didn't flinch at the thought of your team getting closer. Confidence oozed from his every movement as he sat back in his seat, arms resting on the chair's arms.

'Leave the FBI to me,' he said. 'The feds won't be a problem much longer I can assure you, Alfred. For now, it is business as usual. Everyone is dismissed.'

All the managers stood up and made their way to the exit door, their girls walking promptly behind them. You waited for Madame Lacroix to stand, but she never did, and neither did Walter. You all remained at the table even when the last person left, agonising silence suffocating you as you waited for someone to break it.

Walter broke it. 'So you're the Serena I've been hearing so much about,' he said, his dead eyes flicking to you, his face not giving anything away.

You waited for him to continue, but you quickly realised in the following silence that he wanted you to speak. 'Only good things, I hope,' you said, offering your best flirtatious smile. If there was one thing you had learnt over your eleven months in the business, it was that men like him always softened for a confident smile. 'Or, you know, bad things, depending on how you look at it.'

To your luck, the corner of his lips lifted in a slight smile. The void in his eyes changed then into desire and a weird sense of admiration as they raked over your body, as if just realising how skimpy your outfit really was. 'Confident,' he said after he stopped gazing at you. 'I like that.'

You held your smile as he stood up from his chair for the first time that night. He was a good head-and-chest taller than you, causing you to strain your neck to look up at him as he came around to you. You forced yourself to keep breathing evenly as he stood over you, dark eyes alight with lust and desire.

'Six of my different establishments in eleven months,' he said. 'Some would say that was suspicious.'

'Or just ambitious,' you challenged, not allowing him to continue. 'You're not as sneaky as you'd like to believe, Walter. But I'm not one to kiss and tell. All I ask is to be let in on the secret. You've heard about me, so I don't need to tell you what I'll do to be let in the room where it all happens.'

'That's Mr. Khan to you,' he said, lust and desire trading in for dominance. His stare was cold, but you held it. Men like him who craved power and dominate would react to a headstrong, daring woman like you in one of two ways:

They get angry at being made impotent or an imbecile compared to a woman, and the anger is most of the time physicalised in violent actions against women; or

The man will admire the woman's confidence, and reward her for not backing down from his otherwise dominant presence.

You were hoping for the latter.

And when his gaze softened with that lust and desire once more, you knew you had won.

'But maybe one day that will change,' he said, and he held out his arm towards a door at the back of the room. 'You're impressive, Serena. I will admit. But there's just one last test I'd like to put you to.'

You looked between him and the doorway cautiously, keeping in the back of your mind the notion that he might actually know who you are. But seeing as it was only you, him, and Madame Lacroix left in the room, your odds of refusing him and leaving unscathed were low. So you smiled like the obedient employee you were and said, 'If you say so, Mr. Khan.'

'Be gentle with her, please,' Madame Lacroix said, remaining in her seat. She sounded defeated, tired. It made you wonder how many girls she had handed over to him before you and Roxy like this. Maybe she really did care for her girls, for you.

'Always, Madame,' he said, then ushered you in front of him towards the door. 'Don't bother waiting around. We're going to be a while.'

You repressed the shiver of terror that wanted to run down your spine. That doesn't sound good, you thought, but smiled appreciatively as Walter opened the door and allowed you to enter first. The click that echoed through the dimly lit hallway when the door closed was like the hammer of justice used in court, sentencing you to whatever horror he had hiding in the shadows.

You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when Walter's hand pressed firmly into the small of your back. Your dress was thin and did nothing to stop the cold that came along with his touch.

'I won't lie to you,' Walter started, walking the both of you forward steadily. 'I've been following you for some time now, Serena. But usually those who climb my corporate ladder, so to say, come through me first. So where did you come from?'

You made sure to keep your features relaxed as you twisted your neck to look up at him. You've presented yourself as a confident woman now. The moment you show otherwise he'll start to suspect you. If he hasn't already, that is. 'Like I said, I'm an ambitious woman, Mr. Khan. If there is something I want, there's nothing I won't do to get it.'

'And what is it that you want, dear Serena?' He leaned in closer, warm breath brushing your cheeks. You were even more conscious of his touch on your back and arm now. You wouldn't be able to run even if you wanted to. Just relax, just relax, just relax.

'I want what everyone of those other girls want,' you answered, turning your attention forwards again. 'To have control over my life. To make something more of myself than what this wretched world had predestined for me.'

You were pulled to a halt out the front of door. You'd been walking for sometime, so whatever place this was had to be big. That wouldn't be easy to hide. But instead of opening the door, Walter turned you to face him, his hands now holding your arms in a grip that bordered between gentle and harsh.

'I don't believe you,' he said, a coy smile tugging his lips. 'You don't strike me as the kind of girl that is like every other girl. If you were, you wouldn't have bothered worming your way up to where we stand now, Serena.'

'You make it sound like dirty work,' you quipped.

'That's because it is.' For a moment, his eyes softened, and you saw a kind man. Maybe he once was before. But you quickly realised it was the face of a liar, a mask he put on to get people to believe him and his cause.

You would not be another victim to his lies.

'So tell me the truth,' he demanded. 'Why are you here? Right now?'

You couldn't exactly tell him the truth unless you had a death wish. But he'd already seen through your practised lies, so another one wouldn't work. So you settled on a half-truth. 'Because I want to be as powerful as I can be in this world, to protect my own and deal out punishment accordingly to those who wrong me. It is, after all, a dangerous world out there. I just want to be one that makes it so.'

He contemplated you for a moment, for the first time that evening looking shocked and unsuspecting of what just occurred. But that quickly dissipated into a devilish smile, dark eyes burning with promise. 'See? I knew you weren't like the other girls.'

You had no time to respond as he opened the door and once again allowed you to go in first. You hesitated at first, as the room was pitch black so you couldn't see what potential trap you were heading into. But you walked in anyways, Walter right behind you. You held your breath as he closed the door behind him and blanketed you in darkness briefly. Your eyes didn't have time to adjust as you heard a switch flick, and fluorescent lights flickered on.

You blinked, but not from the lights, but from the sight that met you underneath them.

Girls. In a cage.

The cage was positioned along the back wall of the long room, cramming what seemed to be thirteen or so girls crammed into the small cell. You took a step closer, both out of horror and a need to help those girls, but also so your camera got a clear view of the girls. Horror coursed through you like cold water, and you had to bite your inner cheek to contain the urge to hurl at the animality of it all.

The eldest girls of the group couldn't be older than thirteen, their youthful faces smeared with dirt, littered with cuts and painted with bruises. The more you looked over them the more you saw how diverse they were in race. Caucasian, Latina, and African-American. He had them all.

You bit your cheek harder when Walter seized your arm and pressed his mouth close to your ear, trapping your gaze forward. 'Welcome to the Warehouse, Serena,' he murmured, his tone almost proud of what you were seeing. 'This is where all the magic happens.'

You couldn't speak even if you wanted to. Your throat was clogged trying to hold back bile; your voice was silenced, and words escaped you as you couldn't believe someone could actually do this to young girls. What sickened you even more was the space in the middle of the warehouse, littered with hay like a manger. A chain hung from the ceiling above the hay, straps for wrists dangling on its end. And off to the side laid a table of all kinds of tools and instruments one could mistake for sex toys. But you guessed otherwise.

You'd profiled Walter to be sadistic and all about the message. Those tools weren't for sex. They were to teach the girls he kidnapped who was in charge of them, who owned them.

This was where he brainwashed them.

This was where he killed them.

Girls looked at you with tired eyes, but none called out to you. You saw tear streaks cutting through the layer of dirt on their cheeks, but still they remained silent. He'd already taken their voices.

You never knew you could hate a man as much as you hated Walter Khan.

'Well, what do you think?' he asked, walking around to block your view of the girls. 'Isn't it just... magnificent?'

You wanted to slug him, kick him, bite him, shoot him if you had your gun. You wanted to scratch his eyes out with the fake talons the nail salon called nails. He liked what he saw, and you wanted so badly to make him regret enjoying someone else's pain, let alone young girls'.

You didn't say any of what you truly felt, however. Instead, you forced yourself to look at him, trained your voice into a steady tone as you said, 'They are magnificent.'

His grin widened and he squeezed your arms. 'Welcome aboard, Serena. Come now, we have much to discuss.'

He guided you towards the door again, but not before you looked one more time at the girls and mouthed, I'll be back.

You concentrated on steadying your breathing as he closed the door behind you, as if there was more air in the tiny corridor than the Warehouse. After he did, he guided you down the hallway a little before he spoke again. 'Now, where were we?'

Before you could answer, a phone dial blared, pinging off the walls of the corridor. Walter quickly realised it was his phone that was ringing, and fished the phone out and answered the call. 'Rufus... Yep... I see... I'll be right there.'

He ended the call then turned his attention back to you, pocketing his phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. 'Business never sleeps, I'm afraid. You know the way back right? One of my men will meet you there to take you back to the Chateau.'

'Of course,' you said, offering an understanding smile.

He picked your hand up and kissed the back of it, like he thought he was some gentleman. You resisted the urge to hurl everything up on him at the delusional thought.

'Until next time, dear Serena,' he said lowly. 'I'm very much looking forward to the future with you here.'

'So am I.'

He turned away and walked down the corridor, the opposite direction of the meeting room. You decided to head back to the meeting room slowly, but your mind was reeling with what you'd just seen.

Those poor girls. You couldn't get their faces out of your mind. How they silently pleaded for help with big, doe eyes that were weighed down by dark circles of exhaustion and starvation. How could anyone do that to a child let alone a group of them, you would never understand. But after meeting Walter Khan in person finally, the man behind all the trauma and deaths, you had someone to be angry at.

You halted in front of the door back to the meeting room. You knew a man in a mask was waiting on the otherwise, and that if you stayed any longer than was necessary, he'd suspect something wrong and come find you. I've got enough, you told yourself, I have enough evidence to get this man to court.

But you didn't have a confession. And if he was as feared and powerful as everyone claimed him to be, he'd get out of it without so much as a slap on the wrist.

The girls' faces haunted you as you stared at the door, hand unable to bring itself to open the door and walk away. I should go. I need to go, your training screamed at you.

But your heart...

The door suddenly opened, startling you out of your frozen state. One of the men that brought you there stood in the opening, eyes narrowed in confusion. 'What are you doing? We've got to go.'

You reacted before your mind could convince you otherwise. You jabbed your hand to his throat, punching hard to silence any cries for help he'd try to make in the next few seconds. He choked at the sudden loss of air, reaching for his throat with both hands. Big mistake.

Next, you drove your knee into his groin, sending him sprawling to the ground in a choking, gasping heap of pain and agony. You crouched by his hip and pulled out the gun holstered there, and just as he started to regain air, you slammed the butt of it into the back of his head.

He was unconscious before his head hit the ground again.

Knowing you didn't have much time, you grabbed the man's shoulders and dragged him under the table somewhat out of sight. It wasn't a full-proof hiding place; someone would find him eventually. But it would buy you just enough time to do what you needed to do.

Running on your toes so as not to clack your heels, you quickly made your way back to the Warehouse, checking your surroundings before entering and closing the door gently behind you.

You surveyed the room, gun aimed ready to fire in case someone else was there. It might've been luck or someone looking out for you from above, but it was just you and the girls.

'You're that girl from before,' one sweet voice said across the long room.

You ran over to the girls, hand pressed to your lips in a quieting motion. Only once you were crouched close enough did you speak again. 'Don't worry, girls. I'm going to get you out of here.'

'Who are you?' The question came from one of the older girls, dull brown eyes narrowed at you with scepticism. Sadly, you didn't blame her.

'I am with the FBI,' you answered. 'My name is Y/N. How long have you been here?' When no one answered, you noticed their scared eyes, darting away from your sight. They didn't trust you.

'Look,' you started, 'I know you have no reason to trust me. I can't imagine how many lies these people have told you to trap you here. But I promise you I am not with them. I've been searching for a way to stop this from happening for a while now. So please, let me help you now before anymore bad things happen to you.'

Some lifted their gazes back to you, and you were happy to see a glimmer of hope shining in them. Gosh, how long had they been trapped for?

'Some of us only a few days,' the girl with the dull eyes finally replied. The way she spoke made it out that she was the leader of the group, as some girls nodded in support of her. 'Others a couple of weeks already. He's... done things to us, you know... down there.'

Your anger came roaring up from inside you with such ferocity you wanted to scream. He raped these girls? They were children.

You silently vowed to slaughter that monster if it was the last thing you would do.

But you remembered where you were and composed yourself, pushing your anger down to speak again. 'He won't do that ever again to you, I promise.' You looked around the room and saw another door just off to the side. Looking upwards, you noticed a window high above shining moonlight into the room. An exit.

You stood back up and moved to the lock on the cage. It was heavy duty, but you weren't good at undercover missions for no reason. You unclipped one of your hoop earrings and inserted the pointy end into the keyhole. You listened for specific clicks, twisting and turning the earring until you heard a resounding click and the lock unlocked.

Swift hands took the lock off the door and swung it open, offering your hand to one of the young girls to take. 'Come on, we don't have a lot of time.' Thankfully the girl understood your urgency and took your hand, and you guided her and the others to the exit door.

You were met with a cold breeze as you stepped outside into a cleared lot of the woods. Looking around it seemed you were on some sort of hidden farm, as you couldn't see any road beyond the tree line except for the driveway out of there. Bright lights lit up the entrance to the facility where cars were parked and men in black guarded, guns ready in their hands.

Okay, stealing a car is not an option, you concluded. You looked to the woods, but found only darkness staring back at you. You could risk it, but who knew what wildlife you'd meet.

You looked around desperately. Come on! There has to be something! But when the answer didn't hit you straight away, you looked up to the moon. Hang on, you thought, eyeing the moon's positioning. You'd concluded you'd driven south bound. And since it was near early morning, the moon's arc would be more to your left if you were looking north.

You twisted yourself to stand in such a way, and once you'd gotten your bearings, a mental map of New York State entered your mind. Even before you went back undercover, you'd always helped Spencer with geographical profiles, having looked at pretty much every state's map once or twice. While you didn't have Spencer's eidetic memory, you prided yourself on image relativity and mentally mapped out big landmarks you recalled from the map in relation to your bearings.

Even when he wasn't here, Spencer Reid was there to save the day.

You crouched by the girls, bringing them closer to listen to you. 'There should be a set of train tracks about two miles east of here, okay? We're gonna head in that direction, and when we hit it, we're going to head north, or left, until we get to a station or New York, you hear me?'

The girls nodded, and you were about to start moving them when an angry cry echoed from the Warehouse. 'The girls are gone!'

You pulled the girl with the dull eyes towards you, making sure she looked you in the eyes and understood what you were about to say. 'You girls go now. I will hold these guys off and I'll catch up. But whatever you do, don't stop. Follow my instructions and don't look back.'

'You're leaving us?' the girl asked, fear shaking her voice slightly.

You grabbed ahold of her shoulders and said in a low voice, 'What's your name?'

'Ellie.'

'Okay, Ellie. I know you're scared, but I need you to be brave for me and these other girls right now. Lead them to the tracks and run along. Find the police and tell them everything. You think you can do that for me?'

'I-I guess.'

'That's good enough for me.' You clapped her shoulders before standing back up and pointing towards the woods, easterly. 'Now go!'

Ellie nodded, and grabbed two young girls' hands before taking off in a run in the direction you pointed. The other older girls followed Ellie's lead and grabbed or picked up some of the younger girls and disappeared into the dark woods, knives of moonlight cutting through the trees occasionally to light their journey.

You didn't allow yourself to ponder them any longer as you heard hurried footsteps behind you. You unlocked the safety on the gun and didn't wait to be shot at, firing the first bullet as some of Walter's cronies came running out of the Warehouse.

One man fell with an agonising cry, but the second ducked back inside briefly as you shot. By now, other men had noticed the commotion and had started running over to you.

I'm not getting out of this alive. The realisation came as you fired another shot before running towards the second man in the warehouse, shooting him down as you sought refuge back in the room. You weren't scared, you realised, to die fighting for those girls. But a sense of regret gnawed at your subconscious.

Just as you stepped inside, however, your face exploded with pain as a ringed fist slammed into your nose, producing a resounding crack. You gasped as blood ran like a river down your face, into your mouth and down your chin. But your attacker didn't give you time to recover, slamming another fist into your stomach and sending you stumbling outside and onto your back.

The gun fell from your hand in the fall, leaving you disoriented and flailing as you tried looking for it. But a strong grip on your throat stopped your movement. You spat blood as you gasped for air, desperately clawing at the hand in your weakened state. Your vision was blurry from the lack of oxygen, but you had a second of clarity which revealed your attacker.

'Oh Serena,' Walter Khan drawled, his tone more like a disappointed parent than angry. 'Or is it... Agent Y/N L/N?'

Your eyes widened with fear and surprise. He did know. You wondered how long for. Had your mission been compromised from the start?

'I knew the FBI would try something like this eventually,' he said casually, his grip never slipping. 'Which is why I had my people look into you when you started making yourself... more useful to us. I must admit, I admire your commitment. How much did it kill you to help with all our illegal dealings?'

You didn't respond, only kept clawing at his hand with your bloody ones. More of his men arrived, guns aimed at you, but Walter halted them with one hand.

'I thought you'd do the smart thing and just go back home, no doubt deliver all the information you knew about my operation to your little FBI friends. And I was going to do what I did to the others in your own home before you could, just to show those FBI fools that they aren't as smart as they think.'

His eyes raked down your body, and you flinched as he leaned in closer to the camera button on your dress. 'Did you guys hear that? You think you outsmarted me? Think again.'

With his other hand, he ripped the button off and dropped it to the ground where he stepped on it, shattering it completely.

'They'll.. find me,' you managed out, spitting blood in Walter's face as you did. 'My team... They will find me... and take you down... When they find those girls...'

'They're not going to find those girls,' Walter interrupted, arrogance radiating from him as he leaned in close to you 'You want to know why? Because you're going to tell me what direction they went and where you told them to go.'

You gathered blood and saliva in your mouth and spat it all in his face. 'Over my... dead body... bastard.'

For the first time since meeting him, his arrogance slipped and anger took its place as he stared directly into your eyes through the blood and spit, his own eyes again void of any emotion. 'Careful what you wish for, Agent.'

His free fist hit the side of your head before you knew what was happening. The world went dark before you even hit the ground.

[polin-erospsyche]

I'm curious: what love confession?

Well I’m just guessing we’ll get a big love declaration, like we get for all couples. Also I’m pretty sure Nic commented on the carriage scene saying that wasn’t the love confession and I have a hard time believing that the « I love you »’s we got in ep 5 are the love confession.

I’m personally hoping for something that can ground them firmly into the belief that this is a good thing, a solid thing. A confirmation that the other will not back out, that they will choose to step into every cyclone together and fight their battles side by side. Because we saw it in ep 5 and with that clip dropped earlier today where Pen goes to see Madame de Lacroix. These two are rushing into things because they love each other so much but that also means that things are going REALLY FAST and understandably they have their doubts. Colin on whether Pen actually really does want this and what he brings to the table. Pen on whether she is good enough to be worthy of this love and him. Both fears emanates from their flaws as characters. We’re gonna see growth in the last three episodes from both of them individually and together and I’m hoping it culminates into a love confession for the ages. But so yes, essentially it’s not a love confession because those are all over the carriage scene and part two. It’s more a confirmation of their love for one another. An assured, loud, and fervent confirmation of their love for one another despite all (and maybe due to) all the obstacles they’re going to go through ❤️

Also the love confession from the book is also just so 🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️ and I want it

[therealmofamorus]

(Ask, OG Stud, Crossover, SMB) 9s, who between Mercy, Widowmaker and Sombra?

9s stared at Mercy, Widowmaker, and Sombra with his blindfolded gaze. His lips set into a deep frown of contemplation.

"I would smash Sombra." Causing the Mexican hacker to smirk and blow him a cheeky kiss making his artificial heart skip a beat.

"I would marry with Ms.Ziegler." This made the angelic-like swedish woman smiled a beautiful smile that had his heart beating like a high-powered machine gun.

"And I would breed with Madame Lacroix." He admitted making the blue-skinned french woman look at her with intense look in her fiendish yellow eyes.

[therefpoint]

• Maison Margiela Artisanal 2024 Collection by John Galliano, Look 1.

• Young Couple Wearing a Two-in-One Suit at the Bal de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève by Brassaï, 1931.

• Mr Pearl by Photographer (Maybe Adrian Green)

Brassaï was a Hungarian-French photographer, sculptor, writer and filmmaker who gained international attention in the 20th century for his black and white street photography, he captured the alluring and mysterious streets and underbelly of Paris with his voyeuristic approach.

In 1933 Brassaï published a book of his nocturnal photographs of the dimly lit Parisian streets titled ‘Paris de Nuit’ (Paris at Night), he would stroll the streets visiting cafés, bars, dance halls, opium dens and bordellos photographing those on the fringes of society, such as transvestites, gay couples, prostitutes, madams and Parisian lower class. The book was very successful and helped launched his career in photography.

When Brassaï attended one of the large balls held in Paris in 1931, he noticed a diverse crowd of every class, race and age. That night he photographed a gay couple at the event. He wrote about the occasion, “Every entrance and every costume gave rise to shrieks of surprise, cries of astonishment, of joy. . . . Two young men wrapped in each other’s arms had to demonstrate the perfect union of their souls, their bodies-dressed in a singlesuit: one was wearing the jacket, with his legs and buttocks naked; the other wore the pants, his torso and feet bare, since he had given his boyfriend the only pair of shoes.". There is a resemblance to the style and look in the Maison Margiela 2024 show when fashion model Leon Dame came out posing and featuring Look 1 of the collection.

Mark Erskine-Pullin famously known as Mr. Pearl is what one could say is a 21st century genius, he was a committed corsetier training his waist down to 18 inches, not only did he wear corsets but he became a sought-after corset maker working with fashion designers such as Alexander McQueen, Christian Lacroix, Thierry Mugler and John Galliano. From conception to materialisation, a Mr Pearl piece can take months of hard work and craftsmanship. No wonder he became an eternal reference for designers today, especially Galliano having worked with him previously. The inspiration is apparent in the look that first walks out on the runway of the Maison Margiela 2024 show, featuring the model wearing a white boned corset and black trousers baring similarities to a photograph of Mr Pearl and his extremely small waist.

Follow and keep your notifications on for more posts on this current Margiela collection and other runway, art, film and media references!

Sources:

Maison Margiela 2024 Collection Look 1 image: https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2024-couture/maison-martin-margiela

Brassaï photograph of a homosexual couple image: https://www.vintag.es/2021/07/one-suit-for-two.html?m=1

Mr Pearl image: https://www.per-spex.com/articles/2019/6/7/mr-pearl-and-the-history-of-corsetry

[ryttu3k]

had this conversation with a mutual and wanted your take on it

so Christopher the toreador elder was embraced at 13 and remained mentally stagnant his entire unlife, forever both physically and psychologically a child. meanwhile, ilias cel frumos was ghouled at 15 and embraced not long after, but he has the mindset of an adult despite not having aged physically. so that opens two distinct paths that cainites embraced as kids could follow, and of course everything in between those two extremes. there’s also the factor of christopher’s embrace being traumatic and ilias’ being empowering. which culminates in this: what else could contribute to the fate of an embraced teenager? and why such a wide variation of outcome?

Oh yeah, it's interesting as hell. Part of it may be cultural - Ilias was born in the 11th century, Christopher in the 17th, and teenagers in the dark ages may have had to grow up a fair bit quicker, whereas Christopher would have still been considered a child. Ilias' exact age at Embrace is unknown, just that he became a ghoul in his mid-teens (which is anything between 14 and 17), whereas Christopher was Embraced on his thirteenth birthday, and there is a big developmental jump between "was twelve years old the day before he died" and "older teen, spent indeterminate amount of time able to develop mentally as a ghoul before Embrace".

There are also child vampires like Nicolai Antonescu, who was ten, has a creepy, overly-grown-up aspect and a ton of responsibilities, and 'Child' as his Nature, and then characters like Damien, who still sees himself as a teenager after his Embrace at fourteen, but only has 'Child' as his Demeanour, not Nature. Just a few years between them, but while Nicolai tries to act like an adult but still feels like a child, Damien recognises his adolescence and thus is almost... able to grow beyond it? I can see Nicolai as being comparable to Christopher, then, and Ilias being closer to Damien.

Other child/teen characters: Halsey in Swansong, who was Embraced at nine and acts precisely like a nine-year-old (although that's attributed to her being Malkavian), Madame Guil, who was Embraced at sixteen but is treated like an adult by the narrative (possibly because she was treated as being on the cusp of adulthood anyway prior to her Embrace, she was about to marry her sweetheart when Vollgirre found her), Genina (aged nine), who responded to her Embrace by going full monster but never quite going full wight, Elaine (aged ten), who explicitly is described as not being able to cope with her Beast due to her age and did go wight in response, tragic cases like six-year-old Cherubim, who still very much is a child even after over a century but has horrifically un-childlike behaviours due to her traumas (but is still a solid 4 on the Path of Nocturnal Redemption and so not in danger of going wight in the near future), and... whatever the hell is going on with Ur-Shulgi. Lots of ways to do child/teenage characters.

Anyway, really quite variable in how child and teenage Embraces are treated. Some may be cultural, some may be just that character's personality. Ilias may have seen himself as emancipated by leaving home and finding Dorinta, maybe a few years before true adulthood but he was never going to be his parents' son again. He saw himself as an adult, and so he carried that mindset through to his unlife.

I could see Ilias' age at Embrace coming up in things like... oh, he's learned to think things through, absolutely, but he still sometimes makes rash decisions like eating the seed, just because the parts of his brain that determine decision-making weren't fully developed or something? So coming across as adult, but there are some developmental areas that never finished 'cooking'.

(I actually hc that this is the case with LaCroix, too. Like he's a 200-year-old Prince, but he also has the impulse control, decision-making skills, and temper of a twenty-one-year-old guy. He's an adult, yeah, absolutely, but the Embrace meant he never got the chance to fully develop those skills.)

[psalm22-6]

Adele Hugo recounts the publication of Cosette & Marius

In researching the publication of Les Misérables and its reception, you will find evidence almost exclusively of the contributions of men, whether it be the book’s printers and publishers, or its supporters and detractors. Of course, Hugo wrote it, Lacroix (in Belgium) and Pagnerre (in Paris) published it, Jules Claye (in Paris) printed it, and a whole bunch of male journalists tripped over themselves to review it. But it was Juliette Drouet, Julie Chenay, and Victoire Estasse who, in Guernsey, transcribed Hugo’s manuscript into something readable to be sent to Belgium. Meanwhile Adele Hugo, in Paris, worked to get the book published and publicized. And this letter she wrote to her husband highlights the role of the women of the Pagnerre family and those employed at Pagnerre’s store in selling Les Misérables.

Sunday, 17 May 1862 Wednesday, I went to Pagnerre’s. You can’t imagine how his store looked that day. The ground floor is very large and the store continues. In the store were two high walls of books, which could have served as barricades. Their weight made us fear for the floor. Pagnerre was absent, I believe he was making his deposit. I returned the next day to Pagnerre’s to find out if they had thought to send you your copies. It was quite a different sight than the day before. The citadelle of books was quite dented by the buyers crowding the store. Madame Pagnerre was reading the incoming orders and dispatches; a woman was writing actively at her side. Other women, at other counters, tied up packages. Mademoiselle Pagnerre, in that same employ, stood before a desk. “Ah, madame,” she cried, “It’s going too well! We can’t take it anymore.” “Yes,” continued Madame Pagnerre, “It is only two and we are already at our limit. At six in the morning, there was a line in front of our store, which was still closed. They knocked, they banged, they wanted to kick down the door. We did not want to open, because the store would have been overrun and we wouldn’t have been able to control the crowd. I stood at the upstairs window and spoke to them, trying to make them understand that each must enter at their turn. A policeman came to my aid so I opened the store and we served our crowd. But phew! What a morning! It’s just that, Madame, we’ve had a real riot, the neighborhood has rioted. While I was preaching from my window, the neighbors were at theirs. Here, let’s see if we can have a minute to ourselves. They’re calling me to open the dispatches that are arriving.”

[nightingaletrash]

I was talking to @ryttu3k about Millicent and her childer and they said it'd be cool if Amicia was archbishop of Seattle while still seeing Cross and tbh I want to see that AU

Ooh, that's a fun idea. This would need to be an Amicia who wasn't abandoned by Millie and was taught the ins and outs of what goes into being an Archbishop, and the kind of patience and cunning that's required of a successful one. Her going to Seattle and becoming a Blood Trader would be all part of a plan to establish herself in the city before making her move and claiming domain as Archbishop.

So Madam de Lacroix arrives on the scene, becomes powerful and influential fairly quickly, and starts a relationship with the Prince much like usual. Except she's not looking for safety, but information. Who are the power players, what weaknesses can she exploit, what strengths does she need to subvert, etc. It's all part of a carefully calculated plan to cultivate a Sabbat presence beneath the Camarilla's nose before sweeping in and seizing control.

Therefore, the oh moment is a tad inconvenient. Cue the covert meetings and secret continuation of the relationship despite her operating openly as a new Sabbat Archbishop.

[iiingenious]

$$$800 to let Amelie fuck his face to her heart's content (in an alleyway).

Send "$$$", an amount of money and a sexual action your muse wants mine to perform and my muse will accept or deny based on if it's enough or too low. @hotelofheroines

"Madame Lacroix I-- I cannot accept. Granted I'm honored for you to think that my-- services are worth that much, but I can't let you just- give me that much money. Maybe, buy me something nice instead? You know how I like to get dolled up for you..."

[fashioneditswebsite]

Diane von Furstenberg says documentary is ‘homage’ to Holocaust survivor mother who ‘refused to be a victim’

The glamorous fashion designer talks to Prudence Wade about reliving her past in a new documentary and how male and female designers differ. Fashion designer Diane von Furstenberg says watching the documentary about her life was like “being at the gynecologist.” Diane von Furstenberg: Woman in Charge follows the extraordinary life of the Belgian designer, who was born in Brussels in 1946. When she first watched the Disney+ documentary, von Furstenberg admits laughing through it, adding: “But laughing for me is a defense system, so that doesn’t explain anything. “It did feel a little bit like being at the gynecologist – and then, for a few weeks, I got crazy. I got a little paranoid, I said, ‘People are going to think who does she think she is?’ and blah, blah, blah, that I prostituted my family, and for what?” The film was chosen to open the Tribeca Film Festival, and von Furstenberg appreciated its authenticity and realness. Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, a two-time Oscar winner, co-directed the documentary. She explains that Diane’s story is extraordinary. A woman born after World War Two immigrated to America and started a business despite gender discrimination. The story of Von Furstenberg includes contributors like Oprah Winfrey, Hillary Clinton, and Marc Jacobs. Von Furstenberg reads a message from Former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton about the film. “She said: ‘Diane, wow – the doc is fabulous, honest, charming, poignant and a Valentine to your amazing mother’,” von Furstenberg reads aloud. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Diane von Furstenberg (@therealdvf) “‘I loved every minute and felt such pride and affection for you and the life and legacy you’ve built my friend. Brava for the woman in charge’.” Von Furstenberg’s mother, Lily Halfin, who died in 2000, is central to the film and helps you understand how the designer became who she is. “My mother refused to be a victim; my mother refused to die,” von Furstenberg says. “That desire to live and honor life was so strong in my mother, and she gave it to us. "I realized the documentary is an homage to my mother because she gave it to me without crying." Diane von Furstenberg, 77, remains glamorous and effervescent. She is renowned for creating the iconic jersey wrap dress, which instantly became a smash hit. At one point, von Furstenberg said she sold 25,000 dresses a week. “I made her, but she made me,” von Furstenberg says of the wrap dress. “And because she made me, and she made me an independent woman, I was getting more confidence… And that confidence was contagious.” Obaid-Chinoy adds: “The wrap dress came at a time when high fashion was not accessible to women. At that time, people told women to dress more like men to be taken seriously. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Diane von Furstenberg (@therealdvf) “It liberated the way women saw themselves in dresses and was a garment of freedom.” This speaks to the way von Furstenberg designs clothes. “Christian Lacroix once told me, ‘Men make costumes, and women design clothes’ – and it is true,” she notes. Please remember this text: "If you think about it, from Madame Vionnet to Coco Chanel, to Donna Karan..." Von Furstenberg's career had its ups and downs, but she always had one eye on the future. The designer says she’s been thinking about her legacy “since I was five years old,” as she knew that “the only power I had was me.” So, what’s next for the fashion powerhouse? “I’m going to try to use all the things I’ve learned – my wisdom, my knowledge, my connections, my resources – to help other women be the woman they want to be.” Diane von Furstenberg: Woman In Charge is available on Disney+ from June 25. Read the full article

[alexielacroix]

឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷

឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵Bem-vindo (a)!

Alexie nasceu no dia 31 de Julho, e pertence ao signo de Leão. Alexie é a filha mais nova de Lucy Blanc e Philippe Lacroix, sendo 2 anos mais nova que seu irmão, Stephen. Originária da cidade de Nantes, Alexie raramente tinha contato com sua tia materna, Agatha. Aos 15 anos, Alexie e sua família se mudaram devido à mudança de cargo de seu pai para uma filial mais próspera. Dessa forma, eles passam a morar em um apartamento próximo à casa de Agatha. Ela e seu irmão passaram a frequentar uma escola particular, de período integral. Na metade do segundo ano do ensino médio da filha caçula, Philippe recebeu uma proposta de promoção em seu emprego, mas para isso, ele precisaria retornar a Nantes. Assim, ele e a esposa retornam, deixando Alexie e Stephen sob cuidados de Agatha.

Alexie tem 1,55m de altura e apesar de parecer paciente, se frustra muito facilmente, principalmente quando se trata de não atingir um objetivo ou superar uma meta pessoal. Possui um senso de humor cínico, que contrasta com sua personalidade extrovertida. Aprecia pessoas transparentes e generosas, podendo se deixar facilmente distrair pelo humor. Tem um hábito de repreender a si mesma em pensamento sempre que sente que está sendo invasiva ou curiosa em excesso.

Atualmente, recém graduada, atua em sua profissão de ofício, Psicologia, participando semanalmente na supervisão acadêmica de forma voluntária em um abrigo. Adora livros de romance e aventura, sendo o seu preferido Madame Bovary. Ama comida picante, e é alérgica a camarão (apesar de adorar o prato), podendo somente provar o gosto após o uso de antialérgicos. Sua cor favorita é azul, e tem uma cicatriz na região das nádegas após cair devido à uma picada de abelha, que posteriormente a levou para o hospital por conta de uma nova alergia. O episódio a fez desenvolver um medo patológico contra o animal.

Alexie possui sardas em seu rosto, colo e costas, sendo uma característica herdada de seu pai, Philippe. Costuma colecionar ingressos e tickets de lugares que visita e tem uma ótima lembrança a recordar. Sua comida favorita é pizza e se interessa por filmes e séries do gênero de suspense e horror. Costuma ser o ouvido de seus amigos, a fim de ajudá-los com seus problemas. Alexie costumava ser muito tímida em sua adolescência, sendo sua amiga, Rosalya, quem a apresentou aos seus dois primeiros amigos na Sweet Amoris: Lysandre e Alexy. Apesar de não estudar na instituição, passou a facultativamente matar suas aulas para visitar seus amigos.

Alexie adora cozinhar. Aprendeu em torno de seus 13 anos receitas simples com seu pai a fim de ajudá-los em preparações de jantares durante a rotina. Atualmente, apesar de ter uma exímia habilidade culinária, ela tem como hobby testar diversas receitas novas para aprender culturas culinárias diferentes, ocasionalmente usando Castiel como cobaia para experimentar. Muitas vezes, quando se sente ansiosa ou aflita, Alexie costuma fazer receitas doces.

Alexie encontrou a si mesma nas artes, principalmente no ramo musical, aprendendo desde seus 5 anos a tocar instrumentos como violino e piano, consequentemente aprendendo também a cantar para aperfeiçoar sua produção musical. Apesar de seu violino ainda estar consigo, Alexie preferiu deixar seu piano na casa dos pais, em Nantes. Muitas vezes, quando distraída, ela acaba reproduzindo notas de piano em qualquer superfície próxima.

No período de curso da sua faculdade, enquanto esteve em Nantes, Alexie desenvolveu outro hobby: a pintura. Desde aquela época, ela guarda consigo uma caderneta surrada com algumas pinturas de ambientes que ela considera especial, apesar de achar que com o andamento da sua vida profissional, ela não tenha mais tempo para despender com a prática.

[outdraws]

notable heads were spread across the vast arteries of vestibules and chambers contained on the property. like a ship, on a predesignated course he'd navigated by with little preference for the attendees and only the briefest of nods to the most helpless of souls. he recognized most of the languages shared amongst them and relied on the translator modified into his earpiece but kept it on out of courtesy. due to the large breadth of conspiring, the party yawned well into the night.

eventually the man does make his exit from the louder spaces. onto the fringes of the manor itself, and there, he stays much longer than usual. he polishes the little bit of whiskey he'd managed to find before checking in on the conversations taking place across the valley of gardens. where he knew private militia was hidden and on standby, just far enough to be forgotten but not so far as to be completely useless. a woman's voice occasionally told them to remain vigilant and cassidy continued to say nothing. he knew these lassitude notes were most prime for unauthorized entrances or surveillance.

the world seemed to always teeter on the edge of insanity. he props himself heavily against the balustrades and removes his stetson so it was hanging between his fingers and lolling like a large blackened tongue over the railing. for a long time he only breathes and listens until his eyes are pulled by the flashing of something reflective in the gloom beyond. the garden drones didn't look back at him.

within this harmonious coexistence the man finds a moment to pull out a packet and lighter. parts of his face soon light up in a glow. he knows he's been alone far too long, instinctively, in the same way he's learned never to fully relax. and it is here when he's joined by another person.

a part of him feels the faintest urge to staunch the cigarillo but it's quickly vetoed on the simple fact he didn't want to waste it, so the newest addition would just have to stomach it or leave. it's only a moment later when he realizes the identity of this intruder. by her voice first and her face second. amélie lacroix was not someone to forget, “ no need. this isn't my house. ”

he retrieves himself fully, setting the mouth of his hat carefully on his head again. the man's cheeks push at the underside of his eyes but there isn't a smile to cause it. there is no immediate move to answer or satisfy any curiosity.

“ you won't like it. ” they state simply. it seemed as though the space of time between her entry and idling was all that was needed. his conviction is clear but not hostile. “ forgive me, madame, i jus' don't believe we share the same taste. rather, didn't think we did. ”

a more evident civility returned to his face alongside a wry smile.

ever the graceful host, she has made the rounds tonight. picture of poise with a merlot in hand, it seems her duty perhaps to the cause to abate and abet her husband's guests. she may not be fully privy to the details of overwatch but the public knows enough to deem this a cause worth aiding. amélie thinks of her once beautiful paris and looks upon the people in this room with admiration, wholeheartedly believes they will do what they can to save it. her conversation with jack is suitably clipped : she has heard many a respectable tale from gérard but understands the reservations he holds. if their work is truly so dangerous, why should the head take any chances with ma petite personne ? ana on the other hand is welcoming — if amélie is the perfect host, amari is the perfect guest. insisting on helping out in the kitchen, sharing home remedies and life advice like secrets. they are forbidden from sharing much about their lives but amélie would be thoroughly surprised if ana didn't have a child. motherhood suits her.

the head held high starts to wear towards the later hours of the evening, meals doled out with compliments to the chef. she tires of small talk, prim and proper demeanour starting to slip like a veil. with a final admiring gaze she leaves gérard to his party tricks, to reminiscing over the war, and times before. making her grande évasion to the balcony, she is only mildly surprised ( and not at all perturbed ) to have company. despite not being acquainted she knows his name, has pored over the guest list studiously to ensure she doesn't make a fool of herself over such an important business. cassidy. she mouths it silently, french tones giving a dulcet curvature to the vowels.

❛ forgive me— ❜ politely coy as she steps into the outdoors, idly watches the trail of smoke drift from his vice of choice. ❛ i didn't realise there was anyone outside. ❜ smile peaks at her cheeks, budding apples in the orchard of her face. she doesn't fit in overwatch's grand scheme.

❛ do you have room for one more ? and, peut être, a smoke i could have ? ❜ a bold question served on such a sweet platter it comes across meek.

@outdraws. ♡