#bandi waistcoat

[samkkshopping]

When it comes to dressing up for special occasions, a classic suit is a timeless choice. Typically available in black or midnight blue, these suits adhere to the formal black tie dress code. Crafted from premium materials such as Italian fabric, jute, silk, velvet, satin, cotton silk, wool, and exported linen, designer tuxedo suits offer both style and quality.

Designer tuxedos are not limited to just one style; they come in various colors, styles, features, and cuts. Today, slim-fit tuxedos are trending, offering a stunning and contemporary look. These suits are often complemented by accessories like bow ties and vests, adding a touch of sophistication to your ensemble.

Every special occasion, whether it's a business meeting, an evening party, or a formal wedding event, demands attire that matches the ambiance and theme. Ultimately, the choice of attire is in your hands, and at Samyakk, we offer an extensive collection of designer suits to cater to your preferences.

Our wide range of men's suits has garnered the attention of customers not only in India but also from overseas, including the UAE, USA, UK, Canada, Australia, Mauritius, and Singapore. Step into our store and discover the perfect ensemble that will leave you looking remarkable and feeling luxurious for any occasion.

[dearheartdont]

Tagged!

tagged in WIP Wunday by @manicpixiedreamedwins. Thank you very much.

DBD, Charles POV, Payneland, getting ready for date night.

The suit is single-breasted and close-cut in a rich burgundy. After hours searching through photos on the internet (Crystal had done most of the searching), Charles had decided on tonic cloth for the fabric, so there is an inky blue sheen that flashes in and out of prominence when he moves. A paisley handkerchief peeks out of his breast pocket.

He looks good, Charles knows - Crystal had let out a teasing whistle when he changed into his new outfit - but something isn’t quite right.

It’s the tie. He’d worn one with his school uniform, but most of the time left it pulled loose and took the demerits teachers doled out for slovenly dress. He can’t really feel the knot around his neck, but it’s somehow still uncomfortable.

“At school, there was a joke,” Charles says, “What do you call a working-class lad in a suit?”

Crystal turns away from the bathroom mirror and repeats, “What do you call a working-class lad in a suit?

“The defendant.”

“That’s not funny.” Crystal watches him press his fingers to the knot of the tie.

“I didn’t think so either,” Charles says. It was something that the boys (and teachers) bandied about as the height of wit. Laughter following the punchline, eyes watching and waiting for Charles to join in. He had back then, smiling with teeth and pushing down the urge to bite back. He wouldn’t now.

“Get rid of the tie,” Crystal says, “you still look good without it.”

The tie fades and Charles undoes his top shirt button.

“Better. Now get out of my way so I can do my eyeliner.” The softness of Crystal’s voice in is opposition to the words. Charles allows himself to be shoved through the bathroom door and into the hotel bedroom.

He catches the tail end of what Niko is saying to Edwin. “--different can be good.”

Edwin does look different: a black tuxedo suit, white bowtie and black patent shoes. Like someone out of an old-timey advert selling cigarettes or expensive whiskey. Like someone who should be leading some fancy lady covered in sparkles round a ballroom, instead of taking Charles on a date.

They stare at each other in silence, until “Oh fuck me,” falls out of Charles’ mouth.

Niko giggles, but Charles doesn’t turn, eyes pinned to Edwin in front of him.

“Is it too much?” Edwin’s hands tug at his shirt cuffs, gold cufflinks flashing. “I forewent the waistcoat as they no longer seem to be the fashion, but this was the formal wear I was most familiar with."

“It was a good ‘fuck me’. You look like James Bond, mate.”

“I know who that is.” Edwin says, and there's that small, pleased smile that would be a grin on anyone else. “You look rather handsome too.”

“Only rather handsome?”

Edwin’s steps closer and reaches out his hands to fuss with Charles’ handkerchief. When satisfied, he presses a hand against Charles’ chest over the pocket. Edwin dips his face closer, so he can whisper into Charles’ ear. “Would you prefer ‘fuck me’ handsome, instead?”

Charles can’t reply, his throat suddenly too dry to make words.

[citizenrecord]

30 Cabinet Ministers In New Modi Government: See List

Narendra Modi today took oath as Prime Minister for a record third term, equalling India's first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru's record of three wins.

Honour guards lined the steps of the Rashtrapati Bhavan where thousands gathered to watch PM Modi, dressed in a white kurta and with blue waistcoat, take the oath.

PM Modi was followed immediately by top BJP aides Rajnath Singh, Amit Shah and Nitin Gadkari.

South Asian leaders from neighbouring Bangladesh, the Maldives and Sri Lanka attended the ceremony but neighbouring rivals China and Pakistan had notably not sent top leaders.

Led by the Prime Minister, the new team includes 30 Cabinet Ministers, 5 Ministers of State with Independent Charge and 36 Ministers of State.

PM Modi's party, BJP, won 240 seats in this year's poll, 32 short of a majority in the 543-member lower house. Allies helped him cross the 272-majority mark, with the National Democratic Alliance or NDA notching up 293 seats

Cabinet Ministers who took oath along with PM:

Rajnath Singh Amit Shah Nitin Gadkari JP Nadda Shivraj Singh Chouhan Nirmala Sitharaman S Jaishankar Manohar Lal Khattar HD Kumaraswamy Piyush Goyal Dharmendra Pradhan Jitan Ram Manjhi Rajiv Ranjan Singh alias Lalan Singh Sarbananda Sonowal Dr Virendra Kumar Kinjarapu Ram Mohan Naidu Pralhad Joshi Jual Oram Giriraj Singh Ashwini Vaishnaw Jyotiraditya Scindia Bhupender Yadav Gajendra Singh Shekhawat Annapurna Devi Kiren Rijiju Hardeep Singh Puri Mansukh Mandaviya G Kishan Reddy Chirag Paswan CR Patil

Ministers of State With Independent Charge:

Rao Inderjit Singh Jitendra Singh Arjun Ram Meghwal Prataprao Ganpatrao Jadhav Jayant Chaudhary Post a comment

Minister of State

Jitin Prasada Shripad Naik Pankaj Chaudhary Krishan Pal Gurjar Ramdas Athawale Ram Nath Thakur Nityanand Rai Anupriya Patel V Somanna Dr Chandra Sekhar Pemmasani SP Singh Baghel Shobha Karandlaje Kirti Vardhan Singh BL Verma Shantanu Thakur Suresh Gopi L Murugan Ajay Tamta Bandi Sanjay Kumar Kamlesh Paswan Bhagirath Chaudhary Satish Chandra Dubey Sanjay Seth Ravneet Singh Bittu Durga Das Uikey Raksha Khadse Sukanta Majumdar Savitri Thakur Tokhan Sahu Rajbhushan Chaudhary Bhupathiraju Srinivasa Varma Harsh Malhotra Nimuben Jayantibhai Bambhaniya Murlidhar Mohol George Kurian Pabitra Margherita

[veshbhoshaa]

BLUESAANCHI MEN'S BLUE FLORAL PRINTED WAISTCOAT | STYLISH BANDI FOR MEN

Elevate your style and exude timeless charm with the  BLUESAANCHI MEN'S BLUE FLORAL PRINTED WAISTCOAT. This ethnic stylish bandi for men is more than just a garment; it's a statement of sophistication and cultural finesse. Crafted to perfection, the waistcoat features an intricate jacquard floral pattern that adds a touch of regality to your ensemble.

Care Instructions: Dry Clean Only

Material: Cotton Blend

Occasion : Party Wear

Fit Type: Regular Fit

Shop Now:  https://veshbhoshaa.com/products/bluesaanchi-mens-blue-floral-waistcoat

[suvidhafashion]

4 Men’s Ethnic Wear Ideas For Groom’s Friend This Wedding Season

Since the wedding season is at its peak and is going to last for a long time, chances are high that either it is a wedding in your relative's house or you may be a friend of the groom-to-be. No matter who the wedding is for, ethnic wear for men has many outfit options. If it is your friend's wedding, you must buy a collection of unique wedding dresses for yourself because you have to leave a mark on the bridesmaids.

Women always seek the limelight by wearing heavy lehengas and sarees or other wedding dresses. But not anymore, we know that men cannot outdo women's attire at a wedding, of course! women look so beautiful in ethnic wear when they accessorize it. But, indeed, men can at least complement or complete women's attire at weddings. So here, in this article, we will explore some fresh ideas for men’s wedding outfits for every function of the groom’s friend.

1.  Designer Kurta Set For Morning Functions:

Designer kurta sets for men are now in trend not only for weddings but also for festivals. At Suvidha, we have created a huge range of designer kurta sets in a variety of patterns, colors, and fabrics. You must choose a designer kurta set for your friend's wedding morning function. These kurta sets are stylish in pattern and comfortable in fabric. This will help you stand out from the crowd at the wedding. The clothes will make you stand out in the crowd

2.  Kurta Bandi Set For Haldi Ceremony:

The Kurta Bandhi set for men is a three-piece set consisting of a kurta, a bottom like a churidar or pajama, and a waistcoat (Nehru koti) piece. Our Sunny Radiance Solid Yellow Nehru Jacket Set would be a perfect option for your friend’s Haldi ceremony. You can effortlessly accessories it with an elegant black leather watch, a pair of loafer shoes, and stylish black sunglasses to complete the Haldi look.

You can even style it for other wedding functions like an engagement ceremony or Phera’s ceremony. You will have a huge collection of Kurta Bandi Sets in various hues and patterns to choose from according to your taste.

3.  Indo-Western For Engagement Ceremony:

The engagement ceremony requires attire with a contemporary touch. Indo-Western wear for men would be a perfect choice for the engagement ceremony. For amazing engagement attire at your friend's wedding, you don't need to look for any other option when you have this elegant contemporary Indo-Western for men that will help you flaunt both Western and Traditional vibes together. 

You must try Steel Symphony Men's Gray Indo-Western attire from our store to attract the attention of the wedding crowd, especially the girls on the bridal side.

4.  Jodhpuri Suit For Wedding Ceremony:

Jodhpuri Suit, In Rajasthan it is called "Jodhpuri Dress" or you can simply describe it as "Jodhpuri". The Jodhpuri suit originally came from the state of Rajasthani Royalty from Raja Rajwadas in the early times. Joidhpuri suits are enough to give a traditional royal look as they are attractive and eye-catching. You can wear it to your friend's Phera ceremony.

At Suvidha, we have created a huge royal collection of Jodhpuries in many rich and royal hues and patterns. You should try our Debonair Dark Brown Imported Fabric Jodhpuri Suit for men. Pair it with an elegant Rajasthani Jooti and a colorful Leheriya Saafa and You are ready to kill the girls at the wedding with your appearance.

Conclusion:

Bro, It’s your friend's wedding! Choose your every Function outfit very wisely. Suvidha makes every outfit with premium quality fabric to give you a good wearing experience at the wedding as you are going to dance wildly in the Baarat and also need to work hard when it’s your friend's wedding.

If you can’t wear heavy outfits, we also have a huge collection of plain kurta sets and many more options for you. Explore our site to find the perfect wedding outfit for yourself as per your taste.

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[kurtaset001]

Discover a wide range of stylish men's waistcoats online at 5elements. Superior quality, impeccable craftsmanship, and competitive prices. Elevate your style today!

[lizamezzo]

Before The Dawn

3600 words; rating probably Teen. A Vivent Les Peuples fic. Canon era, canon compliant.  No on-page deaths, but plenty of thinking about it and mention of a dead body.

The narrow street behind the barricade, the heart of the new Republic, was quiet in the blue hours of a short summer night.  Enjolras had advised two hours’ sleep; advice from Enjolras was something of a command.  

Feuilly’s neck ached.  His legs ached from holding the rickety wooden ladder in place as he stood on it.  His left hand, his painting hand, was numb from its tight grip on the rusted iron nail that he’d pulled from the wreckage— 

Combeferre had been particular about tidying away stray nails, splintered wood, broken glass and anything else on their side of the barricade that might cause injury.  Feuilly had been clearing away what looked like a fragment of old roof beams when they fell apart and he found his nail: black iron, long and unbent, with an undamaged point.

Who knew how many years that nail had been holding that mouldering wood together?  Feuilly thought of the long-ago artisan who’d placed it and hammered it in.  Did you take pride in your work?  Were you building something for a friend, a son, a daughter?  Or were you just looking forward to the work being done and time to go home?  Was your labour given, or paid, or forced?

Feuilly’s mouth set; he tasted plaster dust as he scraped his groove with the nail, back and forth, bearing down as hard as he could.  He had begun by tapping at the nail with a bit of paving-stone, but the old lime plaster would crack and cleave away in great flakes; he had had to move his ladder after a couple of false starts.  It seemed that constant, gradual pressure was the only way.  

There was the final touch on the crossbar of the E, and the first four letters done.  Feuilly allowed himself a moment to stretch his cramped fingers and admire the word VIVE, in— he dared say— a decent capital hand, the letters good and even with a slight forward slant.  But just vive was never going to be enough, was it?

Vive le peuple had been on everyone’s lips, workers and students alike, since long before the funeral.  It had been bandied about at meetings and in crowded streets; glasses had been raised to it in cafés and bars.  It tended to be thrown down like a challenge by those who fancied themselves more radical than others:  Vive le peuple!  I have the balls to say this in the open street, do you?  

Feuilly abstained from such games.  The ones who shout loudest in cafés, Bahorel had said, collapse like creampuffs when called out to the streets.  Show them a little action and they fade like a waistcoat in the wash.  Bahorel— he suddenly remembered that Bahorel would not grin at him or insist on buying him drinks or make a nuisance of himself ever again; his eyes and his voice and the fire-flash of his wit were gone and would not return.  Feuilly hadn’t seen it happen, but he’d heard the cry and later seen the body, his friend’s waistcoat dyed a deeper scarlet drying to brown.  It was wrong, he remembered thinking, for Bahorel to be so still and to have nothing at all to say.

Jean Prouvaire’s words were stopped too, and they could not even lay him to rest.  For the first time, Feuilly formed the thought that they would never see him again.  The reality of it winded him; he sagged heavily against the wall.  The body that had contained that vast spirit lay among those who neither knew nor loved him, and Feuilly could not bear it.

Shaking, eyes shut tight, Feuilly felt Prouvaire’s eyes on him, and heard his voice, and knew what he would say.  

Feuilly drew a breath, shook off the dizziness, leaned to the wall again and began the first downward vertical of an N.  Let others cry vive le peuple; Feuilly knew that for the Republic to succeed, that call must encompass more than France only.

He remembered the fields of France through which he’d passed on his journey toward Paris from the orphanage, sleeping in hedgerows and haystacks.  He called to mind the chill and the rain and the desperation; but he also remembered waking up to sunlight and birdsong, opening his eyes to see nothing but broad bright sky and green meadows that seemed to exist for him alone.  He remembered the vineyards and the fields of rippling, swaying wheat that grew from green to gold as the summer went by and he passed north.  The view from a hilltop over a river valley; light through leaves in a forest of oak and beech— moments of beauty that could stop him in his tracks, tired and hungry and aching as he was, and open his heart with a joy that was almost painful.

Then, too, there had been the kindness of strangers, often unexpected.  A dour farmwife had shooed him off her land, but as he left she’d given him a wedge of day-old bread and some sharp oily cheese; it had lasted him all that day and part of the next.  He understood that she had given what she had to give.  

That will be how we make the Republic, Feuilly thought.  Everyone giving what they can.  And no one will want for bread…

The taste of that cheese and the tough, sour bread were in his mouth as though it were yesterday.  On that journey, Feuilly had often found himself lightheaded with hunger; he recognised the feeling now as an old friend.  

Now for the curves of the S of LES, which would require more attention than the straight lines which had come before.  Feuilly changed his grip on the nail, feeling the numbness in his finger turn to pain as the blood flowed back into it.  He breathed, exhaled, made some quick guide-marks and began.

In the stony heart of Paris, Feuilly had painted a thousand delicate flowers, vines, trees onto stiff fabric to be creased into fans.  He had always meant to see more of the world, journey out once more from the city, but his work, his friends, his reading and— eventually— his students kept him here.  The manicured flowers of the Luxembourg gardens and the tame trees of the Bois de Boulogne were his only reminders of the vast, green spaces he’d travelled through— and even there, the haut-bourgeois would glance at him with a coldness he hadn’t felt from even the sharpest-tongued villagers and farmers.  

But the company of his friends would earn him safe passage through the storm of stares.  Feuilly remembered walking easily at the side of Enjolras and Combeferre, discussing politics and language and music— he hungry for their knowledge; they eager for his thoughts.  He remembered himself and Bossuet matching their pace to Joly’s as their conversation meandered similarly through tall tales and terrible jokes.  He remembered— painfully, now— the lyric voice of Jean Prouvaire, punctuated by Bahorel’s wild laughter.  Prouvaire had loved the green places, the forests and flowery fields; knew a verse for every landscape and every change of weather.  He loved nature, Feuilly understood, with the love of someone who has only ever gone rambling by choice. But in Jehan, Feuilly found that easy to forgive.

I’d forgive him anything, if he’d only come back.  Feuilly blinked, his eyes aswim with tears and plaster dust.  

Feuilly’s hand and wrist were cramped hard; he shook it out and rested a moment, his feet steady on the ladder, his body leaning on the wall.  He was shaking a little.  I won’t be doing fine work again, he thought.  No need to save my hands.

And somehow that thought was strangest of all.  Feuilly had understood that his life would end here, side by side with his remaining friends.  Indeed, the world, Paris and all her teeming streets, seemed to have collapsed down to this little space between the barricades he’d helped construct.  

He had consented to die.  But he could not comprehend the work being over.  Half his mind still thought he’d walk into the atelier tomorrow or the next day, sit down at his station, lay out his colours and take up the painting whose underlayer he’d left drying last week, or yesterday, or a hundred years ago.  He’d been meaning to take in that book he’d borrowed from Krysztow; he’d promised to help Wera write a letter to her landlord.  His mind still said to itself, When I get back, I must…

He tried to let it go, tried to see his colours drying up, someone else at his station; his landlord bursting into his lodgings to demand unpaid rent, and finding no one; his next class gathering outside the church hall door to find it locked with no explanation.  They’d assume he was late, and would wait for him.

But there was work here to finish, after all.  Feuilly turned back to it.  His arm ached sharply all the way to the shoulder.  His eyes watered as his bruised fingers once more pressed the iron nail to the plaster.

Four more letters.  Keep them true.  If this was his last work, let it be done well, let it be done, be done and then—

And then what?

He’d marshaled his thoughts away from whatever must come next.  They’d said the Guard had had reinforcements from the provinces.  So there would be more of them; they would advance as before, and fire, and keep firing.  Despite Enjolras’s best efforts against waste, Feuilly knew his friends were short of powder and shot.  So they would run out at last— the Guard would rush the barricade—

In the books on siege warfare Feuilly had read, Vauban and the others wrote methodically of assault and counter-assault, of overlapping fields of fire, of how to repel an attacking force climbing the walls.  The writers were all soldiers; they mentioned the breach of a wall, the sack of a town with no elaboration.  None was needed.

No one here could hope to be taken prisoner, even if they surrendered: the fate of Jean Prouvaire had shown them that.  They would all— all—

Feuilly stopped to breathe, to blink plaster dust out of his eyes and look around.  The sky was growing pale.  Enjolras’s order to get some rest had been obeyed; exhausted figures in white shirtsleeves lay or leaned wherever there was space.  Feuilly’s gaze found the first two, sound asleep sitting back against a wall: Bossuet’s arm was around Joly, Joly’s head on his friend’s shoulder.  Courfeyrac lay curled in a sheltered niche halfway up the barricade, almost invisible with his coat over him.  His friend Marius, head bandaged, lay full length on the ground not far from him.   Feuilly couldn’t see Combeferre: he must be in the café with the wounded.  He gazed up at Enjolras’s redoubt at the height of the barricade opposite him, near where that old man’s coat still hung from the makeshift flagpole.  The torch was burning low.  Nothing moved: if Enjolras was there at all, he must be absolutely still.  They lay, all of them, in the still air, as if—

Time seemed to stop.  Feuilly couldn’t move.  It’s as if I were seeing them from the future, seeing— after—

It’s such a scene as a better painter than me might paint, to hang in the Louvre— after—

Feuilly’s eyes stung.  His head sagged forwards, his heart empty.  His throat and chest tightened; it seemed very important that he not make a sound.  He gripped his hands over his face and sobbed silently for a while, his shoulder shaking against the wall.

To die is nothing, but not to live is terrible, Combeferre had always said.  But that wasn’t it.  The terrible thing was to be sundered from these, his friends, his— family.

None of their work would be finished.  They would never finish their lives.  They would never grow old, never marry people their parents disapproved of, never have children.

Children: the thought struck and consumed him. Maybe I would have liked that. Children of my own. To have been… a father.  He was weeping again.  
 But if I’d had children, I would have to leave them fatherless now.



Or leave my friends.  One family, or the other.
 He had wept his eyes and nose clear of dust.  He drew in a clean breath, and his mind cleared a little.  From the height of the ladder, he looked above the barricade to the roofs and the steeples and the lightening sky, the shape of Paris before him.



I can’t leave the world my children.  But after us, someone will do this again.  Maybe it will be easier for them then, because of us now.  Maybe they’ll live.  Maybe they’ll change things.  Awaken something we couldn’t.  And the world will change a little, and the future will be born.

And so he would leave something behind— for a while, anyway.  A message for those who would come after.  He didn’t know how long it would last.  I suppose no one ever does.


The work will never be finished.  But the work will survive us.

His fingers had stiffened, and the joints stabbed when he flexed them.  Feuilly worked the nail into the plaster, his mind empty of everything but the line, the curve, the bare instinct for proportion.  The final S went in, then a long, curved underline.  Let it be done.



Feuilly leaned back and looked at it, the final draft, the done thing.  Should he sign it?  But if he did, he’d have to sign nine names, or maybe twenty, and he couldn’t do that.  Better to rest.

He remembered he was still on a ladder, and felt his stiff legs, and wondered how he could get down.  He shifted his weight, felt dizzy, closed his eyes and held onto the wall.  

“Steady.” The voice came from below, surprisingly close.

Feuilly glanced down into the brown eyes of Courfeyrac, saw his hands on the ladder below.  “I’ll hold it.  Take your time, now.  One foot, then the other.”  

Feuilly turned back to the wall, placed his palms against it and tried to get his knee to bend.  Cautiously, he extended one foot down into what felt like infinity.  His sole found the rung below, and then—


Dimly, he heard shouts; he felt himself caught by many hands.  Another voice— Combeferre’s?— saying “He’s all right, just give him air.”



He was in their hands.  It would all be all right for a while.  Feuilly sighed and let the darkness take him.



****************************

He woke heavily to something cold on his lips: a cup of water, and Courfeyrac holding it.  Feuilly tried to take the cup in his own hand, but there was no strength in his fingers, and he couldn’t seem to sit up.  

“Here.” Courfeyrac supported him with one arm and held the cup to his dry lips.  Feuilly drank gratefully; his throat was parched.  Had the sun risen?  The sky was grey.  “The torch went out.”

“Yes.  I’m glad.” Courfeyrac put the cup down and smiled at him.  “I didn’t like the way it shrank from the wind, as though it were afraid.  The light of torches is like the advice of cowards. Useless to see by, then it leaves you in the dark.”



That man would make a joke on the edge of the grave, thought Feuilly.  But through the arm that lay around his shoulders, he felt Courfeyrac shaking.  “No one’s coming, Feuilly, are they.”    

“I don’t know.  They might still.”  The words felt wrong as he said them.  Where were the right words?  “But if they did… would it help?”

He felt Courfeyrac sag and sigh, but the shaking stopped.  “No.  I suppose not.”

They were both silent after that, and Feuilly drifted off again.  In fitful sleep he was aware of footsteps near him, shouted arguments, a commotion of some sort that then subsided…  And then a voice, a voice that cleared away the clouds and drew him out of darkness as it always had: the voice of Enjolras.

It was the sound alone that opened his eyes: Enjolras had been speaking for some time, and Feuilly struggled to make sense of the words.

“… a rising of the truth, like the rising of the sun.  We move to unite the peoples; we move to unite mankind.  No more fictions.  The real, governed by the true: that’s what we must aim for.”

There were people standing in front of Feuilly, and he couldn’t see. As he tried to get to his feet, someone turned and offered him a hand.  Feuilly didn’t know the man, a broad-shouldered, white-haired fellow; but he pulled him upright with ease, and Feuilly nodded his thanks.  The man stood aside for him, and he saw Enjolras at last, standing just below his redoubt on the barricade.  Feuilly saw Enjolras look his way— and pause.  Had he interrupted his friend’s speech?  Had he ruined it?  In the silence, others were turning to look back at him.  He was mortified, he was an orphan of ten years old again.  Then Enjolras spoke.



“Listen to me: you, Feuilly.  Brave craftsman, man of the people—” Enjolras raised his eyes to the wall over Feuilly’s head. “Man of the peoples!  I revere you.  You’ve always seen the future clearly, and you’re right.  

“You had no father or mother, Feuilly.” Was that a catch in Enjolras’s voice?— “But you adopted humanity as your mother, and as your father, justice.”  Enjolras drew a slow breath.  “And you are going to die here—” his voice did catch then, but he held Feuilly’s gaze— “that means, to triumph.”

Enjolras had a way of pausing when he’d made a particularly bold statement, or come to a point.  At first acquaintance, Feuilly had thought it was an oddly dramatic effect.  It was only later that he realised that this was a habit born of long friendship with Combeferre:  Enjolras was waiting for assent, for understanding, or for a check or counter if he erred.  At your nod, he would continue.

This was such a pause.  With all the barricade watching Enjolras, his eyes were on Feuilly’s.  Feuilly knew that he could say yes, or say no; that Enjolras would accept either without question; and that Enjolras needed his honest answer.

Feuilly smiled.  He had spent the long night asking himself the same thing, and in the light of morning his answer was unchanged.  He looked back at Enjolras, and nodded once.

He had answered, and he saw joy in the face of Enjolras; but the others’ eyes were still on him, and he knew more was required, now, by this moment.  He thought of Jean Prouvaire; of Bahorel. His hand ached as he tightened it into a fist; pain shot through his arm as he raised it aloft.

Fierce cheering erupted around him.  Feuilly didn’t know how many defenders were left, but they made enough noise for a hundred.  He caught shouts of vive Feuilly! and vive la République!  before it all coalesced into a chant of VIVENT LES PEUPLES!  VIVENT LES PEUPLES!

He shouted with them; he saw Courfeyrac— the life back in his eyes— applauding and stamping his feet as though he were back at the Musain, and Joly and Bossuet cheering arm in arm.  Combeferre stood in the doorway of the Corinthe, smiling through exhaustion.  Marius was watching in something like wonder.  Up on the barricade, Feuilly saw Enjolras, all tension gone from him, at rest for a moment.  He met Feuilly’s eyes with a quiet certainty, and nodded to him as Feuilly had done.  

No matter what happens, I gave him this moment.  And he gave me— Feuilly had no words for that.

As the chant began to fade, Enjolras looked back to the crowd.  “Citizens! Whatever may happen today— by our defeat or by our victory, we make the Revolution.”  Feuilly watched in a haze as Enjolras spoke to everyone there, few as they now were, calling them citizens, calling them friends, and at last my brothers.  “We who die here die in the shining light of the future, and we enter a tomb flooded with the dawn.”

Enjolras trailed off rather than make an ending; there was no applause, only a  silence as he sank back into thought.  Combeferre turned quietly back into the Corinthe; the others, one by one, began to go about their preparations.



But watching them, Feuilly saw no desperation, no fear and no frenzied haste.  They moved to their tasks steadily and with purpose, speaking in low voices, not even swearing when they inevitably got in each other’s way.  Something of Enjolras’s vision was still with them.  The Republic was real to them now; they had all witnessed its founding.  When they called each other Citizen, it was no longer an ideal from the past: it was the present, here and now, and the future they shared.  The future Jean Prouvaire had died proclaiming.  The future they would die to bring into the world.

Feuilly stepped away from the wall where he’d been leaning.  The attack would still come, and he supposed the end was still inevitable.  But we’ll face it in better heart now.  Enjolras gave us that.  Now we have to hand it on.

Feuilly glanced up at the barricade, his eyes seeking the red of Enjolras’s waistcoat.  Should he go up?  Speak to him? But Enjolras seemed to be in one of those deep, inward silences all his friends knew well, of the sort he would sink into after a meeting at the Musain, or a fiery speech anywhere.  Feuilly recognised his posture, and knew that for now he was not to be disturbed.  I’ll go and look to the window defences, then talk to him when I’ve something to report.

Besides, that conversation would be in some sense a leavetaking.  And Feuilly found he couldn’t bear that.  Not yet.  For a little while, they would be alive and here and together, in the sun, in the Republic they had built and were building.



He headed for the Corinthe.  At the door, he stopped and looked back at the work he had done, his words, high on the wall in the morning sun.  For a moment, he heard the echo of cheering again, the voices of his friends.  His family.


Then he went in, to begin the work that awaited him.

[katehouseblogue]

Trend information on your inner cowgirl

In case you think of cowgirls you may accept the idea of a fancy dress that includes leather-based apparel, cowboy hats and quite a lot of hay. but in the past brace of years, the cowboy- and cowgirl-impressed trend has been the go-to for many. From Beyonce’s Ivy esplanade x Adidas accord, the sartorial creations of Thebe Magugu’s display after Paris style anniversary and Lil Nas X’s historical town highway-impressed getups – the trend is right here to dwell.

Here are some key items to support you get the seem: Hats The vogue usually works ultimate in winter, despite the fact, cowboy hats can construe into summer season wardrobes as neatly. So for those demography a sho’t larboard into the outdoors, match your hat with informal pieces like tees and denim or biscuit tunics with gladiator sandals.  

Denim on denim jackets and trousers are staples for cowboy style. keep it cool on your denim blues by using analogous jean-to-jean appears for evening braais or nights out. in case you opt for denim shirts, faucet into your internal cowboy by using attached on a neck bandage that can double up as a face mask.  

Waistcoat continually super for layering, these accomplish for versatile pieces to your closet. For added aptitude, bandy it over a white summer season costume or go daring with annihilation beneath however low-upward thrust jeans.

[gentlejack]

@rectoress​ sent: the buckskin breeches have been dyed as black as the material allowed - too much and the quality would have been irreparably damaged. of course, the request had been unusual enough to earn tissaia furtive glances under raised eyebrows but her stance was severe and her purse full. with them came silk stockings in a shade of cream. that does not matter in the least though because she is also gifting her black riding boots made from thick leather polished to a shine. the tip of her fingers skitter down the length of the breeches, rub the hem to inspect the sewing craft, fleck a nonexistent speck of dust. “my estate is wide. you can wear them without fear.” no one will see save herself, her stable boys savvy enough to know better than to bandy words about miss lister’s queer attire. her hand drops, her chin juts out. “well? what are you gawking at? put them on. If the tailoring is faulty, i must know.”

         Something ghastly, something dreadful, something dangerously approaching SCANDAL comes to pass: speech deserts Anne. She knows no words to call her own as she gapes, dumbly and bereft of all dignity, at the bundled-up riches nudged her way by a slender and most imperious hand. She stands riveted to the spot, immobile as a log, and dares the sight before her to reveal itself as falsehood. But no: the quality of fabric and handcraft is excellent, much reminiscent of the fine waistcoat that was Miss de Vries’ earliest gift to her. Surely, thinks she with some onrush of shame, a luxury so divine cannot be offered merely in jest! What a wasted investment that would be ( though hardly a novelty ), to thrust a man’s attire upon her for a cruel laugh, for a sneer and a wink and the short-lived relish of humiliation! Anne chases the headmistress’ eye, but she encounters no humour in it --- and only a fool of colossal dimensions, certainly, ought expect any stirring beyond sincerity in so reputable a woman’s intentions.

         ... Well! Who is she to abash herself through hesitation?! Taking heart, Anne doffs skirts, boots and stockings in fast succession, pausing only once to see where Miss de Vries’ gaze might stray. Then, silent and industrious in manner, she steps into the new clothing’s exquisite absurdity - and back into her youth, plunging shortly and violently, yet not without a certain bliss, into that last wild autumn with Sam: decked out in her brother’s trousers, carrying her brother’s sword, flaunting her brother’s sweetheart on her arm. Never since has she known a greater liberty. THIS, now, is an approximation of that long-gone waywardness: to forsake decency entirely for another woman’s viewing pleasure, to span the room with brisk, free strides, to marvel at the comfort and opportunity between her thighs. 

         At last, Anne turns to face her stern-eyed onlooker. An odd heat blooms across her cheeks --- not a BLUSH, needless to say, but surely an edge of defiance instead. She sets her jaw, challenging Tissaia to laugh at the spectacle. What? Oh, she MUST speak, lest the frightful woman misconstrue her reticence as a victory! 

          “ They’re a little tight, ” she spits gruffly, “ around the waist -- ” Her fingers curl into the breeches’ impeccable crotch, dimpling the supple leather and treating it to a somewhat peevish tug. Not at all. The garment is tailored to perfection: Miss de Vries does nothing by halves. And this, indeed, raises a terrifying prospect --- might not the woman feel inclined to snatch a substandard gift away from her?! “ It’ll do, ” she adds at speed, “ I can mend it. Yes. If you think the fashion suits me. ”

[carmenlire]

I’ll Be Good

read on ao3

Sometimes he wakes up to discover that it’s going to be one of those days. It’s a fact of any immortal’s life that as they grow older, their regrets grow in tandem. And sometimes, they can’t help but drown in memories.

The air is cool as the morning breeze drifts over him. He barely feels it, though, too caught up in a past that on his best of days seems to drag him down.

Today is not a best day.

Today, hundreds of years accumulate, fast as lightning, to press down on shoulders he thought had broken under the burden decades ago. The weight of his sins, the depth of his folly, mock him. Instead of skyscrapers and early morning pedestrians, his eyes see a dirt path that leads to the ocean.

A blood-soaked rock. A burning village.

It’s the first in a long line of betrayals-- his most pervasive of ghosts-- and on days like this, it fairly sears into him, haunting him until he's afraid to close his eyes lest memories wrap around his throat and strangle him in a grip that's as merciless as he was once upon a time.

Self-hatred burns so bright that it blinds him. He knows that he won’t be leaving the house today-- he doesn’t want to taint anyone with his regret, with his very soul that’s battered and bruised and hanging in tatters.

Not to mention that he won't be able look in the mirror long enough to get ready. The thought of seeing his face-- remembering it cast in cruelty-- and having to look into eyes that have seen things that would make most men mad is impossible. He bites his tongue to keep some vicious noise in that would sound like a whimper in the morning stillness.

He's not strong enough to face himself today.

When the weight of his past gets to be too much, he avoids mirrors-- any reflective surface that could show him the man capable of such destruction and deceit and cruelty.

There was a time, Magnus reflects, when he relished his demon heritage. He wandered the earth for decades and in certain parts of the world, there are still whispers of his name. They’re fearful mutterings and as often as not, they mention a companion with matching eyes that glinted with the same wicked brutality.

His hands clutch at the hard brick of the balcony’s ledge as he remembers reveling in the human's terror-- taunting them, provoking them so that he had a reason to show them just how powerful he could be and just how weak and pitiful they were to him.

Fear had been ecstasy to him and under Asmodeus’s tutelage, it had the same tainted edge as love.

Magnus’s misdeeds are too many to count. There’s blood on his hands that won’t ever wash away and he’s worked hard and long and with a sort of desperate fervor to become a man who can stand tall and proud with some semblance of happiness.

Still, there are always reminders. Some are deliberate-- the ivory figurine he’d pocketed after he’d snapped the neck of a priest who had tried to forcibly baptize him, burning his congregation to rubble afterwards to serve as both a warning and a declaration; the daguerreotype of a werewolf couple who’d had the audacity to challenge his father’s authority and by extension his own; a single franc he’d stolen from a beggar when he could just as easily have summoned anything he needed but hadn't because he was bored and the woman’s dismay had amused him as he’d watched her frantically pat her pockets and look for her last hope that was hidden in his waistcoat pocket.

Magnus’s name is bandied about in most circles and there’s a healthy dose of respect and awe to the tales. People from all over the world come to him now looking for help, knowing his reputation as a kind and fair man with almost inexhaustible resources.

It’s taken more work and countless pieces of his soul to earn that reputation, to build it brick by laborious brick until it overshadowed the fear and distaste that used to be synonymous with The Great Destruction.

Sometimes it’s not enough, though. Magnus has long lost count of how many lives he’s taken, how many sins have scarred his heart. When he wakes up on mornings where the weight of it all threatens to drag him straight into hell, there’s nothing but guilt and his own brand of fear that he’ll never be able to make up for what he’s done-- that he’s lying to everyone, that he deserves to rot for an eternity in penance.

There are other times still when the darkness beckons him back and he misses the feeling of being free, of selfishly indulging in every vice and act of wickedness that tempted him.

It’s times like those when the despair chokes him until he can almost feel the noose at his throat, harsh and absolute.

He made a promise to himself-- over half his life ago now-- that he would spend the rest of his days repenting for throwing himself in line with the devil. His control is legendary and Magnus has worked harder and longer than anyone will every know to quell his baser urges, to make himself into a man that people can trust and respect and maybe, perhaps, love.

As his thoughts turn, so does his head until Magnus is looking into his bedroom. He sees a mop of messy hair that’s scarcely visible in the pile of crimson sheets.

His chest warms a fraction at the sight. He breathes easier knowing that there is one person at least on this earth who knows every wicked, unforgivable deed he’s ever done but still sleeps soundly in his bed.

Their bed.

Turning away from the city he found his dozenth chance in, Magnus heads inside to the one man who could bring him to his knees, if only he asked.

The morning sun shines through the windows, paints his love-- his salvation, his saving grace-- in gold. Magnus’s breath wrenches in his chest at his angel-- because no matter how much Alexander would roll his eyes or wrinkle his nose, Magnus can’t help but stare at the man he’d give the world for and think him the pinnacle of all that haven has to offer.

Magnus would burn down the world for his husband and the thought doesn’t fill him with guilt or regret or any hint of remorse. It’s a guiding pillar of his life that Alec means more than all the gods and demons combined and Magnus would go to the ends of the earth to secure his love’s happiness.

He loves him all the more because he knows that Alexander would never ask such a thing of him, that the very thought of taking Magnus’s power and strength to destroy and torment is unfathomable.

Climbing under sheets warmed from a body he knows as well as his own, Magnus sighs and it’s deep, seems to heave from his very core.

Alec shuffles closer clumsily, still asleep and Magnus’s heart bleeds at the blind trust, the inherent devotion held in such a gesture.

Magnus is the very willing rag doll as Alec pulls him close, wrapping strong arms around him until he feels safe, until the weight of the world and a past he's bled himself dry for isn't quite so oppressive. When he feels lips against his chest, right over his heart, he shakes with the feeling that wracks him.

He’s a devil. A monster. But all monsters have weaknesses and his holds him close like a king amid treasure.

Squeezing his husband closer-- his love, his soulmate if he ever wanted to be irredeemably foolish-- Magnus sinks into the feeling of redemption and hope that settles into his gut like the warmest fire, that flares bright down his spine.

These days have grown farther and fewer between since he met Alexander. Alec loves him so hard that Magnus can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s not enough of his self and soul to scrape together until he’s worth the effort.

He wants to be worthy of Alec, doesn’t know what he would do if the day ever came and he wasn’t enough.

For the millionth time-- the billionth-- Magnus promises himself that he’ll work hard, every day, to be a man they can both be proud of, that they can both love.

I’ll be good, he whispers into Alec’s hair and swallows hard against the tears that spring at the guiding hope, his eternal wish.

As he drifts to sleep, he can’t help but think that there’s so much beauty in the world, had only he thought to look for it all those lifetimes ago.

If only he’d cared enough to try.

His hands are bloodied and his soul lays in ragged tatters. Days like these are hard, they’re so damned difficult that Magnus can’t catch his breath, can’t conceive of a world that wouldn’t want to shun him and punish him for his countless mistakes, his most depraved sins.

It’s the blessing and curse of his life to have an eternity of new dawns waiting for him. Today it’s a misery.

But tomorrow he has hope that it will be an absolution.

[sunny-bexster]

Fic: The Two-Body Problem

Fandom: Pacific Rim (Movies) Pairing:  Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb Rating: G

“Newton, if I may interrupt your sordid attempts at undertaking legitimate scientific experiments” said Herman, every vowel and consonant clipped like a lawn in South West England on a bank holiday weekend. “I have a theorem I would appreciate input on from a neutral source.”

Newt, submerged up to the elbow in kaiju entrails, shrugged. He extracted his arms with an audible ‘schlorp’ and wiped them off with a rag as he walked across to Hermann’s chalkboards. 

Hermann cleared his thought as loudly and politely as possible. “Now” he said, tugging at the cuffs of his meticulously pressed shirts. “Even with your undeniably, ah...limited lack of knowledge of advanced mathematical postulation, you will no doubt be casually aware of the two body problem-”

“I’m aware” said Newt, crossing his tattooed arms as he surveyed Hermann and the chalkboards. Boards, plural. A normal scientist, a modern scientist would be using a holoprojector by now. Chalk was for your great-grandfather’s science.

“Very good” replied Hermann, but his tone sounded like Newt’s answer was anything but. “Now, the two body problem unsurprisingly involves two entirely separate but comparable objects whose respective forces are generated, for want of a better parlance, entirely for the use and benefit of the other…” Hermann paused as he clasped his hands together, in fear they might start gesticulating. “And to the exclusion of all other forces.”

Newt raised his eyes and tilted his head to indicate, ‘yes, I get this but I still don’t entirely get you’.

“I have been giving some thought to this matter as I believe there is more to this than a situation simply involving two bodies focused, perhaps not entirely but largely on each other…for instance--” Hermann walked to the left hand chalkboard and raised it up with a clack, revealing a clean, blank chalkboard beneath. “Let us assume that our first force” there was some cursive scribbling on the board, with a barely restrained flourish “Body A if you will, has adjusted its orbital trajectory and in doing so has, by intent or omission, intersected with what shall henceforth be referred to as Body B.”

Turning his back on Newt, Hermann lost himself in drawing his diagram, his long arms sweeping circles of chalk across the board, little flicks of movement labelling key parts. Newt watched, intrigue growing.

“Whilst my initial reaction to dismiss Body A’s interactivity with Body B as being that of mere gravitational happenstance proved unproductive, it did prompt further consideration as to how such a circumstance may occur and where, if at all, it would develop further...”

There was a brief pause as Hermann listened out for the sounds of Newton’s patience growing thin. Apart from the usual background groans and hubs of the lab, there was only an obedient, invested silence. Hermann took this as an indication to proceed. 

“If we accept that Body A is, ah, destined to spend it’s existence in an elliptical orbit with Body B, then it would pose an interesting scientific possibility to introduce variables that would irrevocably alter the trajectory of these two bodies - agreed?”

“You...want to smash planets into each other?” asked Newt, raising a single skeptical eyebrow over the frame of his glasses.

“Please, do not reduce my hypothesis to something so crass and simplistic.” Hermann, amazingly, drew himself a little straighter. “What I am proposing, Newton-” he managed to make the name sound like an insult, something bandied around an office until someone made a complaint to Human Resources “-is to try and organically redirect the paths of these two intertwined but non-interacting entities via significant, measured changes to their environment and stimuli.” He rapped on the chalkboard with his knuckles. “A feat far more nuanced than simply ‘smashing planets together’...”

“What stimuli?” asked Newt, his interest still thoroughly peaked despite Hermann’s condescension

Hermann appeared, for the briefest of seconds, flustered. He fidgeted with his waistcoat, eyes cast down at the tweed and buttons to avoid Newt’s expectant gaze. “Well, ehm, for starters...one would suggest an forced environmental change. New surroundings can and frequently do trigger new reactions and behaviours from a baseline biological perspective. It is worth studying if this theory carries over to our two aforementioned Bodies A and B.”

Newt narrowed his eyes as his lips fought against twitching into a small smile. 

“Secondly, but of comparable importance is the reformulation of existing patterns insofar as triggering an almost completely alteration in the prescribed conduct--”

“Hermann, are you...are you asking me out on a date?”

The question echoed about the lab, causing Hermann to freeze mid-way through his four point scientific proposal. He swallowed, the collar of his shirt suddenly uncomfortably taut despite being measured exactly. 

“I believe I have outlined my proposition quite clearly.” He gestured to the chalkboards, knowing he was speaking quietly but feeling like his answer was ringing in his ears.

Newt snorted “you’re such a weirdo.” He shook his head as he walked back to his quickly spoiling kaiju remains. “Dinner at 8?”

Hermann had too much dignity to allow himself to look surprised or excited so nodded. Once, just once. “Yes. That appointment suits my schedule.”

“Actually, better make it nine” said Newt, thrusting his arms back into slimy, purple guts “there’s some markings on the second lower intestine I’ve been meaning to get a good look at…”

[thehubvadodara]

There’s always a favourite, but with these trendy and stunning traditional wear styles from our Ethnic Sale, we are sure you will want them all! Step into our store today to grab your very own pieces of sherwani, designer suits, blazers, indo-western pieces, jodhpuri sets, waistcoats, kurta pyjamas, bandi sets and accessories. 

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[naughtykidsinfo]

Vastramay Boys Festive & Party Kurta, Waistcoat and Pyjama Set(Gold Pack of 2)

Vastramay Boys Festive & Party Kurta, Waistcoat and Pyjama Set(Gold Pack of 2)

Price : INR 3999 Red and Gold Vastramay presents to you this multi utility ethnic set! The set contans a Kurta, a Pyjama and a Modi cum Nehru Jacket. The Kurta Pyjama itself is a very stylish set on constructed on a Mulberry fabric that has zari checkered weaves that adds a minimal bling on the two tone base. It has a bandgala or a bandi or waistcoat which is the most favorite fashion add on…

[ferocioushonesty]

@therapardalis (cont.)

Her first thought was to offer a greeting smile and leave it go. She was reading, and he … well, he never just puttered about, but he was busy with some matter of his own. But then there was the meeting of eyes, the faint curve of lips - and then her eyes lifting again to watch as he moved about the room.

Still, the remark had only been in passing, a tease open for response but not reliant on one. It was good enough that his surprise turned to pleasure now rather than shock, and that the playfulness was returned. Until his last words caught her curiosity, pausing her fingers on the page. “Did you, now?” She gave another, closer look, bookmark being absently set in place, “Tell me more?”

He was never less than completely in earnest, but the sense in which that was so could shift. The sense of this was for play, an acknowledgement of their connection, perhaps a stirring of the embers. He expected nothing to come of it now, but it served as promise for later. For now it was just fun to bandy about looks and words. At least until an admission surprised them both. Then it took on a weightier feeling of importance.

“What else is there to tell?” Not defensive, genuinely puzzled. “I thought they suited me, and— well.” It defeated the purpose slightly if he had to draw attention to it but he’d splurged with the remnants of his military pay. At least it would still serve when inevitably they must part. “And that you’d appreciate the waistcoat. At some point.” Compulsively he smoothed down the silk fabric, although it was already neat. “Should there be more to it?”

[trrendz-blog]

Urban Fashion Trends for Men’s | Trrendz

Men are analyzes much more on their design and style with splendid and fun palettes. In any case, this is additionally a reality that the huge brands are returning the 80's style and design from a light shading to pastel. Pants with trrendz T-shirts, formal pants with dress shirts, and different shades of kurta with pajama are being made an alternate degree of sense in design and style. Here we will examine six style drifts that will slant in 2019.

Much the same as ladies' style, men's design continues evolving quickly, yet numerous individuals don't go with the patterns and stick of solace while wearing garments. Presently they don't have to stress over design since style 2019 raises an incredible host in the design, which can be incorporated inside the closet.

Here is the list of some trending in 2019 for the men in fashion and style

Loose Outfits- These days, the loose-fitted outfit is in the trend. The big brand in fashion and style is bringing the 80’s fashion back in the middle of us. They are offering various outfits that can be fitted very easily on the body. From pastel colors to the boxy outfits and light washed pieces of denim and frayed hems have inserted in our mind. Although we cannot get a collection of all these, we can pick with the trendy outfits and blend them with their available collection to look good and fresh. Sportswear can be tried with the loose trouser and with a long blazer.

Try Semi-Formal- In the 2019 year, sky blue, pink, and green with shaded are in the trends. This would be the right choice to wear from parties and social to office. Semi-formal fashion trend is including a blazer, shirt, trousers, and trrendz T-shirt. There are many options for enhancing fashion, you just need to try proper accessories such as watches, shoes, and belts.

Waistcoat is in Trends- It is one of the most elegant casual fashion in 2019, men are looking for that. This can be separated for ethnic occasions. Bandi is a waistcoat that can be used alongside a plain, patterned or embroidered sherwani. Anyone can pair it with colour-matching churidar and jooties.

Monochrome outfit- One colour outfit or mono colour was in trend in 2018 and would be the trend in this year. This outfit is the trend that various branded fashion organizations and designers are looking to incorporate in their production. The one can try monochrome outfit with the various colour of stylish formal shoes- however would be preferred brown and black. This has become a trend for the office as well as the social platforms.

Admixture Indo-Western Fever- An Indo-western is a fashion trend that can never go out of fashion. It can be worn from ethnic occasions to a casual outfit. Be it a wedding or marriage, if you want to make you dressing higher, then this is going to be a trend this year. The accessories are the key factor for any kind of dress to emerge the extraordinary look, and this is also trending with it.

T-shirts, POP and Pastels-

These days, men are looking for a lot of experiments in their fashion as including fashion and bright in ethnic wear. T-shirts in various colours with jeans are trending in 2019 till half of the year. The brand companies have already backed in the 90’s fashion due to liking more among the people of India. The trrendz.com T-shirts with jeans or slim-fit trousers provide comfort and style in look. This fashion will trend in the year, you just need to select the right one such as blue, white or black along with the branded logo.